For some unexplained reason, he had a sudden craving for Chinese food. Were there any Chinese restaurants in Havana?
He left the hotel and stepped into the sunlight. Two suited men in a PNR car parked across the street showed a distinct interest in him. He ignored them and walked toward central Havana. He’d gone a few blocks when he noticed a group of Asian tourists gathered on a corner, consulting a map.
“Excuse me,” Pauling said to a man in the group. “I’m looking for a Chinese restaurant.”
“Which one?” the man responded in clean, British-tinged English.
“A good one.”
“A good one?” The man chuckled. “This is Cuba. Go to Barrio Chino. That’s what they call Chinatown here. It isn’t far, only a few blocks. We had dinner there last night in a restaurant called Pacifico. A favorite of Hemingway and Castro himself, we’re told.”
“They have egg foo yung?”
The man looked at him. “They have Chinese food that tastes like Cuban food,” he said. “Enjoy your meal.”
The Pacifico was state owned, which meant it could serve lobster and other dishes forbidden to the privately owned paladares. Pauling, frustrated by inactivity, gorged on lobster and rice. Feeling better, he ventured out onto the street and went to Celia’s apartment. The translated memos from Grünewald’s office, paper clipped to the originals, were where Celia said they would be, beneath the mattress on the pullout. He hauled a chair close to the window and read.
The first was a communication from Grünewald to his boss in Heidelberg, Dr. Hans Miller. He’d handwritten across the top of the page TOP SECRET, as though that would ensure privacy.
Dear Dr. Miller,
I write you not to complain, but as a loyal employee of Strauss-Lochner. I am sure you will agree that in my more than twenty years of service to the Company, I have performed my duties with efficiency and honor. It has always been a source of great pride to me to work for the greater good of the Company without concern for my personal needs. As you know, being posted to Havana represented a great hardship for me and my family. Although such a posting to this wretched, impoverished island was not how I envisioned spending the final years of my service to you and the Company, I put aside those feelings and rose to the occasion, again in the interest of serving the Company’s greater good.
I feel as though a stake has been rammed into my heart. I have functioned here in good faith on the assumption that my efforts in paving the way for Strauss-Lochner to benefit from the Cuban cancer research was for the Company’s exclusive benefit. How proud I would be if my efforts under difficult circumstances resulted in our ability to become a world leader in finding a cure for this dreaded disease.
But now I learn through a mistaken communication that it will be another company that will benefit most from my work, the American company BTK Industries. Do you have such little faith in me that you would choose to not inform me of my true role here in Cuba? I can take nothing else from having been excluded from your confidence. It is so hurtful, Dr. Miller, to be placed in that position.
Please do not misunderstand. I continue to be the same loyal, enthusiastic employee of the Company. Strauss-Lochner has been my life and will always be. But I felt I must communicate to you my true feelings, knowing you are a sensitive and caring leader who will know that what I say is from the heart.
Faithfully,
Kurt Grünewald
Pathetic, Pauling thought. Poor naïve, whining, drunken Grünewald. What did all his loyalty get him? A broken neck. Loyalty was supposed to be a two-way street. In Pauling’s years with the CIA and then with State, he was loyal to two things, his country and the person signing his checks. Do the job as long as they’re paying you, but if you no longer wish to do the job, walk away, as he had done, and stop taking the checks. Had he been in a position to counsel Grünewald, he would have told him to write the memo, let it sit on his desk overnight, and tear it into small pieces in the morning. He thought the fat German had been like some government employees back in Washington, in it for the pension, nothing else, no psychological payoff for a job well done, no glory, no satisfaction from standing up for what you knew was right. Keep your mouth shut, do your job, and spend weekends looking for a retirement cottage in a low-rent area.
Miller’s response to Grünewald’s letter was both threatening and patronizing. The head of Strauss-Lochner was shrewd. There was no mention of a deal with Price McCullough and BTK Industries, nor was there any indication how the communiqué had been delivered.
Dear Kurt,
I am in receipt of your memorandum and wished to respond with all possible speed. You do not need to remind me of the outstanding job you have done for Strauss-Lochner. Not only do I view you as a friend, you are one of our most valued employees, a man of integrity and principle who has been a role model for so many of your colleagues.
It is always difficult for someone in my position of leadership to determine who in the chain of command must know of certain sensitive projects being undertaken. It is a matter of judgment, nothing else. I will say to you, Kurt, that it is the health of the Company that must be my uppermost priority. Strauss-Lochner’s success is not only necessary to reward the fine men and women who strive to find medical solutions, it is necessary to the millions of men, women, and children around the globe whose very health and life depend upon how successful we are. In that sense, anyone who jeopardizes the mission of the Company must be considered expendable.
One day soon, you will leave the Company and enjoy a well-deserved retirement with your fine wife and family. Treasure the contemplation of that, Kurt, keep up the fine work, and rest assured I take personal interest in your life and work.
Sincerely,
Hans Miller, Ph.D., Chairman and CEO
If Kurt Grünewald had been a drinker before, receiving that thinly veiled threat from his boss must have really sent him on a toot. Pauling knew all about threats. He’d been on the receiving end of them from his handlers at the CIA and the State Department’s covert intelligence unit more than once, particularly from Tom Hoctor who’d managed his overseas assignments from spook HQ. His relationship with the little bald man with the drooping right eye had been one of love and hate. He admired Hoctor for his professionalism; when push came to shove, Hoctor made decisions that ensured the job got done. At the same time, Pauling never really trusted his handler, never viewed him as the sort of person you wanted at your back in a parking lot when Hell’s Angels were coming at you with knives and chains.
He put aside his personal responses to the communiqués and reread the first one, the memo to Miller from Grünewald. Although Miller hadn’t confirmed what Grünewald had said in it—“But now, I learn through a mistaken communication that it will be another company that will benefit from my work, the American company BTK Industries.”—the memo would have value for Gosling and his Cell-One client Signal Laboratories in putting together a case against McCullough and BTK. It wouldn’t be enough proof on its own; Grünewald’s statement could be interpreted in more than one way, depending upon who was doing the interpretation and the agenda. He’d need more. Ideally, Nico would come up with it.
Where was Nico? Some agent.
Where was Celia? Some interpreter.
Pauling folded the papers and put them in a vest pocket. He pulled out the tear sheet from Granma and reviewed the schedule for Castro’s celebration. Was Celia attending? Should he go to Plaza de la Revolución to see if he could spot her in what was sure to be a huge crowd? Might as well, he thought. How often would he have the opportunity to wish Fidel a happy birthday? He’d rather wish him a happy retirement. But dictators don’t retire—unless shove came to push. Besides, he had nothing else to do until she again contacted him and set up a meet with Nico.
He hated being in the position of having to depend on someone else. The career gurus preach that the ability to delegate authority is an important attribute for business leaders. If that was true, Pauling knew he’d b
e a dismal failure in business, had always known it, which was one of the reasons he’d gravitated to the sort of work he’d ended up doing, for better or worse.
Two hours until the celebration. He decided to pass some of the time in Celia’s apartment on the chance she would stop in or call. He removed his vest, hung it over a chair, and stretched out on the couch, like an animal conserving energy for when it might be needed.
Dr. Manuel Caldoza, Cuba’s most renowned medical researcher and head of the Health Ministry’s cancer research institute, sat at his desk. The lights flickered; another brownout or blackout? Bad timing, he thought. Fidel would not be happy to have the lights go out at his party.
The flickering stopped and the single bulb in his desk lamp glowed steadily. Caldoza had closed the draperies tightly and turned off the overhead lights. His door was closed. The AC hummed. He wore a deep blue shirt, maroon tie, and white physician’s lab coat. All was quiet on his floor. The faint sounds of crowds gathering forced their way through the draperies’ heavy material. A military brass band played a familiar march, which didn’t deter the young people with their battery-powered boom boxes from competing with the uniformed musicians. They would be ordered to turn them off once the official festivities began. Until then, it would be every man for himself, a battle of the loudspeakers.
How many of the thousands of people who would gather in Plaza de la Revolución that afternoon truly wanted to be there? he thought. How many of them who did come would bestow a heartfelt tribute to their leader? The PNR, and the Minint secret police, would have rounded up every stray, sane man, woman, and child and ordered them to be present to cheer and sing, at the top of their lungs, the Cuban national anthem:
Al combate corran Bayameses
Que la patria os contempla orgullosa
No temáis una muerte gloriosa
Que morir por la patria es vivar
To the battle, run, Bayamases
Let the fatherland proudly observe you
Do not fear a glorious death
To die for the Fatherland is to live
Caldoza rubbed his eyes and sighed. So much promise unfulfilled, he thought. In the beginning, he had embraced Fidel and his revolution, as had many around the world. The Batista regime had corrupted Cuba and its people to an obscene extent, had turned the lush tropical island into a brothel, a gambling den and hangout for the most vicious of American mobsters, chiefly for Batista’s personal gain. Castro’s triumphant battle against superior Batista forces had filled Caldoza’s heart with pride and hope. Cuba’s new leader had promised many things under his Socialist leadership, including the eradication of cancer in his lifetime, and he’d put his money behind his words, devoting a stunning percentage of the yearly budget to cancer research and health care in general. His emphasis on medical research and providing quality health care for every Cuban citizen had inspired Caldoza to throw himself into his work, toiling day and night in search of that elusive deeper understanding of the way the body works, how certain cells cease functioning in a normal way and create malignancies, going mad in a sense, ravaging the body until it no longer can withstand the relentless attack. He knew there was an answer to it, and reveled in the vast sums the government provided to find the answers. Funds had doubled once Fidel embraced the Soviets. His Communist partners began funneling billions to the island, providing oil and food and unlimited money for an assortment of programs, including medical supplies, physician training, and laboratory essentials.
But even when the Soviet Union itself collapsed and the plug was pulled, the research, already far along, continued. A breakthrough was around the corner, Caldoza was convinced, and it would involve the use of the metal vanadium. Results had been more than encouraging. Clinical trials had brought about dramatic remissions in a variety of patients with different cancers, particularly those in the lymphoma and myeloma families, cancers of the blood. By combining the drugs with monoclonal antibodies, the cancerous cells could be induced to “commit suicide,” to die off and allow normal cells to proliferate.
So close.
But now the tape.
They’d come to him last night at home, three of them, colleagues at the research institute. It was not unusual for them to visit his home in the Vedado section. Maria Caldoza ran what amounted to an open house for her husband’s friends from the hospital and labs. They came and went, young and old, seasoned physicians and researchers, medical students and their friends. All were always offered drinks and meals created by Maria, an acknowledged superior cook. Her ajiaco, meats and vegetables spiced with judicious amounts of onion, oregano, cumin, and sour oranges, was a particular favorite, especially in these days of food shortages, when her creativity at substituting ingredients never failed to please.
Because his was a prestigious position within Cuban society, Dr. Caldoza and his wife enjoyed a quality of life unavailable to the majority of Cubans. Their house was of Spanish colonial design built around a courtyard in which Maria had created a colorful display of plantings—African golden trumpet, fragrant mariposa, begonia, oleander, flame-of-the-woods, and bright pink morning glory. It was to this multihued setting that Dr. Caldoza and his three visitors repaired after dinner. They lit up cigars—they may have been doctors but this was, after all, Cuba—and sat around a green wrought-iron table, small cups of strong coffee in front of them, drawing on their Upmanns and Cohibas, watching the blue smoke drift up into the still, humid Havana night.
Caldoza spoke first: “So, it will happen,” he said, his flat voice not reflecting the inner turmoil.
The three visitors murmured agreement.
“This tape,” Caldoza said. “Tell me about it again.”
One of the men at the table recounted the conversation between Fidel Castro and former U.S. senator Price McCullough.
“Who recorded the conversation?” Caldoza asked. “Someone close to El Presidente, obviously not a loyalist.”
“Obviously,” said Caldoza, drawing on his cigar, deep in thought. He said as though speaking to a royal palm swaying above, “This is a startling development. The rumors have been alive for a year, sí? Many rumblings about Strauss-Lochner negotiating with the government for our team’s research. There have been countless meetings with Grünewald, their liaison here. Those so-called secret meetings have not been so secret. I have been kept abreast of what has been discussed in them, and while the thought of seeing our work end up in the hands of others would be heartbreaking, it has been my evaluation that such a betrayal could not happen. Strauss-Lochner is almost no longer a viable company. Its laboratories are decaying, suffering from too little cash to invest in costly research. It has been my opinion that it would not be able to raise sufficient money to buy its way into our work. As you know, there have been other pharmaceutical companies, particularly Canadian, that have made such inquiries, but they have not been taken seriously, according to my sources. But now this. BTK Industries is a very successful company, as you know. It has virtually cornered the market on many proprietary drugs and has the advantage of being led by a distinguished former United States senator.”
“It must be stopped!” said the man seated across from Caldoza.
“An excellent suggestion, Felix,” Caldoza said, smiling. “I am sure you have a foolproof plan to achieve this.”
Felix cleared his throat. “There is an American in Cuba who was sent here to uncover proof that BTK Industries is behind Strauss-Lochner’s bid for our research.”
Caldoza placed his cigar in an oversized ashtray and leaned forward. “How do you know this?” he asked.
“Through one of the people who brought news of the tape to me.”
“One of that group?”
“Yes. She is—”
“She?”
“Yes. She is part of that group. This American was sent here by Signal Laboratories.”
“BTK’s competitor.”
“Exactly. Cell-One—that is a private investigation agency with headquarters in Lo
ndon—represents Signal in this matter. The person chosen to come here once worked for the American CIA. He reports to someone else who once worked for that agency.”
“Your source,” Caldoza said. “This woman. How does she know this?”
“She was recruited by Cell-One’s representative to help this agent here in Havana find the proof. His name is Pauling. Max Pauling.”
“That is interesting,” Caldoza said, “but of what value to us?”
“If this American is successful, the information he uncovers can be used to discredit BTK Industries—”
“And—” someone added, stroking a beard that wasn’t there.
Caldoza again drew on his cigar and said, “Is this woman you mention willing to share with us what she and this American come up with?”
“Yes, she will.”
“How soon before—?”
“Before she and the American are successful?”
“Yes.”
“Days, she tells me. A matter of days.”
“And where will they get this proof? Surely not from us. We do not have, as far as I know, any documentation that would help. All negotiations must have taken place in the highest echelons of the ministry.”
No one had an immediate answer.
“There are those in that higher echelon who might be persuaded to release such information for the right price,” it was suggested.
“Have we become that corrupted?” Caldoza mused.
“The mere act of accepting money to reveal traitorous secrets is not necessarily synonymous with corruption,” his question was answered, “not if those secrets bring about needed change and benefit our people. It would be a tragedy, a true tragedy, for an American company to profit from all the good research that has been conducted here in Cuba, by Cubans.”
They fell into silence until Caldoza said, “It appears the rumors may be true about El Presidente planning to leave.”
Murder in Havana Page 20
