Murder in Havana by Margaret Truman Page A

wondered—reading flying magazines he picked up in a large bookstore, and havinga leisurely dinner in a restaurant in Little Haiti. The following morning, the desk clerk at the Airport Regency Hotel at Miami International Airport handed him an envelope as he returned from breakfast. “For you, Mr. Pauling.”
    Pauling went to his room. It was compact and had a small balcony overlooking nothing worth seeing. He stood out on the balcony and opened the envelope.
    Max—
    Arriving this afternoon from London, Virgin Atlantic flight five, scheduled into Miami at 3:05. Meet you at the hotel
.
    Vic
    It was nearly eleven. Pauling unpacked his small bag, put on trunks, and swam vigorous laps until a mother with three small children entered the pool and provided a lively obstacle course. He got out, dried off, and went to the small bar where he nursed a Bloody Mary, had lunch, returned to his room, and fell asleep. The ringing phone startled him into consciousness.
    “Max, it’s Vic. I’m in the lobby.”
    “Hello, Vic. Flight okay?”
    He laughed. “My master believes that his employees should fly first-class. Virgin calls it upper-class. Top-notch. Even an onboard masseuse to rub out the kinks before arrival. Worth getting the kinks. Been here long?”
    “Long enough to be ready to leave. Where are we meeting?”
    “Come down.”
    “Ten minutes.”
    Gosling was dressed as though he’d just stepped from a boardroom, dark blue pinstripe suit, blue-and-white-striped shirt with a solid white collar, solid burgundy tie,and black wing tip shoes buffed to a mirror glaze. Pauling wore jeans, a navy T-shirt, white sneakers, and his customary multipocketed vest. Gosling frowned.
    “You have a problem?” Pauling asked.
    “Must be dress-down Friday, only this is Thursday.”
    “All the same to me. Where are we going, to a coronation?”
    Gosling led them from the hotel lobby to a parked, rented tan Mercedes. “To where we can have a drink and a little chat,” he said. “My superior at Cell-One will be delayed, won’t be in until tomorrow. Meetings all week at the Athenaeum Hotel. I broke away to meet you. The British are as fond of meetings as you Americans. Nothing like the lure of a long conference table, some tea, and an agenda. You did bring a suit with you.”
    “No.”
    Gosling sighed. “I warned my superior that you are unconventional. How’s your lady friend?”
    “Jessica is fine. Where are we heading?”
    “A romantic spot on the beach, given that you’re so well dressed.”
    They drove south on Le Jeune Road to Coral Way, turned left, and drove east until reaching Biscayne Bay, then north on Biscayne Boulevard until Gosling pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant, Monty’s Marketplace. Pauling followed Gosling through the building to an outdoor area on the bay where a raw bar was in operation. They sat at a varnished picnic table beneath a chikee hut, a palm-thatch structure open on all sides, affording a view of the water.
    “Nice place, don’t you think?” Gosling said.
    “If you like this sort of thing,” said Pauling. “Glad I didn’t overdress.”
    They ordered draft beers from a waitress; Gosling ordered a half-dozen littlenecks.
    After a silence, during which Gosling ate and Pauling drank: “This is all very nice, Vic, but if I wanted to suck a beer beside the water, I’d have gone to California. What are we doing? I don’t like sitting around.”
    “You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Max? The original man of action and little patience. All right. Let me fill you in. As I told you earlier, you’ll be transporting medical supplies to Cuba for a company in Colombia.”
    “What company?”
    “Cali Forwarding.”
    “Oh, come on, Vic. Are they still in business?”
    “Ah, you remember. That’s a good sign, Max. The memory generally goes before the legs. Yes, Cali Forwarding is ‘still in business,’ as you put it.”
    “And still acting as a front for The Company.”
    “
The