Murder in Havana Read Free

You’re—?”
    “Doing what
you’re
doing,” Gosling said. “Yes, the money is bloody good. Just part-time. Like you.”
    Drop the Brit stuff
, Pauling thought.
You’ve lived here long enough not to say “bloody” anymore
.
    “I didn’t know you were the military instructor type,” Max said.
    “I’m not. They needed a communications setup here.”
    When Gosling was with the agency, if he’d ever left, he was known as an electronics expert, someone who could install taps under adverse conditions and troubleshoot phones—cellular or otherwise—telephone answering machines, radios, TV sets that were really radios of a different ilk, computers, and any other electrical device. Pauling remembered an incident in Moscow when a tap Gosling had installed became disabled. He fixed it with foil from a pack of cigarettes; that they were Russian cigarettes only added to Gosling’s pleasure.
    “What are you doing when you’re not setting up communications systems?” Pauling asked.
    “Working for Cell-One.”
    “The private security outfit?”
    “Yeah. Mr. Victor Gosling, private eye. You want to talk about good money? Their clients
throw
money at them. Fortune 500 types. Titans of industry and all that.”
    “Sounds like a sweet deal.”
    “That it is.” Gosling cleaned the remaining gravy on the plate with a swipe of his bread. “You know, Max,”he said, “it just occurs to me that we have a project you might be interested in.”
    Pauling responded with a raised eyebrow.
    “Are you, ah—are you up for other assignments?”
    “That depends.”
    “It’s private sector. The client has deep pockets.”
    “What does it involve?”
    Gosling looked around. The room was empty except for the Cuban-American cooks. “Why don’t we get together another time and talk about it?”
    “Fine.”
    “Are you flying back to Albuquerque today?”
    “Yes.”
    “Would you like a passenger?”
    “Sure. Where are you living these days?”
    “California. San Jose. Splitting my time between there and London. Cell-One’s headquarters is there, in the old country. Offices in California and New York, too. I was supposed to be picked up tomorrow but I’m finished here. I can catch a commercial flight home out of Albuquerque.”
    “Happy to have you,” Pauling said.
    And don’t think I buy into the happenstance of meeting you here. A Mexican training base for Cuban-American freedom fighters is no place for coincidence
, Pauling thought.
Like the song says, you can take the man out of the spook business, but you can’t take the spook out of the man
.
    That the comparison probably applied to him as well, he preferred not to contemplate.

M—I’ll be late. Staff meeting at the hospital. Cooked chicken breast in fridge, fresh tomatoes on counter, mozzarella in fridge. Should be home by 10
.
    Love, Me
    “The domestication of Max Pauling,” Gosling said, reading the note Jessica had left for Max on the kitchen table.
    Pauling laughed politely. “Didn’t one of our distinguished predecessors say that gentlemen don’t read each other’s mail? Domestication? It agrees with me. Drink?”
    “Please.”
    “Sorry, but we don’t stock Pimms at this bar.”
    “Good God, Max, just because I was born a Brit doesn’t mean I only drink Pimms Cups. I don’t enjoy bangers and mash either. Since I’m in the States, I’ll have bourbon, if you have it. Neat.”
    “Just joking. I have bourbon. Wouldn’t want to seem un-American.”
    Pauling poured a single-barrel whiskey over ice for Gosling, made himself a vodka and tonic. They sat at the table; Gosling offered a toast: “To friends.”
    Pauling nodded and they touched glasses.
    “So, Max, tell me all about your idyllic life these days.”
    “Not much to tell. I’d had enough of the game. So hadJess. She was with State, the Russian section. We packed it in and headed out here. Jess is working for a local hospital. I teach flying and—”
    “And run munitions into Mexico