The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02]

by David L. Robbins

  Castro winced behind his glasses. “What are you saying?”

  “Hidell was never intended to kill you. He was an unwitting decoy, to lead us to the girl. The assassination plot was an elaborate hoax.”

  “So I would learn that the KGB and CIA have joined forces to assassinate me? This is... this is unimaginable.”

  “That is why the CIA sabotaged Ferrer’s meeting. The CIA hoped the shock of realizing the Soviet Union also opposed you would sway you away from them.”

  Castro took long moments before bringing his gaze to Lammeck.

  “It would seem, Professor, I should have kicked the hornets’ nest sooner.”

  Genuine dismay stained Fidel’s features. Lammeck said only, “Perhaps.”

  “Raul and Guevara will be flattered when I tell them.” Castro eyed Lammeck before asking, “Very impressive. Like chess masters, your CIA. They play several moves ahead. Now tell me, what is your role in all this?”

  “I met Alek and his fiancée, Rina. After he escaped the Ferrer meeting, Alek went ahead with the plot on his own, thinking it was the only way the CIA would keep its end of the bargain to let him go home. Rina asked me to stop him. The CIA did, too.”

  Fidel tapped the table beside the botulinum pill. “Why did the KGB girl want to stop him from killing me? That was her goal from the beginning, yes?”

  Lammeck said, “As it turns out, she actually loves Alek. More, I think, than she loves Russia.”

  “Russians. An unpredictable people. Where is the girl?”

  Johan answered: “Under guard at the Nacional. There has been no reason to arrest her yet. She is Soviet, and I assumed you would want me to use discretion before acting.”

  “Exactly. Well done. Professor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hidell is in jail. The Russian girl is in custody. It seems the CIA’s plan has been carried out. Why do you believe they still want me dead?”

  “Because the plan called for Hidell to be killed before he could be questioned. You were never supposed to know CIA was involved. Only KGB.”

  Castro leaned to an elbow.

  “So it seems, Professor, with the plot in shambles and the invasion coming, the CIA has decided to give up turning me away from the Soviet Union. The backup plan is to assassinate me before the gusanos land on the island. I am to be poisoned.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you decided to come warn me. In return, I am to make a bargain with you. Let me guess. You want me to spare Hidell and the Russian girl, in return for the favor of my life.”

  “I want them freed and allowed to leave Cuba.”

  Castro nodded, appreciating Lammeck’s brevity.

  “They will both go back to Russia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Johan says you were the one who brought Hidell down off El Capitolio. You could have stayed quiet. You could have let him shoot me. Your government would have been appreciative of that.”

  “Yes.”

  “But conscience intervened, eh?”

  Lammeck said nothing. Castro snickered at himself.

  He snapped his fingers at the table where the staff sat. “Maria.”

  The woman jumped to her feet. Castro swept a hand over the cold plate.

  “Take this away.”

  Next Castro pointed at the botulinum pill. “Put that back in your pocket, Professor. It makes my stomach sink to look at it.”

  Castro said to him and Johan, “I despise this part of politics. The machinations, the wheedling. Every decision strained through the greater needs of a nation. I wanted it to be simpler. But with Cuba such a poor country, there are too many eggshells for a man to put his foot down firmly. Compromise is the rule. It is unfortunate.”

  Castro removed his olive drab hat.

  “Hidell is lucky he is a defector. If he were just an American, I’d wave him in front of the world. Let them see what the Yankees are doing. Then I’d either have him shot or I’d trade him back to Kennedy for something humiliating. But this pleasure is denied me, because Hidell is a guest of the Soviet Union. And considering Russia’s low opinion of me at the moment, I cannot shoot the KGB girl either. Johan?”

  “Yes, Commandante?”

  “Although I am certain there are other sinister little bits of this tale, it seems the professor has told us enough. I see no point to interrogating the young couple. That would bear little profit for the political cost. Do you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  Castro brought his attention back to Lammeck. “So, actually, Professor, letting the two of them go plays somewhat to my advantage. I now know their plot, and the roles of both governments. But only you, me, and Johan are aware of this. So, I accept your proposal.”

  Lammeck was stunned at the suddenness of Fidel’s agreement. “Alek and Rina can go?”

  “Johan will release the boy—I will call him that now—and put them both on a plane leaving the island. Tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Johan’s police will make inquiries and we will locate where your poison pills have gotten to. I will watch my Russian allies with a jaundiced eye. And I will find some new favorite restaurants.”

  Fidel tugged his campaign hat down over his locks.

  “I will become a far more public Marxist. If that is what is demanded of me, I intend to perform like a Russian bear. Kennedy will not be pleased, but he will have his chance soon enough to display that, I believe.”

  Castro patted the pockets of his tunic, looking for something. Coming up empty, he called to the table of barbudos.

  “Eduardo, a cigar.”

  One of the bearded ones rose swiftly and shuttled a cigar to Fidel. While the burly man dug in his pocket for a lighter, Castro bit off the tip and rolled the stogie in his mouth. The barbudo brought a flame to it and Fidel puffed the tobacco to life.

  “Do you like Cuban cigars, Professor?”

  “Yes. The best in the world.”

  “They are indeed. When we have concluded our business, I will offer you one.” Fidel breathed in a full load of smoke, emitted it above the table. “Perhaps.”

  A chill struck across Lammeck’s shoulders.

  Castro spoke to the table of waiting restaurant staff. “Cruz?”

  “Yes, Commandante?”

  “Back to your kitchen. We’ll be leaving in five minutes. You can open for business then.”

  “Thank you, Commandante.”

  Castro puffed again, blowing the haze directly at Lammeck. He addressed the soldier waiting beside him.

  “Eduardo, you and Calderon take the professor outside to the alley. Bring your weapons. The rest wait inside.”

  Johan said, “Commandante, with respect, Professor Lammeck has saved your life.”

  Fidel stared at Lammeck when he spoke. “Yes, Captain. Now he will be given the chance to save his own.”

  ~ * ~

  Lammeck stood. Johan jumped to his feet. Fidel rose gradually, his long frame unfurling from the booth, the cigar fuming above their heads.

  Lammeck looked to Johan. The policeman’s face was frantic and pleading. He knew that, with one sentence, Lammeck could have Johan condemned and standing next to him in the alley facing the guns of the barbudos.

  The pair of soldiers bracketed Lammeck front and back, headed for the kitchen door. Passing their table, they snatched submachine guns off the backs of chairs. The other barbudos stayed silent.

  Lammeck walked, stunned. The poison that might be in his stomach began to churn up into his throat. He kept his own bearded chin high, trying to maintain enough composure to lobby for his life in the coming minutes. But he was frightened, almost past his ability to bear it.

  They entered the kitchen in a column, Eduardo in the lead, then Lammeck, followed by the blond barbudo, Fidel, and Johan. The two Oriental dishwashers were already at work in clouds of steam and spraying water. One cook diced vegetables on a chopping block. The tall cook Cruz closed a door on an old refrigerator. He carried a cold and frag
rant plate of flan to a large sink and dumped it under a stream of water.

  Cruz looked over his shoulder at Lammeck. The man scowled.

  Some of the turmoil in Lammeck’s gut disappeared. He had one less menace to kill him now, he was not poisoned. The botulinum had been in the chilled dessert.

  This failed to lift his confidence.

  Eduardo pushed open the back door. Without being told, Lammeck walked to put his back against a high brick wall. The rest took natural positions for an execution; Eduardo and the blond stood opposite Lammeck ten strides away, submachine guns in their hands. Johan moved beside Fidel, off to the side.

  Fidel inhaled a great breath through the cigar. The red ember tip glowed in the thin light, illuminating Castro’s face. The moment was calm and devilish.

  Fidel released the smoke, then said, “Professor Lammeck. I have agreed to free the sniper and the Russian girl in return for my own life. But we have some unresolved issues, you and I.”

  Lammeck said nothing. He cut his eyes to Johan. The policeman stood with his hands behind his back, eyes cast down to the stones of the alley, as if he were already accused.

  Castro put the cigar between two fingers. He shifted it around as he spoke.

  “You understand, nothing you told me this evening excuses the fact that you were involved in a secret CIA plot to murder me. Though you may have spared me from it, you have not yet spared yourself. You have had dealings with the turncoat Ferrer, the sniper Hidell, the KGB’s treachery, and I cannot imagine what further collaborations with the CIA. So, Professor?”

  Lammeck licked his lips to be sure he had enough moisture in his mouth to speak.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you have to offer me in trade for your own life?”

  Lammeck took his own deep breath to force down nausea. The alley was dark, but enough light spilled from streetlights elsewhere for him to see Eduardo’s finger slide to the trigger of his submachine gun. Johan audibly held his breath.

  Lammeck made a silent apology. This was the game everyone else had played, on every side of him since arriving in Havana: Calendar, Johan, Rina, Heitor, they all turned on someone else. Like spiders, they spun webs and ate their own. Lammeck had tried to keep the secrets and names entrusted to him. But clearly, that way lay his death. This world of assassins, Lammeck thought, was far more savage than he’d ever dreamed.

  “Juan Orta Córdova.”

  Fidel’s cigar stopped waving in the air.

  “Orta? My old secretary? What about him?” Before Lammeck could say more, Castro’s cigar went on the move again, rising with the two fingers to tap himself on the noggin over the campaign hat. “You gave him the pills! Of course.”

  “That’s right.”

  Fidel laughed.

  “I fired Orta three months ago. He’s a corrupt worm, a dissolute gambler, in the pocket of the Mafia. Oh, this makes perfect sense, Professor. He sold himself to the Mob, then they sold him to the CIA. Yes, yes, I see. After I am dead and the Americans are in charge again, Orta will be rich in influence. Thank you, Professor. Johan?”

  The policeman lifted his face to respond. “Commandante?”

  “Tomorrow, find Orta for me.”

  Johan nodded and said no more.

  “Professor Lammeck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you again for another valuable bit of information. I continue to be amazed and a little saddened at how many people I have trusted wrongly. But Orta is nothing. He is not a counterbalance to you and your involvement. I need more. What else have you got? Who weighs the same as you?”

  Johan’s features caved. He looked as distraught as Lammeck felt, as if he were a second away from blurting out his own role in the plot. The policeman was clearly convinced Lammeck was ready to sell him out to save his own skin.

  Lammeck brought up both his bandaged and good hand in front of him. He raised his two index fingers, a gesture he’d used in untold numbers of classrooms to make summations and his most important points.

  “What would you say, Commandante, if I told you there was one last CIA agent left in Cuba?”

  “I would say that is one too many.”

  “What if I eliminated him?”

  Castro yanked the cigar quickly from his lips. He coughed on smoke that caught him by surprise.

  “You mean kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will do this?”

  Lammeck nodded.

  Fidel motioned for the pair of barbudos to lower their weapons. He held out a hand to Eduardo. “Another cigar. And your lighter.”

  Castro approached. He handed Lammeck the stogie, then waited for him to bite the tip and spit it away. Lammeck accepted the flame from inside Castro’s cupped palm. The smoke stung his tongue, already tender from the taste of bile.

  Castro leaned in more, coming within range to whisper. Lammeck smelled the starch in his olive uniform.

  “Tell me the name. How to find him. I will have it done.”

  “No,” Lammeck said, matching Castro’s clandestine tone. “I’ll do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Plausible deniability.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Colon Cemetery

  Twenty-third Street

  Vedado

  CALENDAR RAISED A BOUQUET of white daisies to his nose. He breathed in a pleasant, earthy scent.

  He watched above the stone cemetery wall, across the street to the Peking. Castro emerged with five of his barbudos. Odd. Twenty minutes ago, the man had entered the restaurant with an entourage of seven. Where were the other two?

  Fidel hadn’t stayed long enough for a full meal, coffee, and dessert. He and his men got into their pair of jeeps and pulled away. As soon as they roared off, the black waitress flipped the closed sign on the door to open. Calendar dropped the flowers on a grave. The flowers didn’t help. Something stunk.

  After Castro rode off with his cadre, Calendar hopped the low wall surrounding the massive graveyard. It had been a spooky place to wait after the sun went down. The weathered old marble and quarried stone markers dated back two hundred years. Now, in the dark, they were sooty and murmuring. Calendar crossed busy Twenty-third and entered the restaurant, expecting to find Fidel’s two bearded compañeros lingering at a table. Instead, the place was empty. The waitress greeted Calendar with a hand out, gesturing he could sit where he liked.

  “I want to see Cruz.”

  “He is in the kitchen, señor”

  “Get him.”

  “He is preparing meals—”

  Calendar strode away from the short woman. She called after him, “You cannot go back there!” Calendar snorted at the feebleness of people who tried to stop him.

  He pushed on the swinging door to the kitchen. He didn’t know which of the staff was Cruz and called out the name. One man, a tall Cuban in an apron with a bitter look to him, turned. The others, two Asians and another Cuban, glanced up from their labors, then ignored him. The tall one came forward.

  “Outside,” Calendar said.

  Cruz followed into the alley. Calendar closed the door behind them. He scanned in all directions before speaking.

  “You know who I am?”

  “No, señor”

  “Orta works for me. You know me now?”

  “Of course.”

  “What happened?”

  The man said nothing. Calendar could not hold his eyes. Cruz dropped his chin. The cook’s mouth worked like a landed fish, he seemed close to weeping.

  Calendar pushed one finger into the apron over the man’s lean chest. He walked Cruz backward, as if his finger were the tip of a dagger. Cruz stopped retreating when his back hit the bricks of a wall. He did not lift his head. He sniveled.

  “What happened, Cruz?”

  “Señor, please. It was not my fault.”

  Calendar wanted to spit, the words rose so foul in his mouth.

  “You didn’t poison him.”


  The cook shook his head fast, in a tremor. “Orta said only to serve the poison in food or a cold liquid. Fidel always eats flan for his dessert. I had it ready, hidden in the back of the refrigerator. But a policeman came. And a professor. I threw the flan away and flushed the rest of the pills. What else could I do, señor?”