Murder in Havana (12 page)

Grünewald knew he drank too much. He often rationalized it to himself. What was he to do? His wife and children were back in the town of Eberbach, a suburb of Heidelberg, comfortable in their wood-beamed house on the cobblestone street, enjoying their friends and family who lived close by, enjoying being German in Germany. When he’d been asked to undertake a special assignment in Cuba two years ago, Grünewald told Dr. Miller that he needed time to think about it. But he knew what his answer would be the minute he left Miller’s office. He didn’t have a choice because his tenure with Strauss-Lochner Resources had become tenuous. After twenty-five years,
all of them spent at corporate headquarters in the Heidelberg Technology Park, he could sense his lessened stature within the company through little things—not being invited to meetings in which he used to be routinely involved, being slighted in the routing of important memoranda, overhearing younger colleagues joke at lunch about the “dinosaurs” still with the company—little things that added up to a big reality.

Also, he was not part of the company’s medical research team, the largest division and its reason for existence. Strauss-Lochner was a relatively successful developer and manufacturer of drugs developed in close cooperation with Heidelberg University and the famed Deutsche Krebsforschungszentrum Cancer Research Center, DKFZ, founded in 1964 and now an acknowledged world player in cancer treatment and research. But of late the company’s fortunes had been shaky. Competition had become cutthroat in the race to develop effective anti-cancer drugs.

But Kurt Grünewald did speak Spanish. And he had achieved a reputation as an effective negotiator, particularly in past labor disputes in which the company had been embroiled. His degree from the esteemed university at Heidelberg was in international affairs, and he had gone on to earn an advanced degree in labor relations. When Miller dispatched him to Cuba, Grünewald was told that the company needed a man of his experience and knowledge to help pave the way for a deal with the Cuban government to allow Strauss-Lochner to buy a controlling interest in the state-owned cancer research institute. He was instructed to establish relationships with the appropriate Cuban officials in a position to influence Fidel Castro, with an eye toward obtaining the dictator’s cooperation in the sale of the research institute to a foreign investor. He was given an almost unlimited expense
account with which to wine and dine Cuban officials. Should direct payoffs be necessary, he was authorized to spend up to ten thousand dollars without having to seek permission from Heidelberg.

It wasn’t until he’d been in Cuba a year that he learned through an errant “secured” communication that the money he spent so freely did not come solely from Strauss-Lochner’s coffers. Much of it flowed from the treasury of the American company BTK Industries, headed by the former United States senator from Texas, one Price McCullough. Grünewald wasn’t shocked, but he was concerned. His greatest midnight fear was having to go to jail. It was a more pervasive fear than death by fire or drowning. When he questioned Dr. Miller during a visit to corporate headquarters, he was told that Strauss-Lochner and BTK Industries were exploring a merger. “Nothing to concern you, Kurt. Just keep doing your job in Havana.”

Which he did, of course.

Five years to the pension.

His wife’s protest was vehement.

“Come with me to Cuba,” he’d said.

“Nackter wilder!”
she’d said, questioning his intelligence. Her affectionate name for him had always been “Boopsie,” but not this day. She said many other things, all making the point that if he thought she’d leave their home, their friends, and their grown children to live in some filthy Communist country, he’d lost his mind.

And so he traveled to Havana alone, determined to make the best of however long he would be forced to stay there.

It had been two years.

Now three years to the pension.

“You must leave so soon?” his wife asked over breakfast on the last day of this most recent trip to Heidelberg.

“Ya,”
he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin and pushing back from the kitchen table. “I would like never to go back, but it is not my choice.”

After a series of meetings the previous day, Dr. Miller, Grünewald, and others had gathered for dinner at Kurfürstenstube, in the elegant Der Europäische Hof-Hotel Europa. Grünewald was relieved to be away from the sterile atmosphere of headquarters, and though he could calm himself with vodka and beer, he would have preferred to be home enjoying simpler fare with his wife. He barely ate his saddle of Limousin lamb as he tried to focus on what others at the table were saying, but it became increasingly difficult as the hours passed and the alcohol dulled his senses. Finally, after dessert—crepes flambées with bananas and maple sauce—he was free to go home and sleep.

“What do they say at the meetings, Kurt?” his wife asked at breakfast, her concern for him written on her round face. He’d put more weight on an already sizable frame, causing his shirt collar to press into the folds of his neck. His face was mottled and flushed, and damp with perspiration even on this cool morning in their home on the Neckar River from which the Oldenwald Mountains were visible on a clear day, like this one.

He shrugged, stood, and looked out the door to their garden. She’d asked that question a few times since he’d arrived from Cuba, but he’d remained true to the admonition received from Miller: their discussions were not to be revealed to anyone. Those discussions had occupied the past two days; today would be the final meeting before he boarded a plane at Frankfurt that afternoon for his return flight to Havana.

But there was another reason for not discussing the meetings with Hanna. The truth was, he’d been treated poorly at corporate headquarters, scolded, accused of
dragging his feet, questioned as to his drinking habits and other personal matters that he considered out of the realm of corporate interest.

“Just meetings, Hanna,” he said, turning and smiling to reassure her that all was well. “A waste of time. Miller likes to hear himself talk, jabber, jabber, jabber, full of his own importance. I will not be sorry when the next three years are gone and I can thumb my nose at them and spend the pension money. We’ll have a good life, huh, Hanna? We’ll take some trips, work in the garden, enjoy time together.”

Her thought was that she would be relieved if he lived to enjoy retirement. Instead, she said, “I look forward to that, Kurt. But you must take care of yourself. The drinking is—”

“Please, none of that, Hanna. Not now. Do I drink a little too much?
Ya
, sometimes. But it is not a problem, not like others we know who are drunkards. It relaxes me. There is nothing else to do in Cuba.”

He came up behind her chair and wrapped his arms about her, allowing his hand to brush her sizable bosom. “Don’t worry about me, Hanna. Your Boopsie is just biding his time until I can tell them good-bye, and good riddance.” He kissed her temple and went to the bedroom where his packed suitcase rested on the bed. For a moment, he considered calling Miller’s office to announce that he was not returning to Cuba and that he was resigning, pension be damned. Then he carried the suitcase to the foyer where Hanna waited.

“When will you be home again?” she asked.

“In a few months. Once I finish the business I was sent to Havana to conduct, I am sure Miller will recall me to headquarters. Take care, Hanna. I will write as I have been doing, and call each Sunday.”

They embraced. He left the house, climbed into the
BMW he’d rented at the airport, waved, and drove off, his destination the corporate headquarters of Strauss-Lochner Resources.

Had Dr. Hans Miller been born at a different time, he would have been a willing, enthusiastic Nazi, Grünewald was convinced. Slight in stature, with a narrow face and slender nose on which rested small, round, metal-rimmed eyeglasses, he seldom smiled unless it served a purpose. Miller was brilliant, Grünewald knew, and respected the man for that. But it was a narrow intelligence, as narrow as the test tubes of the labs in which Miller seemed more comfortable than with people. He greeted Grünewald with a wave of his hand and without getting up from behind an oversized desk. With him in the office were two other men, the director of research, Dr. Otto Marc, and the company’s chief financial officer, Georg Hagen. Hagen had attended the previous meetings of the past two days, but this was the first appearance of Dr. Marc.

“Sit down, Kurt,” said Miller. “Did you enjoy dinner last night?”

“Oh, yes, very much so. Such a fine restaurant.”

“And bar, too,” Miller said, raising one eyebrow.

“
Ya, ya
. Always good drinks there.” Grünewald pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and dabbed at his brow and upper lip.

Miller said, “Otto will share with us this morning some of what he has learned from his recent trip to the United States. Please, Otto, the floor is yours.”

The tall, gaunt research director opened a notebook on his lap, adjusted his glasses, and began to speak, using the notes as a prompt.

“I spent considerable time in Washington at the NIH, and with a most impressive young physician there, a Dr. Barbara Mancuso. She and some of her colleagues have
been doing considerable investigation of what is going on in Cuba. Shortly before we met, she’d attended the annual meeting of the American Society of Clinical Oncology where our Cuban friend Dr. Caldoza presented a paper on his institute’s latest research results using vanadium. As we already knew, he and his colleagues have had impressive results with some of the two dozen drugs they’ve been testing.”

Miller interrupted. “This Dr. Mancuso, Otto. Is her interest in the Cuban research purely clinical?”

“As opposed to?”

“As opposed to a commercial interest?”

“I have no evidence of such a thing, Hans.”

“NIH works closely with many American pharmaceutical companies,” Miller said, “including Signal Laboratories, which, as I have pointed out numerous times, has shown a distinct interest in what the Cubans have achieved. Our sources in the States have made this abundantly clear.”

“Do our sources indicate any knowledge on the part of Signal Labs of our arrangement with BTK?” the financial chief, Hagen, asked.

“That isn’t clear,” Miller replied. “I have been told that Signal has retained an international investigation agency, named Cell-One, to probe the matter.”

Grünewald had allowed his attention to shift from what was being said in the room to his imagination, a vision of himself at work in his garden.

“What do you know of this, Kurt?” Miller asked, causing Grünewald to flinch.

“What?”

Miller’s impatience was locked in his voice. “What do you know of any investigation taking place in Cuba on behalf of Signal Laboratories?” he repeated.

“Nothing. No, I have heard nothing of such a thing.”

“Would you know if you did?” Miller said, more to himself than to Grünewald.

“I think I would,” Grünewald said, his voice defensive, betraying nervousness. “Yes, I would have become aware of such a thing. My contacts with the Cuban ministry of health and the doctors at the research facilities are good. Very solid. Very good.”

“Are you aware that Senator McCullough is in Cuba, Kurt?”

“
Former
senator,” Grünewald said. Miller sighed. “Yes, Kurt, former senator. Answer my question.”

“That I knew he was in Havana? I read about it. I knew he was coming.”

“Did he bring others from his company, BTK, with him?”

“I—I will certainly find out the answer to that the moment I am back.”

“And you will make contact with Mr. McCullough?”

“Yes, of course, but for what purpose?”

“To assure me that things are progressing with our partner the way they were intended. I have no doubt that a man of McCullough’s stature is a man of integrity and honesty. But his trip to Cuba at this time raises questions.”

“I will do my best,” Grünewald said, “but I am not sure what I could learn simply by meeting the senator. I have so many other obligations, other responsibilities that—”

“Yes, Kurt, I realize that you might be overburdened. I am sending someone back with you to be of help.”

“Someone? Who?”

“A younger man with experience in such things.”

“Do I know him? Where does he work?”

“He’s not from the company, Kurt. He is an independent contractor. His name is Erich Weinert. I have instructed
him to meet you at the airport. All arrangements have been made for him to accompany you on the flight, and to be at your side during the coming months.”

“I—of course I am grateful for any help you see fit to give me, Hans, but this is a surprise to me, as I am sure you can understand. He will report to me?”

“He will report to
me
, Kurt.”

Miller laced his fingers and extended his hands in front of him, causing knuckles to crack. The meeting was over. Miller stood, came around the desk, and perched on its edge, positioning his face only a foot from Grünewald’s. “It was never my intention, Kurt, that you should know of our business arrangement with BTK Industries. The situation is extremely delicate, as I am certain you appreciate. If—
when
we gain control of the remarkable cancer research taking place in Cuba, the future of this company will be assured. You will have done a great service, and you will be appropriately rewarded. But if word should get out that we act in Cuba on behalf of the American company BTK, the future will be cloudy at best. Every step must be taken to ensure secrecy. No loose lips, no confidences extended over schnapps, or whatever they call it in Cuba. Am I understood?”

Grünewald swallowed, blinked, and nodded.
“Ya,”
he said.

Miller’s sudden smile penetrated Kurt Grünewald’s heart.