Murder in Havana (Capital Crimes)

Murder in Havana (Capital Crimes)

Havana may be far from Washington, but DC power brokers are never far from Havana. Neither are danger, deception, and sudden death. That’s what draws Max Pauling there. As an ex-CIA, ex-State Department employee, he faces an uneventful early retirement–until he is asked to secretly fly some medical supplies into the mysterious Cuban city. If Max is looking for excitement, he finds it. First there’s his contact, a breathtaking beauty with private plans of her own. Then there’s a former senator, in Havana to ease the U.S. embargo, but who may have another, more malevolent, mission. Throw in endless supplies of under-the-table money– not to mention a murder–and Max has landed in a place even more corrupt . . . and more compelling . . . than the U.S. capital itself. “[MARGARET TRUMAN IS] A FIRST-RATE MYSTERY WRITER.” – Los Angeles Times Book Review “Truman can write suspense with the best of them.” –LARRY KING e far from Washington, but DC power brokers are never far from Havana. Neither are danger, deception, and sudden death. That s what draws Max Pauling there. As an ex-CIA, ex-State Department employee, he faces an uneventful early retirement until he is asked to secretly fly some medical supplies into the mysterious Cuban city. If Max is looking for excitement, he finds it. First there s his contact, a breathtaking beauty with private plans of her own. Then there s a former senator, in Havana to ease the U.S. embargo, but who may have another, more malevolent, mission. Throw in endless supplies of under-the-table money not to mention a murder and Max has landed in a place even more corrupt . . . and more compelling . . . than the U.S. capital itself. Havana may be far from Washington, but DC power brokers are never far from Havana. Neither are danger, deception, and sudden death. That's what draws Max Pauling there. As an ex-CIA, ex-State Department employee, he faces an uneventful early retirement-until he is asked to secretly fly some medical supplies into the mysterious Cuban city. If Max is looking for excitement, he finds it. First there's his contact, a breathtaking beauty with private plans of her own. Then there's a former senator, in Havana to ease the U.S. embargo, but who may have another, more malevolent, mission. Throw in endless supplies of under-the-table money- not to mention a murder-and Max has landed in a place even more corrupt . . . and more compelling . . . than the U.S. capital itself. Margaret Truman has won faithful readers with her works of biography and fiction, particularly her ongoing series of Capital Crimes mysteries (nineteen and counting)–from Murder in the White House to Murder at Ford’s Theatre . Her novels let us into the corridors of power and privilege, poverty and pageantry, in the nation’s capital. She lives in Manhattan. CHAPTER 1 New Mexico Max Pauling left the private airport outside Albuquerque, New Mexico, at six in the morning and flew to a small airstrip in Arizona, near the town of Maverick, on the southern rim of the White Mountains. There, his single-engine, fixed-landing-gear Cessna 182S was loaded with God knows what. The dozen pea-green canvas bags were wrapped with duct tape, low-tech security. He didn’t care what was in them. He’d made the point when signing on to transport materials from Maverick that drugs were off-limits, and was assured none were involved. None, that is, if you could believe what they said, “they” being agents of his former employer, who had a reputation for many things. Consistent truth telling was not one of them. The man who’d pulled the green pickup truck to the side of the aircraft and unloaded the bags from its bed had small lumps all over his face, some obscure disease, Pauling figured, that made him look strange but probably wouldn’t kill him, though it didn’t do much for Max’s morale. Other than that, the man seemed average in all ways. “Nice plane,” he said. “I like it,” Pauling said. He’d bought it used two years ago from a Maryland flying club after returning from a seven-year stint in Moscow, ostensibly as a member of the Trade and Commerce Division of the U.S. embassy, but more accurately on assignment for the CIA. There were more up-to-date single-engine aircraft, and more expensive ones, but this one suited Pauling just fine. He’d loaded it with modern avionics; he was instrument rated, which allowed him to fly in IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) conditions, while private pilots rated VFR (Visual Flight Rules) sat on the ground until they could see where they were going. His recently earned multi-engine rating turned out to be more frustrating than pleasing. He was now licensed to pilot twin-engine aircraft, but couldn’t afford one. Whoever said life was fair? The man with the knobby face told Pauling to have a nice trip and drove off, his pickup kicking up yellow dust from the dirt strip. Pauling looked around. There wasn’t another person to be seen. Because Maverick did not have a refueling facility,