The Havana Game

by John Lutz

  The old man resumed his seat, looking dissatisfied. Diego said, “I hope that when you go to Cuba, you at least bring up human rights and political prisoners. Are you pressing the government—”

  “I do not go to Cuba. They come here.”

  “But don’t you have to check on progress at the site?”

  “I’m a dealmaker, not a construction foreman.”

  The woman beside Ava spoke up. Ava ducked her head as all eyes turned in their direction. “You should invite the Havana papers to tour the site. Make it an occasion to talk to the government about freedom of the press.”

  “Freedom of the press is a wonderful thing. But I don’t want my competitors reading about the resort just yet.”

  The woman sat back, muttering under her breath.

  The old man was on his feet again. “In other words you are getting no concessions at all from the government in Havana. Nothing in return for building them a hotel that will provide them with a steady stream of revenue for years to come.”

  “Arturo, shall we tell them?” said Morales. He was looking into the far corner of the room. Ava turned to see that Carlucci was standing in the dimness, leaning his back against the wall. She quickly turned her face away.

  “You have already let too many people in on the terms of the deal, Ruy,” he said.

  “But we’re among friends.”

  “If it gets back to Gonçalves, he won’t like it.”

  “He’ll just have to lump it.”

  They were both smiling. Ava sensed that the exchange had been rehearsed. It was meant to flatter the guests. Morales put down his cigar and swung his feet to the floor. “That steady stream of revenue going to the government? It will be a trickle.”

  “What?” said the woman beside Ava.

  “We have already negotiated the tax rate the resort will pay. I’d better not reveal the figure, but it’s very modest.”

  “What does that matter?” asked the old man. “The Cuban government will own the resort.”

  “I will own the resort.”

  “The old man shook his head. “I don’t believe it. Gonçalves is a doctrinaire Communist. He’s dead set against private ownership. From the moment I heard you were negotiating with him—”

  “I remember what you said,” Morales interrupted. He rose to his feet. Swept the group with a benign look. “My friends, for sixty years we have been fighting the Havana government. With propaganda. Economic sanctions. Even with force. And where has it gotten us? Our native land is still wretched, imprisoned, poor. Now there is a new government in Havana—”

  “With a lot of the same old faces,” said the woman beside Ava. “Especially Gonçalves.”

  “Ruy outsmarted him.” It was Carlucci again, speaking up from his dark corner. “No one can get the better of Ruy in a deal.”

  “The Cuban economy is in terrible shape. People are practically starving,” Morales said. “Gonçalves is desperate for jobs. Most foreign companies that build in Cuba bring in their own workers, from Canada or Europe or Asia or wherever. Gonçalves demanded that I recruit a one-hundred-percent Cuban workforce. I said yes.”

  Morales raised his forefinger. Looked about the room. Made them wait.

  “If he would let me have 100 percent ownership of the resort. He gave in.”

  Carlucci was now sauntering into the center of the room. “You see the beauty of it, ladies and gentlemen? The nose of the capitalist camel, under the Communist tent. Gonçalves has unknowingly traded an immediate economic boon for the long-term weakening of the regime. More foreign corporations will demand ownership. The government won’t be able to refuse.”

  “A new, free Cuba will be born.” Morales finished.

  Carlucci raised his glass. “To the future of Cuba.”

  Ava glanced about the room. Most people were smiling. The old man still looked doubtful, and the woman beside her was muttering again. But neither could refuse to raise a glass to that toast.

  Morales stood beaming and nodding as the guests drank, as if he was the one being toasted.

  * * *

  “You’re sure Carlucci didn’t see you?” Tilda asked.

  “Pretty sure. As soon as the meeting ended I slipped out. He was busy talking to people in the front of the room.”

  This seemed to satisfy Tilda, who was slumped in the passenger seat, head on one side. She might even have dozed off.

  They were driving down Alton Road with the top down. The sun had set behind the downtown Miami skyscrapers across Biscayne Bay. Ava was at the Avanti’s wheel, because Tilda’d had a few too many daiquiris. Ava had found her dancing the mambo with an elderly but impressively flexible gentleman.

  “Sounds like Ruy handled the meeting well,” said Tilda. So she wasn’t napping.

  “I have to admit I was impressed. And surprised,” Ava said. “Morales seemed like such a jerk when he was coming on to me. But in that room today, he was very articulate and persuasive.”

  “Probably following Carlucci’s script.” Tilda chuckled. “If this Yemayá resort is the sharp tip of the wedge that’s going to open up Cuba, there’ll be fortunes to be made. Carlucci and Ruy are playing for high stakes.”

  “Yes.” Ava was thinking that if Ken Brydon had somehow gotten in their way, the two men wouldn’t have hesitated to kill him.

  “The reason I asked if Carlucci saw you,” Tilda said, “is that I think we’re being followed.”

  Ava’s insides writhed. She sat up straight and grasped the wheel tight, searching her rearview mirror.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. But I’ve had a certain amount of experience spotting tails. You know, when leaving the houses of—um—certain prominent men by dawn’s early light, and watching out for paparazzi and celebrity stalkers.”

  “I don’t doubt your expertise, coz.” She realized that Tilda had been slumping because she was watching the side mirror.

  “It’s one of those pricey German cars with ice-blue headlights. I can’t see what color or make it is because it’s too far back. But it’s stayed behind us through our last five turns.”

  “That’s it,” Ava said. “I’m moving to a hotel tonight. I can’t involve you in this.”

  “Too late, coz. I’m already involved. You’re staying with me.”

  Ava didn’t reply. She was trying to spot the car with blue headlights in her mirror. Couldn’t. She returned her gaze to the road ahead.

  Her thoughts turned to Laker. She had no idea where he was or what he was doing. But she knew what he’d say if he were here, because he’d said it in the past, at other times when she was getting out of her depth. “You’re plenty smart, Ava. But you’re not a field agent.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The plane hit an air pocket and dropped like a shot duck. Laker’s bottom lifted off the cushion and his seat belt cut into his hips. They settled at a lower altitude where the air was even rougher. Russian planes were old and noisy; creaking and clunking filled the cabin. The engines didn’t sound right, either. Laker and his neighbor, a burly man whose eyes had blue irises and bloodshot whites, exchanged a glance. He was hunched forward, riding his seat like a galloping horse. People were talking loudly and fearfully. Somebody was crying.

  It was no use waiting for a reassuring announcement from the pilot. The intercom had failed early in the flight. Eventually the flight attendant—the only one—appeared at the front of the cabin. She was a squat, formidable woman with a wide, thin mouth that never smiled. She shouted that they were going to make an emergency landing.

  She didn’t say where. Laker hoped it would be an airport.

  He looked out the window. It had a swirling tracery of fine scratches, like an ice rink in need of a Zamboni. He could see white land, gray sky. That was all. But his ears told him the plane was descending. The deaf one was acutely sensitive to pressure. The landing gear whirred and clunked into place. Good. They weren’t going to belly-flop in the snow.

  The wing dipped as
the plane turned, revealing a landing strip and a cluster of small buildings. He glanced at his neighbor. The man was gazing at the lighted windows of the buildings as an exhausted swimmer looks to shore. Laker gave him an encouraging smile. He didn’t respond.

  The plane came around into an approach. Nearing the runway it yawed left and right as the pilot fought the crosswinds. Then it dropped, bounced, skidded. The pilot got it under control and reversed thrust to slow down. The engines’ roar was only a little louder than the passengers’ cheering and clapping.

  Nearing the end of the runway, they passed the snow-covered wreck of a plane that hadn’t been so lucky. It looked as if it had been stepped on by a giant foot. They taxied to the terminal and stopped. The flight attendant stood impassively by the door as they disembarked. Some passengers asked her how long the delay would be. She didn’t answer.

  There was no jetway, just a flight of stairs and a short but painfully cold walk across the tarmac to the terminal. The place was bare bones: just a coffee shop and a lounge with threadbare sofas and a television set. Laker chose a seat as far from the television as possible. Keeping his hat and coat on, he bent his head over a book and pretended to read.

  When he reboarded, he would have to pass through security again. Every time was a risk.

  His passport wasn’t the problem. As always when he left the U.S., he’d taken an emergency passport with him. This one was American, in the name of Edward McLean of Lowell, Massachusetts. He’d obtained it through his own State Department connections, and even the Gray Outfit didn’t know about it.

  The risk was that the official he handed the passport to would recognize the photo. Laker had seen himself in newspapers and on television screens across Russia. Luckily the Russian media had only the same old photo the European media had, of the young football player in his Notre Dame jersey.

  He was fairly confident that Moscow hadn’t put out an alert. For him to travel all the way across Russia was so reckless, so foolhardy, that the FSB wouldn’t believe he’d attempt it. He could hardly believe he was doing it himself. If he was caught, it would be sheer bad luck.

  Which wouldn’t be a comfort. He had no idea what the Russians would do with him.

  According to Russian media, Washington had sent shady operative Thomas Laker to snatch the NATO soldier and Muslim terrorist Barsinian from the grasp of Estonian justice. He’d failed. Now Washington claimed to be making every effort to apprehend the fugitive Laker. But the Americans were not to be trusted.

  The layover stretched on and on. The first announcement said that the plane to Vladivostok was being repaired and would soon be on its way. Then there was a lengthy silence, followed by an announcement that certain key parts would have to be flown in from Moscow. The usual Russian pattern, Laker had noticed, was an optimistic declaration, followed by a pessimistic declaration, followed by an improvisation by the people on the spot.

  So he was not surprised to look out the window and see the pilot, co-pilot, and even the unsmiling flight attendant climb into a vehicle and head for the wrecked plane at the end of the runway. They were going to try to scavenge the needed parts. Laker wondered how long the wreck had been exposed to the weather. Decided to put that out of his mind.

  It was the middle of the night when they were summoned to reboard. The official to whom Laker handed his passport barely glanced at it. He passed through the metal detector and out into the cold. The flight attendant was waiting at the top of the stairs. Her mood hadn’t improved.

  His seatmate’s attitude, by contrast, had greatly improved. The bloodshot eyes were merry. He grinned, leaned toward Laker, and said, “Screwdriver.”

  “What?”

  He opened his bag to display two bottles, one of vodka, one of orange juice. “You drink with me. To smooth flight,” he said, offering a plastic cup.

  “That’s illegal, you know,” Laker said. Russia was one of the hardest-drinking countries in the world, but it had strict laws against in-flight liquor. He nodded toward the flight attendant. “She’ll confiscate your bottle.”

  “She not care.”

  “I wouldn’t try her. Really.”

  The man was already pouring a drink. “You drink with me,” he said. “You no drink, you bring us bad luck. We need good luck.”

  He thrust the cup toward Laker and glared at him. “Drink!”

  This was going to be tricky. If Laker drank and was caught, he could be handed over to the police in Vladivostok. But if his seatmate started a fight, they’d both be arrested.

  The flight attendant had keen eyes. She was standing in the aisle, looming over them. “Give me that cup! And put those bottles away!”

  The man said no, backing up his refusal with a quaint Russian expression referring to the flight attendant’s private parts.

  She snatched the bottle of orange juice from him and poured it over his head. Laker braced for an explosion, but the man only sat there, blinking and sputtering. Maybe the cold drenching sobered him. Or maybe he was thinking, better to lose the juice than the vodka. The flight attendant dropped the empty bottle in his lap and stalked away.

  Laker was fastening his seat belt. The pilot was announcing, over the repaired intercom, that Vladivostok was four hours away.

  A mere hop, by Siberian standards.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Laker caught a cab to the harbor. He doubted that the Comercio Marinero was still here, but it was worth a try. The cab dropped him in front of the Port Authority building. But instead of entering, he picked up his suitcase and crossed the road. Having traversed the vast Eurasian continent, he felt compelled to walk the last few feet to the waterfront.

  He’d never been to Vladivostok before. He’d heard it called the Russian San Francisco, partly because of its relatively mild climate. Winter’s grip was clearly easing. The only piles of snow in sight were small and dirty. There hadn’t been a fresh snowfall in a while. The sun was shining in a partly cloudy sky. The temperature was in the forties. All sorts of vessels were moored in the piers that lined Golden Horn bay. To his left was the naval base with its sleek gray destroyers and cruisers as well as a white hospital ship with a red cross. To his right was the commercial port. He noted the high, boxy shape of a car carrier. An enormous oil tanker. A number of container ships. The nearest one was being unloaded. Tall cranes were lifting the big boxes from its decks, swinging them slowly over the pier and lowering them precisely onto railroad flatcars.

  There were ferries and sailboats, and even a hotdogging Russian in a wetsuit, roaring around on a Jet Ski. His gaze traveled to the far shore of the bay, where a new-looking cable suspension bridge marked the passage from the harbor to the Pacific.

  Laker felt a pang. He was an ocean and a continent away from his home. And his beloved. It was nighttime in Washington, D.C. Ava would be asleep in her comfortable apartment near Dupont Circle. He wondered what kind of day she’d had at the office. He hoped he’d managed to keep her out of trouble with the NSA. Couldn’t risk contacting her again.

  Laker turned away from the bay. And from his debilitating thoughts. There was work to do.

  The Port Authority was a late-nineteenth-century building, pale blue with white pilasters and some sort of shield or coat of arms in stucco over the door. Flagpoles flew the horizontally striped red, white, and blue flag of the Russian Federation.

  Laker entered. In the West, he could’ve found out online if the Comercio Marinero was still in port. But in Russia routine information could still be hard to come by, and anyway he had no internet access. He’d dumped his smartphone, which could give away his location, long ago.

  He stepped into a high-ceilinged, echoing hall. At the far end was a wooden counter, behind which four officials were sitting. Each had a long line in front of him or her. Laker joined the nearest one and prepared to be patient. Waiting in line still made up a large part of life in Russia.

  Some of the people around him wore suits, but most were in jeans or overalls. There w
ere a lot of Chinese; the border wasn’t far away. Also people he guessed were from other East Asian countries. Indians and even Africans. This was Russia’s main Pacific port, and it drew travelers from all over. Laker was glad of that. He wouldn’t be conspicuous. He spoke Russian, but not well enough to pass for a native.

  The line inched forward. Laker nudged his suitcase along with his foot. Eventually he was able to get a good look at the official behind the counter. In Russia much depended on the mood of the functionary you were dealing with. This one didn’t look promising.

  He was a man in his seventies, in shirtsleeves with his tie loosened. He had a high forehead and a long Roman nose with steel-framed reading glasses perched on the very tip of it. The glasses, and his long gray sideburns, combined to make him seem like a character in a Russian historical movie. Laker could imagine him with a dueling pistol in hand, gazing contemptuously at the opponent he was about to shoot dead. Too bad he had only this long line of supplicants wanting information to sneer at.

  He listened indifferently as the man in front of Laker asked his question, then turned to his computer and tapped keys leisurely. While it worked, he stroked one of his sideburns. When the answer popped up, he relayed it to the man. The man asked another question, but the clerk only shrugged and looked over his head at Laker. Apparently answers were one to a customer.

  Laker stepped up to the counter and made his query.

  The clerk worked the computer and read off its screen, “The Comercio Marinero was at Berth 17 of Grozny Pier. It sailed two days ago.”

  “Bound for where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “It’s not worth looking. Such information quickly goes out of date. Freighters are diverted to unscheduled ports if cargo is there to be picked up.” The long explanation seemed to exhaust him. He slumped on his stool.

  “How about its previous port of call, before Vladivostok?”

  The clerk looked over Laker’s shoulder at the next person in line. Laker planted his feet, straightened up and squared his shoulders. Ava said that he was good at looming.