Murder in Havana (25 page)

A voice shouted in Spanish: “Who is here? What is going on?”

Pauling’s attacker scrambled off him, got to his feet, and ran to the open door where two hotel security men stood, flashlights trained on Pauling and his fleeing assailant. Pauling just had time to raise his head and see the blond head push past the unarmed guards and disappear through the door. He slowly, painfully pushed himself up so that he was on all fours, and tried to shake the fog from his brain. The guards came to him and spoke in Spanish: “Who are you? What happened? What are you doing up here?”

Pauling got to his feet and gently touched his cheek
with fingertips. Blood came off on them. He still held the Glock in his right hand and slipped it into a vest pocket. The guards turned at the arrival of another man, the hotel’s manager, who spoke good English.

“Why are you up here on the roof?” he asked.

“It’s a long story,” Pauling said.

“Are you a guest of the hotel?”

“Yes. I was attacked in the hallway outside my room.”

“Attacked? Who attacked you?”

“I don’t know his name, but I know what he looks like. He’s a Cuban with big muscles and a shaved head.”

The manager looked at the security guards.

“Another man was here,” one of the guards said. “He ran past us.”

The manager said to Pauling, “This other man. He was up here with you?”

“That’s right. He was with my attacker. He jumped me.”

“Do you know who he is?”

Pauling hesitated before saying, “No, I don’t.”

“I will call the police,” the manager said, turning to leave.

“No, don’t do that,” Pauling said. “It was just a misunderstanding. Actually, I think I know who they are. We had an argument in a bar earlier this evening and they were angry at something I said. You know, about a señorita.” He managed a pained smile. “Just forget about it.”

“I don’t know,” said the manager.

“No, it’s okay,” Pauling said, walking to the door. “Thanks for your concern. I just need to get cleaned up and grab some sleep. Thanks again.
Muchas gracias!
No problem. Good night.”

He descended the stairs, wincing at each step he took
as pain radiated throughout his body. As far as he could tell, nothing was broken, but everything had been bent. He hesitated before stepping into the fourth-floor hallway. The Cuban who’d jumped him was gone.

He carefully entered his room, closed the door, turned on the lights, and made sure he was alone. The AC had been shut off by the housekeeper; the room was like a steam bath. He switched it on and went into the bathroom to examine the damage to his face. The left side was scraped and bleeding slightly, black particles from the roof embedded in it. His lip was cut, too, and a purple ring had begun to develop around his left eye. He cleaned up as best he could, changed shirts, sat on the bed, and decided what to do next. Sleep was at the top of the list but somehow he didn’t think he’d relax enough for that to happen. He turned on the TV. A special program about Castro’s birthday party later that day was running on Canal 2: Tele Rebelde. Pauling had watched Plaza de la Revolución being transformed earlier into a venue for a celebration. Huge posters of Castro had been hung on every available surface in the spacious square. A podium had been set up, and a large roped-off area near the podium had been established for VIPs, Pauling presumed. The reporter, a striking Cuban woman, spoke rapid Spanish to accompany the video footage taped hours before. Pauling understood some of what she said, but not enough to continue listening. He turned off the set, reached for the phone, and was put through to an international operator who, after five minutes, connected him with New Mexico.

“Max?” a groggy Jessica said.

“Yeah. Can you hear me okay?”

“Yes, you’re clear. How are you? Is something wrong?”

“No, I’m fine. Sorry to wake you.”

“What time is it there?”

“I don’t know. Early.”

“You’ve been partying?”

His laugh was rueful. “No, no parties, Jess. I’ve had a busy night. Been arrested for murder, and got jumped by a Cuban orangutan.”

She sounded more awake now. “Good God, Max,” she said, “you said it would be easy. What’s—?”

“I don’t want to get into it on the phone. I called because I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, a little bruised, that’s all. Look, I expect to wrap this up in a couple of days.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, I want out of here as soon as possible. How are you? Seen any strange birds lately?”

She chuckled. “Just a few doctors at the hospital. Max, please take care.”

“You know me, Jess,
my
neck gets saved before anyone else’s.”

His words did not comfort, but she didn’t pursue it. Instead, she said, “I spoke with Annabel Lee-Smith.”

“Yeah? How is she?”

“She’s fine. Her husband, Mac, is in Cuba, too.”

“Is that so?”

“I thought maybe you’d run across him.”

“Cuba’s a big place, Jess. Where’s he staying?”

“He’s with the Price McCullough delegation. I saw on TV that they’re staying at the Hotel Nacional.”

“Fancy place. Maybe I should give him a ring.”

“That would be nice.”

“I have to go.”

“Go to bed,” she said.

“Yes, boss. See you soon.”

Her “I love you, Max,” was lost as he replaced the receiver in its cradle, already asleep.

Pauling was stretched out on the bed, the Glock semiautomatic at his side. The brief conversation with Jessica had calmed him. He’d felt sleepy and allowed himself to drift off. Now, two hours later, he awoke as sunlight streaming through the window played over his eyes. He struggled to his feet, groaning as he did. Every muscle ached, his face stung, his head throbbed. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower; a prayer for hot water was answered.

Celia had said she’d contact him at his hotel room at noon. It was seven. He didn’t want to wait that long. Talking even briefly with Jessica had crystallized his need to get out of Cuba. Things were falling apart. He’d been hauled in because he was with Grünewald just before Grünewald was murdered, and now he’d damn near been killed by another German, the blond thug sent to keep tabs on Grünewald, and ultimately to kill him—at least that was the assumption.

He made a decision while dressing that he would leave Cuba no later than the next day, whether he had Nico’s documentation for Gosling or not. Celia intended to take the papers from Grünewald’s office to her German friend that morning, and attempt to contact Nico. Would she follow through? he wondered. She’d been told to back off
from Pauling’s assignment, and although she’d said she didn’t have to disengage immediately, he didn’t trust her enough to take her at her word. She could have left the bar and decided to wash her hands of him. She was pulled off the assignment because someone higher up, probably at Langley, had given the order. Such an order would take priority, and he understood that.

His thoughts then went to Celia’s connection with the CIA. What was it specifically? She’d been instructed to come to Cuba and wait for further orders. What were those orders? To try to develop an informer within the Castro government? Aid in a planned unauthorized exodus of Cubans to Miami? Or …?

He was thinking too much about her, he knew. Being sexually attracted to her was one thing, just a normal male reaction to female beauty and sensuality—he was years from Viagra.

What
was
of concern was that he wanted to know her other than sexually, wanted to spend time with her, talk, find out all about her, who she was and what she’d been, her childhood, experiences with other men, learn what philosophies drove her, delve into her values and beliefs and …

Get off it, Max
, he told himself.
Rein it in before you know more than what’s good for you
.

After taking a final look at himself in the bathroom mirror and grimacing at what he saw, he left the room and went down the back stairs to the street. He assumed the police shadows would have both front and rear entrances to the hotel covered, but he saw no one who looked like a tail. He was ravenous and stopped to buy a churro, a deep-fried sugared donut stick, and a cup of thick, sweet coffee from a street stall. The stall owner looked at Pauling’s bruised, scraped face and frowned.
Pauling smiled, made a fist, and directed it at his face. The stall owner laughed and uttered a string of words that Pauling didn’t understand.

He carried the churro and coffee to a shady spot beneath a balcony, ate, and watched the street scene that was in full swing. Celia had told him in passing that despite Cuba’s dire economic straits, the people were fastidious about their personal hygiene. She’d stroked the imaginary beard on her chin and said, “He can take away food and rum and cigars, but take away soap and the regime collapses.” Now, as he stood on the streets of Havana, he took note of the men, women, and children who passed him, and she was right. Even those wearing frayed clothing were clean and well groomed. A group of schoolchildren, eight or nine years old, wearing green-and-white uniforms, with teachers at the front and end of the line, crossed the street in front of him. A uniformed PNR cop stopped traffic. The scrubbed faces and laughter reminded him of when his sons were that age, oblivious to governments and international conflict, unaware of corporations competing to reward their stockholders at any price, monetary or ethical, immersed only in their own young world of fantasy and dreams. A few of the kids noticed him and his face; they pointed and giggled and spoke to each other. He kept from laughing because it hurt when he did.

He crossed behind the children and walked in the direction of Celia’s apartment, stopping occasionally at government kiosks, on which the latest edition of
Granma
was posted, to see whether he was being followed. There were many PNR officers on the streets, but none seemed to pay particular attention to him. As he walked, he imagined turning a corner and finding himself face-to-face with Blondie. That contemplation kept his adrenaline flowing and his sensors extended.

It didn’t happen. Instead, it was like a fiesta. There was a palpable air of excitement in Havana that morning, and the signs promoting Castro’s birthday celebration that had been hung on buildings overnight explained why. Other signs in shop windows announced the closing of the shops at three in order for their owners and staff to attend the party.

He reached the entrance to the narrow
solar
and looked down its length. People from the apartments were out in the alley. Despite the time of day, two Cubans had set up barbecues and were cooking what smelled like pork. Not his idea of breakfast, Pauling thought. An itinerant troubadour played and sang romantic urban folk music,
nueva trova
, which sounded like a combination of pop and Spanish classical music. Women sat in straight-back chairs in front of their apartments while four men sat at a folding card table playing dominoes. Recently laundered clothing flapped in the breeze from upper-story wrought-iron balconies. Had he still smoked, Pauling would have had a cigarette. Without that prop, he entered the alley and walked slowly to the apartment. Men nodded at him; a few said a greeting. The guitarist paused in the middle of the song but continued where he’d left off, nodding toward a straw hat at his feet. Pauling fished in his pocket and came up with two quarters that he tossed into the hat. Two children, who should have been in school, came up to him and asked for “Dollars, yanqui dollars!” Pauling ignored them and kept walking. The women, most of them older, did not demonstrate the same friendliness as their men. Dark eyes bored holes in him as he reached the door to Celia’s apartment, pushed it open, and went up the stairs. There was no response to his knocking. He tried the door and it opened.

His eyes went immediately to the white curtains. They were tied back in their usual, no-message-intended way.
“Celia?” he called. She didn’t respond. He closed the door behind him and went to the bathroom, where everything was neat and clean. He ran his hand over the inside of the plastic shower curtain. It was wet. It hadn’t been too long since she’d taken a shower. He wandered through the rest of the apartment, not much of a trip considering its small size. Everything was in the order he remembered, nothing out of place. The kitchen was clean, the sink empty except for a single glass.

He returned to the living room where a pile of papers sat on a small table just inside the door. Pauling picked up the top piece. It was a full-page article torn from the most recent edition of
Granma
about Castro’s birthday celebration, to be held later that afternoon in Plaza de la Revolución. Included in the piece was the schedule of events, notices of when the speeches would be given and when various bands and other entertainment would perform. Castro would deliver his speech at five. Judging from the Cuban leader’s past verbosity, it could last into the evening. Could Celia be planning to attend? he wondered.

He folded the article, put it in a vest pocket, and pulled one of the red vinyl sling-chairs to the window. It promised to be yet another brutally hot day in Havana, and he thought of the cool mountains of New Mexico. He and Jessica enjoyed making a picnic lunch and hiking up into the foothills, sitting against a tree next to a fast-flowing mountain stream, reveling in the pristine air. Sometimes they took fly-casting equipment with them and fished the streams for trout, occasionally catching one on a hook whose barb had been removed, and easily returning it to the cold, clear water, wishing it bon voyage and suggesting that it be a little smarter next time.