He set a hand to the boy’s shoulder that was pressed against the wire stock.
“What’s Calendar got on you? Tell me. I can help.”
Alek chewed his lip. Lammeck waited.
The boy wheeled his face around from the Winchester.
“Promise me you won’t do that, Mikhal. Promise you won’t try to stop me.”
Lammeck rubbed his beard, searching for more to say. But there was nothing. The momentum was too great to halt. History, he thought again, is not kind.
Lammeck nodded. The boy dipped his eye to the scope. He fired.
~ * ~
After the last round, Lammeck and Alek cleaned their presence out of the field, then waited in the shade of the cottonwoods. Lammeck ate his sandwich and split a beer with the boy.
Passing the bottle between them, Alek brightened from the brooding quiet that cropped up whenever Lammeck inquired too deeply about him. Lammeck asked instead about Rina. The boy became effusive.
Rina was a pharmacy worker at a hospital in Minsk, where Alek worked in an electronics factory. He met her at a local dance hall only two weeks ago, but he knew they were in love. Her father had been an engineer, but got labeled an enemy of the people after a bridge he designed proved faulty. He died in a gulag. She’d lived in several places in the Soviet Union: Archangel, Murmansk, Moldavia, Leningrad, and finally Minsk, with her uncle.
“He’s a bigwig in the lumber industry,” Alek said.
“Is she a Komsomol member? I expect if her uncle’s a big shot, he’s a Party member. He’d want her to be in the youth group.”
“Yeah, she is.”
“She want you to join up?”
“No, she thinks it’s boring.” Alek raised a finger off the beer bottle to point at Lammeck. “And we’re not gonna talk about me anymore. Your turn, Mikhal.”
“Alright. Shoot. Pardon the pun.”
“You study killings, huh?”
“Assassinations. Yes.”
“Why?”
“Actually, what I study is history. I’m trying to determine if individuals or events are more important when it comes to guiding history. The one place where those two forces collide is assassinations. If you suddenly remove a key person at a vital moment in time, what course do events take downstream? Do they change direction, keep in a straight line, or go a new direction altogether?”
Alek scratched the back of his neck. Lammeck noted how big the boy’s ears were, what an exceptionally average-looking young man he was.
“So after I kill Castro, you’ll watch and see what happens next. Then you’ll know.”
“Then I’ll have evidence. No political theorist can ever know. The best we can do is guess.”
“Seems like a pretty cold way y’all look at killing someone.”
“Yes. It does.”
“Is that how you got roped into this? So you could get a good, close look at a real assassination? Is that what Calendar’s got on you?”
Alek was clever, Lammeck realized, and had a mean streak.
“I suppose you’re right. Too many questions.”
The boy lay back on his arms behind his head and stared into the leaves of the Cottonwood. Lammeck watched the road for Heitor.
The red convertible arrived fifteen minutes later, trailing a comet tail of dust. Lammeck loaded in the packed duffel, Alek the cooler. They took their seats in the car. Heitor lifted his eyebrows, inquiring how the session had gone. Lammeck nodded.
For the two-hour ride back to Havana, no one spoke. Alek mimicked sleeping again in the rear seat. Lammeck watched the countryside fly past and dodged his own critical judgments of himself.
Heitor drove first to Lammeck’s house, reaching it at the height of the afternoon’s heat. Lammeck removed the duffel from the trunk and took it inside to hide again. Calendar had instructed him to not let it out of his sight. The red convertible pulled from the curb, with Alek watching from the back. Lammeck closed the door. He stashed the duffel.
In the bedroom, he opened a window and fell across the mattress. No breeze stirred, the curtains hung limp. Perfect conditions, he decided, for a five-hundred-yard shot. The room was stifling. The air, and his thoughts, did not let Lammeck rest.
* * * *
CHAPTER TWELVE
April 5
Fontainebleau Hotel
Miami Beach
CALENDAR STROLLED ACROSS THE suite, swapping the penthouse view of the Atlantic for the panorama of Biscayne Bay, only a third of a mile to the west. He stuck a hand in his pocket, fingering his plastic mouthpiece. A dozen private yachts lay at anchor in the bay, all of them with white lights strung between bow, smokestack, and stern as if today was a holiday. Sailboats, waterfront homes, bright pinpoints of wealth described the bounds of the bay.
Momo Giancana busied himself in the kitchen dicing peppers for a vegetable tray. Johnny Roselli munched out of a bag of Lay’s potato chips he carried around. Maheu perched on the back of the sofa, quiet and poised. Calendar sipped from the glass of champagne Giancana had handed him when he came into the suite. Calendar turned from the high windows. The view reminded him only of what he did not have. It made him competitive with the men who owned those yachts and the women they surely had on them. This, he figured, was not fair. He focused on what he’d managed to collect in his life instead: power.
He waved Roselli over and grabbed a wad of chips from the bag. The salt tasted sharp against the champagne.
“How’s it goin’ in Havana?” Roselli asked. “I must’ve missed that article in the paper that said Castro was dead.”
Calendar thought about wiping the greasy chip shards from his hand onto Roselli’s black camel hair coat, adding to the crumbs already there. But this lug was just a soldier; nothing other than pleasure was gained by aggravating him.
“I’m coming at it from several angles, Johnny. Stay tuned.”
Giancana entered the room bearing a pewter platter festooned with asparagus, cauliflower, peppers, celery, and cherry tomatoes. He set it on a coffee table, and swung back for the kitchen, announcing, “I got onion dip.”
Roselli crunched on a fistful of chips and grinned. “Don’t worry, G-man. I’m tuned.”
“Okay,” Giancana chirped, coming back with the dip and another bottle of Dom. “Everybody got everything? Bob, you not drinking?”
Maheu shook his head and blinked owlishly.
“Suit yourself.” Giancana slipped into an easy chair, dainty and eager against the size of Roselli, the posing of Maheu. The mob boss used a celery stalk to scoop a furrow in his onion dip and filled his champagne flute.
Calendar grinned. He liked Giancana, a personable little gangster. Not like the bulky Roselli who carried a challenge on his shoulder like it was a talking parrot. Or Maheu the ex-FBI stoic. And not Trafficante, always worrying, scrunching his eyes behind his glasses over money, body count, messiness. Giancana cooked, drank, lived, and murdered like the man he was, a short-timer on this planet who took advantage of the days.
“Hey, Calendar.”
“Yeah, Momo?”
“You still thinking about retiring down here? Getting a place?”
“Maybe.”
“When the time comes, you need anything, my feelings’ll be hurt you don’t come to me.”
Calendar imagined borrowing money or taking favors from Sam Giancana. The devil, he was always taught, must be invited in. The Mob and the CIA both worked within the same constraint.
Roselli tossed the chip bag onto a table and brushed himself off when a knock came at the suite door. He opened it. Behind Santo Trafficante, a thick-lipped, unsmiling man stepped in wearing black frames similar to Trafficante’s. Lammeck figured him for a Cuban before Santo made the introductions.
“Everyone, this is Tony Varona. Tony, this is everyone I was telling you about.” Trafficante shot his hawk-nosed face at Calendar. “Watch that one,” he warned his guest.
Barrel-chested Varona shook no hands. His manner was dour. Without being asked, he expan
ded on his name: “Former prime minister of Cuba Manuel Antonio de Varona.” He inclined his head, closing his eyes for the moment. This was an uncomfortable, royal sort of gesture, expressing At your service, and clearly a lie.
From the sofa, Giancana breezily called, “Tony, hey! Good you could come.”
Trafficante moved to the glass dining table. Behind him the Fontainebleau’s tall windows peered east over the starry ocean. Out there, Calendar thought, take a right, go south a hundred and fifty miles. There’s Cuba. Commies and Castro. Revolution. An invasion on the way. Eyes of the world. Maybe the flashpoint for a war. Calendar fetched his briefcase, forgetting the wealthy men floating on Biscayne Bay. He was happier with the views over the Atlantic. The bay was money. The ocean was power.
“Let’s get to business,” Trafficante carped. “It’s late already.”
“Bob,” Giancana addressed Maheu, “see if Tony wants anything to drink.”
Varona passed on all offers of libations, dip, and potato chips. Giancana carried his veggie tray and champagne bottle to the table. The six took seats. Calendar faced the ocean.
Trafficante began. “Tony’s the guy I was telling you about, Momo. Prime minister under Prío for two years starting in ‘48. When Batista kicked Prío out, Tony left for Miami. In ‘59, after Batista split, he went back to Havana with Prío. He and Prío didn’t see eye to eye with Fidel.”
Giancana nodded. “I can imagine.”
Roselli asked Varona, “And now you’re where?”
“I reside again in Miami.”
“Uh huh.” Roselli pursed his lips. Plainly, he disapproved of Tony Varona, who’d turned tail when plenty of Cubans stayed behind to fight the Communists.
Varona spoke. “I came back to coordinate the counterrevolution in Miami. I am a leader with the Frente. And I have my own small action group, Rescate.”
Trafficante jerked a thumb at Varona. “He met with JFK.”
“Yes, I am pleased with the support of the Democrats in their opposition to Castro. Eisenhower was... less generous.”
Maheu asked, “Is that why you take money from Lansky?”
“Meyer Lansky has been a business associate for years,” Varona said placidly. “Nothing more.”
Maheu pressed. “And you’re telling us Lansky’s million-dollar bounty on Castro has got nothing to do with it. This is all for Cuba, right?” Maheu glared, in his schoolmarm fashion.
Varona’s thick lips cracked an insincere smile. “Of course. All for Cuba.”
Calendar had no problem with Varona’s involvement, even his obvious private agenda. He knew what Varona was getting out of his association with the Mob: gambling concessions worth a fortune after Fidel was dead. In the meantime, Varona got funds for his little Rescate from both the CIA and the Mob, plus he had a shot at Lansky’s million-dollar bounty on Fidel’s head. Varona got to play the big shot while sleeping safe in Florida. Later, in a free Cuba, he’d be able to brag how much he contributed.
Calendar didn’t care, because America didn’t care. The bottom line: Varona, Lansky, Giancana, Trafficante, Roselli, none of them were Reds. Fidel was. Plain and simple, like Bissell said.
Giancana pointed the stub of a carrot stick at Calendar. “Show-and-tell time, Buddy boy.”
Calendar reached down for the briefcase. Laying it flat on the table, he flipped open the twin locks. For a moment, Calendar admired what lay inside. Then he tipped the briefcase and spilled the banded bundles of dollars on the glass.
“Ten thousand,” Calendar said. “And a thousand bucks’ worth of communications equipment is in the trunk of a Chevy in the parking lot. Everything you asked for.”
Calendar, Maheu, and the mobsters gave Varona a few moments of silence with the cash. They watched the Cuban stack the bundles in a little green wall. While Varona toted the bills, Calendar again counted his blessings that in his own life he’d dodged this vice of greed. The three mobsters almost licked their lips looking at the dough; Calendar could tell each was devising ways to separate Varona from it.
Calendar tried to break the reverie around the table with a snap of his fingers. Varona was the last to look his way.
“Tony? Tony? Hey...” Calendar reached across the glass. He swept a hand through Varona’s orderly arrangement of the money. Bundles flew to the floor. He stood.
“Listen to me, Tony. You hear this voice? Whenever you hear it, you stop what you’re doing and pay attention. I want to see your ears perk up like a dog for dinner. Got me?”
Varona stared at him.
Calendar pressed his point home. “You’re not prime minister of anything right now. That’s Uncle Sam’s money. And as far as you’re concerned, I’m Uncle Sam’s first fucking cousin.”
For a second, Varona let his eyes leak to the floor where the cash lay scattered. Then he yoked his attention on Calendar and stayed there.
“Pay who you got to pay with that. You can get Green Stamps with the rest, I don’t give a rat’s ass. All I want from you is what I was promised. A name.”
He turned his back on the table, to let Varona gather up the money.
~ * ~
Onboard Tejana
Florida Straits
The wind in Calendar’s face caused his cigarette to burn too fast. He considered moving to the stern to block the breeze but kept his stance at the bow. He liked the view of the water coming, the fretted moonlight like highway stripes on the sea.
He gave up on the smoke, tossing it over the rail. He took a seat on a stack of crab pots strewn about the deck for disguise. The 110-foot Tejana ran swiftly, cruising at thirty knots on its German pancake diesels. An old World War II subchaser, she was long and narrow-beamed; the Unidad crew often fought seasickness on the short trips between Cuba and Key West. One more reason why Calendar lingered up front, away from the stink of puke.
An hour out of Key West, the far-off glow of Havana tinted the southern horizon silver, obscuring the lower realm of stars. Tejana’s crew left the pilot house to mount her half-dozen .30- and .50-caliber machine guns; these had been removed when she entered American waters. Castro had a small navy and Tejana had never been accosted. But if the ship was intercepted, she would fight.
The vessel closed on the island after midnight without incident or notice. Five miles off the coast, the seas calmed. The ride smoothed. Tejana made for Bahia de Cabañas, an empty bay thirty miles west of Havana.
A hundred yards from land, she stilled her big engines. All running lights were off. She bobbed broadside to the shore. Calendar looked over the moonlit cove, gray palms and brush behind the long white beach. The water was clear enough to see the bottom. A mosquito that landed on Calendar’s neck died in his palm.
Onshore, a flashlight blinked three times. Down the starboard rail, a crewman answered with flashes from the boat. In the next minute, Calendar heard the puttering of dinghies headed from the beach.
He moved to the center of Tejana’s beam and clambered over the side, down a ladder. Below him, a wooden boat arrived, a wizened fisherman at the tiller. Once aboard, the skiff pushed off from the subchaser’s hull. Immediately, other boats motored alongside to accept lowered crates of weapons and materiel intended for the underground.
The fisherman said nothing on the way to the beach. Calendar avoided getting a good look at the old man’s face or giving one of his own. The moment the skiff bellied in the sand, Calendar jumped out. He shoved the bow backward so the fisherman could reverse and return to Tejana to help with the off-loading. On the beach, two pickup trucks waited, motors off. Calendar strode past them to an idling taxi.
The cab driver did not turn when Calendar climbed into the backseat. The man hit the gas the moment the rear door closed, jostling Calendar before he was fully seated. Calendar looked into the rearview mirror to see that the driver’s eyes were on him. He slid to his right, closer to the window, to get out of the reflection.
He said only, “Miramar.”
* * * *
CH
APTER THIRTEEN
April 6
First Avenue
Miramar
Havana
LAMMECK JUMPED AT THE touch on his bare foot. He awoke flailing defensively. He saw the big silhouette at the foot of his bed just as his hand gripped the knife under his pillow.
“For God’s sake,” Lammeck breathed, letting go of the blade. “How do you do that?”
“Get a dog,” Calendar told him. “I could never fool a dog.”
Lammeck sat up on the mattress. He gazed down at his boxer shorts, bare chest, and round waist. He reached for his pants hung over the back of a chair.
The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02] Page 16