Murder in Havana (10 page)

“Would you like a drink?” she asked.

He came to the doorway. “Sure.”

He watched her take a bottle of rum from a cabinet, and two cordial glasses, which she filled. She handed one to him, smiled, raised her glass, and said,
“Salud!”

Pauling nodded and tasted.

“Habana Club,” she said. “
Anejo
. Aged seven years.”

“It’s good,” he said, returning to the main room and sitting on the couch. She took one of the chairs.

“You have a first name I assume,” he said.

“Of course I do,” she said, laughing.

“All Vic told me—you know Vic, of course—he called you Sardiña. That’s all.”

“I suppose he didn’t want to scare you off,” she said, “my being a woman. Celia. My name is Celia.”

“Celia. What’s your story?”

“My
story
?”

“Are you Cuban?”

“Born here, to the States when I was eleven.”

“You, ah—you spend a lot of time here?”

“Some. I’m with the Cuban-American Health Initiative. I get to come back often, especially since the embargo allows the sale of medical supplies to Cuba.”

Pauling nodded. The Cuban-American Health Initiative. Another CIA front? There were so many you couldn’t tell them apart without a scorecard. What
was
her story?

“How did you get involved with Gosling?” he asked.

“So many questions.”

“I like to know who I’m working with.”

“So do I.”

He grinned, pulled one of the business cards from Cali Forwarding that Gosling had given him, and handed it to her. She dropped it to the floor next to her chair.

“You’re working with Celia Sardiña, who can put you in touch with the right people,” she said. “Would you like another drink?”

“No. I need some sleep. Does that couch pull out?”

“For me, it does. Can you find your way back to the hotel?”

“I’ll manage. When do you start putting me in touch with the right people?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And what do I do, hang around the bar waiting for you?”

“Be here at four. We’re having dinner with a friend.”

“And what do I do for the rest of the day, send postcards of Fidel to my friends?”

“El Comandante has had people killed for less flippancy. I suggest that if you must refer to him, you stroke your chin. The bearded one. It is the way it’s done here.”

“Thanks for the lesson.”

“One of many I suspect you need. Please close the door on your way out.”

Walter Fuentes was in his second term as the junior senator from Florida. Born to Cuban-American parents, he’d received a law degree from Vanderbilt University and had practiced in Miami until making a successful run for mayor of that city. When the senior senator, Cagney Jones, suffered a fatal heart attack, Fuentes was encouraged to run for the unexpectedly vacant seat. Photogenic and appropriately domesticated—his wife and teenage children, nicely divided between the sexes, were seldom out of camera range—Fuentes had become, by virtue of winning the senate seat, the country’s leading voice for Miami’s Cuban exile community.

On this day, he led two men and two women into the Oval Office where James L. Walden warmly greeted them, shaking hands and addressing each by name; his ability to remember names was well known, a useful political attribute. With the president were his national security advisor, Paul Draper, and State’s assistant secretary for Cuban affairs, Kathleen James. After everyone had been seated, two white-jacketed mess attendants served coffee, brewed especially strong at the president’s suggestion, and bite-sized fruit Danish. Fuentes said, “It’s good of you to see us this morning, Mr. President. We know how difficult it is to make time in your busy schedule like this.”

“There’s always time, Senator, when the issue is important.” He turned his attention to the others. “I’m not unaware,” he said, “of the goals of your organization and your purpose for asking to meet. Senator Fuentes has been a committed and effective advocate for you, and for your people and their point of view. But as you know, my administration doesn’t necessarily agree with some of the actions you espouse regarding Prime Minister Castro and the future of Cuba.” He laughed. “But you certainly have many Republican members of Congress in your camp. Or maybe I shouldn’t refer to camps at this moment.”

They all chuckled. The four people with Fuentes represented the Cuban-American Freedom Alliance (CAFA). Politically implacable, well-financed, and powerful, CAFA considered itself the Cuban government in exile, an unofficial title bestowed by President Reagan when he helped establish the group during his presidency. It had been treated as such by subsequent administrations until Walden came to power. His view of CAFA was not nearly as supportive.

“Mr. President,” CAFA’s leader, Ramon Gomez, said, “my organization represents almost a million Cuban-born American citizens in this country, more than half of them living in the Miami area. We—”

Walden was quick to correct him. “Mr. Gomez, I am fully aware that your organization is an important voice for Cuban-Americans, but not for all of them. There are hundreds of thousands who do not share your goal of liberating Cuba through force. I met only a few weeks ago with members of Cambio Cubana, which I believe stands for Cubans for Change, and the Cuban Committee for Democracy. They share a more moderate view of how to resolve the Cuban problem, if I may call it that. With all due respect, you don’t have a monopoly on Cuban policy.”

“That may be true, Mr. President,” Fuentes said, “but those in power never have a monopoly in a democracy. What was your margin of victory, sir, nine percent?” He smiled to soften the rebuke. “Of course, the dictator Castro
does
have a monopoly. Ruthless dictators always do.”

Draper stepped in. “Surveys show, Mr. Gomez, that half of the Cuban population in the United States wish an open dialogue with Castro, not liberation by force. They want Cuba freed through diplomacy.”

“But no survey is needed to show who among our people is willing to put their money behind their convictions,” Gomez said.

Walden glanced at Draper; a small smile came and went. The not-so-subtle message from the Cuban leader was that CAFA had been a substantial contributor to politicians championing its cause, at least in campaign rhetoric. And that included key Democrats as well as Republicans. The numbers had been delivered to Walden before the meeting: more than $1.5 million in campaign contributions since 1981, including $125,000 to President Clinton, who tightened the trade embargo while his opponent, George Bush, withheld support for the harsh Torricelli bill that, among other things, fostered the overthrow of Castro by financing dissidents in Cuba.

Assistant Secretary James spoke up. “Mr. Gomez,” she said, “our intelligence from Cuba clearly indicates that a majority of the Cuban people fear what would become of them should CAFA succeed in overthrowing Castro and become the new government in power.”

“Fear us?” Gomez said mockingly. “Why would they fear us? We fight for them and their right to live in a free society.”

“Their fears are well-founded,” Walden said, casting a quick, surreptitious glance at a clock on the wall. He’d
shoehorned them in that morning in the middle of an especially busy day, but didn’t want to offend them by seeming impatient. Their constituency and its political clout was too important for that, to say nothing of their money muscle. “You’ve taken a stand stating you’ll deal harshly with any foreign country that’s done business with Cuba during the Castro years,” Walden said. “The people are afraid that you’ll take back all that was taken from you and grab everything the Castro government has stolen, including what they’ve lost over the years. They’re aware that you’ve been a prime supporter of the embargo that not only has made the average Cuban’s life difficult, it’s given Castro exactly what he wants, an enemy responsible for his people’s problems. He loves the embargo, Mr. Gomez. It was a gift to him. Now, I must leave shortly for another appointment. What precisely is it you want from this meeting?”

Senator Fuentes answered, “There is a growing concern, Mr. President, that you and your administration are paving the way for a so-called dialogue with Castro in the hope of establishing some form of working relationship with him. You’ve eroded the embargo at every opportunity.”

“I’ve heard all this from your Republican colleagues in Congress,” Walden said, “only not as pleasantly put at times. I have no intention at this juncture of advancing any further initiatives to soften the stand against Prime Minister Castro and what he stands for.”

He meant it. Although he quietly harbored the desire to pave the way for a resolution of the forty-year-plus standoff with Castro, the thought of possibly having to give even the smallest concession to the Cuban leader was anathema. He was aware of all the horror stories emanating from Havana—political foes tossed into shark
tanks for Fidel’s pleasure, the thousands summarily executed for “crimes against the state,” the beatings and other torture of Cuban citizens—and he also knew that the devil sometimes had something to offer, in this case the possibility of bringing Cuba into the sphere of democracy and free enterprise.

Walden again spoke to his guests. “Bear in mind that the embargo hasn’t done a damn thing to topple Castro and turn Cuba into a democracy. Engagement is what’s needed. There are nations all over the globe that aren’t democracies and that have brutal regimes, but we don’t put them under embargo. It’s Fidel under everyone’s skin, isn’t it? What has he outlasted, eight, nine American presidents? I don’t carry a brief for Castro, but I know that if you want Cuba restored to a democracy, the embargo is not the way to go.”

“Senator McCullough’s trip?” Fuentes said flatly.

“What about it?”

“Isn’t he seeking even fewer restrictions on trade and travel? And with your blessing.”

Walden stood and pulled his suit jacket from the back of his chair. He slipped into it, punched a button on his phone, and told someone that he was ready for the next meeting. The president turned to the five people seated in front of his desk and said, “Price McCullough is a private citizen. He went to Cuba with a number of our leading citizens to engage the Cubans in discussions on how American business might benefit from barriers to trade that have already been lowered. At the same time, he and his delegation are delivering a message stating, quite simply, that unless and until there is significant improvement on human rights in Cuba, this country will not only continue to take strong action against Cuba, it will support further restrictions. It was good seeing you. I hate to cut this short but you must excuse me. Perhaps we can soon
schedule another meeting when I’m not so pressed for time.”

A presidential aide led Fuentes, Gomez, and the others from the room. When they were gone, Walden said to Draper and James, “These Miami hard-liners are counterproductive to their own goals, Castro gone and Cuba free. They finance these training camps in Florida—now Mexico—what’s the new one called?”

“Timba Candente,” Assistant Secretary James replied. “Named after Cuban music and Spanish for hot.”

“Yeah, Timba Candente,” Walden repeated scornfully. “And with the CIA’s blessing, if not outright support. Damn, it’s like we have two governments running the country, the one in this White House and the one operating out of Langley. Next thing we know there’ll be another attempt on Castro’s life. How many have there been, a dozen? More? Time for another bomb in his cigar, or botulin? They
did
try botulin, didn’t they?”

“Yes, sir,” Draper confirmed.

“The one I enjoyed was when they managed to sprinkle a strong depilatory into his shoes and hoped his hair would fall out,” James said with a chuckle. “To damage his image.”

“Thallium salts,” Draper said.

“What?” Walden said.

“The depilatory they put in his shoes.”

“Oh.”

Since taking office, Walden’s relationship with the CIA had been strained, at best. He knew that the nation needed such an intelligence agency to ensure survival in an increasingly dangerous world. The problem, as Walden saw it, was that the agency’s role and methods had changed dramatically since President Truman established it under the National Security Act of 1947. Truman had sought to establish an overt intelligence
organization, one emphasizing the gathering and analysis of information. But the 1947 act contained special provisions exempting the CIA from certain normal congressional review processes. It methodically transformed itself from the open intelligence-gathering agency envisioned by Truman to what it had become today, a secretive organization in which furtive cells of operatives were free to function on their own with only minimal oversight by the agency’s management, much less so Congress and the White House. The myriad attempts on Castro’s life were justified, Walden had to admit to himself and close advisors. The man was evil; ask the hundreds of Cubans who’d been tossed to the sharks because they dared question Castro’s authority and policies. Maybe if one of those CIA attempts had been successful, and not so clumsily mounted, Walden would have had a more sanguine view of the agency. Maybe if it didn’t make other mistakes, miss other opportunities, and operate under such a cloak of secrecy, he would have more readily embraced its role and mission. Too many maybes where the CIA was concerned.