The Havana Game

by John Lutz

  “What’d they look like?”

  Barsinian’s steps slowed as if was trying to remember. Laker closed the distance between them without noticing. Swiftly and precisely, Barsinian lifted his right boot and slammed it into Laker’s kneecap.

  Even as the pain burned through him Laker realized what would come next and tried to step back. But the injured knee buckled and he stumbled. By now Barsinian had turned around. His right fist flew at Laker’s face. Laker swayed and avoided that blow but not the next. Barsinian’s left fist landed just below the breastbone, in the solar plexus. Laker’s breath whooshed out of him. He tried to get his head down and fists up but was too slow. Barsinian hit him in the face twice, a left and a right, and he was out.

  He came to with his face in the snow. Had the feeling he hadn’t been unconscious long. There were people talking over him, hands clutching his arms, helping him get up. The world spun. Tilted. Settled down. He blinked and focused on the two faces in front of him. A man and a woman. Middle-aged. Concerned.

  “The man who hit me—did you see him? Which way did he go?”

  Now, at the worst possible moment, he encountered his first Estonians who did not speak English. They looked at each other, shook their heads, and shrugged. The woman spoke soothingly. Maybe offering to help him limp to their fireside and give him a glass of Vanna Tallinn liqueur.

  Laker was sure he’d only been out for a few seconds and Barsinian couldn’t have gotten far. He stepped away from the supporting hands and nearly lost his balance. Recovered it.

  Turning slowly in a circle, he looked at the snowy ground. Ignored the dark splotches of his blood and concentrated on the footprints. It was easy to spot Barsinian’s, with the toes turned inward. They did not lead toward St. Christopher’s Gate, but in the other direction.

  Laker followed them, ignoring the calls from his would-be saviors. He tried to run, but the snow was too deep and he was still half-dazed. The knee that had been kicked was throbbing. Barsinian knew his hideout was blown. Why the hell was he going back there? The smart thing to do would be run to the gate and flag down a taxi. Head for the train station or the airport.

  The spotlight on the sign that said Home Port was still on. As Laker got closer he could see that the lights in the upstairs windows were also on. Barsinian was up there, maybe retrieving something that would help him in his flight. Cash. A fake passport.

  A gun. Laker cursed himself for obeying Mason’s order to leave his Beretta behind.

  Lurching and grunting with pain every time his weight came down on his injured knee, he ran toward the building. The lights were still on in the Home Port office, too, and the staffers were still huddled in their ethical discussion. One skinny bearded guy was standing, beating the air with his fist as he made his points.

  Laker went blind. It was like running into a wall of light. The shock wave and the roar of the explosion hit him at the same moment, knocking him flat on his back. He lay there dazed, nearly losing consciousness. Again the wind had been knocked out of him, and as he struggled to breathe deep, heat seared his lungs. He became aware of a prickling of his skin. Snowflakes? No. Small pieces of glass embedded in his face. He opened his eyes. Good. He could see. He managed to haul himself up on one elbow.

  The sturdy little building was still standing. A large hole had been blown in the roof. Water was pouring off the eaves, which confused him until he realized it was melted snow. Fires were burning in every window, reaching out into the night, gouts of flame breaking off and floating away. He could see nothing of the office, of the group of staffers, of the man who had been wagging his fist only minutes ago.

  They no longer existed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I talked to Ken’s parents yesterday,” Stan Rahmberg said. “In Iowa. They’re taking his death pretty hard. I really, really, don’t want to call them back and tell them their son is under investigation.”

  He and Ava were sitting in his office in K Directorate, Section 14. She had come to see him as soon as she arrived for work. And promptly ruined his day. He slumped in his chair, looking more basset-hound-like than usual. The weight of the bags under his eyes seemed to drag the lids down, so that she could see their pink insides. His jowls drooped.

  “I wish I hadn’t found out what I did,” Ava said. “But now we have to deal with it.”

  Rahmberg swiveled his chair away from her and looked out his window. Like most mid-level managers in the NSA, he had a view not of the outside world, but of the people he supervised. In the large room beyond the glass, a score of programmers sat at desks, looking at screens and tapping keys. Nobody was at the desk at the end of the nearest row. Its surface was bare except for the computer. Next to the blank screen sat a cardboard box, its flaps sealed.

  “Ken’s personal effects,” Rahmberg said. “I was going to send them to Iowa, but I guess I better hold onto them. You really think he’d gone bad?”

  “I don’t think he sold secrets. It may have been nothing more than commercially useful information.”

  “Commercially useful information. But after the Morales organization got hold of it, they murdered him.” Rahmberg swiveled the chair back and looked at her. “How much do you know about Morales?”

  “Not much.”

  “He’s on TV a lot. Escorting some star to a Hollywood premiere. Handing out trophies at his golf tournaments. Shaking hands with politicians at fund-raisers. Bragging about how he makes deals, breaks deals, cuts corners. Doesn’t surprise me that he’s mob-connected. But having Ken murdered . . .” Rahmberg shook his head. “That information must’ve been mighty hot.”

  “That’s why I’ve come to you. Before going to Admiral Hardin, I need to have some idea what kind of information Ken had access to.”

  “You want to know what this section does?” Rahmberg’s gaze shifted back to his subordinates toiling on the other side of the window. “We’re the unsung heroes of this agency. We prevent NSA from sinking under the weight of the useless data it collects.”

  “I know K Directorate monitors Web traffic.”

  “Right. K monitors jihadist and neo-Nazi websites, obviously. But also Facebook and LinkedIn and TripAdvisor. That sea of information that sloshes around the internet all the time. It’s one of the biggest big-data crunching operations going on in the world today. Most of it done by computers, of course. Flagging words like assassination and sarin. That kind of thing. But at a certain level, humans have to get involved. Flagged communications go to teams of analysts, who determine which ones are significant and send them up the chain. The rest of the stuff, meaning 99 percent, comes here for disposal.”

  “Why don’t the analysts just press the delete key when they’re done?”

  “Bureaucratic indecision. You know the NSA. Everybody’s worried that somebody else is second-guessing them. So we hold the data for varying periods of time, following protocols given to us by the analysts. Sometimes they want files back for review. But very, very rarely.”

  This time it was Ava who looked out at the employees at their rows of desks. She said, “These people have access to a lot of information, in other words.”

  “No. They’re not supposed to open and read files. There’s no need to. The analysts label the files by subject matter and date. And that’s all people in this section need to know.”

  “But if they wanted to open a file, what would stop them?”

  “I’m not looking over their shoulders all the time, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No offense, Stan. But Ken was way too smart for a shit job like this.”

  Rahmberg bridled. He was about to make an angry retort but thought better of it. “Yeah,” he said. “Ken was bored. Maybe a little resentful.”

  No maybe about it, Ava thought. She said, “Suppose Ken came across a—what do you call it—a communication he thought the Morales organization would pay money for.”

  “Possible. Morales’s resort chain has global interests.”

  “Wha
t would he do with it?”

  “How would he get the text or picture or whatever it was out of here, you mean? Not easy. These computers aren’t connected to a printer. They don’t have ports for USB sticks. Or drives for disks.”

  “Email?”

  “We’re behind a firewall.”

  “One that a bright programmer like Ken couldn’t find a hole in?”

  “No. I can’t say that.”

  “If he sent a communication out of here, do you think you could figure out what it was?”

  “Tricky. Ken would’ve covered his tracks. But given enough time, I think I could do it.”

  Rahmberg sighed and slumped deeper in his chair. “I think I’m going to have to.”

  * * *

  Admiral Hardin listened to Ava’s report without interrupting her. Her pale eyes gazed impassively at Ava. But the Y-shaped vein down the middle of her forehead surfaced and became steadily more prominent.

  When Ava finished, she said, “Who else knows about this, North?”

  “Just Stan Rahmberg. I came straight from his office.”

  “That’s a blessing, anyway. There will be no investigation of the late Kenneth Brydon. I’m instructing you to say nothing more about the matter. I’ll issue the same instruction to Rahmberg.”

  Ava leaned forward in her chair, staring across the broad desk at Hardin in disbelief. “But Ken sold information. He was murdered.”

  “You have no proof. All you have is a chain in which every link is weak. Brydon gambled and got lucky. He returned the next week and was mugged. That’s all.”

  “Detective Amighetti says—”

  Hardin held up her hand, palm out. “I don’t want to hear any more about Amighetti. He played you brilliantly. Turned you into his ally against your own agency.”

  “Aren’t we on the same side?”

  “You’re young and naive, North. Amighetti’s an ambitious cop, trying to blow up a routine crime into a media sensation. To build his reputation at the expense of a federal agency.”

  “He’s trying to find out why Ken was killed. Bring his murderer to justice. Isn’t that what we want, too?”

  “Noble-sounding words. Another way to put it is you’re trying to destroy the reputation of a colleague who can’t defend himself.”

  “I’m not saying we should go public with any of this yet. Just that we should begin an internal investigation, to see if Ken took any information out of here.”

  “You have no idea what an internal investigation is like. Mention the mere possibility of a security breach, and S Directorate Section 2 takes over. Half a dozen assholes set up shop in an office down the hall, calling in everybody in our directorate one by one and interrogating them. While the rest of us creep by the closed door on tiptoe and await our turn. Internal investigations usually don’t find what they’re after. But they do find out who’s smoking in the building. Cruising porno on the internet. Taking classified files to the cafeteria. A lot of useless shit. Then they go back to the Director and tell him the DD’s running a slack operation.”

  “Even if it’s disruptive, we have to find out—”

  “Jesus Christ, North! You should have been out of here five minutes ago. It’s always the same goddamned thing with you. When your superior makes a decision, you accept it. Get your ass out the door. If you can’t learn that, I have to wonder about your future with this agency.”

  Ava kept silent.

  “I’m going to have to write you up,” Hardin went on. “It’ll have to be three reprimands. For Rahmberg. For Amighetti. For going to the casino in the first place. I have to warn you, they will stay in your file and do lasting damage to your career. And there will have to be a review of your security clearance, which could lead to reassignment.”

  “I can take a hint. You don’t have to cut the buttons off my coat. Or break my sword over your knee.”

  Hardin stared at her openmouthed for a moment. The vein in her forehead was pounding visibly. “This is not the moment for insolence.”

  “Yes, it is,” Ava said, as she rose from her chair. “I quit. You’ll have my letter of resignation on your desk within the hour.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “You look bad, Laker,” said Col. Antrobus. “Which on the whole is in your favor. At least people will feel sorry for you.”

  His hospital room at the NATO base had no mirror, so Laker couldn’t verify Antrobus’s statement. But he didn’t doubt it. The explosion had driven tiny glass fragments into his face. They’d all been dug out, and now his forehead and cheeks were dotted with Band-Aids. Barsinian’s punches had broken his nose, which was splinted and bandaged. Antrobus’s voice came to him faintly, through a distortion that rose and fell like the sound of ocean waves. He remembered that, too, from the IED blast in Baghdad. The hearing in his right ear had never fully come back. He’d hoped this time he’d be luckier with the left ear.

  He also hoped that as his ears healed his balance would come back. Right now he could barely lie down without holding onto something. That was why this conference was being held at his bedside. A pile of pillows propped him up in a sitting position.

  Tyburn was sitting in a chair on his left. Antrobus was pacing, looking out the window at a lot full of parked Humvees.

  “Are we expecting anyone else?” Laker asked. His own voice sounded faint in his ear.

  “Commissioner Telliskivi of the Tallinn police. The sergeant, soon to be corporal, at the gate was stupid enough to let him in without checking with me first. When he gets here, we’ll allow him a look at you. That ought to convince him you’re in no shape to be questioned.”

  “I want to talk to him,” Laker said.

  “What you want doesn’t matter, You are the subject of negotiations at the highest level, Laker.”

  “The highest level?” Laker said. He wasn’t sure he’d heard the words correctly.

  “Our Ambassador is meeting with the Prime Minister as we speak.”

  “About me?”

  “As soon as our doctors finish reviewing your brain scans and determine that your concussion did you no lasting damage, you will be released from the hospital. The question is where you go then. Back to Washington to face the Senate Intelligence committee or to jail in Tallinn to await criminal charges.”

  Laker was having a hard time hearing and putting together the words. But one thing was clear. Antrobus was in a merry mood. Just when he’d given up hope, a kindly fate had provided him with a scapegoat. Saving his ass suddenly looked doable.

  “You just had to make the rest of us look stupid, didn’t you, Laker?” he said happily. “You got out in front of everybody. Made the key decision on your own. And did you ever choose wrong.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” said Tyburn. “But I think Mr. Laker’s decision to call me rather than the police was entirely defensible. At that point, Barsinian was an AWOL soldier, nothing more.”

  Laker gave the ginger-haired Englishman a nod of thanks. It’d been a nice try. A Senate committee wasn’t going to consider his decision defensible. Even he didn’t.

  “No use, Tyburn,” said Antrobus. “Laker knew about the upstairs room.”

  “Barsinian told him he was using it as a love nest.”

  “He was using it to store the explosives he was selling to the highest bidder.”

  “You’ll recall from my report, sir, that not until this morning did we complete our inventory and determine that a large quantity of Semtex was missing. Barsinian was very ingenious about covering his thefts.”

  “How’s Sergeant Johnson taking the news?” Laker asked.

  “Deeply shaken, as you can imagine.” Tyburn said. “He can’t believe how completely Barsinian had him fooled.”

  “Tell him not to feel too bad. He had me fooled, too.”

  A nurse in pale blue scrubs arrived with Commissioner Telliskivi. His goatee was as neatly trimmed as before, and the long thin face looked mournful. Antrobus moved to the door to block him from entering. />
  “Sorry, Commissioner. As you can see, Mr. Laker is in bad shape. In all decency, we cannot make him available for interview.”

  “I’m willing to talk to you, Commissioner,” said Laker

  Antrobus shot him an irritated look over his shoulder. “I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

  “I’m not proposing an interrogation, just an informal exchange of information,” said Telliskivi in his gentle voice. “It’s intended as a courtesy to you, Colonel. When your Ambassador finishes his meeting with the Prime Minister, you will be receiving a phone call. Which I fear will not be pleasant.”

  Antrobus put his hands behind him and clasped them—as if literally covering his ass, Laker thought. He backed up enough to let Telliskivi enter. Then he waved the nurse away and shut the door.

  Telliskivi pulled up a chair beside Tyburn. It crossed Laker’s mind that they were like anxious relatives gathering around his deathbed. He tried to dismiss the thought.

  Tyburn was impatient. He said, “Can you state with certainty that Barsinian is dead?”

  Telliskivi said, “Yes. He perished in the explosion.”

  “Thank God for that anyway,” said Antrobus. “It sure took you long enough.”

  “This is a difficult crime scene because of the force of the blast and extent of the destruction. We found Barsinian’s dog tags on a roof a hundred meters away. Some thought that suggested he’d discarded them fleeing the scene.”

  “But we provided you with his dental records,” Tyburn said.

  “Thank you. And they did establish his identity. Once we had gathered up enough of his teeth.”

  Laker braced himself to ask a question he didn’t really want the answer to. “Was everyone in the building killed? All the Home Port people?”

  “We will not be able to state that for certain for a long time. Dental records won’t be enough. It will take DNA analysis of bone fragments. But I have to say, it is not promising. The Home Port staff members were dedicated activists who had many friends. So far, no one reports seeing any of them alive since the explosion.”