The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02]

by David L. Robbins

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  The Betrayal Game

  [Mikhal Lammeck 02]

  By David L. Robbins

  Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  According to the Cuban security service, there have been at least 638 attempts on the life of Fidel Castro. Most took place under the first four of the ten American presidents Castro has outstood in office, beginning with Eisenhower. These assassination efforts were either direct operations of the CIA or delegated by them to proxies. In addition, there have been hundreds of volumes written by political historians and assassination theorists speculating that some portion of the apparatus put in place by the CIA and the Mafia to kill Castro turned around on John Kennedy and murdered him for his perceived betrayal of the Bay of Pigs landing.

  This novel is grounded in the months leading up to the doomed rebel invasion of Cuba that began on April 17, 1961. During this period, CIA-trained covert hit squads were landed on the island, poisoned cigars were sent Fidel’s way, bombs, bullets, aerosols, bacteria, and LSD were aimed at him; a panoply of plans were put in place by CIA to make him lose his voice, his beard, his sanity, or his life, with a degree of inventive perniciousness that would have made Borgia, Machiavelli, and 007 proud. Castro was targeted not only by the CIA, but by the American Mafia, the Cuban underground, other Caribbean and South American leaders, as well as many of his former closest associates. Fidel survived them all, sometimes inexplicably.

  The great fun of writing this novel was describing some of those unexplained mysteries, and positing an answer: Dr. Mikhal Lammeck.

  The majority of what The Betrayal Game portrays is thinly fictionalized fact. Annotations appear at the rear of the novel to amplify, for the interested reader, many of the details of the several assassination attempts and actual events described on these pages.

  The Annotations are divided into two sections. The first, you may read along with as you make your way through the book. These should add to your enjoyment of and amazement at the real history that forms the spine of this story. The second Annotation section, I ask you to leave unread until you have finished The Betrayal Game. My reason is simple: there’s a surprise that I don’t want ruined. So be patient, and let the story play out at its best for you.

  A few people have helped along the way with this novel and deserve a quick word of appreciation. My editor, Kate Miciak, and my William Morris agent, Tracy Fisher, have been longstanding in my corner. Dan McMurtrie kept me company on my research travels. Dr. Jim Redington again served as my medical expert. Dr. Stu Goldman and Elma Brantingham provided much of the language translations. David Whitford was my shooting guru. My friends and colleagues in the James River Writers serve as inspiration for their dedication and talents in their own crafts.

  David L. Robbins

  Richmond, Virginia

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  Our allies think we’re a little demented on Cuba.

  —President John F. Kennedy

  I’m not worried about assassination. I will not live one day longer than the day I’m going to die.

  —Fidel Castro

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  CHAPTER ONE

  March 7, 1961

  Bahia de Cabañas

  Cuba

  THE OLDER BROTHER MOVED first. More competitive, faster, he grabbed his swim fins, mask, and spear from the backseat. He dashed down the slope. The younger one hooted after him, not caring so much to win a race to the water. He knew his luck ran better; he would catch the most fish, as always.

  “Rodrigo!” his brother called to him up the hill. He walked carefully, barefoot over the limestones and scraggy shells. “Slowpoke!” Manuelito made a show of putting on his mask and fins at the water’s edge. He held up the spear, then splashed ahead. Rodrigo watched his brother kick, chopping froth behind his fins, to be first into the bay.

  Rodrigo sat unconcerned in the sand. He wet the fins to slide them on better and spit into his mask. He stepped into the water, pleased at the flatness of the surface today. The sun shone from straight above, the visibility underwater would be ideal.

  Rodrigo walked until the water rose to his knees. He kneeled forward and let his buoyancy take over, then propelled himself with a kick of the fins. He gazed down and ahead; the shelf of sand fell off quickly to deeper water, to the small coral reef only fifty meters from shore that was off-limits.

  Schools of yellowtail and blue Creole wrasses swam to meet him with curiosity. When Rodrigo offered nothing of interest, they dispersed. He paddled along the surface watching the sand bottom slope away. When the depth reached eight meters, the outskirts of the reef began to appear, small brain coral heads and elkhorn coral, sea whips and sea fans. Rodrigo and Lito did not know this reef so well as the ones of Bahia Honda fifteen kilometers west. Those were closer to their home and not the private preserve of Fidel Castro. But the boys had speared wonderful Nassau grouper in this place twice before, and had not been caught or bothered by anyone. They decided to come again today, a perfect day.

  Staying on the surface, Rodrigo kicked until the reef beneath him grew denser. The tops of the coral lay ten meters below him, the sand bottom three meters more. He swam a wide circle, looking for Lito. For minutes he did not see his brother; Lito was the stronger swimmer and could stay down fantastically long. But Rodrigo had eyes for movement, a knowledge for fish his brother could not match. While Lito thrashed about on the bottom, lunging into holes, chasing, and stabbing, Rodrigo cruised, quiet and belonging on the reef, until his spear betrayed his intent.

  He saw bubbles dribble out of the coral. Lito was in a crevice, chasing something. His brother emerged empty-handed, cheeks puffed with the last of his lungs. He did not speak when he surfaced beside Rodrigo but only gulped air, then propelled himself again to the bottom. Upside down, Lito looked up to Rodrigo and held his hands apart, to imply a medium-sized grouper.

  Rodrigo drew a deep breath and dove. He kicked easily, wasting no motion or air. He settled on the sand beneath a jagged brow of the coral. Here in the blue depth the greens and aquas muddied to gray, orange faded toward bilious brown, and when a spear caught a fish in the heart, the brilliance of blood was never more than rust.

  Rodrigo waited, releasing no bubbles. He held himself on the bottom with a hand gentle on the reef, to break nothing. He listened to the grinding rustle of sand on the other side of the coral wall where his brother worked to corner his grouper. Rodrigo stayed patient, knowing Lito might spook something out of the reef his way.

  He exhaled a slow stream of bubbles to ease his lungs. Smaller denizens of the reef came to investigate—some grunts too little to take, a spider crab peeked at him then retreated. Rodrigo peered into the shadows at the bottom of the coral to be certain no morays lived there.

  A burst of Lito’s bubbles boiled out of the coral. A metallic thud sounded. Lito had loosed his spear but the noise was metal striking rock. Lito had missed. Rodrigo caught a flutter to his left; a grouper sped into the open trailing frightened puffs of feces. He watched his brother rise out of a crack in the reef, loose spear dangling at the end of its tether. Lito reeled the lance in and kicked to the surface for a quick breath. Rodrigo loaded his spear in his own hand, pulling the long shaft back, stretching the rubber belt anchored around his wrist.

  That moment, a large blackfin snapper ambled around the corner of the coral head not two meters from Rodrigo’s fins. The fish had seen Lito, had watched the grouper escape, and decided to follow suit while the predator was away. Rodrigo rolled to his side, swinging the spear into play before the snapper could react. He let
go the long shaft, the sling launched the spear forward; the tip pierced the snapper just behind the gills. The fish went crazy. Blood inked the water in the ragged circle the snapper danced, tugging the lanyard at Rodrigo’s wrist. He hauled the fish in, grabbed the still shivering lance, and showed it to Lito who was nearing the surface. His brother shook a fist down at him. Rodrigo had struck first.

  Lito took a breath and headed back down. Rodrigo kicked to the surface, to take the snapper to shore to put it in the cooler in the car. A small barracuda arrived to watch, keeping its distance, intrigued by the blood.

  The snapper weighed on Rodrigo’s arm. It flicked its fins, desperate to get off the barbed tip of the spear. Rodrigo felt every spasm of the dying fish through the shaft. He lifted his head above water to take a breath and look to shore.

  A man stood in the sand on the edge of the water.

  The man saw him and waved both arms. He was big, stout in a green guayabera and khakis. He wore something around his neck, sunglasses. No, binoculars.

  Rodrigo lifted his mask to see better. He snorted to clear his ears, then heard what the man was yelling at him.

  “Get out of the water!”

  Rodrigo licked his lips, salty. Under the surface, the snapper struggled.

  “Fidel!” the man shouted, pointing at the road.

  Rodrigo raised a hand, to say he had heard and understood. He pulled the mask back over his eyes. The snapper wriggled, refusing to die. Rodrigo took a deep breath and dove to fetch his brother. There would be trouble if they were caught fishing in Fidel’s private cove. Of all the mala suerte.

  He spotted Lito on the bottom, on the trail of the grouper. Rodrigo could not catch up to his brother quickly if he dragged this snapper along. He couldn’t wait for Lito to surface; his brother could stay down minutes—too long, with Fidel on the way. Without regret, he pushed down the barb and slid the fish off the lance. The snapper fooled itself that it was free and kicked once. That exhausted it; the fish rolled over dead.

  Rodrigo surfaced, to move faster and put himself above his brother. Below, Lito crept hand over hand along the reef, not as sensitive as Rodrigo to the life of the coral, thinking only of the grouper. Unseen to Lito, his grouper scampered out the other side of the coral, staying low across the sand flat.

  Rodrigo kicked hard. If they were found here, there was no telling what Fidel would do to them. Fidel was a man of the people, a revolutionary, but he liked his sport and this was his reef, everyone knew that. The brothers might be taken out of school and put in jail, they might have to serve in the militia. They could lose their father’s car. Rodrigo had no more time to count his fears; his brother was swimming over the top of the reef, suspecting now where the grouper had fled. Rodrigo, fighting to control his breathing after the fast swim over the surface, took a breath and dove.

  Lito was in the sand flat now, on his knees staring after the grouper, deciding whether to give chase again. Rodrigo saw him shrug and look up. Lito had still not seen him.

  Rodrigo figured his brother was about to rise. Instead Lito turned his mask downward again, at the sand. Just a few meters to his right, a perfect conch shell lay in the open, the pink of its belly so bright the water could steal little of its hue. Lito flattened on the bottom and flipped his fins to glide to the shell. Rodrigo hovered behind and ten meters above, worried. This wasn’t the time, with Castro bearing down on them, for his brother to be collecting shells.

  Lito set his hand on the conch. Rodrigo, without a full breath in his lungs, considered surfacing to see if they were already caught. Before turning for the surface, Rodrigo admired the shell his brother had found; it was large, filling Lito’s hand lifting it.

  An explosion ripped out of the sand. Rodrigo erupted away in a torrent of foam and mad water. He was catapulted past the surface of the bay into the air, his mask torn away, the fins gone. He landed on his back still holding the spear, but he let that go and it trailed away on its tether. He brought his hands to his head, to quell the pounding in his ears, behind his eyes, from the pressure of the blast. He could not shake off the black dots in his vision. What had happened? What had Lito touched? Rodrigo opened his mouth wide and, with pain, drew in all the breath he could hold to dive for his brother.

  Without his mask, the water was a confusion. Whipped-up sand clouded what little he could discern. Rodrigo panicked. He kicked for the surface, gasping. He looked at the water he treaded in and saw the brown stain. He screamed, “Lito! Lito!”

  A stinking mist hovered on the surface. Rodrigo kicked to lift himself higher, to see and shout through the haze. Dead fish bobbed to the surface. He thought to yell for help, and spun around to face the shore. The man who’d called to him was gone.

  Rodrigo turned back to the open bay, fighting tears. The water began to settle from its terrible roiling. The shock that struck first in his chest swelled into his arms and legs with the pricks of needles.

  Through stuffed ears, he heard a splash. His eyes flashed across the surface. In the haze, twenty meters off, a hand rose, then dropped.

  Rodrigo swam in alarm and hope for his older brother. Approaching, he saw that Lito did not have his mask either. Lito was barely able to keep himself above water, probably would not have were he not such a strong swimmer. Rodrigo stroked closer, calling out how scared he was.

  Lito answered only by again raising one arm out of the water. Then Rodrigo realized how much darker was the water around them both.

  “Grab on, Lito! I’ll take you back to shore!”

  Rodrigo reached out. Lito clapped his raised arm around his brother’s neck. He waited for the slap of Lito’s left arm across his shoulders, to complete the clasp before towing him back to the beach. But the touch of his brother’s second arm did not come.

  Rodrigo screamed when he saw the protruding bones. Splashing water kept them white, washing off blood that pulsed out of the shredded muscles around the joint, the meat of his brother as pink as the conch shell.

  Rodrigo looped an arm beneath his brother’s one intact shoulder. Crying, he rolled Lito to his back and kicked for land. He could not look back, and did not know what he would do to save Lito when they reached shore.

  Before he could take more than a few strokes, with his brother’s moans in his ringing ears, three jeeps roared onto the beach. The vehicles stopped behind their father’s car. A dozen bearded men got out, some in swimsuits. Paddling hard, fighting not to fail in his strength, Rodrigo shouted for help.

  One man, the tallest, heard and began without hesitation to run down the slope. Others tried to stop him, the cove stank with the smoke of the explosion. The tall one broke free and dashed, barefoot and bare-chested, over the sharp ground. Rodrigo recognized him and felt a surge of relief, also dread. Fidel dove into the bay.

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  CHAPTER TWO

  March 10

  aboard a Helio Courier L-28 STOL

  10 km northeast of El Volcán

  Cuba

  TWO THOUSAND FEET BELOW, the earth lay blacker than the midnight sky. Vast swaths of tilled land and uncut forest unfurled, uncannily dark, with no homes or lit barns to strike a single sparkle. The few narrow roads were vacant at this hour. In the northern distance, Havana glistened. From this height, even the faint gleams of Matanzas a hundred kilometers to the east were visible.

  The pilot, an exile code-named Pronto, circled a finger at the windshield, aiming ahead and down. Calendar looked closely where the man pointed. In the next minute, it was Pronto who saw the lights.

  The darkened plane banked left. Pronto cut back the rpm’s, aligning the nose of the Helio with the flashes from the ground. Three red dots appeared on the left, three green on the right. The Unidad team below marked the landing strip. The demarcated space was maybe no longer than a football field.

  An anxious hand touched Calendar’s shoulder. He twisted in his seat to the four men in the rear seats. Each of them wore black, head to toe, with greasepainted faces. All had satch
els in their laps stuffed with clothes, money, false papers, and Dragunov SVD 7.62-mm sniper rifles. On their hips rode Heckler & Koch pistols. The four were Cubans, CIA-trained assassins.

  The one tapping on Calendar’s shoulder made a gesture with his hands to express how small the landing zone looked. The man seemed unsure. Calendar hid his annoyance that a Cuban trained to blow off Castro’s head would be scared over a plane landing.

  Calendar pressed an open palm at him to assure that everything was okay. There wasn’t time to explain that the STOL in the plane’s name meant Short Takeoff and Landing. Calendar again masked his irritation that this guy didn’t know the Helio was designed for this sort of operation: come in low, slow, and short; leave these four guys behind, then get out.

  The Cuban sat back, uneasy. He shouted something to one of the other shadows. All of them were lit only by the plane’s dials. Pronto lined up on the red and green flashes, the landing zone edging closer. He brought the plane in at thirty knots, quickly shedding altitude. Calendar watched the silhouettes of treetops rise against the charcoal sky. Pronto made small, almost hectic adjustments with the yoke. Calendar had not flown with this pilot before and had to rely on faith that he was good enough to set the STOL down without landing lights, in pitch black with no idea what sort of surface he was landing on. A bead of sweat dribbled under Calendar’s eye.