They turned onto another walkway and passed a tomb shaped like an Egyptian pyramid.
“The tomb of José Mata,” Martínez said. “One of Cuba’s most renowned architects.”
He continued on another fifty yards, when Adrianna reached out and stopped him. She pointed to a vault set behind several others. At its head was a statue of a woman, cradling a child in one arm, while her other supported a large, marble cross. Surrounding the vault were small inscribed tombstones, at least fifty in all, each one garnished with a bouquet of flowers.
“What is that?” she asked.
Martínez gently took her arm and led her to the flower-festooned vault. “This is the grave of Amelia Goyri de Adot, a much-beloved patron of Cuban mothers. Each of the small tombstones that you see is a tribute to a miracle that Amelia is supposed to have performed for a dying child.”
Adrianna turned to him, her face openly curious.
“It is a rather grim story,” Martínez said. “But it speaks clearly about Cuban beliefs, or perhaps more correctly, what Cubans are wishing to believe.”
“Tell me the story,” Adrianna said.
Martínez studied his shoes for a moment, then began. “Amelia, as you see on her vault, died in childbirth in 1901, and her bereaved husband buried her with the dead infant placed at her feet. Years later, when the husband died, the vault was uncovered to accept his body, and for some reason the casket of Amelia was opened at that time. What was discovered startled those who were present, because the infant was no longer at its mother’s feet, but was cradled in the dead arms of Amelia.”
Adrianna stared at him for a long moment. “So Amelia was buried alive. My God, how horrible.”
Martínez looked at her with his soft eyes. “But that is not how it was seen,” he said. “To the people it showed only that even in death, Amelia had comforted her child, and people began to come to this place, and to pray to her for their own dying children.” He waved his hand, again taking in the small, inscribed tombstones. “And these miracles for these other children occurred. Or, at least, it is how our Cuban mothers would believe it to be.”
Martínez pointed to another nearby walkway. “And ahead, only a short distance from the much-revered Amelia, are the vaults of the Mendez family, where the equally beloved Red Angel was to be buried.”
Adrianna moved ahead of them now. It was, Devlin thought, as if she were moving into her ancestral past, discovering it for the first time. He moved up behind her as she stood before a low iron fence that surrounded a platform made of large marble blocks. Five vaults sat atop the platform, with room for several more. She studied the names, the most recent of which was that of her paternal grandmother, who had died several years before her father and grandfather had fled the island.
“Hard?” he asked.
She remained silent for several moments, then nodded. “I feel like such a stranger. It’s as though my family has been ripped in half, and this was the half I was never allowed to know.” She paused, thinking about what she had said. “It must have been very hard for my grandfather to leave.” She leaned her head against Devlin’s shoulder. “If you died, I don’t think I could ever go so far from where you were buried, know I’d never be able to visit your grave, never be able to come and tell you I still remembered, still loved you.”
Devlin tightened his arm around her shoulder. “We’ll bring your aunt here,” he said. “And we’ll come back and visit her.”
“I must show you something,” Martínez said. He was standing with Pitts on the other side of the gravesite.
Adrianna and Devlin made their way to the back and looked to where Martínez was pointing. At the corner of the gravesite a divot of earth had been removed from the ground.
“It is the same at all the corners,” Martínez said. He reached into his pocket and removed a cloth bag. “Now we must do as the Palo Monte have done. We must take earth from the same places and put with it the red feather that Plante Firme has given us.”
“And then?” Adrianna asked.
“And then we must keep it with us at all times,” Martínez said.
8
The State Security compound, known as the Villa Marista, takes up ten square blocks of a modest residential neighborhood in the city’s Sevillano district. Even from the street it appears ominous, the exterior as forbidding as the notorious prison known to be housed within its grounds. A high wall, topped with razor wire, circles the entire area. Watchtowers stand at the corners, each manned by armed guards. There are television cameras mounted every fifty feet capable of following any vehicle or person moving along the perimeter.
The interior is visible through the heavily guarded gate that serves as the compound’s sole entrance. Beyond the gate a wide, grass-covered parade ground precedes a row of cinderblock buildings. The buildings are painted a flat, dull green, and uniformed guards armed with automatic weapons protect each. It is not a friendly place, nor is it intended to be. It gives off both an aura of power and one of dread, a place that few enter willingly, and where those who leave do so only when permitted.
Cabrera’s office was stark and decidedly military, and when they entered, Devlin and Adrianna were offered equally plain and uncomfortable chairs. Cabrera sat behind a metal desk. He was dressed in uniform, his tunic adorned with numerous ribbons, and aside from the colonel, himself, the only other decorative touch was a large personally inscribed photograph of Fidel in battle fatigues and field cap.
Devlin took in the room, noting its sense of sparse isolation. Martínez had been asked to wait in the outer office. The major had seemed unconcerned, and Devlin had not objected. Both men recognized it as a time-honored police technique. Strip away any hope of assistance, and leave the subjects of interrogation feeling helpless and alone. The only question now was whether Cabrera would play good cop or bad cop.
“I believe another person has joined you in Havana,” Cabrera began. “A detective named Oliver Pitts?”
“That’s right, he came in last night,” Devlin said.
“I assume he is here to help you … make your own inquiries?”
Devlin forced a smile. “Would that be a problem?” he asked.
Cabrera returned the smile. “Yes. I am afraid it would be a serious problem. As I told you when you first arrived, a very thorough investigation is being conducted.”
“We have no doubt about that, Colonel.” Devlin decided to fall back on the cover story he and Martínez had worked out. “Actually, Detective Pitts brought me some papers from work that required my attention. He decided to combine that with a small vacation.”
Cabrera nodded. “And where is he now?”
“We dropped him off at Major Martínez’s office on the way here. He wanted to see a Cuban police station and the major was kind enough to oblige.” Devlin gave Cabrera another smile. “Sort of a busman’s holiday, as we say in the States. After that, I believe he plans to do some shopping.”
Pitts was actually reading through the reports on María Mendez’s death and disappearance. Placing those documents in foreign hands was a direct violation of Cuban law, and Martínez had assured them that Cabrera would be aware of that illegality before the day ended.
But he would not act on it, Martínez had said. Not officially, at least. The situation was politically awkward, and to move openly against a member of the Red Angel’s family—no matter how indirectly—might prove dangerous. Even for the head of the secret police.
Devlin decided to push that point now, to put Cabrera on the defensive.
“I was wondering if we could see your reports on the automobile accident, Ms. Mendez’s death, and the subsequent theft of her body.”
Cabrera rocked back in his chair. “I am afraid that is not permitted.” He came forward and folded his hands. “I assure you all steps are being taken. I can tell you that several individuals are being questioned, and I believe it is only a matter of time before we learn the reasons behind this unfortunate act.”
&nbs
p; Adrianna leaned forward, drawing the colonel’s eye. Except for an initial greeting, Cabrera had ignored her, preferring to direct his questions to a fellow male, a fellow cop, and Devlin could see from her body language that the colonel’s little game had hit all the wrong buttons.
“Can you tell me why neither my aunt’s death nor the theft of her body has been reported in the newspapers?” There was an angry edge in her voice and it seemed to surprise the colonel. He obviously wasn’t accustomed to being challenged in his own office.
Cabrera raised his folded hands in front of his face. “You must understand that things are done differently in Cuba,” he began. “We are not required to release information about investigations that are being conducted. We consider such a practice unwise, since it would interfere with our efforts, and also give assistance to those who have committed the crime.” His eyes hardened. “We also do not allow foreigners to conduct their own investigations. I want you to be very clear about that.”
Devlin saw Adrianna’s back stiffen. “Colonel, you really surprise me.”
Again, Cabrera seemed taken aback. “And why is that, Señorita Méndez?”
Adrianna held his eyes. “My aunt was a respected, perhaps even an honored member of your government.”
“That is very true—”
Adrianna didn’t allow him to finish. “But so far, not only have you refused to give me any meaningful information about her death or the theft of her body, but now you seem to be telling me—perhaps even warning me—not to inquire into how these things happened.”
Cabrera held out both hands, as if warding off her words. “Señorita, please allow me to give all assurances—”
Again, Adrianna cut him off. “No, Colonel, let me assure you of a few things. First, that I intend to find out what happened to my aunt. Next, that I intend to see that her body is recovered. And, finally, that I intend to give her a decent burial.” She continued to stare Cabrera down, but allowed her voice to soften. “One more thing, Colonel. I sincerely doubt that any responsible member of your government will object to these rather small intentions. So if you refuse to help me, be assured that I will find someone in your government who will.”
Cabrera’s face reddened, and Devlin could see him fighting for control. “You will have whatever assistance I can give you,” he snapped. “Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do for you at this moment.”
Adrianna stood, still holding his eyes. “Then I assume we are free to go.”
“Of course,” Cabrera said.
As Adrianna headed for the door, Devlin stood and nodded to the colonel. “Nice to see you again, Colonel,” he said.
Martínez threw back his head and laughed as Devlin told him about the interview. They had just driven through the gate and were headed back to his office to collect Pitts.
“Señorita Méndez, you must pardon me, but I think you may have—how do you say it?—pissed the colonel off.” He began to laugh again.
A hint of concern came to Adrianna’s eyes, then disappeared. “Since he already tried to have us killed, that doesn’t seem like much of a problem.” She glanced out the rear window, expecting to see white-clad Abakua trailing behind them. “Are we still being followed?”
“No,” Martínez said. “Not once this morning. I imagine the colonel is wondering what has happened to his Abakua.”
“And what has happened to them?” Devlin asked.
“They are like Detective Pitts,” Martínez said. “They are taking a small holiday.”
Robert Cipriani entered Cabrera’s office from a small adjoining room. A bug in the colonel’s desk had allowed him to listen to the interview with Devlin and Adrianna.
“Tough lady,” he said as he took the same chair Devlin had occupied. “And, unless there’s been some change in plans, I thought she was supposed to be a dead lady.”
“There is no change,” Cabrera snapped. “Just an unexpected delay.”
“The Abakua screwed up?”
“My Abakua have disappeared. But there are other Abakua. By tonight, Señorita Méndez and her friends will be dead.”
Cipriani nodded. “I think that’s wise. There’s a great deal of money involved, and as I said, I don’t think our friends will appreciate problems this late in the game.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve dealt with those gentlemen. They’re not known for their tolerance.”
Cabrera picked up an envelope from his desk and tossed it to Cipriani. “Since you are so concerned, I have decided to let you supervise the matter yourself. There is an airline ticket inside. It is for Santiago de Cuba, which, according to my informants at Cubana Airlines, is where our friends are now headed.” He smiled at the surprise on Cipriani’s face. “One of my men will go with you, of course, and some other Abakua friends will meet you in Santiago. You will return here, my friend. Whether or not you also return to your cell will depend on how well you do this little job.”
“Wait a minute, Colonel. Killing people is not my line.”
Cabrera stared at him, a small smile playing across his lips. “I understand your reluctance. You prefer to take people’s lives with a pen and a checkbook, not a knife or a gun. But do not fear. You will have only to supervise. Besides, there is another gentleman arriving in Santiago today, and since other matters will keep me in Havana, I would like you to represent me with him. It is a person you know well.”
“And who’s that?” Cipriani asked.
“An old friend of yours. The old man who has caused these problems. Giovanni Rossi. He is here both on a matter of health and on a matter of business. He will be staying in a villa in the mountains near Cobre.”
“And what do you want me to do with Rossi?” Cipriani asked.
Cabrera smiled again. “Allay his fears, my friend. Just as I will allay the fears of his associate, who arrives in Havana this evening.”
9
The Sierra Maestra Mountains rose in the distance as their taxi raced along the winding road that led from Antonio Maceo Airport to the port city of Santiago de Cuba. The mountains were as majestic and as beautiful as any Devlin had ever seen. Sharp peaks, covered in lush green foliage, seemed to leap from the arid plain below, punctuated by steeply descending valleys carved dramatically into their sides. It was a forbidding range, Devlin thought, clearly inaccessible except by foot, a place suited more to goats than people, the place where all Cuba’s revolutions had begun, the very place from which Fidel and his original eighty-six followers had fought their hit-and-run war with the forces of Fulgencio Batista, until the people of Cuba had risen up to join them.
And María Mendez was there with them. He glanced at Adrianna, and saw that she, too, was staring at the mountains. Undoubtedly thinking similar thoughts about the young woman, the young doctor who would later become Cuba’s Red Angel. All those years ago. Fighting somewhere in those mountains against the men who had tortured and raped her, the men who had crushed her chance ever to have children of her own.
Martínez’s voice broke Devlin’s reverie.
“Santiago is like a different Cuba,” he explained as they raced past a series of small cattle farms. “Where Havana is cosmopolitan, with people always rushing about, here it is very Caribbean, a slower, more gentle pace. But you must not be fooled. It is a place of great and deep feelings. If there is to be trouble in Cuba, it will begin here. This is where the first gun will be picked up.” He gave them his Cuban shrug, as if to say it could not be helped.
“So why don’t they rise up and throw you guys out?” Ollie Pitts asked. He was grinning at Martínez, trying to goad him into another defense of Fidel.
There was an impish glimmer in the major’s eyes as he took up the challenge. “Fortunately, the people are devoted to the revolution,” he said. He made an all-encompassing gesture with his hand. “Here, in the eastern part of our island, life was always poorer and more difficult. So it is here that the revolution has produced the most change. It is also mostly Negro in population, and Palo Monte and
Santeria are very strong here, and the people know that Fidel has always been tolerant of their beliefs. Some even say he practices them himself.”
“Does he?” Pitts asked.
Now it was time for Martínez to offer a goading grin. “It is said Fidel has two paleros working just for him, and that this is why your CIA’s many attempts to kill him have always failed.”
Pitts refused to give up. “Oh, yeah? How far away is the Guantánamo Naval Base?”
Martínez laughed. “From here, about one hundred kilometers of winding mountain roads. From the people, it is more than a million miles.”
The taxi made its way through a series of narrow streets that skirted the port, corning to a stop at a large, tree-shaded central plaza. One end of the plaza was dominated by the sixteenth-century Catedral Ecclesia, its twin spires rising more than ten stories, its central stone angel gazing down upon the people who filled the park’s benches and walkways.
To the right of the cathedral stood the Hotel Casa Grande, one of Santiago’s oldest and most elegant hotels, its first-floor terrace looming ten feet above the street like some lingering patrician stronghold, its red-and-gray-striped awnings shading those within from the scorching afternoon sun.
Martínez left them at the hotel, explaining that men were already in place watching the hotel’s entrances to ensure that the Abakua would not get inside. He, himself, would stay at a nearby police station, where he could also conduct some preliminary inquiries into the local Abakua and their corrupt palero, Baba Briyumbe. He promised to return in one hour, and suggested they use the time to rest and refresh themselves for the long night ahead.
Devlin, Adrianna, and Pitts climbed the wide marble stairs that led to the hotel terrace and its adjoining reception area. Here the elegance of colonial Cuba reasserted itself, with gleaming marble floors, wrought-iron chandeliers, and a mix of wicker settees and chairs surrounding a marble statue of a sea nymph.
Ahead, the terrace ended in an ornate mahogany bar, its scattering of small tables and chairs situated so patrons could look down upon the people who filled the adjacent plaza. A sign to their right advertised a second terrace on the hotel’s rooftop, and Devlin wondered if the building’s architect had rendered his plans with an eye toward condescending views of the populace, as some colonial sign of preeminence.
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