“Were you and your delegation in danger?”
McCullough laughed gently and patted her shoulder. “No, young lady, we weren’t in danger. I’m just glad that aside from a few minor injuries in the crowd—and my goodness, it was some crowd to wish President Castro a happy birthday, wasn’t it?—I’m glad that a tragedy of international proportions didn’t occur here today.”
Annabel Lee-Smith had been watching CNN while making a key lime pie. When the report of the attempt to kill Castro came on, she dropped the pie plate to the counter and stood close to the TV set. Behind the reporter and Price McCullough stood members of the trade delegation, including, thank God, her husband, Mackensie.
The report ended and CNN went on to other stories. Annabel tried to place a call to Havana, but all circuits were busy. “Damn,” she muttered, returning to the pie. She’d try the call again in a few minutes.
At CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Zachary Rasmussen, the agency’s director of covert ops, watched it on a TV in his office.
“That’s the best they could do?” Rasmussen said, slowly shaking his head.
“They had something better planned, Zach,” Tom Hoctor said, “but it got derailed at the last minute. At least that’s what we get from Miami.”
“Who’s the guy they sent to do the job?”
“I don’t know. A sacrificial lamb, I suppose. They wanted to take a shot at Fidel during his birthday bash to make a statement. If by some chance they actually hit him, that would have been a bonus.”
“We told them it would be a wasted effort,” said Rasmussen.
Hoctor shrugged and rubbed his right eye. He’d come to Rasmussen’s office carrying a sheaf of papers and now handed one to him. Rasmussen frowned and chewed his cheek as he read. He handed it back to Hoctor and said, “He saved Fidel’s life?”
“According to Bobby Jo Brown at the Interests Section, they lost touch with Pauling for a period of time. Then he shows up at Fidel’s party. According to Brown, Pauling was standing next to the shooter and took a swipe at his gun hand.”
“And?”
“Brown’s tail lost him. Gene Nichols. He’s one of us. Pauling ran.”
“Where?”
“Brown doesn’t know. He’s disappeared.”
“What’s this about Pauling looking like he’s been beaten up?”
“That’s what Nichols reported. Bruises on his face, a black eye. No idea how it happened.” Hoctor displayed one of his small, wry smiles. “Pauling always did have a penchant for putting his face where it shouldn’t be.”
“Have you heard from Gosling?”
“Yesterday. He was leaving London and said he’d check in with me tonight.”
“Progress on his project?”
“He says it goes well.”
“He’s in touch with Pauling, I assume.”
“Negative on that. Celia Sardiña is his only contact.”
“I thought you pulled her off that project.”
“I did. At least I told Gosling to do it, and he assured me he had. I’ll lean on him again tonight.”
“Everything else is set, Tom?”
“I believe it is.”
“Good. Let’s not have another amateur night.”
The attempt on Castro’s life changed things in Havana, as would be expected.
After giving his interview to CNN, Price McCullough and his group were marshaled into a room off the hotel’s lobby. The schedule had called for a night free of official gatherings, although a performance of the Cuban National Ballet Company at Teatro Nacional had been arranged for those wishing to attend. Half the group had elected to take in the performance, including Mac Smith. McCullough was among those who’d declined.
“What’s the purpose of this?” McCullough asked the senior Cuban government official who’d instructed the delegates to gather in the room.
“What happened today, Senator McCullough, has serious ramifications. We feel it is necessary that you and your people receive instructions as to how to respond to questions that might be asked of you.”
“That’s not necessary,” the ex-senator said in stentorian tones. “Hell, we didn’t see anything that anybody else would want to know about. We were all down on the ground once a shot was fired.”
“I know, sir, but I ask that you respect our needs in this matter. You will not be detained long, I assure you.”
“We’re not used to being told what to say or not to say, sir.”
“That may be true in your country, Senator. But we are in Cuba, our country. Excuse me.”
As the official walked away, McCullough looked past him through open doors to the lobby where he saw Celia Sardiña talking with one of the desk clerks. He crossed the room, stopping briefly to deflect questions about why they were being detained, and went to her. Her expression said she wasn’t happy.
“We have a problem here?” McCullough asked.
“I told them you had invited me to your suite, but they refuse to give me the key.” Her pout was exaggerated.
“Just bein’ prudent, I suppose.” He said to the clerk, “It’s all right. The lady has official business with me.”
Celia’s face softened.
The clerk handed McCullough a key and he held it out for Celia. “I’ll be tied up here for a while, but not too long, I’m told. You go on up, make yourself a drink—it’s all there in the bar. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
“No,” she said.
“I thought—”
“Can we go outside?” she said.
McCullough looked around to see whether their exchange was being noted. The only interest in them seemed to come from a few of his fellow delegates who were watching from inside the staging room, and the Cuban official who did nothing to stop the ex-senator.
“Senator,” she said when they were outside, “I am uncomfortable being with you in this hotel. There are so many people who will see that we are together. It would not be good for me or for you.”
“What do you suggest?” he asked.
“I have an apartment. It belongs to a friend of mine who is away. We can be alone there, relax, and after that—”
His was an understanding smile tinted with lechery.
“After that, I will take you to a wonderful Cuban restaurant, one of the best in all Havana. I promise you will not be disappointed with the food or with—”
“With you? I’m sure I won’t be. Where is this apartment?”
She handed him a slip of paper on which she’d already written the address. “I will go directly there,” she said, “and wait for you.”
Pauling reached the apartment, went to the kitchen, pulled the bottle of Habana Club anejo from the cupboard, and took down a clean glass. The lone cordial glass that had been in the sink was still there.
He was sitting by the window, sipping, when Celia came through the door. Her usual unflappable demeanor changed momentarily at the sight of him. She stiffened, but managed a smile. “What are you doing here?”
“So glad you’re happy to see me.”
“It isn’t that,” she said. “I see you’ve helped yourself.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said. “Did you enjoy the birthday party?”
“I wasn’t there. I heard what happened.” She went to the kitchen and poured herself a drink, saying over her shoulder, “You have to leave.”
He came to the kitchen door. “Why?” he asked.
“I have a visitor coming in a few minutes.”
“Anybody I know?”
She placed her glass on the counter, turned, and said angrily, “I’m not in the mood to discuss my life with you, Max. God, you look terrible. Now please leave.”
“I’m still looking for answers, Celia.”
“I’m not working with you anymore.”
“You said you didn’t have to bail out right away. Where’s Nico?”
“I spoke with him today. He says he will have the material you need by tomorrow nig
ht. What did the translations of the German’s memos say?”
“Not a lot, although if combined with more tangible proof, it’ll all help. Where are we meeting Nico tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know. He will call me when he’s ready.” She smiled, came to him, and placed her nicely manicured right hand on his chest. “Max, please, you must leave. Trust me. The person who is coming here can be helpful to you.”
“Really? How?”
Her anger surfaced again. “Leave!” she said. “I will call you at your hotel tonight. Late.”
“After you and this person are through doing whatever you’ll be doing?” he said, the sexual inference not lost on her, or on him. Incredibly, he knew that he was jealous, and he wasn’t happy about it.
He put his glass down on the counter and asked, “What time will you call me?”
She sighed with impatience. “Ten. Eleven.”
“Which is it?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“I’ll be in my room, Celia.” He walked from the kitchen, turned, and asked, “Did Nico tell you what he’s come up with?”
“No, only that you will be pleased.”
“Good.”
Another few steps toward the door, then turning and saying, “By the way, I saved Fidel’s life today.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I was the one who knocked the shooter’s gun away. Not that it made any difference. He wasn’t about to hit anybody. Strictly an amateur. Know anything about him? Was he there on his own, or part of a conspiracy?”
“I have … no idea.”
“Just thought I’d ask. I’ll look forward to your call.”
He went down the stairs and made another trek past the ever-curious Cubans in the alley, aware that his bruised face evoked interest, but more concerned about what they were thinking of him in light of the attempt on their leader’s life. They couldn’t know he’d been the one to deflect the weapon; they sure weren’t viewing him as a hero. But maybe, because he was a foreigner—and a big, bad American to boot—they wondered whether he was grieving over the failure to blow Fidel away, which he wasn’t. Fidel would one day be gone because he died, or decided to leave. Trying to assassinate him was folly.
The CIA had its hard-core hawks who saw assassination as the only answer to ridding the world of every undesirable leader who didn’t embrace the American way. They spent part of their careers conjuring exotic means of murder and developing what they thought were ingenious devices to carry out the fantasies. He knew, of course, that the world would be a better place if certain leaders were eliminated (nice bureaucratic word for killed) by CIA-sponsored wet jobs; Saddam, Stalin, and Idi Amin came readily to mind. And, of course, less notable troublemakers in virtually every part of the world, particularly the Middle East, plus Central and South America.
He lingered near the end of the alley in the hope of catching a glimpse of Celia’s visitor. Whoever it was, she’d said he could be of help. Had she said “He”? Could it be a woman perhaps, her friend Mehta, who’d translated Grünewald’s memos? He doubted whether the person scheduled to arrive could, or would, be of help, but he found Celia’s need to explain away her visitor an interesting vulnerability.
He felt a distinct lack of pride standing there. Who she entertained and slept with was none of his business, nor did he cognitively wish it to be. But over the course of the time he’d been involved with her, he’d found himself having more than one carnal thought, the most recent five minutes ago. Celia Sardiña was a hands-down, irrefutable beauty who exuded sensuality without having to try, always the best kind. Of course he was attracted to her. TO JESSICA: I’m like President Jimmy, honey, I only lusted in my heart.
But as he thought about having developed these feelings, he realized that how she lived her life was as much an aphrodisiac as her ample, nicely turned body, full red lips, brilliant white teeth, large, dark oval eyes, and luxurious black hair. She was like him, he realized, drawing energy from danger, regularly replenishing her supply. Behind her external female warmth and softness were ice and steel, which he found at once unsettling and appealing. He’d seen this dichotomy in female agents before. They had an advantage over male operatives in many instances because their femininity was a perfect disguise for what lurked behind it—strong nerves, unshakable resolve, and a steady hand when holding a lethal weapon. Men who knew they were targets kept their guard up when confronted by a male agent. When it was a woman holding the weapon, those same targets never knew what hit them.
He left the corner and walked slowly toward his hotel. It was seven-thirty. Night would soon engulf Havana, masking physical flaws and bringing out beauty, drama, and a licentious soul.
The music! It was time for the music to start.
He had three hours before Celia would call. Was she lying when she said Nico would come up with the goods by the following evening? Whether he does or not, I’m leaving, he thought as he continued to walk. He was ambivalent about how to spend the next three hours. Should he go into hiding because of what had occurred in the plaza? He decided that wasn’t necessary. The identity of the would-be assassin was obvious. Those in close proximity had apprehended the gunman. The only reason the cops might want to find him would be because Fidel was summoning the gringo with the busted-up face and the vest to his palace for an awards ceremony. Not likely.
He wasn’t hungry. There was some appeal in stretching out on the bed in his hotel and watching TV, viewing the party line on the Castro attack. He had a craving for ice cream, and smiled. First Chinese food in Havana, then ice cream. Could he be pregnant?
He hadn’t made up his mind what to do until he turned a corner and was in Plaza de Armas, the city’s oldest square. It was bustling already, the dozen or so outdoor cafés filled with men and women enjoying the balmy early evening, music coming from an orchestra performing at the square’s far end. He stopped in front of one café with a few vacant tables, sat at one, and ordered a mojito. He sat back, stretched his legs, and took a sip. The rum and citrus dropped a veil of well-being over him. He thought about bringing Jessica here one day after Castro was gone and Communism with him. Meanwhile, the parade of men and women entertained, as such processions always do when enjoyed from a table in a friendly outdoor café. A few women, walking with deliberate slowness, openly flirted with him, which he enjoyed, raising his glass and smiling, but having to wave away two who mistook his toast as an invitation.
The drink, coupled with the events of the past twenty-four hours, made him drowsy. He decided to leave. He paid the check and was poised to stand when his attention was drawn to the opposite side of the street. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. Erich Weinert stood in front of a café. With him was a skinny young Cuban girl, no older than sixteen, who came up to his chest, and whose hair was black with blond streaks. The big German wore his black suit and wraparound sunglasses. Pauling watched as they took a table that had just been vacated. Weinert had a big smile on his square face, a smug, contented smile; an Arnold Schwarzenegger wannabe. The girl was openly, professionally affectionate, nuzzling his neck and running her fingertips over his chest.
“Señor, you want something else?” the waiter asked Pauling.
“What? No. No, gracias.” He waited for the German to turn and kiss the girl before he stood, left the table, and ducked inside the café. Rest rooms and a door were at the rear. Pauling exited into an alley wedged behind the row of buildings that housed the cafés and shops. He ran until coming back to the boulevard, which he crossed, and approached the café where Weinert sat with the girl. Pauling stopped behind a tree to observe the couple. He had no idea what he intended to do, nor was organizing a plan important to him at that moment. He just knew that he owed Blondie something, not only for being jumped by him on the roof of the hotel, but because of Grünewald. But he didn’t suffer any delusions about achieving justice for Kurt Grünewald, unless he killed Weinert, which he wasn’t about to do. It was tempting.
Wha
t were the couple’s plans? An ice cream cone at the park? Take in a Walt Disney movie? German lessons for her? If Pauling was going to be able to do anything, he knew, it would have to be when they weren’t in a crowd. He didn’t need to be arrested again.
After fifteen minutes, he decided to give it up and head for his hotel. Blondie had been downing beers while the girl continued to fawn and paw over him. But then Weinert suddenly pushed her away, hard enough to send her off the chair and to the concrete. Customers at adjacent tables yelled at him as the girl got to her feet and started screaming at him in Spanish, not terms of endearment. Weinert stood and answered the girl and his detractors in loud German. He was drunk and almost tipped over his table as he pushed her to the ground again, lurching to the sidewalk, knocking into people as he went. The girl continued to scream Spanish obscenities but Weinert ignored her and strode up the street in Pauling’s direction.
Pauling turned toward the tree; the man passed without noticing him. The German’s gait was unsteady but arrogant, a swagger more than a walk. He was muttering in German, oblivious to the fading shouts from the girl and customers in the café. Pauling fell in behind and followed him for two blocks until the German suddenly crossed the street and entered a pocket park. Pauling stopped at the park’s entrance and observed Weinert going to a bench and sitting heavily on it, legs extended in front of him, arms on the bench’s backrest. He pulled off his sunglasses and dropped them on the bench. They slid off, but he didn’t bother to retrieve them. Pauling thought of Kurt Grünewald’s drunkenness and how different it was from Weinert’s. Grünewald was an alcoholic, pure and simple. Weinert probably wasn’t, just an oaf who guzzled too many beers on occasion, particularly when out on the town with a girl on his arm. What had caused him to physically reject her in the café? It didn’t matter. Pauling didn’t dwell on those questions. Act now, he told himself, or forget about it.
He approached the bench, which was only a dozen feet inside the park. They were the only two people there, although recorded Cuban music coming from behind bushes indicated someone else in the vicinity. Weinert’s eyes were closed; his head flopped against the backrest. Pauling slipped the Glock from his vest, sat silently on the bench, and slid over. The German sensed a presence, opened his eyes, and turned in Pauling’s direction to find himself looking directly into the semiautomatic’s barrel that Pauling held a few inches from his head.
Murder in Havana Page 22
