Murder in Havana (26 page)

After reflection, he put the chair back where it had been and left. As he moved along the alley gauntlet again,
he tried to figure out which were CDRs, ears and eyes looking for scraps of information about their neighbors to report back to their Communist contacts at “Minint,” the (Jacobinical) Ministry of Interior. Had to be the women mostly, he decided. Their eyes had that look Celia had described, fear mixed with guilt. Besides, they were there more often than the men, with better opportunities to snoop.

He reached the end of the alley and decided what to do next. He’d considered waiting in the apartment for her, but there was no assurance she would return. If she followed through on her promise to call him at noon, it didn’t mean she would do it from the apartment.

A Cadillac of ’50s vintage, hand-painted green, pulled up and the driver asked if Pauling wanted a tour of Cuba, very cheap, all the best places, dollars only. He got in and said he wasn’t interested in a tour, but gave the driver the address of the Strauss-Lochner Resources office in Miramar.

Mac Smith was up early and worked out at the Hotel Nacional’s gym. It promised to be a busy day of meetings and receptions, capped by the big birthday celebration. Breakfast was to be with the Council of Ministers, Cuba’s highest-ranking executive body. The delegation was to then take a tour of the Central School of Cuban Communist Party from which all government leaders must graduate after having been educated in Marxist theory. Next came lunch hosted by the Federation of Cuban Women; another tour, this of the Museo de la Revolución for a reminder of how unjust and unsuccessful the United States had been in attempting to overthrow Castro and his government, and testimony to the miracle of Castro’s triumph over this evil; and finally the birthday bash in Plaza de la Revolución.

Mac intended to call Annabel but decided to wait until that night when he’d have more time to talk. He fought to sustain interest through breakfast and its numbing succession of translated speeches by the ministers, but perked up while touring the Marxist university and compared it to the buildings of his George Washington University. He said silent thanks for having been born an American, teaching in a free society where government policy and philosophy didn’t constitute the core curriculum, unless you opted for such courses.

By the time they returned to the hotel for the luncheon, he was ready to pass up the rest of the official proceedings, take a nap in his room, and spend a few hours as an unofficial tourist, perhaps buy something to take back to Annabel. As gracious and welcoming as their Cuban hosts had been, he’d had enough of political posturing and prescribed protocol. Perhaps if he’d seen some tangible sign of progress in the talks, he’d have felt more enthusiastic. As it was, the meetings had been nothing more than platforms for hollow minispeeches, a few polite admonitions meant to sound tough, and a lot of eating and drinking, handshaking and assurances that all would meet again. What had Adlai Stevenson once said? “A diplomat’s life is made up of three ingredients, protocol, Geritol, and alcohol.”

But Smith again reminded himself that diplomacy usually took such a route, tactful flagstones laid one by one without a specific destination in the hope that they would one day lead to something real, preferably peace and understanding.

After going to his room to wash up, he entered the dining room where most of the McCullough delegation had already assembled, and was greeted by a line of Cuban women. Most were in their late twenties and early thirties, although there were a few older women
and four teenagers. They shook his hand and greeted him in English as he navigated the receiving line. At its end, a waiter stood with a tray of champagne. Mac took a flute and joined colleagues at a buffet table laden with hors d’oeuvres.

“What did the college professor think of the Communist university?” Smith was asked.

“Very focused,” Mac replied, sipping champagne. “Some of our own elected officials could benefit from taking a few civics courses.”

“A few
civility
courses,” someone said, laughing.

“That, too,” Smith said, surveying the room. The women in the receiving line had dispersed to mingle with members of the delegation.

“Hello,” Smith said to one female “greeter” who came to where he stood with the others. She introduced herself in good English as Yvette.

“What do you do here in Cuba, Yvette?” he said.

“I am with Cubapetróleo,” she answered, smiling brightly. All the females in the room, young and old, were attractive and personable, handpicked for the occasion, Smith was sure.

“Your national oil company?” Smith said.

“Yes.”

“You’ve been exploring for oil with a number of foreign companies,” said one of the delegates, who managed an oil industry service business in Texas.

“That is true,” Yvette answered. “We are finding oil with companies from Sweden, Canada, Brazil, Mexico, Germany, so many others. We are partners.”

The oilman said to Mac, “They’re drilling in at least twenty fields.”

“Twenty-five,” the woman said pleasantly. “In two years we will have enough oil to take care of all of Cuba without having to import.”

Mac decided to find another conversation. He wandered off to a vacant corner of the room, leaned against a pillar, and surveyed the room. Everyone seemed in good spirits, especially Price McCullough, who stood by the bar, a tall drink in his hand, attention focused on an extremely attractive woman wearing a black linen suit with a thigh-length skirt, the top buttons of the jacket undone to reveal the beginnings of a handsome bosom.

Another member of the delegation joined Mac and nodded in McCullough’s direction. “He’s an old fox, isn’t he?” the man said, laughing. “As smooth with the ladies as he was with the voters.”

“He’s foxy, all right,” Mac said. “So is she. Hard to tell who’s the hunter.” He didn’t add that he hoped the former senator had the good sense to not pursue women too young, or goals too ambitious. “Looks like lunch is about to be served.”

Max Pauling made one stop and arrived back at his hotel precisely at noon to receive Celia’s call. He got looks as he crossed the lobby from the desk clerk, and the manager, who happened to be standing near the elevators.

“Feeling just fine,” Pauling said to the manager, gesturing toward his bruised face. “Just fine.” He pushed the button for the elevator and waited, aware that the manager, who’d moved a few feet away, continued to stare at him. Pauling stepped into the elevator, turned, gave forth a literally pained smile, waved, and watched the doors slide closed.

He called the desk from his room. Two minutes past two. “No messages for me?”

“No, señor.”

He’d picked up a small bottle of rum on his way back to the hotel—no sense in paying room-service prices—poured
a small amount into a glass taken from the bathroom, pulled a chair up to the desk, and waited.

Pauling had the cabdriver drop him a block away from the Strauss-Lochner office. He went to a small bodega with two outside tables, sat at one, and ordered a coffee. He could see the entrance to the building, as well as the window to Kurt Grünewald’s third-floor office. He wanted to return to the office and continue his search. But he observed movement in the office, figures moving back and forth, two of them, he decided, identities unknown.

He was on his second cup of coffee when the men emerged from the building. The blond was one of them. The other gentleman was short and slender, with a pinched face and nose. He wore round, metal-rimmed eyeglasses. Blondie was in his usual black suit, white T-shirt, and sandals. The other man wore a gray suit, white shirt, and tie.
Didn’t they know it was already over ninety degrees, with a hundred percent humidity?
The skinny man carried a satchel that appeared to be stuffed to capacity and handed it to Blondie. Who was this? Somebody from corporate headquarters back in Heidelberg who’d come to Cuba to clean out the files? Who had informed Grünewald’s wife that her hubby was dead? Did they say he’d been murdered, or did they tell her he’d died of natural causes? If Blondie had strangled Grünewald, was the guy with him the one who’d issued the order? The answers to those questions shouldn’t matter, Pauling told himself. His responsibility was to find proof of the deal between the pharmaceutical companies.

Just seeing Blondie started his motor.

The two men walked away from the building. Pauling paid for his coffee and tracked them from across the
street. A few blocks later they turned a corner. Pauling navigated traffic and crossed. He lingered at the corner and saw them enter the apartment building where he’d dropped off the drunken Grünewald after their night on the town. He looked for any sign of the police for crime scene activity. There was none. The murder of a foreigner evidently wasn’t important enough to prolong any investigation, or the PNR cops were too busy rehearsing “Happy Birthday.”

With no outdoor café in which to wait, he stood beneath a tamarind tree, the heavy pods hanging low enough to shield his face from view. After a half hour, he felt the need for a bathroom but knew he couldn’t leave. He became edgy and impatient. What were they doing up there? “Come on, come on,” he muttered, shifting from leg to leg, brushing insects away from his face. He wondered whether he was being observed. He checked his watch; they’d been in the apartment for forty-five minutes. He’d been on surveillance details earlier in his career with the CIA and State Department and had hated every minute. It was like waiting for water to boil.

The men suddenly left the apartment building and headed in his direction, Blondie now carrying two cases. Pauling quickly turned the corner and ducked into a doorway. The two passed within three feet of him. He waited a few beats before looking out from his refuge and saw them cross the boulevard and go down a narrow street. Pauling moved, careful to remain far enough behind to be able to use cover in the event they turned. They walked four blocks until they entered a run-down, four-story building. Pauling slowly approached. When directly across the street from it, he saw a small, crude sign that said
HOTEL
.

Again, he waited until he thought they’d probably
cleared the lobby and gone to a guest room—if one of them was staying there. Maybe they had to go to the bathroom, too, and stopped for that purpose. He might have exercised caution and not gone into the building, but he went up the three front steps and walked into a small, air-conditioned lobby no larger than his room at the Habana Riviera.

“El baño, por favor?”
Pauling asked a woman dozing behind the desk. “Ah,
lavabo
?”

She pointed toward the rear of the room. Pauling thanked her and found a unisex bathroom with the standard chain-flush toilet. When he was finished, he carefully opened the door and looked to the lobby. It was empty except for the woman, who was now dusting the desk.

“Señora,” he said, “I am a friend of someone staying in this hotel. He is my amigo.” What was the Spanish word for German? “Oh, right,
alemán. Alemánia
.” He made a gesture over his head. “
Blanco
hair, huh?”

She grinned.
“Sí,”
she said.
“Señor Erich Weinert, habitación cinco.”

“Room five.
Gracias
.”

He left the hotel and went to the corner. He couldn’t linger much longer, not if he meant to be back at his hotel in time to take Celia’s call. He didn’t have to loiter. Blondie and the other man came to the street and approached a waiting taxi. The gray suit placed the two cases in the front passenger seat, along with a small overnight bag, got in the back, and the cab drove off.

Pauling considered confronting the German, but he had disappeared back inside the hotel. Pauling checked his watch; time to get back. He hailed a cab, got in, and smiled.

He knew where the punk was staying. The shadow had
shadowed the shadow. The tables were about to be turned.

“Max, it’s Celia.”

“You’re late. I was about to give up on you.”

“I was detained. I have the translation.”

“Good. When will I see you?”

“Tonight, perhaps. Mehta is going to drop it off at my apartment within the hour. She’ll put it under the mattress on the pullout couch.”

“What about Nico?”

“I don’t know any Nico. Our young friend says he needs until tomorrow to get what you want. The birthday gets in the way of everything. He’ll have it for you tomorrow night.”

“Okay, no names. I was planning on leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Do what you want, Max.”

“What do the translated pages say?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“I want to see you.”

“I’ll call tonight after—”

“After what?”

“I must go. Pick up the pages.” He heard the click in his ear.

Celia stepped from the phone booth at the Hotel Nacional, looked over her hair in a mirror on the wall, adjusted her skirt and jacket, and returned to the dining room where former senator Price McCullough was still talking with the managing director of the Cuban-American Health Initiative, who’d introduced Celia to McCullough at her request. The director drifted away, leaving McCullough and Celia alone.

“Make your call?” the ex-senator asked.

“Yes.”

“Like I told you, you could have made it from my suite.”

“Thank you. Perhaps another time—if I have another call to make.”

Her smile was dazzling.

“Are you busy tonight?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I have no special plans.”

“How about showing me the Havana I haven’t seen?”

She smiled demurely.

He leaned toward her ear and breathed in her perfume. “Is that a yes?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Good. I’ve got some things to take care of this afternoon, meetings and Mr. Castro’s birthday party. Are you going?”

“Of course,” she said. “All loyal Cubans will be there.”

“I hope you’re not too loyal a Cuban.”

“Like most Cubans, I am loyal enough to stay out of trouble.”

He laughed. “I like that,” he said. “Come to my suite after the party. We can have a relaxed drink there and then—”