“No cover story. Marry when we return Minsk. Is real story.”
Calendar turned away, leaning a shoulder against the shed wall. None of this was good news. He was being asked to run an incredibly sensitive operation, with global implications, and to pull it off he’d been sent two engaged pimply-faced kids.
“Calendar?”
He answered without turning. “Tchto?” What?
“Alek comes. Go forward or no. Say now.”
Calendar balled his fist in the blackness, then released it with an exasperated breath.
“Yeah, Rina.” He turned to her. “We go forward. Christ.”
She seemed not to know if this was a curse or a wish for luck, but she replied, “And Christ to you, Mr. Calendar.”
Calendar mumbled a curse at the idiocy of those who pulled the strings. Stepping into the light, he walked the direction of the gangplank, where a skinny young man slumped under the weight of two fat suitcases. Rina stayed behind. As Calendar approached, Alek put the bags down. He extended a sweaty palm. Calendar recalled what the girl said they’d been doing while he waited. He shook the hand reluctantly. It was pale and narrow, artistic in a way. A good shooter’s hand.
“Welcome to Cuba. I’m Bud Calendar. Let me grab one of these bags.”
Alek looked around with tired gray eyes. “Long trip. It’s warm here.” His voice was soft, reedy thin.
“It ain’t Minsk. Come on. I got a car.”
The two hefted the luggage. Alek was almost a head shorter than Calendar, at least seventy pounds lighter. On all sides, dock workers unloaded the freighter, transferring her cargo into the sprawling warehouse.
Alek asked, “You met Rina?”
“You’re getting married, she said.”
“Yeah. Look, did you tell her anything?”
“Why would I do that? I don’t want to get to know her, she’s your problem. Make sure she doesn’t turn into mine and everything’ll go like butter. But she seems like a good egg for a Russkie.”
The boy nodded, lugging his suitcase, too weary to take offense. Or maybe he had enough discipline to shut his mouth. Calendar didn’t care which. The bag he carried was unexpectedly heavy. Shambling beside him, Alek complained about Rina’s packing, like any normal young man on holiday with his fiancée. It was eighty degrees in Cuba, Calendar thought, how many clothes did she need?
With the girl still fifty yards up the quay, Calendar said, “I got what you asked for. Winchester 70. Collapsible stock. Weaver scope.”
“Chambered for a .308?”
“Just like you said.”
Ahead, Rina waved. Even from a distance, Calendar saw how her eyes changed when she looked at Alek. She really was nineteen, and she really did love this skinny kid. Calendar set down his bag. Alek followed suit. Rina saw them talking and kept her distance.
“Alright,” Calendar said, “before we start, you’re clear on everything?”
“Sure.”
“Look, I mean everything. What you do if the op goes right, what you do if it goes wrong. I’m not gonna be around to nursemaid you.”
“Where you going to be?”
“Close enough. I got another guy. A civilian. Some brainiac Ivy League teacher. But he’s a weapons expert, and he knows his shit. He’s reliable. He’s your contact.” Calendar handed over an envelope. “Here’s what you need to know for now. The rest’ll play out when the time’s right. If everything goes smooth, you won’t see very much of me after I drop you off at the hotel. Now, like I said, are you clear?”
“I don’t want to work with anybody else.”
“I’m not giving you that option. Now, tell me you’re five by five.”
“Yeah. Five by five.”
Ahead, Rina tapped her foot under a light pole, impatient. She, too, began to look worn like Alek from their long journey.
“As for her, see that she doesn’t get in the way,” Calendar said.
“What do you mean ‘in the way’?”
Calendar stabbed a thick finger into Alek’s scrawny chest. “I mean in the fucking way. No one slows you down, except me. Got it?”
Alek screwed up his narrow face, glancing down at Calendar’s finger in his sternum. He pushed the agent’s hand down. As he did so, Calendar caught a glimpse of the assassin he’d been promised.
* * * *
CHAPTER TEN
April 3
Havana
THE PATIO BISTRO OF the Inglaterra was not busy this Monday afternoon. Lammeck tipped the five-piece band to stand by his table and play a few songs. During his month in Cuba, he’d taken a liking to Afro-Cuban music. The lyrics were often ballads of unabashed romance, like the tunes of the 1940s and ‘50s he loved, and that were already fading out of style. Today’s American tunes were grating, hectic in a sort of hillbilly way, and measured to be jukebox hits. The words to the songs had lost their imagination and seemed to Lammeck little more than expressions of being shook up.
After the band bowed and returned to their platform, Gustavo came with a cubano sandwich and a fresh Iron beer. He lingered beside the table. There were few other customers to pull him away.
“The next time, ask the band to play ‘Manteca,’ Professor. It is my favorite.”
“I’ll do that. The restaurant is not busy today, Gustavo.”
The waiter looked beyond the restaurant’s railing into the city.
“There is a mood,” he said, and did not explain.
“I like Cuba,” Lammeck offered, not certain why except that the other man seemed troubled.
“Yes. I know.” The waiter crossed his hands in front of his apron. “This is a problem, you see—this American affection for Cuba.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You know that.”
“Yes, Professor. Of course.” He pointed to the wait station, where two other servers gathered. The pair smoked and leaned on elbows to listen to a black transistor radio. “We hear more from your American president today.”
Lammeck took a bite of his sandwich. He enjoyed Gustavo. The man was political, well-read, and talkative.
“Not good news, I take it.”
“It depends on who you are. Good news if you are a demon or a buzzard.”
“What did Kennedy say?”
“He has announced America’s intention to support a democratic government in Cuba.”
Gustavo sucked his teeth.
“Where does your president think this democratic government is going to come from? Does he think Fidel is going to form one? Why doesn’t he just come out and say it? An invasion is coming to take back what America believes belongs to it.”
The waiter took in the sum of the empty chairs around the patio. Lammeck glanced with him and saw what Gustavo was observing: Havana, always vibrant, today seemed lackluster. Across the street in the park, around Martí’s statue, where gaggles of men clotted daily to smoke and argue politics or beisbol, few gathered. The streetcars clattered nearly empty; downtown traffic had not snarled into honking knots. The sidewalk beauty pageant that was Habanera women had few contestants this afternoon.
“Yes,” Lammeck echoed, “a mood.”
Gustavo nodded. “I do not like being a messenger, Professor. Please ask your friend not to bring these here anymore.” He laid a matchbook on the table beside Lammeck’s beer. “I must tell you, I know this man. He is a gambler and a black marketeer. You should avoid him.”
“He’s not my friend, Gustavo. And I’ll make sure he stays away. Thank you.”
The waiter walked off.
Lammeck unfolded the match cover brought by Felix. Inside, a message had been scrawled:
Tonight. 9. Tropicana. Tuxedo.
Needles of nerves prickled under his skin. What was this about? Was it the poison capsules, the duffel bag, or some extra angle of murder Calendar wanted Lammeck to work? Some new risk the CIA had decided he would take? Perhaps another round of threats? Lammeck despised this spy business, stumbling forward, always into the dark. He was a s
cholar; knowledge was his mainstay. But this constant edging around blind corners—he figured he’d be dead of an ulcer long before he’d ever need the poison pill in his pocket.
Lammeck pulled a fresh Partagas from his guayabera. Though he had not finished his lunch, he bit off the tip, struck one of the matches, and puffed the cigar to life in case anyone was watching, wondering why Gustavo had brought him matches.
~ * ~
Marianao
The taxi ride west from Miramar took an hour. The tuxedo he’d bought that afternoon fit well enough; the hug of the cummerbund plus the constriction of the bow tie held him in a sort of cocoon. Lammeck fell asleep in it through the second half of the trip.
He awoke when the driver asked for his fare. Lammeck dug Cuban bills from his wallet and climbed out when a young valet in a red bellhop’s livery opened his door. The taxi pulled away, replaced immediately by another in a line of cars. Lammeck had to move out of the driveway to avoid being bumped by headlights.
He stepped onto the curb beneath twin concrete shells that resembled a giant woman’s bikini top. The main doorway was set in the center. Beside it, an electric sign blazed in sky-blue letters, Tropicana. Across the drive, a stylized sculpture of a ballerina posed mid-twirl in the center of a placid fountain, bathed in floodlights.
Lammeck stepped through the Tropicana’s entryway, borne along with a crowd in eveningwear and minks. Inside, he was stunned. The nightclub’s landscape sprawled in a dream of modernist architecture, carved out of a tropical jungle. Slender arches in high parabolas, geometric facades, towering walls of glass and steel, more concrete shells and chrome trappings surrounded an acre of white linen on tables, silver ice buckets, rose and chrysanthemum bouquets, and a thousand cocktail glasses filled with colorful rum punches. At every table, cigarette haze swirled around patrons in white linen suits, black tuxedos, satin gowns, and diamond sparklers. Waiters cruised between the tables balancing trays of champagne and wine. All this was enclosed by tall mamoncillo trees and royal palms, flowering shrubs, and a limitless black sky punctured by stars bright enough to pierce the vista of white pillar candles and hundreds of klieg lights.
Lammeck stepped into the warren of tables and gliding servers. Onstage, beneath a great crystal arch, an orchestra on a tiered bandstand blared a brassy, percussive tune driven by maracas, bongos, congas, and claves. On the platform below the band, four women with hourglass figures in sheer gold organza crooned. One shook maracas. Their dresses were slit high, exposing calves and thighs cased in glittering fishnets. The girls and the band were spattered with colored lights and the brilliant reflections off the glass and steel span rising behind them. Lammeck continued to stroll closer to the stage and the dancers, amazed and drawn.
He was intercepted by a maitre d’. Politely, the man asked if Lammeck had a reservation. Lammeck did not know, but gave his name. The maitre d’ dipped his head, left, then returned to lead him to a table near the dance floor.
A young couple was already seated there. Lammeck hesitated, as though a mistake had been made, then wondered if these two were why he’d been summoned. Both were so young, barely out of their teens; in their formal outfits they looked like a prom night-date. Lammeck felt a spark of anger at Calendar that these children should be involved; the CIA was, just like the agent had claimed, pulling out all the stops. Lammeck tipped the maitre d’ and put out his hand to the young man.
“Hi. I’m Mikhal Lammeck.” He had to lean in to be heard over the music.
The young man had a large hand for his short stature, a firm grasp. He was narrow boned and had a natural pout about his lips.
“Alek Hidell.” He indicated the girl beside him in her shiny, sea-green chiffon gown. She was pretty, with arresting blue eyes, lean bare shoulders above the dress. She was very pale. “This is my fiancée, Rina.”
Lammeck reached across the table to shake her hand, too. Reaching back, Rina inclined her head and smiled. He took his seat and surveyed the table. Empty glasses stood in front of the couple.
“What are you drinking? I’m buying.”
Alex answered for them both. “Vodka gimlet for Rina, straight Stoli for me. Thanks, Mikhal. Can I call you that?” His accent was American.
“Of course.”
Lammeck turned in his seat to snag the attention of a waiter. Across the table Rina rose. She was shorter than Alek, wiry like him.
“I go. You must talk. Mikhal, drink? I shall buy.”
Rina had an accent. Lammeck had assumed she, too, was American. He couldn’t place her tongue at first. European? Slavic? He took a guess.
“Rom so lidom, pozbaluista.” I’d like a rum on the rocks, please.
Rina put fingertips to her breast, pleased. “You are Russian speaker?”
“Da.”
She widened her eyes prettily and left them.
Alone with Alek, he wasn’t certain how to proceed. If Calendar had brought them together, why? What was this kid doing in Havana with his fiancée? A Russian girl, at that. Where did Lammeck fit in? What was the next step in this clandestine dance? Small talk, scribbled notes? Go straight at the matter and ask if Alek was in town to kill Castro? Lammeck was stymied and could do nothing but look at the boy.
Alek didn’t seem comfortable in his tux and fiddled with bits of it, the bow tie and cuff links. He didn’t know how to begin either.
“Vacation? You and Rina?” Lammeck asked.
Alek nodded. “Yep.”
“Where are you from?”
“Born in Louisiana. Lived all over.”
“There aren’t many Americans left on this island. Most are gone or have been warned to leave by the Cuban government.”
“You’re here.”
“I’m doing research for a book. They’re tolerating me.” Lammeck pointed to the empty seat where Rina had been. “Congratulations, by the way. She’s very pretty. Russian, right?”
“We met in Minsk. At a party. Love at first sight.”
Lammeck liked this notion and warmed to the boy. “What were you doing in Minsk? Exchange student?”
Alek hesitated, blinking his way through some calculation.
“I’m a defector.”
Surprised, Lammeck paused before asking, “To the Soviet Union?”
Alek did not shy from this. “Yeah.”
Lammeck sat back, eyeing the skinny boy, the historian in him curious to know more. “Son, aren’t you supposed to have a cover story? Something else besides being an American defector?”
Alek raised his hands. “Calendar didn’t say I needed one.”
Just like that, Calendar and the CIA were spilled onto the table between them. Lammeck knew the ugly sway that the agent held over his own cooperation. What threat did he hold over Alek? What role did a young American turncoat have in the killing of Fidel?
The boy seemed vulnerable, unsure, and so young. Lammeck felt a rush of sympathy, almost protectiveness. He knew how confused the world was. Morality, loyalties, love—the war with Communism was clouding all of it, everywhere in the world, like ink staining water. What sense could a boy of twenty-one make of it?
Across the Tropicana’s crowded floor, weaving her way through music and packed, candlelit tables, Rina came carrying three highball glasses.
“Tell me quick—what does she know?” Lammeck asked.
“That I’m a spy.”
Lammeck snorted at this second shocker in a row.
“What?”
“It’s okay, she likes it. I trust her.”
“What the—?”
Lammeck cut himself off as the girl arrived at the table with the drinks.
Alek kissed her cheek and welcomed her back to the table in fluent Russian. Lammeck recovered enough to join the couple when they lifted their glasses in toast to one another. With his glass held in the air beside theirs, Lammeck asked Alek, “Esti khoti kakie nie budi idei po povodu togo, tchto mne nuzhno delati?” Have you got any idea what I’m supposed to do?
Th
e boy smiled, disarmingly lost. He replied in English, “Not a clue. But I reckon we’ll find out.”
~ * ~
Rina danced the rumba very well. Lammeck counted silently 1-2, 1-2-3 to keep the pace. The bandleader at the head of the orchestra reminded him of Desi Arnaz on the I Love Lucy television show; the man stroked a conga held under his arm while he sang.
Between dances, Lammeck spoke to Rina in Russian. He asked where she and Alek had met. At a party in Minsk. How long ago? Two weeks. Love at first sight, she said, blushing, repeating Alek’s words. Lammeck accepted this could actually be so. He suspected it might be true at least for the boy. Rina was attractive, bubbly, athletic, expressing an eager intellect. Lammeck didn’t know what Alek’s part would be in Calendar’s design, but the boy seemed to relish playing some secret role, saying he was a “spy.” Obviously Rina encouraged that. After all, hadn’t she agreed to marry him after two weeks?
The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02] Page 12
