Murder in Havana by Margaret Truman Page B

communication that the money he spent so freely did not come solely from Strauss-Lochner’s coffers. Much of it flowed from the treasury of the American company BTK Industries, headed by the former United States senator from Texas, one Price McCullough. Grünewald wasn’t shocked, but he was concerned. His greatest midnight fear was having to go to jail. It was a more pervasive fear than death by fire or drowning. When he questioned Dr. Miller during a visit to corporate headquarters, he was told that Strauss-Lochner and BTK Industries were exploring a merger. “Nothing to concern you, Kurt. Just keep doing your job in Havana.”
    Which he did, of course.
    Five years to the pension.
    His wife’s protest was vehement.
    “Come with me to Cuba,” he’d said.
    “Nackter wilder!”
she’d said, questioning his intelligence. Her affectionate name for him had always been “Boopsie,” but not this day. She said many other things, all making the point that if he thought she’d leave their home, their friends, and their grown children to live in some filthy Communist country, he’d lost his mind.
    And so he traveled to Havana alone, determined to make the best of however long he would be forced to stay there.
    It had been two years.
    Now three years to the pension.
    “You must leave so soon?” his wife asked over breakfast on the last day of this most recent trip to Heidelberg.
    “Ya,”
he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin and pushing back from the kitchen table. “I would like never to go back, but it is not my choice.”
    After a series of meetings the previous day, Dr. Miller, Grünewald, and others had gathered for dinner at Kurfürstenstube, in the elegant Der Europäische Hof-Hotel Europa. Grünewald was relieved to be away from the sterile atmosphere of headquarters, and though he could calm himself with vodka and beer, he would have preferred to be home enjoying simpler fare with his wife. He barely ate his saddle of Limousin lamb as he tried to focus on what others at the table were saying, but it became increasingly difficult as the hours passed and the alcohol dulled his senses. Finally, after dessert—crepes flambées with bananas and maple sauce—he was free to go home and sleep.
    “What do they say at the meetings, Kurt?” his wife asked at breakfast, her concern for him written on her round face. He’d put more weight on an already sizable frame, causing his shirt collar to press into the folds of his neck. His face was mottled and flushed, and damp with perspiration even on this cool morning in their home on the Neckar River from which the Oldenwald Mountains were visible on a clear day, like this one.
    He shrugged, stood, and looked out the door to their garden. She’d asked that question a few times since he’d arrived from Cuba, but he’d remained true to the admonition received from Miller: their discussions were not to be revealed to anyone. Those discussions had occupied the past two days; today would be the final meeting before he boarded a plane at Frankfurt that afternoon for his return flight to Havana.
    But there was another reason for not discussing the meetings with Hanna. The truth was, he’d been treated poorly at corporate headquarters, scolded, accused ofdragging his feet, questioned as to his drinking habits and other personal matters that he considered out of the realm of corporate interest.
    “Just meetings, Hanna,” he said, turning and smiling to reassure her that all was well. “A waste of time. Miller likes to hear himself talk, jabber, jabber, jabber, full of his own importance. I will not be sorry when the next three years are gone and I can thumb my nose at them and spend the pension money. We’ll have a good life, huh, Hanna? We’ll take some trips, work in the garden, enjoy time together.”
    Her thought was that she would be relieved if he lived to enjoy retirement. Instead, she said, “I look forward to that, Kurt. But you must take care of yourself. The