Burgess relaxed momentarily. “They have been helpful. And I’m sure they will be again if we need them.”
DeForio let out a raucous laugh. “Helpful. Hell, their little Helms-Burton bill was a stroke of genius. Castro was in a box with no place to go. The Soviet Union had collapsed and the Cuban economy—what was left of it—was in the toilet. The people wanted changes and they were fed up with the Comandante’s bullshit about remaining true to the revolution. They wanted trade with the U.S., and the money it would put in their pockets. They wanted freedom to travel, just like all the tourists who were flooding in from Europe and Canada and Mexico. They wanted the whole damn ball of wax, and they had Castro’s back to the wall. It was either give in, quit, or face a rebellion. Then the Helms-Burton bill passes, and all the Cubans who want change are faced with a very sticky problem. Suddenly all the very real goodies they’ve gotten over the past forty years are being threatened. All the agricultural land, all the houses they’ve been given, all of it will be up for grabs if Fidel goes under. And, just that fast, remaining true to the revolution doesn’t look so bad after all.” DeForio threw back his head and laughed again. “It was the smartest political maneuver in this cen tury, and it did the one thing we all wanted. It kept Fidel in power.” He paused, gave Burgess a wide grin, then added: “For now.”
Burgess offered his own weak version of a raucous laugh, joining in this small taste of revelry. Above all else he wanted to keep this man happy. Very happy. “And Helms-Burton isn’t going anyplace. Not for a long time.” He leaned forward, adding weight to his words. “The administration knows better than to step on Jesse Helms’s toes. When it comes to communists and U.S. foreign policy, that old cracker is a law unto himself. And it goes even beyond communists.” Burgess smiled, genuinely this time. “Hell, who else but Helms could suggest a naval blockade of Iraq—a country that’s ninety-nine percent landlocked—and not get himself laughed out of Washington?”
“Who, indeed,” DeForio said. He leaned forward, his dark eyes hard on Burgess. “So I can assure my people they won’t get sandbagged? That three or four months from now they won’t see the embargo flying off into space?”
Burgess twisted again. “You can tell them it’s a very safe bet.”
Mickey D crossed one leg over the other, adjusted the crease in his trousers, and kept his eyes hard. “Safe bets are nice,” he said. “But right now we’re in the final stages of a major development plan. We are buying up foreign companies that are licensed to do business with Cuba, and we’re finalizing negotiations that will give us control of Cuba’s major offshore island. These things will solidify our business position well into the next century.” He paused so his next words would have full effect. “We are talking about a two-billion-dollar investment over the next ten years. An investment of”—he tapped his chest—”our money. And a collapse of the embargo would hurt us.” He stopped and gave Burgess a blatantly false smile. “So we’re not looking for a safe bet, Senator. We’re looking for a sure thing. And we’re expecting you to pull out all the stops.”
Burgess swallowed a snappish answer, just as he had swallowed so much in the past fifteen years. “All stops are out,” he said. “You can give your people my assurance.”
When DeForio had left, Burgess stood at his study window, staring out at the beauty of Washington at night. God. he loved that view, loved this city, the sense of power he felt being an integral part of it. And, above all else, he wanted nothing, nothing to take it from him.
He snorted at the idea. He was baiting himself with the obvious, the first and only true rule of politics: the maintenance of power. He turned away from the window and returned to his desk, trying not to think about all he had done to maintain that power over the past fifteen years. And all because of that little gambling fiasco, all those many years ago. He drew a deep breath. And, since then, everything you’ve done that has added to it.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. God, how he hated these people. How he hated everything they stood for, everything they were. And most of all he hated that he was part of it, part of them, and always would be.
He placed his hands over his face and tried to console himself. At least it wasn’t treasonous. He didn’t care about the Cubans. He believed in his heart they deserved whatever they got. What stuck in his craw was the way he had allowed these Mafia bastards to entrap him. Him. All wrapped up in this insufferable web.
“Bastards,” he hissed aloud. “Goddamn bastards.”
7
You still don’t trust him, do you?”
Adrianna was seated across from him at the small terrace table, their light continental breakfast only picked at. Behind her, Devlin watched the people hurrying along the Prado, the steady line of “camel” buses jammed with morning travelers on their way to work. Cuba was beautiful and sensual, just the way the tropics were supposed to be, he thought. And it was constant chaos, the very antithesis of everything he had been taught to expect. It was the sultry Caribbean with a touch of madness.
“No, I don’t trust him,” he said. “I feel like we’re being manipulated into something, and I haven’t got the slightest idea what it is.”
Adrianna stared down into her coffee. “I don’t care about any of that, Paul. I just want to find my aunt. Just find her body and see that she’s buried.”
“I know that. I want that, too.”
She looked up at him, as if questioning the truthfulness of his words, then looked back into her coffee as if the answer might be there.
Devlin reached out and took her hand. “I love you. And I’ll do anything to keep you from being hurt. I just have to know what’s going on. And right now I don’t.”
“Maybe you never will. Maybe all this insane voodoo can’t be understood. At least not by us.”
“Maybe.”
Devlin watched an old man moving past the hotel. The man had been there ever since they arrived on the terrace. He just walked back and forth along the sidewalk, an ancient thermos bottle cradled in his arm, as he called out the word “café” to prospective buyers—the same, solitary word, over and over in a monotonous, pleading voice. Behind him an old woman followed his trail, two worn, already read copies of Granma held out in each hand, calling out the newspaper’s name; hoping someone would buy them and read them again. “Café.” “Granma.” Morning songs that might put food on their tables.
Martínez had told him that the highest pension a Cuban could get at retirement—no matter what his rank or position—was two hundred and fifty pesos a month. At the current rate of exchange, that translated into fourteen U.S. dollars.
He looked back at Adrianna. “There are a lot of things about this workers’ paradise that I don’t understand. And Martínez and your aunt, and everything they believed in, are at the head of my list.” He glanced back at the street, at the old man and the old woman. “Until we understand those things, I don’t think we’ll get close to solving this mess.”
A figure caught the corner of his eye and he looked up and found Martínez smiling down at him.
“Perhaps I can help,” the major said.
“With what?” Devlin asked.
“The great mystery of Cuba that you were just discussing.” He gave Adrianna a small bow, then turned back to Devlin. “People of your country have been trying to solve this mystery for years. But they have failed, because they have never asked the right question.”
“What’s the right question?”
Martínez gave him his Cuban shrug and sat down. He was still smiling. “The question is: Why do we love it so?”
“Okay. Why?”
Martínez glanced at Adrianna, then back at Devlin. “The people,” he said. “All Cubans love each other. And this island is the heart of all of us. All the people. So we love it as if it was one of us. Because it is.”
Devlin shook his head. The man was unbelievably exasperating. He even talked with a shrug. “And Castro?” he asked. “Does everybody love Fi
del?”
Martínez nodded emphatically, smiling now at the edge in Devlin’s voice. “Yes. Everyone loves Fidel. He is a great hero, who loves the people even more than we love each other. And if he had died ten years ago, Cuba would be a better place today.”
Devlin was startled by the statement. “I see a prison cell with your name on it, Major.”
Martínez laughed. “No, that will not happen. At least not for speaking ill of Fidel. He knows people are angry with him. He simply believes we are children, and he knows what is best for us. If I go to prison, it will be for other things.”
“Like helping us?” Adrianna asked.
He looked at her and shrugged again. “Sí. Maybe that could be a problem. And, again, maybe it will be a problem for Colonel Cabrera.” He turned back to Devlin. “There is an old joke about Cuba. It tells of God creating the world. In the north, He created beautiful mountains and valleys, wonderful lakes of clear, clean water. Then he told Saint Peter that he must put in something bad so it would not be perfect. So he added cold and snow and ice. Very bad, muy malo, no? Then he created the southern lands, with lush tropical forests, and wonderful food just growing from the trees. And Saint Peter said, ‘God, this is perfect.’ So God added dangerous animals and poisonous snakes. Again, very bad.”
The smile on Martínez’s face widened. “Then God created a magnificent island. A paradise with beautiful beaches and warm weather. Fruits that you could pick from the trees. No dangerous animals. No poisonous snakes. Perfect. And Saint Peter said, ‘But, God, you have forgotten something bad. This island is too perfect.’ And God said, ‘No. It will not be perfect. On this island I will put Cubans.’”
Adrianna smiled for the first time that morning. “So you’re telling us that Cubans are difficult.”
Martínez nodded in mock gravity. “Very difficult. But also very loving, and very tolerant of each other. You see, we only want two things. We want to remain Cuban, and we want to live decently. Fidel gave us both.” He paused. “For a time.” His smile turned regretful. “After the revolution, for the first time in our history, we lived without two things that had always been part of Cuban history. Foreign domination and an oligarchy that kept the masses poor and sick and ignorant.”
He waved away an objection he knew Devlin would make. “Oh, I know. You will say our socialist experiment was dominated by the Soviets. But to us, it was a matter of manipulating the Soviets into giving us what we needed.” He laughed. “And, remember, my friend, at the time no one else, and certainly not the United States, wanted to give us anything at all. So we had little choice. We knew what the Soviets wanted, and we knew we would never give it to them. Instead we played the Soviet game, and they gave us everything we wanted. And today, we have the highest literacy rate in all of Latin America. Today, eighty percent of our people own their homes. Today, there is free medical care for everyone who needs it. And, in the end, I think you will agree that the Soviets”—he paused to give Devlin another Cuban shrug—“well, the Soviets, they got nada, nothing at all.”
Devlin raised his chin toward the street. “This is not paradise, my friend.”
Martínez shook his head. “No, it is not. The world has changed, and Fidel has been unable to change with it. He is like an old horse who keeps returning to the same pasture because once there was grass there. But there is no more grass in this old pasture of ours. And the people know this, and realize that we must be part of this new and different world. But we must also keep what Fidel has given us, what Cuba has fought so hard to get. We must remain a Cuba for Cubans. And we must never again allow an oligarchy to oppress the one thing that makes Cuba worthy of existence—its people.”
“Tell me what’s wrong with your country,” Devlin said.
“Ah, many things,” Martínez answered. “First is repression, of course. We are not free to come and go as we would wish. Next is this dual economy that has been dropped on us like a stone. Today, we have a peso economy and a dollar economy. Two separate worlds.” He waved his arm in a large circle. “I can take you to dollar stores, where everything must be purchased in U.S. currency. They are magnificent stores that are the same as stores in your country. Then I can take you to peso stores, where Cubans must buy in our currency. They are the poorest stores of the poor, where little is available.”
Martínez raised a lecturing finger. “Now, in the past, Cubans could only hold pesos, never dollars. Dollars were only for tourists. The system was designed to bring money into our country, to prop up our failing economy. It was illegal for a Cuban to even have a dollar in his pocket. But the peso was worth nothing, and this created impossible hardships. It also told us that what we had, what was just for Cubans, was worthless.”
Martínez’s eyes seemed to fill with sadness, and he drew a long breath before he continued. “So the law was changed, and Cubans were allowed to have dollars. Now, of course, everything of value requires dollars. Everyone needs dollars to live decently, and they will do anything they can to get these dollars.”
Devlin thought of the beautiful young prostitutes parading past the hotel each night, the flyers he had seen, advertising paradores, the private, dollar-only restaurants people ran in their homes, the young and the elderly, together, peddling anything they could on the streets—café, Granma, a box of cigars, señor. Only thirty dollars.
“Sounds like a rotten system,” he said.
“Sí. As I said before in my little joke: Nothing is allowed to be perfect. There must be something muy malo, no? And it will remain so until we have a more open economy.” Again, he raised his finger. “But before that can happen, there is the great trick we must learn to do. How to open our economy and still keep the good we have given to the people. If we cannot do this trick, perhaps it is better to suffer as we are.”
Ollie Pitts walked toward the table. “Are we suffering this morning?” he asked.
Devlin glanced up at him, taking in the satisfied vision of a man well fed. Pitts had spent the last hour in the hotel restaurant, having declined to join them for a continental breakfast on the terrace, and there was little doubt he had eaten everything in sight. It was, after all, on the arm—Devlin’s arm. A free meal. Irresistible to a cop. Something akin to bears and honey.
Martínez smiled up at him. “In Cuba, we accept suffering. It is an unfortunate part of our nature.”
“Yeah, well, it ain’t part of my nature,” Pitts said. “Suffering sucks. Anybody makes you suffer, you should break something on their body.”
Adrianna rolled her eyes. “Do you have any more words of wisdom, Detective?”
Pitts held his hands out at his sides, as if accepting adulation. “Maybe later,” he said.
Adrianna shook her head. “I tingle in anticipation.”
Martínez placed both palms on the table. “Well, we must go, in any event.” He pushed himself up. “As you requested last night, I have made arrangements for all of us to fly to Santiago de Cuba at noon today. That will give us adequate time to meet with Colonel Cabrera at ten, as he requested. It will also give us time to do as Plante Firme advised.”
“The cemetery,” Devlin said.
“Sí. So we can gather soil from the would-be grave of our Red Angel.”
The Necropolis de Colón befit its name, a city of the dead that occupied more than fifty square blocks in the heart of Havana. It was quite a sight to come upon, Devlin thought, especially in a communist country. It was surrounded by a high, ocher-colored wall, emblazoned with white crosses, and the entrance was a massive sixty-foot arch, topped with statues depicting the Virgin Mary and other Catholic saints.
Devlin took in the statues and white crosses, then turned to Martínez. “For a communist, your Comandante seems remarkably tolerant of religion.”
Martínez gave his mustache a conspiratorial stroke. “Let us say he received a message from God.”
“How so?” Adrianna asked.
“You have seen the great, seventy-foot statue of Christ that
overlooks Havana harbor?”
“Yes. It’s magnificent.”
“Well, in 1959, one day after Fidel marched triumphantly into Havana, lightning struck the statue of Christ, knocking off its head.” He began to laugh. “The leaders of the revolution, of course, were horrified. They were very aware of the people’s superstitions, and they feared the country would rise up and beg Batista to return. Within a day, the statue was repaired, and there is now a lightning rod running up its back to prevent any further comment by the Almighty.”
“No wonder he let the pope pay a visit,” Pitts said.
“How could it be otherwise?” Martínez stroked his mustache again. There was an impish glint in his eyes. “After all, Fidel was educated in Catholic schools.”
They entered the cemetery and made their way down a wide, stone walkway. Ahead stood a small, domed church in which religious funerals were conducted. To its right was a fifty-foot monument, topped by an angel, and dedicated to nine firefighters killed during a catastrophic blaze in 1890.
All about them there were elaborate tombs and above-ground burial vaults, many bearing the busts or photographs of the dead. It made Devlin wonder about the difficulties presented to Cuba’s horde of grave robbers. When they entered the cemetery, they had passed through heavy iron gates, and guards appeared to be everywhere. He asked Martínez about it.
“Yes, there are many guards,” the major said. “And at night the gates are closed and locked, and, as you see, the walls are quite high, and very visible from the street.”
“Then how do they grab the stiffs?” Pitts asked.
“By means of an old Cuban tradition,” the major answered.
“Bribery,” Devlin suggested.
“Let us just say that many of our cemetery guardians are known to shop in our dollar stores.”
Red Angel Page 11