Read Online Murder in Havana by Margaret Truman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret Truman
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Vic, but I’m not in the mood for sight-seeing. What time does your guy arrive tomorrow?”
“Same flight I took, Virgin Air, gets in about three.”
“I’d like to leave before that. I’ve got a two-day flight to Colombia. I can’t overfly Cuba. I’ll refuel in Guatemala. In other words, I want to leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”
“I understand, and I suppose Craig will, too. It’s not as though he’s coming here just to meet you. Other business.”
“Good.”
“Ironic that you can’t overfly Cuba. You’ll be landing there in a few days.”
“Yeah. You were going to give me everything I need. I’d like it now.”
“I can do that. Does your early departure rule out a bit of fun tonight?”
“I’m up for dinner. Not at Madonna’s place. Nothing after that.”
Gosling’s sigh was deep. “Where has our fun-loving Max Pauling gone?” he asked.
“There never was a fun-loving Max Pauling, Vic. Fun-loving guys in our business—what
used
to be my business—don’t last long. In fact, mind if I skip dinner? I need an early night.”
“Not at all. Stay here. I’ll get your paperwork from the room.”
Gosling returned ten minutes later and handed Pauling a thick manila envelope. “I think you’ll find everythingyou need in here,” he said. “I trust we’ve supplied the right aeronautical charts.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll get my own from flight ops at the airport.”
Pauling prepared to leave the bar. “This contact,” he said, “who’ll be coming to my hotel—?”
“Last name is Sardiña. The code word is Chico.”
Pauling laughed and shook his head. “Code words,” he said. “Shadowy, nameless guys. Intrigue even if it’s not necessary.”
“Like old times, huh, Max?” Gosling said, slapping Pauling on the back. “Don’t try to contact me. Sardiña will keep me informed. And Max, do a good job, huh? Remember, there’s a bonus on the line, as well as my reputation with my superiors. I pushed hard for you on this assignment.”
Pauling just looked at him and left. The sound of jets landing and taking off kept him awake most of the night.
“… and so Castro was pitching in a sandlot baseball game. He walked a batter who promptly stole second base. Castro ordered him back to first and said something like, ‘In the revolution, no one can steal—even in baseball.’ ”
Mac Smith laughed. Their plane was on final approach. Smith had changed seats during the flight, ending up next to former senator Price McCullough, who told the story.
“Not apocryphal?” Smith asked.
“Absolutely not,” McCullough replied. “It was on Cuban television. Castro changes all the rules when it strikes him, micromanages everything. He decided that nurses should wear pants instead of skirts to avoid having them bend over a bed and cause heart attacks in patients behind them. His birthday’s coming up while we’re there.”
“Yes, I know.”
The approach was from the southeast, over the Caribbean Sea and the Peninsula de Zapata. As the plane descended for landing at José Martí International Airport, south of Havana, Smith looked down at the Cuban capital, home to more than two million of the island nation’s almost eleven million citizens. Smith put away the papers he’d been reviewing during the flight, including alist of Fidel Castro’s official titles—first secretary of the Communist Party; president of the Republic; chairman of the State Council; chairman of the Council of Ministers; commander in chief of the armed forces—and probably a few more when it suited him, Smith mused with a smile.
It took what seemed to be an inordinate amount of time for the doors of the 727 to open after it had landed and taxied to a cordoned area. During the wait, the passengers peered through the windows at preparations taking place outside. A dozen men in suits scurried about the plane, coming and going from view, their chores undefined. Farthest back stood a cadre of
“Same flight I took, Virgin Air, gets in about three.”
“I’d like to leave before that. I’ve got a two-day flight to Colombia. I can’t overfly Cuba. I’ll refuel in Guatemala. In other words, I want to leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”
“I understand, and I suppose Craig will, too. It’s not as though he’s coming here just to meet you. Other business.”
“Good.”
“Ironic that you can’t overfly Cuba. You’ll be landing there in a few days.”
“Yeah. You were going to give me everything I need. I’d like it now.”
“I can do that. Does your early departure rule out a bit of fun tonight?”
“I’m up for dinner. Not at Madonna’s place. Nothing after that.”
Gosling’s sigh was deep. “Where has our fun-loving Max Pauling gone?” he asked.
“There never was a fun-loving Max Pauling, Vic. Fun-loving guys in our business—what
used
to be my business—don’t last long. In fact, mind if I skip dinner? I need an early night.”
“Not at all. Stay here. I’ll get your paperwork from the room.”
Gosling returned ten minutes later and handed Pauling a thick manila envelope. “I think you’ll find everythingyou need in here,” he said. “I trust we’ve supplied the right aeronautical charts.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll get my own from flight ops at the airport.”
Pauling prepared to leave the bar. “This contact,” he said, “who’ll be coming to my hotel—?”
“Last name is Sardiña. The code word is Chico.”
Pauling laughed and shook his head. “Code words,” he said. “Shadowy, nameless guys. Intrigue even if it’s not necessary.”
“Like old times, huh, Max?” Gosling said, slapping Pauling on the back. “Don’t try to contact me. Sardiña will keep me informed. And Max, do a good job, huh? Remember, there’s a bonus on the line, as well as my reputation with my superiors. I pushed hard for you on this assignment.”
Pauling just looked at him and left. The sound of jets landing and taking off kept him awake most of the night.
“… and so Castro was pitching in a sandlot baseball game. He walked a batter who promptly stole second base. Castro ordered him back to first and said something like, ‘In the revolution, no one can steal—even in baseball.’ ”
Mac Smith laughed. Their plane was on final approach. Smith had changed seats during the flight, ending up next to former senator Price McCullough, who told the story.
“Not apocryphal?” Smith asked.
“Absolutely not,” McCullough replied. “It was on Cuban television. Castro changes all the rules when it strikes him, micromanages everything. He decided that nurses should wear pants instead of skirts to avoid having them bend over a bed and cause heart attacks in patients behind them. His birthday’s coming up while we’re there.”
“Yes, I know.”
The approach was from the southeast, over the Caribbean Sea and the Peninsula de Zapata. As the plane descended for landing at José Martí International Airport, south of Havana, Smith looked down at the Cuban capital, home to more than two million of the island nation’s almost eleven million citizens. Smith put away the papers he’d been reviewing during the flight, including alist of Fidel Castro’s official titles—first secretary of the Communist Party; president of the Republic; chairman of the State Council; chairman of the Council of Ministers; commander in chief of the armed forces—and probably a few more when it suited him, Smith mused with a smile.
It took what seemed to be an inordinate amount of time for the doors of the 727 to open after it had landed and taxied to a cordoned area. During the wait, the passengers peered through the windows at preparations taking place outside. A dozen men in suits scurried about the plane, coming and going from view, their chores undefined. Farthest back stood a cadre of
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