Red Angel

by William Heffernan

  “This little festival,” Martínez said, “it has been proclaimed only by the Abakua. The government does not recognize it.” He waved his finger in a small circle. “But you see how many people are here. They are supposed to be at work. But the Abakua have declared a holiday, so for them it is a holiday.”

  Pitts and Martínez’s men were ahead of them, staying close to Cabrera and DeForio, who had abandoned their car because of the crowd. Martínez and Devlin had remained as far back as possible.

  “Keep your wallet and your pistol under guard,” Martínez said. “Our friends dressed in white are Cuba’s only danger to tourists.”

  Along the edge of the crowd, standing like sentries, Devlin could see a ring of white-clad Abakua guarding the ceremony. As they drew closer to the center of the circle, he could see the other dancers, men and women, each dressed in an elaborate costume, the women’s bodies writhing to the beat of the drums, the men swaying beneath long poles, the tops of which were decorated in brightly colored cloth woven into intricate patterns to represent the orishas who were being honored that day.

  The crowd seemed alive, like a single organism, and Devlin realized it would not take much to turn these people against a perceived enemy. Martínez had been right when he had used the term “stronghold.” And the people who controlled it, the Abakua, belonged to Cabrera.

  He leaned into Martínez. “How are you going to stop this changing-of-heads ritual if it happens here?” he asked.

  “I am not going to stop it, my friend,” Martínez said. “The ritual will take place. But after it does, the nganga will be taken away to safety. Then, I will seize it.”

  “And the Americans, and Cabrera?”

  “They, too, will not go far. But first we must locate this man from Cobre and the nganga that has been made for him. Then we will close the lid of our little box.”

  When they cleared the crowd, one of Martínez’s men was waiting for them at the corner of a narrow side street. He reported in rapid Spanish.

  “They have gone into a house on this street,” Martínez said. “There is a rental car parked in the driveway. The license plates tell us it comes from a rental agency that operates out of the domestic terminal at Havana airport—the same terminal where the plane used by the man in Cobre landed. I suspect we have found his hiding place.”

  “We need to be sure.”

  Martínez nodded. “Yes, my friend, you are right. As soon as Cabrera and Señor DeForio leave, we will execute a little plan that I have.”

  “What do you mean, tomorrow night?” Rossi glared at Cabrera. “It was supposed to be tonight. You think I wanna stay in this nigger-infested shithole another day?”

  Cabrera held out his hands in an expression of regret. “The palero will not come tonight,” he said. “Siete Rayos has cast the coconuts, and has been told by the dead one that he must wait.”

  Rossi considered this, then let out a long breath. “All right, all right. Tomorrow night.”

  DeForio couldn’t believe what he was seeing. John the Boss Rossi, one of the most powerful figures in organized crime, giving in to the mumbo jumbo of a goddamn witch doctor. He stared at Rossi. The man was old and sick, but still someone to be feared. And he believed in this shit. He actually believed in it. DeForio ground his teeth. This had to stop. He had to talk to his people back home. A two-billion-dollar investment, and it was all hanging on some goddamn nigger rolling coconut shells on the fucking floor. And all of it right under the noses of the government. If the woman’s body was found … If the two things were ever connected … He closed his eyes and pressed a thumb and index finger against them. He had to do something to lower the risk. At the very least get this thing moved out into the countryside. He turned a false smile on Rossi.

  “Don Giovanni, with all respect, I have to move ahead with the business we’re here to conduct.”

  Rossi turned his glare on DeForio. “The two things got nothin’ to do with each other. You do what you think is best.”

  DeForio tried to phrase the next words in his mind before saying them aloud.

  “This woman’s body. It’s causing some complications.” He gave Rossi a helpless shrug. “Before, when this thing was being done so far away, it didn’t present much of a problem.” He spread his arms to take in the room. “But here, so close to Havana, it’s right under everybody’s nose. I just think it’s dangerous.” He placed one hand against his chest. “To all of us. To what we’re trying to do.”

  Rossi jerked his chin toward Cabrera. “The colonel’s got that under control.” He stared at Cabrera. “Am I right?”

  Cabrera nodded. “Sí, señor. It is all under control.”

  “With all respect again,” DeForio began. “But it doesn’t seem that way to me. We got a lot of exposure here that we don’t need.”

  Mattie the Knife Ippolito stepped out from behind Rossi’s chair. “Hey, you heard what he said. It’s under control. You just watch your fucking mouth.”

  “I’m just trying—”

  Rossi cut him off. “You don’t try nothin’. You’re a fucking errand boy here. You do what you’re here to do. and you keep your mouth shut. The heads of the other families agreed to this little thing I’m doing here. You don’t like it, you take it up with them. But I warn you. You go up against me, they’ll bury you with your fancy college diplomas sticking out of your ass. You got that?”

  DeForio felt a chill. He shook his head. “I’m not going up against—”

  Again, Rossi cut him off. “You bet your fucking life you won’t.” He gave DeForio a cold smile. “Because that’s just what you’re betting if you try.”

  Adrianna sat at the small, cluttered desk, her aunt’s papers and correspondence spread out before her. It was clear that someone had gone through these same papers. The woman’s meticulousness was amazing, yet many of the papers had been stuffed back into folders or the drawers of her desk with little care. Something clumsy and rushed, as if the papers had been found useless and were being cast aside.

  The apparent search did not surprise her. Certainly, the disappearance of her aunt’s body would have prompted police to investigate any possible threats from, or contacts with, groups or individuals who might be responsible. But it also bolstered Martínez’s belief that her aunt had been murdered after she stumbled on information that endangered someone in the government. In either case, a search might then have been conducted either by Martínez himself or by someone looking for that information.

  Adrianna sat back in the hard wooden chair her aunt had chosen for her desk. It was useless to speculate, and she doubted Martínez would tell her if it was he who had ordered the search. She glanced about the room. It was austere and simple, lacking even a single luxury. She recalled Martínez’s claim that Fidel Castro lived and thought like a monk, and she wondered if many of those who had brought about Cuba’s revolution had chosen that personal lifestyle.

  Martínez had told her another story, this one about Che Guevara. Shortly after the new government had taken power, Guevara learned that he and other top officials were receiving compensation that was disproportionately high, and had ordered an immediate readjustment. Later, Martínez claimed, Guevara found he was unable to pay the family’s electric bill. Fearing the power would be turned off, he had his wife telephone the appropriate official to ask for additional time. Martínez had insisted such an action never would have been taken against Che, but that he and Señora Guevara had obviously believed they were subject to that penalty.

  She smiled at the story, perhaps true, perhaps only part of the Guevara legend. Still, she recognized that the country had changed from those idealistic days. Now there were private clubs for high government officials. There were comfortable homes and lifestyles that far exceeded those of the average Cuban. And there were men like Cabrera, who, if Martínez was right, were corrupting everything her aunt and the other founders of the revolution had struggled to achieve.

  She wondered if she was really offe
nded by that corruption, and found that she was. It was strange, since she did not believe in the core principles of the revolution itself. Still, it was there. A recognition that some effort for good, however naive or misguided, had been tainted by the same self-serving class who always seem to emerge at the end of every struggle—the people who always view an opportunity to give as a chance to take even more for themselves.

  Adrianna stared at the papers spread across the desk. Her search had lasted three hours and had produced little more than a picture of her aunt’s persistent idealism. She pushed herself back and began to rise when her knee struck the corner of the desk’s middle drawer. Wincing in pain, she reached down to rub it, and found her hand brushing against something that had not been there before.

  Adrianna pushed the chair back and peered into the desk’s kneehole. The bottom of the middle drawer had fallen away, revealing a false bottom that held a single sheet of paper. She pulled the paper free and began to read. It was a simple message, and she translated it as she read.

  “In the event of my death or disappearance, I direct investigators to my cottage in Guanabo. There, under the floor, you will find a safe. It may be opened with the following combination: 17 L; 32 R; 6 L; 27 R; 9 L. Documents within support my belief that corruption exists in our government that threatens the very fabric of the revolution.”

  It was signed simply María Mendez, M.D.

  Adrianna copied the message in English, then returned the original to the hidden compartment. She stared at the copy. “My cottage in Guanabo.”

  Earlier she had come across a map of Cuba. She went quickly through the desk drawers and found it again. Guanabo appeared to be a small seaside village no more than fifteen or twenty kilometers from Havana.

  But where? There was no address. Nothing to indicate where the cottage was located. Certainly, if investigators, or others who had searched her house, had known about the cottage, they would already have searched there as well. But what if they hadn’t? Then the evidence her aunt had written about would still be there. She could think of only one person who might know about the cottage. Her aunt Amelia.

  The taxi dropped Adrianna in front of her aunt’s house fifteen minutes later. She crossed the crumbling sidewalk, then hesitated as her hand reached for the front gate. She wondered how her aunt would react to yet another unannounced visit. She had assured Devlin that her aunt Amelia had been overwhelmed by their earlier invasion of her home, perhaps even frightened by the presence of so many strange men. But even then she had doubted that was true. Amelia Méndez de Pedroso did not strike her as a frightened old woman. Her main concern had been that someone—specifically Adrianna—might want to take something from the home she had wrested from her “communist sister.” Now Adrianna was coming back to ask about a cottage that might have been another bone of contention between the two women.

  Adrianna took a deep breath and pushed the gate open, just as a hand reached out and took her arm. She twisted around and found herself facing two men. The one holding her arm had a thin mustache and a self-satisfied smile on his face. The other, standing directly behind the first, was taller and heavier and stared at her with open hostility. Both were in their early thirties and both wore civilian clothes, but there was no question in Adrianna’s mind that she was facing two of Cabrera’s men.

  Adrianna pulled her arm free and glared at the man who had grabbed her.

  “How dare you place your hands on me?” she snapped in Spanish.

  At first the man seemed surprised, then his satisfied smile returned.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Señorita Méndez,” he said in Spanish.

  Adrianna noted there was no regret in his voice.

  “Colonel Cabrera wishes to speak with you. State Security has located the remains of your aunt, and it is necessary that you make a formal identification.”

  The second man had moved closer so he, too, could grab her if she attempted to run. Adrianna struggled to appear unconcerned.

  “I see,” she said. “That is very good news. Please tell Colonel Cabrera that I will come to the Villa Marista later this afternoon. Right now I must see my other aunt, who has been taken ill.”

  The first man smirked at her. “I think your aunt has recovered from her illness. She left her home more than an hour ago.” A car pulled to the curb behind him, and he gestured toward it. “I think we will go now.” he said.

  Adrianna shook her head. “No. I will wait for my aunt.”

  The second man stepped forward and took her wrist. His hand felt like a vise, and as she tried to pull away, he quickly slapped her elbow forward and twisted her arm up behind her back. Adrianna closed her eyes against the pain.

  “Do not make us hurt you, señorita,” the first man said. He reached out and stroked her cheek. “Beautiful women should be given pleasure, not pain.”

  Adrianna pulled her head away and glared at him. Her anger produced another smile.

  “Now I think we will go,” he said. “The colonel has been searching for you for more than a day. And he is a man who does not like to be kept waiting.”

  17

  Devlin stood in the apartment window, staring out at the house in Guanabacoa. Cabrera and DeForio had left fifteen minutes earlier, followed by Pitts and two of Martínez’s men.

  The owner of the apartment stood behind Devlin muttering in Spanish. Two more of Martínez’s men stood next to the man, whose home had been invaded and temporarily seized with a flash of Martínez’s credentials. Now Devlin watched as Martínez approached the front door of the house across the street.

  He knocked and waited until the door was opened by Mattie the Knife Ippolito. He could see the major bobbing his head submissively as he gestured toward the car parked in the driveway. Ippolito simply glared at him, then shut the door in his face.

  “A very unpleasant gentleman,” Martínez said when he returned to the apartment. “I simply informed him that I was a mechanic who would be happy to serve him if he had difficulty with his car.” The major smiled. “He was very rude. From his accent I would say he is an American, perhaps even from your own city.”

  “You’ve been to New York?” Devlin asked.

  “Oh yes,” Martínez said. “I have traveled extensively in your country.”

  Devlin stared at him. “Who the fuck are you, Martínez?”

  The major made a helpless gesture. “I am a humble police officer. Like yourself, my friend.”

  Devlin stared at his shoes. “Okay, Major. From one humble police officer to another, what now?”

  “Now we go back to Havana and resume our surveillance. My men will remain here to watch the house. There are also several more watching the rear. They will notify me when we should return.”

  “What about the ritual and the nganga?”

  “It will arrive at night, my friend. Perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow night. The Abakua palero will not want to draw attention to it. As I told you before, a nganga is not something that goes unnoticed in Cuba.” He placed his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “When the nganga arrives, or when our gentleman from Cobre leaves to go to it, we shall be there. Be assured, my friend. We are coming to the end of this mystery.”

  Adrianna sat in a chair in the middle of an empty room. The two men who had taken her from her aunt’s house leaned against the wall watching her. The house they had brought her to was near the Marina Hemingway, and through an open window she could smell the sea and hear the sound of fishing boats returning to port.

  Cabrera did not arrive until seven o’clock. He placed himself in front of her, arms folded across his chest.

  “Where are you and your friends staying now, señorita?” he asked.

  “You know where we’re staying,” Adrianna said.

  “Oh yes. The Hotel Inglaterra. I know that much of your clothing is still there. But the hotel informs me that the rooms do not appear to be occupied. Why is that?”

  “The hotel is wrong.”

  �
�Ah, I see. And the absence of any shaving implements, or cosmetics, or a simple toothbrush, is undoubtedly another mistake our hotel employees have made, no?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Cabrera stroked his well-trimmed beard and sighed. “It would be so much easier—for you—if you chose to answer my questions honestly. You are unaware, perhaps, that it is against our laws to give false answers to an officer of State Security.”

  Adrianna stared at him. “Then I think you should arrest me, and contact the American Interests Section at the Swiss embassy.”

  Cabrera threw back his head and laughed. “Perhaps in ten days, señorita.” His face hardened. “If you survive ten days.” He took a step toward her. “I want to know where I can find Señor Devlin and this Señor Pitts I am yet to meet. Then we can bring this matter to a conclusion. As I’m sure you know, it is also unlawful for foreigners to stay in our country without notifying the government of their living arrangements.”

  “I don’t know where they are.”

  Cabrera raised one hand and the two men left their positions against the wall. Adrianna could feel her legs trembling, and she fought to control them.

  “If you refuse to cooperate with me, I will be forced to turn our interrogation over to my men.” He shook his head. “It is something I would regret very much. So, once more, señorita. Where are Señor Devlin and Señor Pitts?”

  The door flew open behind Cabrera, and Ollie Pitts filled the frame. He was in a shooter’s stance, and the barrel of his pistol was leveled at Cabrera’s head.

  “Your men go for their guns, and you’re a dead man, Colonel.”

  Cabrera barked an order in Spanish and the two men froze.

  “Who are you?” Cabrera snapped.

  “I’m fucking Santa Claus,” Pitts said through a grin. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

  Adrianna hurried across the room and placed herself behind Pitts. “How did you find me?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you later. Tell those two wahoos to take their pistols out with two fingers, and to lay them gently on the floor. Then they should kick them over here.”