The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02]

by David L. Robbins

  “Don’t bother getting dressed,” Calendar said. “I’m not staying long. And leave the light off.”

  Lammeck rubbed his eyes. “What do you want?”

  The agent folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

  “You met the kid.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He can do the job?”

  “He’s not a natural marksman, Calendar. He’s fast, but at the distance you’ve set for the shot, I don’t know.”

  “Did you work with him?”

  “Yeah, but only for a few hours.”

  “More than enough for you to tell me, yes or no. Can he do it?”

  “I think it’s a shame, but yes.”

  “I appreciate your restraint, Professor. But this is the kind of evil we call necessary. He’s young. We’re old. His ass goes on the line. Ours doesn’t. It’s called war. You’ve seen this before.”

  Calendar took an envelope from his coat. He set it behind him on the dresser top.

  “Here’s a name. You meet him tonight, at the Nacional’s casino. Give him the pills. He’s going to hand them off to a connection of his in town, a cook in one of Castro’s favorite restaurants. The cook’s been told not to do anything until he gets the signal.”

  Lammeck didn’t understand. Why wait?

  “If you can poison Castro, go ahead and do it. Why risk Alek?”

  The agent uncrossed his arms. He moved about Lammeck’s small bedroom, a black and foretelling ghost.

  “CIA’s preference is to have Castro taken down by a bullet, if we can get it. Makes it look like a gangland hit. Fidel gets popped, we scoot Alek and his gal off the island, then we blame the Mafia.”

  “And if the kid doesn’t pull the job off... ?”

  “We go to the pills as backup. Simple.”

  “What happens to Alek?”

  “Alek’s not your concern.”

  “He is if you want my help.”

  Calendar’s shadow stopped stalking along the wall.

  “You want to argue with me about this, Professor?”

  “Yes.”

  “We ship the kid back to Mother Russia. And we let him stay there. Satisfied?”

  Lammeck let more seconds pass with no reply. Calendar resumed talking.

  “ Unidad’s going to take over with Alek. Heitor will contact you for the rifle. When he does, give it to him. Just get the pills to the Nacional tonight. Then keep your head down. The invasion’s coming. As soon as Castro’s hit, I want you off this island. I’ll send you a taxi. He’ll take you to a boat outside Havana, after midnight. The Tejana. Get the hell on it to Key West. Then, when we’re in charge down here again, we’ll bring you back.”

  Calendar stepped toward the door. He tapped a finger on top of the dresser, on the envelope.

  “If everything goes the way it’s supposed to, you won’t see me again.”

  “And if not?”

  Calendar made no sound leaving. Only his voice trailed behind.

  “Then not.”

  * * * *

  The destiny of peoples cannot depend on one man. Behind me come others more radical than I; assassinating me would only fortify the Revolution.

  —Fidel Castro

  A man who wants to make a profession of good in all regards must come to ruin among so many who are not good. Hence it is necessary to a prince, if he wants to maintain himself, to learn to be able not to be good, and to use this and not use it according to necessity.

  —Nicoló Machiavelli The Prince

  Without violence, nothing is ever accomplished in history.

  —Karl Marx

  * * * *

  * * * *

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  April 7

  Nacional Hotel

  Havana

  THE LOBBY BUZZED with guests in tuxes, suits, and evening gowns. Lammeck, in white dinner jacket and bow tie, strode the length of the opulent hall. Along the walls, between leather furniture and potted palms, stood easels supporting black-and-white photographs touting the revolution. Che Guevara rakish under his black beret, Fidel in his big glasses, crowds carrying banners in the streets shouting ¡viva! The well-heeled guests of the Nacional ignored the placards on their way to the casino. Among them, Lammeck heard very little Spanish, mostly German, English, and French.

  Inside, a massive crystal chandelier glittered above green-topped games and rapt players. Women in boas and scanty outfits strolled with trays of cigarettes and liquor. Many older gamblers had younger women in tow. At the teller cage, Lammeck secured two hundred pesos in chips, a one-to-one exchange for dollars. He moved through the tables: baccarat, dice, roulette, pai gow poker. A seat opened at an unlimited blackjack game.

  He played for a half hour. The cards never turned his way. Finally he slid his chips off the table and tossed a five-peso tip to the dealer despite the poor cards.

  Lammeck strolled the smoky casino, looking for an open seat at a lower-stakes table. He recalled the clandestine meeting that started at El Floridita two weeks ago; was he being watched again, or was the contact simply late? Lammeck tried not to appear jittery, but his luck was flat tonight. He was already down a hundred pesos.

  He slid into a seat at a ten-peso game. Instantly the cards favored him. Lammeck won several hands in a row. He did not let this make him bold with his luck but continued to obey the rules of chance and tendency. The others at the table began to nod at his play, and everyone started to win.

  In twenty minutes, he built back his loss. When the dealer tossed a queen on top of his ace, he heard a giggle behind him. He turned. Rina stood there, applauding his good fortune. The Russian girl wore the same green-chiffon dress she’d worn at the Tropicana four nights before.

  In Russian, he asked, “How long have you been there?”

  “I saw you sit down. I did not want to disturb you.”

  “Where’s Alek?”

  “In the room. He drank too much. I put him to bed and came back to watch the games. I saw you.”

  “Then you must be my good luck charm. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Rina beamed, blue eyes luminous. “I won’t, Mikhal.”

  Lammeck played with the girl at his shoulder. He went up forty pesos while teaching her the game as the cards came and went. A few times he let her make the call whether he should hit or stand pat. After fifteen minutes he put Rina in the chair with fifty pesos in chips. She held her own. Ten hands later she left the table up thirty. Lammeck let her keep the winnings.

  They walked out of the casino, into the lobby. Rina took Lammeck’s arm to lead him past the leather chairs and images of the revolution, to the rear courtyard of the Nacional. Over a Saltillo tile floor, they crossed beneath a tall white colonnade into a vast open garden, built on a knoll overlooking the Malecón and the moon-gray ocean.

  They took chairs at a wrought iron table on the lawn and ordered drinks: Lammeck’s rum, Rina’s vodka on ice. For a moment, Lammeck looked at himself seated with the girl, thinking he appeared no different from the rest of the old libertinos in Havana with their chicas. The thought embarrassed him, and he sat back from her to make it clear, in case he was being watched, that she was not his liaison.

  “I’m very glad to see you, Mikhal.”

  “Likewise. You look very nice in that dress.”

  “I am sorry you must see me in it every time we meet.”

  “All women should find one excellent outfit and wear it every day. Maybe you’ll start a fashion. Be the new Jackie Kennedy.”

  “I would have worn something else if I had been with you and Alek yesterday.”

  Lammeck crossed his arms to hide how this startled him.

  “I was jealous,” she said, “that I did not get to visit with you. So this is my reward, to see you tonight.”

  He quelled the urge to question her about what she knew of their shooting day. Was the boy so indiscreet? Didn’t he realize the danger? Rina was lovely and she seemed earnest, but the two had known each other for less than
a month. Alek swore he trusted her, but did he know he was trusting her with his life? And Lammeck’s? If Calendar heard this, he might throttle all three of them.

  The drinks arrived. Lammeck raised his glass to her.

  “To love at first sight.”

  She smiled widely and drank.

  “Tell me how you knew,” Lammeck asked. “That he was the one.”

  “Oh, I didn’t at first. We met at a dance. He was most insistent, breaking all the rules, asking me for many dances in a row. I let him, but only because I was trying to make someone else jealous. Afterward, my friends took me to a house where one of their mothers had just returned from America. Alek was there, too. He spoke about America and all the girls liked him. He helped clean up the dishes after we had cake. Alek was the only American in all of Minsk. He had his own apartment. I decided I’d let him be my boyfriend.”

  “Just like that.”

  “No, not the way it sounds. Alek was different. An outsider. I’ve always liked that sort of person. I am a loner, too.”

  “Will you tell me why?”

  Rina paused, a gentle gaze on Lammeck.

  “I did not know my father. Alek’s died before he was born. I struggled to finish my education. Alek has only gone to what you call in America the ninth grade. I was raised by a stepfather who loved his other children more than me. A mother who loved her husband more than me. Then she died. I have been passed around to relatives like an old heirloom no one wants. Alek joined the Marines very young to find a home for himself. I live now in Minsk with my aunt and uncle. They are happy I will be living with Alek soon. Alek is very sweet. And very clever. He wants me. I will have children with him. We will live a long time happy.”

  The girl sipped her vodka. Lammeck watched, unable to warn her, to protect her. Nothing was in his hands, not even his own fate.

  She glanced down shyly. “I have a confession.”

  “Yes?”

  “I am glad to see you here tonight. I did not expect you. But you have saved me a trip to your house in the morning.”

  Now Lammeck’s heart began to twist. Another step into the labyrinth, he thought, more dark corners, deeper into things he could not control.

  “Why would you come to my house? How do you know where I’m staying?”

  “Alek told me. He took the address when the taxi dropped you off yesterday.”

  Lammeck cursed himself. This was the sort of stupid mistake he was bound to commit. He was not a spy. He had not been trained to be careful with that sort of thing.

  “Rina, what do you want?”

  “Please do not take that tone. I’m afraid for Alek. Who else can I ask for help but you?”

  “Alek tells you more than he ought to,” Lammeck said, more brusquely than he intended. “That’s all I can say.”

  “Sometimes he brags to me.” She appeared on the verge of tears. “I encourage it. Other times I make him tell me. It’s not his fault.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  The girl looked quickly over her shoulders to be certain no one was near. She leaned close to whisper. The gestures struck Lammeck as hackneyed, almost a performance. Then he remembered the girl was nineteen. Drama was natural.

  “That you and he are spies. That is why he brought me to Cuba. Because he is on a mission. With you.”

  “He’s lying, Rina. He’s making that up to impress you.”

  “I hope that is true, Mikhal. On my mother’s grave I do. But...”

  Another couple strolled by. Though Lammeck and she were speaking Russian, Rina broke off, in her flair for secrecy. She and Alek both seemed to relish the attention that came with avoiding attention.

  Behind the couple came a four-piece band, searching the courtyard for guests to play for and tips. Lammeck handed them several pesos to go away.

  Rina continued, “I know the two of you are involved together. If you are not spies, it is still something he is hiding from me. You, too. Tell me this much is so, Mikhal.”

  Lammeck let out a long breath. Calendar had told him Heitor and Unidad were going to take over Alek. Now this girl was dragging the dangerous boy back into his path. She and her fiancé might cost him his life. He knew he should get up and walk away.

  “What do you want me to do, Rina?”

  She said, “Alek told me of a meeting he must go to in the morning. I asked him if you would be there. He said no. Mikhal, I do not understand what is going on. But I will die of fright if I am not certain you are watching over him. I know you will. I know it. Please, go to the meeting with him. Keep him safe. Promise me.”

  Lammeck guessed the meeting was with Heitor and Unidad. If Calendar had wanted him there, Lammeck would’ve been given the instructions on the agent’s nocturnal visit.

  “I’ll go with him. But I’ll stay outside the meeting. I don’t want to know anything more about what Alek is doing than I have to. That’s all, Rina. I’ll go, because you asked. But that’s it.”

  “Is Alek in danger?”

  “Not tomorrow, no.”

  “But he will be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mikhal...”

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “He said they are coming to pick him up at ten in the morning.”

  “I’ll be waiting. When he comes out, I’ll get in the car with him.”

  Lammeck stood, to tell her he was done talking. He still had not met his contact tonight, more than an hour after the scheduled time.

  “Go upstairs to him, Rina. Don’t tell him we spoke. Can I trust you not to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good night.”

  “Thank you, Mikhal.”

  She took his hand from his side, squeezing it. With a sweep of the sea-green dress, shimmering under the moon and gas lamps of the garden, Rina left him. Lammeck signaled for the waiter, to order a cigar and another rum.

  When these were in hand, he strolled down the slope of the courtyard, to the lowest reaches of the manicured grounds, to the rim of the cliff above the Malecón. There, to his surprise, a network of trenches and bunkers had been newly dug, facing the open sea. A dozen soldiers manned machine guns inside hardened redoubts. A single fat howitzer stood vigil on a concrete pad surrounded by flowering shrubs. Castro had his guard up.

  Lammeck turned to the sound of heels coming his way. A tall dapper man in a black tux strolled up. A cigarette lolled on his lips below a trimmed, pencil moustache.

  In Spanish, the man said, “No one knows where, or when. But everyone in Cuba is convinced the exiles are coming.”

  “It’s a shame,” Lammeck answered in Spanish. “To ruin the hotel’s garden like this.”

  “It’s only for show.” The man pulled the cigarette off his lips, daintily using just the fingertips, then swept a hand over the indentations in the Nacional’s courtyard. “To remind the people that we have an enemy there.” He pointed the cigarette north, at Florida’s unseen lights. “Once the invasion is done, it will all be put back to right. One way or another.”

  Was this his contact? Or just a gentleman taking the night air? “What do you think?” Lammeck inquired. “Is America an enemy?”

  The man considered the question, still looking north. “Like all nations, America is self-interested, Professor Lammeck. So long as her interests are the same as mine, she is not my enemy. Nor are you. You have something for me?”

  Lammeck put his hand in his pocket, fingered the poison bottle.

  “You know my name, señor. What is yours?”

  “I do not have comfort telling you about myself. Is it necessary?”

  “Let’s just say I have no comfort talking with someone who knows who I am but not the other way around.”

  The man put the cigarette back to his lips. He held the smoke in for a long moment before letting it seep from his nostrils.

  “Juan Orta Córdova.”

  Orta. This was the name Calendar’s note had said to look for, before Lammeck burned it. />
  “Where have you been? I waited in the casino for an hour.”

  “You waited over an hour,” Orta corrected. “I am not allowed in the casino, señor. Did you not notice? Cubans may not play in the casinos, they may only work in them. It is one of Fidel’s many nanny laws. He takes his belief that we are his children quite literally. Also, you were quite taken with your young lady friend. I could not interrupt. She is Soviet, yes?”