Murder in Havana (18 page)

It didn’t take much to “turn” a Cuban during these days of the Special Period. The economic hardships that had begun in June 1992, when the last Soviet oil tanker left Havana, made things desperate for most Cuban people. The
buzos
reappeared, literally “divers” in Spanish,
Cuban slang—for those who eat from garbage cans. The government mandated long blackouts to conserve fuel. Crops rotted in the fields, and everything was rationed—staples, food, toiletries, cigarettes, four ounces of coffee a month from state-run grocery stores, six pounds of rice, four ounces of lard, if those items were even available.

Things had improved only marginally by 1995, and Nichols continued to have easy success turning CDRs into eyes and ears. The U.S. Interests Section had many concerns in Cuba, and not all were solely for America but for the Cubans, too.

“You’ll pick up Pauling’s trail again when he comes back to the city?” Brown said.

“Of course,” Nichols replied.

“What’s with the McCullough group?” Brown asked.

“Nothing. One of their guides is ours. She reports in through my contact in San Antonio de los Baños.”

“The filmmaker?”

“They’re lovers.”

“There’s an awful lot of interest in Pauling back at Langley,” Brown said reflectively. “Why?”

Nichols shrugged. “I think they just want to make sure he doesn’t get in the way.”

“Why would he?”

“Because he has a history of getting in the way. He’s an improviser, Bobby—gets things done but hates the rule book.”

“But he’s here on a private assignment for Gosling’s group, Cell-One.”

“According to Gosling. I’ve never trusted Old Vic. He’s a little too slick for my blood.”

Brown laughed. “I know what you mean, all the fancy suits and the fancy way of talking. What about our Miss Sardiña?”

“Gosling recruited her, too, for Pauling’s gig. She was
supposed to have come back here on standby, cool it, and wait for orders from Langley. Looks like she’s killing time moonlighting for Gosling.”

“Well,” Brown said, “let’s stay on all of them. Put somebody who doesn’t get lost in traffic on Pauling. I don’t want any surprises and have to hear it first from Langley.”

Pauling and Celia were dropped at the head of the alley. They walked past open doors and windows, went up the stairs, and she opened the door. It looked to Pauling like everything was precisely as he’d remembered it in the small living room, except for a little vase of white, fragrant flowers on the coffee table. But Celia went immediately to the window where the white curtains hung limply, unrestrained by flimsy white tiebacks. She tied the curtains open, turned to Pauling, and said, “I must leave.”

“Why?”

“To meet someone.”

He went to the curtains, fingered them, and looked at her quizzically.

She nodded. “They were tied back when I left this morning.”

Pauling pointed to a phone on a small desk.

She shook her head. “I’ll drop you at the hotel,” she said. “We’ll meet up later—if I’m free.”

“Am I supposed to wait around until Nico comes up with something?”

“He will get what you need.”

“And what if he doesn’t?”

“He will, he will. Excuse me.”

She disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. Pauling glanced at the oversized handbag she carried, woven from reeds from the
malanbueta
plant, and
opened it. The contents were normal except for a classic Colt .45 automatic handgun. Her sudden emergence from the bathroom startled him.

“Find what you’re looking for?” she asked.

He pulled the Colt from the handbag. “Nice firepower,” he said.

“Yes, it is. It’s
his
favorite.” She stroked her chin.

“That’s good to know,” said Pauling, returning the weapon to the handbag.

“What do you carry in the many pockets of your vest?” she asked.

“My favorite.”

“I have to go. Can I reach you at the hotel if I am free?”

“Give it a try.”

“I have another life, you know,” she said, “other than this job. I have separate responsibilities.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do. Let’s go. I have one or two responsibilities of my own to take care of.”

She took one of the white blooms from the vase and affixed it to her hair.

“So the person you’re meeting will recognize you?”

“No,” she said. “It is mariposa, butterfly jasmine, the national flower. Cuban women wear it to demonstrate patriotism and purity.”

“You’re both?”

“When I need to be. Come.”

Blondie wasn’t anywhere to be seen when Pauling got out of the taxi in front of Hotel Habana Riviera. He went to his room and stretched out on the bed for a few minutes before pulling out the business card. He dialed.

“Mr. Grünewald, this is Max Pauling. We met this morning when I wandered into your office by mistake.”

“Ah, yes, of course. How are you?”

“Just fine. Thanks for asking. I was thinking about
your offer to show me around, perhaps the Tropicana show. I’d be more comfortable going with someone who knows the ropes.”

“The ropes?”

“Knows where to go. Are you free tonight?”

There was a pause from Grünewald before he said, “I believe tonight would be good for me. Usually I am busy with business meetings at night, but this night happens to be free.
Ya
, tonight is good.”

Pauling smiled. Of course he was free that night.

“That’s good,” Pauling said. “Where shall we meet?”

“At the Hotel Comodoro. It is on Avenida One and Calle Eighty-Four, in Miramar. It is close to my office.”

“I’m sure I’ll find it.”

“It has a very good bar and discothèque.”

Of course it does
, thought Pauling.

“The show at the Tropicana starts at nine-thirty. We will meet for drinks and something to eat at seven. The Tropicana is not very far from the hotel.”

“Seven it is,” Pauling said. “I’ll be on time. And, by the way, it’s my treat.”

“I couldn’t let you do that.”

The hell you couldn’t
, Max thought. “No argument, Mr. Grünewald. I’ll be very appreciative having someone with your knowledge take me by the hand.”

“If you insist.”

“I do. See you at seven.”

This is Lolita Perez reporting from Cuba. Meetings between the U.S. trade delegation, led by former senator Price McCullough, and Cuban Trade Ministry officials are going smoothly, according to sources familiar with the sessions. Cuban trade officials are urging McCullough and his group to pressure the administration to ease the embargo on trade with Cuba that has been in effect for more than forty years. McCullough, it’s reported, has consistently raised the issue of Cuba’s record on human rights. Although nothing tangible is expected from the talks, U.S. president Walden commented today during a press conference that opening greater avenues of dialogue between the American government and Cuba is in the best interests of both parties.

“I’ve also been told that the entire McCullough delegation has been invited to attend Fidel Castro’s birthday party two days from now. If past birthday celebrations are any indication, they’ll be among hundreds of thousands of Cubans who’ll turn out to pay tribute to the Cuban leader.

“Lolita Perez, CNN, Havana.”

Annabel Lee-Smith turned down the television in the Watergate apartment to answer the ringing phone.

“Annabel, it’s Jessica Mumford.”

“Hello there. How are you?”

“Fine. You?”

“Good, except I miss Mac. He’s in Cuba.”

“I just saw a report from there on CNN.”

“So did I. I’m not sure paying tribute to the Cuban leader is what Price McCullough and his group have in mind, but that’s the way CNN sees it. Is Max still in Miami?”

“Last I heard. He’s not good about keeping in touch when he’s traveling.”

“You’ll have to train him better.”

Jessica laughed. “He’s not trainable. Actually, he’s in Cuba, too.”

“He is?”

“I’m probably not supposed to tell people that, but maybe he and Mac will cross paths.”

“That would be wonderful. Where is he staying? I’ll tell Mac when he calls.”

“I, ah—I’m really not sure.”

Their conversation was interrupted when call waiting told Annabel someone else was trying to reach her. It was Mac.

“Hello, stranger,” she said after telling Jessica she had to beg off.

“
Buenos días
, as they say in Havana.”

“I was just on the phone with Jessica Mumford.”

“Want me to call back?”

“No. We finished. I just saw a CNN report from Cuba. Make sure they photograph your good side.”

“I didn’t know I had a bad one. Things are going smoothly so far. I’m pretty much an innocent bystander, like the others in the group. Price does most of the talking. I have met some interesting Cuban attorneys. The system is different, of course, but I get a sense that there’s
been a gradual softening in the Cuban view of us capitalists. There are changes taking place here. I’m scheduled to sit in on a trial tomorrow.”

“That’ll be interesting.”

“I’m sure it will be. I’m thinking of working material on the Cuban legal system into one of my classes, maybe arrange for some of the Cuban attorneys I’ve met to come and lecture—if they’re free to travel.”

“Great idea. Oh, Jessica mentioned that her boyfriend, Max, is in Cuba.”

“Is that so? Doing what?”

“She didn’t say, and I didn’t press. Sounds as though he’s on some sort of assignment. She obviously didn’t want to get into it.”

“I’ll say hello if I run across him. Where’s he staying?”

“No idea. Would you even recognize him?”

“I think so. Anyway, just wanted to check in.”

“Rufus had his checkup this morning at the vet. The beast is hale and hearty.”

“Speaking of beasts, I’d better get on my horse. We had a meeting scheduled in an hour but Price isn’t free, some conflicting commitment. We’re touring a hospital instead. Love you, sweetheart. Best to Jessica if you speak with her again.”

The men in McCullough’s entourage had each been offered female companionship by members of the Cuban delegation. If any of them had taken their hosts up on the offer, they were discreet enough, and mature enough, not to mention it to others.

That was the case with Price McCullough.

The female escort provided the ex-senator was no
jinetera
. No teenager, she was a mature woman, a nurse who provided company to important visitors to supplement her meager income at the hospital. She and others
like her offered their services through the Ministry of Interior, the ominous agency responsible for all security in Cuba. Aside from being paid for their services, they received extra for reporting back anything of use to the ministry, slips of the tongue, pillow or drunk talk. McCullough’s escort disappointed her employer; the former American senator had said nothing to her beyond the usual terms of endearment, flowery expressions, appreciation of her beauty, ample figure, and skills as a courtesan.

She’d given her phone number to him when she left his suite in the morning, and he promised to call her before leaving. Now, a few hours later, showered and shaved and dressed in a freshly pressed suit, he prepared for an encounter decidedly less lascivious.

He paced the room until the knock on his door. He opened it. Two men in dark suits, one wearing large sunglasses, the other severely pockmarked, stood in the hallway. McCullough nodded, took a final glance about the suite, and followed them to a service elevator at the rear of the floor. They stood in silence, waiting for the elevator to arrive. When it did, they stepped inside and rode down to a subbasement. A short distance from the elevator was a heavy metal door leading to a small parking space shielded from view of the curious. A black Mercedes sedan was parked within feet of the door, its engine running, the rear door on the passenger side open. One of the men accompanying McCullough got in first, followed by the former senator, then the other escort. The door was slammed shut and the driver, separated from the rear compartment by a heavily tinted Plexiglas panel, slowly maneuvered the vehicle from the area and up a ramp to an alley behind the hotel. Waiting there were two other black Mercedes sedans. One led the way, the other fell in behind, and the three-car motorcade navigated the
narrow streets of Old Havana at imprudent speed, scattering pedestrians like chickens as it went.

They slowed as they turned into an alley barely wide enough to accommodate the vehicles. People who’d been in the alley had been brusquely cleared out by uniformed PNR, along with plainclothes members of the Ministry of Interior’s secret police. The alley ended in a circular courtyard in front of a two-story baroque mansion that stood out because of its size and enhanced state. It had been recently painted a subtle, pale blue. A pair of massive, burnished mahogany doors dominated the building’s façade. Windows on both levels were covered with ornamented
antepechos
, wrought-iron grills flush with the front wall.

The driver came around and opened one of the car’s rear doors. McCullough followed the man wearing sunglasses and stepped onto the cobblestone drive. He looked back down the alley. It had been closed off by a marked PNR vehicle parked across its entrance. Dozens of police had taken up positions along the alley’s walls.