Murder in Havana

by Margaret Truman

  “Senator McCullough’s trip?” Fuentes said flatly.

  “What about it?”

  “Isn’t he seeking even fewer restrictions on trade and travel? And with your blessing.”

  Walden stood and pulled his suit jacket from the back of his chair. He slipped into it, punched a button on his phone, and told someone that he was ready for the next meeting. The president turned to the five people seated in front of his desk and said, “Price McCullough is a private citizen. He went to Cuba with a number of our leading citizens to engage the Cubans in discussions on how American business might benefit from barriers to trade that have already been lowered. At the same time, he and his delegation are delivering a message stating, quite simply, that unless and until there is significant improvement on human rights in Cuba, this country will not only continue to take strong action against Cuba, it will support further restrictions. It was good seeing you. I hate to cut this short but you must excuse me. Perhaps we can soon schedule another meeting when I’m not so pressed for time.”

  A presidential aide led Fuentes, Gomez, and the others from the room. When they were gone, Walden said to Draper and James, “These Miami hard-liners are counterproductive to their own goals, Castro gone and Cuba free. They finance these training camps in Florida—now Mexico—what’s the new one called?”

  “Timba Candente,” Assistant Secretary James replied. “Named after Cuban music and Spanish for hot.”

  “Yeah, Timba Candente,” Walden repeated scornfully. “And with the CIA’s blessing, if not outright support. Damn, it’s like we have two governments running the country, the one in this White House and the one operating out of Langley. Next thing we know there’ll be another attempt on Castro’s life. How many have there been, a dozen? More? Time for another bomb in his cigar, or botulin? They did try botulin, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, sir,” Draper confirmed.

  “The one I enjoyed was when they managed to sprinkle a strong depilatory into his shoes and hoped his hair would fall out,” James said with a chuckle. “To damage his image.”

  “Thallium salts,” Draper said.

  “What?” Walden said.

  “The depilatory they put in his shoes.”

  “Oh.”

  Since taking office, Walden’s relationship with the CIA had been strained, at best. He knew that the nation needed such an intelligence agency to ensure survival in an increasingly dangerous world. The problem, as Walden saw it, was that the agency’s role and methods had changed dramatically since President Truman established it under the National Security Act of 1947. Truman had sought to establish an overt intelligence organization, one emphasizing the gathering and analysis of information. But the 1947 act contained special provisions exempting the CIA from certain normal congressional review processes. It methodically transformed itself from the open intelligence-gathering agency envisioned by Truman to what it had become today, a secretive organization in which furtive cells of operatives were free to function on their own with only minimal oversight by the agency’s management, much less so Congress and the White House. The myriad attempts on Castro’s life were justified, Walden had to admit to himself and close advisors. The man was evil; ask the hundreds of Cubans who’d been tossed to the sharks because they dared question Castro’s authority and policies. Maybe if one of those CIA attempts had been successful, and not so clumsily mounted, Walden would have had a more sanguine view of the agency. Maybe if it didn’t make other mistakes, miss other opportunities, and operate under such a cloak of secrecy, he would have more readily embraced its role and mission. Too many maybes where the CIA was concerned.

  Participants in the next meeting were ushered into the Oval Office, and Draper and James left.

  “He was convincing,” Kathleen James said softly as they walked to Draper’s office.

  “He always is. That’s why he’s the president.”

  Across the river, in Virginia, Zachary Rasmussen, the Central Intelligence Agency’s director of covert operations, sat in a room with some of his Cuban specialists. They’d run through a wide-ranging agenda. Now the final item scheduled for discussion was on the table.

  “What reports do we have on the McCullough trip?” Rasmussen asked.

  The person charged with keeping tabs on the delegation through contacts in Havana responded, “Nothing of interest yet. All handshakes. Their first round of meetings is scheduled for this afternoon.”

  Rasmussen opened a file folder. “What’s this about Pauling going to Cuba?”

  “He’s there,” another voice at the table replied.

  “How long ago was he with us?” Rasmussen asked.

  “Ten years.” Reading from a report, he added, “He went over to State from us. Retired from State. No, correct that, no official retirement. Severed employment. Went to New Mexico with another State employee, one Jessica Mumford. Teaches flying in Albuquerque. He, not she. Signed on to ferry supplies to Timba Candente in Mexico. Another former agent, Victor Gosling, recruited him for work with Gosling’s current employer, Cell-One.”

  “In Cuba?”

  “Yes. We’re cooperating with Gosling. He arranged for Pauling to use Cali Forwarding in Colombia as his cover in Cuba.”

  “Uh-huh. Pauling was a loose cannon as I remember.”

  “Correct. He once reported to Hoctor.”

  Rasmussen made a note on a pad to call Tom Hoctor. He asked, “What’s this work he’s doing in Cuba for Cell-One?”

  “According to Gosling, they’re trying to establish a link between Senator McCullough’s pharmaceutical firm, BTK Industries, and a German pharmaceutical, Strauss-Lochner Resources. Gosling’s client is Signal Labs.”

  Rasmussen paused and frowned before asking, “Any chance Pauling has a second reason for going to Cuba?”

  “Hard to say, sir, at this juncture. He did make contact at his hotel with Celia Sardiña. She’s done contract work for us in the past. Biochemistry major at Miami U, has easy access to Havana through our Cuban-American Health Initiative.”

  “I know her. She’s now working for Gosling, too?”

  “He didn’t mention her, but we had a sighting of her with Pauling. They left the hotel and went to her apartment.”

  Rasmussen’s laugh was cynical. “I’m sure they did. Show me the file on her.”

  “Shall do.”

  “And get Gosling in here. No, someplace else. Make sure he understands that because we’ve been cooperating with him and Cell-One doesn’t mean he can get in the way of what we have going in Cuba.”

  “Shall do.”

  “Anything else?”

  No one spoke.

  “That’s a wrap,” Rasmussen said.

  Alone in his office, he dialed the extension of Tom Hoctor.

  “Hoctor here.”

  “Tom, Zach Rasmussen. Got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “I want you to tell me what you know about Max Pauling.”

  Hoctor’s sigh was long and bulging with meaning. “I’ll be right up,” he said.

  The reception was held in a large public room at the Hotel Nacional. Representatives from Cuba’s governmental and industrial sectors were on hand to exchange information and views with counterparts from the American delegation. Former attorney Mac Smith sat at a small, round table with two Cuban attorneys, one civil and one criminal, and a judge from the People’s Supreme Court. A waiter had served them drinks after having presented a tray overflowing with hot hors d’oeuvres. Background music provided by three colorfully costumed troubadours playing las trovas Cubanas tunes on their guitars lightened the mood created by so many dark suits.

  “Yes, we have capital punishment, as you well know,” Smith said in response to a question. “It’s on a state-by-state basis, although there are federal statutes allowing for executions. They are rarely used.”

  “State by state,” the judge, who was in fact a judicial-looking older gentleman with close-cropped white hair, smoking a long, black cig
ar, repeated. “Here we have only one state, although there are many provincial and municipal courts. You Americans prefer the electric chair or lethal injection as a means of ridding yourself of incorrigible criminals. We use the firing squad. It’s much more efficient.”

  “We have a few states that still use firing squads,” Smith said, smiling. “You’re appointed to the bench, I understand.”

  “That is correct, by the head of state. Others are appointed by the National Assembly. I have never understood the election of judges as practiced in much of the United States. It is too political as a process.”

  Smith started to answer but one of the Cuban attorneys returned to the subject of capital punishment. “Your appellate process can take years.”

  “Yes. It often does.”

  “We have appeals courts, too, but our system allows for a more expeditious method.”

  “Which runs the risk of executing innocent people.”

  “We don’t execute innocent people, Mr. Smith,” the second lawyer said. “Our penal code accepts a defendant’s confession as sufficient proof of guilt. Criminals who are executed here have confessed to their crimes.”

  And maybe had it beat out of them, Smith thought.

  “You Americans view us as having an overly harsh legal system,” said the judge, “but we are more humane than you in many ways. Here, individuals incarcerated for crimes other than political offenses are guaranteed a return to their jobs when they’re released.” He raised bushy eyebrows and drew on his cigar, as though to indicate that he was a clear winner in the debate.

  “I’d like to see one of your courts in action,” Smith said.

  “I’ll see if that can be arranged,” the judge assured.

  Price McCullough and two other members of the delegation joined them.

  “Judge de Céspedes has offered to let me sit in on a court case,” Smith told the ex-senator.

  “Careful, Mac. You’re likely to get caught up in it and start objecting.”

  Smith smiled. “If I do, I might end up facing a firing squad.” He checked the judge’s face for signs of displeasure. There were none.

  McCullough said to the table, “I’ve just gotten word that we might have the pleasure of meeting Prime Minister Castro himself.”

  “If that is the case, you are indeed fortunate,” the judge said.

  McCullough added, “And there’s talk of inviting us to his birthday celebration.”

  “You’ll be among many thousands,” one of the attorneys said. “All of Havana will be there.”

  “He’s still popular with the people?” Smith asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Judge de Céspedes said animatedly. “He did a wonderful thing for our country, ridding it of corrupt capitalism and creating a nation truly for the people. Of course, we have recently been through difficult times since our friends, the Soviets, left us for dead. But the Cuban people’s resolve and love of country would not allow that. Our economy grows every day. Under Prime Minister Castro and his policies, things are improving rapidly. A million and more tourists come each year, and the number increases.” He gave Smith and McCullough a wry smile. “This number includes many Americans who consider your visitation policies toward us to be backward and unwarranted. Many of your citizens find ways around your restrictions. We now allow self-employment, and many of our state farms are being converted to private ownership. Our sugar industry is again healthy, and we now have our own mutual fund, the Beta Gran Caribe Fund.” He lowered his voice as though to tell a secret. “If you wish to invest in it, it is on the Irish Stock Exchange.”

  His programmed defense of Castro and his accomplishments was interrupted when an aide traveling with the American delegation came to the table and whispered something in McCullough’s ear, but not so quietly that Smith didn’t hear: “The meeting is set for tomorrow, sir.”

  McCullough nodded, said nothing in return. A good-looking Cuban woman passed the table, diverting the ex-senator’s attention. She smiled provocatively at him. He returned it and said something in Spanish. Smith kept his grin to himself. He’d noticed since arriving that McCullough was open in his appreciation of Cuban women. He had the politician’s ability to continue speaking on a subject while his eyes took in other things.

  Later, in his suite, Smith called Annabel.

  “Just thought I’d check in,” he said.

  “I’m glad you did. How’s it going?”

  “Fine. I just left a reception. Had an interesting chat with a judge from the People’s Supreme Court. Nice enough fellow. He said he’d try to arrange for me to sit in on a court case while I’m here.”

  “Sounds intriguing. Wish I were there.”

  “I do, too. Oh, Price told us tonight that there’s a chance Castro will get involved personally in the talks. We might also get to attend his birthday party.”

  “An intimate affair, I’m sure.”

  “Just a few thousand close friends. What’s new in D.C.?”

  “It’s hot. Senator Helms held a press conference this morning. He’s calling for stiffening the Cuban embargo even more. They interviewed Jimmy Carter. He called the Helms-Burton bill the stupidest thing that’s ever been passed. Helms came back and said Carter was always out of touch with the American people and still is.”

  “What does our current president have to say about this civilized debate?”

  “Silence from the White House.”

  “Smart. Well, I’d better get back downstairs. Any action at the gallery?”

  “Slow. Don’t forget to keep your eye out for dealers looking to sell pre-Columbian artifacts.”

  “Getting them out of the country might be a problem. They briefed us on buying Cuban art of any kind. You need a government export license, which I understand can take days.”

  “Use your considerable clout.”

  “Or use Price McCullough’s considerable clout. I get the feeling he has more than one agenda here. He’s got some meeting set up for tomorrow that isn’t on our official schedule. Maybe he has a date.”

  “A date?”

  “Yeah. Our former senator has an eye for the ladies here.”

  “I imagine they have an eye for him, too. He’s still a very handsome man, and widowed. Of course, you’re a very handsome man, too, Mac, but you’re not widowed.”

  “I’m well aware of that. I’d better run. Love you, Mrs. Smith.”

  “The feeling is entirely mutual, Mr. Smith. Hasta luego.”

  Despite having just come from Heidelberg, Kurt Grünewald did not feel like the Student Prince as he stepped from the Cubana Air DC-10 at Havana’s José Martí Airport.

  The new addition to his staff had barely spoken during the long flight. An arrogant young man, Grünewald thought as he looked at his companion sleeping in the next seat. He didn’t need any help, and resented having this stranger, who wasn’t even a salaried employee, being foisted on him by his superiors. Didn’t they trust him to get the job done? Evidently, they didn’t. Well, he thought as he ordered another rum and Coke from the flight attendant, I’ll put up with him as long as he stays out of my way. He took a final glance and grimaced at the man’s blond hair, cut in that ridiculous fashion popular with young people. You look like a fool, young man, Grünewald told him silently as he accepted the drink, one of many he’d consumed during the flight. The older man turned his back on Erich Weinert.

  Grünewald had been back in Heidelberg for two days after having been summoned from Havana by his superiors at Strauss-Lochner. His recall to corporate headquarters had been last minute and blunt: “Be here as quickly as possible,” he’d been told over the phone by the company’s chief operating officer, Dr. Hans Miller.

  The Cubana Airlines DC-10, fully booked with German tourists returning home after a holiday in Cuba, had been delayed at José Martí for four hours due to mechanical difficulty. Grünewald was glad he’d booked first-class, clase tropical in Cuban aviation-speak, although it was nothing like first-class on Lufthansa. The
seats were narrower, the overhead bins smaller, and the food not to Grünewald’s liking. He’d been in Cuba for two years but had never taken to the island’s native cuisine. He’d found a few Havana restaurants that pretended to serve German food, and tended to take most of his meals at these, although business dictated joining associates in a variety of Cuban eateries. At least beer was plentiful; he bought imported Heineken by the case, and had developed a taste for Cuban rum, particularly seven-year-old Habana Club, which he had delivered to his apartment each week by Casa de Ron, located above El Floridita. This was the restaurant where the daiquiri was made popular, and where Ernest Hemingway’s bronze bust looked down on his favorite bar stool that was kept unoccupied as a shrine to the bully-boy author.

  Grünewald knew he drank too much. He often rationalized it to himself. What was he to do? His wife and children were back in the town of Eberbach, a suburb of Heidelberg, comfortable in their wood-beamed house on the cobblestone street, enjoying their friends and family who lived close by, enjoying being German in Germany. When he’d been asked to undertake a special assignment in Cuba two years ago, Grünewald told Dr. Miller that he needed time to think about it. But he knew what his answer would be the minute he left Miller’s office. He didn’t have a choice because his tenure with Strauss-Lochner Resources had become tenuous. After twenty-five years, all of them spent at corporate headquarters in the Heidelberg Technology Park, he could sense his lessened stature within the company through little things—not being invited to meetings in which he used to be routinely involved, being slighted in the routing of important memoranda, overhearing younger colleagues joke at lunch about the “dinosaurs” still with the company—little things that added up to a big reality.

  Also, he was not part of the company’s medical research team, the largest division and its reason for existence. Strauss-Lochner was a relatively successful developer and manufacturer of drugs developed in close cooperation with Heidelberg University and the famed Deutsche Krebsforschungszentrum Cancer Research Center, DKFZ, founded in 1964 and now an acknowledged world player in cancer treatment and research. But of late the company’s fortunes had been shaky. Competition had become cutthroat in the race to develop effective anti-cancer drugs.