Murder in Havana by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

said.
    “Should be. I was pleased when the president asked me to be part of it as one set of eyes and ears.”
    “How many in Price’s delegation?”
    “Twenty, last I heard—sixteen men and four women.”
    “The usual ratio.” She sighed. “Cuba,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I wish I’d seen it before Castro, when it was the playground of the rich and famous.”
    “And the infamous. Corrupt to the core,” Mac said. “A gangster paradise.” He chuckled. “I remember a comment by one of our ambassadors there during Batista’s reign. A reporter asked him why the Mafia was so welcome in Havana. The ambassador said it was the only way to have well-run casinos that paid off. That’s how corrupt Batista was.”
    Annabel yawned. “I’m too tired to be corrupt.”
    “Shame,” Smith said. “Let’s hit the hay anyway, Annie.”
    The first lady sat in bed reading a novel. Her husband hadn’t changed for bed. Walden sat at a small desk in their bedroom, leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the edge of the desk.
    “It’s been a lovely weekend,” she said, laying the book on the bed.
    “Always good to get away. Whoever invented vacations and long weekends deserves a medal. Good book?”
    “If you like romance novels, which I do on occasion. Occasions like this. Makes the escape from officialdom that much more complete.”
    He turned at the sound of someone knocking gently on the door, went to it, and faced an aide. “The senator is waiting, Mr. President.”
    Walden left the room without a word to his wife. As the aide led him to a secluded wooded area a hundred yards from the house, two Secret Service agents fell in behind, maintaining a discreet distance. Former senator Price McCullough sat on a wooden bench next to a small fountain, the water flowing gently into a copper urn that spilled its contents each time it filled. Walden joined his friend on the bench.
    “I caught you dealing from the bottom of the deck, Mr. President,” McCullough said in his soft drawl.
    Walden laughed quietly. “Sometimes you have to do that in this business, Price.”
    “I’m well aware of that, Mr. President. I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning. I need time back home before going to Cuba. I want you to know how much I appreciate this opportunity.”
    Walden waved away his comment. “I never liked Ayn Rand’s politics, Price, but her take on what’s self-serving makes sense. We do things for selfish reasons, but that’s okay because others benefit. Like the definition of a ‘good deal.’ If you personally benefit from your trip, that’s okay because this nation will benefit, too. It’s a good deal. Everyone comes out ahead.”
    “Any last-minute words of Walden wisdom?”
    “No. Just make it work. The time is right. If we can getthem to see that there’s the possibility of more open trade beyond medicine and agricultural products, a real political dialogue might follow.”
    “Hinting that there’s the potential of lowering the embargo isn’t destined to impress Castro, Mr. President,” the burly, white-haired McCullough said. “It gives him his best platform to point the finger at us for all his failures with the economy. But I’ll do my best.”
    “The time is right, Price. Castro knows he’ll have to give it up one of these days. Hell, he’s got three hundred million dollars stashed away in Spain, according to some intelligence estimates. His kid brother, Raúl, will never cut it as the successor, and Fidel knows it. Everything points to growing unrest since the Soviets pulled the plug on aid.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “You’ll be there for his birthday.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Know why Castro considers twenty-six his lucky number, won’t make major decisions on any other day?”
    “I read the briefing papers.”
    Walden continued as though McCullough hadn’t. “He claims he was born in 1926, although some say it was ’27. At any rate, his father