The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02]

by David L. Robbins

  Lammeck entered Obispo Street. The cobbled road narrowed, grew crowded with pedestrians. Several storefronts were shuttered, their businesses closed, the operators gone to Miami and the sanctuary of America. But the rest of the cobbled lane rippled with vitality. Vendors had set up vidrieras—kiosks for cigarettes, candy, and cigars—in open windows and alleyways. Above every shop door, bright canvas awnings argued their colors and claims. Old women hawked rolled paper cones packed with cucuruchos, roasted peanuts, to calls of “Mani, mani, rico mani!” Everywhere was music and the aromas of white pork and tobacco. On every corner were games of chance, men wearing triangular hats made of printed numbers selling lottery tickets, four numbers for a peso. Vendors waved chits for lucky ball and bingo, or ran dice and card games. Others sold slips of paper for the bolita, the unofficial street lottery. Olive-clad police strolled absently through the crowd, not looking for infringements, knowing their presence was probably enough and that enforcement was discretionary. In echoing courtyards, alleys, and plazas, teenagers swung broomsticks at tossed tennis balls and bottle caps. Reminders of the revolution’s short history lingered on many walls in graffiti damning Batista or praising Fidel, in posters of Che pasted over old commercial signboards for American beers, sodas, and airlines. Above the commerce and bustle of the streets, on the balconies of the upper floors, hung the ubiquitous shirts, dresses, and diapers of Castro’s people, now liberated to dry their laundry or play baseball anywhere in the city.

  Lammeck strolled through the bustle. He wanted to stop to buy a pastry, or be a spectator of a game of bottle-cap ball in an alley. But he pressed onward to his rendezvous. The pill bottle in his pocket, rolling over in his fingers, was like the button to a bomb, with the power to sweep it all away, backward in history as if the revolution had not happened. Lammeck wondered if the thousands of assassins he’d studied had felt this way, robbed of choice by a history they could not fight.

  He arrived at his destination, a corner saloon under a pink neon marquee, El Floridita. This was all Calendar’s note had specified, to be here at 5:00 p.m. today. Lammeck stepped inside. The room was cozy in dark paneling. A lustrous mahogany bar ran its entire length; wooden stools stood along it tucked up to a brass foot rail. All the bartenders wore white shirts and black bow ties. Behind the counter, a hundred different bottles and pyramids of stacked glasses gave a crystalline fragileness to the place, a counterbalance to the aged hardwoods and tobacco smoke hazing the air.

  This was Hemingway’s bar. Pictures of the writer hung in a cluster on one wall: Hemingway with a leviathan fish strung up by the tail, laughing with a shotgun over his shoulder, shaking hands with a young and admiring Fidel. Lammeck understood why Hemingway would gravitate to El Floridita; the intimate room seemed as much a cloister as a bar. Here Papa Hemingway could drink his mojitos without being accosted. The place was spare, like Hemingway’s writing. But the writer, too, had retreated to America. Somehow the revolution had not been good to Hemingway; that photographed handshake with Fidel had not borne out, or he would still be here.

  The place was not crowded. Lammeck took a seat at the bar near the wall bearing the writer’s photographs. Beside him, a plaque inlaid in the bar’s surface explained that he was seated next to Hemingway’s favored spot. Lammeck ordered a mojito.

  Halfway through the minty drink, twenty minutes past the appointed time, Lammeck had not been approached. He bore no instructions from Calendar what to do other than sit and be conspicuous. He felt self-conscious on the stool; in his imagination, the poison in his pocket continued to single him out among the Cubans and few European tourists in the bar. He grew uncomfortable on the stool, glancing around, obviously waiting for someone. Lammeck nursed a growing agitation over Calendar’s selection of him for this gambit out of an Ian Fleming novel, playing James Bond, cool over a drink in a famous Havana saloon waiting for his cloak-and-dagger contact.

  He bought a Partagas from the bartender, who gave him a light. Lammeck puffed, knowing he looked nervous. He smoked until the hour struck six, burning through the cigar with fidgeting fast inhales. The stool next to him was filled and vacated several times by men who did not speak or even look his way.

  When the cigar was down to the label, Lammeck set the stub in an ashtray. Blaming Calendar for this waste of his time, he chewed on his anger and figured that if this was how tightly the CIA ran its operations, it was no wonder Castro was still alive. Fidel could, in fact, expect a long life under such would-be assassins.

  Lammeck stood. He was hungry and too annoyed to stay in Hemingway’s bar any longer. A man with a shaved head blocked his path.

  “Professor Lammeck?”

  The man stood close. He was several inches taller than Lammeck, with a gaunt, white Spanish face, thin frame, and long arms. He wore gray slacks and a blue business shirt rolled at the cuffs.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Felix.”

  Lammeck nodded. “Felix?”

  “¿Sí?”

  “Was I early or were you late?”

  “We have been watching, señor. To see if you would wait. And to see if anyone else was following you. Bueno. We may go now.”

  The bald man’s voice was soft, almost feminine. His physique was that of a whip. Lammeck clamped his lips against more complaint.

  He followed not out the front door but through the bar. More stealth, Lammeck thought, more spy novel folderol. He wanted to turn gangly Felix by the shoulder, slap the poison pills in his hand, and go get himself dinner.

  Felix pushed open the rear door to the bar. He held it aside for Lammeck to walk through. Lammeck stepped into the alley, but his path was blocked by a long, emerald, fin-tailed Cadillac. The car stood empty, idling. Dusk had fallen.

  The Cadillac disappeared behind a rupture of light and pain. Lammeck was struck hard on the back of the head. He struggled to stay conscious. He was hit again. The pain swelled. Spangles of false light drifted through his vision. The last, fading things he was aware of were his knees striking the cobblestones of the alley, and a hand under his guayabera reaching to the waistband at his back, taking his knife.

  ~ * ~

  The pain woke Lammeck. His head hammered. Opening his eyes to utter darkness, he drew a sharp, alarmed breath at the instant flood of his situation. He’d been blindfolded. He lay on his side on a moving, jittering surface. He heard tires on a road, smelled exhaust. He was in the trunk of a car! Feet and hands bound!

  Uncontrolled, Lammeck began to pant, puffing his cheeks with the panic of enclosure, the terror of being tied. His instincts demanded him to shriek, kick his heels at the walls of the trunk. Who’d done this? Who was Felix? Did Calendar know this was happening? Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

  Lammeck could kick his legs against the trunk wall. Felix—was he even the driver?—would stop the car and open the trunk. The blindfold would be taken off, Lammeck would see and breathe open air. He’d explain! Explain what? That this was a mistake, he was caught up in something far past his intentions? He was just a scholar, an academic, not James Bond? He was only supposed to deliver the pills. He’d hand them over. That’s all he had of value; he knew nothing else they could want, whoever they were.

  Wait...was Johan behind this? Was Felix his henchman? Did the secret police get wind of the CIA plot and kidnap Lammeck away from it, to wring the details out of him? He had no details, only the pills. But they alone were enough to get him executed! All he knew about Bud Calendar was a name, a description. Not enough.

  Or what if his being snatched out of the bar had nothing to do with Calendar, Johan, or Castro? There remained plenty of poverty in Cuba; what if Felix was simply a criminal, part of a plot to hold Lammeck for ransom from the U.S.?

  Lammeck forced himself to breathe through his nostrils, slowing the panic. Listening to the sounds of the road rubbing against the spinning tires, he struggled to calm himself, to think straight.

  The car was moving slowly, in fits and starts. There mu
st be stop signs, people, they were still in old Havana. Lammeck didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious; judging by the hangover and how he’d been tied up, he’d been knocked out cold.

  Voices, were there voices? No, that was a radio.

  Again, he considered shouting, kicking. Maybe someone on the street would hear, make the car stop, save him. No, he reasoned. He had no idea who’d grabbed him or what they were capable of. More likely than salvation was another clout on the head, or worse. Lammeck decided to keep still and focus. When the trunk was opened, wherever it was he was being taken, he’d need his wits.

  “Sons of bitches,” he whispered, not knowing who the curse was aimed at.

  Against his earlier judgment, Lammeck thumped the wall of the trunk with his bound heels as hard as he could, to let them know he was awake and not going to be pleasant when they opened the lid.

  “I’m an American citizen!” he shouted.

  But he was an American in a country where diplomatic relations no longer existed. There would be no U.S. embassy to expect help from. The revolution here was still young, these were dangerous times. An American might easily go missing, especially one traveling by himself, one who’d rashly agreed to take part in the murder of the nation’s leader. But how could they know? Who had betrayed him? Calendar? Johan?

  Lammeck lay for a black and indeterminate time—he guessed a half hour—until the car stopped. His joints ached, and his bladder nagged for his attention. He kept his eyes closed behind the blindfold. Fear and anger combined to confuse him. Claustrophobia crept in. He wanted fresh air, light, and an explanation for why he’d been stuffed in this trunk. With the car no longer moving, Lammeck’s temper began to assert itself.

  The engine was cut. All four car doors of the Cadillac opened and shut. Boots scraped on pavement, men getting out of the car.

  A key was inserted into the trunk lock. The lid was lifted.

  Voices traded in Spanish above Lammeck. Someone ordered one of the others to lift him out.

  Hands touched him. Without thinking, Lammeck lashed out. His bound heels struck dead center in a torso. He felt someone hurled backward, heard the gong of a head banging the bottom of the trunk lid.

  He reeled in his legs to kick out again, waiting for his next captor to reach in for him. “Come on,” Lammeck growled, “chingarros.”

  He heard laughter. Someone moaned and cursed, “Ay, coño.”

  “Viejo,” a voice told Lammeck, “it will not be a difficult thing to take you on another ride. If you prefer this.”

  Lammeck recognized the voice. “Get this blindfold off me, Felix.”

  “Soon. For now it must stay. May we put you on your feet?”

  Lammeck’s sudden temper gave way to pragmatism. He’d taken one good shot; time to get out of the trunk and get the blindfold off. He lowered his legs. “I’ve got to piss.”

  More laughter when this was translated. The mild voice beside the car said, “You kick like a mule, old man. Perhaps you piss like one.”

  Lammeck’s ankles were gripped. The rope binding them was sliced away. More hands dug under his armpits, hoisting him to a standing position. Blinded and stiff, wrists still tied behind his back, Lammeck’s balance eluded him. He was caught when he stumbled.

  “Untie my hands,” Lammeck demanded.

  “Not yet. Diego!”

  More laughter. Footsteps shuffled closer.

  “Ay yi yi,” unhappy Diego muttered, fumbling with Lammeck’s zipper.

  Lammeck closed his eyes behind the blindfold while clumsy fingers dug into his pants, through his underwear for his penis. When he was clear, he let go his stream. Lammeck heard his urine splash and puddle. He imagined the Cubans standing around watching. Pride made him push hard and piss for a long time in a lengthy jet. When he was done, Lammeck bounced on his heels, knocking off the last drops. Again the men laughed. Lammeck was put back inside his pants, his zipper pulled up.

  “I am going to assume,” the gentle voice said, “that you have enough lumps on your head, vie jo. We can give you more. Or you can walk quietly with us so we can have a talk.”

  Lammeck nodded. He was led forward. He imagined awful things ahead in his blindness: these men could walk him off a ledge or into a lake with his hands tied behind his back; they could stand him at a paredón, he was already blindfolded. Lammeck’s fears joggled in his gut. He resolved to keep them hidden as best he could.

  By the footsteps and the different voices around him, Lammeck determined there were four men. He was prodded down a set of stairs, out of the open air into an enclosure fusty with the smells of concrete dust and mildew. A basement. The hands under his arms tugged him to a stop. A chair was dragged across a bare floor. Lammeck was pushed to sit. He was relieved to find the chair beneath his rump, not a prank and another humiliation.

  Another rope was added to his bonds, this one tying him to the chair. Felix issued instructions. Others left the room. A door closed. Lammeck heard only one man move and breathe.

  The one remaining man stepped close. He stood in front of the chair. Lammeck heard him scratch stubble on his chin.

  Fingers touched Lammeck’s brow, digging under the blindfold to push it down around his neck. He blinked to focus. The first things he saw were Felix’s dangling hands; broad and veined, they made his white arms resemble axe handles.

  “Hold still.” Felix probed the crown of Lammeck’s head, poked the twin bumps there. Lammeck sucked through his teeth at the pain.

  “No need for stitches. You have a hard head, viejo.”

  The basement was broad and bare, unfinished with exposed framing and hanging wiring. Light came from one bare bulb. The only other piece of furniture was another metal chair. Felix carried it over to set in front of Lammeck. He sat and leaned forward. Muscle shifted in the Cuban’s forearms.

  “I wonder,” Felix said, “how hard that head still is.”

  He eyed Lammeck. He appeared to hope that this threat might suffice. Lammeck gazed back.

  “Who are you?” Lammeck asked. “Police? Or maybe just a criminal.”

  “Viejo, this is not going to be like one of your American movies where you ask me questions and I am impressed with your courage or outsmarted, so 1 give you answers instead. This is Cuba. I will ask you questions, and I will beat you until you give me answers.”

  The bald man said this softly, malevolently.

  “I don’t know anything,” Lammeck told him. “Beating me won’t change that.”

  “Ah, but it will verify it.”

  Felix stood. He scraped the chair back a few paces.

  “Professor Lammeck, let’s begin.”

  “You know my name.”

  “I know a few things. You are a teacher and a writer of some notoriety in America. Why are you in Cuba, Professor? Why would a teacher of assassinations come to an island where a revolution has just been won? A revolution, of course, that is very unpopular in your country. Are you working for someone, Professor? Perhaps you are doing more than writing about an assassination? And please, do not say you are here on vacation. I won’t believe you.”

  Lammeck licked his lips. He leaned his head back to look into Felix’s face.

  “Vacation.”

  Felix bent to bring his face level with Lammeck’s.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Before Lammeck could cringe, Felix whipped his hand furiously across Lammeck’s cheek. The force of the strike rocked Lammeck’s chair onto two legs, almost toppling him sideways to the floor. Felix caught Lammeck by the collar before he could tip over.

  The right side of Lammeck’s face sizzled. His senses flurried, blown loose like trash.

  Felix kneaded the back of the right hand with his left. He said something, but to Lammeck the sound was fuzzy, as though swallowed by the roar of Klaxons. Lammeck probed his tongue between cheek and molars, sensing swelling but no loose teeth. He spat once. The wet dab on the floor was threaded with blood.