“No. And you don’t tell her.”
“How long have you been setting this up?”
“A year and a half, since the kid landed in Moscow. We had other defectors we were watching. Hidell wasn’t my first choice. He’s too young. But, a couple months ago he went crying to the U.S. embassy that he wanted go home. The timing was right, so somebody in the CIA went to see him. Who knew he missed apple pie and baseball that fucking much? The deal got made.”
Lammeck shook his head.
“That’s not a deal, Calendar. It’s extortion.”
“Correction. It’s politics. I figured you knew something about l hat. I thought you taught history up at that college of yours, but I reckon you just teach pattycake. Now, is that all you got for me?”
“What about Orta?”
“Let me worry about Orta. You just do the kid a big favor and get him back.”
“If I find him, what do I tell him? Will you let him go home?”
The agent shrugged. “Sure.”
Lammeck was getting better at spotting Calendar’s lies.
“And, Professor, you got only twenty-four hours.”
“Why so quick?”
Calendar jabbed a finger into the center of the map. “Because that’s when Fidel’s gonna be standing right here.”
~ * ~
Miramar
Lammeck showered. Finding a first aid kit under the sink, he changed his bandage with a gauze roll. He picked clean clothes from the litter on his bedroom floor. Out in the backyard, he lit a cigar with the assassination plans.
In his bandaged hand, he held the scroll like a torch, letting it burn from the top down. When the fire singed too close to his fingers he dropped the page to the grass. He stood by until the whole sheet was charred, then ground it into black dust under his heel.
The rain had moved on. Far to the west over the straits, the cold front that brought the damp weather ended in a sharp line of clouds. More tropical blue was headed for Havana.
He turned to face the rear of his house. With the cigar in his teeth, Lammeck puffed and re-created Alek’s steps.
Three long hours ago, the boy had crashed through the hedge. He’d quickly realized the chasing soldier had picked fatter, slower Lammeck for his pursuit. Alek took off, not knowing if Lammeck would get away. After he was in the clear, the boy stopped running, found a still place, and reviewed his dilemma.
What did he know? That Heitor, Susanna, and the conspirators had been caught, some killed. Lammeck might have been captured, but Alek couldn’t be sure. He had to guess that Heitor, his men, maybe Lammeck, anyone who survived the raid, would be in prison and interrogated before the afternoon was over.
What was Alek unaware of? That the meeting had been betrayed. That the informant was dead, at Calendar’s hand. That Calendar knew what had happened and put Lammeck on his trail to stop the assassination, to bring Alek in. That there was an alternate plan, Orta the poisoner.
The boy had to make a decision: go forward alone, or try to get his girl safely off the island before someone cracked under pressure and gave him up.
Lammeck had run beside Alek with the plans rolled in his hand. The kid was smart; if Lammeck had been captured, he’d know the plans would’ve been, as well.
So he came here first, to Lammeck’s house. He broke in for the duffel bag, before Castro’s people could beat him to the punch. Once he had the rifle, the scope, and ammo in his hands, he could keep his options open.
Standing in front of the door, trailing smoke off his lips, Lammeck envisioned Alek as he smashed in the glass pane. Reach inside for the lock. Open and enter. Lammeck followed.
The boy was in a hurry. In the bedroom the mattress had been yanked off the bed. The closet had been rummaged, dresser emptied. In the living room and dining room, every drawer hung open. In the kitchen, the last place Alek searched, pots and pans were scattered on the floor. But nothing in the entire house, save for the back door window, had been broken. Alek, frantic over who might find him here—Lammeck or the police?—tried even in his haste to be considerate.
Lammeck traced Alek’s steps out the back door, around to the front yard. With the duffel over his shoulder, the boy walked in the rain to Avenida 5 for a taxi. Where would he go next?
What were his needs? To stay out of sight until one o’clock tomorrow. He’d keep alert, to see if he was being hunted. He’d watch for added security around the platform in Parque Central where Castro was scheduled to observe the parade down Prado Boulevard. Alek would need food and shelter. He’d require money for that.
And Rina. Could Alek disappear with no word to her?
Lammeck kept walking away from the house. He figured he’d clean the disarray inside later, or never.
He headed south, to Avenida 5, for a taxi to the Nacional.
~ * ~
He climbed the hotel steps. A doorman pulled aside the large portal. In Lammeck’s imagination, Alek walked in beside him carrying the duffel.
He would have stashed the bag, Lammeck decided. Left it downstairs at the concierge desk. I’ll be right back for it, he’d say. He had no way to know if he was only minutes ahead of the police or the army.
Lammeck went to a hotel phone. The operator connected him. Rina answered.
“It’s Mikhal.”
Immediately, she sounded tense, troubled. In Russian, she urged, “Where are you? Where is Alek?”
She knew, or feared, something was wrong. Something more than just Alek coming home late from a meeting.
“Come downstairs.”
The phone went dead.
Lammeck pictured Rina flying from the room, excitable, a teenager. Inside a minute, she emerged into the lobby as he predicted, rounding the corner from the elevator bank.
She collided with him, opening her arms for an embrace Lammeck had not anticipated. She hugged him hard, trembling.
“He came. I was not in the room, I was at lunch outside in the garden. He left a note. I have it.” Her Russian gushed almost too fast for Lammeck.
Lammeck patted the back of her head. Above her, he glanced about the grand lobby of the Nacional, his heart pounding.
“Walk with me,” he told her.
He steered Rina through the rear door to the hotel courtyard. Neither spoke until they were well outside, moving across the grass with the ocean, Castro’s newly dug defense works, and the Malecón in view.
“Why didn’t you come upstairs?” she asked.
“I don’t know if your room is bugged.”
“Ahh.” She nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “You have a knife under your shirt. I felt it.”
“I’m sorry. I do.”
“No. I’m glad of it. I knew you would guard my Alek. I believe you have tried to do that. And you are safe, too. If you have a weapon, then you were the best man to ask. I am the one who is sorry.”
Lammeck stopped only when they reached the middle of the lawn. He faced the courtyard. “Give me the note.”
From her handbag, Rina produced a sheet of hotel stationery. Three lines of Cyrillic had been scribbled on it. Lammeck translated:
I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. I’m OK. If I don’t come, you’ll know why. Then get out of Cuba as fast as you can. Wait in Freeport. I’ll make it to you. I love you. A.
Turning his back to face the Malecón below and the ocean beyond, Lammeck reached past the poison pill in his pocket for a lighter. Distracted, he flicked the Zippo with his right hand; the action made the wound in his palm nip. He switched to his left and lit the note.
He waited for the fire to consume it before releasing the paper. Beside him, Rina gazed at the curling page on the grass, unconcerned. When nothing was left, Lammeck asked: “Was that why he came back to the room? To leave you that message?”
“He also took his passport. And money.”
Lammeck took out his wallet. He handed the girl eighty pesos, keeping ten for his own taxi fare.
“Here. If you have to get off the
island, this is enough to get you a ticket and a hotel room.”
“Thank you.” She stowed the bills in her purse. “Mikhal, please. What is happening? Tell me.”
He set his good hand on her shoulder. The ash of the letter blew away at their feet.
“Rina, you shouldn’t be here. This should not have involved you. It was wrong, but there’s nothing to be done about it now except to keep you out of it. I’ll only say that something went bad at the meeting this morning. Alek has run off because of it. He might be in trouble. I don’t think he’s injured. I’m trying to find him to bring him back before anything can happen to him. If I can do that, I’ll get you both out of here safely. If there’s something you can think of to help me, tell me now. I don’t have much time.”
The girl enfolded herself in her arms as though suddenly cold. She turned her back. “You have to stop him.”
This jolted Lammeck.
“I didn’t say anything about stopping him. Stop him from what?”
He took the girl by the shoulders, spun her to look him in the eyes. Her mouth was grim and set. Lammeck lowered his hands.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“Very little more than you. It is of no consequence. Only this I will tell you, you must find Alek. It will be terrible if you do not. Bring him nowhere but to me.”
Her tone had changed from the teenage girl scared because her fiancé was missing, worried to be left alone and in the dark. Suddenly, Rina was a part of the mystery, another sticky thread of the web Lammeck struggled in. What could he do? Shake her? Threaten her? Refuse to help unless she told him everything? Lammeck wanted Rina’s information, but he didn’t need it or her reasons for finding Alek. He had enough of his own. As for where he would take Alek if he found him, Lammeck would not decide that now.
The boy had money and a passport. He’d warned Rina he was in trouble. Told her to wait only until tomorrow. He planned for Castro to be dead at one o’clock, with all Cuba in an uproar. If Alek managed to dodge the frenzy and manhunt that would follow, he’d lay low and come to her in the evening. If not, she’d know with the rest of the world the reason why. She should go from Cuba without him. He told Rina he loved her.
In a few hours the sun would sink into the ocean. Lammeck believed that Alek had no interest in sunsets, so he looked north toward America, the thing Alek wanted most. The boy hadn’t shared with Rina that he was risking everything to return to his homeland. Would she be heartbroken when she found out? Would she go with him? Could she? Would either of them live long enough?
Lammeck stepped away from the girl, to follow Alek again.
~ * ~
A half-dozen carpenters put finishing touches on the reviewing stand in Parque Central. The statue of José Martí oversaw their work. Lammeck moved closer to their hammering, trying to see tomorrow the way Fidel would.
The parade down Prado Boulevard was going to be an agricultural display. A thousand young men and women in straw hats and denims would march in lockstep, rakes and hoes over their shoulders, tractors pulling floats. Songs would be raised to the glory of the fields.
At one o’clock, Fidel will stand elevated on his platform, ten strides from where Lammeck now watched the carpenters. With his amazing stamina, Castro will stay on his feet for hours until the last farmer moves past. Then he’ll give an equally long speech to the throng that will swell in the wake of the parade. Waving to his people, will he think of the petaca that might have been under his boots, set to blow him to pieces, prevented only when Johan’s security force captured Sorí Marín? Will Castro feel safe, unaware of Alek Hidell?
Lammeck turned away from the banging carpenters. Royal palms ringed the perimeter of the small, paved commons of the park. He walked to the edge of Prado to lean against the fat gray trunk of a tree. He envisioned the sounds: bands marching by, diesel engines spitting fumes, shuffling boots, the voices of farmers in a mile-long column.
No one would hear the shot. Only Fidel and those standing near him, too late.
Lammeck pivoted back to the platform. He envisioned Castro down, clutching his chest. Blood pumps through his fingers. The others on the dais dive to his side to shield him and help, or they cower for their own safety, depending on their makeup. The parade does not halt, it’s twenty blocks long, with a convoy’s momentum. A murmur rises first among the onlookers closest to the platform, then screams break over the crowd. From Castro’s prone body a shock wave goes out, as if from a blast. Every vehicle, marcher, every person in the crowd, presses forward to see or recoils in fear, to run in case of more danger. In seconds, the bottleneck of cars and legs becomes enormous. Guns drawn, police can do nothing with the chaos; they might fire into the air, adding to the panic.
Heads jerk in every direction, searching for the source of the bullet that felled Castro.
Lammeck gazed south, three and half blocks down Prado to El Capitolio. He knew from Heitor’s plans that the distance was four hundred fifty yards from the cupola. Five hundred from the roof of the building’s south wing. The boy would be allowed his preference.
For a shot on the platform behind Lammeck, El Capitolio was ideally chosen. The distance, the unfettered view. The building was abandoned.
Lammeck continued his imagined vigil on the boy. With the bullet away, Alek takes one last look through the 10X scope to see that Fidel is hit hard. Then he uses a rag to wipe down the Winchester 70. This requires only a few seconds. He rises, leaving behind everything, the gun with a busted bleach bottle taped to the barrel, the lone .308 shell casing on the floor, the scope, the canvas rifle bag. The rifle and Weaver sight are both American but they’re also common, anyone can get them, that’s why they were an excellent selection.
Tomorrow at El Capitolio, there will be people everywhere on the lawn. A Sunday, the grounds will be jammed with Cubans picnicking, playing ball, watching the parade, plus vendors selling them everything from sodas to lottery tickets. Because of the clamor of the parade, no one will notice the Winchester’s report, suppressed by the plastic bottle.
The only ones who will know a bullet has been fired will be those close to the projectile’s path. They’ll hear only a supersonic crack when the round passes overhead, with no way to tell the direction it came from. These few will likely be the people in the crowd closest to the reviewing stand, those officials standing on it, and Castro himself, a millisecond after the bullet strikes.
Then, in his mind’s eye, Lammeck lost sight of Alek. He didn’t know how the boy got into the abandoned building—a vulnerable window, an old door easily jimmied, a flimsy lock that could be forced—but he was certain that Alek would retrace his steps off the roof. The boy will stay calm, his training coming to the fore. Unseen, he tries to make it down some ladder or steps, back inside the capitol building, then out to the street to join the pandemonium. He’ll hope to use the turmoil as cover.
Alek, descending from the roof, will have no one to act as lookout. No car waiting to whisk him off.
This will be when he gets caught.
Someone will see him emerge from an off-limits door, or slide under a broken window frame. They’ll yell for the police. Alek will run: He will not get far.
As Lammeck watched Alek sprint in his imagination, he saw something he hadn’t anticipated. The boy got away. He rounds a corner, ducks into an alley, flies over a fence, and dodges pursuit.
Lammeck closed his eyes and repeated the scenario in his head again, and again. Alek fires, Castro falls, the boy makes his way off the capitol’s roof, into the heart of a citywide turmoil. Half the time someone catches him, the other half he slips into the crush and disappears. It was possible, yes.
What if the boy doesn’t get caught? What if Calendar was wrong to say his capture was a lock-tight certainty? Some mala suerte was needed for Alek to be seen. Certainly the boy could be careless with his mouth, but he seemed that way only with Rina. With Lammeck he’d been tight-lipped and wary. Alek was a quick learner, adaptable, calm beh
ind the trigger.
What if Alek kills Castro and gets away?
Calendar must know this. The odds were against it, but Alek could pull it off.
Lammeck looked up into the palm tree rising behind him. Not a wisp of wind waved in the fronds. He searched the blank blue sky, lowering his gaze to the tops of the several grand structures surrounding Parque Central. Traffic puttered past, the carpenters finished their work on the dais. Across Prado, Lammeck caught sight of his waiter Gustavo serving an early dinner on the Inglaterra’s crowded patio. The hotel’s five-piece band struck up a tune. The first strollers began their pre-dinner promenade beneath Prado’s shade trees.
Where was Alek in all this? Was Lammeck really expected to find the boy?
The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02] Page 21
