They rode the service elevator to the Capri’s ninth floor, where Martínez produced a key to a room directly above the one occupied by DeForio. When they entered, Devlin found two more of Martínez’s men surrounded by high-tech surveillance equipment. The men were monitoring two TV screens attached to VCR recorders. Next to each were video cameras fitted with coaxial tubes that ran down into the floor.
Devlin shook his head. “How long have you had this setup?”
Martínez gave him a boyish grin. “It was a gift of our long-departed Russian friends. Ingenious, no? The lenses of the cameras are actually in the ceiling of the room below, and the image runs up through the tube. I believe your FBI used something similar in their famous ABSCAM investigation.”
“Cut the crap, Martínez. I mean, how long have you had this here?” He was getting a little weary of the major’s bumbling-cop routine.
Martínez stroked his mustache, fighting off a smile. He had known exactly what Devlin had meant. “For several days, my friend. Unfortunately, until this morning, we have learned little.” The smile came out now, and he waved one hand in a circle. “Except for Señor DeForio’s sexual habits. My men tell me they are extensive.”
Martínez pointed to one of the VCR recorders, and one of his men removed his earphones and began to rewind it.
“We will watch what has transpired so far, then we will see what is going on now.” He held one palm out, then brought the other on top of it as if slamming a lid down. “The box, my friend. It is turning into a very nice one, I think.”
Cabrera extended his hand toward the third man. “You, of course, remember our deputy minister, Herman Francisco Sauri.” He spoke in English, a signal that DeForio should do the same, both men aware that the deputy minister prided himself on his fluency.
DeForio stepped forward and took Sauri’s hand. “It’s been too long, Minister. Six months at least, I think.”
Sauri extended his hands to his sides in an expression of regret. “I had hoped to get to New York earlier this year, but pressing matters here made that impossible.”
Sauri was tall and slender, in his mid-forties, with distinguished touches of gray in his jet-black hair. He was cleanshaven and would have been considered handsome except for an unusually large nose that hooked sharply at its end. He wore a lightweight business suit that had the look of foreign tailoring, and an equally expensive silk necktie, all part of the image he chose to project. As the ranking first deputy of the Ministry of the Interior, he was among the most powerful of Cuba’s younger cadre of rising politicians, and he was often touted as a reflection of the new Cuba, even as a possible future head of state.
DeForio gestured toward a side table that held an assortment of breakfast rolls, coffee, and freshly squeezed juices. “Please help yourself to any refreshments,” he said.
Sauri waved away the offer. “Perhaps coffee, later. I think it best we get down to business.”
They went to the suite’s dining table, where DeForio had already arranged a series of maps and financial projections. The maps included an overall depiction of Cuba, a second of Havana and its environs, another of the resort community of Veradaro, and a final detailed rendering of a large island off Cuba’s southern coast, the Isle of Youth.
DeForio pointed at the final map. “This of course will be our initial thrust, the Isla de la Juventud, the Isle of Youth. At present we’re planning resorts in Los Colonos and Playa Bibilagua in the north, and another at Playa Roja on the southwestern coast. There are already hotels in these locations that we can buy and then expand to suit our needs. We would like, of course, to offer gambling at these locations as soon as we begin operating.” DeForio pointed to the maps of Havana and Veradaro. “We also want the right to purchase or build hotels in both Havana and Veradaro over the next five years. These, of course, would remain free of gambling, subject to renegotiations later, when the present leaders of the revolution are no longer in power. With all those points in mind, my principals have agreed to your demand that five hundred million U.S. dollars, which is one quarter of our anticipated investment, be turned over to the government at this time, to be used in site development by government engineers, and to pay workers for the first phase of construction. It’s understood that ten percent of that amount, or fifty million, will be used to cover costs incurred by the government.” He looked up and smiled. It was a nice way to describe an official government bribe. DeForio brought his hands together. “Now, we’re prepared to transfer this good-faith money—all five hundred million—as soon as the final agreement is signed.” He pushed the financial projections across the table. “As you will see, this is one quarter of the two billion we expect to invest in Cuba, the percentage you requested to show our resolve in this matter.”
“And the percentage of profits?” Sauri asked.
“As we agreed earlier,” DeForio said. “Fifteen percent of all gambling revenues off the top, paid as a tax to the government, providing we also have use of several small keys off the island’s coast, particularly Cayo Largo to the west.”
Sauri drummed his fingers on the table. “And these cayos will be used to transport narcotics to the United States?”
DeForio looked down at the table. “That is not part of our formal plan, as you know. Let’s just say the cayos will be used to defer some of the costs of the project.”
Sauri smiled at the choice of words. The smile didn’t carry to his eyes. “This of course is a great personal danger to us.” He nodded toward Cabrera. “In the past, the government has taken a hard line with those involved in drug traffic. You recall the trial of certain military leaders in 1989, and their subsequent execution. One of those men, Alexis Lago Arocha, lived only a few houses from my own. His children were friends of my children, so it is a very vivid memory in my mind.”
DeForio’s face became solemn. “It is a danger, but one I am sure we can overcome. Nothing in the agreement reflects any questionable activities on the various keys, only the storage of construction materials.”
Sauri held up a hand. “Cayo Largo is of particular concern. It is more than one hundred kilometers to the east of Isla de la Juventud, an unlikely choice for such an activity. It is something that might be questioned.”
“It also has an existing airport, capable of handling reasonably large aircraft,” DeForio said. “We would argue that building such a facility on another key would add considerable expense to our overall plan—an expense that would be reflected in our ability to purchase other facilities in Havana and Veradaro. I think any reasonable government official will accept this. Especially if there is a strong suggestion from the Ministry of the Interior.” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “After all, it’s not a lie, my friend. Even we have financial limitations.”
DeForio walked around the table so he was standing next to Sauri and Cabrera. “As you know, any other activities we engage in on these keys will not be part of our formal agreement with the government. Or any informal agreement. They will strictly involve you and Colonel Cabrera, and anyone else you choose to involve out of necessity. We will, however, compensate you both—as agreed. When the documents are signed, we are prepared to make initial payments of five million dollars to the accounts you specify. That’s five million for each of you, with the understanding that you will handle payments to others as you see fit.” He raised his hands again. “Nothing on paper, no questions asked. As far as we are concerned, it’s nothing more than a finder’s fee.”
“And future payments?” Cabrera asked.
“As agreed. A two percent royalty on all product shipped from Cuban soil.”
“And we will have men present to assure the accuracy of the count?” Cabrera asked.
“Definitely. Nothing leaves any of the keys without first passing your people. Sort of an unofficial State Security inspection.” He smiled at the two men. “I estimate your compensation at around ten million a year. For each of you.”
“Payable in installments at t
he time of each shipment,” Sauri added.
“To whatever foreign account you specify.” DeForio hesitated a beat. “This, of course, is contingent on your assurance that no attempt will be made to alter the present government for at least five years.”
Sauri laughed softly. “And this to assure the U.S. economic sanctions remain in place.”
DeForio nodded. “It’s the only way we can limit big-money competition for the properties we want. We don’t want to find ourselves bidding against well-financed hotel chains. We already lived through that in Vegas and Atlantic City.”
Sauri rubbed his hands together. He glanced at Cabrera. “Fidel would be amused, no? If he knew. Imagine, the Mafia keeping the revolution in power so they could eliminate capitalist competition. Of course he does not know it is the Mafia. He believes he is dealing with an unscrupulous foreign corporation operating out of the Bahamas—one that is simply trying to subvert the American embargo.” He laughed more heartily this time.
“But he has signed on to our initial plan. Resort gambling on the Isle of Youth.” DeForio intentionally formulated his words as a statement, not a question.
“Yes, yes,” Sauri said. “It was difficult to convince him, but finally he agreed. The country is in economic crisis, and the revenues this will generate could equal our present losses in sugar, which we once hoped would carry our economy through difficult times. The fact that this gambling would be limited to the Isla de la Juventud made it palatable. It spares the people of the mainland, and will not appear to be a return to the days of Batista.”
“Five years from now it may be different,” DeForio said. “At least that’s our hope.”
Sauri laughed again. “And your power then will be such that your hopes will undoubtedly become reality. But it will not matter then. In five years Fidel’s life will be closing in on eighty years. If he has not already retired, steps can then be taken.”
“That, of course, we will leave to you,” DeForio said. “By then, our investment plan will be completed, and the sanctions will no longer be a concern. In fact, it would benefit us if they were lifted.”
“Something I am sure you will arrange,” Cabrera said.
DeForio smiled. “You never know.” He raised a finger. “But we’ll always be grateful to the Comandante.” He brought the finger to his nose and tapped lightly. “Hey, who can tell? Maybe we’ll be so grateful, we’ll contribute to Fidel’s pension.” He paused for effect. “Or a little something for the monument on his grave.”
Martínez removed his earphones and dropped them in his lap. Devlin did the same. He was seated across from the major, and he took time to study his face. The man did not look pleased. Not like a cop who had just busted a major case. You son of a bitch, Devlin thought, certain now that this was what Martínez had been after all along, the game he had been using them to play.
“I’d expect you to look happier,” he said.
Martínez raised his eyes and expelled a long breath. “Hearing that your government has agreed to play the whore to criminals is not pleasant news, my friend.”
Devlin stared him down. “What about using innocent tourists and a bereaved young woman? How does that play for you, Major?”
Martínez placed his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself up. “It is time to go now, my friend. We have an endgame to conduct before our chess match is finished.”
“And what exactly do you have in mind?”
Martínez started toward the door, followed by Devlin and Pitts. “Before he reaches the comfort of his car, our deputy minister. Señor Sauri, will be taken into custody by my men. He will be placed under house arrest in his own home until I have presented our evidence to his superiors. Other of my men will arrest Colonel Cabrera. He, too, will be taken to his home, where I will interrogate him. It is an action which I invite you to attend. Perhaps we will learn more about the Red Angel’s disappearance.”
“What about that scumbag DeForio?” Pitts asked.
“He will be placed in one of our detention cells, the same place were Señor Cipriani is now housed.” He gave them his Cuban shrug. “Unfortunately, in time, we must avail him of the right to contact the American Interests Section at the Swiss embassy. But I doubt he will be treated sympathetically.”
“And then?” Devlin asked.
“Then we will attend to Señor Rossi.”
Devlin took the major’s arm, stopping him. “It’s nice to see you know his name.”
Martínez gave Devlin a wistful look. “Sí, señor. I know his name. I have always known his name. But let us delay your questions until this endgame is finished.”
20
Juan Domingo Argudin, the Abakua who had accepted Rossi’s contract, smiled as he watched Devlin leave the Capri Hotel. The old man had been right. The man he wanted killed had been found just as he had said—by following this Cuban major who had been helping him from the start.
It had not been easy. This major was no fool, but the old man’s plan had been a good one. He and his fellow Abakua had used three cars, and they had abandoned their customary white clothing. Then fate had intervened as well. Something had happened, and the major and his men had suddenly begun rushing about, all precautions abandoned. Now, he was certain, they would take this American to a place where the kill could be accomplished in a way that would permit his own escape.
Argudin signaled to his men in the second car. One of them had just been released by the police. He had driven the truck in their first attempt to kill the Americans, and Argudin had promised him he could kill the big American who had beaten him outside Plante Firme’s home. He knew the man would do everything in his power not to lose them.
Following in his own car, Argudin thought about the money he would be paid. It was more than he had ever dreamed of having at one time. Enough to take him to Miami, where friends who had been part of Castro’s Mariel Boatlift were now growing rich in the Cuban-American underworld. He momentarily wondered if his men, who would actually do the killing, would escape as well. He decided it did not matter. He had no intention of sharing the money with them. Once it was done, he alone would get the ten thousand U.S. dollars. And he would be one step closer to a new and prosperous life in Miami.
They returned to the Red Angel’s house, where Martínez busied himself on the telephone.
Devlin took Adrianna aside and explained what had happened. As she listened he watched her face darken and her hands close into tight fists.
“I’m snuggling to give him the benefit of the doubt,” she said. “I’m struggling, but it is so hard.”
Devlin stroked her arm. “Martínez says he’ll explain everything—even answer our questions for a change—just as soon as this thing is wrapped up.” He inclined his head toward the room where Martínez was using the telephone. “That includes interrogating Cabrera about your aunt, and nailing Rossi at this change-of-heads ceremony. I think he’s setting those things up now. He’s still positive we’ll end up with your aunt’s body after we do those things.”
Adrianna looked away. “Or what’s left of it,” she said.
“I don’t think we can hang that one on Martínez.”
Adrianna’s head snapped up. “Are you sure? After all this, don’t you think it’s possible he let them take the body so they’d lead him to the rest of it?”
Devlin stroked her arm again, trying to soothe away the anger. “No, I don’t,” he said. “Oh, he played us into it very neatly. There’s no question about that. And he shouldn’t have done it, because it put us at risk. But I saw the setup at the hotel. He had the business part of this thing cold, with us or without us. I think he needed us to help prove that Cabrera had your aunt killed, either because she had found out what he was up to, or because the colonel had cut a little side deal with John the Boss.”
Adrianna stared at him. “You think Rossi might have set this up? Just to get you here?”
“To get us here,” Devlin said. He placed his hands on both of
her arms. “Look, I can’t prove it. Maybe I’ll never be able to prove it. If John the Boss set this up, it’s something he’d play very close. Even his Mafia partners wouldn’t know the real reasons behind what he was doing. He wouldn’t tell anybody he didn’t have to. It’s the way he operates. But if it’s true, it was very clever, exactly the way Rossi’s twisted mind works.”
He tried to soften his next words. “It’s no secret that old bastard wants me dead. You were there the first time he tried. But he knows he can’t try again. At least not in New York. If he did, the NYPD would bring the world down on his head.” He looked away, wondering how she’d take what he was about to tell her. “I saw Rossi before we left. I didn’t tell you about it because it was just a routine thing. Then, later, we got all wrapped up with what happened to your aunt.” He gave her a cold, mirthless smile. “It happened the day before we left, and the old bastard was cocky as hell. He told me he knew everything about me.” He shook his head in grudging admiration. “You know what? I believe it. I think he’s made it his business to find out everything he could—everything about me that makes me vulnerable. And that means finding out about the people I love.”
“So you think he found out about my aunt, and how close we were.”
“It wouldn’t be hard. You’re a well-known artist, babe, and your Cuban ancestry has been written about pretty extensively. Your aunt was also a well-known figure in Cuba.”
“And it would make sense that I’d come here if anything happened to her.”
“Yes, it would,” Devlin said. “Especially if you were told she was hurt and dying. And that old bastard was right. He knows me. He knows I wouldn’t let you waltz into Cuba alone, or slip in illegally through Canada or Mexico. Not with all the hoopla the U.S. government spreads about it being unsafe to travel here.”
Red Angel Page 22
