Murder in Havana (14 page)

“So I understand. Your cancer research labs are all state owned, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But I understand there are foreign companies wanting a piece of the action.”

“Piece of the action? Oh, yes, of course. I have heard that, too.”

Pauling looked at Celia, who appeared to have removed
herself from the conversation.
This guy has “heard it,” too?
Pauling’s expression said.
Big help!

She said nothing.

“Do you know about a German company, Strauss-Lochner Resources, Nico?”

“Yes. The Germans are very active in Cuba. They bring a lot of money to our economy.”

“Are they interested in buying your cancer research labs?”

He frowned in thought and ran his tongue over his lips. “It is my understanding that they have expressed an interest,” he said.

“Okay,” Pauling said, “what about an American company, BTK Industries? It’s headed up by a former U.S. senator, Price McCullough, who, by the way, is in Cuba as we speak.”

“I know that. What about the American company?”

“Have you heard anything about the German company acting as a front for BTK Industries?”

“A ‘front’?”

Pauling nodded. “A cover story, a disguise, a—well, beard.”

“No, I have not heard that. I could make inquiries, if you would like.”

“I would like that, Nico. Quiet inquiries. I would be very appreciative. How soon can you find out something about it for me?”

He shrugged and fell silent.

Pauling thought for a moment. “How much?”

Nico waved a hand over the table, and shook his head. “Let’s not talk about money now. This has been a pleasant evening. Money will make it unpleasant. I will see what I can find out and contact Celia. I will tell you this, Mr. Pauling. Strauss-Lochner has a representative in Havana named Grünewald. Mr. Kurt Grünewald.”

“What’s his job?”

“He is the liaison with our government’s Health Ministry. I have met him a few times. He is a nice man. He enjoys his rum. I must go. Thank you for a lovely dinner, Mr. Pauling. I will be in touch with Celia.”

He and Celia embraced as they’d done upon his arrival, and he left the garden.

“Paying him’s not a problem,” Pauling said after he and Celia were alone at the table. “Just a matter of how much.”

“Let’s see what he comes up with first,” she said.

Spoken like a true operative
, Pauling thought.
Make an informer show his or her hand before committing to an amount. Let them know that the better the information provided, the higher the payoff. You show me yours
, then
I’ll show you mine
.

The restaurant’s owner delivered the check. The three lobster dinners, including side dishes and the beers, came to thirty dollars. He paid. They found a taxi on the street.

“I’ll drop you at your hotel,” she said.

“I thought I’d buy you a drink,” he said.

“I have someplace I must be.”

“A date?”

She didn’t answer his question, although a small smile on her red lips said that was probably the case.

A stitch of jealousy came and went.

As they approached the hotel, the blond man in the black suit was standing in front of the Meliá Cohiba, next to Pauling’s hotel.

“That’s him,” Pauling said, pointing. “Ever see him before?”

“No.”

As Pauling stepped from the taxi, the man disappeared. Pauling pulled out his wallet to pay the driver.

“I’ll take care of it,” Celia said.

“When do I see you again?” Pauling asked.

“Tomorrow,” she replied. “I’ll call you at noon at the hotel. Be there.” She smiled, stroked her imaginary beard, and told the driver to leave.

Senator McCullough and his assemblage were taken on an hour-long bus tour of Havana before arriving at Plaza de la Revolución, dominated by a huge granite and marble monument to José Martí, the martyred intellectual author of Cuba’s freedom from Spain at the end of the nineteenth century, and Fidel Castro’s acknowledged inspiration. Multiple antennas appeared to sprout from its top, the highest point in Havana, the vultures perched on them providing a grim metaphor for Cuba in the desperate post-Soviet days. Members of the group recognized the place as the backdrop for the many political rallies at which Castro delivered his famous eight-hour grandiloquent harangues.

“We have arranged for you to go to the top of the monument following the meeting,” the group’s official escort announced on the bus, “and to tour the museum, which I know you will find inspiring.”

Mac Smith stepped off the bus and took in the sprawling plaza, Havana’s largest. It had the same monolithic grayness of plazas he’d visited in Eastern European countries. The government buildings defining its perimeter were constructed of thick concrete, the windows recessed as though to make it more difficult for light to penetrate the murky offices behind them. The Ministry of Interior building, in which Cuba’s most secretive and sinister
agency was located, featured a huge mural of Che Guevara, Castro’s partner in revolution.

They were led behind the Martí monument to the former Justice Ministry, now home of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, where Castro and his senior ministers conducted the nation’s business.

“Please, do not attempt to take photographs of the building,” the escort warned. “It is forbidden.”

Smith shook his head as he moved with the others into the labyrinthine Palacio de la Revolución, its façade the color of early-stage jaundice. He looked up at an enormous ceramic tile mosaic of flowers, trees, animals, and birds, and noticed that at the top, the depictions were cut short. He turned to one of the accompanying Cubans and mentioned it. The young man whispered, “The artist did his work before the building was completed. The ceiling is lower than planned.”

Smith smiled, said, “We have a few of those gaffes back in the States.”

“Gaffes?”

“Mistakes.”

The young man, obviously sorry he’d admitted such an error to a foreigner, nodded glumly and walked away.

The meeting room was on the second floor, a large space containing a long, scarred wooden table with dozens of chairs around it. The McCullough delegation was seated and asked to await the arrival of the minister who would lead the discussions. A large color photograph of El Jefe Máximo, also known as
el barbudo
, the bearded one, in his familiar military fatigues, looked down on them.

They passed the time with small talk until a door beneath Castro’s photograph opened and three men entered. They wore the usual dark suits and even darker expressions. They took chairs that had been left empty at
the head of the table. The one in the middle opened a file folder, placed half-glasses on the tip of his nose, frowned as he perused whatever papers were in the folder, looked up, removed his glasses, and smiled. “Well,” he said in good English, “you are here, and I welcome you on behalf of our leader, Prime Minister Castro. You are distinguished ladies and gentlemen in your professions. I have had many favorable comments from those of us who have had the pleasure of speaking personally with you.”

He looked to McCullough for a response.

“We feel honored to be here, sir,” the former senator said, smiling broadly. “You’ve been most gracious in your welcome since our arrival, and I speak for everyone at the table in expressing our gratitude.”

Smith smiled. This sort of posturing had been going on since their arrival, and he found it amusing. He reminded himself, of course, that flattery and circumspection were at the heart of diplomacy, unless you were rattling sabers across a conference table at a peace negotiation between warring parties. He was never especially comfortable with the niceties of negotiation. His reputation when practicing criminal law was that of a no-nonsense, mordant advocate who did not suffer fools, and who cut through salving blather to get to the point. He knew he was not destined to be appointed ambassador to any country, even the smallest of them.

The platitudes continued back and forth for fifteen minutes. McCullough cut through when he said, “I think the minister knows that those of us who’ve come here do so in the interest of exploring richer trade opportunities between Cuba and the United States.”

The minister closed his eyes and sat back. The Americans wondered whether he’d suddenly fallen asleep. When he came forward and again looked at McCullough, he said, “Talk of trade between our two countries
is always of interest, Senator, but of little practical value. As long as your laws prohibit your companies from doing business with us, it is nothing more than an academic exercise.”

“That’s changed, hasn’t it?” a member of the delegation offered. “We can now sell medical supplies and agricultural products.”

“On paper, yes,” the minister said. “But your laws continue to prohibit the financing of such transactions through any U.S. bank or other financial institution. It is like your laws against Americans traveling to Cuba. You do not prohibit it, but any American tourist coming here must not spend any money. Your laws regarding us are hypocritical.”

McCullough stepped in. “As you know, Minister, I am no longer involved in government. I am a former United States senator, and happy to be. But it has always seemed to me that we have a compelling mutual interest. We would like to open Cuba as a lucrative market for our businesses, and you and your people would benefit greatly with what we can sell. And, of course, we represent a huge market for your goods.”

The minister spoke: “That may be true,” he said, “but you have many former colleagues in Congress who not only resist increased trade with us, they would like to choke us into submission.”

“That’s unlikely to happen to you,” the ad executive said. She added, “You engage in extensive trade with many nations, European, Asian, Canada.”

The minister nodded. “Our economy is on its way to health once again, thanks to our trading partners.”

“But the United States could be your most important partner,” McCullough said.

“The United States has far more to gain from us than we have to gain from you.”

“Perhaps if there were an improvement in your human rights record, Mr. Minister,” said McCullough, “your enemies in Congress would begin to soften.”

Mac checked for an angry reaction from the Cuban. If McCullough’s comment had angered him, he didn’t show it. He said in a level voice, “There is no room for bending on our part, Senator. We are at war with you and the brutal capitalistic society you represent. As our prime minister has said, ‘My sling is the sling of David.’ ”

Smith winced and wondered whether their trip to Cuba was about to be cut short. He was surprised when the minister added, “These questions, and so many others, have been debated for decades, and will continue to be, I am certain. In the meantime, let us not allow them to interfere with the pleasure of your visit to Cuba. We will continue to discuss trade issues even though there will be little fruit born of our conversations. I am pleased to tell you that Prime Minister Castro himself wishes to join in our discussions, and will do so at a later time.” Now he became almost gleeful. “I am pleased to issue each of you a personal invitation to his seventy-fifth birthday party in a few days. To be asked to celebrate with him and the Cuban people is an honor not casually bestowed upon visitors.”

After touring the Martí monument, they were driven back to the hotel where they gathered in small groups at the bar.

“I really admired the way you laid the cards on the table, Price, about human rights,” McCullough was told.

“I thought we might as well get it out in the open right up front,” the affable former senator said, downing a Bacardi cocktail.

“I was afraid he’d take offense,” someone else said.

“I didn’t care if he did. The truth is—and they know
it—as long as they ignore basic human rights, Congress will keep the screws on tight.”

“Despite President Walden.”

“Yes, despite the president. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, there’s someone I must see.”

Smith watched as McCullough left the bar. He turned to the president of a regional airline whom he’d befriended during the trip and said, “The minister was right. This is all very pleasant, but there’s really nothing that can be accomplished unless Congress eases up on the embargo.”

“We might accomplish something, Mac,” he said. “The more times Castro gets the message about human rights, the more likely he’ll come to understand it.”

“And change? Won’t happen.”

“I’ve heard he has three hundred million dollars stashed in Spain for when he bows out,” the airline president said. “Maybe he’ll decide it’s time to give it up and live out the rest of his life in luxury, learning to dance the flamenco and play the guitar.”

The figure cited by the airline president jibed with what President Walden had confided in Smith during their weekend together at Camp David. Obviously, Spanish banks didn’t have the secrecy standards of the Swiss.

Smith laughed. “I don’t think Mr. Castro is close to packing it in,” he said. “Castro said about giving up his revolution, I’m paraphrasing, ‘If I’m told I’m the only one left who believes in my revolution, I’ll continue to fight.’ I think he means it.”