by Layton Green
Grey stopped pacing and put a hand on the balcony. “Ah.”
“I might have made some headway concerning our enigmatic blue lady,” Viktor said. “Let’s just say someone has a rather vivid imagination. I might even say sense of humor if there weren’t murders involved.”
“No,” Grey said, remembering the night at Manny’s house. “Not a sense of humor.”
“One group of indigenous peoples known for using the knife and the slingshot were the Incas. Other cultures also utilized these weapons, but it’s a particular legend that has me intrigued. Incan mythology tells of a fierce warrior chieftain called Mama Huaco. As legend has it, Mama Huaco can appear anywhere in the world and vanish into the mist. She can also reincarnate.”
“And she’s blue?”
“Incan warriors were known to have decorated themselves with dyes of many colors.”
“I don’t think we can even be sure of the gender,” Grey said, “based on that witness. How sure are you we’re dealing with an ancient Incan legend?”
“It’s my best guess from the research.”
Viktor’s guess, Grey knew, was usually on target. He just didn’t see how it could all possibly tie together. “Well, if she doesn’t appear for another decade, I suppose it’s irrelevant.”
“Oh, it’s relevant. The question is whether we’ll be able to determine why.”
Grey went for his morning run, took a dip in the ocean, and found a Cuban diner for breakfast. He had a delicious assortment of croquettes and fruit-filled pastries, washed down with fresh guava juice.
After breakfast, he called the homeless shelter to check in on Charlie. The staff said she had stayed there every night and was fine. Maybe next time Grey could leave one of the older students with a set of practice drills, so class could continue in his absence.
The thought caused him to drift to another time and place, when his own shihan had let him run the class and Grey had experienced a rare moment of youthful pride. He was the only American at the school, and the youngest black belt at fifteen. The other students had been jealous, but no one questioned his authority. Despite being undersized, he had proven his talent many times over on the mat. Jujitsu was all about skill, speed, positioning, and exploiting the weaknesses of the human body. Things at which Grey excelled.
That and mental toughness, being able to deal with pain. Grey still marveled at how intense his black belt training had been. Harder than Special Forces training. Harder than anything.
Which had been fine with Grey, because even jujitsu couldn’t compare to the pain of a beating by his own father. That sort of pain coiled around the insides of a young boy like a sleeping dragon, claws inserted for life, the drool a searing acid that seeped outward and dissolved self-worth.
But enough of all that. On the walk back, sunlight glinting off the asphalt after a late morning downpour, he shook off the past and decided to call Nya. He told her it was to update her on the case, but he really just wanted to hear her voice, feel her aura beside him.
“Grey,” she said when he was done talking, “you’ve done enough, hey? Let the government do the rest.”
“It’s our case now. They hired us to consult.”
“I understand, but if anything happened to you, I’d feel responsible. I was the one who brought you into this.”
He imagined her on her patio, sipping tea and slicing a mango from the garden, the sun warming her brown arms. “I doubt this project will last much longer,” he said. “But you know how I feel. We might be helping the next Sekai.”
“I know, just . . . be careful. Please. For me.”
A little thrill ran through him at her words. They made small talk for a while, and as they did he wandered up and down Ocean Drive with the phone pressed to his ear, lost with her voice in a bubble of time and space, traffic and pedestrians muted around him.
Fred called later that evening, when Grey was stretching on his tatami mat, half watching an action flick, balcony doors open to the breeze.
“Things are moving fast,” Fred said. “Our girl knows about this guy Hector, says she’s heard his name quite a bit. Her lapdog already invited her to the next ceremony.”
“How’d she play it?” Grey asked.
“She asked about the recent murders, whether the cult stuff was involved. Showed an interest in knowing more.”
“Smart. When’s the ceremony?”
“Two days. Same house. I’ll pick you up at four.”
After catching up on her daily reports, Lana sat cross-legged in the living room of the CIA condo. Through the open balcony door she could see the lights of Brickell, feel the nocturnal energy of Miami stirring below.
It was midnight. The memory of her meeting with Colonel Ganso still roiled in her stomach like the aftereffects of a bout of food poisoning.
It wasn’t just him. After the act itself, the worst part about the rape was the unbearable feeling of helplessness with which it had left her. The rest of her life had been spent in compensation.
And she had compensated: third degree black belt in taekwondo, expert marksman, high-ranking officer in the CIA. No, Lana Valenciano would not be taken advantage of ever again. Not in that way.
Her father, always selfish and unapproachable, had cemented his status in Lana’s mind by divorcing her mother a few months after the attack. Had he not understood that was when Lana needed them most?
She shook off the memories and reached for her cell. Agent Hernandez had informed her about the upcoming operation, and if this Dominic Grey person was going to participate in the investigation, she needed to know more about him. She had read his file, and it did not give her a warm and fuzzy feeling.
She had decided to call Harris Powell, Grey’s direct supervisor when he had been fired from Diplomatic Security in Zimbabwe. Harris was still posted in Harare, which did not bode well for his career. The same Third World backwater for over four years?
Harris answered on the first ring, his high-pitched voice grating on Lana’s nerves. “Dominic Grey, now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”
“We’re using him on an investigation, and I thought I’d get a little more insight into his character. What exactly happened in Harare? Is he trustworthy? Capable?”
“Oh, Jesus!” Harris started laughing, and it was an unpleasant sound, even whinier than his voice. “You want the scoop on Grey? It’s pretty simple, the guy can’t take an order. Never could. Had trouble with him from day one.”
“That’s why he was fired?”
“I’m sure you read the file. Dominic was fired because he chose to pursue a personal investigation we forbade him to pursue. His job was to protect the interests of the United States of America, and he disobeyed a direct order and failed in that duty.”
“The personal investigation that involved the case liaison officer from the Zimbabwean government, Nya Mashumba?”
“He came to us with some crazy story about a Juju cult that had kidnapped both Ms. Mashumba and a former head of Consular Affairs.”
“Didn’t that turn out to be true?”
“Half of Zimbabwe still believes that cult leader had supernatural powers, if that’s what you mean. But Zim isn’t exactly sending someone to the moon anytime soon. Anyway, you know as well as I do that’s beside the point. The Zim government disallowed our involvement, and the action Grey proposed to take was in direct contradiction of an ambassadorial order. Period. End of story.”
A night breeze stirred, and Lana flicked a strand of hair off her face. “So we’ve established his issue with chain of command, which is borne out by his service record. What about otherwise? Take out the leadership issues—would you trust him on an investigation? Or at all?”
“Look, lady, here’s what you need to know. Dominic Grey doesn’t do group hugs or company picnics or watercooler talk at the office. He’s serious and remote and I guess you could say philosophical, though philosophy is about as relevant a skill in the State Department as owning a flower
shop. Maybe I’m just not a deep guy. The point is, Grey’s terrible at interpersonal relations and dealing with authority, but he’s very smart and capable, and . . . let me put it this way. Dominic Grey is uncomfortable in ninety-nine percent of the situations normal people take for granted, and comfortable in ninety-nine percent of situations the rest of us aren’t. If the shit hits the fan in a dark alley, there’s no one I’d rather have at my back. And if he wasn’t on my side, I wouldn’t want to be in a strobe-lit alley with Dominic Grey.”
“But would you trust him?”
“If we were on the same side, sure. Absolutely. Problem is, he decides what the rules are and who fits where. But you know,” Harris’s voice turned pensive, “I kinda feel bad about the way it played out for the guy. But hey, he put himself in that corner. I tried to tell him and he never would listen.”
Lana ended the conversation. She fixed herself a martini and relaxed on the couch, her mind alert despite the alcohol, thinking about the investigation and her frustrating lack of progress, about enigmatic crime lords and men like Dominic Grey and the complicated world that had spawned them.
Two days later, an hour after sunset, Grey and Fred huddled in the back of an unmarked van with tinted windows. The vehicle was parked in a busy retail lot on South Dixie Highway, two blocks from Hector Fortuna’s house.
DEA Agent Anthony Miller, Fred’s partner, was in the driver’s seat. Next to him was Agent Luis Menendez, a dark-skinned Cuban with the muscular wrists of a baseball pro.
Grey rolled his neck and flexed his own wrists. They weren’t expecting any action, or there would have been a few more vans full of agents standing by. The undercover operative inside Hector’s house, Cecilia Turner, was only supposed to gain a foothold in the cult and learn what she could. Listening devices were so unobtrusive these days, concealed in the hem of a blouse or disguised as a smartphone, that she was in no real danger of exposure. Still, Grey liked to stay loose.
“So Lana’s on board with this?” Grey asked.
Fred was quiet for a moment. “Yeah. She knows.”
“Still don’t want to tell me what this is all about?”
“I did. We’re looking for a bigger fish.”
Grey’s lips turned upward. “Sure.”
“Hopefully we’ll get a name at this meeting, and you can take your grand-a-day ass back to New York. I’m clearly in the wrong business,” Fred muttered.
“Trust me, I’m just the hired help.”
“You have any idea what they pay us to put our lives on the line? Just enough for booze and a bad divorce attorney.”
“You’ve got an ex?” Grey asked.
“Almost. Wife can’t deal with the job, kids are my universe, same broken record.”
Grey nodded, said nothing.
Fred spread his hands. “Angst is a wonderfully empowering emotion. We’re not really alive without it. You’re single, I’m guessing? I can tell by the waistline.”
“Yeah.”
“Police report said you were investigating one of the African girls’ deaths. What’s the connection?”
“I know someone close to her.”
“Old flame? New?”
Grey hesitated. “Old.”
Fred grunted, and Grey was relieved when a voice came through the monitoring speaker, causing everyone to quiet. It sounded as if Agent Turner and other people were being greeted at the door and ushered inside.
The small talk kept up, and Agent Menendez turned his head towards Anthony. “You know Cecilia?”
“Met her once or twice. She’s been inside the cartel most of the time I’ve been here.”
Agent Menendez gave a two-tone whistle. “That girl’s the truth, man. Legs like tent poles. What I wouldn’t give.”
Grey listened to the voices coming from the house for a few minutes, then said, “Agent Turner’s Venezuelan?”
“American mother, Venezuelan father,” Fred said, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“My first posting as a DSO was in Bogotá. I learned to recognize regional accents.”
Fred inclined his head towards the speaker. “So you’re getting all this?”
“Most of it.”
Luis and Anthony kept up their chatter, until finally Fred said, “Say Luis, why don’t you quit running your mouth like a hyperactive parrot and act like you’ve been here before? Christ, you’re like one of my kids. Sometimes the devil’s in the details, so listen up. Why do Cubans do everything so fast, anyway? You talk too fast and drive your cars too fast and do business too fast. Aren’t you supposed to be happy island people?”
Instead of the retort Grey expected, both agents in the front quieted and turned towards the speaker as if they’d been shushed by the principal. Ever since they had picked Grey up on a street corner near his hotel, it was obvious the other two men held Fred in esteem, if not fear.
Hector’s voice came through the speaker, gathering everyone together. Grey snapped to attention.
“Before we begin,” Hector said in Spanish, “we have a new initiate.”
The priest’s voice sounded different than it had in the botánica, strong and self-assured, at home among his flock.
“I hope you don’t mind if I watch,” Agent Turner said from inside. “I’ve been to a lot of Santeria ceremonies, but never Palo. I hear they’re different.”
“Oh,” Hector said, and Grey could sense him grinning, “they’re different. And you can do much more than watch.”
There was something in Hector’s voice Grey didn’t like. An underlying current of electricity charging his words. Grey’s eyes roved the van, but the others didn’t seem bothered. Maybe he was just jumpy, had been in too many dicey situations.
“Come forward,” Hector said. “Give me your arm.”
“Go, Carina,” a male voice urged, who Grey assumed was her escort. Fred had told Grey that Agent Turner was known to the cartel as Carina Trujillo.
After a moment of silence, Agent Turner gasped as if poked by a needle.
“Good,” Hector murmured. “Join your blood with the prenda. I’m curious, what is it that interests you about Palo?”
“It’s a fascinating religion,” she said.
“Yes, it is. But surely something in particular caught your eye, caused you to request an audience? This is not for everyone, you know. We do not embrace the casual seeker.”
“I know. I’m very grateful. It’s an honor.”
“Well, then?” Hector said. “Is there something you wish done? A desire gained or thwarted? An enemy overcome?”
Grey thought it strange that there were no other noises in the room. No music, no drums. His research indicated that Palo Mayombe ceremonies included music and singing, or at least chanting. And there had been drums at the other ceremony. Why was it so quiet?
“Or perhaps,” Hector said, this time not bothering to hide the subtle menace in his voice, “you wish to learn the secrets of a palero?”
“Oh no,” Agent Turner said. “I wouldn’t dare to presume.”
“No? Are you not a daring woman, to come here and disguise your true nature?”
Grey and Fred sat up straight. Anthony started to speak, and Fred shushed him with a finger.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Agent Turner said. “Disguise my true nature? Will Palo help me strip away the layers and reach my potential?”
Keep it going, Grey thought. Even if you think they suspect you, keep it going. Cause them to doubt.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Hector said softly. “We are far more alive as part of Kalunga.”
Kalunga, Grey repeated to himself, trying to recall his reading. That word meant something. Something important to the religion.
He remembered what it was at the same time the drums began and they heard another gasp, and then muffled screaming and the sound of someone being dragged across a floor.
Grey sprang to his feet. “Kalunga means the realm of the dead in Palo. He’s going to kill her.”
Fred swore and lunged for a phone at the front of the van. “We need backup now. Agent in peril. Send two teams.” He slammed the receiver and turned to Anthony. “Drive.”
Anthony screeched the van into traffic. “Shouldn’t we wait for backup?”
“Fuck backup,” Fred said. “Didn’t you hear what Grey said?”
The van screeched out of the parking lot. “Got a spare weapon?” Grey said, eying the rack of firearms on the side of the van. When Fred hesitated, Grey said, “Interpol, remember? I have whatever jurisdiction you tell me I have.”
Fred glanced out the windshield and back at Grey, flicking a wrist towards the weapons. “Take your pick.”
Grey had enough time to select a Glock and check the cartridge before the van jerked to a stop in front of Hector’s house. The DEA agents and Grey piled into the street, Fred leading the way.
Just as Fred reversed his weapon to smash the lock, the door opened halfway to reveal Hector, dressed in a wrinkled guayabera, his hands clasped in front of him.
The drums had stilled. Hector’s smile, slow and sure in the face of four armed men, chilled Grey. “Can I help you?”
Fred flashed his ID without lowering his weapon. “We’re searching this house.”
“On what basis?”
“DEA matter,” Fred said. “Step aside.”
“You do realize this is a registered house of worship? I’m a licensed santero. We have a constitutional right to conduct our services as we see fit.”
“I’m not going to ask again.”
“Your warrant?”
Fred jabbed the butt of his gun into Hector’s stomach, doubling him over and shoving him forward. Grey liked his call. This wasn’t about procedure or preserving evidence, this was about saving an agent’s life. In his opinion they had taken too long already.
They pushed their way inside, Fred leading Hector by the back of his shirt. Grey saw a two-story villa with a tiled central courtyard, where a group of seven men was gathered around an iron cauldron. A few palms and banana trees dotted the edges of the outdoor space, as well as thick clumps of foliage. A phalanx of tiki torches illuminated the scene. Even from a distance Grey could see bones and sticks poking out of the cauldron, and smears of blood on the tiles.
