Murder in Havana Page 25

  “Where did it happen?”

  “An apartment in Havana. Nothing more on that at this juncture.”

  “An apartment? What was he doing in an apartment?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Walden hesitated before asking, “Did this involve a woman?”

  “I don’t have an answer for that, sir.”

  “Do they have any suspects?”

  “Not that I know of. Brown—he’s chief of section in our Havana Interests Section—told Langley that the Cubans are claiming that a suspect has been identified, but no names, no nationalities.”

  “ ‘Nationalities’? He’s Cuban, right?”

  “We’re all assuming that, Mr. President.”

  “Get the crisis team over here in an hour. Has the press picked up on it yet?”

  “CNN has a call in to State about it. They haven’t aired anything yet.”

  Another call, this from the White House press office, ended the Draper conversation.

  “Mr. President, we’ve just received word that—”

  “Yeah, I know. Price McCullough.”

  “CNN wants a statement.”

  “No statement. We’re meeting in an hour.”

  “They’re going on the air right now.”

  Walden used his remote to turn on the TV and heard the anchor announce a breaking story from Havana and cue CNN’s Cuba correspondent, a woman named Perez.

  “Is it true, Lolita, that former senator Price McCullough has been shot?” the anchor asked.

  Perez: “Yes, Brad, that’s what we’re being told. Senator McCullough, who came here to Cuba as head of a trade delegation, is reported to have been shot to death somewhere in Havana.”

  Anchor: “Was he involved in some official function when it happened?”

  Perez: “Evidently not. A number of his delegation attended a performance this evening of the Cuban national ballet troupe. Senator McCullough was not part of that group, we’re told.”

  Anchor: “This is a remarkable event considering the attempt on Fidel Castro’s life earlier today. Is there any link to that failed assassination attempt?”

  Perez: “None that we’re able to ascertain so far.”

  The anchor interrupted the conversation with the correspondent as he listened to something being said through his earpiece. He nodded, made a note, and faced the camera. “I’ve just been informed that there is an unconfirmed report that the assailant—and I should stress alleged assailant—might be an American citizen. Have you heard anything to that effect, Lolita?”

  Perez: “No, I haven’t, Brad, but we’ll continue to monitor this breaking story and report any further developments.”

  Anchor: “That was Lolita Perez, CNN’s correspondent in Havana, Cuba, reporting on what is alleged to have been the shooting death of former five-term U.S. senator from Texas, Price McCullough. Stay tuned. We’ll bring you updates throughout the night.”

  By the time the president met with his crisis team in the Situation Room on the first floor of the White House, the press office was fielding queries from dozens of news organizations. At first, the news people making the calls knew little more than had already been reported on CNN. But fifteen minutes into the meeting, Walden’s press secretary interrupted. All eyes at the table turned to him.

  “Mr. President,” he said, “this just came over the wires, and TV is running it, too.”

  Walden scowled as he looked at the photograph handed him by his press secretary, a police mug shot.

  “Who is he?” Walden asked, sliding the picture down the table for others to see.

  “His name is Pauling, Mr. President. Maxwell Pauling.”

  “Where’d this photo come from?”

  “The Cubans released it. They’re claiming he’s Senator McCullough’s killer.”

  “Isn’t that convenient? You don’t know anything about this Pauling other than Fidel’s claim that he shot McCullough?”

  “We’re trying to get background on him now, sir.”

  “Let me know.”

  “A statement, sir? How do you want this handled with the press?”

  “Prepare something for me to give at my press conference in the morning, you know, the loss of my good friend, the nation’s loss, and for Christ sake, keep it personal. McCullough is—was—a former senator in Cuba on private business. Nothing political about it. Private citizen gets killed by some nut.”

  Draper said, “Mr. President, I don’t think we can go that far.”

  “About what?”

  “About billing the senator’s trip as purely personal, private business. The press knows it was set up through government channels. I suggest we—”

  “Couch it any way you want, but don’t emphasize any political or governmental connection. Play it down. Sheila is calling Price’s sons. They already know. Nothing like having CNN notifying the family. Include something about how fortunate it is that the attempt on Castro failed, but keep it matter-of-fact. And get me everything you can on Pauling.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The meeting broke up forty-five minutes later.

  “I’ll be in my quarters,” Walden informed them as they were leaving the Situation Room. “I feel like hell with this cold.”

  Walden kept switching between channels in the living room until he started dozing in his chair. His wife, Sheila, had already placed calls to McCullough’s sons to offer the First Family’s condolences. “How dreadful,” she said as she prepared to go to the bedroom.

  “Worse than that if it turns into a political issue with Castro. Go to bed, hon. I’ll be along shortly.”

  He reached for the remote to turn off the set when CNN’s anchor broke into a prerecorded news feature with a bulletin.

  “New developments in the murder of former senator Price McCullough in Havana. CNN has learned that the alleged killer, an American named Maxwell Pauling, formerly worked for the Central Intelligence Agency and the State Department. According to our sources, he left the State Department more than a year ago and has been living in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he is a private flight instructor. His reason for being in Cuba has not been established, nor has any connection been made between his former employment as a CIA operative and the murder of Price McCullough.”

  Walden slammed the remote down on a table and cursed under his breath. The damn media, he thought, trying to invent some sinister link between the murder and the CIA.

  Draper called.

  “How come, Paul, CNN gets background on this nut before we can?” Walden asked angrily.

  “That’s what I’m calling about, sir. Sorry to bother you but—”

  “What is it?” the president asked, blowing his nose. “I have a full background report on Pauling, Mr. President.”

  “Bring it up here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is Pauling? Is he in custody in Havana?”

  “Negative, sir. The Cuban police have put out an all-points on him, and have distributed the photograph everywhere.”

  “He was CIA?”

  “Yes, sir, he was.”

  “No ties now?”

  “Supposedly.”

  “He’s a pilot. What was he doing in Cuba, giving flying lessons to Fidel?”

  “That’s not in the report, sir.”

  “Bring it up—now!”

  A sleepy Sheila Walden emerged from the bedroom. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it about Price?”

  “Yes, it is. The crazy who shot him turns out to have worked for the CIA. Fidel will get plenty of mileage out of that.”

  “You don’t think—?”

  “That he might have been in Havana and killed Price for his former employer? If that’s the case, Sheila, somebody over at Langley is going to end up with a lot more than a head cold.”

  Joe Pitura, the CIA’s Cuban section chief, closely monitored events in Havana that night. Like the president, he’d been flipping through TV channels to keep abreast of what the medi
a were reporting. But he had his own independent sources of information that continued to feed him the latest developments, either directly or through intermediaries. One such intermediary communicated with Pitura from Miami.

  “What’s up?” Pitura asked. It was the third call from Miami. He sat, grimacing against pain in his shoulders. His rheumatoid arthritis had been especially active the past few days; the painkillers were losing the battle.

  “They are searching for the American, Pauling,” Ramon Gomez responded. The leader of the Miami-based anti-Castro group, the Cuban-American Freedom Alliance, was being kept informed of events in Havana from the back room of the art gallery. The calls came to him at a small satellite CAFA office a block from Café Versailles in Miami’s Little Havana. The café had been a gathering place for years for hard-line Cuban ex-pats.

  “I know they’re looking for him,” Pitura growled. “It’s on TV. Do you or your people know where he is?”

  “They are putting his picture up all over Havana. I’m sure it won’t be long before he is apprehended.”

  Pitura had no sooner hung up on Gomez when Zach Rasmussen, director of covert operations, called. “How are you holding up, buddy?” Rasmussen asked.

  “I’d be better if that shooter had gotten the job done. Fidel is one lucky son of a bitch.”

  “It’ll run out on him one of these days. What do you hear on Max Pauling?”

  “Nothing you haven’t heard.”

  “I just got off the phone with Vic Gosling.”

  “Better you than me. What does Mr. Slick have to say?”

  “He’s concerned about Pauling. He says he can’t believe Pauling would have shot McCullough.”

  “That’s sweet, standing up for an old friend like that. Where are you?”

  “In my office. I just got here. The president’s on the warpath. He wants answers.”

  “So, give him answers.”

  “He’s giving a statement first thing in the morning. He wants to keep it as nonpolitical as possible. Christ, according to Draper, the president is questioning whether we had anything to do with it, whether Pauling was operating on our behalf.”

  Pitura grinned and worked his large shoulders against the pain that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there. “You told Draper that’s nuts, right?”

  “Of course I did. Let’s meet in an hour. Bring your people. Only those in the loop.”

  Jessica Mumford sat transfixed in front of the television set in the condo. She had arrived home a little after eleven. It was her habit to watch the news before going to bed, but on this night she decided to skip TV. It had been a stressful day at the hospital where she worked as an administrator. The chief of surgery and the hospital had been sued for malpractice and a recent audit had uncovered missing funds.

  She hadn’t bothered to check the answering machine when she arrived. It was in the spare bedroom she and Max used as an office and as a guest room for visitors. Had she gone in there, she would have seen that there were seven messages on the machine. The eighth call came as she was brushing her teeth.

  “What?” she exclaimed when her caller, a colleague at the hospital, told her that Max was being accused on TV of having shot McCullough to death in Havana. She thanked her and tuned to CNN. Nothing there. But MSNBC was carrying the story, and Jessica watched in open-mouthed shock at what was being said and what she saw, Max’s mug shot a full-screen backdrop for the anchor’s report.

  She found the itinerary he’d left among a pile of papers in the office and looked for the name of the hotel in Havana at which he was staying. It wasn’t included. Only the motels in Pittsburgh and Miami were on the list.

  “Damn,” she muttered as the phone rang again. “I can’t talk now,” she said to the caller. “I’ll get back to you.”

  She dialed Annabel Lee-Smith’s number in Washington.

  “I was about to call you,” Annabel said, breathless. “Have you heard from Max?”

  “No, and I don’t know where he’s staying in Havana. I thought you might have found out from Mac. He’s still there, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but I can’t get through to him. There’s no answer in his room. I’m sure they’re meeting. It must be chaotic there. I—”

  Jessica’s tears stopped Annabel.

  “I can’t believe this,” Jessica moaned. “God, Annabel, Max wouldn’t kill Price McCullough. He went to Cuba on a private assignment. He was supposed to find out something about McCullough’s pharmaceutical company but—”

  “He was?”

  Jessica’s sigh was long and loud. “Yes,” she said, realizing that linking Max with McCullough in any regard wasn’t very prudent.

  “How can I help?” Annabel asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe if you get through to Mac you could ask if he knows anything about Max, where he is—how he is.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “It can’t be true, Annabel. Max can be tough, but he isn’t a murderer.” She remembered Max saying during his only call to her that he’d already been arrested once for murder in Havana, a mistake, and had been roughed up. She didn’t mention it to Annabel.

  “If you hear anything, Annabel, you’ll call? Any hour.”

  “Sure. Try to get some rest. I’m sure this is all a big mistake.”

  “I hope you’re right, Annabel. I pray you’re right.”

  Getting some rest was the last thing on Jessica’s mind as she poured herself a snifter of brandy and went out to the deck. There, she sat in darkness, the millions of white stars against the sky’s black scrim only a tease of well-being. She thought of Max and that he could be looking up into that same sky at that very moment. The news reports indicated he was still at large. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he frightened? He was not a man who frightened easily. Still, to be accused of murdering a distinguished visitor and to be hunted down for that crime would rattle even the most fearless of men.

  As hard as she tried, she could not push from her consciousness the reality that Max had gone to Cuba to investigate Price McCullough’s company and the business it was conducting there. Had McCullough discovered what Max was doing and confronted him? “No,” she said aloud, shaking her head.

  Her thoughts drifted to her life with Max Pauling. Her former husband had been an FBI undercover agent who was away more than he was home—a blessing for her most of the time—and who, she came to learn later, had killed, initially as part of his job as a special agent, then in a warped attempt to become rich.

  Had Max ever killed in the line of duty while with the CIA, or as a special undercover operative for the State Department? She preferred to think not, but how could she be certain? You could never be certain about such a thing with Max and people like him. They lived shadow lives, shielded from sunlight by the very nature of intelligence agencies, wrapped in the flag, confident that what would be misdeeds for most people would, instead, be viewed as admirable and honorable in their case—“Job well done!”

  She’d spent enough time in Washington before moving to New Mexico to know that what is said there and in all nations’ capitals is often not the truth; it is “disinformation,” to be polite. In Max’s former life he had to lie, was expected to lie if he was to be successful and survive. Had he lied to her about the nature of his trip to Cuba on the Vic Gosling assignment? Was it purely a private undertaking, as he claimed, or had he signed on for a job with the CIA as an independent contractor, using Gosling and his client as cover?

  “No,” she repeated, again shaking her head. One of the troubles with secret work is that you get to believing nothing—or everything. You can only wait for the truth to emerge, if it ever does. The half-full glass slipped from her hand and shattered at her feet. She cried for only a minute before returning to the TV set.

  The lights in the U.S. Interests Section at the foot of Calle L burned bright.

  Gene Nichols, the senior CIA operative, watched Cuban television and its coverage of the McCullough murder a
nd the failed attempt on Fidel Castro’s life. Nichols, who spoke Spanish, made notes of what the Cuban commentator said, glancing occasionally across the room at section chief Bobby Jo Brown, who was on the phone with the crusty Joe Pitura, head of the Cuban section at Langley.

  “Let me give you over to Nichols,” Brown told Pitura in answer to his question.

  “Nichols, here.”

  “Hey, Gene. How goes it?”

  “A laugh a minute. What can I do for you?”

  “Where’s Pauling?” Pitura’s directness was both appreciated at Langley, and troublesome to those without immediate answers.

  “Wish I knew, Joe. The Cuban authorities have his picture pasted all over town, and Cuban TV keeps running it, but he’s nowhere.”

  “What are you doing to find him?” Pitura asked. Nichols could hear pain in Pitura’s voice, knew Joe’s rheumatoid arthritis was especially painful, and that the increasing number of painkillers he took each day weren’t helping much.

  “We’ve got the word out,” Nichols replied. “We’re also ready for him if he decides to walk through the door.”

  “I don’t really give a damn how he surfaces,” Pitura said, “as long as we can get him out of Cuba. Until this McCullough mess, the Cubans weren’t claiming that the attack on Castro was a CIA act, were they?”

  “No. I got word just an hour ago that the guy who took the shots at Castro was released from a Cuban prison only a few days ago. A mental case. Fidel would really have to stretch it to link this nut with us.”

  “But now he’s got Pauling to make the connection. Castro is attacked, and less than twenty-four hours later an ex-senator is gunned down by a guy with former CIA ties. If Castro gets hold of Pauling, he’ll parade him all over Havana as proof that we took a shot at him. The brain trust here doesn’t want that to happen.” His lowered voice and measured cadence emphasized his words.

  “The Cubans say they want Pauling dead or alive,” Nichols said.

  “Yeah? So do we,” said Pitura. “Keep in touch.”

  Brown, who’d been standing at the window during Nichols’s conversation with Pitura, turned at the sound of the phone being hung up. “He wants Pauling,” he said flatly, stating the obvious.