Murder in Havana (39 page)

“And would you and your superiors intercede on behalf of my wife and me to defect to the United States?”

“I will do everything in my power to accomplish that,” she’d said. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

At that moment, his honest answer to her was, “No.”

But this was a different time. Now there was the tape.

Pauling knew one thing as he ran from yard to yard, ducking clotheslines, zigzagging around obstacles, and hoping the barking of an occasional dog was, indeed, worse than its bite—he had to find a way, and fast, to get as far out of Havana as possible.

A rattletrap Cadillac painted pink and yellow stood at a corner when he emerged from the yards. Its driver, a young Cuban man, appeared to be dozing behind the wheel. Pauling yanked open the rear door and jumped inside, the driver waking with a jolt.

“Taxi,
sí
?” Pauling said.

“Sí, señor.”

Pauling gave him the address for Cali Forwarding. The driver focused on Pauling in his rearview mirror but didn’t start the car. Pauling leaned over the driver’s seatback and immediately saw the problem. A flyer with his photo lay on the front passenger seat, along with a lethal-looking machete. He considered pulling the Glock. Instead, he took a wad of American money from his pocket and held it up in front of the driver, whose eyes widened. “Look,
amigo
, this is a mistake,” he said, picking up the flyer. “You speak English?”

“
Sí
. Yes.”

“No trouble,” Pauling said. “No
problemo
. Here.” He
took his wallet from his pants pocket and displayed more dollars to the driver. “Okay?”

Pauling knew that one of four things could happen. One, the driver could agree to take him, but deliver him to the nearest PNR precinct. Two, he could jump out of the Caddy and run, which would leave Pauling with the vehicle, not much help because he didn’t know where he was going and would probably be picked up as soon as the driver reported his stolen car to the police. Three, the driver could pick up the machete and relieve Pauling of his head. Or four, he would succumb to the lure of
mucho
American dollars and take his chances transporting a gringo wanted for murder.

“Okay,” the driver said, grabbing the money, shoving it into his shirtfront, and starting the engine.

“What’s your name?” Pauling asked.

“David.”

“David? Okay, David, don’t speed. Don’t attract attention.”

“You, get down,” David said, indicating the backseat.

Pauling nodded and smiled. “Good idea,” he said.

He tossed his hat on the floor, reached under his guayabera, and quietly removed the Glock from his vest as he stretched out on the backseat. The Cuban good-luck charm he’d bought from the street vendor, the
collar
, came out of the pocket along with the Glock. He rubbed his thumb over it like a worry stone. He didn’t believe in luck, but it couldn’t hurt.

The Caddy’s springs were shot; it felt as though they were riding over railroad ties as the driver maneuvered through Havana traffic and headed in the direction of the airport. Each time he had to stop for a traffic light or an officer directing traffic, Pauling was tempted to raise his head to see what was going on around them. He controlled the urge. He’d made his choice; he was putting
faith in David. He wished he’d promised more money. If he could get twenty thousand from Cali Forwarding, there’d be plenty to go around. Nico had been promised ten. Of course, Pauling had also promised Nico a flight to Miami in Pauling’s twin-engine plane. That was out of the question now. Going near that aircraft would be like hoisting a white flag and surrendering. It ran through his mind as David continued the journey that the airplane Vic Gosling had provided was rented. Gosling had asked him to not damage it. Damage it? Try having it become part of Castro’s air force. Funny, he thought, how such irrelevant thoughts run through your mind when the only thing that should be on it is how to save your skin.

He sensed they’d left Havana’s bustle and were now into a less congested area. He brought up his head and looked around. David noticed him and laughed. “Hey, amigo, everything okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, everything’s okay,” Pauling replied, feeling suddenly relieved that he’d picked the right cabdriver. “Do you want to stay with me all day?”

David frowned as he pondered the question.

“Stay with me all day,” Pauling repeated. “Plenty more money for you.
Mucho dinero
.”

“Okay, I be with you all day.”

“Great!”

David made a series of wrong turns before finally locating Cali Forwarding. He announced that he had to get oil for the Cadillac. Pauling told the cabby to drop him a hundred yards from the building, get the oil, then return and wait until he’d completed the business inside.

“Okay,” David said, flashing another grin, wider this time. He seemed to be enjoying the excursion quite aside from the payday that promised to be the biggest in his young life.

Pauling got out of the car and watched David drive off,
black, noxious smoke billowing from the Caddy’s tailpipe.
He may be someone I can trust
, Pauling thought,
but maybe the car isn’t so trustworthy
. Would it get him to the seaside village where Nico promised to be waiting? Would Nico be there alone, or bring the police with him?

One step, one worry, at a time.

He’d been told by Gosling that if he needed money, he was to go to Cali Forwarding, ask for Dominique, and say that Chico had sent him. Hopefully, this Dominique still worked for the company and was on duty that morning, not off on holiday.

The building was low and squat, gray and plain, with only a small sign to the right of the door to indicate the place where Cali Forwarding conducted business. Pauling was relieved there were no police in the area. Either they hadn’t yet learned of his connection with the company, or had already been there and left.

He approached the building and stepped through the door, causing a bell above it to sound his arrival. Dozens of small boxes were piled behind and on the counter. A large poster of Fidel hung high on the wall. Pauling detected the odor of marijuana.

There was a door behind the counter that opened to a large staging area where pallets piled with boxes sat awaiting disposition.

“Hello?” Pauling shouted. “Anybody home?”

He heard sounds beyond the door, but no one appeared. He circumvented the counter and was about to go through the door when a short, wiry man wearing blue coveralls came from behind a pallet and stared at him.

“Buenos días,”
Pauling said.

The man said nothing.

“Dominique. I’m looking for Dominique.”

Still no response from the employee, and Pauling
wondered whether he was hearing impaired. The man came to the counter, stood as though wanting to activate an inactive vocabulary. Pauling looked at the small yellow nameplate over the breast pocket of his coveralls:
DOMINIQUE
.

“Chico sent me,” Pauling said.

Dominique continued to stare at Pauling. Pauling removed his reed hat. “You
habla inglés
?”

A nod before replying, “I speak English. Chico sent you?”

“That’s right.”

“One minute.”

He turned and started through the door. Pauling came around the counter again and said, “I’ll come with you.” For all he knew, Dominique was on his way to call the police from a phone in the back. He followed the Cuban through a large storage area to an unoccupied loading dock where the corrugated metal door was rolled up. When they were outside, Dominique said, “You should not be here. There is trouble.”

“Yeah, I know there’s trouble. Have the police been here?”

“
Sí
. Last night. This morning. They told me to look for you. I have the picture.”

“Forget about that. I need money. They said you’d give me money.”

“You should not be here,” he repeated. “Leave now.” He waved his hand for emphasis. “Go away. Too much trouble.”

“Look, I am here and I need money. Twenty thousand. Give me twenty thousand and I won’t be here—ever again.”

Pauling didn’t know whether the Cuban knew he was working for a CIA front organization, or thought that passing out thousands of dollars to some American
claiming that Chico sent him was the forwarding company’s normal way of doing business. It didn’t matter who or what he was, however. Pauling just wanted the money, and to be gone before the police decided to make another visit.

He didn’t have time for games.

“Look, damn it,” he said, “I need the money and I need it now.”

Dominique started to urge him to leave when the sight of Pauling’s Glock stopped him. Pauling held the weapon at his side, but pointed it directly at the Cuban’s midsection. “Let’s not have any trouble, Dominique. You have the money, I said the magic word, and now you give it to me or—”

“Not here,” Dominique said.

“What do you mean ‘not here’?”

“The money, it is in another place. Not far.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Let’s go get it.”

He led Pauling down a short set of steps to his car, a battered Russian Lada. Pauling kept the Glock pointed at Dominique during a ride of no more than two miles to a dilapidated shack, one of a dozen in a clearing cut from what had once been a forest. Inside was one room chockablock with ripped furniture, empty cartons, and two bicycles. Pauling watched with a combination of amusement and disbelief as the Cuban shoved aside some of the furniture and pulled a cardboard box from a hiding place covered by packing blankets. He tore masking tape off the box, opened the flaps, and began pulling out wrapped packages of American money, hundred-dollar bills. He handed Pauling four of the packages. “Twenty thousand American,” he said, nervously eyeing the weapon in Pauling’s hand.

“See?” Pauling said. “It was easy. No need for this,” he
added, indicating the Glock. “I know. You were afraid. Nothing to worry about.”

Dominique smiled and nodded, his attention now on the packages of hundreds.

Pauling smiled, too. “Sure,” he said, opening one of the packages and handing Dominique two bills. “For your trouble,” he said as he created some room between himself and the Cuban, laid the Glock on a carton, pulled up his guayabera, and shoved the wads of bills into various pockets of the vest. If he hadn’t spent years of his life picking up CIA cash from unlikely places, he would have found the scene mind-boggling, tens of thousands of dollars stashed in a cardboard box in a shack, handed out by a working-class guy on the CIA’s payroll who, if he wanted to, could walk away a rich Cuban—and hope the person who’d “turned” him never found him again.

Years ago, he’d been introduced to Tony Ulasewicz, the ex-cop who became the bagman for Nixon and his “plumbers” during the Watergate fiasco. The big, affable Ulasewicz told Pauling that he’d routinely carried satchels containing as much as thirty thousand dollars in cash around the country, and was instructed that if he ever was faced with having to display a satchel’s contents to airport security, he was to dump the bag and money into the nearest trash bin. Always plenty of money around when you were operating in the shadows.

“Gracias,”
Pauling told Dominique. “Come on, take me back before you’re missed. And keep up the good work. One of these days …” He stroked an imaginary beard and sliced his index finger across his throat. Dominique grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

Minutes later, Pauling left Cali Forwarding’s building and looked for David, who was parked where he’d originally deposited Pauling.
Maybe there is something to
luck
, Pauling thought, relieved that the young Cuban driver had kept his word. He got in the backseat of the two-tone Caddy and asked, “You got oil?”

“
Sí
, three quarts.”

“So we’re good for another hour.”

“Como?”

“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

“Where do we go now?”

“Do you know a town called Cojímar?”

“
Sí
. It is on the water. I have a friend who lives there.”

“There’s a motel, Casa something or other. Casa Marisol?”

David laughed. “Casa de Mar y Sol. House of the Sea and Sun. You want to see Hemingway?”

“Hemingway?”

“
Si
. It is where he kept his fishing boat and wrote his great book
The Old Man and the Sea
. There is a monument of him in Cojímar. All brass, very shiny, very beautiful. The fishermen gave brass pieces from their boats. It was melted down to make the monument. You want to go there?”

“Right, but I don’t care about Hemingway or any monument. I don’t have to be there until tonight. Twelve midnight.”

“What do we do until then?”

“I don’t know, but let’s get out of here. Oh.” Pauling extracted one of the packages of money given him by Dominique, peeled off three hundred-dollar bills, and handed them to David. The young man seemed almost embarrassed to be taking more money.

“Go on,” Pauling said. “You’re earning it.”

David put the money in his shirtfront along with the previous cash that Pauling had given him, and started the engine. Before slipping the gearshift into
DRIVE
, he turned and asked, “You want him gone,
sí
?”