Murder in Havana Page 16

  “I am asked,” Castro told his Algerian visitor, “what was lost and gained in the Revolution. I tell them that the Cuban people gained better education, health care, and sports. What was lost? Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  He laughed at his own joke, and so did the Algerian. Castro’s aides knew it was one of their leader’s favorite jokes. They also knew that only he was allowed to tell it.

  Others were not as full of joy as the ex-senator and the Maximum Leader.

  In the back room of the art gallery on Calle Obispo, where the anti-Castro forces in Cuba maintained their satellite telephone system, the gallery owner sat with three others, one of whom, a young man, had just arrived with a cassette tape. They huddled around a small table as the tape began to play in a battery-powered recorder.

  Castro: “I made a pledge when the Revolution was successful that I would cure cancer. I keep my word. Our scientists are the best in the world. We are on the verge of eradicating cancer as we did with malaria and polio and diphtheria and measles. We have one doctor for every two hundred citizens, twice as many per capita as your country.”

  McCullough: “Your system of health care is the envy of every nation in Latin America.”

  Castro: “Of every nation in the world. Medical care is available to every citizen free of charge. My people are healthy and happy because they do not need to worry about paying for health, unlike the situation in your country where millions of the poor do not have care. We have managed this despite your embargo that is hateful and cruel.”

  McCullough: (Unintelligible)

  Castro: “I will tell you and the American hatemongers again—”

  He continued to berate the United States without a word of protest from McCullough. Then:

  Castro: “You will give credit to Cuba and our scientists for discovering these cancer cures.”

  McCullough: “Of course, Mr. Prime Minister. That’s part of the agreement, when we can market the results of your research in the U.S., buying it ostensibly from our German colleagues.”

  Castro: “And your friend President Walden, he will be encouraged to change your Congress and the embargo against my people.”

  McCullough: “I’ve agreed to that, too, Mr. Prime Minister. The embargo has been a mistake from the beginning. I believe I have enough influence on the president, as well as with certain members of Congress, to bring about a change.”

  A series of quick thoughts had come and gone in McCullough’s mind as he had given these assurances to the dictator. One man couldn’t do it all. But it wouldn’t take any influence on Walden to get him to alter his posture on Cuba. It would add to his already sizable legacy if relations could be profitably established with Castro and Cuba during his administration. McCullough also thought of what Walden had confided to him at Camp David. As they sat in the secluded wooded area, late at night, he’d whispered, “Castro’s getting ready to pack it in, Price. Our intelligence tells us that he’s close to relinquishing power to his brother and getting out while the getting’s good.”

  That Castro was now calling privately for an end to the embargo, not in the usual public display meant to show his tough stance against the yanqui Imperialists, but in real terms, was telling. Everyone knew that the embargo was the best thing that had happened to Castro. It gave him a scapegoat to blame for all that was wrong within his country. Improve relations? He was getting ready to leave.

  The tape went silent until the sound of a chair moving, and a door being closed, were heard.

  The gallery owner stopped the tape and looked to the young man who’d brought it.

  “This meeting was today?” the gallery owner asked.

  “Sí.”

  “Who taped it?”

  “I would not like to say. A friend. In the government.” He stroked his chin, then ran his index finger across his throat.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So, the rumors must be true,” a shopkeeper said. “He will sell everything he can, take the money for himself, and flee.”

  “What do we do with this information?” the one woman in the room asked.

  “There are people who must be informed,” replied the gallery owner. “Now!”

  Pauling had been taken to an unmarked building on the Prado, officially known as Paseo de Martí. Inside, it had the usual trappings—a desk and desk sergeant, scarred benches, grungy walls, unpleasant, unidentifiable odors. After being photographed and fingerprinted, he was led to the quintessential interrogation room complete with a table, two wooden chairs, stone floor, and no windows. There was a yellow legal pad and a dirty ashtray. He was asked for his wallet and passport, which he handed over. The plainclothes detective who’d taken him from the hotel instructed one of the uniformed officers to remove the cuffs from one hand; the free end was then attached to one of the table’s legs. The detective removed his suit jacket, carefully hung it on a peg protruding from the wall, pulled out a pack of Populares, lighted up, and offered one to Pauling, who shook his head. The detective took a sheet of paper from his jacket and laid it on the table.

  Mr. Pauling at Hotel Comodoro at 7:30. Staying

  Hotel Habana Riviera. Tropicana after dinner.

  “What’s this?” Pauling asked.

  “That is for you to tell me, Señor Pauling. Before that, I should introduce myself.” He handed Pauling his card. “I am Senior Detective Francisco Muñoz, Policía Nacional Revolucionaria.” He spoke textbook English, with a trace of British accent.

  “I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Pauling said, “but it isn’t. Why have I been arrested?”

  Muñoz nodded at the handwritten note.

  “It says someone was meeting me tonight. So what?”

  “That someone was?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but his name was Grünewald. A German. We had a few drinks and dinner, then went to see the show at the Tropicana.”

  “Did you enjoy the show?”

  “Yes. Now, about this note. What’s it mean to me? Or to you?”

  “It was found in Mr. Grünewald’s apartment.”

  “Is there some Cuban law against having dinner with a friend and catching a show?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You said you wanted to talk to me about murder. What murder? Whose murder?”

  “Señor Grünewald.”

  “Jesus,” Pauling muttered, and exhaled. Muñoz sat silently.

  Pauling absorbed the shock, then looked up. “You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?”

  The detective shrugged and lit another cigarette.

  “Look,” Pauling said, coming forward and pushing the note with his free hand toward Muñoz, “I barely knew Grünewald, and I sure as hell didn’t have any reason to kill him.”

  “I thought you said you were friends.”

  “In a manner of speaking. We were just a couple of bored guys out on the town.”

  “What are you doing in Havana?”

  “I’m a pilot. I delivered some medical supplies here from an export company in Colombia, Cali Forwarding.” He fished in his pockets and came up with the business card, which the detective looked at for a moment, then dropped to the table.

  “You say Grünewald has been murdered? Where?”

  “His apartment. You went there with him?”

  “No. We shared a taxi back from the Tropicana. I dropped him off in front of his apartment building.”

  “He was drunk?”

  “Very. He dropped his keys a few times.”

  “And you didn’t stay with him until he entered the building?”

  “No, I didn’t. I figured he’d eventually make it inside and sleep it off.”

  “I see.” Muñoz picked up a pencil and twirled it between his fingers. “How did you meet Señor Grünewald?”

  “An accident. I was looking for an address and wandered into Grünewald’s building by mistake. He gave me his business card and I called him later in the day. He sugges
ted dinner and the show.”

  “That was the extent of your relationship?”

  “That’s right. How was he killed?”

  Muñoz ignored Pauling’s question. “You say you flew medical supplies to Havana. Why did you not leave Cuba after that?”

  “My employer, Cali Forwarding, arranged for me to make weekly flights. I have a week off between flights.”

  “You are an American.”

  “Right.”

  “Working for a Colombian company.”

  “I’m an independent contractor and a private pilot. I work for many different companies. Could I see that note again?”

  The detective slid it in front of Pauling.

  “Grünewald didn’t write this note,” Pauling said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You said it was found in his apartment?”

  “That is correct.”

  “In the first place, Grünewald went directly from his office to the hotel. He told me that. He couldn’t wait to get to the bar. He didn’t stop home. He had one hell of a drinking problem. Or maybe it was a loneliness problem.”

  “Go on.”

  “The note says we were meeting at seven-thirty. We met at seven. Why would he write seven-thirty?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He was drunk when I got there at seven. He’d obviously arrived earlier than I did. Look, Detective Muñoz, I know you’ve got a job to do, a murder to investigate. How was he killed?”

  “It appears he was strangled. An autopsy will be performed.”

  “You’re sure he was murdered? He was a heart attack waiting to happen.”

  “There were signs of foul play.”

  Another detective entered the room, handed Muñoz a piece of paper, and left.

  “I’m telling you,” Pauling said, “I had nothing to do with Grünewald’s death. I’m sorry it happened. He said he had family back in Germany. Heidelberg. I know he had a daughter because he mentioned her. And his wife’s alive. At least he spoke about her as though she was.”

  “He worked for a German pharmaceutical company,” the detective said.

  “That’s right. Strauss something or other.”

  “Strauss-Lochner Resources. Did you and he discuss his business?”

  “No. He did say that there were two other people who worked for him, a Cuban woman, his secretary, and a young blond guy who’d recently accompanied him back from Heidelberg.”

  “Blond? Why would he specify blond hair?”

  “He laughed about this guy’s funny haircut. That’s when he mentioned he was blond.”

  “His name?”

  Pauling shrugged and fought an urge to join the chain-smoking detective.

  Muñoz sighed and smiled at Pauling. He held up the paper he’d been handed and gave it a shake. “We contacted your Interests Section, Señor Pauling. Because we do not have full diplomatic relations with your country, the people there have little—I believe the word is ‘clout’—with us. But we are a nation of laws, and do what we can to assist visitors in the situation you find yourself in.”

  For the first time, Pauling expressed anger. He leaned across the table and fairly growled, “ ‘The situation I find myself in’? There is no situation. I didn’t have anything to do with Grünewald’s murder, if it was murder. I want a lawyer.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  He went to the door and summoned a uniformed officer with keys to Pauling’s handcuffs, who unlocked them and left the room. Pauling rubbed his wrist, stood, and stretched against a pain in his lower back. He looked at Muñoz. “I’m free to go?”

  “Yes. Your wallet and passport are at the desk.”

  “Just like that?”

  The detective chuckled. “Just like that,” he said. “I do ask that you not leave Havana until we have had a chance to investigate further. When did you plan to leave for Colombia to pick up your next delivery?”

  “A few days.”

  “That may have to be delayed.”

  “That’s all right. I assume the Interests Section said the right things.”

  “I am not free to discuss conversations we might have had with them. Thank you for your cooperation, Señor Pauling. We will be in touch again.”

  Pauling walked from the room and went to the desk where he was handed his wallet and passport. They hadn’t frisked him; his Glock semiautomatic hadn’t been touched, nor had the photocopies of the pages from Grünewald’s office. Strange procedure, he mused as he stepped out onto the street. Trusting, these Cuban cops, nothing like he’d been led to believe about their brutal tactics. Muñoz had been courteous to a fault. Of course, Pauling reasoned, he hadn’t been detained for a political crime. Maybe murder, especially of a foreigner, was considered a misdemeanor compared to crimes against Castro and the state.

  He got his bearings and walked in the direction of his hotel. While a guest in the interrogation room, he hadn’t spent much time thinking about the dead Kurt Grünewald. As he told the detective, he barely knew him. Now he visualized the corpulent, drunken German lying dead on his apartment floor, eyes bulging, tongue hanging out if he had, as Muñoz claimed, been strangled. It was a disturbing picture. But then the movie screen in his head added another person, Blondie, who had been thrust upon Grünewald by his superiors. Had he been Grünewald’s executioner—on orders from Heidelberg? Or had it been a Cuban with a grudge? Maybe Grünewald wasn’t the straight arrow he claimed to be. Maybe he’d gotten involved with a Cuban woman whose macho husband wasn’t happy about it. Or maybe Kurt had flashed too many pesos in front of the wrong person.

  Or …

  My money’s on the blond one, Pauling decided as he approached Hotel Habana Riviera. As he prepared to cross the street, an unmarked PNR car containing two men, one in uniform, slowly passed. Its occupants’ attention was openly on him.

  Great, he thought. They may have let me go easily, but they’ll be watching me every minute. So will Peroxide, unless he killed Grünewald and is on the next plane to Deutschland. The big German looked physically strong, but as a tail he’s been a flop. A big, dumb palooka with schnitzel for brains. And a killer?

  He went to his room and decided to call Celia. If she woke up like a beast, so be it. He wasn’t in an especially good mood, either. She answered groggily.

  “Sorry to wake you, but I have to see you.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference. Where can we meet?”

  There was no sound on the other end.

  “Celia?”

  “Give me an hour. The Hotel Habana Libre, in the Vedado District, across from the Coppelia Ice Cream Park. There’s a bar on the twenty-fifth floor.”

  “Ice cream park?”

  “Wear a jacket.”

  “It’s open this late?”

  “This is Havana. An hour.”

  The Hotel Habana Libre was another ugly Havana building, built by the Hilton crowd during the final few months of the Batista regime. After the Revolution, Castro, who took over multiple floors and governed from there during the earliest days of his reign, made a habit of shooting the breeze with kitchen staff late at night. He ended that cheerful nightly habit when a cyanide capsule, which was supposed to have been slipped into one of his favorite chocolate milk shakes, was discovered broken in the freezer. Castro stopped eating there.

  Pauling went through the surprisingly dismal lobby where a few tired-looking jinteras tried to salvage the night, and took the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor. A burly Cuban collected an entrance fee at the door, in dollars only. The view had better be worth it, Pauling thought as he paid. It turned out not to be a value. Celia was already at the bar. Her sour expression shouted that she wasn’t happy. A bluesy tune played by a young Cuban pianist confirmed her mood.

  “Hi,” he said, sliding onto a bar stool next to her.

  “Why did you have to see me?” she asked.

  “Strictly lust.”

 
She turned angrily from him and drew her drink through a straw. She’d removed the tiny paper parasol from the cocktail and laid it on the bar.

  “I just spent a pleasant hour in handcuffs at one of your local police stations.”

  She slowly turned. “Why?” she asked.

  “A little mix-up. I spent the evening with the German from Strauss-Lochner, Kurt Grünewald. We had dinner and took in the show at the Tropicana.”

  “Why?”

  “Is that the only question you can ask?”

  She resumed drinking.

  “After I left Herr Grünewald, somebody strangled him in his apartment. They think I might have done it.”

  “Why?”

  He laughed. The bartender approached, and Pauling ordered a Cuba Libre, more for the Coke than the rum.

  “Why did they think I killed him? Because whoever did wrote a dumb note, supposedly by Grünewald, indicating I was with him. Even the cop who questioned me saw through it.”

  “And they let you go.”

  “I’m sitting here. Somebody at the Interests Section must have said the magic word. What do you hear from Nico?”

  “Nothing yet. You’ll have to continue without me.”

  “Why?”

  Now it was her turn to smile. “Is that the only question you can ask?”

  “Why can’t you continue? Because I was arrested? Can’t be seen with an alleged murderer?”

  “I was told.”

  “Told what?”

  “That I am not to help you anymore.”

  “Who?”

  “Easier to answer than why.”

  “Gosling?”

  She nodded.

  “Great,” Pauling muttered. “How am I supposed to wrap this up without help? Nico’s your boy.”

  “It doesn’t have to be right away, Max. I can give it a few more days. Hopefully, by then, you’ll have what you need.”

  “ ‘Hopefully’ is a word I’ve never put much faith in. Can you reach Nico?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do it.”

  “All right. Why did you go to dinner with the German?”

  “To see what I could find out from him about the deal between his company and McCullough’s. He drinks. Or did.”