The Havana Game

by John Lutz

  He did manage to motivate the clerk to tap more keys. “No information,” he said.

  “How can that—”

  “You’re holding up the line!” the clerk interrupted, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Now move along.”

  Arguing with officials could get you arrested in Russia, so Laker picked up his suitcase and walked away. As he was going out the door, he heard a chorus of loud groans. It had come from the people in line behind him. The clerk was rising from his stool, placing a “Closed” sign on the counter. Break time.

  Out on the sidewalk, he set down the suitcase to button his coat. At least he’d learned the ship wasn’t here anymore. He had time to find a hotel and think about his next move.

  “Turn into the alley up ahead.”

  The words had been spoken softly by a man passing him. He recognized a bushy sideburn of the supercilious clerk. Without pausing, he walked to the corner of the building and around it. Laker followed.

  The clerk was shaking out a cigarette for himself. He offered the pack to Laker, who shook his head.

  “The previous port of call should have been there,” the clerk said. “Somebody deleted it.”

  “Could you find out some other way?”

  “I have worked at the Port Authority for almost fifty years. There is little I do not know about its workings.”

  Laker said, “I’m willing to pay.”

  The clerk smiled haughtily. Money was beneath him. “You speak good Russian, but you’re a foreigner. I hear a lot of accents in my office. I would guess . . . American?”

  Laker confirmed it. He’d already worked out his cover story, which was about half true. “My name is Edward McLean. I work for an NGO in Boston called Aid to Sailors—”

  The clerk interrupted. “Our president warns us to be wary of foreigners from NGOs. He says we should assume they’re spies.”

  “Do I look like a spy?”

  The clerk looked him up and down. “No. You look like a big, dumb, well-meaning American.”

  He chuckled. Laker joined in.

  “My name is Porfiry. I tell you what, Edward. Go to the Great Patriotic War Memorial at six o’clock this evening. Maybe I will show up, and maybe I will have information.”

  “If you do, what will you want in return?”

  Porfiry didn’t answer. He hung his cigarette on his lower lip and walked away, holding his distinguished-looking head high. Laker didn’t know what to make of him.

  * * *

  Laker walked uphill toward the city center. He wasn’t looking for a cab. In an unfamiliar city, a field agent had to get a feel for the streets. You never knew when you might have to flee for your life through them.

  There was an opening in the sidewalk ahead, half-surrounded by a railing, with stairs going down. A subway station? He descended. It was a narrow, bustling corridor, lined with shop windows on both sides. No train platforms, though. It was just a mall. He supposed that in winter people liked to do their shopping underground.

  As he climbed back to street level, a young man leaning on the railing glanced idly at him. Then glanced back. Then turned and walked quickly away. Laker’s stomach muscles fluttered.

  The next moment he thought that his face must have reminded the kid of his school principal. Or his girlfriend’s father. That was all. Laker was just being paranoid.

  But paranoia was a field agent’s best friend.

  Laker couldn’t ignore the possibility that somebody was going to see through his beard and match his face with the one in the pictures on television and in the papers of the fugitive American agent.

  Nor could he ignore the possibility that his photo had been snapped in one of the airports he’d passed through and sent to Moscow. His own government was taking pictures of travelers and running them through facial recognition software, seeking matches with pictures of persons of interest. No doubt the Russians were doing the same.

  Laker set down his suitcase. Time to consider unpleasant possibilities and countermeasures.

  He was in the old city center now, surrounded by buildings in various shades of pastel stucco, rising to mansard roofs and cupolas that reminded him of Paris. Some of the buildings were hotels. A few even bore the familiar signs of Western chains. It would be convenient and comfortable to check into one of them.

  But if the FSB figured out that he was in Vladivostok, these hotels would be the first places they would look for him.

  Overhead wires ran along the streets. That meant trams. He walked along until he came to a knot of people waiting on the curb, and joined them. After a few minutes the tram came along. He boarded and took a seat, gazing at the passing scene. Once the streets started looking shabby, he got off.

  Choosing a direction at random, he set off. The suitcase was beginning to feel heavy when he spotted a hotel sign across the street. It was on a brick building three stories high. Behind dirty, cracked windows he could see crooked paper shades.

  Just the kind of place he was looking for. It would take a while for the FSB or police to get around to this fleabag. He might even be able to avoid surrendering his passport by offering a bribe.

  He entered between dusty artificial plants and crossed a linoleum floor to the counter. It was enclosed in wired glass, and business was conducted through slots. Nobody was in sight, but he could hear a television. There were a lot of notices pasted to the glass, things guests were forbidden to do, and things management wasn’t responsible for. Fleabag hotels were the same all over. It was enough to make Laker homesick.

  A rap on the glass brought a short, bald man with thick glasses to the counter. He was happy to rent Laker a bedroom and access to the communal bathroom, but stonily refused to let him keep his passport, for any consideration. Laker watched gloomily as the man locked it away in a desk drawer, along with the cash in advance for three nights’ stay Laker’d just given him.

  The stairs were so narrow Laker had to hold his suitcase against his chest. He went along a dim corridor until he reached his room, Number 8. The door of the room across the corridor was open. A man was lying on the bed reading. Spotting Laker, he said, “Oh, hello, let me help you with that key.”

  “I can manage.”

  But the man had already tossed the book aside and was sitting on the edge of the bed, sliding his shoes into loafers without using his hands. His eager friendliness reminded Laker of the fellow freshmen who’d welcomed him to his dorm at Notre Dame. This man wasn’t much older than a college kid, Laker saw, as he practically bounded across the hall. He was smiling, showing crooked but very white teeth. He took the room key, which was fastened to a bulky knob so guests wouldn’t carry it away with them, from Laker’s hands and started to unlock the door.

  “These locks are terrible,” he explained. “Cheap and stiff. Takes practice to open them.” He was a skinny kid, wearing a T-shirt and hip-hop jeans, with a low crotch and back pockets just above the knees. The ginger hair at the back of his head had been fashioned into elaborate curlicues by some artist with electric clippers.

  “There!” he said, throwing open the door and waving Laker in. The greenish brown carpet looked as if it would emit some malodorous liquid when stepped on, but he ventured in anyway, flicking the switch to turn on the bare, dusty bulb hanging from the ceiling. Glancing at the cracks and damp-stains, he hoped it wouldn’t rain hard while he was here. He laid his suitcase on the bed, causing the mattress to sag deeply in the middle.

  “Well, welcome to our flophouse.” The kid put out his hand. His bare forearm was tattooed in swirls that echoed the curlicues of his haircut. “My name is Yuri.”

  “Edward.” They shook.

  “You’re . . . German?”

  “American.”

  “Really? Americans don’t usually speak such good Russian.” He switched to English. “Mind if we talk your language? I don’t get as much chance to practice as I’d like.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Laker said. But he was wondering if it was. Russians w
ere typically wary of foreigners, especially Americans. A friendly Russian who wanted to speak English could be trying to play you in some way.

  “You’re here on business?” Yuri asked. “If so, they should give you a more generous expense account.”

  “No, I’m waiting for a ship.”

  “Cruise ship?”

  “Any freighter that takes passengers will do.”

  “But where are you bound?”

  “Wherever it’s going.”

  “Ah, a traveler. And are you writing about your travels?”

  “What makes you think I’m a writer?”

  “Your eyes. You’re very observant. Want to see the sights of Vladivostok? I can show you around. War Memorial. Tsar Nicholas’ Arch. Yul Brynner statue.”

  “Yul Brynner statue?”

  Yuri planted his feet wide apart and folded his arms, like Brynner playing the King of Siam. “He was born here. In Vladivostok at the wrong end of the Trans-Siberian Express. But that didn’t stop him. He made it to Moscow. Paris. Hollywood.”

  Yuri’s eyes went dreamy. He had a similar trip in mind for himself. Laker asked, “Are you a tour guide?”

  “No. I write for the newspaper. The Lord of the East Times. You’ve seen it?”

  “I just got here.”

  “We cover shipping news. Sports. City council meetings. Just local stuff, never anything national. Or anything important.” He grinned widely, showing the crooked teeth again. “That’s how journalists in Russia stay out of trouble.”

  Russians didn’t ordinarily criticize the government, even indirectly, when talking to strangers. Laker’s suspicions returned. He said, “Well, I need to unpack.”

  Yuri took the hint. He left Laker to it, after a second handshake and a parting piece of advice, that the Chinese restaurant on the corner was the only decent place to eat in the area.

  * * *

  On one point, anyway, Yuri proved trustworthy. The Chinese place was good. Laker had Szechuan chicken as a late lunch. Then, as the shadows lengthened and the air grew chillier, he made his way back to the waterfront. He wanted to be early for the rendezvous with Porfiry.

  He asked a passerby the way to the Great Patriotic War Memorial. She told him to just keep walking along the waterfront and he’d see it. Eventually he did. It was a replica of a submarine, mounted on brackets by the side of the road, like a boy’s plastic model on a shelf. Only when he got closer did he grasp the size of the thing. It was a real submarine. He asked another passerby and was told that it was S-56, which had fought the Nazis in the Atlantic.

  Laker slowed his pace. It was rush hour, and traffic was heavy but moving. Pedestrians on the streets were walking briskly, probably eager to get home. He was watching for idlers around the submarine who could be waiting for him. It was possible that Porfiry had called the police, told them about the foreigner asking questions.

  But he saw no suspicious loiterers, and anyway he didn’t think Porfiry would get involved with the police. More likely, he just wouldn’t show up.

  Right on time, though, Porfiry emerged from the darkness. He had an overcoat with a fur collar and an astrakhan hat. It set off his sideburns handsomely. He gave Laker no greeting but a long look.

  “You’re surprised. You thought I wouldn’t show up?”

  Laker couldn’t see any reason not to give him the honest answer. “No.”

  Porfiry gave his thin smile. He didn’t have his reading glasses on, but he kept his nose in the air anyway. He said, “Let’s walk.”

  Laker moved around to his other side and they set off past the submarine. Porfiry noticed the maneuver. “Why did you do that?”

  “I’m mostly deaf in my right ear.”

  “What happened?”

  Again Laker saw no reason not to tell him. “IED blast.”

  “You were fighting in Afghanistan?”

  “Iraq.”

  This seemed to interest Porfiry, but he didn’t explain why.

  Laker said, “Were you able to find out the ship’s previous port of call?”

  Porfiry gave a rather self-satisfied shrug. “It was easy enough to track down the hard-copy backup. Before Vladivostok, the Comercio Marinero was in Magadan.”

  He gave Laker a sideways look, which Laker could only return blankly. He’d never heard of Magadan.

  “Something unusual about that?” he asked.

  “Magadan is north up the coast, in Siberia. Its port is closed from October to May. To get in in March, the Comercio Marinero would have had to follow an icebreaker.”

  Porfiry dug out his pack and lit a cigarette. He was able to do it with his gloves on. Impressive.

  “Magadan is a place with an evil history,” he went on. “Stalin built it as a transit hub for the gulags. Thousands of prisoners passed through on their way to serve their sentences. For many, a one-way journey. For twenty years, it was the headquarters of Dalstroy. You’ve heard of Dalstroy?”

  Laker nodded. “A very profitable gold-mining operation. The miners were prisoners condemned to hard labor.”

  “Yes. They talk about blood diamonds in Africa. This was blood gold. Much of it passed through Magadan. Are you investigating a bloody deed there, friend Edward?”

  “In a sense. I work for an NGO concerned with sailors’ welfare. There was an accident aboard the Comercio Marinero while it was in Magadan. A sailor was killed.”

  “You have tried the usual channels and found nothing, of course. And here you are. There may be paperwork in Magadan. I know nothing about that. But there should be other paperwork on that ship here in Vladivostok. The bills of lading.”

  “What are those?”

  “Forms that the agent of the railway line gives to the ship’s cargo officer. So many containers of computer components or whatever, bound for some port or other. The cargo officer signs them, and makes sure that copies are filed with the Port Authority.”

  “Bills of lading,” Laker repeated. They would tell him what the Comercio Marinero was carrying, and where she was going. He said, “You’re sure they’re in your files?”

  “Quite sure. They’re necessary for customs and insurance. Money matters. You might lose an accident report, but bills of lading are sacred.”

  “You could get me those papers.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Will you?”

  “I’m thinking about it.” They walked on, passing a big piece of metal with the fateful date 1941 and nothing else. Mounted steps leading to a small church with a single gold onion dome. On a wall ahead, Laker saw a relief of sailor and soldiers. Grim faces, heroic poses. There were also metal tablets fixed to the wall, with names in Cyrillic. He looked up and down. The wall was long. A lot of tablets.

  “The dead of the Great Patriotic War.” He pointed at one name. “Here is my father. Killed in the Baltic Sea in 1943, when his destroyer was sunk by German bombers. Without him the war years were hard for us. We nearly starved. My mother was bitter. She said Stalin was a fool to let Hitler get the better of him, and my father was a greater fool to go to the other side of the country and die for Stalin. It was a good thing she said this only to me.”

  Laker felt that Porfiry was enjoying having a listener. He nodded and waited.

  “I was a dutiful son,” Porfiry went on. “I got a job at the Port Authority and supported her all her life. Now she’s gone, and I’m still there.”

  He tossed his cigarette butt away. “I suppose to a man like you, a former soldier, an NGO worker who travels to the ends of the earth to do his good deeds—you probably think I haven’t done much with my life.”

  “I don’t think that,” Laker replied. “What do you think?”

  Porfiry’s nose went up. “Given myself away, haven’t I? Yes. For a man my age, there’s nothing left but retire, sicken, and die. Only I can’t bring myself to retire, much as they want me to. I’m hanging on, hoping for a chance . . . to do something. You understand?”

  Laker understood that it must be tough to g
o through life bearing such a noble visage and haughty air, while suspecting, deep down, that you’d done nothing to earn them. But he sensed that Porfiry wasn’t interested in what he had to say. He’d talk himself into helping Laker. Or he wouldn’t.

  The bell of the nearby church sounded the quarter hour. Porfiry jumped. He looked at his watch. “I have to go or I’ll miss my ferry.”

  Laker was willing to bet that hadn’t happened often in fifty years. He walked down the steps with the old man. At the bottom of the steps, Porfiry turned to him. “If I decide to help you, and if I’m able to find the papers you want, how do I let you know?”

  Laker pointed. “The curb. Under the bow of the submarine. Chalk an X if you want to meet here that night 6 P.M. A cross if you want to make it the night after.”

  Porfiry laughed. “An NGO do-gooder. Pretending to be a spy. I’ll bet you read that in a le Carré novel.”

  He walked away with his nose in the air, one gloved finger stroking a sideburn. Soon he’d be on his usual ferry, headed home. Laker wasn’t going to hold his breath awaiting help from Porfiry.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Vladivostok’s train station was imposing and exotic-looking, as befit the starting point of the Trans-Siberian Express. On its facade, pointed turrets flanked round arches resting on bulbous pillars. Laker joined the morning crowds rushing into the entrances beneath the arches. He felt sleepy and itchy after a restless night. The flophouse was infested with bedbugs. Naturally.

  In a high-ceilinged, echoing hall, he skipped the long lines at the ticket windows and bought his ticket to Magadan from a machine. It was twenty minutes till his train left. He sat on a bench and waited, alternating yawning and scratching with glances at the clock.

  Suddenly he straightened up, fully awake and alert, bugbites forgotten. Something in the scene before him had touched a tripwire. He didn’t know what.

  Slowly he scanned the crowded hall for someone who did not fit in. Saw commuters carrying briefcases or laptops. A group of sailors in blue uniforms. A young woman with a baby strapped to her chest and a toddler holding her hand. An Orthodox priest with beard, black robes, and a large silver cross on his chest. A group of tourists, led by a guide holding a sign in the air, followed by a heavily laden luggage cart. They were probably bound for the Express.