Murder in Havana Page 18

  “Your file’s getting thick, Max,” Pauling had been warned as the Langley meeting came to a conclusion, referring to official reprimands that had been inserted in Max’s file over the years.

  “You should be happy about that, Tom,” he’d said when leaving. “Your job is safe. No threat from me.”

  Despite Pauling’s cocky justification for having roughed up the Austrian, he was well aware that carrying a vendetta against an individual wasn’t smart, unless that person posed a distinct threat to your personal health. He didn’t view Blondie in that context. Still, there was a score to settle. Grünewald didn’t deserve to die that way. He wouldn’t jeopardize the assignment to make a statement to the big German. But if an opportunity happened to present itself—well, that he’d deal with if it did.

  The police car continued to follow at a snail’s pace, stopping each time Pauling stopped, in order to confirm it was still with him. The throngs of people who had been on the streets earlier in the evening had thinned somewhat; even Cubans have to sleep sometime.

  He entered the hotel. The wizened Cuban desk clerk nodded sleepily as Pauling passed him and went to the waiting elevator. He got in and pushed the button for the fourth floor. The doors slowly jerked closed, as though unsure they wanted to. The trip up was equally as halting, the elevator’s groans loud. Would it make it? It came to a stuttering halt. Pauling waited until the doors were fully open before taking a step toward the hallway. He knew immediately that it was a step he shouldn’t have taken. Too late. He hadn’t seen the hulking Cuban standing just to the left of the elevator, but sensed he was there, and then could smell his breath, feel his heat.

  The man was one of those weight lifters whose body bulked up so much that it made his shaved head seem unnaturally small. He wore a tight black T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. His face was expressionless as he brought his right forearm down on Pauling’s left shoulder and neck, sending him across the hallway and to his knees. The Cuban was on him in an instant, bringing his right arm around Pauling’s neck and jerking his head back while his left fist pressed hard into Pauling’s back. Pauling managed to twist to his right and fire his hand sharply up into the Cuban’s groin, bringing forth a noise and loosening of the grip. Pauling lunged backward, moving the man into the middle of the hall. With more room to maneuver, he drove his elbow into the Cuban’s chest. Now free, he spun around on his knees and went straight for his face, thumbs finding the attacker’s eyes. The pained scream reverberated through the hallway. Pauling stood, reached for a head of hair that wasn’t there, abandoned that move, grabbed the front of the T-shirt, and jerked the Cuban to his feet. He drove for the groin again, this time with his knee. The Cuban slumped to the floor, his hands desperately trying to find the pain and make it go away. For a second, Pauling stood over him, chest heaving, perspiration stinging his eyes. The Cuban lunged suddenly for Pauling’s ankles but it was a feeble attempt. Pauling laced his fingers together and brought both hands down on the Cuban’s neck, sending him face first into the carpet.

  Pauling stepped away, leaned against the wall, and pulled the Glock from his vest pocket. He wanted to shoot to make sure the bastard stayed harmless, but told himself not to go overboard. He wasn’t anxious to end up in a Cuban police station again, this time for shooting a Cuban citizen.

  He decided to leave him lying there and get down to the lobby. But as he replaced the Glock in his pocket, movement to the right caught his attention. Someone had been hiding by the door leading to the back stairway.

  “Hey!” he called out.

  There was the sound of the door closing. Pauling sprinted in that direction and yanked open the door. He heard running footsteps on the stairs. For a moment, he wasn’t sure in which direction they were going, up or down. Up. He again pulled out the gun and headed up the stairs, pausing before entering each landing to be sure he wasn’t about to be ambushed. He continued his climb until reaching the top floor, directly below the roof. Again, the sound of a door opening and slamming shut. He went more slowly now, weapon at the ready, every sense amplified, prepared for anything. He paused at the closed door and pressed his ear to it. The coolness of the metal felt good against his ear and cheek. Was someone waiting on the other side? Was he armed?

  Slowly, he turned the knob, wondering as he did whether the person on the other side was watching it turn. He pushed the door open, inches at first, then more fully until able to see where he was. A nearly full moon provided good but intermittent illumination; low, fast-moving clouds turned it on and off like a light switch.

  He checked to his left before pushing the door fully open so that it went flat against a wall. If anyone was behind it, he’d used up his food ration books a long time ago. He held his breath to muffle the sound of his own breathing while he advanced, his eyes taking in the rooftop. The only sound came from far below on the street, Afro-Cuban yambú and guanguancó and columbia music drifting up from boom boxes still being played. Don’t they ever stop?

  His ability to see the entire sweep of the roof was hindered by huge containers in which the hotel’s air-conditioning and other electrical equipment was housed. Was there a way down other than the stairs? He wondered if there was a fire escape or other sort of ladder. A dozen feet to his right sat one of the containers, good cover. He darted there, pressed his back against it, listened, then peered around a corner. Nothing. The next container was farther away, twenty feet, one of two in the center of the roof. If whoever was up there with him was armed, he’d pose a tempting target trying to span that distance. He weighed his options. He could simply go back down the stairs and leave whoever was on the roof up there. But that person had been on the fourth floor. He was part of the attack by the muscle-bound Cuban. Let him walk away, and Max would be setting himself up for another attack at another time, maybe a more successful one.

  He considered calling out in the hope of prompting him to respond. His location, he knew, was no secret to the person he’d followed up the stairs. He wouldn’t be giving anything away. Still, there was safety in silence, at least for the moment. He’d simply wait for his target to make a move, a sound, cast a shadow, cough, decide to attack. He was in no rush, although his neck and shoulders ached. Visions of a massage, or whirlpool, quickly came and went. “Come on, come on,” he whispered to himself. “Let’s get it over with.”

  It seemed a long time before things happened, but it was actually less than a minute. What came was the sound of something, someone, bumping up against a solid thing, maybe an elbow, or a head against a low-hanging object. The twin containers in the roof’s center. Pauling peeked around the corner again but saw no one. But he knew where his prey was. Pauling was now calm, his breathing regular, his heartbeat slow and steady, but loud. He waited until a cloud moved across the moon, casting darkness over the roof—and then he made his move, crouched low, Glock held with both hands out in front, eyes glued to his destination. He reached the twin boxes safely and switched on his senses again. Was it breathing he heard? That damnable music from the street and the moan of air-conditioning units made it impossible to know.

  He drew a breath, held the gun up next to his ear, and made a move to see what was around the corner. He never made it. The body came down on him from the top of the container, dead weight, a hand desperately grasping the wrist of his right hand, in which he held the Glock, another hand grabbing his hair. The force of the body jumping from eight feet above slammed Pauling to the roof and pushed his forehead into gritty tar. He’d heard people who’d suffered sudden pain say they saw stars, but he’d never experienced it himself—until now. The pain shot through his head; his brain felt as though it had been dislodged from its moorings. At the same time, the reality that he was about to be killed echoed inside his head.

  A voice shouted in Spanish: “Who is here? What is going on?”

  Pauling’s attacker scrambled off him, got to his feet, and ran to the open door where two hotel security men stood, flashlights trained on Pauling and his f
leeing assailant. Pauling just had time to raise his head and see the blond head push past the unarmed guards and disappear through the door. He slowly, painfully pushed himself up so that he was on all fours, and tried to shake the fog from his brain. The guards came to him and spoke in Spanish: “Who are you? What happened? What are you doing up here?”

  Pauling got to his feet and gently touched his cheek with fingertips. Blood came off on them. He still held the Glock in his right hand and slipped it into a vest pocket. The guards turned at the arrival of another man, the hotel’s manager, who spoke good English.

  “Why are you up here on the roof?” he asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Pauling said.

  “Are you a guest of the hotel?”

  “Yes. I was attacked in the hallway outside my room.”

  “Attacked? Who attacked you?”

  “I don’t know his name, but I know what he looks like. He’s a Cuban with big muscles and a shaved head.”

  The manager looked at the security guards.

  “Another man was here,” one of the guards said. “He ran past us.”

  The manager said to Pauling, “This other man. He was up here with you?”

  “That’s right. He was with my attacker. He jumped me.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  Pauling hesitated before saying, “No, I don’t.”

  “I will call the police,” the manager said, turning to leave.

  “No, don’t do that,” Pauling said. “It was just a misunderstanding. Actually, I think I know who they are. We had an argument in a bar earlier this evening and they were angry at something I said. You know, about a señorita.” He managed a pained smile. “Just forget about it.”

  “I don’t know,” said the manager.

  “No, it’s okay,” Pauling said, walking to the door. “Thanks for your concern. I just need to get cleaned up and grab some sleep. Thanks again. Muchas gracias! No problem. Good night.”

  He descended the stairs, wincing at each step he took as pain radiated throughout his body. As far as he could tell, nothing was broken, but everything had been bent. He hesitated before stepping into the fourth-floor hallway. The Cuban who’d jumped him was gone.

  He carefully entered his room, closed the door, turned on the lights, and made sure he was alone. The AC had been shut off by the housekeeper; the room was like a steam bath. He switched it on and went into the bathroom to examine the damage to his face. The left side was scraped and bleeding slightly, black particles from the roof embedded in it. His lip was cut, too, and a purple ring had begun to develop around his left eye. He cleaned up as best he could, changed shirts, sat on the bed, and decided what to do next. Sleep was at the top of the list but somehow he didn’t think he’d relax enough for that to happen. He turned on the TV. A special program about Castro’s birthday party later that day was running on Canal 2: Tele Rebelde. Pauling had watched Plaza de la Revolución being transformed earlier into a venue for a celebration. Huge posters of Castro had been hung on every available surface in the spacious square. A podium had been set up, and a large roped-off area near the podium had been established for VIPs, Pauling presumed. The reporter, a striking Cuban woman, spoke rapid Spanish to accompany the video footage taped hours before. Pauling understood some of what she said, but not enough to continue listening. He turned off the set, reached for the phone, and was put through to an international operator who, after five minutes, connected him with New Mexico.

  “Max?” a groggy Jessica said.

  “Yeah. Can you hear me okay?”

  “Yes, you’re clear. How are you? Is something wrong?”

  “No, I’m fine. Sorry to wake you.”

  “What time is it there?”

  “I don’t know. Early.”

  “You’ve been partying?”

  His laugh was rueful. “No, no parties, Jess. I’ve had a busy night. Been arrested for murder, and got jumped by a Cuban orangutan.”

  She sounded more awake now. “Good God, Max,” she said, “you said it would be easy. What’s—?”

  “I don’t want to get into it on the phone. I called because I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine, a little bruised, that’s all. Look, I expect to wrap this up in a couple of days.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah, I want out of here as soon as possible. How are you? Seen any strange birds lately?”

  She chuckled. “Just a few doctors at the hospital. Max, please take care.”

  “You know me, Jess, my neck gets saved before anyone else’s.”

  His words did not comfort, but she didn’t pursue it. Instead, she said, “I spoke with Annabel Lee-Smith.”

  “Yeah? How is she?”

  “She’s fine. Her husband, Mac, is in Cuba, too.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I thought maybe you’d run across him.”

  “Cuba’s a big place, Jess. Where’s he staying?”

  “He’s with the Price McCullough delegation. I saw on TV that they’re staying at the Hotel Nacional.”

  “Fancy place. Maybe I should give him a ring.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Go to bed,” she said.

  “Yes, boss. See you soon.”

  Her “I love you, Max,” was lost as he replaced the receiver in its cradle, already asleep.

  Pauling was stretched out on the bed, the Glock semiautomatic at his side. The brief conversation with Jessica had calmed him. He’d felt sleepy and allowed himself to drift off. Now, two hours later, he awoke as sunlight streaming through the window played over his eyes. He struggled to his feet, groaning as he did. Every muscle ached, his face stung, his head throbbed. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower; a prayer for hot water was answered.

  Celia had said she’d contact him at his hotel room at noon. It was seven. He didn’t want to wait that long. Talking even briefly with Jessica had crystallized his need to get out of Cuba. Things were falling apart. He’d been hauled in because he was with Grünewald just before Grünewald was murdered, and now he’d damn near been killed by another German, the blond thug sent to keep tabs on Grünewald, and ultimately to kill him—at least that was the assumption.

  He made a decision while dressing that he would leave Cuba no later than the next day, whether he had Nico’s documentation for Gosling or not. Celia intended to take the papers from Grünewald’s office to her German friend that morning, and attempt to contact Nico. Would she follow through? he wondered. She’d been told to back off from Pauling’s assignment, and although she’d said she didn’t have to disengage immediately, he didn’t trust her enough to take her at her word. She could have left the bar and decided to wash her hands of him. She was pulled off the assignment because someone higher up, probably at Langley, had given the order. Such an order would take priority, and he understood that.

  His thoughts then went to Celia’s connection with the CIA. What was it specifically? She’d been instructed to come to Cuba and wait for further orders. What were those orders? To try to develop an informer within the Castro government? Aid in a planned unauthorized exodus of Cubans to Miami? Or …?

  He was thinking too much about her, he knew. Being sexually attracted to her was one thing, just a normal male reaction to female beauty and sensuality—he was years from Viagra.

  What was of concern was that he wanted to know her other than sexually, wanted to spend time with her, talk, find out all about her, who she was and what she’d been, her childhood, experiences with other men, learn what philosophies drove her, delve into her values and beliefs and …

  Get off it, Max, he told himself. Rein it in before you know more than what’s good for you.

  After taking a final look at himself in the bathroom mirror and grimacing at what he saw, he left the room and went down the back stairs to the street. He assumed the police shadow
s would have both front and rear entrances to the hotel covered, but he saw no one who looked like a tail. He was ravenous and stopped to buy a churro, a deep-fried sugared donut stick, and a cup of thick, sweet coffee from a street stall. The stall owner looked at Pauling’s bruised, scraped face and frowned. Pauling smiled, made a fist, and directed it at his face. The stall owner laughed and uttered a string of words that Pauling didn’t understand.

  He carried the churro and coffee to a shady spot beneath a balcony, ate, and watched the street scene that was in full swing. Celia had told him in passing that despite Cuba’s dire economic straits, the people were fastidious about their personal hygiene. She’d stroked the imaginary beard on her chin and said, “He can take away food and rum and cigars, but take away soap and the regime collapses.” Now, as he stood on the streets of Havana, he took note of the men, women, and children who passed him, and she was right. Even those wearing frayed clothing were clean and well groomed. A group of schoolchildren, eight or nine years old, wearing green-and-white uniforms, with teachers at the front and end of the line, crossed the street in front of him. A uniformed PNR cop stopped traffic. The scrubbed faces and laughter reminded him of when his sons were that age, oblivious to governments and international conflict, unaware of corporations competing to reward their stockholders at any price, monetary or ethical, immersed only in their own young world of fantasy and dreams. A few of the kids noticed him and his face; they pointed and giggled and spoke to each other. He kept from laughing because it hurt when he did.

  He crossed behind the children and walked in the direction of Celia’s apartment, stopping occasionally at government kiosks, on which the latest edition of Granma was posted, to see whether he was being followed. There were many PNR officers on the streets, but none seemed to pay particular attention to him. As he walked, he imagined turning a corner and finding himself face-to-face with Blondie. That contemplation kept his adrenaline flowing and his sensors extended.

  It didn’t happen. Instead, it was like a fiesta. There was a palpable air of excitement in Havana that morning, and the signs promoting Castro’s birthday celebration that had been hung on buildings overnight explained why. Other signs in shop windows announced the closing of the shops at three in order for their owners and staff to attend the party.