Murder in Havana (31 page)

“Señor, you want something else?” the waiter asked Pauling.

“What? No. No,
gracias
.” He waited for the German to turn and kiss the girl before he stood, left the table, and ducked inside the café. Rest rooms and a door were at the rear. Pauling exited into an alley wedged behind the row of buildings that housed the cafés and shops. He ran until coming back to the boulevard, which he crossed, and approached the café where Weinert sat with the girl. Pauling stopped behind a tree to observe the couple. He had no idea what he intended to do, nor was organizing a plan important to him at that moment. He just knew that he owed Blondie something, not only for being jumped by him on the roof of the hotel, but because of Grünewald. But he didn’t suffer any delusions about achieving justice for Kurt Grünewald, unless he killed Weinert, which he wasn’t about to do. It was tempting.

What were the couple’s plans? An ice cream cone at the park? Take in a Walt Disney movie? German lessons for her? If Pauling was going to be able to do anything, he knew, it would have to be when they weren’t in a crowd. He didn’t need to be arrested again.

After fifteen minutes, he decided to give it up and head for his hotel. Blondie had been downing beers while the girl continued to fawn and paw over him. But then Weinert suddenly pushed her away, hard enough to send her
off the chair and to the concrete. Customers at adjacent tables yelled at him as the girl got to her feet and started screaming at him in Spanish, not terms of endearment. Weinert stood and answered the girl and his detractors in loud German. He was drunk and almost tipped over his table as he pushed her to the ground again, lurching to the sidewalk, knocking into people as he went. The girl continued to scream Spanish obscenities but Weinert ignored her and strode up the street in Pauling’s direction.

Pauling turned toward the tree; the man passed without noticing him. The German’s gait was unsteady but arrogant, a swagger more than a walk. He was muttering in German, oblivious to the fading shouts from the girl and customers in the café. Pauling fell in behind and followed him for two blocks until the German suddenly crossed the street and entered a pocket park. Pauling stopped at the park’s entrance and observed Weinert going to a bench and sitting heavily on it, legs extended in front of him, arms on the bench’s backrest. He pulled off his sunglasses and dropped them on the bench. They slid off, but he didn’t bother to retrieve them. Pauling thought of Kurt Grünewald’s drunkenness and how different it was from Weinert’s. Grünewald was an alcoholic, pure and simple. Weinert probably wasn’t, just an oaf who guzzled too many beers on occasion, particularly when out on the town with a girl on his arm. What had caused him to physically reject her in the café? It didn’t matter. Pauling didn’t dwell on those questions. Act now, he told himself, or forget about it.

He approached the bench, which was only a dozen feet inside the park. They were the only two people there, although recorded Cuban music coming from behind bushes indicated someone else in the vicinity. Weinert’s eyes were closed; his head flopped against the backrest.
Pauling slipped the Glock from his vest, sat silently on the bench, and slid over. The German sensed a presence, opened his eyes, and turned in Pauling’s direction to find himself looking directly into the semiautomatic’s barrel that Pauling held a few inches from his head.

Weinert straightened and said something in German.

“One bad move, Nazi, and you’re dead,” Pauling said, coming around in front of him and grabbing him by the lapels with his left hand, the right continuing to hold the weapon inches from the German’s face. He saw fear and confusion in Weinert’s eyes, as well as anger.

“What do you want?” Weinert asked in English.

Pauling’s answer was to raise the Glock in his right hand to bring it down across Weinert’s nose. But before Pauling could reverse its arc, Weinert brought up one of his hands with surprising speed, grasped Pauling’s right hand, and twisted it. Simultaneously, despite his sitting position, he brought a leg up into Pauling’s groin, literally lifting him an inch off the ground. Pauling grunted but hung on to Weinert’s jacket. He managed to pull him off the bench to his knees on the dirt path, and pulled his own right knee up under Weinert’s chin, snapping his head back and loosening his grip. Pauling kneed him again, this time in the face, wrenched his right hand free, and brought it and the Glock down on Weinert’s neck. The big German slumped to the ground at Pauling’s feet. Pauling didn’t take any chances. He struck the back of Weinert’s neck again and heard all the air come out of him. He was unconscious.

Panting, Pauling pondered his next move. He went to where he’d entered the park through a break in the bushes, intending to leave Blondie out cold on the ground. But the sight of a
cacharro
, a 1950s vintage Hudson parked at the curb, its driver smoking, triggered a
thought. The driver, who was leaning against the vehicle’s right front fender, asked in English whether Pauling needed a taxi.

“You have any rope or tape?” Pauling asked.

The driver didn’t comprehend, so Pauling demonstrated, then spotted a small section of the Hudson’s right front fender that had been patched with gray duct tape. He touched it. The driver’s face lit up and he produced a roll from the front passenger seat. Pauling pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, handed it to the driver, and said,
“Uno momento, señor.”
He disappeared back into the park where Weinert was now sitting up, a hand to his head.

“Sorry,” Pauling said, hitting him on the right cheek with his fist, sending him to the ground again. He worked quickly, binding his ankles with tape, doing the same with his wrists behind the back. A protest from Weinert was muffled by tape across his mouth.

Pauling yanked Weinert to his knees and dragged him through the bushes to the Hudson, whose driver was now behind the wheel, the motor running. As Pauling shoved Weinert into the spacious, leather-covered rear seat, raised eyebrows were the driver’s only sign of curiosity or concern. Twenty dollars bought a lot of tact and cooperation.

Pauling got in and slammed the door. Weinert moved against the tape that bound him, but Pauling pressed the Glock against his temple, and he stopped. Pauling dug through pockets in his vest until he found the business card given him by Policía Nacional Revolucionaria senior detective Francisco Muñoz. He handed the card to the driver. “Take me to that address,” Pauling said.

“Policía?”
the driver said, his voice full of concern.

Pauling reached over the back of the driver’s seat and handed him another twenty.

“Sí, señor,”
the driver said, slipping the gearshift into
DRIVE
and pulling away.

Pauling took a small pad and a pen from his vest and wrote: “This man killed Kurt Grünewald of Strauss-Lochner Resources.” He shoved it into the breast pocket of Weinert’s suit jacket, making sure enough of the paper showed.

When they’d reached the street on which the police station was located, he instructed the driver to pass it and go around the corner. He told him to stop and make a U-turn. “I want you to drive past the police station again, and go fast.
Comprende?
”

“I understand.”

“And then just keep going. Don’t worry about what I’m doing. Just keep driving and take me to the Hotel Habana Riviera. Okay?”

“Okay,” replied the driver.

Pauling pushed Weinert up into a sitting position, reached past him, and put his hand on the door handle. The driver made the U-turn, rounded the corner again, and accelerated. When they were twenty feet from the front door of the police station, Pauling pushed open the door and shoved Weinert through it, wincing as he watched the German leave the car and tumble head over heels, coming to a bloody rest at the foot of the steps leading up to the station.

At the Hotel Habana Riviera, he paid the driver an extra ten dollars, told him to forget what he’d just seen, and entered the hotel.

“Any messages for me?” he asked the desk clerk.

“No, señor.”

“Good,” Pauling said. He looked at the clock behind the desk: 10:15. “I’m expecting an important call in a few minutes. I’ll be in my room.”

The call came at precisely ten-thirty.

“Max, it’s Celia. Can you come here now?”

“The apartment?”

“Yes.”

“What are we doing? Is Nico there?”

“No, but I can fill you in when you arrive.”

“Celia, I want this over. I’ve got to get out of Cuba.”

“You make it sound as though I’m keeping you.”

“You’re not helping.”

“What would you have me do, Max, break into the Health Ministry myself? I’ve put you in touch with the right person. He’ll come through. Now, are you coming or not?”

“I’m on my way.”

“I was so relieved when I saw you, knew you were all right,” Annabel Lee-Smith said to Mac when he called. “Wasn’t that lucky?” she added, relief still in her voice. They’d had a very brief conversation between the time the McCullough delegation was released, and dinner and the ballet, just long enough to assure her he was okay. Now there was time to talk without feeling rushed.

“I’m glad everyone’s all right, Annie. It was a tense couple of minutes in that plaza.”

“Did you see the gunman?”

“Yeah, but only for a second. A scruffy-looking guy, lots of hair, wearing one of those white shirts everyone seems to like here. I was thinking of buying one.”

“CNN aired some footage of the attack, although they never showed the gunman. What happened after they took him into custody?”

“With me?”

“Yes, you and Price and the others.”

“They herded us into a room here at the hotel and gave us a lecture on how to respond to any questions that might be asked of us.”

“What did they tell you to say?”

“To say nothing, basically, except to express concern, and gratitude that Castro wasn’t harmed.”

“In other words, speak from the heart.”

He chuckled. “Something like that.”

“Price came off well on TV.”

“No surprise. You don’t win five terms in the Senate without being good in front of a camera.”

“Is he still eyeing all the pretty señoritas?”

“As a matter of fact, he is. And some are eyeing back. Speaking of señoritas, spectacularly lovely ones, how are things there with you?”

“Fine, but I miss you.”

“Home in two days.”

“Did you ever hear from Max Pauling, Jessica’s fellow?”

“No. But I think I saw him in the plaza, at the party.”

“Really? Sure?”

“No.”

“Tell me about the ballet. I didn’t think you liked ballet.”

“I’m not sure I do, but since our gracious hosts arranged for us to attend—it was the Cuban national troupe—I thought it was a good opportunity to broaden my cultural base.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “Putting it that way. Well, don’t let your base get too broad or you’ll have to go on a diet. I can’t wait for you to get home.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual.”

Senior Detective Francisco Muñoz stood in a treatment bay at Havana’s Hermanos Amerijeiras Hospital. Two nurses and a physician had just completed their initial evaluation of E. Weinert, who was draped in a sheet and lying on an examination table. The man’s face was a mess, raw and red; the skin on one side had been shredded. There were gashes in his head; the doctor suspected
multiple broken bones and wanted the patient to have X rays immediately. His knuckles were bruised; he had done some hitting, too, though with less effect.

“Just a few minutes with him?” the detective asked.

“Just a few.”

Muñoz moved to the side of the table and looked down. “I am Senior Detective Muñoz,” he said, “Policía Nacional Revolucionaria.”

Weinert mumbled something through puffy, split lips.

“Who did this to you?”

Weinert said something unintelligible. Muñoz put his ear close to the patient’s lips and heard what he thought was “pulling.”

“Pulling?”

Weinert shook his head, groaning at the pain it caused. “Pauling!”

Muñoz straightened and said under his breath, “Max Pauling.” He came close again and held up the piece of paper found stuffed in Weinert’s jacket pocket. “What does this mean?” he asked. “Pauling wrote this?”

A painful nod.

“Is it true?” Muñoz asked.

The doctor tapped the detective on the shoulder. “This will have to be continued at another time, Detective,” he said. “There may be internal injuries. I want him in X ray now!”

“Of course,” Muñoz said.

He left the small treatment room and went to the ER’s admitting desk where two uniformed officers waited for their boss. The two had accompanied Muñoz and Weinert to the hospital after finding the German sprawled on their doorstep. “I will instruct the staff here that he is a suspect in a murder case and is not to be released without my permission,” Muñoz told them. “I want you here
around the clock to make sure that order is followed. Keep me informed at all times.”

He returned to police headquarters and instructed another officer to put out an all points bulletin on the American named Maxwell Pauling.