Murder in Havana Page 24

  “Pauling.”

  Muñoz would have forgotten about him if the bound and gagged German, Weinert, hadn’t been delivered like an unwanted baby at his front door, and confirmed that it was Pauling who’d made the delivery. That was sufficient reason to put out an all-points on him. He wanted to question him about the accusation that the German was the one who’d killed Kurt Grünewald. Weinert wasn’t unknown to Muñoz. Minint had tracked him since his arrival from Heidelberg and had taken note of his behavior while in Havana. He’d been fingered as a prime suspect in the Grünewald killing because of his professional relationship to the victim and his general demeanor. Pauling was probably right, Muñoz thought.

  But now this—a highly visible American visitor, a former United States senator, close friend and confidant of the American president, and leading businessman found murdered in cold blood—with Pauling implicated again.

  Another detective poked his head into Muñoz’s office. “The apartment, Francisco, it is owned by an escoria, scum,” he said, using Castro’s favorite term to describe Cubans who had defected to Miami.

  “It has been empty?”

  “We are questioning everyone in the area now. There are three CDRs who live in the alley. Hopefully, we will learn who has been using the apartment.”

  “The picture of Pauling. Where is it?”

  “I have it.” He handed his boss the mug shots taken when Pauling was brought in for questioning in the Grünewald murder.

  “See that every officer has this by morning.”

  “The call,” Muñoz said. “It came from a woman?”

  “Yes. She did not identify herself. She said a man had been murdered at the address.”

  “She did not say who the victim was?”

  “No, sir.”

  The other detective left when Muñoz’s phone rang. He picked it up and heard the voice of the second-ranking official with the Ministry of Interior. There was no preliminary conversation. The minister said, “We are preparing a statement to give to the Americans regarding the senator’s death. You are, I assume, making good progress in your investigation.”

  “Well, sir, it is very soon after the death and—”

  “El Presidente wants the statement to indicate we are close to apprehending the killer. That is true, is it not?”

  Muñoz held the phone away from his mouth as he sighed, then said, “Yes, sir, we are close to identifying the killer.”

  “Who was it? A Cuban?”

  “No, sir. It was an American.”

  “American? What American?”

  “His name is Pauling. Maxwell Pauling. We found evidence linking him to the crime, and have issued an all points bulletin.”

  “What is his business in Cuba?”

  “He is a pilot. He flew here from Colombia to deliver medical supplies. He was a suspect in the murder of the German, Grünewald.”

  “I want a full report on my desk within the hour. Do you have a picture of this Pauling?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Include it in the report. CNN wants a statement. That the assailant was American like the victim is indeed fortunate. Within the hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pauling put a few blocks between him and the alley before ducking into a restaurant and bar where he took a table as far from the front door as possible. The initial discovery of Price McCullough’s body had been shocking, but the actions he’d taken, including the phone call from Nico, had focused his thinking while still in the apartment. Now, with a glass of rum in front of him, and salsa music by the popular Cuban group La Banda pouring from a jukebox, the full impact of the past half hour hit him hard. His hand shook as he raised the drink to his lips, and he kept closing and opening his eyes as though he could squeeze clarity into his thinking.

  Although it was anathema to him, the reality that Celia had caused him to be at the apartment when the police arrived was too compelling to shake off. His anger about this truth was intense, but the question of why she’d done it was even more prevailing. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t come up with a rational reason as he sat there. He assumed that she’d shot McCullough. That raised another why. And how had she enticed McCullough to the apartment? A sexual come-on? Had she promised him a romp under the covers as a ruse to get him alone and vulnerable?

  Why McCullough? As far as Pauling knew, the ex-senator had meant nothing to Celia—until Vic Gosling had paired her up with Pauling to try to uncover proof that McCullough’s BTK Industries had been using Strauss-Lochner to cut a deal with the Castro regime. She was being paid to help Pauling; had there been a bigger payoff for murdering the former senator? Had this been part of Gosling’s plan from the beginning? If so, what was the motivation? Had his client Signal Labs felt so threatened that it ordered Gosling’s employer, Cell-One, to eliminate BTK’s chairman? It was true, Pauling knew, that gaining control of Cuba’s impressive advances in cancer treatment could potentially be worth billions. But assassinate an ex-pol in order to win? He had to accept it as a possibility. People were killed every day for a lot less: for pocket change, a leather jacket, a look perceived as disrespectful.

  He forced himself to push these questions to the back of his mind and concentrate on his situation at that moment. His first belief was that although he’d been at the apartment and had come across McCullough’s body, no one else knew he’d been there. Celia’s setup had failed. Her timing had been off. If he’d lingered another few minutes, things would have worked out differently, and he’d be in custody instead of sipping rum in a down-and-dirty Havana bar. But there was no one to link him to the apartment that night. Even if someone living in one of the apartments in the alley, one of the CDRs, had seen him, they’d have no way of knowing his identity, could provide only a description. While that might be sufficient for the police, particularly Detective Muñoz, the I.D. would take a while, most likely time enough for him to go back to the hotel, gather up the few things he had there, and leave the city. He’d head for the fishing village where he was to meet Nico the following night. After that, providing he still hadn’t been linked to the apartment and the body, he could get to his plane and fly out of Cuba to Miami, deliver to Gosling whatever Nico came up with, and head home to Albuquerque. He’d like to leave McCullough, Grünewald, Muñoz, Fidel, Weinert, and the rest of the characters in this sordid play as another set of memories.

  He left money—Cuban—for the drink and went to the café’s door, now acutely aware that he had to move fast, and with stealth. His rationalizations while sitting at the table had been just that, manufactured reasons to feel secure. He’d been away from danger too long, he reminded himself. Let down your guard for a minute, and that would be the minute that the third-act curtain came down.

  He headed in the direction of the hotel, using narrow, less populated streets and alleyways. It meant a longer, less direct route but a prudent one. He paused in shadows or doorways at each intersection, scanning the area for police or anyone else who might take an interest in him. He stopped at a sidewalk vendor and bought a hat, the largest malanbueta the vendor had, and a flowing white guayabera shirt that he slipped on over his vest.

  “Queso y jamon?” the scraggly, doe-eyed salesman asked. “Caramelos?” The mention of ham and cheese and sweets caused Pauling’s stomach to rumble. He handed over more Cuban money for a small bag of candy of unidentified origin and was about to walk away when the vendor grabbed his sleeve. “Collares,” he said, holding a beaded necklace in front of Pauling. “Very good luck, señor. Blessed by Yoruba saints.”

  Pauling pulled another dollar from his pocket. Good luck! He didn’t believe in luck, had always been convinced that people who seemed to experience it had worked hard to bring it about. But he stuffed the necklace in a vest pocket, smiled briefly at the vendor, and walked away.

  He reached the hotel’s street and stood behind a kiosk from which he could observe the entrance. There didn’t appear to be any unusual activity
at the hotel from his vantage point, and he stepped forward, about to cross the street, when the sudden blare of a siren virtually pushed him back into the safe haven of the kiosk. The police vehicle was headed straight for him. Pauling backed into the park beyond and crouched behind shrubbery as the car came to a screeching stop next to the small structure.

  A uniformed policeman jumped out of the vehicle, secured a large sheet of paper to the kiosk with thumbtacks, got back in the car, and sped away. Pauling waited until the cruiser had disappeared around a corner before leaving the park and approaching the kiosk. He couldn’t believe what he saw.

  Staring back at him was his own likeness, the police mug shot taken when he’d been hauled in for questioning in the Grünewald murder. Aside from the mention of his name, he understood from the writing beneath the photo that he was being branded a murderer. He was also fingered as armed and dangerous and, most remarkably, an enemy of the Independent Socialist Republic of Cuba. Christ! It was like an old cowboy movie. He was wanted dead or alive.

  He tore the photo from the kiosk, crumpled it into a ball, tossed it in the gutter, retreated into the park again, sat on the damp ground, and tried to put his thoughts in order.

  Priority Number One was evident: Get out of Havana. Hopefully, it would take the authorities more time to spread the word and his picture to outlying areas. If it were the United States, Great Britain, or Germany, that could be accomplished almost immediately. But this was Cuba. They may have highly developed means of treating cancer, he mulled, but their expertise obviously didn’t extend to the communications system.

  How to get out of the city?

  He couldn’t trust just taking the next taxi that came along. The police would have made a special effort to distribute his photo to the city’s cabdrivers. Rent a car? His face was probably hanging next to every car rental agency’s list of rates.

  He could adopt the old saying originally about Rome—When in Cuba, do as the Cubans do, and hitchhike. Out of the question. The same with hopping a bus. Celia had pointed out to him what she called los amarillos, a division of Policía Nacional Revolucionaria, men in yellow uniforms stationed at bus stops to supervise the crowds hoping to board a bus, or to be shoehorned into a passing truck.

  There was, of course, the appealing notion of making his way to the airport, climbing aboard the twin-engine aircraft he’d flown from Colombia, revving up the engines, and heading west. That would mean, of course, leaving Nico and his documentation waiting in some seaside motel, but at this juncture, neither the young Cuban, nor the proof for Gosling, seemed terribly important. But the Cubans knew he was a pilot who’d flown into Cuba. By this time, his plane had probably been impounded, chained, maybe even partly dismantled.

  A powerful fatigue swept over him as he wrapped his arms about himself. He hadn’t murdered McCullough. Maybe the best thing would be simply to turn himself in and hope that reason would prevail. But that, he knew, was the worst idea of all. Throughout his career, he’d learned that when you ended up in a position such as the one he faced at the moment, there was only one person you could depend on, not local police or government officials, and not your own government, especially either of the agencies he’d worked for. He was on his own. That realization, rather than depressing him, provided a spark of comfort and renewed resolve. There was no one in the world he trusted more.

  “I can’t believe it. Price murdered?”

  “It’s like a bad dream. Have they said who killed him?”

  “Must be a madman.”

  These comments, and dozens of others, flew around the room to which the McCullough delegation had been relegated by its Cuban hosts. Their patience was running thin. They’d been herded into the room more than an hour before without any explanation as to why they were being detained—again. They weren’t all present. A few of the men had ventured out to taste Havana’s nightlife and still weren’t accounted for.

  With Price McCullough no longer alive, the group had anointed Mac Smith as spokesman because of his friendship with McCullough and the president, and because he was an attorney of note, or had been. In this new role, he attempted to get further information about the tragedy of McCullough’s death, and an indication of what lay in store for the delegation until it left for home. When the senior Cuban official finally arrived, Smith approached him and asked for a private conversation.

  “Of course,” the official said, leading Smith to a smaller room off the main one.

  “As you can imagine, sir,” Smith said, “there’s a great deal of confusion out there. We’ve been told that Senator McCullough has been killed, murdered, but that’s all we’ve been told. We’re being kept in isolation and given no further information. In addition to that, we’re—”

  The Cuban held up his hand and smiled. “Señor Smith,” he said, “I understand your frustration. But you must also understand that what has happened to your leader, Senator McCullough, has placed us in a most sensitive position. You and your delegation came here on a trade mission, a peaceful mission. Now it has turned into a violent one for your distinguished leader. There are considerable political ramifications. And, I might add, there is the safety of you and your people to be considered.” The Cuban official was a heavyset man with deep acne scars and a voice made husky from the cigarette that seemed always to be in his hand.

  “Can you tell me anything more about the circumstances of Senator McCullough’s death?” Smith asked. “His murder. Is there a suspect? It was murder, wasn’t it? An assassination?”

  “Murder, assassination … the words have specific meaning, Señor Smith, and I hesitate to use them. Yes, there is a suspect. He is being pursued aggressively.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Smith said. “Do you know of a motive?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Where was he killed? There’s a rumor among the delegation that it happened in an apartment here in Havana.”

  The Cuban nodded.

  “Whose apartment?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Who’s the suspect?” Smith asked. “Are there political overtones, or was it a single deranged individual?”

  “Again, I cannot say because we do not have that information. I will say that the suspected murderer is not a Cuban.”

  “Is not.”

  “That is correct.”

  “I imagine that gives you a modicum of comfort.”

  “It gives us pause to be grateful for small blessings, señor.”

  “Am I out of place asking you to tell me who the suspect is? Is he European, from a Central American country, from—?”

  “You hesitate asking whether he might be an American.”

  “I—is he?”

  “Yes.”

  “No small blessings for us today,” Smith said, shaking his head. “Who is he?”

  “May we keep this in confidence, Señor Smith? Between us?”

  “I’m always uncomfortable being asked to keep a secret, sir. I’m sure that by morning, it won’t be a secret any longer, and not because I’ve passed it on. Who is it?”

  “He is a former employee of your Central Intelligence Agency.”

  Smith let out a whoosh of air and rubbed his eyes.

  As though to comfort him, the Cuban said, “We are not saying he killed Senator McCullough upon orders from that agency.”

  Not yet, Smith thought. “But that’s a possibility?”

  “Everything is a possibility at this stage.”

  Smith hesitated before asking, “A name? Does this American have a name?”

  “Yes, he does. His name is Pauling. Maxwell Pauling. He has been in trouble with our authorities before.”

  “Pauling?” The weakness in Smith’s voice revealed his shock.

  “Yes. We are looking for him now.”

  Smith almost said that he knew Maxwell Pauling, but held himself in check. That would accomplish nothing. He said, “I appreciate your candor. When will we be allowed to leave the room? We have
loved ones back in Washington who will want to hear from us.”

  “In a short time. Have I answered your questions?”

  “Yes, you have, sir, and I appreciate it.”

  “We need not be enemies,” the Cuban said. “It is time there was understanding between our two countries.”

  Smith said, “Hopefully, an understanding will develop one day.”

  “You are a personal friend of President Walden.”

  “Yes.”

  “He seems to lean toward dialogue with us beyond trade issues.”

  “That’s true, although I don’t have any special knowledge of his feelings. We’re personal friends. I’m not a political confidant. We enjoy playing poker together.”

  The Cuban laughed, coughed, and lit another cigarette. “I enjoy playing poker, too, Señor Smith. Perhaps one day we can sit down and bluff each other.”

  A small smile came to Smith’s lips. “I would like that,” he said. “And perhaps show our hands.”

  “Tell your people that they will be free to go in a few minutes. I do ask that because you are the spokesperson for the group that you stay in close touch with me.”

  “Of course. And thank you for your candor.”

  Smith’s stomach churned as he left the room to rejoin his colleagues.

  Max Pauling, Jessica Mumford’s lover, murdering Price McCullough?

  James L. Walden, President of the United States, was nursing a rogue head cold and had retired early to the family wing of the White House when the call came from Paul Draper, his national security advisor.

  “He’s dead?” Walden said, his nasal voice heavy with disbelief.

  “Yes, sir.”