The Havana Game Read online

  Highest Praise for

  John Lutz

  “John Lutz knows how to make you shiver.”

  —Harlan Coben

  “Lutz offers up a heart-pounding roller coaster of a tale.”

  —Jeffery Deaver

  “John Lutz is one of the masters of the police novel.”

  —Ridley Pearson

  “John Lutz is a major talent.”

  —John Lescroart

  “I’ve been a fan for years.”

  —T. Jefferson Parker

  “John Lutz just keeps getting better and better.”

  —Tony Hillerman

  “Lutz ranks with such vintage masters

  of big-city murder

  as Lawrence Block and Ed McBain.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  “Lutz is among the best.”

  —San Diego Union

  “Lutz knows how to seize and hold the reader’s imagination.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “It’s easy to see why he’s won an Edgar and two Shamuses.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  ALSO BY JOHN LUTZ

  The Honorable Traitors

  Slaughter

  Frenzy

  Carnage: The Prequel to “Frenzy” (e-short)

  Twist

  Pulse

  Switch (e-short)

  Serial

  Mister X

  Urge to Kill

  Night Kills

  In for the Kill

  Chill of Night

  Fear the Night

  Darker Than Night

  Night Victims

  The Night Watcher

  The Night Caller

  Final Seconds (with David August)

  The Ex

  Single White Female

  Available from Kensington Publishing Corp. and Pinnacle Books

  JOHN LUTZ

  THE HAVANA GAME

  A Thomas Laker Thriller

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 John Lutz

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4095-7

  Electronic edition: February 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4096-4

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4096-3

  For Barbara, always

  Yemayá is the mother of the Orishas. She rules the oceans, and like them, can be either peaceful or violent.

  —KATIE MCKERNAN, St. Michael’s College

  CHAPTER ONE

  Don’t look at anybody.

  His trainers had told him that. All of them. He’d been trained by both sides in this war, and considering they were enemies, it was funny how similar the training was. Especially the dictum When you’re operational, don’t look at anybody.

  The danger was that they would look back. Make eye contact with some stranger, and he might remember you. And when he was asked, be able to describe you.

  So he kept his eyes on the square of worn linoleum floor, smeared with slush and mud, between his boots. He’d memorized the route, counted the stops, and knew that there was one more stop before his. It wasn’t necessary for him to look up at signs.

  The tram was crowded. It was one of the narrow, old-fashioned cars they used in the city center to please the tourists. He was one of the standees, holding onto a loop of worn leather, allowing his body to sway as the tram turned left or right, slowed down or speeded up.

  He didn’t have to look at his fellow passengers to know they were all white. Which meant he was conspicuous. In a country of white people, he was olive-skinned and black-haired. Lucky for him the weather was so cold. He could keep his cap pulled down on his forehead, his scarf wrapped around his mouth and cheeks. His face was almost as well covered as that of a woman wearing a burqa. Only the eyes showed, and he was keeping them fixed on the floor.

  A small object wobbled and rolled into his field of view. Bumped into his left boot and lay there. Yellow ring and pink bulb: a baby’s pacifier. He suppressed the impulse to look up. No need to do anything about this. In a moment, an arm would appear, as the mother bent to retrieve the pacifier. He would not look up at her.

  Seconds went by. The pacifier just lay there against his boot. Without raising his head, he peeked out from under his cap brim. Four paces to his left, a baby was sitting on a woman’s knee, a pretty woman with bright blue eyes and cheeks flushed from the warmth of the car. She was wearing a knit cap with a yellow ball on top. The baby was fretting, waving his fat little arms around, but the mother hadn’t noticed that he’d lost his pacifier. She was talking with the man beside her. Possibly the baby’s grandfather. He had a full white beard, round steel spectacles, and a jolly smile. He looked like Santa Claus. A lot of the old men in this country did.

  Someone was looking at him. He could feel the gaze, as palpable as an icy draft. Forgetting his training, he raised his head and looked.

  It was a middle-aged woman in a head scarf squinting at him, thin lips pursed in disapproval. She’d noticed the pacifier and was wondering why he didn’t return it. Maybe thinking he was going to pocket it. She was going to remember him. She’d be telling her friends, “There was one of those people in the tram, and you know, they’ll steal anything.”

  Maybe she was about to point him out to the other passengers. Or address him, loudly demand
ing that he return the pacifier. Then the whole car would notice him and remember.

  Letting go the strap, he bent and picked up the warm, sticky pacifier. Holding it up with the tips of his fingers to show he had no designs on it, he made his way up the crowded aisle. The child’s mother and Santa Claus were laughing and talking and did not notice him, even when he was standing over them. He extended his arm, offering the pacifier.

  The mother’s cheeks flushed even pinker, and she covered her mouth in embarrassment. Santa Claus took the pacifier and made a show as if he was about to put the grimy bulb back in the baby’s mouth. The mother batted it away in mock horror. Both of them looked up at him, laughing, inviting him to share the joke.

  He nodded and turned away, moving carefully on the tilting floor. He felt sick to his stomach. That was another reason you tried not to look at anybody. One they didn’t dwell on in training. If you started seeing the targets as people, it was harder to carry out the operation.

  The tram shuddered to a stop. His stop. The doors folded open, and he stepped out onto the platform, into the cold wind. This was the broad avenue that ringed the ancient center of the city. Spires and domes looked black against the dark-gray sky. It was almost nightfall.

  The platform was a bright and aromatic island. It was a large and busy one, because this was where the city and suburban lines crossed. It had a roof with electric heaters hanging from the beams, their coils glowing orange. On long counters, merchants had laid out treats: roasted chestnuts, pastries filled with meat, sausages, smoked herring, fruit, and candy. Funny how the cold air made the smells especially delicious.

  On his earlier visit he’d noticed the anti-terrorism precautions. The trash receptacles were just steel rings from which clear plastic bags hung. He couldn’t read the notices, but knew they warned people to watch for abandoned parcels. CCTV cameras were perched under the eaves of the roof.

  Nothing to hamper him.

  He walked around the counter where two women were selling hot chocolate. They had a line of customers and didn’t notice as he paused beside the stack of cardboard boxes containing marshmallows. Counting down to the sixth box, he slid it halfway out, inserted one finger in the cut-out from the cardboard flap, and flicked a toggle-switch. Then he slipped the box back in place and walked away. It had taken only a couple of seconds.

  Descending the steps to the snowy street, he took from his coat pocket a rectangular plastic object, which he held to his ear. Anyone giving him a second glance would assume it was a cell phone. It wasn’t.

  He wished that flicking that toggle switch had set a timer counting down. That would have meant it was all out of his control now. He might even be caught in the blast himself. He’d be thinking only about getting away from here quickly.

  But the switch had only armed the detonator. The cell phone was really the transmitter he would use to set off the bomb. The planners had told him it had to be done that way, for maximum effect.

  No need to look at his watch. He could hear the other tram approaching. The city had excellent public transportation; the trams always ran on time. He glanced over his shoulder. The suburban tram was pulling in. It was newer and sleeker than the one that ran around the city center. The old tram was still sitting on the opposite track, doors open. The controllers always held it so that passengers could switch lines.

  He was passing an old church. Ducking behind one of its pillars, he took the detonator away from his ear and rested his finger lightly on the button. On the platform, the doors of the suburban tram slid open. Passengers poured out. People were stepping out of the old tram, too. They’d been enjoying its warmth until the last moment before they had to change. The platform was thronged with people.

  Now.

  But as he was about to press down, a yellow dot caught his eye: the ball of wool atop the cap of the mother. Holding her baby in one arm, she used the other hand to raise the lapel of her coat to shield his face from the wind. The old man limped behind her, a shopping bag in each hand.

  He lifted his finger from the detonator. In a few seconds they would be aboard the new tram. The doors would close. Steel and safety glass would protect them. If he just gave them a couple of seconds.

  He fought off the wave of weakness. Turning his back, he pressed the button.

  A brilliant flash made the snow sparkle. The pillar at his back shielded him from the shock wave, but the roar of the explosion hurt like ice picks thrust into his ears. He was deafened, but only for a moment. Sooner than he wanted to, he could hear the screams.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “How would you like to go for a Sunday drive on Rock Creek Parkway?” Laker asked.

  Ava put her book of crossword puzzles on her lap and looked at him. “You sound almost indecently smug. This is no casual invitation, is it?”

  “No.”

  “You finally finished the Mustang?”

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations. I mean it. I was afraid you’d never get it done.”

  He was proud. Restoring the 1964 Ford Mustang had consumed all his free time for the last year and a half. But with Ava one had to be precise. “It’s not quite done.”

  “You’re inviting me out in an unsafe vehicle?”

  “She drives like a dream. Brakes, steering, drivetrain, suspension all working beautifully. Only one thing. The top is stuck.”

  “In the up position?”

  “Um—no.”

  “Laker! I’ll freeze to death.”

  He looked out the row of windows that ran across the front of his loft. The Washington Monument glistened in the sunshine against a cloudless, pale blue sky. “Just look. It’s spring.”

  “Just listen. It’s March.”

  The wind was rushing around the old building, rattling the window sashes, whistling through the cracks. “I’ll lend you the fur hat my friend on the Montana Highway Patrol gave me,” he offered.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She picked up her book and a pen. She was one of those people who did crossword puzzles in ink. Did them quickly. And always in foreign languages, today French. She told him it was a way to build her vocabulary. He wasn’t sure how that worked, since he’d never seen her pause to look up a word.

  His cell phone pinged as it received a text message. It was sitting on his desk, on the other side of the vast loft, and was barely audible over the wind.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Ava said, without looking up.

  With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the sofa and headed for the desk.

  “I wouldn’t, Laker. Suppose it’s your boss?”

  “Maybe he’ll want a ride in the Mustang.”

  “Ha. Only one reason he calls on Sundays. To destroy our weekend.”

  Laker picked up the phone and looked at the screen. It was his boss. Samuel Mason didn’t care for most technological innovations, but he loved text messaging. It saved him many a phone call. Mason didn’t like to waste time talking to people if he could help it.

  “It’s Mason, but our weekend is safe,” he called to Ava across the loft.

  “What does it say?”

  “ ‘My office Mon 0730. Bring your toothbrush.’ ”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’ll be going directly from the briefing to the airport.”

  “Couldn’t he tell you where you’re flying to? How’re you supposed to pack?”

  “He doesn’t give unnecessary information over cell phones.”

  Ava put the book down and tucked her pen behind her ear. Or he assumed she did, because it disappeared entirely behind a heavy curtain of auburn hair. When she went to work at the NSA, she gathered it in a no-nonsense bun, but on weekends she allowed it to hang free to just below her shoulders. Laker liked to look at it. Liked to look at her face, too, her long straight nose and wide-set brown eyes. She had heavy, arched, expressive eyebrows, and at the moment they were signaling concern. Laker hadn’t been out of Washington on assignment in two months, but now
their lucky streak was ending.

  She said, “Laker, wherever they send you, whatever the job is, look for a bear under the bed.”

  He returned to the sofa and stood looking down at her. “I love it when you go all cryptic and portentous.”

  “I shouldn’t be saying anything at all. I’ve been reminded many times that at the NSA, committees issue cautious, well-supported recommendations. Individuals keep their opinions in the building.”

  “But your opinion is?”

  “The Russians are planning something big.”

  He sat down beside her, with his left ear toward her. He’d lost most of the hearing in his right ear due to an IED blast in Iraq.

  “There’ve been interesting developments in sigint, concerning the FSB,” Ava began.

  Sigint was signals intelligence, and the FSB was the Federal Security Bureau, the successor to the KGB, which had inherited all its parent agency’s ruthlessness and duplicity. Laker got that much, but when she plunged into the complexities of cryptography, he was quickly lost. He held up a hand, palm up. “Please. No more stochastic progressions and algorithms. Tell me in baby talk.”

  Ava leaned forward, eyes alight. She loved her work. “Moscow sent out a message to all stations worldwide. Things that general are usually low security. Junk mail, really. But this one was in a new code. Innovative and much denser than any we’ve seen in a while. I talked the committee into cracking it, even though it took hours and hours of expensive supercomputer time.”

  “And you were right. It turned out to be a vital message.”

  “I was wrong. It was a memo to all employees not to shop online using their office computers.”