Murder in Havana (38 page)

“Nichols,” Pauling muttered. “Yeah, he always was good.”

“The important thing is that you’ve found yourself in one hell of a pickle, one with serious political overtones. Mr. Castro is anxious to find you and make you a guest of the state. You have the potential of becoming his most effective propaganda tool since the Bay of Pigs.”

“He should give me a medal. I knocked the gun away from the guy who tried to shoot him.”

“Yes, I heard scuttlebutt about that, Max. Another enemy made.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those who wanted the bearded one dead aren’t very fond of you for saving his life.”

“Who’s that?”

“It really doesn’t matter, although I’m willing to share what I know with an old friend. Everyone in President Castro’s inner circle isn’t an admirer, Max. And, as I’m sure you know, the Cubans in Miami haven’t given up on their efforts to send Castro out of Cuba in a box. They aren’t very good at it but—”

“You’re critical of
them
? The Company has fallen on its face every time it tried.”

“That isn’t very loyal, Max.”

“Loyal? To whom? The agency? Nobody was more loyal than me.”

“When you were getting your monthly check. I’m talking about a deeper, more philosophical loyalty, Max.”

“Save your breath, Tom. So, who was behind the hit on Castro, his own people, or the Miami gang?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Pauling wished Hoctor had not added “honestly” to the lie. “What do you want?” he asked Hoctor. “Why are you here?”

“I’m here to save your disloyal neck. I assured Bobby Jo Brown and Nichols that I would bring you into the Interests Section. You can hole up there until a way is negotiated to get you out of Cuba without angering the beard. Do you know what the Cuban people call him behind his back? They call him El Mulo, the mule, because of his stubbornness.”

“I can’t do that. I have things to do before I leave Cuba.”

“For the dashing Mr. Gosling?”

“That’s right. Tell you what. Help me finish up what I came here to do. Then I’ll come to the Interests Section with you and we’ll all leave Cuba together.”

“A wonderful suggestion, Max. You want me, an employee of the federal government, to accompany a fugitive charged with the murder of a distinguished former U.S. senator while he finishes up his assignment for a private security firm. You’ve been drinking too much rum. Then again, you always did fashion yourself a Hemingway type.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Tom. Always a pleasure.” Pauling stood, picked up his hat, put it on his head, and went to the door. “You know your way out.”

“You won’t make it on your own, Max. Your face is on
every telephone pole and billboard in Havana. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of Cubans out there like your lovely whore, Isabella, who won’t call
us
when they spot you. They’ll be on the phone with Castro’s intelligence service. I give you until lunchtime before you’re in a Cuban jail.”

“I’m touched by your concern.”

In all the years Pauling had known Tom Hoctor, including his tenure at the CIA where Hoctor was his mentor and manager, he’d seen him only occasionally display overt anger. When he did, his voice, naturally high-pitched in his calm moments, became even shriller—like now.

Hoctor got out of his chair and closed the gap between them. His thin, sharply chiseled face was red, his mouth a gash. He spoke like one of those digital voices used to read back credit card numbers over the phone.

“You are a horse’s ass, Pauling. As far as Americans are concerned, you’re a murderer. TV coverage of Price McCullough’s assassination has seen to that. The Cubans want you, too. Ever been in a Cuban jail, Max? I haven’t, but I understand they make Attica look like a Four Seasons hotel. Despite your pigheadedness, there are those of us who care about you and want to help you out of this mess you’ve created. You need us, Max. You need me. Wear that ridiculous hat if you must, but come with me. I’m sure Vic Gosling will understand that events beyond your control prohibited you from completing the assignment for him.”

While Hoctor gave his speech, Pauling used the time to review his options. Obviously, Hoctor wasn’t about to back down, leave, and wave adios on his way out. Despite the little man’s proclamation about wanting to help, Pauling knew there was nothing personal about it. Doing personal favors wasn’t in Hoctor’s job description.

Pauling remembered when he’d been sent to Russia by the State Department to track down the source of Soviet-made SAM missiles that had been used for attacks on American airliners. While in Moscow, he’d reported to an old and dear friend, Bill Lerner, a CIA veteran, who operated out of the American embassy. Lerner had been involved in a long-term, low-profile affair with a lovely, mature Russian woman, Elena Alekseyevna. Consorting with the enemy, sleeping with the enemy, was frowned upon by agency brass, although those who knew about Lerner’s relationship had tended to look the other way—until Lerner was compromised by a Russian banker for whom Elena worked.

The situation didn’t involve state secrets; no national security on either side had been compromised. It was money, pure and simple. Hoctor had gone to Moscow to help bail Pauling out of a dangerous situation—yes, trouble did seem to follow him—and succeeded. But as they readied to leave Moscow, Pauling stopped by Lerner’s apartment to say good-bye and found his friend dead on the bathroom floor. Hoctor, who was at the apartment when Pauling arrived, claimed he’d found Lerner dead, apparently of a heart attack. Pauling had no choice but to believe it; their departure was scheduled for only hours later. But he had never forgotten Hoctor’s words when asked whether Lerner had been eliminated. “We make our choices in this world, Max, and live with the consequences. The only choice you have now is to come with me. The plane is waiting.”

The only choice you have now is to come with me
.

If, in Hoctor’s opinion—which would reflect those of many others—he, Pauling, posed a serious risk to America’s interests should he be incarcerated and used as a propaganda tool by Castro, Hoctor and the agency he represented would ensure that this didn’t happen.

We make our choices in this world, Max, and live with the consequences
.

“Okay,” Pauling said. “Let’s go.”

Normal color returned to Hoctor’s face, and he smiled. “You still have some reasoning powers left, Max,” he said.

They went through the front door and to the sidewalk. Pauling didn’t turn his head, but allowed his eyes to pivot left and right. He saw a shiny new black sedan at one corner, its front end protruding beyond the intersection. At the other end of the street was a similar vehicle.

“Damn!” Pauling said.

“What’s the matter?” Hoctor asked.

“I forgot to lock Isabella’s door. I told her I’d do it when I left.”

Hoctor started to tell him to forget the lock, but Pauling bounded back up the steps, went through the front door and left it open, headed straight for the kitchen, opened the back door in that room, and saw, for the first time, the layout behind the building, a postage stamp–sized yard littered with discarded tires, fenders, and other automotive parts from the scrap heap. There was no fence. He jumped over a pile of tires and ran into a neighboring yard as Hoctor came to the open kitchen door and shouted, “Max!”

Pauling didn’t pause to respond.
You can’t trust anybody
, he thought as he kept running, never looking back. The sobering realization was that at that moment, he trusted Fidel Castro more than his own CIA.

Dr. Caldoza called his office first thing that morning to inform them he would be coming in late, probably not until midafternoon. He hadn’t slept all night. He and his wife, Maria, had sat in their kitchen in the house in Vedado that had been their home for many years, drinking coffee and talking, their voices low and urgent, sadness in their eyes as they sought to come to grips with the dramatic change that was about to occur in their lives.

“The choice is not ours,” he said to her, his voice heavy with fatigue. “The forces have been unleashed, Maria. Our only option is to leave.”

Silent tears filled her eyes, and he covered her hand on the table with his. “I have lived all my adult life, Maria, as a loyal Cuban. No one loves his country more than me. But my loyalty also extends to my work. I am a physician, someone who is expected to put the health and well-being of my patients,
all
patients, before any other consideration. I have been blessed in my life and work. I believe that all the years I have spent attempting to find one or another of the cures for cancer will one day be fruitful.” He squeezed her hand, and his voice took on added urgency. “Think of it, Maria. Think of millions of people suffering from this disease who might find new hope as a result of what we have been able to accomplish.”

“I know,” she said, dabbing at her cheek with a
napkin. “But isn’t there another way to make it right without having to leave?”

“I don’t see another way, Maria.” He sat back and rubbed his eyes. “It is such a disappointment, what has happened. I do not believe we, as a people, are better because of the Revolution and the Socialist society we have lived in for more than forty years. But I admired President Castro for his commitment to the health of our citizens. He promised to eradicate cancer in his lifetime, and supported that promise with the money that enabled us to build the laboratories and conduct our research.”

“It was not his fault that the Soviets left, Manuel. The money was stopped.”

“I know, I know, but my disappointment is not because of that. Others have been investing in our work—the Canadians, the French, the Spanish. But they have not made it a condition of their investments that they own the research. They wish to profit as partners. This is different, Maria.” He leaned very close to her and spoke slowly and deliberately, in a whisper. “He is willing to sell my years of work to the highest bidder, Maria. Think of it! He is a traitor!”

“Ssssh,” she said, placing her fingertip to her lips. “The murder on TV. It was the senator whose company was buying the research? That is what you say?”

“Yes. The man they are looking for was sent here to prove that. Pauling is his name.”

“How can you be sure?”

“They told me, Maria. The people here in Havana who plot against—” He stroked his chin. “They are aware of such things. They know such things. They have a tape.”

“But the senator is dead, Manuel. Now maybe the research will not be sold to his company. We will not have to leave.”

Caldoza slowly shook his head. “If it is not his company,
Maria, it will be another. Castro’s motives are now clear. He will sell our accomplishments for his personal gain.” Another shake of his head. “The die is cast. We must leave. I expect the call from Washington today, here, at the house. The conference will be held in two weeks in Washington. Dr. Mancuso will request my appearance there. Now that I have already attended a medical conference in the United States and returned to Cuba, they will allow me to attend this conference, too. I have spoken with the minister about allowing you to make such trips with me. I told him that all the doctors at the conferences bring their wives with them. It is expected. He has given permission for you to accompany me to future conferences.”

Her sigh was sustained and reflective of the inner turmoil she was experiencing.

“We will enjoy a new life in America, Maria, and be closer to our sons. It is the only thing we can do.”

He spent the rest of the morning in his study awaiting the call from Barbara Mancuso at NIH. It came at one that afternoon. The official invitation for him and his wife to attend the medical conference in Bethesda would be sent to him overnight.

“And everything else is arranged, Doctor?” he asked.

“Yes, Dr. Caldoza, everything else is arranged.”

Upon completion of the call, Caldoza went to a large closet, removed a key from his pocket, and used it to open the doors, moved a pair of two-drawer file cabinets out of the way, and pulled an expanding, brown leather briefcase from beneath light blankets that had been piled on it. He took the briefcase to his desk and used another key to open it. Inside were more than a hundred computer Zip disks, each with the memory capacity to hold volumes of information. He pulled one out, read the label, replaced it in the case, locked it, and returned it to
the closet. Years of painstaking research into dozens of potentially effective cancer drugs were contained in that briefcase, the originals methodically backed up on the disks.

Until being informed of the tape recording of the meeting between Castro and McCullough, Caldoza hadn’t been sure that something unusual was happening with the labs and the Health Ministry, although he had suspicions. Little things, indiscreet comments, meetings at the Health Ministry attended by the liaison in Havana for the German company, dozens of small, inconclusive events that had led Caldoza to begin questioning the future of his labs. Eventually, he had decided to make a surreptitious second set of backup disks.

His unscheduled meeting with Barbara Mancuso at the American Society of Clinical Oncology meeting in San Francisco had been rushed and decidedly clandestine. If he ever decided to bring his research to NIH, would he be allowed to continue his work with it? “Of course,” was her answer.