The Havana Game

by John Lutz

  “Deserted.”

  “Yes. If that’s correct, he’s far away by now. He certainly wouldn’t hang about in Tallinn, waiting to be arrested.”

  Which meant that the sensible course of action for Laker was to relax in his comfortable hotel room, watching CNN and sipping a single-malt scotch from the minibar. They had his favorite, Speyside Cardhu. He’d already checked.

  But Laker had the feeling Barsinian was not beyond his reach. The feeling couldn’t be justified by facts, only by experience. His hunches hadn’t always proved right, but often enough to win him the nickname of Lucky Laker. Which he detested. But he did believe in his luck. So, with darkness falling and the temperature dropping, he’d set off, to check out his one and only decent lead.

  He gave up his seat and took his place among the straphangers. He asked a tattooed teenager with ice skates over his shoulder if he spoke English. The answer, as usual, was yes, and Laker got directions to get off at the St. Christopher’s Gate stop and go straight down the road to the chocolate shop.

  He clambered down from the tram and surveyed the town’s ancient wall. It looked less like a wall than a pile of rocks, blackened with centuries of soot. At intervals stood castellated towers, on which men had stood on freezing nights like this one, watching for marauders to come over the horizon. Men who’d had basically the same job he did.

  As he drew near the gate, a van was coming to a stop in front of it. No vehicles were allowed in Old Town. People in warm, expensive clothes climbed down from it. A bare-headed young woman whose long blond hair was swirling in the wind raised a sign that said “Jamboree,” the cruise line that owned the ship in the harbor that he’d seen from his hotel window this morning. The tourists followed their guide through the gate, and Laker followed them.

  They were pointing and talking excitedly in various languages, blowing puffs of steam into the cold air. Laker had to admit the scene was picturesque. Floodlit spires and turrets seemed to float in the night sky. Lining the narrow street were small buildings with blackened beams and rough stone walls. They were shops now, and in their brightly lit windows were displays of local crafts: amber jewelry, stained glass, household items carved from wood. There were also clunky wristwatches, goggles, entrenching tools, and other gear left behind by the Red Army. More inviting to Laker were the windows of bars and restaurants, fogged by the warmth inside and glowing softly. Smoke wafted from their chimneys into the cold wind, which brought Laker the scent of burning firewood. He was tempted to go in and find a seat by the hearth.

  It turned out he had only to follow the tourists to reach his destination. Klein & Grossberg Chocolatier, said the spotlit wooden signboard hanging over the street. No neon signs in Old Town. The tourists broke from their pack and hurried to the windows, exclaiming with delight. Laker, looking over their shoulders, saw that each window displayed a European landmark sculpted in chocolate: the Reichstag, Notre Dame Cathedral, Big Ben. Even the Ministry of Justice, where he’d been that morning.

  One window had a chocolate Titanic, afloat on a sea of melted chocolate. The tourists exclaimed delightedly over it. Laker hadn’t thought you would want to be reminded of the Titanic when you were on a cruise.

  He followed the tourists into the warm, bright interior. Here the chocolate was in more edible form. Tiers of shelves were stacked with boxes of various sizes, filled with bite-size candy. The boxes were that distinctive green with silver ribbon he’d seen in Barsinian’s locker. Signs in Estonian, German, and English described an endless variety of chocolates and fillings. He waited at the counter where women in green smocks were rushing around, giving samples to the tourists or ringing up their purchases. When his turn came, he stepped up to face a plump, freckle-faced redhead.

  He no longer bothered to ask Estonians if they spoke English, just said, “I’m looking for those chocolates with the Vanna Tallinn liqueur in them.”

  She wrinkled up her freckled nose.

  “Don’t like them?”

  “Some of us think the national liqueur tastes like rubbing alcohol.”

  “They’re not popular?”

  “Oh, they’re very popular. We can’t keep up with demand. We’re out of them now.”

  “What a shame. A friend recommended them to me. He gets them here, maybe you know him. His name’s Mo.”

  “Oh, him,” she said. “He always asks for Aldona. Let me get her for you.”

  Aldona looked like a supermodel. Tall and slender with a full bosom, long straight blond hair, and big gray-green eyes, which she rolled when he mentioned Mo.

  “Yes, he’s in here all the time.”

  That was a little surprising, considering Barsinian was a soldier stationed on a base an hour out of town. “A good customer, then.”

  “He spends a lot, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But he’s obnoxious?”

  Demurely she put her fingertips to her plump lips. “I don’t wish to speak ill of your friend, sir.”

  “That’s all right. The guys all know that Mo is—well, a guy.”

  “I wish just once he could exchange money for merchandise and be done with it. But every time he says if I give him a smile he’ll buy another box. If I bend down to a low shelf so he can look down my front, he’ll make it three boxes.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. It’s never long enough between visits. He puts his head in the door to ask if we’ve made a batch of his favorites.”

  “He doesn’t even come in when you’re not here. Walks on by,” said the freckled girl.

  “Lucky me,” said Aldona.

  Laker asked a few more questions. Barsinian had told the shop clerks more than they wanted to know about him. About the man he was pretending to be, rather. He said he was a tech executive from San Francisco who dealt with a local firm that made cell phones. He proffered invitations to nearby bars and restaurants—always the most expensive ones, but that got him nowhere with Aldona.

  Laker was thoughtful as he left the shop. Barsinian seemed to spend a lot of time in this area. With his olive skin, American accent, and free-spending ways, he would stand out in Old Town. People would remember him. It was worth doing a canvass.

  He spent the next hour walking along the street, going into each bar and restaurant. The Estonians seemed to be aware their potato-based cuisine was on the heavy side, because Old Town’s eateries offered a variety of fare: Italian, French, sushi, barbecue, vegan. All of them, even the vegan, smelled good to Laker, who was getting hungrier and hungrier.

  The canvassing went the way it did everywhere in the world: tedious and frustrating. Either people were indifferent, glancing at the photo, shaking their heads, and turning away, or they were too interested. They wanted to know who the guy was and why Laker was looking for him.

  He finally got a nibble, in a fashion boutique where the purses cost as much as his first car. Mo had been in, with a girl who was as pretty as Aldona but not as fastidious.

  He’d spent lavishly on her. And it was only four days ago.

  Laker stepped out of the boutique, zipping up his parka and putting on his gloves for the twentieth time. It was getting colder, and the dun-colored sky threatened snow. Time to turn back to St. Christopher’s Gate, maybe treat himself to a taxi to the hotel and that bottle of Speyside Cardhu in the minibar? But there were lighted windows in the building across the street, and he decided to give it a try.

  The signboard was in English and said, “Home Port.” Hard to tell what sort of business it was. Not a shop but some sort of office. Through the windows he saw desks with computers and phones, filing cabinets, maps on the walls. The half-dozen staff members were lean and young. The men had beards and glasses, the women had braids down their backs. They all looked earnest. Laker guessed this was an NGO. Not much to interest Mo here, but he went in anyway.

  A woman came up the counter as he approached. She was fair-haired and slender. In fact her cheekbones and the bridge of
her nose looked like they didn’t have enough flesh over them. The wide, gray eyes added to the impression of fragility.

  “You folks are working late,” he said.

  “We stay open when there’s a tour from a cruise ship on the street. But this lot will probably just gorge themselves and head back to the ship. They have no interest at all.”

  “Interest in what?”

  “The well-being of the crew. The people who are serving them. The people on whom their lives could depend.”

  Step into an NGO and you were going to get their spiel. He would have to wait to ask his questions. He tried to look interested.

  That was enough encouragement for the woman. “Home Port seeks to protect the rights of sailors,” she said. “On passenger ships, on cargo vessels, too. This ship that’s in harbor now, it’s owned by an American company, but it’s registered in Panama. Because Panama has very weak laws on crew rights. Most of the crewmembers are from poor countries like the Philippines. They’re far from home, maybe not too fluent in English. Many are horribly exploited, overworked, and underpaid. But they have to support their families back home. Their governments are unable or unwilling to protect them.”

  Laker asked a few polite questions, and learned that the woman’s name was Lina, and that in her opinion, Estonia had gone too far in forgetting its socialist past. Her countrymen had embraced the tourist trade and the exploitation of workers that went with it.

  Nodding somber agreement, Laker said, “Wonder if I could change the subject. Does this man look familiar to you?”

  He pulled Barsinian’s full-face photo, rather dog-eared by now, out of his pocket and laid it on the counter.

  Lina flinched. Her already wide eyes became enormous as she stared at the photo. The blood was rushing to her pale cheeks. A bit too loudly, she said, “No. Never seen him before. Sorry.”

  “Oh, too bad. He’s an old friend from the Army. I heard he lived around here somewhere, but I lost his address.”

  “I don’t think you’re telling the truth.”

  “No,” said Laker. “But neither are you. You want to try being honest with each other? See how it goes?”

  “I don’t know. I’m wary of Americans. You could be with the CIA or something.”

  “I’m not with the CIA,” said Laker. Which was a perfectly honest statement. He continued in the same vein. “Whatever this man told you, his name is Mohammed Barsinian. He’s a soldier in the U.S. Army, stationed at the NATO base outside town. And he’s AWOL. That’s why I’m looking for him.”

  “Oh. Oh, God.” She bowed her head. Her hands were gripping the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles were turning white. “He told me his name was Mohammed. But the rest—”

  “He didn’t say he was American?”

  “No. Syrian. All his family had been killed in the war. He’d found a boat out. He was working at a local fish-processing plant. He needed a place to stay.”

  “You could help him with that?”

  She pointed a shaky finger at the ceiling. “We own the building. A donor bought it and gave it to us. There’s a little apartment upstairs. We didn’t ask Mohammed for ID, because he was an illegal immigrant. He was very grateful. He’s paid us every week. In cash.”

  “Is he up there now?”

  “No. We hear his footsteps when he is. But he works very long hours. Or that’s what he said, anyway.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “We hardly ever do. There’s a separate staircase. He doesn’t come in. He said he’s embarrassed because when he gets off work he stinks of fish. I guess that’s not true, either.”

  “Soldiers don’t stink of fish.”

  “Oh God. I shouldn’t have believed him.” She looked up at Laker, for the first time in several minutes. “Maybe I shouldn’t have believed you, either. You’re going to call the police now. Make trouble for us.”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you want of us?”

  “Nothing. In particular, I want you not to warn Specialist Barsinian.”

  “We have no way of reaching him anyway.”

  “Just go about your business, then. Nothing for you to worry about, except you’re going to lose your rent money. Specialist Barsinian will be moving into a cell at the NATO base for a while.”

  He took the photograph and turned away. Lina was going to gather the other employees and give them the news, of course. He hoped he’d been able to soothe her fears. He didn’t want Mohammed Barsinian to look through the window and notice anything out of the ordinary when he returned home. With luck, the NGO’s staff would have closed shop and left by the time he arrived.

  But Laker would still be here.

  He crossed the street. The buildings along this part of it were all old two-story houses of stone and wood, standing only a couple of feet apart. He slid into a gap where he was sheltered from the wind and out of sight, but he could still see the doorway next to Home Port’s windows, the one that led to the stairs to the upstairs apartment. He delved deep into his layers of clothing and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Tyburn here.”

  “It’s Laker. Barsinian’s still around. He has a hideout in the Old City.”

  “Is he there now?”

  “No. I’m watching for him. How fast can you get here?”

  “Forty-five minutes, with siren and lights.”

  “Turn them off before you get too close. Call me when you reach St. Christopher’s Gate. If we don’t scare him off, we’ve got him.”

  “On our way.”

  Laker put the phone away. Zipped up his parka and put his gloves on. Pulled his knit cap down over his ears. It was getting even colder, and snow was beginning to fall. When conditions were this bad, you could count on a stakeout to go on for hours with nothing happening. As it got later, the street would empty, but for the moment there were still people walking by occasionally, all with hats and scarves or turned-up collars. Through the windows, he could see the Home Port staffers huddled at the back of the office. No doubt they were having an impassioned discussion about the most ethical course of action in this difficult situation. He hoped they wouldn’t do anything stupid. Wished they would all go home.

  Just ten minutes later, Barsinian appeared.

  It was easy to spot him. The toe-inward stride that made his broad rear end swing betrayed him. By the time he stopped in front of his door, Laker was on the move. He glanced in both directions as he crossed the street, saw no pedestrians approaching through the darkness and swirling snow. He timed his approach to reach Barsinian when his hands were occupied with key and door handle.

  Barsinian’s head began to turn. He’d heard the squeak of dry snow under Laker’s footsteps. Laker lunged. Slammed Barsinian against the door, locked an arm tight around the man’s throat. Squirming, Barsinian tried to kick or elbow him.

  “Specialist Mohammed Barsinian,” Laker said. “You are AWOL.”

  Barsinian’s struggles ceased. He said, “Okay. I won’t try to get away. Just let me breathe.”

  Laker took his forearm away. He frisked Barsinian and found no weapons. Then he backed up a step. His weight was on the balls of his feet and his fists were up. As Barsinian turned, he watched the soldier’s hands. But Barsinian didn’t make a move, just looked at him.

  “You’re not from the base. I know all the MPs.”

  “I’m from Washington.”

  “Wouldn’t think I’d rate that, just for being AWOL.”

  “They’re taking inventory of the Semtex at the base armory. I expect you know what they’re going to find.”

  “They think I stole Semtex? What for?”

  “Why did you go AWOL?”

  “Strawberry blond name of Nikola. Not the type to wait for me till my next leave. So I had to make the most of her while I had her. I just put her on the tram. Now I’m on my way back to base. My sergeant’ll make me do five hundred push-ups a day for the next month. Don’t you think that’s punishm
ent enough?”

  “You have a talent for bullshit, Specialist,” Laker said. “But it’s still bullshit.”

  Barsinian’s dumb, wheedling expression melted away, to be replaced by a lopsided, wise-ass grin. “Okay. I feel sorry for the guys taking the inventory. It’ll take ’em a while to find the shortfall. I laid a fake paper trail all the way back to the manufacturer.”

  “But they will find it. What did you do with the Semtex?”

  “Sold it, what do you think?” The grin faded as he looked at Laker narrowly. “Hey, wait a minute. You don’t think—”

  “It’s what blew up the tram station. Local cops have established that.”

  Barsinian’s eyes were wide, his mouth working. After a moment he found his voice. “No, man. Don’t hand me over to the cops. Take me back to base. Please.”

  “Turn around and start walking, Specialist. Slowly. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Barsinian obeyed. After a few steps, he said, “Where’re we going?”

  “St. Christopher’s Gate. We’ll meet the MPs there. Or I’ll call the locals. Depending on how much you tell me on the way.”

  “I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t hand me to the cops. You maybe noticed, this is the whitest country in the world, man. They hate my fucking skin here. They’ll flay it off me if they get the chance.”

  “Why did you rent that upstairs room?”

  “It’s a place to take dates. I hate going to hotels. You check in with a white girl and they look at you like—”

  “Kind of a lavish expense.”

  “No, man, the bleeding hearts at the NGO gave me a deal.”

  “You’ve been spending freely, Specialist. Where’s the money coming from?”

  “Okay. Sometimes I boost stuff on the base, sell it in town. But never weapons or explosives, until the Semtex. It was just this one time, I swear.”

  “Who’d you sell it to?”

  “I don’t know. It was in a bar and I was shit-faced.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “Okay. It was local guys. Not foreigners. Sure as hell not Arabs.”