“I do not wish to offend you, but Celia has told me you once worked for the CIA.”
“Past tense, Nico. A long time ago. No, I’m not with the CIA. This is strictly a private assignment. Now, are you finished asking questions? I’m getting annoyed. Either we trust each other, or we don’t. Your call.”
Nico looked at Celia, whose expression was noncommittal. “All right,” he said. “We will trust each other.”
“Good. When can you get me the proof?” Pauling asked.
“Soon. There are documents that are secured, locked from sight, but there are ways for me to get to them. It will cost money.”
“For whom?”
“Those I will have to pay to allow me to photograph the documents.”
“Nothing for you, of course.”
“Yes, there will be something for me.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand, American.”
And a one-way ticket to Disney World, Max thought. A bargain. Ten thousand dollars to derail a multimillion-dollar deal. “Ten grand for you, Nico. How much for these other people you’ll have to pay off?”
Nico shrugged. “Maybe ten thousand more. There is one man, the doctor in charge of all cancer research in Cuba. His name is Dr. Manuel Caldoza, a fine man and a brilliant researcher.”
“Are you saying he’ll sell out?” asked Pauling.
“Perhaps, but not for money. He works for the state, of course, as we all do. But his loyalties are not to Castro and the government. I believe he is aware that there are plans to sell the work of his laboratories and his staff to foreign interests.”
“Are you saying that he doesn’t want that to happen?”
“Yes. Like me. He is very proud of what his team has been able to accomplish in cancer research. He recently was in the States to give a paper at a medical convention. His work is respected all over the world. But the government restricts his travel, like that of our athletes and performers.”
“How far do you think this Dr. Caldoza would go to keep Strauss-Lochner and BTK Industries out?”
Nico shrugged. “I can try to find out.”
“Quietly.”
“Yes, I will be careful.”
Pauling drained his glass. He ate some shrimp and lobster. He tore off a piece of bread and started chewing, his facial muscles reflecting difficulty.
Celia laughed. “Che Guevara once asked why the Cubans can’t make decent bread.”
Pauling pulled the remainder from his mouth and put it on his plate. “What’s the answer?”
“Rice,” she said. “We prefer rice.”
“Oh,” he said. “What’s next?”
Nico said, “I mentioned to you a man who works for the German company Strauss-Lochner. His name is Grünewald. I can introduce you to him.”
“I’ve already met him,” Pauling said.
“You have?” Ceila said.
“Then I suggest you talk to him,” Nico said. “He is an unhappy man alone in Cuba. I have had drinks with him. He drinks too much. When he does, he says things he shouldn’t about his company.”
“About fronting for BTK Industries?”
“Almost.” Nico grinned. “He would say things to you, Celia. I think he appreciates a pretty woman.”
“Maybe I’ll go back and see him,” Pauling said. “Even if I’m not pretty.”
“Maybe I would be more successful than you,” Celia said playfully.
Pauling asked Nico, “Have you met a young guy who looks as though he might be German? Blond hair cut like a bush on top, wears a black suit and sandals. I figured he might work for Grünewald.”
“No,” Nico said.
“You’ve seen him again?” Celia asked.
“This morning, at the hotel. He paid my room a visit, tossed things around, didn’t take anything. Not that there was anything to take.”
“I don’t know of such a person,” Nico said.
“If you find out anything about him, let me know.”
“We have a deal?” Nico asked.
Pauling took the last piece of lobster from the platter and savored it. “Delicious,” he said, with genuine appreciation. “Do we have a deal? Yeah, we have a deal—provided you produce what I need. And, Nico, do it fast. I too am a man alone in Cuba.”
Nico extended his hand. Pauling took it, let go, and stood. “All right, kids, picnic’s over. Work to do. Life can’t be all picnics and rice.”
The courier from Washington arrived at the U.S. Interests Section in downtown Havana at noon. He handed over the diplomatic pouch he’d carried from Washington to a clerk in the secured message room. The clerk signed for it and took it to her superior, who opened it and sorted the contents for delivery to appropriate people within the building.
Chief of section Bobby Jo Brown received his batch of documents, sat back, and started to read, yawning as he did. Most were on State Department stationery and were marked CONFIDENTIAL. Some bore the red stamp TOP SECRET. Few called for immediate action; they were concerned more with administrative matters and all-points directives that bore little resemblance to the reality of operating the Interests Section in Cuba. State tended to impose a one-size-fits-all approach to its stations around the world, whether what they demanded of them was practical, or even doable.
But one piece of paper captured his attention. He picked up the phone and called an extension within the building. The call was answered on the floor below by Gene Nichols, a seventeen-year CIA veteran who’d spent the last eight of them in Havana. A few minutes later he walked into Brown’s office and closed the door.
Brown handed Nichols the document he’d just received from Washington.
Nichols handed it back after reading it. “There’s nothing to report,” he told Brown, who’d been posted to Cuba a little less than a year ago. “He’s being watched. We had a little problem this morning.”
“What problem?”
“He was picked up at his hotel by Celia Sardiña. She was in a car, a jeep actually, driven by a Cuban male, identity unknown. They headed west out of the city. We had someone on them but he got stuck behind a couple of those damn ox-drawn tobacco carts and lost them.”
“No idea where they went?”
“No.”
“None of our CDRs reported on them?”
“Negative again.”
Nichols’s alleged assignment to the Interests Section was as consular officer handling the hundreds of visa applications filed each day by Cubans seeking entry to the United States. There were always throngs of them outside the concrete building with its tinted glass that prevented anyone from peering inside. Dozens waiting to be interviewed slept for days in their cars, or on the ground in a tiny nearby park at Calzada and K. But like more than half the staff, Nichols had other duties, primarily recruiting Cuban CDRs to share their information with him and his employer back in Langley, as well as with Fidel Castro’s government. He had hundreds of them on the payroll, in Havana and across the country.
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 a
sked.
“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 photograp
h 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.
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