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

owned twenty-six thousand acres, and Fidel was twenty-six when he launched his revolutionary attack on Moncada on July twenty-sixth.”
    “Interesting,” McCullough said, not wanting to remind the president he already knew all about Castro’s superstitions.
    “Yes, interesting. The time is right, Price. Make the most of it, in your meetings—and out of them.”

All set?” Annabel asked as he brought his suitcases from the bedroom to the foyer.
    “I think so.”
    “Time for another cup of coffee?”
    Smith checked his watch. “Sure. Car’s not due for a half hour.”
    They sat at a small glass-topped table on the terrace of their Watergate apartment and looked down over the Potomac. Crews from George Washington University, where Smith taught, practiced their strenuous extracurricular activity on the rippling water. Two luxury yachts slowly passed the sleek sculls from upriver. It was nine in the morning. The temperature was over eighty degrees in the nation’s capitol; the city’s infamous humidity had already wilted the clothing, hair, and spirits of the citizens who moved along the sidewalks as though pushing medicine balls.
    “Wow!” Annabel said, dabbing at her upper lip with a napkin.
    “Washington,” Smith said. “On days like this I think of the character E. G. Marshall played in
Twelve Angry Men
. You know, the one who never broke a sweat in that stiflingly hot jury deliberation room.”
    Annabel said, “If you’re thinking of practicing thatfeat, wait until you come back from Havana. I read the weather there this morning. A hundred.”
    He squinted as he looked into the sun rising across the river.
    “Yes?” Annabel asked, aware that his expression meant he was thinking of something.
    “The trip,” he said. “The president has been talking about it conceptually for months. All of a sudden it’s reality. I wonder why it had to be now.”
    “Window of opportunity?”
    “I suppose so. That column by Broder the other day makes sense.”
    “That this trip is more political than trade?”
    “Yeah. No doubt about it, Annabel. The president is determined to hammer out a relationship with Cuba before he leaves office, Congress be damned.”
    “Which wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” She cocked her head. “Good time to do it.”
    “Depends on how it’s done. Charlie Larsen suggested the other night that we should not encourage a revolution or an invasion but just get into a poker game with Castro and win the island.”
    “Castro would cheat.”
    “So would the president. I’d better get downstairs.”
    “Yes.”
    She rode the elevator with him to the lobby. A black limousine was parked outside.
    She hugged him and kissed him on the lips. “Oops, lipstick,” she said, wiping away telltale traces of their parting. “Call.”
    “Soon as I settle at the hotel. Or until the hotel settles further into decay. The Ritz it ain’t. Love you, Mrs. Smith.”
    “You’d better. Safe journey.”

    “Senator McCullough, you say that the purpose of your trip is to explore the possibility of one day opening further trade with Cuba beyond the current exceptions to the embargo, namely agricultural products and medical supplies. But the administration’s efforts to open a political dialogue with Castro are no secret. Isn’t that what’s really behind your trip?”
    The reporter was one of a dozen covering the departure of McCullough’s delegation to Cuba. The former senator and his colleagues, including Mackensie Smith, faced the press in a room at Reagan National Airport normally reserved for grieving family members when there had been a fatal aircraft accident. McCullough, forever senatorial—venerable face, silver hair nicely arranged, custom-made gray suit, white shirt, nonpartisan tie, voice like a one-man gang—smiled and gave a little shake of his head as though to say, “There you go again,” which had worked so well for the former president for whom the airport was named.
    “You’d