Murder in Havana (28 page)

But even when the Soviet Union itself collapsed and the plug was pulled, the research, already far along, continued. A breakthrough was around the corner, Caldoza was convinced, and it would involve the use of the metal vanadium. Results had been more than encouraging. Clinical trials had brought about dramatic remissions in a variety of patients with different cancers, particularly those in the lymphoma and myeloma families, cancers of the blood. By combining the drugs with monoclonal antibodies, the cancerous cells could be induced to “commit suicide,” to die off and allow normal cells to proliferate.

So close.

But now the tape.

They’d come to him last night at home, three of them, colleagues at the research institute. It was not unusual for them to visit his home in the Vedado section. Maria Caldoza ran what amounted to an open house for her husband’s friends from the hospital and labs. They came and went, young and old, seasoned physicians and researchers, medical students and their friends. All were always offered drinks and meals created by Maria, an acknowledged superior cook. Her
ajiaco
, meats and vegetables spiced with judicious amounts of onion, oregano, cumin, and sour oranges, was a particular favorite, especially in these days of food shortages, when her creativity at substituting ingredients never failed to please.

Because his was a prestigious position within Cuban society, Dr. Caldoza and his wife enjoyed a quality of life unavailable to the majority of Cubans. Their house was of Spanish colonial design built around a courtyard in which Maria had created a colorful display of plantings—African golden trumpet, fragrant mariposa, begonia, oleander, flame-of-the-woods, and bright pink morning glory. It was to this multihued setting that Dr. Caldoza and his three visitors repaired after dinner. They lit up cigars—they may have been doctors but this was, after all, Cuba—and sat around a green wrought-iron table, small cups of strong coffee in front of them, drawing on their Upmanns and Cohibas, watching the blue smoke drift up into the still, humid Havana night.

Caldoza spoke first: “So, it will happen,” he said, his flat voice not reflecting the inner turmoil.

The three visitors murmured agreement.

“This tape,” Caldoza said. “Tell me about it again.”

One of the men at the table recounted the conversation between Fidel Castro and former U.S. senator Price McCullough.

“Who recorded the conversation?” Caldoza asked. “Someone close to El Presidente, obviously not a loyalist.”

“Obviously,” said Caldoza, drawing on his cigar, deep in thought. He said as though speaking to a royal palm swaying above, “This is a startling development. The rumors have been alive for a year,
sí
? Many rumblings about Strauss-Lochner negotiating with the government for our team’s research. There have been countless meetings with Grünewald, their liaison here. Those so-called secret meetings have not been so secret. I have been kept abreast of what has been discussed in them, and while the thought of seeing our work end up in the hands of others
would be heartbreaking, it has been my evaluation that such a betrayal could not happen. Strauss-Lochner is almost no longer a viable company. Its laboratories are decaying, suffering from too little cash to invest in costly research. It has been my opinion that it would not be able to raise sufficient money to buy its way into our work. As you know, there have been other pharmaceutical companies, particularly Canadian, that have made such inquiries, but they have not been taken seriously, according to my sources. But now this. BTK Industries is a very successful company, as you know. It has virtually cornered the market on many proprietary drugs and has the advantage of being led by a distinguished former United States senator.”

“It must be stopped!” said the man seated across from Caldoza.

“An excellent suggestion, Felix,” Caldoza said, smiling. “I am sure you have a foolproof plan to achieve this.”

Felix cleared his throat. “There is an American in Cuba who was sent here to uncover proof that BTK Industries is behind Strauss-Lochner’s bid for our research.”

Caldoza placed his cigar in an oversized ashtray and leaned forward. “How do you know this?” he asked.

“Through one of the people who brought news of the tape to me.”

“One of that group?”

“Yes. She is—”

“She?”

“Yes. She is part of that group. This American was sent here by Signal Laboratories.”

“BTK’s competitor.”

“Exactly. Cell-One—that is a private investigation agency with headquarters in London—represents Signal in this matter. The person chosen to come here once
worked for the American CIA. He reports to someone else who once worked for that agency.”

“Your source,” Caldoza said. “This woman. How does she know this?”

“She was recruited by Cell-One’s representative to help this agent here in Havana find the proof. His name is Pauling. Max Pauling.”

“That is interesting,” Caldoza said, “but of what value to us?”

“If this American is successful, the information he uncovers can be used to discredit BTK Industries—”

“And—” someone added, stroking a beard that wasn’t there.

Caldoza again drew on his cigar and said, “Is this woman you mention willing to share with us what she and this American come up with?”

“Yes, she will.”

“How soon before—?”

“Before she and the American are successful?”

“Yes.”

“Days, she tells me. A matter of days.”

“And where will they get this proof? Surely not from us. We do not have, as far as I know, any documentation that would help. All negotiations must have taken place in the highest echelons of the ministry.”

No one had an immediate answer.

“There are those in that higher echelon who might be persuaded to release such information for the right price,” it was suggested.

“Have we become that corrupted?” Caldoza mused.

“The mere act of accepting money to reveal traitorous secrets is not necessarily synonymous with corruption,” his question was answered, “not if those secrets bring about needed change and benefit our people. It would be a tragedy, a true tragedy, for an American company to
profit from all the good research that has been conducted here in Cuba, by Cubans.”

They fell into silence until Caldoza said, “It appears the rumors may be true about El Presidente planning to leave.”

“I do not believe that will happen,” said a female visitor, Casandra. “I remember his words as clearly as if it was yesterday. ‘If I am told that ninety-eight percent of the people no longer believe in the Revolution, I’ll continue to fight. If I’m told I am the only one who believes in it, I will continue.’ No, he will only leave office in a pine box.”

“We shall see,” Caldoza offered. “In the meantime, I would like to be kept informed about this American—Pauling, is it?—and his efforts.”

“Of course.”

“You will continue to be in touch with this woman?”

“Definitely.”

“Good.”

Caldoza stood, prompting the others to follow.

“Dinner was wonderful, as usual,” one said.

“Tell Maria,” said Caldoza. “If we can be as successful in the laboratory as she is in the kitchen, cancer will be but a memory. Thank you for coming. It is always a pleasure having you.”

Now, alone in his office, Dr. Caldoza reflected on the conversation of the previous evening. Most of the research institute’s staff had left to attend the Castro birthday celebration. He knew their motives in doing so were mixed. There were those who, like himself, had believed in the Revolution and saw it as a new, cleansing dawn for Cuba and its eleven million people. It certainly wasn’t a matter of personally profiting from the new Socialist regime of Fidel Castro. Everything, including the medical establishment,
became state-owned and -operated. Salaries were cut dramatically; Caldoza was paid only a tenth of what he would have earned under the open Batista government. But there were the sudden infusions of money into his research budget, and Castro’s pledge to mitigate personal loss.

He ran his fingertips through tufts of white hair at his temples and turned to look at a photograph on his desk. It had been taken ten years ago during a family vacation on the Peninsula de Ancón, a beautiful stretch of beach on the southern coast, two hundred miles from Havana. Caldoza and his wife and two sons stayed at the tourist resort Playa Ancón, where they’d snorkeled together at Cayo Blanco, enjoying the white, powdery sand beach and clear, warm water. Caldoza had asked a tourist to take a family portrait with his camera, and they posed at the base of a palm tree, his sons clowning a little, his wife beaming, he sucking in his stomach at the time the shutter was released. Both boys had gone on to Cuban medical schools but eventually left Cuba for Canada where they practiced medicine and started their own families. They’d tried to convince their mother and father to leave Cuba, too, but Manuel Caldoza wouldn’t then consider it. His work at the labs was going well, the results providing a level of psychic satisfaction that was like a daily shot of Adrenalin. And it was his home. Leave Cuba? Inconceivable.

He removed his lab coat, put on the jacket to his suit, and left. As he walked to the elevators, he passed a young lab assistant who looked up from her worktable and smiled. “Going to the birthday celebration, Dr. Caldoza?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “You?”

“I would like to but I cannot leave in the middle of this experiment.”

Caldoza returned the smile and patted her on the shoulder. “What you are doing is more important than attending,” he said. “Besides, there will be thousands there. You will not be missed.”

He rode down the elevator and went to the parking lot where he got into his car, started the engine, waved to the security guard at the gate, and prepared to pull onto the street. Plaza de la Revolución was to his left, the route to his home to his right. He never hesitated. He turned the wheel to the right and headed for Vedado and his house where the phone call would come from the States.

After his guests had left the night before, Caldoza had placed a call to the home number of Dr. Barbara Mancuso in Silver Spring, Maryland, a number she’d given him during his presentation to the American Society of Clinical Oncology. Their conversation was brief. At its conclusion, she said she would have to consult others at the National Institutes of Health for answers, and said she would call the next day.

“At your office?” she’d asked.

“No,” he replied, “at my home.” He gave her his number. “Anytime,” he added.

Pauling stayed at Celia’s apartment until a few minutes past four. The phone had rung once, but when he answered, the caller hung up.

The alley was comparatively empty when he came down the stairs. An old woman watched him from inside her apartment as he walked by. He gave her a small nod but her stern expression never changed. A CDR if he ever saw one. Or if ever one saw him.

The children were gone, evidently off to serenade El Jefe. Pauling could hear the faint roar of a crowd, and dissonant march music coming from Plaza de la Revolución. He walked in that direction, aware that the streets most distant from the plaza were virtually empty. The music, and the crowd, became increasingly louder as he approached. Now the narrow side streets that fed into the vast plaza were clogged and he had to squeeze through in order to reach a point where he could see the raised platform and podium. There were staging areas for the bands, other speakers, and VIP guests. The rooftops were chockablock with spectators, like birds on a wire. Smoke from barbecues on the street and roofs stung the eyes while tickling the nostrils. He kept looking for Celia in the sea of celebrants.

As he moved into the plaza itself, he began to feel the party atmosphere. If the thousands of Cuban citizens
were there only because it was the prudent thing to do, their exuberance didn’t reflect it. People danced to music being played by a festively costumed band, the incessant beat infectious. He continued to inch closer to the stage. He could see the people on it now, dozens of government bureaucrats and Castro cronies surrounding the podium, chatting, laughing, and slapping each other on the back. Directly in front of it was a large, roped-off VIP area. Uniformed PNR officers were stationed every six feet along the ropes, their eyes trained on those special guests.

Pauling was aware of other men in the crowd who looked as though they might be plainclothes detectives, or Minint’s secret police. Positioned along the edge of the Ministerio del Interior and Ministerio del Justice roofs were armed members of the military. Looming witnesses to the event were the huge, black metal mural of Che Guevara dominating the front of the Interior building and the imposing Monumento José Martí. Fidel was everywhere, his face and piercing dark eyes on dozens of blowups of his image.

Although Pauling was not the only Caucasian foreigner among the thousands of spectators, he felt that he was. Armed Cuban officers scattered throughout the crowd seemed to take particular interest in him, and he wondered whether he might be stopped and searched, detained, taken off the streets in the interest of national security. He knew the bruises on his face didn’t help him avoid scrutiny.
Who was this gringo wearing a vest with dozens of pockets in which, Dios knows what, something destructive, might be concealed—a grenade, a knife—and looking as though he’d just survived a train wreck?