Red Angel

by William Heffernan

“Have you checked with our friend?”

  “He is in Havana now. I spoke with him this afternoon. He said Cipriani and my man left his villa in Cobre two hours before he left there himself. They were to return on a Cubana flight. Our friend traveled on his private jet.”

  “And Cipriani and your man never got here.”

  “They checked in for the flight, but they never boarded the plane. I checked with the local police and with the immigration police, but they knew nothing.”

  “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “No.” Cabrera shook his head for emphasis as he tried to decide how much more to say. DeForio was unaware of the assassination attempt on this New York police inspector and his woman, either here in Havana or in Cobre. This was a private arrangement with Rossi, just as the theft of the Red Angel’s body had been. That second arrangement had produced an upheaval among the Mafia investors that had only recently been settled. Knowledge of the assassination attempt might produce yet another. Still, DeForio had to be told something.

  “The major of the national police that I told you about, the one who is investigating the disappearance of the body …” He paused.

  DeForio stared at him. “Yeah, what about him?”

  “He was in Santiago at the same time.”

  DeForio’s eyes widened. “You are joking with me, right? This crap with this old woman’s body, tell me it’s not coming back to haunt us again.”

  “I am not certain,” Cabrera said. “I am attempting to discover the truth.”

  Mickey D covered his face with both hands and slowly drew them down. “Where is that fucking body now?”

  “It is on its way to Havana, in the nganga that has been prepared. The ritual will be performed here, tomorrow, or the following day.”

  “Where?”

  “I am not certain. Señor Rossi is hidden in an Abakua stronghold in Guanabacoa. I assume the ritual will take place there, or somewhere nearby.”

  “Where the hell is this Guanabacoa?”

  “It is only a short drive from where we sit.”

  “Do you think this major knows about this?”

  Cabrera shook his head. “It is not possible that he does. Only Señor Rossi, myself, and the Abakua palero know this place.”

  DeForio’s face darkened, and his lips formed a hard line. “I want to see Rossi, and I want this fucking ritual over with. We gave in to Rossi on this voodoo crap. Now it’s coming back to bite us on the ass again.” He ground his teeth. “And I still don’t know how you’re going to resolve the disappearance of this big-shot doctor.” He pointed a finger at Cabrera and lowered his voice to a whisper. “If this brings the government down, we could all be fucked. We need the Comandante in power if the embargo is going to hold.”

  “It is arranged,” Cabrera said. “It will be done tomorrow.”

  “How?”

  Cabrera leaned forward, bringing his own voice down to a whisper. “We have the body of another woman. The same age and size, and so badly burned and deteriorated a positive identification will be impossible.”

  “What about her fucking dental records?” DeForio hissed.

  Cabrera smiled. “Her head is missing. It will be found in a nganga at the house of a palero named Plante Firme. But only a portion of it. Without teeth, of course. It would seem this palero may have been in league with antigovernment insurgents.” Cabrera lowered his voice even further, and his eyes hardened. “This appears to be the course the investigation is following. This way, the evidence Martínez has gathered will not be contradicted.”

  “And what if the palero denies all this crap?”

  “That will be difficult,” Cabrera said. “Plante Firme will be dead tomorrow.”

  When they left the restaurant, Pitts dropped off Cabrera and followed the second man to the Capri Hotel. Inside the lobby, DeForio veered off to the bar. Pitts quickly latched onto a young prostitute, who surprised him by speaking semifluent English. He took a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, her normal fee for an evening of pleasure, ripped it in half, and told her if she returned with the man’s name and room number, she would get the other half.

  “Geev me twenty dollars more,” she said. Pitts was about to snatch the torn fifty from her hand, when she began nodding vigorously and assured him she would return with the name and room number in only a minute.

  He handed her a twenty and watched as she approached a tall, slender young man, dressed in tan slacks and a white shirt and tie, one of several stationed around the lobby as security guards. She led the man to the entrance of the bar and whispered in his ear. When he whispered back, she handed him the twenty and returned to Pitts.

  “Hees es called Miguel De-Four-e-o. Hees chamber es a berry es-pensive suite. Nombre Siete-zero-dos, how you say, Seben-o-two.” She reached out and plucked the second half of the fifty from Pitts’s hand. A wide smile spread across her beautiful face. “Now I tink I go and fuck heem.”

  Devlin and Martínez stood on Calle Obrapia as a milling crowd of tourists waited to push their way into El Floridita, the so-called cradle of the daiquiri made famous by Ernest Hemingway’s patronage. A crazy man stood guard in front of the door, “protecting” the tourists and accepting tips. He refused to move despite warnings from the restaurant’s official doorman, who repeatedly stuck his head out to utter harsh Spanish threats.

  The crazy man was at least six-foot-three, rail thin, and well into his fifties. He had a gentle brown face and was dressed in dirty red shorts and a dirty striped shirt, with a chain of beer-can tabs draped across his chest like a bandolier. He had a wooden stick, tied at both ends with twine, and slung from his shoulder like a rifle. Flip-flops, a battered bicycle helmet, and a full gray beard completed his costume. When Pitts arrived at ten-fifteen, the “guard” saluted him and held out his hand for a reward.

  “I already gave in Times Square,” Pitts snarled.

  “You’re late,” Devlin snapped, frustrated by his own unproductive day.

  “Yeah,” Pitts said. “But I come bearing gold.”

  They pushed their way inside and Martínez flashed his ID to the real doorman, who immediately made room for them at the crowded bar.

  Pitts grinned. “Just like the Apple. A flash of tin works just like a double sawbuck.”

  Martínez shook his head. “Is he speaking English?” he asked Devlin.

  Devlin ignored him and eyed the crowded mahogany bar with displeasure. Two young women with Canadian accents, obviously alone and on the prowl, gave them appraising looks. El Floridita was a tourist trap, a beautiful one, but still a tourist trap. There was a mural on the back bar, depicting three-masted sailing ships entering Havana harbor. In front of it was a bronze statue of a man giving water to a child, and to either side, iron baskets filled with fruit. To the left was a bust of Hemingway, along with seven photos showing the author with various American luminaries. The only ones Devlin recognized were the actors Errol Flynn and Gary Cooper. Two other photos were of Hemingway with a young Fidel Castro.

  He turned to Martínez. “Why the hell are we talking in here?” he asked.

  Martínez’s soft eyes became infuriatingly tolerant. “Tourists have no interest in anything but pleasure,” he said. “We will be ignored when we offer none. And there is a convenient side door onto another street if we must leave quickly.” He added a gentle smile. “Besides, one of my men is outside. He will warn us if State Security put their noses in.” The answer didn’t satisfy Devlin, and Martínez placed a hand on his shoulder. “Trust me, my friend. I know how best to hide in my own city.”

  Devlin turned to Pitts as Martínez ordered them each a frozen daiquiri. “What did you get?”

  Pitts told him, making a point of the seventy dollars he had given the Capri Hotel hooker. He grinned. “I hope it’s worth seventy bucks in expense money,” he said.

  Devlin stared at him. “Me, too, Ollie. Since it’s my seventy bucks.” He turned to Martínez. “The name mean anything to you?”

 
Devlin thought he saw a flicker in the major’s eyes.

  “No,” he said. “But I will check our files, and also with the immigration police.” He turned to Pitts. “Did you get the number of the car?”

  Pitts handed him a slip of paper.

  “I can tell from this license-plate number it is a rental car.” Martínez said. “I will check that, also.”

  “I want to do more than check it,” Devlin said. He took the slip of paper and copied the plate number in a notebook. “I’ll get on this guy tomorrow morning,” he said. “Ollie, I want you to follow Cabrera again. This time from his home. According to the major, he only lives a couple of blocks from the Red Angel’s house.”

  “I will give you the address,” Martínez said. His eyes lost their gentleness. “And I will accompany you to the Capri Hotel. I want very much to see this man with my own eyes.”

  When they left El Floridita, the crazy man was still on guard. As they moved past, he nodded to Martínez.

  “Buenas noches, jefe,” he said.

  Devlin stopped short and stared at the man, then at Martínez. “Your man?” His voice was both amused and incredulous.

  Martínez fought off a smile. “A good disguise, no?”

  15

  Cabrera telephoned my office this morning. He says his men have found your aunt’s body.”

  Adrianna sat at the kitchen table stunned into silence.

  Devlin placed a hand on top of hers, then asked Martínez, “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “No, I do not.”

  Adrianna stared at Martínez. She seemed torn between hope and doubt. “Why? Why can’t they have found her?”

  The major’s face softened, his entire demeanor seeming to offer consolation. Devlin thought he would have made a great funeral director.

  “It is possible, of course. But very unlikely. I am convinced that Plante Firme is right, that the body, or at least portions of it, were taken by the Abakua to Santiago to prepare for a changing-of-heads ritual. If this is true, the rest of the body would have been destroyed to keep anyone else from using it to …” He waved his hand in the air, searching for the proper word. “To interfere with this ritual.”

  “You mean there was never any hope of finding all of my aunt’s body?”

  Martínez’s eyes filled with a genuine sadness. “I am afraid not. Once we learned that Palo Monte was involved, I felt certain we would find only certain parts needed for the ritual.”

  “What would they have done with the rest?” Devlin asked.

  Martínez seemed to regret his next words. He glanced at Adrianna, as if to apologize. “I am afraid the rest of the body would have been burned, and its ashes scattered so they could not be of use to another palero who might work in opposition to the ritual.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this?” Adrianna demanded.

  Martínez stared down at his hands. “There seemed no purpose to burden you with this unpleasant fact, unless we found …” He let the rest of the sentence die.

  “What did Cabrera say about this body he supposedly recovered?” Devlin asked.

  Martínez glanced at Adrianna again. “It is missing a head, its hands, and its feet.”

  “Then it could be her. Even if what you say is true, it could be.” Adrianna stared at him, as if trying to force him to agree. “What if they messed up, and didn’t destroy the body yet? It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  Martínez nodded. “There is no way I can say for certain it is not. I do not believe it is so, but I cannot prove it at this time. The body Cabrera has found is said to be badly decomposed.” He glanced down at his hands again. “Here, in the tropics, this is something that happens quickly. Also the head and hands are missing, along with the feet, making any forensic identification impossible. There is, of course, DNA, which takes a considerable amount of time—several weeks, even. And those results, of course, only give probabilities, something Cabrera could easily have worded to suit his needs.”

  Adrianna stiffened. “Why are you so determined to prove it isn’t her?”

  “Because I believe it was Cabrera who arranged your aunt’s assassination, and also the theft of her body. And that he gave the body to the Abakua so their palero, Baba Briyumbe, could create a nganga for the ritual.”

  Devlin slipped his arm around Adrianna. “He’s right. It fits.”

  “Why?” Her voice was challenging and angry.

  “Because of what we found out in Santiago.” He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “This palero, Baba Briyumbe, told us he was brought a body that was badly burned like your aunt’s had been. He said it was prepared for a nganga, then turned over to a disciple named Siete Rayos, Seven Thunderbolts. That would mean the body was there in Santiago.”

  “Maybe they brought it back,” Adrianna insisted.

  “It is unlikely, but it is possible,” Martínez said. “But that would mean that Cabrera’s men found it during its journey back to Havana.” He paused, regret again filling his eyes. “But this is even more unlikely. State Security does not have a great number of its forces spread throughout the countryside. Certainly not enough to conduct roadblocks or any routine surveillance of the many routes through the mountains. Like your own FBI, for these things they use the police.”

  “So if such a seizure had been made, your people would have been involved, and would have filed a report,” Devlin offered.

  “Yes,” Martínez said. “And I have checked. No such report was filed.” He brought his hands together, as if preparing to pray. “There is also the question of the man in Cobre. He was visited by Señor Cipriani in the company of one of Cabrera’s men. I think we must assume that he was sent by Cabrera for some purpose. Baba Briyumbe told us the ritual was intended for this man in Cobre. But we know from Señor Caputo and his wife that it was not performed, and we know this man has returned to Havana, although we are uncertain exactly where he is.” He raised his clasped hands in front of his face and shook them. “So the changing-of-heads ritual will be performed here. And I believe Cabrera, and this new man we have discovered, this Señor DeForio, will lead us to both the man from Cobre and the nganga that holds the Red Angel’s remains.”

  “And what should we do about this … body Cabrera says he found?” Adrianna asked.

  “For now, I would like you to ignore it. Later it may serve our purpose to oblige the colonel.” He gave Adrianna a soft smile. “Colonel Cabrera does not know where you are, which is as we planned. It is why he called me with this news. He is concerned about this, and I assured him I would do all in my power to find you. If you agree, I will regretfully inform the colonel that I have failed.”

  Adrianna stared at the tabletop. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what I should do.”

  “Let us be patient,” Martínez said. “For now we must continue to follow Cabrera and this new man from the Capri Hotel. When the rabbit gets nervous, it runs. And I believe if Cabrera cannot find you, he will become a rabbit.” His eyes glittered with the idea. “I very much want to see this rabbit run. It will tell us some things that are important.”

  “And what is that?” Adrianna asked.

  Martínez smiled. “It will tell us what is behind your aunt’s assassination. But to reach that truth we must see what Cabrera will do next.”

  Plante Firme entered the courtyard of his home at ten A.M., his eyes still heavy with sleep. He had worked late into the previous night, sitting with a dying man, and performing the rituals that would return the man’s spirit to his guardian orisha, Oggun.

  He gestured to his grandson, indicating he should feed the pig, which was squealing loudly in its pen. Then he went to the outdoor kitchen and poured himself a cup of strong Cuban coffee.

  He noticed there was no fresh bread and shook his head. His grandson was supposed to go to the bakery early each morning to get the government’s daily ration of bread, something he seemed to forget with growing regularity. The boy was fourteen and forgetting seemed to be
a great part of his life.

  Plante Firme smiled as he glanced over at the boy tending the pig. It was as it should be at fourteen, he thought. Much on the mind as the body changed to manhood. He felt a deep love for his grandson, and knew that soon—in only a few years—the boy would begin the long learning process that would one day allow him to become a great palero himself. Plante Firme prayed each day to Oggun that his grandson would be worthy of his duties, and that he, himself, would live to help him achieve that goal.

  He put on a stern face and called to the boy. “There is no bread,” he growled in Spanish.

  The boy lowered his eyes. “I forgot,” he said.

  Plante Firme folded his arms across his chest. He was naked, except for the wrinkled cotton trousers he had slept in and the mpaca that hung by a leather thong from his neck. To the boy, he looked like a large, brown bear.

  As the boy passed, Plante Firme threw an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, then began walking him toward the gate. It pleased him that the boy had grown so tall. His head was already past his grandfather’s shoulder.

  “Next year, when you begin your studies, your memory must be stronger,” he said.

  The boy nodded, but said nothing. To become a palero he would first endure the initiation of hacerse el santo, a spiritual rebirth that would require him to become a child again. During that time he would be allowed to do nothing, and would even be carried from room to room, as if he were incapable of walking. He would be fed and bathed like an infant, thereby repeating the entire process of growth as if he had been born again. He would even wear a diaper. It would go on for an entire week, and he was certain he could never bear the humiliation.

  Plante Firme squeezed his shoulder as they reached the courtyard’s solid iron gate. “Get the good bread,” he said. “If they say the bread ration is all gone, tell them it is for me. If they know this, I am certain they will find some.”

  Plante Firme was smiling at the boy when he opened the gate. The shotgun blast threw them both back, and the palero’s final vision of his grandson’s face was of an exploding mass of torn flesh.