Murder in Havana

by Margaret Truman

  When he reached the door to the apartment, he paused and looked back to where he’d entered the alley. A man stood there smoking a cigarette, the same man Pauling had seen before, at the museum. He’d been standing in front when Pauling exited. Pauling had noticed him because he was not Hispanic. He had blond hair, cut to make it stand up like a spiked bush. His temples were shaved. He was extremely pale. He wore a black suit over a white T-shirt, and sandals. Pauling had thought it a strange getup for a tourist in sultry Havana, but paid no further attention.

  Until now.

  The man saw that Pauling had noticed him and stepped out of view. Pauling considered retracing his steps and confronting this person, but thought better of it.

  Celia was showering when Pauling knocked on the upstairs door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. He called her name. She responded: “I will be ready soon.”

  She emerged from the small bathroom wearing a robe over her wet nakedness, and a towel wrapped about her head. “I’m sorry to be late,” she said. “I had an appointment that ran late.”

  “That’s okay,” Pauling said, sitting in one of the red sling chairs.

  She took clothing from the dresser and closet and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. When she again emerged, she was dressed in tight black slacks, a teal T-shirt with tiny embroidered flowers at the neck, and sandals. Bloodred polish tipped her toes and fingers. The contour and movement of her breasts, not corralled by a bra, were lovely to behold.

  “Did you enjoy your day?” she asked.

  “Yes, I did. I went to the revolution museum.”

  She laughed. “Were you impressed?”

  “No. I’m being followed.”

  “This is Cuba.”

  “It’s not a Cuban. He’s European, I think.”

  “Maybe he’s a maricón and finds you attractive.”

  “Gay?”

  “Yes. There are many gays in Cuba despite—” She stroked her chin. “—his hatred of them. Most pretend to have relationships with the opposite sex to avoid repercussions. Like Nazi Germany, yes? You’ll point him out to me.”

  He nodded. “You have nosey neighbors,” he said.

  Smiling, carrying the scent of soap and perfume across the room, she leaned and whispered in his ear, “The CDRs.”

  He looked up at her quizzically.

  She continued sotto voce: “Neighborhood spies. Comités de Defensa de la Revolución. Every block has one; there are fifteen, twenty thousand of them in Havana. You must be careful what you say. If they hear something they don’t like, they’ll report you to the Ministry of Interior.”

  “I thought that went out with Nazi Blockwarts and the Soviet Union.”

  She shook her head, placed her fingertips on her chin, and stroked her imaginary beard. Pauling grinned. “I get it,” he said.

  “Good. Ready?”

  “Sure. Who is this friend of yours we’re meeting for dinner?”

  “His name is—” She lowered her voice again. “Nico.”

  “Nico what?”

  “Come.”

  She led him down the stairs and to the alley. The blond man was nowhere to be seen. They walked to the corner where the owners of a few American cars featuring tail fins and hand-painted gaudy colors hawked rides for potential paying passengers. She opened the rear door of one of them; Pauling followed her in. In Spanish, she gave an address to the driver who floored the accelerator, pressing Pauling back against the seat.

  Celia used the roar from the vehicle’s porous muffler to cover her words.

  “Nico works in the Ministry of Public Health. He knows a great deal about what is going on in the research laboratories.”

  They pulled up in front of what looked to Pauling to be a private home.

  “I thought we were going out for dinner,” he said.

  “We are. It’s a paladar, a restaurant in someone’s home. The best food in Cuba, better than the hotels.” She looked at Pauling and said, “Pay him. In dollars.”

  He paid the driver the amount that Celia suggested, and they stood in front of the modest house. It was painted purple and had white shutters. When they entered, a stout Cuban woman enthusiastically greeted Celia. Obviously, she was a regular customer. Celia introduced Pauling, who received a long, animated welcome in Spanish from the paladar’s owner and cook.

  “Nico?” Celia asked.

  Pauling caught enough of the answer to know that her friend hadn’t yet arrived.

  They were led to a tiny garden at the rear of the house where four tables, shaded by colorful umbrellas, had been placed among trees and other plantings. They were the only customers in the garden. The owner gestured to a table beneath a silver yagruma tree. Shimmering in a breeze that had kicked up, the tree appeared to be frosted. Pregnant white blooms of the lily family hung above the table like paper party lights.

  Pauling took in his surroundings. “There are a lot of these home restaurants?” he asked.

  “Not as many as there were before the government started charging licensing fees to put them out of business.” She stroked her chin. “He won’t eat in them because he says they make the owners rich. Not very Communistic. The fees put many out of business, but they have gone underground again. Like this one.”

  The owner came to the table carrying bottled water and handwritten menus.

  “You want beer or wine?” Celia asked.

  “Beer.”

  She ordered two bottles of Cristal.

  Pauling read the menu. The most expensive meal was six American dollars.

  “Is the food any good?” he asked.

  She chuckled. “I told you paladares have the best food in Cuba. Eat in a few state-owned restaurants and you’ll see what I mean.”

  She looked up, smiled, stood, and greeted a handsome young man with slicked-back black hair. He wore a white guayabera and chino pants. They embraced before joining Pauling at the table. He introduced himself only as Nico. Nico whatever-his-last-name-was spoke good English. After some mandatory badinage, Pauling asked about the restaurant. “Celia tells me these places aren’t exactly legal, Nico. You work for the government, right?”

  The Cuban broke into a wide grin. “A man has to eat, huh? The food is good and the prices are right.” He asked Celia in a stage whisper, “Lobster?”

  “Lobster?” Pauling said, not attempting to lower his voice. “I didn’t see that on the menu.”

  Celia and Nico put their index fingers to their lips. “Lobster is illegal for the illegal paladares to sell,” Celia said. “Shrimp and beef, too. The state has a monopoly on them. But the rule is broken now and then.”

  Pauling sat back and sipped his beer while Celia and Nico chatted in Spanish. Typical, he thought. Pass a stupid law and the people will find a way around it. Like Prohibition. The two people at the table with him were obviously comfortable breaking the law here. None of those CDRs she’d spoken about were in this garden unless they were up in the trees.

  They drank more beer and ate at a leisurely pace. Pauling began to wonder when they would get to the topic of interest to him, but was reluctant to broach the subject. Nico was Celia’s contact. Let her take the lead, at least in this situation. She finally did, over dessert of coconut pudding and heavy, sweet coffee served in tiny cups.

  “Tell us what is new in the Health Ministry, Nico.”

  He knew what she meant. After a glance about the empty garden, he looked directly at Pauling and said, “You are interested in the cancer research.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how advanced we are in such research?”

  “I’ve been told you’re doing good things.”

  “Better than that. Our cancer researchers are the best in the world, like many of our doctors. Are you aware that we have been doing heart transplants since 1985, and heart-lung transplants since 1987?”

  “No,” Pauling said, trying to mask the annoyance he was feeling. He wasn’t in the mood for a pep talk on the
wonders of Cuban medicine.

  Nico pressed on. “Our center for nervous system transplants and regeneration is the world’s best for treating Parkinson’s disease. We transplant fetal brain tissue with wonderful results.”

  “About your cancer research,” Pauling said.

  “Very advanced,” Nico replied. “El Presidente promised when he took power that our people would have the finest health care in the world, and that we would find a cure for cancer. We have made great strides, but the Special Period, after the Soviets pulled out, has set us back. It did not hinder our research, but our hospitals are short of supplies now. We have suffered, and the American embargo has been very detrimental to us.”

  “So I understand. Your cancer research labs are all state owned, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But I understand there are foreign companies wanting a piece of the action.”

  “Piece of the action? Oh, yes, of course. I have heard that, too.”

  Pauling looked at Celia, who appeared to have removed herself from the conversation. This guy has “heard it,” too? Pauling’s expression said. Big help!

  She said nothing.

  “Do you know about a German company, Strauss-Lochner Resources, Nico?”

  “Yes. The Germans are very active in Cuba. They bring a lot of money to our economy.”

  “Are they interested in buying your cancer research labs?”

  He frowned in thought and ran his tongue over his lips. “It is my understanding that they have expressed an interest,” he said.

  “Okay,” Pauling said, “what about an American company, BTK Industries? It’s headed up by a former U.S. senator, Price McCullough, who, by the way, is in Cuba as we speak.”

  “I know that. What about the American company?”

  “Have you heard anything about the German company acting as a front for BTK Industries?”

  “A ‘front’?”

  Pauling nodded. “A cover story, a disguise, a—well, beard.”

  “No, I have not heard that. I could make inquiries, if you would like.”

  “I would like that, Nico. Quiet inquiries. I would be very appreciative. How soon can you find out something about it for me?”

  He shrugged and fell silent.

  Pauling thought for a moment. “How much?”

  Nico waved a hand over the table, and shook his head. “Let’s not talk about money now. This has been a pleasant evening. Money will make it unpleasant. I will see what I can find out and contact Celia. I will tell you this, Mr. Pauling. Strauss-Lochner has a representative in Havana named Grünewald. Mr. Kurt Grünewald.”

  “What’s his job?”

  “He is the liaison with our government’s Health Ministry. I have met him a few times. He is a nice man. He enjoys his rum. I must go. Thank you for a lovely dinner, Mr. Pauling. I will be in touch with Celia.”

  He and Celia embraced as they’d done upon his arrival, and he left the garden.

  “Paying him’s not a problem,” Pauling said after he and Celia were alone at the table. “Just a matter of how much.”

  “Let’s see what he comes up with first,” she said.

  Spoken like a true operative, Pauling thought. Make an informer show his or her hand before committing to an amount. Let them know that the better the information provided, the higher the payoff. You show me yours, then I’ll show you mine.

  The restaurant’s owner delivered the check. The three lobster dinners, including side dishes and the beers, came to thirty dollars. He paid. They found a taxi on the street.

  “I’ll drop you at your hotel,” she said.

  “I thought I’d buy you a drink,” he said.

  “I have someplace I must be.”

  “A date?”

  She didn’t answer his question, although a small smile on her red lips said that was probably the case.

  A stitch of jealousy came and went.

  As they approached the hotel, the blond man in the black suit was standing in front of the Meliá Cohiba, next to Pauling’s hotel.

  “That’s him,” Pauling said, pointing. “Ever see him before?”

  “No.”

  As Pauling stepped from the taxi, the man disappeared. Pauling pulled out his wallet to pay the driver.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Celia said.

  “When do I see you again?” Pauling asked.

  “Tomorrow,” she replied. “I’ll call you at noon at the hotel. Be there.” She smiled, stroked her imaginary beard, and told the driver to leave.

  Senator McCullough and his assemblage were taken on an hour-long bus tour of Havana before arriving at Plaza de la Revolución, dominated by a huge granite and marble monument to José Martí, the martyred intellectual author of Cuba’s freedom from Spain at the end of the nineteenth century, and Fidel Castro’s acknowledged inspiration. Multiple antennas appeared to sprout from its top, the highest point in Havana, the vultures perched on them providing a grim metaphor for Cuba in the desperate post-Soviet days. Members of the group recognized the place as the backdrop for the many political rallies at which Castro delivered his famous eight-hour grandiloquent harangues.

  “We have arranged for you to go to the top of the monument following the meeting,” the group’s official escort announced on the bus, “and to tour the museum, which I know you will find inspiring.”

  Mac Smith stepped off the bus and took in the sprawling plaza, Havana’s largest. It had the same monolithic grayness of plazas he’d visited in Eastern European countries. The government buildings defining its perimeter were constructed of thick concrete, the windows recessed as though to make it more difficult for light to penetrate the murky offices behind them. The Ministry of Interior building, in which Cuba’s most secretive and sinister agency was located, featured a huge mural of Che Guevara, Castro’s partner in revolution.

  They were led behind the Martí monument to the former Justice Ministry, now home of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, where Castro and his senior ministers conducted the nation’s business.

  “Please, do not attempt to take photographs of the building,” the escort warned. “It is forbidden.”

  Smith shook his head as he moved with the others into the labyrinthine Palacio de la Revolución, its façade the color of early-stage jaundice. He looked up at an enormous ceramic tile mosaic of flowers, trees, animals, and birds, and noticed that at the top, the depictions were cut short. He turned to one of the accompanying Cubans and mentioned it. The young man whispered, “The artist did his work before the building was completed. The ceiling is lower than planned.”

  Smith smiled, said, “We have a few of those gaffes back in the States.”

  “Gaffes?”

  “Mistakes.”

  The young man, obviously sorry he’d admitted such an error to a foreigner, nodded glumly and walked away.

  The meeting room was on the second floor, a large space containing a long, scarred wooden table with dozens of chairs around it. The McCullough delegation was seated and asked to await the arrival of the minister who would lead the discussions. A large color photograph of El Jefe Máximo, also known as el barbudo, the bearded one, in his familiar military fatigues, looked down on them.

  They passed the time with small talk until a door beneath Castro’s photograph opened and three men entered. They wore the usual dark suits and even darker expressions. They took chairs that had been left empty at the head of the table. The one in the middle opened a file folder, placed half-glasses on the tip of his nose, frowned as he perused whatever papers were in the folder, looked up, removed his glasses, and smiled. “Well,” he said in good English, “you are here, and I welcome you on behalf of our leader, Prime Minister Castro. You are distinguished ladies and gentlemen in your professions. I have had many favorable comments from those of us who have had the pleasure of speaking personally with you.”

  He looked to McCullough for a response.

  “We feel honored to be here
, sir,” the former senator said, smiling broadly. “You’ve been most gracious in your welcome since our arrival, and I speak for everyone at the table in expressing our gratitude.”

  Smith smiled. This sort of posturing had been going on since their arrival, and he found it amusing. He reminded himself, of course, that flattery and circumspection were at the heart of diplomacy, unless you were rattling sabers across a conference table at a peace negotiation between warring parties. He was never especially comfortable with the niceties of negotiation. His reputation when practicing criminal law was that of a no-nonsense, mordant advocate who did not suffer fools, and who cut through salving blather to get to the point. He knew he was not destined to be appointed ambassador to any country, even the smallest of them.

  The platitudes continued back and forth for fifteen minutes. McCullough cut through when he said, “I think the minister knows that those of us who’ve come here do so in the interest of exploring richer trade opportunities between Cuba and the United States.”

  The minister closed his eyes and sat back. The Americans wondered whether he’d suddenly fallen asleep. When he came forward and again looked at McCullough, he said, “Talk of trade between our two countries is always of interest, Senator, but of little practical value. As long as your laws prohibit your companies from doing business with us, it is nothing more than an academic exercise.”

  “That’s changed, hasn’t it?” a member of the delegation offered. “We can now sell medical supplies and agricultural products.”

  “On paper, yes,” the minister said. “But your laws continue to prohibit the financing of such transactions through any U.S. bank or other financial institution. It is like your laws against Americans traveling to Cuba. You do not prohibit it, but any American tourist coming here must not spend any money. Your laws regarding us are hypocritical.”

  McCullough stepped in. “As you know, Minister, I am no longer involved in government. I am a former United States senator, and happy to be. But it has always seemed to me that we have a compelling mutual interest. We would like to open Cuba as a lucrative market for our businesses, and you and your people would benefit greatly with what we can sell. And, of course, we represent a huge market for your goods.”