Hoctor got out of his chair and closed the gap between them. His thin, sharply chiseled face was red, his mouth a gash. He spoke like one of those digital voices used to read back credit card numbers over the phone.
“You are a horse’s ass, Pauling. As far as Americans are concerned, you’re a murderer. TV coverage of Price McCullough’s assassination has seen to that. The Cubans want you, too. Ever been in a Cuban jail, Max? I haven’t, but I understand they make Attica look like a Four Seasons hotel. Despite your pigheadedness, there are those of us who care about you and want to help you out of this mess you’ve created. You need us, Max. You need me. Wear that ridiculous hat if you must, but come with me. I’m sure Vic Gosling will understand that events beyond your control prohibited you from completing the assignment for him.”
While Hoctor gave his speech, Pauling used the time to review his options. Obviously, Hoctor wasn’t about to back down, leave, and wave adios on his way out. Despite the little man’s proclamation about wanting to help, Pauling knew there was nothing personal about it. Doing personal favors wasn’t in Hoctor’s job description.
Pauling remembered when he’d been sent to Russia by the State Department to track down the source of Soviet-made SAM missiles that had been used for attacks on American airliners. While in Moscow, he’d reported to an old and dear friend, Bill Lerner, a CIA veteran, who operated out of the American embassy. Lerner had been involved in a long-term, low-profile affair with a lovely, mature Russian woman, Elena Alekseyevna. Consorting with the enemy, sleeping with the enemy, was frowned upon by agency brass, although those who knew about Lerner’s relationship had tended to look the other way—until Lerner was compromised by a Russian banker for whom Elena worked.
The situation didn’t involve state secrets; no national security on either side had been compromised. It was money, pure and simple. Hoctor had gone to Moscow to help bail Pauling out of a dangerous situation—yes, trouble did seem to follow him—and succeeded. But as they readied to leave Moscow, Pauling stopped by Lerner’s apartment to say good-bye and found his friend dead on the bathroom floor. Hoctor, who was at the apartment when Pauling arrived, claimed he’d found Lerner dead, apparently of a heart attack. Pauling had no choice but to believe it; their departure was scheduled for only hours later. But he had never forgotten Hoctor’s words when asked whether Lerner had been eliminated. “We make our choices in this world, Max, and live with the consequences. The only choice you have now is to come with me. The plane is waiting.”
The only choice you have now is to come with me.
If, in Hoctor’s opinion—which would reflect those of many others—he, Pauling, posed a serious risk to America’s interests should he be incarcerated and used as a propaganda tool by Castro, Hoctor and the agency he represented would ensure that this didn’t happen.
We make our choices in this world, Max, and live with the consequences.
“Okay,” Pauling said. “Let’s go.”
Normal color returned to Hoctor’s face, and he smiled. “You still have some reasoning powers left, Max,” he said.
They went through the front door and to the sidewalk. Pauling didn’t turn his head, but allowed his eyes to pivot left and right. He saw a shiny new black sedan at one corner, its front end protruding beyond the intersection. At the other end of the street was a similar vehicle.
“Damn!” Pauling said.
“What’s the matter?” Hoctor asked.
“I forgot to lock Isabella’s door. I told her I’d do it when I left.”
Hoctor started to tell him to forget the lock, but Pauling bounded back up the steps, went through the front door and left it open, headed straight for the kitchen, opened the back door in that room, and saw, for the first time, the layout behind the building, a postage stamp–sized yard littered with discarded tires, fenders, and other automotive parts from the scrap heap. There was no fence. He jumped over a pile of tires and ran into a neighboring yard as Hoctor came to the open kitchen door and shouted, “Max!”
Pauling didn’t pause to respond. You can’t trust anybody, he thought as he kept running, never looking back. The sobering realization was that at that moment, he trusted Fidel Castro more than his own CIA.
Dr. Caldoza called his office first thing that morning to inform them he would be coming in late, probably not until midafternoon. He hadn’t slept all night. He and his wife, Maria, had sat in their kitchen in the house in Vedado that had been their home for many years, drinking coffee and talking, their voices low and urgent, sadness in their eyes as they sought to come to grips with the dramatic change that was about to occur in their lives.
“The choice is not ours,” he said to her, his voice heavy with fatigue. “The forces have been unleashed, Maria. Our only option is to leave.”
Silent tears filled her eyes, and he covered her hand on the table with his. “I have lived all my adult life, Maria, as a loyal Cuban. No one loves his country more than me. But my loyalty also extends to my work. I am a physician, someone who is expected to put the health and well-being of my patients, all patients, before any other consideration. I have been blessed in my life and work. I believe that all the years I have spent attempting to find one or another of the cures for cancer will one day be fruitful.” He squeezed her hand, and his voice took on added urgency. “Think of it, Maria. Think of millions of people suffering from this disease who might find new hope as a result of what we have been able to accomplish.”
“I know,” she said, dabbing at her cheek with a napkin. “But isn’t there another way to make it right without having to leave?”
“I don’t see another way, Maria.” He sat back and rubbed his eyes. “It is such a disappointment, what has happened. I do not believe we, as a people, are better because of the Revolution and the Socialist society we have lived in for more than forty years. But I admired President Castro for his commitment to the health of our citizens. He promised to eradicate cancer in his lifetime, and supported that promise with the money that enabled us to build the laboratories and conduct our research.”
“It was not his fault that the Soviets left, Manuel. The money was stopped.”
“I know, I know, but my disappointment is not because of that. Others have been investing in our work—the Canadians, the French, the Spanish. But they have not made it a condition of their investments that they own the research. They wish to profit as partners. This is different, Maria.” He leaned very close to her and spoke slowly and deliberately, in a whisper. “He is willing to sell my years of work to the highest bidder, Maria. Think of it! He is a traitor!”
“Ssssh,” she said, placing her fingertip to her lips. “The murder on TV. It was the senator whose company was buying the research? That is what you say?”
“Yes. The man they are looking for was sent here to prove that. Pauling is his name.”
“How can you be sure?”
“They told me, Maria. The people here in Havana who plot against—” He stroked his chin. “They are aware of such things. They know such things. They have a tape.”
“But the senator is dead, Manuel. Now maybe the research will not be sold to his company. We will not have to leave.”
Caldoza slowly shook his head. “If it is not his company, Maria, it will be another. Castro’s motives are now clear. He will sell our accomplishments for his personal gain.” Another shake of his head. “The die is cast. We must leave. I expect the call from Washington today, here, at the house. The conference will be held in two weeks in Washington. Dr. Mancuso will request my appearance there. Now that I have already attended a medical conference in the United States and returned to Cuba, they will allow me to attend this conference, too. I have spoken with the minister about allowing you to make such trips with me. I told him that all the doctors at the conferences bring their wives with them. It is expected. He has given permission for you to accompany me to future conferences.”
Her sigh was sustained and reflective of the inner turmoil she
was experiencing.
“We will enjoy a new life in America, Maria, and be closer to our sons. It is the only thing we can do.”
He spent the rest of the morning in his study awaiting the call from Barbara Mancuso at NIH. It came at one that afternoon. The official invitation for him and his wife to attend the medical conference in Bethesda would be sent to him overnight.
“And everything else is arranged, Doctor?” he asked.
“Yes, Dr. Caldoza, everything else is arranged.”
Upon completion of the call, Caldoza went to a large closet, removed a key from his pocket, and used it to open the doors, moved a pair of two-drawer file cabinets out of the way, and pulled an expanding, brown leather briefcase from beneath light blankets that had been piled on it. He took the briefcase to his desk and used another key to open it. Inside were more than a hundred computer Zip disks, each with the memory capacity to hold volumes of information. He pulled one out, read the label, replaced it in the case, locked it, and returned it to the closet. Years of painstaking research into dozens of potentially effective cancer drugs were contained in that briefcase, the originals methodically backed up on the disks.
Until being informed of the tape recording of the meeting between Castro and McCullough, Caldoza hadn’t been sure that something unusual was happening with the labs and the Health Ministry, although he had suspicions. Little things, indiscreet comments, meetings at the Health Ministry attended by the liaison in Havana for the German company, dozens of small, inconclusive events that had led Caldoza to begin questioning the future of his labs. Eventually, he had decided to make a surreptitious second set of backup disks.
His unscheduled meeting with Barbara Mancuso at the American Society of Clinical Oncology meeting in San Francisco had been rushed and decidedly clandestine. If he ever decided to bring his research to NIH, would he be allowed to continue his work with it? “Of course,” was her answer.
“And would you and your superiors intercede on behalf of my wife and me to defect to the United States?”
“I will do everything in my power to accomplish that,” she’d said. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
At that moment, his honest answer to her was, “No.”
But this was a different time. Now there was the tape.
Pauling knew one thing as he ran from yard to yard, ducking clotheslines, zigzagging around obstacles, and hoping the barking of an occasional dog was, indeed, worse than its bite—he had to find a way, and fast, to get as far out of Havana as possible.
A rattletrap Cadillac painted pink and yellow stood at a corner when he emerged from the yards. Its driver, a young Cuban man, appeared to be dozing behind the wheel. Pauling yanked open the rear door and jumped inside, the driver waking with a jolt.
“Taxi, sí?” Pauling said.
“Sí, señor.”
Pauling gave him the address for Cali Forwarding. The driver focused on Pauling in his rearview mirror but didn’t start the car. Pauling leaned over the driver’s seatback and immediately saw the problem. A flyer with his photo lay on the front passenger seat, along with a lethal-looking machete. He considered pulling the Glock. Instead, he took a wad of American money from his pocket and held it up in front of the driver, whose eyes widened. “Look, amigo, this is a mistake,” he said, picking up the flyer. “You speak English?”
“Sí. Yes.”
“No trouble,” Pauling said. “No problemo. Here.” He took his wallet from his pants pocket and displayed more dollars to the driver. “Okay?”
Pauling knew that one of four things could happen. One, the driver could agree to take him, but deliver him to the nearest PNR precinct. Two, he could jump out of the Caddy and run, which would leave Pauling with the vehicle, not much help because he didn’t know where he was going and would probably be picked up as soon as the driver reported his stolen car to the police. Three, the driver could pick up the machete and relieve Pauling of his head. Or four, he would succumb to the lure of mucho American dollars and take his chances transporting a gringo wanted for murder.
“Okay,” the driver said, grabbing the money, shoving it into his shirtfront, and starting the engine.
“What’s your name?” Pauling asked.
“David.”
“David? Okay, David, don’t speed. Don’t attract attention.”
“You, get down,” David said, indicating the backseat.
Pauling nodded and smiled. “Good idea,” he said.
He tossed his hat on the floor, reached under his guayabera, and quietly removed the Glock from his vest as he stretched out on the backseat. The Cuban good-luck charm he’d bought from the street vendor, the collar, came out of the pocket along with the Glock. He rubbed his thumb over it like a worry stone. He didn’t believe in luck, but it couldn’t hurt.
The Caddy’s springs were shot; it felt as though they were riding over railroad ties as the driver maneuvered through Havana traffic and headed in the direction of the airport. Each time he had to stop for a traffic light or an officer directing traffic, Pauling was tempted to raise his head to see what was going on around them. He controlled the urge. He’d made his choice; he was putting faith in David. He wished he’d promised more money. If he could get twenty thousand from Cali Forwarding, there’d be plenty to go around. Nico had been promised ten. Of course, Pauling had also promised Nico a flight to Miami in Pauling’s twin-engine plane. That was out of the question now. Going near that aircraft would be like hoisting a white flag and surrendering. It ran through his mind as David continued the journey that the airplane Vic Gosling had provided was rented. Gosling had asked him to not damage it. Damage it? Try having it become part of Castro’s air force. Funny, he thought, how such irrelevant thoughts run through your mind when the only thing that should be on it is how to save your skin.
He sensed they’d left Havana’s bustle and were now into a less congested area. He brought up his head and looked around. David noticed him and laughed. “Hey, amigo, everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, everything’s okay,” Pauling replied, feeling suddenly relieved that he’d picked the right cabdriver. “Do you want to stay with me all day?”
David frowned as he pondered the question.
“Stay with me all day,” Pauling repeated. “Plenty more money for you. Mucho dinero.”
“Okay, I be with you all day.”
“Great!”
David made a series of wrong turns before finally locating Cali Forwarding. He announced that he had to get oil for the Cadillac. Pauling told the cabby to drop him a hundred yards from the building, get the oil, then return and wait until he’d completed the business inside.
“Okay,” David said, flashing another grin, wider this time. He seemed to be enjoying the excursion quite aside from the payday that promised to be the biggest in his young life.
Pauling got out of the car and watched David drive off, black, noxious smoke billowing from the Caddy’s tailpipe. He may be someone I can trust, Pauling thought, but maybe the car isn’t so trustworthy. Would it get him to the seaside village where Nico promised to be waiting? Would Nico be there alone, or bring the police with him?
One step, one worry, at a time.
He’d been told by Gosling that if he needed money, he was to go to Cali Forwarding, ask for Dominique, and say that Chico had sent him. Hopefully, this Dominique still worked for the company and was on duty that morning, not off on holiday.
The building was low and squat, gray and plain, with only a small sign to the right of the door to indicate the place where Cali Forwarding conducted business. Pauling was relieved there were no police in the area. Either they hadn’t yet learned of his connection with the company, or had already been there and left.
He approached the building and stepped through the door, causing a bell above it to sound his arrival. Dozens of small boxes were piled behind and on the counter. A large poster of Fidel hung high on the wall. Pauling detected the odor of marijuana.
There was a door behind the counter that opened to a large staging area where pallets piled with boxes sat awaiting disposition.
“Hello?” Pauling shouted. “Anybody home?”
He heard sounds beyond the door, but no one appeared. He circumvented the counter and was about to go through the door when a short, wiry man wearing blue coveralls came from behind a pallet and stared at him.
“Buenos días,” Pauling said.
The man said nothing.
“Dominique. I’m looking for Dominique.”
Still no response from the employee, and Pauling wondered whether he was hearing impaired. The man came to the counter, stood as though wanting to activate an inactive vocabulary. Pauling looked at the small yellow nameplate over the breast pocket of his coveralls: DOMINIQUE.
“Chico sent me,” Pauling said.
Dominique continued to stare at Pauling. Pauling removed his reed hat. “You habla inglés?”
A nod before replying, “I speak English. Chico sent you?”
“That’s right.”
“One minute.”
He turned and started through the door. Pauling came around the counter again and said, “I’ll come with you.” For all he knew, Dominique was on his way to call the police from a phone in the back. He followed the Cuban through a large storage area to an unoccupied loading dock where the corrugated metal door was rolled up. When they were outside, Dominique said, “You should not be here. There is trouble.”
“Yeah, I know there’s trouble. Have the police been here?”
“Sí. Last night. This morning. They told me to look for you. I have the picture.”
“Forget about that. I need money. They said you’d give me money.”
“You should not be here,” he repeated. “Leave now.” He waved his hand for emphasis. “Go away. Too much trouble.”
“Look, I am here and I need money. Twenty thousand. Give me twenty thousand and I won’t be here—ever again.”
Murder in Havana Page 28
