The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02]

by David L. Robbins

  He took pleasure in the sunny Malecón. He would miss Havana when he left, if he managed not to be buried here in the next few days. Soon, if the exiles succeeded and retook the island, Lammeck would come back. He’d observe and record the next cycle of Cuba’s history. He’d try to buy that house in Miramar. Maybe he would be buried here, after all.

  At eleven o’clock, Lammeck and his escorts arrived at the Partagas factory behind El Capitolio. He purchased a half dozen Diplomaticos, gave two each to his barbudos, lit one, and pocketed the other. Out of curiosity, and to kill the last bits of time, he marked off the steps between the south wing of the capitol where Alek had been and the spot where the viewing platform had stood on Prado. He counted five hundred and ten strides.

  At eleven forty-five, Lammeck crossed the boulevard to the Inglaterra. His guardians melted away. For the first moments, he felt vulnerable, searching the sky, buildings, and crowd around him, magnifying Calendar’s power to reach him. Then Lammeck dropped the last of his cigar, patted his pants pocket, and stepped through the iron gate of the hotel patio.

  The waiter Gustavo greeted him. A table had been reserved for Lammeck in the center of the bistro. Already, lunching Cubans were seated with beers and sandwiches. Lammeck took a chair, knitting fingers in his lap to keep his hands from showing his nerves.

  “Beer, Gustavo.”

  The waiter brought the drink quickly. Lammeck was relieved, the glass gave his hand and eyes a focus. He resisted the need to swivel his head in all directions, looking for the barbudos, for Johan and his men embedded somewhere around the patio, and for Calendar.

  To distract himself, Lammeck kept an eye on the hands of his watch sweeping toward noon. He keened his ears to the ticking, surprised at how slowly time moved when measured in the shivering of a second hand. The hand stuttered past the twelve. All of Lammeck’s fear subsided. He felt only resignation and an unbidden sadness.

  A hand grazed his shoulder from behind. Before he could turn, Calendar was beside him, moving into the open chair. The large agent collapsed with a gassy grunt, sounding tired. He spun a folded note on the table between them.

  “Who’re you all of a sudden, Gary Cooper?”

  Lammeck took the sheet of stationery and read his own handwriting.

  Gustavo appeared beside the table.

  “Will you be joining the professor for a beer, señor?”

  Calendar flicked a hand. “Cristal.”

  The waiter hustled off.

  Calendar sat back, folding his arms on top of his big middle. Both eyes were reddened.

  “Long night?” Lammeck asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Trying to find me?”

  “You’re just one of my worries, Professor.”

  “I’m glad to know that.”

  “Don’t get too happy. You’ve got my full attention at the moment.”

  Calendar leaned forward over his crossed arms, setting them on the tabletop. He lowered his voice.

  “Let me get right to the point. You fucked everything up. You know there’s an invasion coming soon, right? There’s gonna be fifteen hundred armed Cubans on a beach, all of ‘em landing with one idea in their heads. Take Cuba back. The whole free world is counting on them.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Goddam right—” Calendar caught his volume rising. He leaned closer and eased his tone. “Goddam right I say so. And you know what? The odds are, the only chance they got is if Castro’s dead when they show up. The people on the island have got to revolt, and they’re not gonna do that if Fidel’s alive and screaming into a microphone keeping everybody in line. You understand? We’re talking about making history here. Who the hell should know that better than you? You got that last capsule with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Lammeck dug into his pocket, set the pill on the table. “Is that what this is about for you, Calendar? Making history?”

  “American history, Professor. I could give a crap about Cuba. This is for our security. Period.”

  “So you throw lives away left and right. Heitor, Susanna, Felix. You put others’ at risk, mine included. You use torture, murder, and assassination, not to mention extortion. Is that the American history you think we should be writing?”

  Calendar snorted. “Don’t moralize to me, Professor. You don’t have hands clean enough for the job. You were hot to play along with Castro’s murder, so long as it got you into a plum position to write about it. You trained Alek knowing exactly what he was assigned to do. You handed Orta the pills knowing what they were for. So get off my back. Hypocrisy doesn’t look good on you. Or wait a minute. Maybe you just got cold feet.”

  “What I got was a slap in the face when you sent me out to get killed. I found out real fast I was just an historian. Making history’s for somebody else.”

  “Me.” Calendar crammed a finger into his own girth. “It’s for me, Professor.”

  Lammeck shook his head. “No. You’re not a force of history. You know how I can tell?”

  The agent looked to the sky to demonstrate his disdain. But when he brought his eyes down, he asked, “How?”

  “Because you failed. Castro’s alive. Alek and Rina are long gone. Johan wants nothing to do with you. From the standpoint of history, you never existed. Life goes on. Now it’s down to just you and me. Bud and Mikhal. We’re everybody. And we’re nobody. Just like you said.”

  “Okay, enough,” Calendar snapped. “This isn’t one of your classrooms. I’ve got real-world shit to take care of. What’d you tell Castro?”

  “Everything. Alek, Rina, CIA, KGB. Orta.”

  “What about Johan?”

  “I left him out of it. Didn’t see the point.”

  “Look at you. The same as me, deciding who lives, who dies. That’s not a nobody, Professor. That’s power.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So Castro knows Alek was a CIA sniper. And Rina was KGB. I guess he knows both agencies were in it together.”

  “Yes. And he blames the CIA. Correctly.”

  “Too bad. It was a hell of a plan.”

  “Castro was impressed.”

  “Still, I don’t get it. Why’d he let Alek and the girl go?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lammeck caught a glimpse of one of the barbudos moving on the sidewalk along Prado. He fixed his focus back on Calendar, to keep from drawing the agent’s attention to the soldier. Chances were, Calendar knew about Lammeck’s bodyguards, and was not concerned. He was that slippery.

  “I made a trade,” Lammeck said. “I offered myself instead. Fidel took it.”

  Calendar laid both palms flat on the table. “Why did you do that?”

  “Be realistic, Calendar. Alek was going to give me up in the first five minutes he was interrogated. I was a dead man. So I figured at least I’d try to save somebody. I picked Alek and Rina. And Johan.”

  “And Castro.”

  “Yes. Him, too.”

  “But not yourself?”

  “No. And Calendar?”

  “What.”

  “Not you.”

  Lammeck lifted his beer and swigged the rest. Calendar waited. Lammeck watched the empty glass drizzle foam.

  “Forget about it. You can’t touch me, Professor. And Johan won’t lay a glove on me, I know way too much about him. The moment I stand up and walk away from this table, I disappear. Guys like you, and that punk Alek, the Russian girl, you play at being spies. But this is what I do. You understand?”

  “Vividly.”

  “Good. You also understand I can’t let Castro put you in La Cabaña. Not on my watch. You’re an American citizen. That’d be bad for my reputation if you got yourself interrogated, or even got executed. But I can’t let you off the island either.” The agent tapped on the table. “What to do?”

  Lammeck nodded. Calendar’s threat had been oblique, but clear enough. And inevitable.

  “You can have one last beer with me.”


  The agent pursed his lips. “Why not.”

  Lammeck raised a hand to snare the waiter’s attention.

  The pause for the waiter to come created an intermission between them. Both sat back quietly in their seats. Another man, not Gustavo, wove through the tables to come take the order for two more Cristals.

  When he was gone, Lammeck and Calendar stared at each other for prolonged moments. Lammeck took pains to keep his face vacant. Calendar spoke first.

  “You know the game. Where this is going.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why’re you here? Why’d you want to sit down and talk? It’s not going to change anything.”

  “I hoped it might.”

  “Go ahead. I got time.”

  “I wanted you to know that I’m done being scared of you.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I’m through wondering all day if you got to my food somehow, not sleeping at night, bodyguards, checking every shadow. That’s going to drive me crazy if it goes on much longer.”

  “Don’t worry. It won’t.”

  “I know. So I wanted to sit down with you one last time. To tell you, face-to-face, what I told Castro.”

  “And that is?”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  Calendar didn’t move, except to mount a predator’s grin.

  “I am,” Lammeck said, unprepared for Calendar’s stillness.

  “Good luck with that.”

  “I know you can get to me a thousand ways. You’ll bribe a guard at the prison. You’ll get a cabbie to run me down, a thief to knife me, a cook to poison me.”

  Calendar nodded, enjoying Lammeck’s assessment. “I figure it’ll cost me a hundred pesos. More or less.”

  “Is that the going rate?”

  “That’s what Felix charged me.”

  “Maybe you’ll threaten Johan into doing it for you.”

  “Better idea. I can get him for free.”

  “Then you’ll go after Castro again. And when you’re done with him, some other poor sucker on the planet who pisses off the CIA. You won’t stop.”

  “No, I won’t. It’s my job. It’s my nature. And here’s a news flash for you, Professor: I like it.”

  “I know. So I’m going to stop you.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. No one ever has. And I’ve played rough with some of the big boys. Guys that pansy historians like you only write about.”

  “You don’t have history on your side, Calendar. Not this time. I can tell. Like you said, who would know better than me?”

  The beers arrived. Setting them on the table, the waiter inclined his head to Lammeck. “They are very cold, señor.”

  Lammeck reached for his glass. Calendar held out a palm to stop him from drinking.

  “You remember what I told you, early on? That when the time came, if it looked like you were gonna get caught”—Calendar aimed a finger at the capsule on the table—”you would take that?”

  “I remember.”

  “The time has come.”

  “No.”

  “Okay,” the agent said. His voice was straightforward, like the knife thrust that killed Felix. “Here’s the deal. Don’t make me come after you, Lammeck. Don’t make me hunt you down, crawl around in your shadows anymore. Pop that pill in your mouth and chase it with that beer. Then our business is done.”

  “And what if you have to come after me?”

  “I’ll make it as miserable a death as I can manage. And not only will I kill you. I’ll ruin your name. I’ll do everything I promised you I would and more. Your legacy at Brown, in academic circles, in publishing, I’ll steal it and wipe so much shit on it that people will spit on the floor when you come up in conversation.”

  Calendar sat back, folding his arms again. His voice remained a low, even rumble.

  “You’re not gonna kill me. That was nice brave talk. But you don’t stand a chance. Like I told you, this is what I do. You’re a teacher. School’s out. Take the pill.”

  “And if I do?”

  “Then I leave you alone to die. I’ll forget about you the minute we get up from these beers. You got my word on that. And don’t give me any malarkey that my word’s no good. I don’t double-cross a dying man.”

  Lammeck’s eyes fell to the capsule.

  “Is that the only kind you don’t double-cross?”

  “Just take the pill. Make it easy on us both.”

  Lammeck stared at the capsule. He did not lift his eyes when Calendar said, “You know this is where we been headed since day one.”

  With a quick motion of his bandaged hand, Lammeck swept up the capsule, flipped it into his mouth, and swallowed a deep draught of beer.

  “Okay,” Calendar said, easing his expression and voice. “Okay.”

  Lammeck placed the glass on the table. He gazed into it like a fortune-teller’s ball, watching bubbles flee up into the foam. He did not look directly at Calendar when the agent lifted his own beer for a swallow. He let Calendar take a swig, then, keeping his head down, raised his glass and drank again.

  “How’s the hand?” Calendar asked.

  “It hurts.”

  The agent snickered, cruel.

  “It’ll get better soon.”

  Lammeck stood from the table. He pulled from his wallet a pair of hundred-peso notes. He tucked them under the bottom of his beer glass.

  He looked at Calendar now. “Make sure the two waiters get these.”

  “That’s a big tip. Giving away all your wealth?”

  “The first one’s name is Gustavo.”

  “Him I know. How about the second guy?”

  “Blanco. And, Calendar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just so you know how I figured it out. Alek Hidell can’t be the kid’s actual name. He couldn’t have gotten a U.S. passport under his real identity. He’s a defector. That means he’s given up his American citizenship. Johan had to issue the entry visa to a fake passport. That’s when I guessed he was in on it. The rest was easy.”

  “You’re a smart man, Professor.”

  “And you’re a pendejo.”

  Lammeck watched the agent take one more drink. Calendar licked his lips when he put down the glass.

  “Hey, Lammeck.”

  “What.”

  “You still gonna kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, pal, the clock’s running.”

  Lammeck took a step away from the table, then halted.

  “One last thing, Calendar.”

  “That’s well put. One last thing. Tick tick tick.”

  “Just out of curiosity. What’s Alek’s real name?”

  Calendar hesitated.

  Lammeck held up his hands, yielding. “I won’t tell anybody.”

  The agent shrugged. “I guess you won’t. It’s Oswald. Lee Oswald.”

  Lammeck made no parting gesture, just left the patio. He crossed Prado to stroll back to the Nacional. The two barbudos picked him up quickly. They fell in around him.

  He reached in the pocket of his guayabera for the second cigar. He bit off the tip and accepted a light from the blond soldier.

  After a long, savored puff, Lammeck dug into his pants pocket for another sugar pill. He tossed it onto his tongue and sucked on it. The thing tasted sweet.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  April 12

  National Hotel

  LAMMECK YANKED OPEN THE door. The guard, one he had not seen yet in his imprisonment, started.

  “That’s enough,” Lammeck said in English, forgetting himself. The soldier did not register. Lammeck switched to Spanish. “Bastante.”

  “Enough of what, señor? Are you finished with lunch?”

  “Do you know Captain Johan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him to get over here. As soon as he can.”

  The barbudo was young, with a black beard hardly grown in. Lammeck handed him an empty bottle of siete rum.
<
br />   “More,” he said, and closed the door.

  ~ * ~

  Lammeck lay on the bed, arms and legs spread over the rumpled sheets, a disheveled starburst. He gazed at the bare ceiling, watching the changing light of his third sunset in this hotel room, first copper, then deepening to red, finally indigo to black. He did not rise or turn on the bedside lamp, but let the room darken until the white plaster was washed in the electric yellow of streetlights from the Malecón.