Murder in Havana Read online

  He tidied the kitchen—Jessica had trained him well—and decided to take a shower. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the cramped shower stall, turned on the water, and let out a sigh of contentment as the blessedly hot water poured over him.

  As Pauling basked in the pleasure, Isabella stepped into one of the new dollar phone booths that had been established as part of Cuba’s massive overhaul of the telephone communications system. She pulled out her tarjeta, a dollar phone card she’d purchased at a branch of Photoservice, and consulted a small phone book from her purse. She had a choice of numbers to call—the contact number at Minint, the Ministry of Interior, to which CDRs were to report with information that might be useful to the intelligence agency; or a number at the U.S. Interests Section. She dialed the latter; the Americans would pay money for information; Minint would only praise her loyalty to the republic.

  When she was put through to a man’s voice, she identified herself and told him that the American they were seeking was at her house. Gene Nichols thanked her and issued instructions on how and when she could collect her reward.

  She hung up and suffered a momentary twinge of guilt. Her overnight guest was a nice man, and she’d briefly debated making the call. But such decisions were always determined by her overriding goal: to one day leave Cuba and live in Miami. The extra money would help her achieve that dream.

  She left the booth, leaving behind on the floor the crumpled “Wanted” poster she’d torn from a lamppost on the corner near the café. It had been affixed in the early morning hours, after she and Pauling had left the café and gone to her home. Until seeing it, she’d intended only to call the Interests Section to report an American whose actions had been strange. Now she knew who he was, and that he specifically was being hunted.

  She considered for a moment returning to her street to see what happened. But she didn’t want to be late for work at the association. It had been a lucrative twenty-four hours—the appointment with the Canadian businessman the previous night, the money from the American named Pauling, plus the big bonus from the American office.

  Miami was getting closer all the time.

  At precisely 8:00 A.M., President Walden stepped to a podium in the Rose Garden outside the White House. Unlike some previous presidents who only infrequently held press conferences, and who usually preferred that they be conducted when TV viewership was at its lowest, Walden gathered the press on a monthly basis at eight o’clock, forcing the networks’ popular early shows to carry the conferences. Some reporters grumbled at the hour, and that the conferences, weather permitting, were held outside. But Walden was an inveterate early riser, as well as a committed outdoorsman. His press conferences would be held where and when he wanted.

  He said good morning and gave a brief statement that touched upon a variety of domestic and foreign issues before turning to the real news.

  “The death of my friend Senator McCullough in Cuba represents a sad personal loss for the senator’s family, me, and my family, and a loss for the American people. Price McCullough proudly served the American people for most of his adult life. His intellect, strength of character, and commitment to the rights of all people regardless of race, creed, or social status set a moral tone for his Senate colleagues that lingers long after his choice to retire from that body to pursue personal business interests. He was in Cuba as head of a delegation whose mission was to explore future trade with the Cuban government. While in Havana, Senator McCullough took advantage of every opportunity to press Cuban officials to improve their record on human rights. He was an American hero. I shall miss his guidance and friendship very much.”

  A cacophony of voices posed questions to Walden, few having to do with the issues he’d raised at the beginning of the conference.

  “Mr. President, the Cubans are reporting that the former senator was killed by an American with ties to the CIA.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Walden said. “The fact is that this American, who is alleged to have shot Senator McCullough, evidently had worked for the Central Intelligence Agency years ago, and has had no official ties to that agency since then.”

  “Have you or your people been in close contact with Cuban officials about this?”

  “Contact with the Castro government is being conducted through existing diplomatic channels. I hasten to add that the American, whose name is Pauling, has only been accused by authorities as Senator McCullough’s killer. As I hope you’re aware, we view the accused in this country as being innocent until proven guilty.”

  “If this Pauling is apprehended by Cuban authorities, are negotiations under way to extradite him to this country?”

  “That will be discussed.”

  “Do you really think Castro will cooperate, Mr. President? He’s having a ball crowing about how a CIA agent is the murderer and claiming that this same Pauling guy was behind the attempt on his life.”

  “Speculation on this is premature. Until we have more tangible facts, let’s move on to something else.”

  Questions arose about the failed attempt on Castro’s life. Walden answered them with, “The alleged gunman is, as all reports indicate, a Cuban citizen. This is a Cuban matter. Fortunately—” He paused for effect. “The assassination attempt failed.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Walden and members of his staff gathered in the Oval Office. Walden tossed his suit jacket on a chair, rolled up his sleeves, sat behind his desk, and addressed the national security advisor. “Any response from Havana?”

  “No, sir,” Draper said. “Vasquez, President Castro’s foreign affairs minister, hasn’t responded to my call this morning.”

  “What about Langley? What the hell are they doing?”

  “They dispatched a tracking team to Havana last night. They’ll be working through our Interests Section there.”

  “Who gave authorization for that, damn it? What good they can do? The Cubans are still linking Price’s murder with the attack on Castro.”

  Walden’s chief of staff, Charlie Larsen, entered the room and handed the president a communiqué he’d just received from the CIA’s Zachary Rasmussen. Walden muttered under his breath as he read it, and gave it to Paul Draper. “Damn!” the national security advisor said.

  “Castro now says they’ll prosecute Pauling when he’s found. So much for extradition,” Walden said. “Keep after Vasquez, Paul. Make sure he understands that if Castro grabs this Pauling character and parades him through Havana as a murderer and assassin, he can forget about any easing of the embargo.”

  “Mr. President, that isn’t much of a threat to Castro,” said Draper. “Again, he likes the embargo. It’s helping him. Canada’s foreign minister, Axworthy, got it right yesterday when he said the embargo’s the one thing keeping Castro in power.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Walden said, anger rising in his voice. “If the embargo ended tomorrow, Cuba would go up like wildfire—Axworthy’s words. Well, I don’t need him or anybody else giving me a lecture on how to deal with Fidel Castro.” He glared at Draper, then turned to Larsen: “When are Price’s sons coming?”

  “Tomorrow, sir. The press has been alerted.”

  “Good. I have another meeting.” He put on his jacket and checked himself in a mirror. On his way out, he turned and issued a final instruction. “Keep the CIA out of this any way that you can. They’ve screwed up trying to get rid of Castro a dozen times before, and I don’t need another screwup while trying to placate him. Keep working through direct channels with Castro and his people. Christ, if the CIA gets hold of Pauling, they’re liable to shoot him by mistake.”

  As he strode from the room, two unstated but pervasive questions filled his mind.

  Had the CIA been behind the latest assassination attempt on Castro?

  And had they played a part in Price McCullough’s murder?

  He fervently hoped not.

  But he knew it was entirely possible. Anything was possible with the CIA.

  Clean and
dressed, Pauling went into the kitchen and wrote on the bottom of Isabella’s note to him:

  Gracias, pretty woman. I hope to see you again.

  He’d decided while showering that he would take a chance and flag a taxi in order to get to Cali Forwarding’s office near the airport. It was either that or steal a car; hot-wiring cars wasn’t in his bag of tricks, and he wasn’t about to take one at gunpoint.

  He’d checked the night before to see whether Isabella had a phone. She didn’t. If she had, he would have tried to reach Jessica that morning to let her know he was all right. He also weighed the pros and cons of trying to reach Mac Smith at Hotel Nacional. Although he barely knew Smith, he was aware of his reputation as an attorney and law professor, but more important, as a straight shooter. Jessica had known him for years, most recently because she’d taught a course at GW on international relations, an extension of her job as an analyst in the State Department’s Russian section. But could he trust Smith in this situation? For all he knew, Smith might actually believe he’d killed Price McCullough, who was probably Smith’s friend. He decided to play that option by ear. He’d call him if things got tough and he needed a court of last resort.

  He checked the pockets of his vest, slipped the white guayabera over it, put on the hat, and started for the front door. He had touched the knob when someone knocked.

  It froze Pauling like a player in a game of statues, leaning forward, his right hand extended.

  Another knock, this one louder and more forceful.

  Pauling drew the Glock from his pocket, moved to the side of the door, and placed his ear against it. There was no way for him to see the visitor; the single window facing the street was too far away to allow a view of the front steps. He held his breath and waited. Whoever it was—one of Isabella’s friends; a former Juan, a “customer”; a neighbor; the Avon lady—would hopefully give up and go away. He anticipated another knock, the last, he hoped.

  Instead he heard: “Max?”

  The voicing of his name by the unseen man was startling and confusing.

  “Max. You in there? I know you’re in there. Come on, open up.”

  Pauling recognized the pinched, nasal voice: Hoctor.

  The man confirmed it. “It’s Tom Hoctor,” he said through the door. “Don’t be a jackass, Max. I’m here to help you.”

  Pauling moved in front of the door and asked through it, “What are you doing here?”

  “I said I’m here to help you.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I’ll tell you when you let me in. Do you have any of that wonderful, strong Cuban coffee? We can share a cup and talk.”

  “You want coffee? Who’s with you?”

  “No one, Max. Come on, open the door.”

  Pauling went to the window and surveyed the street. There didn’t seem to be any activity out of the ordinary, which didn’t mean, of course, that there weren’t a dozen armed men outside. “All right,” he said. He flipped a simple lock above the knob and opened the door a few inches. Hoctor was alone. He wore a rumpled blue suit, white shirt, and narrow blue tie. The morning sun shone off his bald pate, and his right eye was at half-mast, as usual. He was smiling.

  Pauling opened the door the rest of the way and stepped back. Hoctor entered the house, looked Pauling up and down, and said, “A regular caballero, Max. I’m surprised you’re not carrying a lariat and a bull-whip.”

  “What the hell do you want, Hoctor?” He closed and locked the door.

  “To see my old friend and to be of service. Please put the gun away. Is there coffee?”

  “No. Yes. How did you know I was here? What are you doing in Cuba?”

  “Looking for you. As for knowing where you were, a charming lady called the Interests Section this morning and reported that a handsome, dashing gringo by the name of Max had taken up residence in her home. Was she good?”

  “Get to the point, Tom. You were there when she called?”

  “Yes. I flew in last night with a few of your compatriots.”

  “Former compatriots. Why did they send you?”

  “Because I convinced them that because of our close and sustaining relationship, you’d be more likely to listen to me than to them.”

  “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  Pauling shrugged as Hoctor slipped his small frame into one of the matching chairs and sighed. “That feels good,” he said. “My back has been acting up recently. And could you take off that ridiculous hat, please? It’s very distracting.”

  Pauling tossed the hat onto the matching chair, went to the front door, and leaned against it, arms folded across his chest, head cocked.

  “You have a remarkable talent, Max, for stirring up trouble wherever you go.”

  “I didn’t stir up any trouble, Tom. Like they say, trouble just seems to follow me. I didn’t kill Senator McCullough.”

  “Your Cuban hosts seem to think otherwise. Who did?”

  “Who did what? Kill McCullough? I’ll tell you who did it. A beautiful Cuban lady who just happens to hire herself out now and then to an agency we know well. Celia Sardiña. Know her?”

  “I believe I’ve heard of her.”

  “Vic Gosling sure knows her. He put us together. She’s done contract work for the agency.” Of course you know her, Pauling thought. You’ve probably hired her yourself.

  “She set me up,” Pauling continued. “She got me to her apartment just in time for the police to bust in and find me standing over one dead ex-senator. Her timing stunk. I was gone before they got there.”

  “Then why did the police go after you?”

  “I assume she told them who I am.”

  Hoctor sighed and examined his fingernails.

  “You don’t believe me,” Pauling said.

  A shrug from Hoctor.

  “Why would I want to kill McCullough?” Pauling asked. “I didn’t even know him.”

  “But you came here because of him,” Hoctor countered.

  Pauling tossed the hat from the chair and sat. “Why would Isabella—she’s the woman who lives here—call the Interests Section?” he asked.

  Hoctor’s thin smile was knowing. “You’ve been away from the life too long, Max. You used to recruit nationals to lend their eyes and ears to the cause. Actually, Bobby Jo Brown and Gene Nichols are quite skilled at that exercise here in Havana.”

  “Nichols,” Pauling muttered. “Yeah, he always was good.”

  “The important thing is that you’ve found yourself in one hell of a pickle, one with serious political overtones. Mr. Castro is anxious to find you and make you a guest of the state. You have the potential of becoming his most effective propaganda tool since the Bay of Pigs.”

  “He should give me a medal. I knocked the gun away from the guy who tried to shoot him.”

  “Yes, I heard scuttlebutt about that, Max. Another enemy made.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those who wanted the bearded one dead aren’t very fond of you for saving his life.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “It really doesn’t matter, although I’m willing to share what I know with an old friend. Everyone in President Castro’s inner circle isn’t an admirer, Max. And, as I’m sure you know, the Cubans in Miami haven’t given up on their efforts to send Castro out of Cuba in a box. They aren’t very good at it but—”

  “You’re critical of them? The Company has fallen on its face every time it tried.”

  “That isn’t very loyal, Max.”

  “Loyal? To whom? The agency? Nobody was more loyal than me.”

  “When you were getting your monthly check. I’m talking about a deeper, more philosophical loyalty, Max.”

  “Save your breath, Tom. So, who was behind the hit on Castro, his own people, or the Miami gang?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  Pauling wished Hoctor had not added “honestly” to the lie. “What do you want?” h
e asked Hoctor. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to save your disloyal neck. I assured Bobby Jo Brown and Nichols that I would bring you into the Interests Section. You can hole up there until a way is negotiated to get you out of Cuba without angering the beard. Do you know what the Cuban people call him behind his back? They call him El Mulo, the mule, because of his stubbornness.”

  “I can’t do that. I have things to do before I leave Cuba.”

  “For the dashing Mr. Gosling?”

  “That’s right. Tell you what. Help me finish up what I came here to do. Then I’ll come to the Interests Section with you and we’ll all leave Cuba together.”

  “A wonderful suggestion, Max. You want me, an employee of the federal government, to accompany a fugitive charged with the murder of a distinguished former U.S. senator while he finishes up his assignment for a private security firm. You’ve been drinking too much rum. Then again, you always did fashion yourself a Hemingway type.”

  “Thanks for stopping by, Tom. Always a pleasure.” Pauling stood, picked up his hat, put it on his head, and went to the door. “You know your way out.”

  “You won’t make it on your own, Max. Your face is on every telephone pole and billboard in Havana. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of Cubans out there like your lovely whore, Isabella, who won’t call us when they spot you. They’ll be on the phone with Castro’s intelligence service. I give you until lunchtime before you’re in a Cuban jail.”

  “I’m touched by your concern.”

  In all the years Pauling had known Tom Hoctor, including his tenure at the CIA where Hoctor was his mentor and manager, he’d seen him only occasionally display overt anger. When he did, his voice, naturally high-pitched in his calm moments, became even shriller—like now.