Murder in Havana Read online

  More praise for Margaret Truman and her Capital Crimes mysteries

  “Truman has settled firmly into a career of writing murder mysteries, all evoking brilliantly the Washington she knows so well.”

  —The Houston Post

  “She’s up-to-the-minute. And she’s good.”

  —Associated Press

  “Truman ‘knows the forks’ in the nation’s capital and how to pitchfork her readers into a web of murder and detection.”

  —The Christian Science Monitor

  “An author whose inside knowledge of Washington is matched by her ability to spin a compelling mystery plot.”

  —Crime Times

  While set in a real place, this book is a work of fiction. The characters and events are products of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people is unintended. In the few instances where well-known or real names are used, the related characters, incidents, or dialogues are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict any actual people or events.

  A Fawcett Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2001 by Margaret Truman

  Excerpt from Murder at Ford’s Theatre by Margaret Truman copyright © 2002 by Margaret Truman

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  FAWCETT is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  eISBN: 978-1-58836-019-9

  This edition published by arrangement with Random House, Inc.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue: Langley, Virginia

  Chapter 1: New Mexico

  Chapter 2: New Mexico

  Chapter 3: New Mexico

  Chapter 4: San Francisco

  Chapter 5: Pittsburgh

  Chapter 6: Camp David

  Chapter 7: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 8: Miami

  Chapter 9: Havana

  Chapter 10: Havana

  Chapter 11: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 12: Havana

  Chapter 13: Heidelberg

  Chapter 14: Havana

  Chapter 15: Havana

  Chapter 16: Havana

  Chapter 17: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 18: Havana

  Chapter 19: Havana

  Chapter 20: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 21: London

  Chapter 22: Havana

  Chapter 23: Havana

  Chapter 24: Havana

  Chapter 25: Havana

  Chapter 26: Havana

  Chapter 27: Langley, Virginia

  Chapter 28: Havana

  Chapter 29: Havana

  Chapter 30: Havana

  Chapter 31: Havana

  Chapter 32: Havana

  Chapter 33: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 34: Havana

  Chapter 35: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 36: Havana

  Chapter 37: Havana

  Chapter 38: Havana

  Chapter 39: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 40: Havana

  Chapter 41: Havana

  Chapter 42: Havana

  Chapter 43: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 44: Havana

  Chapter 45: Havana

  Chapter 46: Havana

  Chapter 47: New Mexico

  Chapter 48: Havana

  Chapter 49: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 50: New Mexico

  Afterword: Langley, Virginia

  Dedication

  Excerpt from Murder at Ford’s Theatre

  Other Books by This Author

  “How did you feel when you killed him?”

  “How did I feel?”

  “Yes.”

  “I—I didn’t especially feel anything.”

  “Nothing? Not a moment of doubt? Of guilt?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I knew of him.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I knew who he was. I knew what he was.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  A bemused raised eyebrow preceded, “He didn’t have time to react. It’s best that way.”

  “I see.” He added to notes he’d been making. “How do you feel now?”

  “Fine.”

  “Trouble sleeping? Nightmares?”

  “Of course not.”

  The sound of a window air conditioner gently bridged the lull.

  “You’ll be gone for two months,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Where will you go?” he asked, knowing it was a question that would not be answered. His was not a need-to-know.

  Silence.

  He made another note and closed the black leather portfolio resting on his lap. “Thank you for coming in.”

  The opening of the door allowed the sound of office equipment to enter the room. The door’s closing abruptly restored the hush. He opened the portfolio and wrote CLEARED, which reflected his psychiatric judgment, closed it, went to a safe in a corner of the austere room, opened it, placed the folio inside, closed the door, spun the wheel, checked the door, then returned to his desk and dialed a number.

  “I’m leaving,” he said. “See you at home.”

  In a moment, he would exit the building and get behind the wheel of his Cherokee. If the traffic cooperated, he’d be in time to catch the final few innings of the game.

  Max Pauling left the private airport outside Albuquerque, New Mexico, at six in the morning and flew to a small airstrip in Arizona, near the town of Maverick, on the southern rim of the White Mountains. There, his single-engine, fixed-landing-gear Cessna 182S was loaded with God knows what. The dozen pea-green canvas bags were wrapped with duct tape, low-tech security. He didn’t care what was in them. He’d made the point when signing on to transport materials from Maverick that drugs were off-limits, and was assured none were involved. None, that is, if you could believe what they said, “they” being agents of his former employer, who had a reputation for many things. Consistent truth telling was not one of them.

  The man who’d pulled the green pickup truck to the side of the aircraft and unloaded the bags from its bed had small lumps all over his face, some obscure disease, Pauling figured, that made him look strange but probably wouldn’t kill him, though it didn’t do much for Max’s morale. Other than that, the man seemed average in all ways.

  “Nice plane,” he said.

  “I like it,” Pauling said.

  He’d bought it used two years ago from a Maryland flying club after returning from a seven-year stint in Moscow, ostensibly as a member of the Trade and Commerce Division of the U.S. embassy, but more accurately on assignment for the CIA. There were more up-to-date single-engine aircraft, and more expensive ones, but this one suited Pauling just fine. He’d loaded it with modern avionics; he was instrument rated, which allowed him to fly in IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) conditions, while private pilots rated VFR (Visual Flight Rules) sat on the ground until they could see where they were going. His recently earned multiengine rating turned out to be more frustrating than pleasing. He was now licensed to pilot twin-engine aircraft, but couldn’t afford one. Whoever said life was fair?

  The man with the knobby face told Pauling to have a nice trip and drove off, his pickup kicking up yellow dust from the dirt strip. Pauling looked around. There wasn’t another person to be seen. Because Maverick did not have a refueling facility, he’
d topped off the tanks back in Albuquerque. He knew there would be fuel at his next stop because he’d taken on some there on previous trips.

  He did a walk-around of the plane to check for obvious external problems, climbed into the left seat, strapped the clipboard holding the aeronautical chart to the top of his right thigh, started the engine, checked gauges, ran over the preflight checklist, taxied to the downwind end of the runway, pushed down on the brakes with his toes, advanced the throttle to the firewall, waited a moment for the engine to reach maximum power, released the brakes, and bounced down the strip until pulling back on the yoke and lifting off. The lifeless, unrelieved sameness of Maverick, Arizona, fell away below.

  He glanced at some of the green bags piled on the right-hand seat; the bulk of the cargo had been loaded in the back. He looked on the floor to make sure his survival kit was there, felt beneath the instrument panel where an Austrian Glock nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol was securely strapped, and pulled a slip of paper from one of twenty-six pockets in the tan photojournalist’s vest he wore, the many pockets his answer to a woman’s purse. Written on the paper were instructions for crossing the Mexican border. Pauling had committed them to memory, but like any good pilot he depended upon lists to back up his brain. He was to be at precisely three thousand feet when he crossed the border two miles east of Douglas, Arizona, then bank hard right and pass over the Mexican town of Agua Prieta, set a course of 210 degrees, and fly to an airstrip just east of Hermosillo, where the mountains give way to greener lowlands.

  It was important, he knew, to follow the flight plan with precision. Stray from it and you’d attract the attention of DEA pilots assigned to intercept private aircraft flying in and out of Mexico on the assumption that what they were carrying would ultimately go up somebody’s nose or into someone’s arm. The prescribed route he would fly this day had been worked out with the Drug Enforcement Administration, the CIA, and Mexican authorities. It was hands-off provided he stayed within the approved corridor.

  He crossed the border at three thousand, turned right, and set the autopilot to a 210-degree heading. Heated thermals from the ground caused the small plane to bounce around, as expected on a sunny day in late July. The weather forecast for this area of Mexico, and for Albuquerque, was fair, no need to rush to get back home once he’d set down. He settled back and had an urge for a cigarette. Although he’d kicked the habit ten years ago, the yearning still surfaced at predictable times—at theater intermissions, over the first cup of coffee in the morning, and when cruising on autopilot. His thoughts drifted to Jessica, the love of his life, or at least his second life. Together, they had moved to New Mexico from moonstruck Washington, D.C., more than a year ago after giving up government jobs and heading west in search of sanity, which they found in Albuquerque. He spent most of his days teaching well-heeled men and women to fly. Jessica went to work as an administrator at a local hospital during the week, and spent most weekends indulging her life’s passion, bird watching, which held little interest for Max unless the bird was metal and powered by a Lycoming humming at 2,700 rpms.

  Pauling began his descent into the airfield hacked out of a heavily forested area outside Hermosillo, set up for a straight-in approach, cleared trees at the east end of the strip by fifty feet, and touched down smoothly. The ruts in the ground weren’t shallow, however, and he cursed as he fought to keep the Cessna straight.

  The camp at Hermosillo for training anti-Castro Cuban-Americans had been established within the past year with the cooperation of Mexican authorities after media scrutiny of Florida training facilities had become nettlesome. In the time-honored spirit of all things military, the camp’s leaders eschewed naming the new facility something simple like Camp Number Four, or The Mexican Camp, favoring a more mysterious and symbolic designation. It was known as Timba Candente—“Timba,” the frenetic new Cuban dance music, “Candente,” Spanish for red-hot. Red-hot Cuban music for red-hot anti-Castro Cuban-Americans in mottled green-and-brown uniforms, with AK-47s, mortars, grenades, and World War II flamethrowers.

  A man, large in all ways—head, chest, shoulders, and arms—stood at the wing tip as Pauling scrambled down. He wore military-issue camouflage pants with ties at the ankles and ankle-high combat boots. His enormous naked torso and bald head were sunburned to leather; sweat so uniformly covered him that it was as though someone had applied it with care. He was older than he looked; a bush of white chest hair gave that away.

  “Look who’s here,” he said in a gravelly voice that matched his physique. “Federal Express.”

  “Hello, Morry,” Pauling said, pulling out sunglasses he’d put in a pocket after landing.

  Morry grabbed a wing tip of the Cessna and moved it up and down. “What’s the matter, Pauling, they don’t pay you enough to buy a real plane?”

  “You ever hear of austerity budgets? I fly cheap. But good. What’s for lunch?”

  Morry, whose last name was Popovich, barked at two young Cubans in fatigues a dozen feet away, “Unload the plane. Pronto!” To Pauling: “These Cubans are itching to go into Cuba and fight a war, but everything’s mañana. All they think about is their novias back home.”

  “What’s a novia?”

  “Hey, Pauling, if you’re going to help the dump-Castro movement, learn the language. Novia. Girlfriend. Sweetheart.”

  They walked toward a low-slung building with a tin roof and unpainted plywood walls. Two through-the-wall air conditioners powered by generators hummed like large insects. Dozens of green military tents were lined up at the western edge of the camp. Adjacent was an obstacle course dominated by a wooden tower, the top of which disappeared into palm trees.

  “You convert yet?” Pauling asked as they stopped in front of a small altar of sorts, off to the side of the entrance to the headquarters building. It was a boveda, spirit altar of the Cuban religion Santeria. Candles, glasses of water, and small photos of deceased family members of recruits at the facility were neatly arranged on a white sheet.

  Popovich snorted. “Hell, no.” He patted his holstered side arm. “This is all the religion I need.”

  They turned as a dozen young Hispanic men in combat fatigues and carrying rifles jogged by, prodded by the shouting of a Caucasian instructor who kept step with them.

  “You’re wasting your time, Morry,” Pauling said casually as the unit passed.

  “What’a you mean?”

  “Training this ragtag army to topple Castro. It’s going to happen without one shot fired.”

  “Is that so? What the hell do you know?”

  “Read the papers, Morry,” Pauling said as they entered the building. “We’re gradually softening up on Castro: the administration, Congress, public sentiment. Elián helped. McDonald’s and Motel 8 will do the invading.”

  “Bull! The only way that scumbag dictator will leave is when we take him out in a box.”

  Pauling smiled. “And not good for your career, huh, if the diplomats and pols win the war?”

  “Bull! If it isn’t Castro, it’ll be some other tinhorn troublemaker. Chávez in Venezuela. Gadhafi. What are you doing, Pauling, going soft?”

  “No, I’m not getting soft, Morry. Getting a little older, maybe, and wiser. What’s for lunch?”

  A young Cuban in uniform tossed a snappy salute at Popovich and Pauling as they ducked through the door. The interior consisted of one large room with scarred dining tables and folding chairs. Two weary ceiling fans were hung low enough to decapitate tall people, slowly. At one end, more tables created a separation between the main room and a kitchen. On one wall was a large blowup of a map of Cuba; multicolored pins clustered in various locations indicated, Pauling assumed, potential targets, although he’d never bothered to ask. He’d had his fill of pins in maps when he was with the CIA and had functioned in a similar capacity with the State Department. War games. Pins. He’d outgrown them.

  They went to the kitchen area where three Hispanics stirred something in large vats and turn
ed innominate meat on a grill. A crude, handwritten sign was strung across the wall: “Este año con valentia, disciplina y honor Cuba sera libre del tirano Castro.” It hadn’t been there the last time. “What’s it say?” Pauling asked.

  “Cuba will be free from Castro’s tyranny this year. Discipline, honor, the usual bull.”

  “You don’t sound convinced,” said Pauling.

  “What’s for lunch? You want to know?” Popovich said, ignoring the comment. “Cuban cuisine. They call it El Campo. Country food or something. Beans. Black beans and red beans. Rice. And always el plátano grande—plantains. They fry ’em, steam ’em, squash ’em, boil ’em. No American food, Pauling, because your friends back in Langley think it would be bad for morale if officers eat different from the troops.”

  “They’re right,” Pauling said with a smile. “And by the way, I don’t have friends back at Langley.”

  “Oh, I forgot. You retired.” Popovich had a way of making a point by stressing certain words, stretching out their pronunciation, and smirking as he did so. “You keep in touch with Hoctor?”

  “No.” Tom Hoctor had been Pauling’s “handler” for much of his career as an operative for the CIA.

  “How’s retired life?” Popovich asked.

  “Nice.”

  “Except you’re playing messenger for your ex-employer. That doesn’t sound like retirement to me.”

  “Just dabbling,” Pauling said. “I like to fly.”

  They turned at the sound of the screen door slamming.

  “Vic?” Pauling said to the tall, trim man who’d entered.

  “Hello, Max,” Vic Gosling said, crossing the room and shaking Pauling’s hand. “I heard you were coming in today.” His accent indicated he was British, or American-pretentious.

  “I thought you were out of the loop,” Pauling said. “I am, most of the time. Is Morry here playing the perfect host?”

  “I been teaching him Spanish,” the burly Popovich said. “He’s a slow learner.” With that he left the building.

  “Staying for lunch?” Gosling asked as he pulled out a chair and folded himself into it. He wore faded blue jeans, a white T-shirt not marred by any designer name, and white sneakers. He noted Pauling’s blue air force jumpsuit with the faded outline where wings had once been sewn. “You look like you’re still flying combat, Max,” he said.