Murder in Havana Read online

  “And the infamous. Corrupt to the core,” Mac said. “A gangster paradise.” He chuckled. “I remember a comment by one of our ambassadors there during Batista’s reign. A reporter asked him why the Mafia was so welcome in Havana. The ambassador said it was the only way to have well-run casinos that paid off. That’s how corrupt Batista was.”

  Annabel yawned. “I’m too tired to be corrupt.”

  “Shame,” Smith said. “Let’s hit the hay anyway, Annie.”

  The first lady sat in bed reading a novel. Her husband hadn’t changed for bed. Walden sat at a small desk in their bedroom, leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the edge of the desk.

  “It’s been a lovely weekend,” she said, laying the book on the bed.

  “Always good to get away. Whoever invented vacations and long weekends deserves a medal. Good book?”

  “If you like romance novels, which I do on occasion. Occasions like this. Makes the escape from officialdom that much more complete.”

  He turned at the sound of someone knocking gently on the door, went to it, and faced an aide. “The senator is waiting, Mr. President.”

  Walden left the room without a word to his wife. As the aide led him to a secluded wooded area a hundred yards from the house, two Secret Service agents fell in behind, maintaining a discreet distance. Former senator Price McCullough sat on a wooden bench next to a small fountain, the water flowing gently into a copper urn that spilled its contents each time it filled. Walden joined his friend on the bench.

  “I caught you dealing from the bottom of the deck, Mr. President,” McCullough said in his soft drawl.

  Walden laughed quietly. “Sometimes you have to do that in this business, Price.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Mr. President. I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning. I need time back home before going to Cuba. I want you to know how much I appreciate this opportunity.”

  Walden waved away his comment. “I never liked Ayn Rand’s politics, Price, but her take on what’s self-serving makes sense. We do things for selfish reasons, but that’s okay because others benefit. Like the definition of a ‘good deal.’ If you personally benefit from your trip, that’s okay because this nation will benefit, too. It’s a good deal. Everyone comes out ahead.”

  “Any last-minute words of Walden wisdom?”

  “No. Just make it work. The time is right. If we can get them to see that there’s the possibility of more open trade beyond medicine and agricultural products, a real political dialogue might follow.”

  “Hinting that there’s the potential of lowering the embargo isn’t destined to impress Castro, Mr. President,” the burly, white-haired McCullough said. “It gives him his best platform to point the finger at us for all his failures with the economy. But I’ll do my best.”

  “The time is right, Price. Castro knows he’ll have to give it up one of these days. Hell, he’s got three hundred million dollars stashed away in Spain, according to some intelligence estimates. His kid brother, Raúl, will never cut it as the successor, and Fidel knows it. Everything points to growing unrest since the Soviets pulled the plug on aid.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “You’ll be there for his birthday.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Know why Castro considers twenty-six his lucky number, won’t make major decisions on any other day?”

  “I read the briefing papers.”

  Walden continued as though McCullough hadn’t. “He claims he was born in 1926, although some say it was ’27. At any rate, his father owned twenty-six thousand acres, and Fidel was twenty-six when he launched his revolutionary attack on Moncada on July twenty-sixth.”

  “Interesting,” McCullough said, not wanting to remind the president he already knew all about Castro’s superstitions.

  “Yes, interesting. The time is right, Price. Make the most of it, in your meetings—and out of them.”

  All set?” Annabel asked as he brought his suitcases from the bedroom to the foyer.

  “I think so.”

  “Time for another cup of coffee?”

  Smith checked his watch. “Sure. Car’s not due for a half hour.”

  They sat at a small glass-topped table on the terrace of their Watergate apartment and looked down over the Potomac. Crews from George Washington University, where Smith taught, practiced their strenuous extracurricular activity on the rippling water. Two luxury yachts slowly passed the sleek sculls from upriver. It was nine in the morning. The temperature was over eighty degrees in the nation’s capitol; the city’s infamous humidity had already wilted the clothing, hair, and spirits of the citizens who moved along the sidewalks as though pushing medicine balls.

  “Wow!” Annabel said, dabbing at her upper lip with a napkin.

  “Washington,” Smith said. “On days like this I think of the character E. G. Marshall played in Twelve Angry Men. You know, the one who never broke a sweat in that stiflingly hot jury deliberation room.”

  Annabel said, “If you’re thinking of practicing that feat, wait until you come back from Havana. I read the weather there this morning. A hundred.”

  He squinted as he looked into the sun rising across the river.

  “Yes?” Annabel asked, aware that his expression meant he was thinking of something.

  “The trip,” he said. “The president has been talking about it conceptually for months. All of a sudden it’s reality. I wonder why it had to be now.”

  “Window of opportunity?”

  “I suppose so. That column by Broder the other day makes sense.”

  “That this trip is more political than trade?”

  “Yeah. No doubt about it, Annabel. The president is determined to hammer out a relationship with Cuba before he leaves office, Congress be damned.”

  “Which wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” She cocked her head. “Good time to do it.”

  “Depends on how it’s done. Charlie Larsen suggested the other night that we should not encourage a revolution or an invasion but just get into a poker game with Castro and win the island.”

  “Castro would cheat.”

  “So would the president. I’d better get downstairs.”

  “Yes.”

  She rode the elevator with him to the lobby. A black limousine was parked outside.

  She hugged him and kissed him on the lips. “Oops, lipstick,” she said, wiping away telltale traces of their parting. “Call.”

  “Soon as I settle at the hotel. Or until the hotel settles further into decay. The Ritz it ain’t. Love you, Mrs. Smith.”

  “You’d better. Safe journey.”

  “Senator McCullough, you say that the purpose of your trip is to explore the possibility of one day opening further trade with Cuba beyond the current exceptions to the embargo, namely agricultural products and medical supplies. But the administration’s efforts to open a political dialogue with Castro are no secret. Isn’t that what’s really behind your trip?”

  The reporter was one of a dozen covering the departure of McCullough’s delegation to Cuba. The former senator and his colleagues, including Mackensie Smith, faced the press in a room at Reagan National Airport normally reserved for grieving family members when there had been a fatal aircraft accident. McCullough, forever senatorial—venerable face, silver hair nicely arranged, custom-made gray suit, white shirt, nonpartisan tie, voice like a one-man gang—smiled and gave a little shake of his head as though to say, “There you go again,” which had worked so well for the former president for whom the airport was named.

  “You’d think I’d have become inured to press skepticism after thirty years in the United States Senate, but it never fails to amaze me,” he said, the smile not leaving his square, tanned face. “No, there is absolutely no political motive behind this trip. We are going for precisely the purpose stated in the press handout y’all have. Cuba is a Communist nation ruled by a Communist dictator, and I’m sure there’ll be no softening of this administration’s posture toward Castro and his gov
ernment. But as y’all know, Congress has been moving in the direction of possibly expanding trade with Cuba in the areas you mentioned. This benefits not only the average Cuban citizen, it opens up a potentially lucrative market for our pharmaceutical companies and our farmers. It seems to me that—”

  “It will benefit your own company, too, won’t it, Senator?” asked a reporter.

  The smile disappeared. “If you’re suggestin’ that I would put personal gain over the needs of the American people, sir, I would suggest that you don’t know me very well. Other questions? Time for us to get on board.”

  “President Walden’s attempts to end the forty-year embargo against Cuba are becoming more evident every day. Are you saying his agenda isn’t part of your agenda?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” McCullough replied.

  “What about Cuba’s dismal record on human rights, Senator?” a young woman reporter asked. “Doesn’t increased trade simply give Castro a stronger economy in which to mistreat his own citizens?”

  The smile was back, more expansive this time. “How we deal with Mr. Castro and his failings in the human rights arena is up to the politicians, and I remind you I am no longer one of those. The distinguished ladies and gentlemen of this delegation represent the best of American thinking and success. They’ll be meeting with their Cuban counterparts to discuss how things might open up a little with Cuba. Thank you for coming, and have yourselves a nice day.”

  They walked from the lounge to a chartered 727, boarded, and settled in their seats.

  “First time to Havana?” Smith’s seatmate asked. He was the president of a large midwestern heavy farm equipment manufacturing company.

  “Yes. You?”

  A hearty laugh preceded, “No. I’m older than I look. I went there in my early twenties. It was incredible, a paradise, the shows, the gambling, the women. Batista might have been a curse but at least he was no Commie. Castro and his damn revolution ruined everything, sent the island over to the Soviets, put the people in chains. Hell, all you have to do is look at how many Cubans have risked their lives on little rubber rafts to get away from that murderous bastard.”

  True or not, it promised to be a longer flight for Smith than estimated.

  Max Pauling was not flying. He had been made to cool his heels in Miami. Gosling called him from London the day he arrived: “Sorry, old boy,” he’d said, “but an emergency has come up with one of our clients that will keep me here an extra day.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Pauling asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

  “Relax. Enjoy glamorous Miami Beach. Spend my money. Accommodations are to your liking?”

  “They’re swell, if you get off on pink concrete, neon, and plastic. Oh, and let’s not forget chrome.” He hadn’t been to Miami in years and was surprised at the city’s transformation from a purely low-lying, warm-weather tourist attraction to an international center of commerce. Skyscrapers now dominated the skyline, and ethnic neighborhoods defined the city. “When are you getting in?”

  “Tomorrow. Chill, Max, as you Americans are fond of saying. I’ll keep in touch.”

  Downtime was always the worst. Pauling occupied himself for the next twenty-four hours by walking the beach and admiring the hundreds of bronzed young women in bikinis—Could they possibly cover less and still be considered clothed? he wondered—reading flying magazines he picked up in a large bookstore, and having a leisurely dinner in a restaurant in Little Haiti. The following morning, the desk clerk at the Airport Regency Hotel at Miami International Airport handed him an envelope as he returned from breakfast. “For you, Mr. Pauling.”

  Pauling went to his room. It was compact and had a small balcony overlooking nothing worth seeing. He stood out on the balcony and opened the envelope.

  Max—

  Arriving this afternoon from London, Virgin Atlantic flight five, scheduled into Miami at 3:05. Meet you at the hotel.

  Vic

  It was nearly eleven. Pauling unpacked his small bag, put on trunks, and swam vigorous laps until a mother with three small children entered the pool and provided a lively obstacle course. He got out, dried off, and went to the small bar where he nursed a Bloody Mary, had lunch, returned to his room, and fell asleep. The ringing phone startled him into consciousness.

  “Max, it’s Vic. I’m in the lobby.”

  “Hello, Vic. Flight okay?”

  He laughed. “My master believes that his employees should fly first-class. Virgin calls it upper-class. Top-notch. Even an onboard masseuse to rub out the kinks before arrival. Worth getting the kinks. Been here long?”

  “Long enough to be ready to leave. Where are we meeting?”

  “Come down.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  Gosling was dressed as though he’d just stepped from a boardroom, dark blue pinstripe suit, blue-and-white-striped shirt with a solid white collar, solid burgundy tie, and black wing tip shoes buffed to a mirror glaze. Pauling wore jeans, a navy T-shirt, white sneakers, and his customary multipocketed vest. Gosling frowned.

  “You have a problem?” Pauling asked.

  “Must be dress-down Friday, only this is Thursday.”

  “All the same to me. Where are we going, to a coronation?”

  Gosling led them from the hotel lobby to a parked, rented tan Mercedes. “To where we can have a drink and a little chat,” he said. “My superior at Cell-One will be delayed, won’t be in until tomorrow. Meetings all week at the Athenaeum Hotel. I broke away to meet you. The British are as fond of meetings as you Americans. Nothing like the lure of a long conference table, some tea, and an agenda. You did bring a suit with you.”

  “No.”

  Gosling sighed. “I warned my superior that you are unconventional. How’s your lady friend?”

  “Jessica is fine. Where are we heading?”

  “A romantic spot on the beach, given that you’re so well dressed.”

  They drove south on Le Jeune Road to Coral Way, turned left, and drove east until reaching Biscayne Bay, then north on Biscayne Boulevard until Gosling pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant, Monty’s Marketplace. Pauling followed Gosling through the building to an outdoor area on the bay where a raw bar was in operation. They sat at a varnished picnic table beneath a chikee hut, a palm-thatch structure open on all sides, affording a view of the water.

  “Nice place, don’t you think?” Gosling said.

  “If you like this sort of thing,” said Pauling. “Glad I didn’t overdress.”

  They ordered draft beers from a waitress; Gosling ordered a half-dozen littlenecks.

  After a silence, during which Gosling ate and Pauling drank: “This is all very nice, Vic, but if I wanted to suck a beer beside the water, I’d have gone to California. What are we doing? I don’t like sitting around.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Max? The original man of action and little patience. All right. Let me fill you in. As I told you earlier, you’ll be transporting medical supplies to Cuba for a company in Colombia.”

  “What company?”

  “Cali Forwarding.”

  “Oh, come on, Vic. Are they still in business?”

  “Ah, you remember. That’s a good sign, Max. The memory generally goes before the legs. Yes, Cali Forwarding is ‘still in business,’ as you put it.”

  “And still acting as a front for The Company.”

  “The Company. I wonder who coined that as a euphemism. Nobody calls it that anymore. Not important. In this instance, the CIA isn’t involved. Strictly a private undertaking on behalf of my firm’s client, Signal Labs. Cali Forwarding has been acting as a middleman for quite some time now for Canadian and European pharmaceutical companies selling drugs to Cuba.”

  “Why do they need a middleman?” Pauling asked. “We’re the only country prohibited from doing business with Cuba.”

  “Helms-Burton,” Gosling said. “Since 1996, when the Helms-Burton Act was passed—precise name, th
e Cuban Liberty and Democratic Solidarity Act—signed, reluctantly I might add, by President Clinton, we’ve been coming down hard on our allies who continue to do business with Havana. It’s made for some awkward relations with our friends. At any rate, rather than incur the wrath of Uncle Sam, some companies don’t sell directly to Cuba. Let’s say a Canadian company sells to a company in Colombia. That company resells to Cuba. The goods are delivered from Colombia to Cuba and everyone is happy.”

  Pauling sighed and rubbed his nose. “What else is Cali Forwarding reselling? There wouldn’t be any pure Colombian Gold stashed with the penicillin and antacids, would there?”

  Gosling shrugged and motioned for the waitress to bring another round. “I’m hurt, Max, that you would think I’d get you involved in something shady, like drugs.”

  “I’ll want to see what’s in the plane before I take off.”

  “Of course. Believe me, it’s all on the up-and-up. You’ll be taking medical supplies and medicines to needy Cuban men and women. An admirable humanitarian effort. Yes?”

  “I always wanted to win a Nobel. Run the deal past me again.”

  “Really quite simple, Max. You know that Congress has opened up trade with Cuba allowing medical supplies and agricultural products. Only it’s a bit of a sham. Your lawmakers, bless them, say your American companies can sell those goods to Cuba, but have simultaneously prohibited them from seeking financing for the deals from your banks and other financial institutions. A devious bunch, your lawmakers. They can now proclaim themselves humanitarians, concerned with the well-being of the average Cuban, but making it almost impossible for these goods to reach the sick and hungry. Other countries that aren’t hamstrung in their dealings with Cuba are free to trade with Castro, provided they’re willing to anger your Congress. An intriguing scenario, isn’t it?” He leaned closer and grabbed Pauling’s arm. “But Max,” he said, a modicum of exasperation in his voice, “what you’ll be doing has nothing to do with embargoes or congressional double-talk. God, I hope your short-term memory hasn’t eroded. Flying supplies from Colombia is simply your cover for being in Cuba. You’re going to Havana to see what you can dig up on BTK Industries.”