Murder in Havana (13 page)

Pauling was surprised at how long and soundly he’d slept. He awoke at ten and remained in bed for a few minutes to remind himself where he was, and to reflect upon his meeting with Celia Sardiña.

He’d decided after leaving her borrowed apartment and walking back to the hotel that she was as smug as she was beautiful. Smugness was, to Pauling, a weakness for anyone involved in clandestine work. Smugness equaled sloppiness, inattention to detail.

He indulged himself in a moment of introspection. Was his negative reaction to her personal? She’d placed him in a position of being her subordinate. That wouldn’t do.
He
would call the shots, allow her as much leash as he thought reasonable. Was the fact that she was a woman at the heart of his attitude toward her? He assured himself it wasn’t.

The bottom line, he decided as he stepped into the shower, was that he would put up with her because he needed her contacts, at least initially. If he were on assignment for his old employers, the CIA and State Department, he would veto her involvement. Those days were rife with danger. You could get killed doing what he’d done for those agencies. Friends had lost their lives.

But there was no apparent danger on this assignment. He wasn’t there to subvert the Castro government, or to
nurture a traitor within the Maximum Leader’s ranks. El Jefe Máximo. “The Maximum Leader!” Only a man with an outsized ego would call himself that. He’d once read that Castro likened himself to Jesus, and that although he needs glasses, he never wears them in public because to do so would be a sign of weakness.
That beard probably hides a double chin
, Pauling thought as he rinsed shampoo from his hair and stepped from the shower.

When he’d gone to bed last night, he was annoyed that nothing would be happening until four the next afternoon. Now, he was glad to have a few hours to take in Havana as a tourist. Someone who’d made numerous trips to Cuba had advised him, “Eat a big breakfast. It might be the best meal you’ll have all day.” The hotel restaurant served a buffet, but because it was late, there were only crumbs where pastries had been, and a few slices of pineapple and papaya strewn on a platter. The only thing that hadn’t disappeared was a pile of Spam.

He had coffee and juice before stepping out onto the Malecón. It presented a different picture in daylight than it had at night. Without sunlight, the three-story houses lining Havana’s seafront were imposing in silhouette. But with the sun came a ruthless, unforgiving view. Once-stately homes painted in a variety of pastels—pink, yellow, orange, blue—had been battered by years of salty water crashing over the seawall, and decades of human neglect. Some were propped up by wooden scaffolding; others were simply left to sag toward the cracked limestone sidewalk once traversed by proud owners. The houses had all been turned into multiple-family dwellings. Clothing hung from the wrought-iron balconies, which themselves appeared to be clinging desperately to the crumbling façades. Caged birds and loose roosters called them home. To Pauling, the houses looked
depressed and defeated. Not so the people on the Malecón. They walked with purpose, proud, as though things were good in their lives and their country. Or was it resignation leading to passivity? Men bearing huge black inner tubes with many patches on them went down to the sea and floated out into it, using the tubes as precarious boats from which to fish for that evening’s supper. Could you make it to Miami in one of those things? Pauling wondered. What was that kid, Elián Gonzáles, floating on when they plucked him out of the sea? You had to be pretty desperate to take an inner tube to Florida.

He walked, enjoying the heat that loosened muscles tightened by hours in the cramped cockpit of the Piper Aztec B. Vibrancy surrounded him. The
jineteros
, male street hustlers, offered him everything from “genuine” Montecristo cigars to bootleg rum. Vintage American cars—DeSotos and Cadillacs from the 1950s—lent their out-of-tune roar and noxious exhaust to the general cacophony of the street. Their drivers offered him discount sight-seeing trips, for American dollars, of course. Teenage “virgins,” the
jineteras
, promised trips to paradise.

Pauling came upon the Museo de la Revolución, housed in Batista’s former palace. In front, the twisted remains of the American U-2 spy plane shot down over Cuba shortly before the missile crisis of 1962 was displayed, along with a Soviet tank used to repulse Bay of Pigs invaders. He paid the entrance fee and went inside where Castro and his revolution were immortalized, including the heavy black coat that Fidel, then in his twenties, had worn during the famous trial in which he was convicted of plotting the failed attack on the Moncada Barracks while in search of weapons for his ragtag army. Also displayed in the museum were bloodstained uniforms, old slot machines from the Mafia days, and hundreds
of pictures of El Jefe Máximo, many taken when he was a young lawyer and rebel leader, sans beard. As Max was about to leave, uniformed soldiers who’d been standing guard over an eternal flame, the star-shaped monument to the Heroes of the New Fatherland, were replaced in a changing-of-the-guard ceremony. Pauling recognized the monument. He’d seen it plenty of times in Moscow, the model for Cuba’s version.

He checked his watch. Three o’clock. He was hungry but decided to hold out until dinner with Celia and her friend. He consulted a map he’d taken from the hotel and found his way to the alley off which her apartment was located. Like everything else he’d seen that day, Cuba was prettier by night, he noted again. Heavy, pungent odors of cooking food wafted from the small apartments as he passed them. Spirited conversations drifted through open windows and doors. He did not pass unnoticed. Curious eyes peered at him. The alley was not listed in the guidebooks as a tourist attraction.

When he reached the door to the apartment, he paused and looked back to where he’d entered the alley. A man stood there smoking a cigarette, the same man Pauling had seen before, at the museum. He’d been standing in front when Pauling exited. Pauling had noticed him because he was not Hispanic. He had blond hair, cut to make it stand up like a spiked bush. His temples were shaved. He was extremely pale. He wore a black suit over a white T-shirt, and sandals. Pauling had thought it a strange getup for a tourist in sultry Havana, but paid no further attention.

Until now.

The man saw that Pauling had noticed him and stepped out of view. Pauling considered retracing his steps and confronting this person, but thought better of it.

Celia was showering when Pauling knocked on the upstairs door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. He called her name. She responded: “I will be ready soon.”

She emerged from the small bathroom wearing a robe over her wet nakedness, and a towel wrapped about her head. “I’m sorry to be late,” she said. “I had an appointment that ran late.”

“That’s okay,” Pauling said, sitting in one of the red sling chairs.

She took clothing from the dresser and closet and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. When she again emerged, she was dressed in tight black slacks, a teal T-shirt with tiny embroidered flowers at the neck, and sandals. Bloodred polish tipped her toes and fingers. The contour and movement of her breasts, not corralled by a bra, were lovely to behold.

“Did you enjoy your day?” she asked.

“Yes, I did. I went to the revolution museum.”

She laughed. “Were you impressed?”

“No. I’m being followed.”

“This is Cuba.”

“It’s not a Cuban. He’s European, I think.”

“Maybe he’s a
maricón
and finds you attractive.”

“Gay?”

“Yes. There are many gays in Cuba despite—” She stroked her chin. “—
his
hatred of them. Most pretend to have relationships with the opposite sex to avoid repercussions. Like Nazi Germany, yes? You’ll point him out to me.”

He nodded. “You have nosey neighbors,” he said.

Smiling, carrying the scent of soap and perfume across the room, she leaned and whispered in his ear, “The CDRs.”

He looked up at her quizzically.

She continued sotto voce: “Neighborhood spies. Comités de Defensa de la Revolución. Every block has one; there are fifteen, twenty thousand of them in Havana. You must be careful what you say. If they hear something they don’t like, they’ll report you to the Ministry of Interior.”

“I thought that went out with Nazi Blockwarts and the Soviet Union.”

She shook her head, placed her fingertips on her chin, and stroked her imaginary beard. Pauling grinned. “I get it,” he said.

“Good. Ready?”

“Sure. Who is this friend of yours we’re meeting for dinner?”

“His name is—” She lowered her voice again. “Nico.”

“Nico what?”

“Come.”

She led him down the stairs and to the alley. The blond man was nowhere to be seen. They walked to the corner where the owners of a few American cars featuring tail fins and hand-painted gaudy colors hawked rides for potential paying passengers. She opened the rear door of one of them; Pauling followed her in. In Spanish, she gave an address to the driver who floored the accelerator, pressing Pauling back against the seat.

Celia used the roar from the vehicle’s porous muffler to cover her words.

“Nico works in the Ministry of Public Health. He knows a great deal about what is going on in the research laboratories.”

They pulled up in front of what looked to Pauling to be a private home.

“I thought we were going out for dinner,” he said.

“We are. It’s a
paladar
, a restaurant in someone’s
home. The best food in Cuba, better than the hotels.” She looked at Pauling and said, “Pay him. In dollars.”

He paid the driver the amount that Celia suggested, and they stood in front of the modest house. It was painted purple and had white shutters. When they entered, a stout Cuban woman enthusiastically greeted Celia. Obviously, she was a regular customer. Celia introduced Pauling, who received a long, animated welcome in Spanish from the
paladar
’s owner and cook.

“Nico?” Celia asked.

Pauling caught enough of the answer to know that her friend hadn’t yet arrived.

They were led to a tiny garden at the rear of the house where four tables, shaded by colorful umbrellas, had been placed among trees and other plantings. They were the only customers in the garden. The owner gestured to a table beneath a silver
yagruma
tree. Shimmering in a breeze that had kicked up, the tree appeared to be frosted. Pregnant white blooms of the lily family hung above the table like paper party lights.

Pauling took in his surroundings. “There are a lot of these home restaurants?” he asked.

“Not as many as there were before the government started charging licensing fees to put them out of business.” She stroked her chin. “He won’t eat in them because
he
says they make the owners rich. Not very Communistic. The fees put many out of business, but they have gone underground again. Like this one.”

The owner came to the table carrying bottled water and handwritten menus.

“You want beer or wine?” Celia asked.

“Beer.”

She ordered two bottles of Cristal.

Pauling read the menu. The most expensive meal was six American dollars.

“Is the food any good?” he asked.

She chuckled. “I told you
paladares
have the best food in Cuba. Eat in a few state-owned restaurants and you’ll see what I mean.”

She looked up, smiled, stood, and greeted a handsome young man with slicked-back black hair. He wore a white guayabera and chino pants. They embraced before joining Pauling at the table. He introduced himself only as Nico. Nico whatever-his-last-name-was spoke good English. After some mandatory badinage, Pauling asked about the restaurant. “Celia tells me these places aren’t exactly legal, Nico. You work for the government, right?”

The Cuban broke into a wide grin. “A man has to eat, huh? The food is good and the prices are right.” He asked Celia in a stage whisper, “Lobster?”

“Lobster?” Pauling said, not attempting to lower his voice. “I didn’t see that on the menu.”

Celia and Nico put their index fingers to their lips. “Lobster is illegal for the illegal
paladares
to sell,” Celia said. “Shrimp and beef, too. The state has a monopoly on them. But the rule is broken now and then.”

Pauling sat back and sipped his beer while Celia and Nico chatted in Spanish. Typical, he thought. Pass a stupid law and the people will find a way around it. Like Prohibition. The two people at the table with him were obviously comfortable breaking the law here. None of those CDRs she’d spoken about were in this garden unless they were up in the trees.

They drank more beer and ate at a leisurely pace. Pauling began to wonder when they would get to the topic of interest to him, but was reluctant to broach the subject. Nico was Celia’s contact. Let her take the lead, at least in this situation. She finally did, over dessert of coconut pudding and heavy, sweet coffee served in tiny cups.

“Tell us what is new in the Health Ministry, Nico.”

He knew what she meant. After a glance about the empty garden, he looked directly at Pauling and said, “You are interested in the cancer research.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how advanced we are in such research?”

“I’ve been told you’re doing good things.”

“Better than that. Our cancer researchers are the best in the world, like many of our doctors. Are you aware that we have been doing heart transplants since 1985, and heart-lung transplants since 1987?”

“No,” Pauling said, trying to mask the annoyance he was feeling. He wasn’t in the mood for a pep talk on the wonders of Cuban medicine.

Nico pressed on. “Our center for nervous system transplants and regeneration is the world’s best for treating Parkinson’s disease. We transplant fetal brain tissue with wonderful results.”

“About your cancer research,” Pauling said.

“Very advanced,” Nico replied. “El Presidente promised when he took power that our people would have the finest health care in the world, and that we would find a cure for cancer. We have made great strides, but the Special Period, after the Soviets pulled out, has set us back. It did not hinder our research, but our hospitals are short of supplies now. We have suffered, and the American embargo has been very detrimental to us.”