Murder in Havana (24 page)

“All set?” he asked, taking in each person at the table. Nods all around.

“No hitches?”

“None, Joe.”

“Then it’s a go,” he said, and left the room.

After Celia had left the hotel, Pauling lingered at the twenty-fifth-floor bar before going downstairs and out to the street. The Vedado section of Havana had a different feel from bustling, decrepit central Havana. The boulevards were wide and lined with royal palms. There were many hotels patterned after those in Miami Beach; the majestic Hotel Nacional looked down from its perch above the Malecón as though to proclaim its superiority over lesser ones below.

Pauling looked across the street to the Coppelia Ice Cream Park that Celia had mentioned. Prior to the Revolution, this trendy part of the city had been the scene of numerous ice cream parlors catering to Havana’s well-heeled citizens. Blacks and poor
mestizo
Cubans weren’t welcome. But in 1966, Castro ordered the sprawling, lush park be built to include the ultimate democratic ice cream parlor, the world’s biggest, serving dozens of flavors to as many as forty thousand customers a day. The park had been closed for repairs for two years in the late ’90s; cynical Cubans believed the true reason was that the government could no longer import the necessary ingredients for the ice cream. But it had reopened six months prior to Pauling’s arrival and was busy despite the early morning hour.

As he crossed the street, he noticed a PNR car with two
men inside parked just beyond the park’s entrance. He was tempted to wave but stifled the urge. He entered the park and went to its center where the ice cream parlor, which looked like a giant flying saucer, was located. Regardless of the hour, and what had happened to him during the night—or because of it—he was wide awake, charged, wired, and throbbing with nervous energy. He found a vacant bench beneath a tree, sat, and tried to put a finger on what to do next. He was certain of one thing. Get out of Cuba as quickly as possible, ideally with the information he’d been sent to collect. With any luck, Nico would come up with some credible documentation of BTK’s deal with Strauss-Lochner Resources before the end of the day. Also, the papers taken from Grünewald’s office, once translated, might provide additional proof.

A pretty young Cuban woman dressed in a red tartan miniskirt approached and asked if he wished to order ice cream. “Only vanilla,” she said apologetically. Pauling shook his head and she walked away.

Another young woman, a teenager, came up to him and offered a paper flute of peanuts coated in sugar from a makeshift cardboard rack she carried. “Yeah, okay,” he said.
“Sí.”

He munched on the peanuts as he left the park and walked in the direction of his hotel, mind still racing. He was acutely aware of his surroundings, a natural instinct for Pauling, made more so as he thought of the young blond German he was convinced had killed Kurt Grünewald. He hadn’t known Grünewald well, had no connection to him aside from being aware that he worked for Strauss-Lochner, and having spent an evening with him. Still, the man’s murder was more upsetting than he’d realized. He’d liked the fat German; felt sorry for him was more like it. A plain guy in a difficult situation,
going for the pension, he’d said at dinner, a family back in Heidelberg waiting for him to come home and putter in his garden and pinch his grandchildren’s cheeks. Anger rose as he thought about Grünewald and the end he’d suffered. The German was right in labeling the blond aide foisted on him “Vice President of Stupidity.” Maybe his mistake was in not adding “VP of Bloody Wetwork” to his titles.

As he approached Hotel Habana Riviera, Pauling realized that Blondie had now become a cause with him. It was a personal weakness, he knew, one he’d suffered before. Once, in Vienna, he’d been part of a team that had identified the source of leaks from the U.S. embassy that had gotten a CIA colleague killed. Pauling’s mission had been successful. The informer, an Austrian civilian employee of the embassy, had been fingered, his fate placed in the hands of others. But rather than leave when scheduled, Pauling had stayed in the city and physically attacked the source of the leaks one night in a secluded park. He’d been called on the carpet by Hoctor for that breach of orders. He couldn’t justify to his superior why he’d done it—except that
he had to
. The slain agent had been Pauling’s friend.

“You jeopardized the mission,” Hoctor had said when they met at Langley. “Your stupid attack might have served as a tip that we were on to him.”

“Nonsense,” Pauling had replied. “As far as the creep knew, he was mugged by an Austrian. That’s why I cleaned out his wallet before I left.” He held up his hand against what Hoctor was about to say next. “No, Tom, I didn’t pocket the money. It went down a sewer, where he should have gone.”

Pauling didn’t bother trying to provide Hoctor further justification for his actions. The truth was, the agency
might have let the informer walk, might have even paid him off to get lost somewhere in South America. He’d witnessed that resolution before.

“Your file’s getting thick, Max,” Pauling had been warned as the Langley meeting came to a conclusion, referring to official reprimands that had been inserted in Max’s file over the years.

“You should be happy about that, Tom,” he’d said when leaving. “Your job is safe. No threat from me.”

Despite Pauling’s cocky justification for having roughed up the Austrian, he was well aware that carrying a vendetta against an individual wasn’t smart, unless that person posed a distinct threat to your personal health. He didn’t view Blondie in that context. Still, there was a score to settle. Grünewald didn’t deserve to die that way. He wouldn’t jeopardize the assignment to make a statement to the big German. But if an opportunity happened to present itself—well, that he’d deal with if it did.

The police car continued to follow at a snail’s pace, stopping each time Pauling stopped, in order to confirm it was still with him. The throngs of people who had been on the streets earlier in the evening had thinned somewhat; even Cubans have to sleep sometime.

He entered the hotel. The wizened Cuban desk clerk nodded sleepily as Pauling passed him and went to the waiting elevator. He got in and pushed the button for the fourth floor. The doors slowly jerked closed, as though unsure they wanted to. The trip up was equally as halting, the elevator’s groans loud. Would it make it? It came to a stuttering halt. Pauling waited until the doors were fully open before taking a step toward the hallway. He knew immediately that it was a step he shouldn’t have taken. Too late. He hadn’t seen the hulking Cuban standing just to the left of the elevator, but sensed he was there, and then could smell his breath, feel his heat.

The man was one of those weight lifters whose body bulked up so much that it made his shaved head seem unnaturally small. He wore a tight black T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. His face was expressionless as he brought his right forearm down on Pauling’s left shoulder and neck, sending him across the hallway and to his knees. The Cuban was on him in an instant, bringing his right arm around Pauling’s neck and jerking his head back while his left fist pressed hard into Pauling’s back. Pauling managed to twist to his right and fire his hand sharply up into the Cuban’s groin, bringing forth a noise and loosening of the grip. Pauling lunged backward, moving the man into the middle of the hall. With more room to maneuver, he drove his elbow into the Cuban’s chest. Now free, he spun around on his knees and went straight for his face, thumbs finding the attacker’s eyes. The pained scream reverberated through the hallway. Pauling stood, reached for a head of hair that wasn’t there, abandoned
that
move, grabbed the front of the T-shirt, and jerked the Cuban to his feet. He drove for the groin again, this time with his knee. The Cuban slumped to the floor, his hands desperately trying to find the pain and make it go away. For a second, Pauling stood over him, chest heaving, perspiration stinging his eyes. The Cuban lunged suddenly for Pauling’s ankles but it was a feeble attempt. Pauling laced his fingers together and brought both hands down on the Cuban’s neck, sending him face first into the carpet.

Pauling stepped away, leaned against the wall, and pulled the Glock from his vest pocket. He wanted to shoot to make sure the bastard stayed harmless, but told himself not to go overboard. He wasn’t anxious to end up in a Cuban police station again, this time for shooting a Cuban citizen.

He decided to leave him lying there and get down to
the lobby. But as he replaced the Glock in his pocket, movement to the right caught his attention. Someone had been hiding by the door leading to the back stairway.

“Hey!” he called out.

There was the sound of the door closing. Pauling sprinted in that direction and yanked open the door. He heard running footsteps on the stairs. For a moment, he wasn’t sure in which direction they were going, up or down. Up. He again pulled out the gun and headed up the stairs, pausing before entering each landing to be sure he wasn’t about to be ambushed. He continued his climb until reaching the top floor, directly below the roof. Again, the sound of a door opening and slamming shut. He went more slowly now, weapon at the ready, every sense amplified, prepared for anything. He paused at the closed door and pressed his ear to it. The coolness of the metal felt good against his ear and cheek. Was someone waiting on the other side? Was he armed?

Slowly, he turned the knob, wondering as he did whether the person on the other side was watching it turn. He pushed the door open, inches at first, then more fully until able to see where he was. A nearly full moon provided good but intermittent illumination; low, fast-moving clouds turned it on and off like a light switch.

He checked to his left before pushing the door fully open so that it went flat against a wall. If anyone was behind it, he’d used up his food ration books a long time ago. He held his breath to muffle the sound of his own breathing while he advanced, his eyes taking in the rooftop. The only sound came from far below on the street, Afro-Cuban
yambú
and
guanguancó
and
columbia
music drifting up from boom boxes still being played.
Don’t they ever stop?

His ability to see the entire sweep of the roof was hindered by huge containers in which the hotel’s air-conditioning
and other electrical equipment was housed. Was there a way down other than the stairs? He wondered if there was a fire escape or other sort of ladder. A dozen feet to his right sat one of the containers, good cover. He darted there, pressed his back against it, listened, then peered around a corner. Nothing. The next container was farther away, twenty feet, one of two in the center of the roof. If whoever was up there with him was armed, he’d pose a tempting target trying to span that distance. He weighed his options. He could simply go back down the stairs and leave whoever was on the roof up there. But that person had been on the fourth floor. He was part of the attack by the muscle-bound Cuban. Let him walk away, and Max would be setting himself up for another attack at another time, maybe a more successful one.

He considered calling out in the hope of prompting him to respond. His location, he knew, was no secret to the person he’d followed up the stairs. He wouldn’t be giving anything away. Still, there was safety in silence, at least for the moment. He’d simply wait for his target to make a move, a sound, cast a shadow, cough, decide to attack. He was in no rush, although his neck and shoulders ached. Visions of a massage, or whirlpool, quickly came and went. “Come on, come on,” he whispered to himself. “Let’s get it over with.”

It seemed a long time before things happened, but it was actually less than a minute. What came was the sound of something, someone, bumping up against a solid thing, maybe an elbow, or a head against a low-hanging object. The twin containers in the roof’s center. Pauling peeked around the corner again but saw no one. But he knew where his prey was. Pauling was now calm, his breathing regular, his heartbeat slow and steady, but loud. He waited until a cloud moved across the moon,
casting darkness over the roof—and then he made his move, crouched low, Glock held with both hands out in front, eyes glued to his destination. He reached the twin boxes safely and switched on his senses again. Was it breathing he heard? That damnable music from the street and the moan of air-conditioning units made it impossible to know.

He drew a breath, held the gun up next to his ear, and made a move to see what was around the corner. He never made it. The body came down on him from the top of the container, dead weight, a hand desperately grasping the wrist of his right hand, in which he held the Glock, another hand grabbing his hair. The force of the body jumping from eight feet above slammed Pauling to the roof and pushed his forehead into gritty tar. He’d heard people who’d suffered sudden pain say they saw stars, but he’d never experienced it himself—until now. The pain shot through his head; his brain felt as though it had been dislodged from its moorings. At the same time, the reality that he was about to be killed echoed inside his head.