The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02]

by David L. Robbins

  Calendar couldn’t stop his hand. It flew around the cook’s neck, plugging any answer. The man gagged. Calendar let him choke red before letting him go. Cruz collected his breath, afraid to lift his own hands to his throat.

  Calendar asked, “A professor?”

  Cruz nodded, again in quick, small motions. “A fat American, older. A gray beard ...”

  “I know him,” Calendar said. “What did he do?”

  Cruz explained how the American had come to warn Fidel that his food might be poisoned. Fidel made the staff eat from his plate, the American, too. After that, Castro, the professor, and a policeman spoke of a sniper. They talked of a girl, CIA, and KGB. The professor wanted to bargain with Fidel for something.

  “For what?”

  The cook’s voice quaked. “I...I could not hear, señor. For his life, I suppose.”

  “No,” Calendar said, lowering his hand, “not for his life. He’ll have to come to me for that.”

  He backed away from the cook. “Castro entered with seven barbudos. He left with five. Where are the other two?”

  “They went out through the back door with the policeman and the American. They did not return.”

  They’re with Lammeck, Calendar thought. Castro’s put watchdogs on him. Why? Until he does something. What?

  Calendar was weary from the rage he’d expended already today. He had none left for Cruz and this latest debacle wrought by Lammeck. The professor was a pariah, an obstruction to everything Calendar had hoped to accomplish in Cuba. Bringing him into the mission was the worst decision of Calendar’s long covert life.

  “Go inside,” he said. He turned away from Cruz. He needed to find and attend to the professor. He didn’t know what was happening with Hidell and the girl, or Johan. Calendar had no notion how he was going to get to Lammeck past Castro’s boys. But he would, either here in Havana or soon, back in the States. Before he was done, the professor would provide answers. On top of all that, he still had to find a way to kill Castro.

  “Señor?”

  “What.”

  “I... owe a great deal of money. Tonight was supposed to take my debt away. I am not to blame. Orta will call. What will I say?”

  Calendar blew out an aggravated breath.

  “Tell him exactly what happened. Tell him the American probably gave his name to Castro and he needs to drop out of sight. And if he isn’t out of the country in forty-eight hours, I’ll have to kill him.”

  The cook jerked at this. Calendar had little subtlety left in him for repairing the damage.

  “And what of me, señor?”

  “The money you owe. Is it to the American Mob?”

  “Yes.”

  This is one, Calendar thought, I won’t have to shut up.

  “You’re on your own.”

  He left the cook standing against the wall.

  ~ * ~

  Nacional Hotel

  Lammeck flung his bad hand up to protect his face. He flinched and braced, unsure of what was flying toward him. He fell backward against the still-open door. The impact against his arm was slight. She had thrown only a lampshade.

  The paper shade landed at his feet. The soldiers taking up station in the hall laughed as Lammeck closed the door fully. She stood on the far side of the bed, the still-glowing lamp cocked and ready to sail in her hands.

  “Put it down,” he said in Russian.

  Rina dropped the lamp to the mattress. She bounded over the bed, jumping across the springs with arms spread wide. In the second before she reached him, he saw how crimson and tearstained she was.

  “What’s happening?” she implored.

  He looked above her head. The room was in shambles; the bed coverings were strewn, a chair had been smashed, the mirror above the dresser cracked. Rina had continued her tantrum after Johan’s guards returned her here.

  Lammeck tried to peel the girl from him, to look into her face. She clung, resisting his pulling away, crying “No, no, no,” as if his purpose was to give her more bad news. He took her by the shoulders, making hushing sounds, and sat her on the wreckage of the bed. He noted bruises on her knuckles, marks from beating at the windows of the police car.

  “It’s alright,” he said. “Rina, listen to me. It’s alright. Alek is coming back. You’re going home.”

  The girl blinked. She shook her head in disbelief. Lammeck repeated himself. Slowly, she lowered her fingers from her lips and gawped, still not fully comprehending. She’d had a bad scare, but Lammeck’s day had been considerably worse. Alek had jammed a pistol over his heart, he’d thought he was poisoned, he had stared down the barrels of twin machine guns, and now he had to face what was certain to be a lethally angry CIA agent. But Lammeck found himself consoling young Rina, who’d torn up her hotel room.

  “Be quiet,” he said.

  Lammeck collected the shade off the carpet, the lamp from the mattress, and put the two back together to ease the garish light from the bare bulb. He set the lamp upright on its table, moved across the room to the remaining unbroken chair, and sat. Some pink restored itself to the girl’s face, replacing the swollen, shiny red.

  She sniffled once and focused on Lammeck.

  “We are not going to die?”

  Irritation flared in Lammeck’s chest. He wanted to shake her by the shoulders, shout at her so that the broken mirror would rattle: What did you think would happen when you came to another land to kill its leader? That there’d be no danger? No fear? This is killing, girl! Lammeck bit his lip and stared at Rina. Lammeck had trained boys this age to go kill. He could instruct their hands and eyes to do the job but their spirits always suffered when the first bullets flew, when the enemy turned on them. Dying, he thought, seems remote at nineteen, without enough life lived to consider what a life really is. But, conversely, when fear grabs hold and sinks in its teeth, an old man stands it best.

  “No. Johan’s going to bring Alek here in a little while. The two of you are getting on an airplane tonight. You’re leaving Cuba.”

  She dragged a forearm beneath her nose. “How... how did this happen? Why was Alek arrested?”

  “I spoke with Castro myself. He agreed to let you go. More than that you don’t need to know.”

  She glanced around the waste she’d made of the room, as if somehow she might have been responsible for the reprieve. She took only moments to rein herself in. Lammeck admired how fast she did it.

  “Mikhal, I said before I would not ask what things you have given up of yourself for Alek and me. But that is not proper. I must know. What have you promised? What have you done?”

  “You’re a Russian. Alek is a defector. With the invasion coming, Castro can’t risk harming either of you. He’s going to need Soviet support. I helped convince Fidel it was best for everybody if he just let Alek and you leave.”

  The girl squeezed Lammeck’s knee.

  “And what of Calendar? Is he convinced?”

  Lammeck waited, thinking of no lie to tell.

  He shook his head.

  Rina’s face grew doleful. “Mikhal, no. Please. Do not confront that ublyudok.” She called Calendar a bastard.

  At least here in Havana, Lammeck thought, he and Calendar would square off face-to-face. Because of this, he had a chance. He meant to say this to Rina, but footsteps sounded through the door. Voices were exchanged between Johan’s guard and Lammeck’s barbudos. The door flew open.

  Alek leaped in. Behind him came Johan. Rina squealed. The boy and girl collided and ran hands over each other as if to confirm the reality of Alek’s return.

  Alek caught Lammeck’s eye above her shoulder pressed tight under his chin. The boy smiled. Lammeck noted the boy’s left socket was swollen and bluing.

  Johan came to stand beside Lammeck, ignoring the young couple. Lammeck spoke in Spanish, for privacy from Alek and Rina, who likely were not listening.

  “Was he questioned?”

  The policeman shook his head. “No. One of my men got a bit zealous. Actu
ally, Hidell swung first, I was told.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Johan now looked at the embracing boy and girl.

  “Oh, yes. I do. There’s something about you Americans. Even the defectors. All cowboys and spies. Perhaps it is your movies that make you this way.”

  Lammeck grinned.

  Johan announced, “Time to go.”

  Rina released Alek first. She turned from him and approached Johan. Her blue eyes were dry and restrained.

  In English, she said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Johan accepted her hand and nodded. For that moment, he and the girl seemed to Lammeck as equals. Johan had laid a trap for her, she’d eluded it, they’d both survived. The handshake was that of respected adversaries and, in keeping with the code of their trades, left volumes unspoken.

  Rina took her hand from Johan. She stepped in front of Lammeck but said nothing, only laid her open palm over his heart. She looked there, not into his face, as if what lay inside him were what she committed to memory. She turned for the door.

  Alek glanced around the room, at the mess. The boy looked at Rina, then shrugged. He came to Lammeck, hand extended. He did not look at Johan.

  “Hey, look, I’m sorry and all. I’m glad I didn’t shoot you.”

  Lammeck took the boy’s thin hand gently with his bandaged mitt. Up close, he saw Alek was going to sport a fine black eye.

  Beside Lammeck, Johan cleared his throat. The boy looked at him now, sheepish.

  “I reckon I’m glad I didn’t shoot Castro either.”

  Johan inclined his head. “Gracious of you. Shall we go, Mr. Hidell? The sooner you are away, the better.”

  Alek tugged his hand away, but Lammeck held on. The cut in his palm stung.

  In a low voice, he said, “Tell her, son.”

  “Tell her what?”

  “That you’re trying to get back to America. She loves you. She thinks you’re going to stay with her in Russia.”

  “I am gonna stay with her. I’m gonna bring her back with me.”

  Calendar would never allow that. But Calendar had yet to be dealt with.

  “Then at least tell her you were under a threat from the CIA.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because she doesn’t know you were forced to do this. Right now, she thinks you’re just an assassin.”

  Alek crossed the room to Rina. He put his arm around her waist and ushered her out the door. When she was in the hall, out of hearing range, he leaned back through the doorway, grinning.

  “An assassin. Maybe that’s what I am, Professor.”

  The boy raised his thumb and stuck out his index finger at Lammeck’s midriff, making the hand a little gun. He crooked the thumb as if the gun had gone off, and smirked. “See you.”

  Behind Alek, the door eased itself shut. Johan, with Lammeck, stared after him. The policeman sighed. “I’m sure it’s in your movies.”

  The policeman walked around the ruined bed to a window. He gazed out at old Havana. Lammeck moved to another window. The wind, absent all this drawn-out day, had kicked up.

  Whitecapped waves whipped the island, drenching the Malecón. Puddles shimmered on the road beneath the traffic, evening strollers on the sidewalk scuttled and laughed.

  “I’ll put you in a different room, Professor.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Fidel’s barbudos will stay on guard. Blanco will bring dinner from outside the hotel. I will join you after I have seen those two off the island.”

  “I’ll have a steak. And beer. Ask Blanco to join us.”

  “Certainly.”

  Lammeck left the window. He found an ink pen on the floor and a piece of hotel stationery. He ripped away the Nacional Hotel’s logo and scribbled a note. He folded the page, then handed it to Johan.

  “Take this to my house. Leave it out where Calendar can find it.”

  “May I look?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Johan opened the crease. He smiled at the words.

  Tomorrow. Inglaterra. High noon.

  “High noon, Professor?”

  Lammeck returned to the window. He watched a wave batter the seawall. Johan left the room, muttering, “Just as I said. Cowboys and spies.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  April 10

  Nacional Hotel

  LAMMECK STARED AT THE blank, white ceiling of his hotel room. The sun would not rise for another hour; the plaster was lit only by streetlights far below on the Malecón. He rose from bed, went to the windows to check the morning winds. A front had passed in the night while he tossed. The coming day promised to be calm.

  Lammeck dressed. He opened the door slowly, letting it click to alert the guards outside. One barbudo stood facing him, the blond from the restaurant. The other was on the hall floor, slumped against the wall, sound asleep.

  “Wake him,” Lammeck said. “Do you have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  The ride to Miramar in the open jeep was bracing. Lammeck enjoyed the antique feel of it, recalling younger days when he trained fighters for the OSS in Scotland during the war. This set off other memories in his heart, of friends and classrooms, a snowy childhood, women, on this day when he would commit murder, or die.

  He guided the barbudos to his house. One stayed in the idling vehicle, the blond put a pistol in his hand and went inside first, clearing the rooms before beckoning Lammeck to come. Lammeck grabbed what he needed. He found the priests’ knife and the sheath. He picked up the dagger, admiring again the heft and balance. The blade, like the ride in the jeep, launched him into another reverie, of his studies and work. He wondered about the book he’d come to Havana to research, feeling it could be great and wanting to live to write it. Lammeck put down the knife. Before leaving, he looked for the note Johan was to have set out. He could not find it.

  He stood in his backyard, looking toward the old city in the east, until the orange cap of the sun peered above the horizon. The two barbudos guarded Lammeck from a distance, leaving him alone in the dawn, as if he were a condemned man.

  He turned from the flat sea and the waning stars.

  “Let’s go,” he called to the soldier eyeing him from the porch of the house.

  Monday morning traffic joined them on the roads, office workers trudged the sidewalks, a horse-drawn cart of construction workers slowed a lane on the Malecón. Pulling into the grounds of the Nacional, the jeep cruised past gardeners spraying hoses over the lawn. Taxis pulled up to the front door with the day’s first arrivals from the airport and harbor. The silent barbudos accompanied Lammeck inside. Again, the blond led the way, his hand on the butt of his pistol. He did the same when they arrived at Lammeck’s room, then planted himself beside the door. The other soldier, darkly bearded and portly, asked Lammeck what he would like for breakfast. He would go out of the hotel for the food.

  “Nothing,” Lammeck said. “I’ll wait for lunch. Get yourselves something.”

  Closing the door, he heard the blond guard order huevos y jamón and café con leche.

  “Get some for the professor,” the blond said. “In case he changes his mind.”

  Lammeck took off his khakis and guayabera, lapping them over the back of a chair. He lay on the ruffled bed, his head to the pillow. The ceiling remained bare but this time glowed with a golden morning light. Lammeck closed his eyes and found to his relief that he’d finished thinking. Finding no reason or way to turn back, he did what he could not in the darkness. He slept.

  ~ * ~

  Lammeck awoke to the aroma of eggs. He lifted his head to see a foil-covered paper plate on the dresser. Napkins and a fork were set beside it. He peeled back the foil to find cooled scrambled eggs, chorizo sausage, and two limp slices of white bread. He opened the door to thank the dark-haired guard there, and to make sure it had been he who’d brought the food.

  After eating, Lammeck showered and dressed. At ten o’clock, he opened the door to his
room.

  “We’ll walk,” he said to the guard.

  The blond barbudo had talked a maid into letting him sleep in an empty room. He was found and awakened. The soldiers moved to Lammeck’s sides and stayed there out of the hotel. Lammeck strode between the two olive uniforms, not certain if he looked like a dignitary or a convict.