Murder in Havana (42 page)

“It is, Señor Pauling. Trust me.”

Pauling didn’t express his feelings about trust at that moment. He handed David one of the four bundles of bills he carried and told him to take care of his friends with it. “I got lucky getting in your taxi, David,” he said. “You’re a good man. Hang in there. This place will be free one of these days and—” He grinned and stroked his chin. “And he’ll be gone.”

“Good luck, buddy,” David said, gripping Pauling’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

“You, too.”

Nico and Pauling climbed into the Cessna. Nico’s seat belt had been severed, and Pauling’s wouldn’t extend far enough to buckle. Pauling reached to turn on the running lights, assuming they worked, but decided not to. There was no telling whether police boats might be out there in the fog. Of course, that same fog posed another problem. Pauling had no idea what was beyond his hundred-foot field of vision. Were there buoys out there with boats tethered to them, or floating debris? He reached into his vest, pulled out the
collar
, rubbed it, and hung it on a knob on the instrument panel. Not smashing into something during takeoff would be pure luck.

The owner of the plane, anticipating Pauling’s need, untied the two ropes from the aircraft and pushed it away from the dock. It floated freely out into the water. There hadn’t been the time or opportunity to conduct an external inspection of the plane, nor to run down a preflight checklist, things about which Pauling had always been meticulous. But that wasn’t his biggest concern at the moment. He ran through a mental recounting of the few hours of floatplane instruction he’d received years ago while on assignment for the CIA in Florida. It wasn’t totally unlike flying a land-based plane, but there were some differences. The floats on which the plane rested had water rudders at the rear to help control taxiing
while in the water. The elevator trim on a seaplane had to be set to give the control yoke neutral pressure, and unlike on a runway where the aircraft remains fixed until power is applied, the water currents continually keep a floatplane moving, often in a direction away from the one intended by the pilot. He knew that the key to taking off was to get the aircraft up on its floats in the proper planing position to minimize resistance from the water.

This night, he realized, had certain advantages. The wind was calm, as was the water. With any luck—he touched the
collar
again—they’d make it into the air. The craft didn’t have navigation instruments except for a simple compass, which would have to suffice. He looked at Nico, whose expression was one of extreme discomfort. “All set?” he asked.

“I think so,” the Cuban replied.

Pauling slowly advanced the throttle. The plane trembled like a corrugated tin house in an earthquake, but began its taxi into open water. Pauling looked back at the dock where David and the two others watched. “Thanks,” he muttered as he advanced the throttle and made a determination as to which direction to take off. It made almost no difference because of the lack of wind. Had there been a breeze, he would have taken off into it to increase lift on the wings.

“We will be okay?” Nico asked.

Pauling flashed him a reassuring smile. “Nothing to it, Nico. Piece o’ cake, as we Americans say.”

He pushed the throttle to the firewall and the plane began to move, slowly and laboriously. The floats attached to the belly of the plane in place of wheels fought to gain speed against the water’s resistance. Pauling felt the plane lift a little, and soon it had achieved the requisite planing attitude to allow gathering speed. “Come on, come on,” he exhorted the craft, raising himself slightly
off the seat as though to add buoyancy to the process. The water was less calm farther from the shore, and small swells slapped against the floats. Pauling peered into the fog. “Almost there, baby,” he said over the engine’s roar. “Come on, come on, get up, get up.”

The aircraft’s floats lifted clear of the water. As they did, lights appeared in the distance. It was a boat, a sizable one, and it was heading straight for the plane, which was only five feet off the water. Pauling pulled the yoke back into his crotch and held it there as the approaching lights raced closer. Pauling could now see that it was a military boat. A searchlight swung around and flooded the cockpit with a blinding glare. Pauling closed his eyes against it, filled his lungs with air, and waited for the collision.

It didn’t happen. The plane’s floats missed the patrol boat’s cabin by a foot, spraying water over the deck and sending the Cuban sailors sprawling.

Pauling exhaled, and turned to Nico, who forced a smile.

“Like you said, Max—a piece o’ cake.”

Walden was in the Oval Office. On the desk in front of him were two photographs and a typewritten series of “talking points” provided for him earlier in the day after a lengthy meeting with CIA director George Brown. Paul Draper sat across the room at a table on which rested one of two extensions of the president’s secure line. The phone rang. National Security Advisor Draper picked it up, listened, placed his hand over the mouthpiece, and said, “Mr. President, President Castro is on the line.”

Walden picked up the phone on his desk. “This is President Walden, Prime Minister Castro.”

A translator said in English, “Prime Minister Castro is ready to speak with you, Mr. President.”

“Good. I appreciate this opportunity to communicate directly with you,” Walden said. “You are well, I assume.”

Translator: “Yes, I am extremely well, Mr. President. And you?”

Walden: “Quite well, thank you. I asked for this conversation because of the serious situation that exists regarding the unfortunate attempt on your life, and the death of my very good friend Senator McCullough. To get right to the point, Mr. Prime Minister, I have before me irrefutable proof that the American you’ve been looking
for, Maxwell Pauling, did not have any role in the attempt on your life. In fact, he was the one who saw the gunman pull the weapon and knocked it from his hand. I have been given by our intelligence officials photographs of Mr. Pauling performing that act.”

Walden’s words were translated for Castro, and the Cuban dictator responded.

Translator: “Your Mr. Pauling is a CIA operative sent here to disrupt my government and to attempt to take my life. In addition, he took the life of your friend and former senator.”

Walden: “That is not true, Mr. Prime Minister. I have been assured by the highest echelons of our intelligence community that Pauling had nothing to do with either event.” He consulted the notes on his desk. “His connection with that agency ended years ago. Until retiring from government service, Mr. Pauling was with our State Department as an analyst, not the CIA. He is a private citizen who teaches flying in New Mexico. Mr. President, we will get nowhere making claims and counterclaims. I am fully aware that you and Senator McCullough met, and during that meeting, Senator McCullough expressed certain views of mine.”

The translator repeated in Spanish.

Walden: “I am also aware that during that meeting, Senator McCullough entered into a private business arrangement with you. His untimely death obviously affects that arrangement, but does not necessarily mean it must be canceled. Once the shock of his death is eased, I believe those now in leadership positions at his company will be able to resurrect your agreement with him. That is not my concern, however. That represents a private business agreement. But as president of the United States, I wish to inform you that should you go through with what I’m told are plans to exploit the capture of Pauling,
any progress that’s been made to date regarding the embargo, as well as other elements of the relationship between Cuba and the United States, will necessarily be abandoned. In short, Mr. Prime Minister, unless you withdraw your charges against Mr. Pauling and the CIA, acknowledge that Senator McCullough was murdered by one of your citizens—perhaps someone as demented as the man who tried to shoot you—and drop your plans to make a political statement over this, the direction that our administration will be forced to take will not be to your benefit or to the benefit of the Cuban people.”

Walden and Draper listened impassively as Castro launched into a lengthy sermon on the moral bankruptcy of the United States, grandiose plans for Cuba’s future, and myriad other issues, some of which caused Walden and Draper to glance at each other and smile. When the Cuban dictator had finished the tirade, the translator asked whether Walden had anything else to say.

Walden: “No, I’m quite finished. We’ll be awaiting the Prime Minister’s official response to what I’ve proposed.”

With the conversation completed, Walden asked his national security advisor, “What do you think, Paul?”

“Castro is volatile and unreasonable. We all know that. But he’s not insane. He’s also a savvy politician. I think he’ll weigh using Pauling as a propaganda tool versus not derailing his deal with Senator McCullough and BTK Industries, or your efforts to bring us closer to some sort of rapprochement. The Pauling thing will come and go, like the downing of our U-2, the Bay of Pigs, and all the other tensions we’ve experienced with Castro over forty years. No, Mr. President, I think he’ll come around.”

“I think so, too. I’m putting my faith in George Brown and his assurances that this Pauling didn’t kill Price. He wouldn’t be specific with me about how he knows, but he
said without hesitation or qualification that it wasn’t Pauling who pulled the trigger.”

“Did he indicate who might have?”

“No, although I haven’t the slightest doubt that he knows. My money is on one of the Cuban-Americans from Miami.”

“That doesn’t rule out the CIA, Mr. President. We know they provide all sorts of support to those anti-Castro groups.”

“Yes. And, Paul, you know the importance of keeping the McCullough business deal in this room. The Republicans, and the public, might misconstrue my support of it.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

“What is, sir?”

“I backed Price’s attempt to buy Cuba’s cancer research because it would bring to this country the latest advances against the disease. Better to have the United States come up with hope for cancer patients than Castro and his dictatorship.”

“Without a doubt, sir.”

“The defection of Dr. Caldoza will accomplish the same thing, won’t it? If I’d known that was a possibility, I would have dissuaded Price from trying to make his deal. The NIH is the logical place for Caldoza to continue his work, more logical than Price’s private company. I wish he hadn’t lost his life over it, but it turns out better for America.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No hitch in the plan for Caldoza to come here with his wife and seek asylum?”

“None, sir. Your wishes have been made known to all appropriate authorities.”

“Good. Wait’ll Castro hears that.” The president
laughed. “As much as I’d like to get something good and solid nailed down with Castro before leaving office, there is a certain pleasure in sticking it to Fidel. Let me know the minute you hear the next howl from Havana.”

“Yes, sir.”

The call came to Draper two hours later from the Cuban foreign affairs minister, Diego Vasquez.

“I am calling to inform you,” Vasquez said in measured tones, reading from a prepared statement, “that we have apprehended the person who murdered Senator Price McCullough. The perpetrator is a Cuban citizen, a known enemy of our Socialist government, who has been wanted for crimes against the state for some time. He has been taken into custody and will face indictment by the People’s Supreme Court of the Independent Socialist Republic of Cuba. Prime Minister Fidel Castro has been personally involved in resolving this tragic matter, and is to be commended for his efforts. A statement of appreciation from the most senior possible representative of your government will be highly appropriate.”

Draper hung up and smiled.
The president will be pleased
, he thought. A less pleasant contemplation was the fate of whomever the Castro government had decided to charge with Price McCullough’s murder. He would be found guilty, of course, and shot.

He dialed the president’s private number in the First Family’s quarters.