But Kurt Grünewald did speak Spanish. And he had achieved a reputation as an effective negotiator, particularly in past labor disputes in which the company had been embroiled. His degree from the esteemed university at Heidelberg was in international affairs, and he had gone on to earn an advanced degree in labor relations. When Miller dispatched him to Cuba, Grünewald was told that the company needed a man of his experience and knowledge to help pave the way for a deal with the Cuban government to allow Strauss-Lochner to buy a controlling interest in the state-owned cancer research institute. He was instructed to establish relationships with the appropriate Cuban officials in a position to influence Fidel Castro, with an eye toward obtaining the dictator’s cooperation in the sale of the research institute to a foreign investor. He was given an almost unlimited expense account with which to wine and dine Cuban officials. Should direct payoffs be necessary, he was authorized to spend up to ten thousand dollars without having to seek permission from Heidelberg.
It wasn’t until he’d been in Cuba a year that he learned through an errant “secured” communication that the money he spent so freely did not come solely from Strauss-Lochner’s coffers. Much of it flowed from the treasury of the American company BTK Industries, headed by the former United States senator from Texas, one Price McCullough. Grünewald wasn’t shocked, but he was concerned. His greatest midnight fear was having to go to jail. It was a more pervasive fear than death by fire or drowning. When he questioned Dr. Miller during a visit to corporate headquarters, he was told that Strauss-Lochner and BTK Industries were exploring a merger. “Nothing to concern you, Kurt. Just keep doing your job in Havana.”
Which he did, of course.
Five years to the pension.
His wife’s protest was vehement.
“Come with me to Cuba,” he’d said.
“Nackter wilder!” she’d said, questioning his intelligence. Her affectionate name for him had always been “Boopsie,” but not this day. She said many other things, all making the point that if he thought she’d leave their home, their friends, and their grown children to live in some filthy Communist country, he’d lost his mind.
And so he traveled to Havana alone, determined to make the best of however long he would be forced to stay there.
It had been two years.
Now three years to the pension.
“You must leave so soon?” his wife asked over breakfast on the last day of this most recent trip to Heidelberg.
“Ya,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin and pushing back from the kitchen table. “I would like never to go back, but it is not my choice.”
After a series of meetings the previous day, Dr. Miller, Grünewald, and others had gathered for dinner at Kurfürstenstube, in the elegant Der Europäische Hof-Hotel Europa. Grünewald was relieved to be away from the sterile atmosphere of headquarters, and though he could calm himself with vodka and beer, he would have preferred to be home enjoying simpler fare with his wife. He barely ate his saddle of Limousin lamb as he tried to focus on what others at the table were saying, but it became increasingly difficult as the hours passed and the alcohol dulled his senses. Finally, after dessert—crepes flambées with bananas and maple sauce—he was free to go home and sleep.
“What do they say at the meetings, Kurt?” his wife asked at breakfast, her concern for him written on her round face. He’d put more weight on an already sizable frame, causing his shirt collar to press into the folds of his neck. His face was mottled and flushed, and damp with perspiration even on this cool morning in their home on the Neckar River from which the Oldenwald Mountains were visible on a clear day, like this one.
He shrugged, stood, and looked out the door to their garden. She’d asked that question a few times since he’d arrived from Cuba, but he’d remained true to the admonition received from Miller: their discussions were not to be revealed to anyone. Those discussions had occupied the past two days; today would be the final meeting before he boarded a plane at Frankfurt that afternoon for his return flight to Havana.
But there was another reason for not discussing the meetings with Hanna. The truth was, he’d been treated poorly at corporate headquarters, scolded, accused of dragging his feet, questioned as to his drinking habits and other personal matters that he considered out of the realm of corporate interest.
“Just meetings, Hanna,” he said, turning and smiling to reassure her that all was well. “A waste of time. Miller likes to hear himself talk, jabber, jabber, jabber, full of his own importance. I will not be sorry when the next three years are gone and I can thumb my nose at them and spend the pension money. We’ll have a good life, huh, Hanna? We’ll take some trips, work in the garden, enjoy time together.”
Her thought was that she would be relieved if he lived to enjoy retirement. Instead, she said, “I look forward to that, Kurt. But you must take care of yourself. The drinking is—”
“Please, none of that, Hanna. Not now. Do I drink a little too much? Ya, sometimes. But it is not a problem, not like others we know who are drunkards. It relaxes me. There is nothing else to do in Cuba.”
He came up behind her chair and wrapped his arms about her, allowing his hand to brush her sizable bosom. “Don’t worry about me, Hanna. Your Boopsie is just biding his time until I can tell them good-bye, and good riddance.” He kissed her temple and went to the bedroom where his packed suitcase rested on the bed. For a moment, he considered calling Miller’s office to announce that he was not returning to Cuba and that he was resigning, pension be damned. Then he carried the suitcase to the foyer where Hanna waited.
“When will you be home again?” she asked.
“In a few months. Once I finish the business I was sent to Havana to conduct, I am sure Miller will recall me to headquarters. Take care, Hanna. I will write as I have been doing, and call each Sunday.”
They embraced. He left the house, climbed into the BMW he’d rented at the airport, waved, and drove off, his destination the corporate headquarters of Strauss-Lochner Resources.
Had Dr. Hans Miller been born at a different time, he would have been a willing, enthusiastic Nazi, Grünewald was convinced. Slight in stature, with a narrow face and slender nose on which rested small, round, metal-rimmed eyeglasses, he seldom smiled unless it served a purpose. Miller was brilliant, Grünewald knew, and respected the man for that. But it was a narrow intelligence, as narrow as the test tubes of the labs in which Miller seemed more comfortable than with people. He greeted Grünewald with a wave of his hand and without getting up from behind an oversized desk. With him in the office were two other men, the director of research, Dr. Otto Marc, and the company’s chief financial officer, Georg Hagen. Hagen had attended the previous meetings of the past two days, but this was the first appearance of Dr. Marc.
“Sit down, Kurt,” said Miller. “Did you enjoy dinner last night?”
“Oh, yes, very much so. Such a fine restaurant.”
“And bar, too,” Miller said, raising one eyebrow.
“Ya, ya. Always good drinks there.” Grünewald pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and dabbed at his brow and upper lip.
Miller said, “Otto will share with us this morning some of what he has learned from his recent trip to the United States. Please, Otto, the floor is yours.”
The tall, gaunt research director opened a notebook on his lap, adjusted his glasses, and began to speak, using the notes as a prompt.
“I spent considerable time in Washington at the NIH, and with a most impressive young physician there, a Dr. Barbara Mancuso. She and some of her colleagues have been doing considerable investigation of what is going on in Cuba. Shortly before we met, she’d attended the annual meeting of the American Society of Clinical Oncology where our Cuban friend Dr. Caldoza presented a paper on his institute’s latest research results using vanadium. As we already knew, he and his colleagues have had impressive results with some of the two dozen drugs they’ve been testing.”
Miller interrupted. “T
his Dr. Mancuso, Otto. Is her interest in the Cuban research purely clinical?”
“As opposed to?”
“As opposed to a commercial interest?”
“I have no evidence of such a thing, Hans.”
“NIH works closely with many American pharmaceutical companies,” Miller said, “including Signal Laboratories, which, as I have pointed out numerous times, has shown a distinct interest in what the Cubans have achieved. Our sources in the States have made this abundantly clear.”
“Do our sources indicate any knowledge on the part of Signal Labs of our arrangement with BTK?” the financial chief, Hagen, asked.
“That isn’t clear,” Miller replied. “I have been told that Signal has retained an international investigation agency, named Cell-One, to probe the matter.”
Grünewald had allowed his attention to shift from what was being said in the room to his imagination, a vision of himself at work in his garden.
“What do you know of this, Kurt?” Miller asked, causing Grünewald to flinch.
“What?”
Miller’s impatience was locked in his voice. “What do you know of any investigation taking place in Cuba on behalf of Signal Laboratories?” he repeated.
“Nothing. No, I have heard nothing of such a thing.”
“Would you know if you did?” Miller said, more to himself than to Grünewald.
“I think I would,” Grünewald said, his voice defensive, betraying nervousness. “Yes, I would have become aware of such a thing. My contacts with the Cuban ministry of health and the doctors at the research facilities are good. Very solid. Very good.”
“Are you aware that Senator McCullough is in Cuba, Kurt?”
“Former senator,” Grünewald said. Miller sighed. “Yes, Kurt, former senator. Answer my question.”
“That I knew he was in Havana? I read about it. I knew he was coming.”
“Did he bring others from his company, BTK, with him?”
“I—I will certainly find out the answer to that the moment I am back.”
“And you will make contact with Mr. McCullough?”
“Yes, of course, but for what purpose?”
“To assure me that things are progressing with our partner the way they were intended. I have no doubt that a man of McCullough’s stature is a man of integrity and honesty. But his trip to Cuba at this time raises questions.”
“I will do my best,” Grünewald said, “but I am not sure what I could learn simply by meeting the senator. I have so many other obligations, other responsibilities that—”
“Yes, Kurt, I realize that you might be overburdened. I am sending someone back with you to be of help.”
“Someone? Who?”
“A younger man with experience in such things.”
“Do I know him? Where does he work?”
“He’s not from the company, Kurt. He is an independent contractor. His name is Erich Weinert. I have instructed him to meet you at the airport. All arrangements have been made for him to accompany you on the flight, and to be at your side during the coming months.”
“I—of course I am grateful for any help you see fit to give me, Hans, but this is a surprise to me, as I am sure you can understand. He will report to me?”
“He will report to me, Kurt.”
Miller laced his fingers and extended his hands in front of him, causing knuckles to crack. The meeting was over. Miller stood, came around the desk, and perched on its edge, positioning his face only a foot from Grünewald’s. “It was never my intention, Kurt, that you should know of our business arrangement with BTK Industries. The situation is extremely delicate, as I am certain you appreciate. If—when we gain control of the remarkable cancer research taking place in Cuba, the future of this company will be assured. You will have done a great service, and you will be appropriately rewarded. But if word should get out that we act in Cuba on behalf of the American company BTK, the future will be cloudy at best. Every step must be taken to ensure secrecy. No loose lips, no confidences extended over schnapps, or whatever they call it in Cuba. Am I understood?”
Grünewald swallowed, blinked, and nodded. “Ya,” he said.
Miller’s sudden smile penetrated Kurt Grünewald’s heart.
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 Cadilla
cs 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.
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