“Do you think that’s true? That he was never given a lawyer until the day of the trial, then convicted within an hour?”
Devlin nodded. “Martínez explained the different court systems here. Civilians have to be given a lawyer within ten days of being charged. From that point on, it’s pretty much as it is back home. Bail. House arrest if you’re sick or old. Innocent unless the state can prove otherwise. Martínez says the military isn’t bound by those rules. There, you can be held indefinitely, and you’re guilty unless you can prove them wrong. And you get one day in court to do that, with a lawyer you’ve never met, or even spoken to, going up against a panel of five judges, three of whom are military officers who approved the charges in the first place.”
“God.”
“I don’t imagine it makes for very high morale, but it doesn’t seem to matter. They aren’t doing much soldiering anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every Cuban man has to spend two years in the army. He gets his basic training, but then he’s usually sent to work on a farm. That’s the army’s main function now. Providing cheap agricultural labor. It also runs a chain of hotels for the tourist industry. Martínez said the government gave them that job almost ten years ago, because they didn’t have anything else to do.”
Devlin took her arm and led her back toward the door. “We better check with Martínez and see if his block watcher showed up.”
Adrianna put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Do you think we’ll find her, Paul? Find her body?”
Devlin shook his head. “I don’t know, babe. I think we’re getting close. But there’s too much going on that I still don’t understand. I have no idea how the game is played here. Hell, it’s worse than that. I don’t even know the name of the game we’re playing.”
Outside, they found Martínez just inside the low iron gate. He was speaking with a smallish man, about fifty years old, dressed in rumpled trousers and a work-stained T-shirt. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and matching three-day growth of stubble on his cheeks.
“This is Señor Miguel Caputo,” Martínez said. “He works as a foreman on a nearby pineapple farm, and also as one of our CDR officers here in Cobre.”
Devlin sighed inwardly. The man didn’t exactly inspire confidence.
Martínez rattled off a quick explanation of who Devlin and Adrianna were, and it was met with a broad, almost toothless grin. Caputo turned to Adrianna and jabbered away in rapid-fire Spanish.
“He says he is honored to be of service, and that his entire neighborhood will be honored to have helped the police in this way.”
Devlin nodded and smiled at the man. He turned to Martínez. “That’s great,” he said. “I’m happy he’s honored. But what has he got for us?”
Ollie Pitts wandered through the gate. “Who’s honored?” he asked.
“Señor Caputo,” Devlin said. “The CDR guy.”
“So what’s the little snitch got to say?”
Martínez gestured with his hands, urging patience. “He has just arrived this very moment. Allow me to question him.”
Martínez began with the man as Adrianna translated for Devlin.
“Martínez is reminding him that he filed a report about strangers coming to the village. Caputo is saying yes, that’s true, that at first two strangers came to stay in a large house that sits on a hillside over there.”
Devlin and Adrianna turned to where the CDR man was pointing, but apparently the church blocked the hillside in question. Devlin shook his head in frustration. Adrianna continued to translate.
“He says one of the strangers is an old man, who seemed to be sickly. The man with him is younger, but not too young, and is bigger and more robust. He says there were four Abakua with them. Then more men came today. A small man, who could be a gringo, and a Cuban who looked like a policeman. They had two Abakua with them as well. He says the second group of men left by car about an hour ago.”
Devlin turned to Martínez. “The gringo? You think, maybe, Cipriani?”
Martínez questioned the CDR man again, then turned back to Devlin. “The description is fitted to him. But right now I am more interested in the one who seems to be sick. I have already left instructions that Cipriani is to be stopped if he tries to take a plane from the airport.”
“What if he leaves by car?” Devlin asked.
Martínez shrugged. “There is a main road that takes twelve hours to reach Havana. On this road we would find them. But there are also many small roads through the mountains, and few police to patrol them. If they choose this way, then it will be difficult for us. But I doubt he will travel that way, unless he suspects we are pursuing him. It would take him two days to reach Havana, and Cabrera will want his information more quickly. And if this involves the death of the Red Angel, he will not want it discussed on the telephone.” He raised a finger. “But this other man. He is a mystery. And he is apparently ill, and has at least four Abakua with him. This we must investigate.”
“Who’s watching the house now?” Devlin asked.
A group of worshipers was moving past and Martínez lowered his voice. “Señor Caputo says his wife is being of service in his absence.”
“Jesus.”
Martínez’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Is this not how you would conduct a surveillance in New York?”
Before Devlin could answer, Caputo let out a shout and threw himself forward. Devlin spun around just as a man in a white shirt sent a knife slashing toward the little pineapple foreman’s throat. Caputo moved just in time, and the knife cut across his shoulder. Devlin pushed Adrianna behind him, his hand instinctively reaching for a nonexistent pistol, as Caputo staggered and fell to one knee. The assailant advanced, his knife low, his eyes fixed on Devlin. Behind him, a knife flashed in the hand of a second man. Devlin concentrated on the first man, his attention fixed on the knife, his own hands held slightly above the blade so he could ward off any upward thrust.
The first man feinted to his left, then took a quick step forward. Just as he was about to hook his knife upward in a killing thrust toward Devlin’s heart, Caputo threw his body into the man’s knees. The assailant staggered, still lunging forward, but Devlin grabbed his wrist, twisting it away. His other hand shot out, slapping the back of the man’s head, then pushing down as his knee smashed into the attacker’s face.
The man hit the ground and his knife spun away. Devlin’s eyes snapped up, searching for the second man. That fight was already over. The man lay on the ground, Martínez’s pistol only inches from his face, Ollie Pitts’s size-twelve shoe pressed against his throat.
Adrianna came into Devlin’s arms and hugged him. Her entire body was trembling.
“Abakua?” Devlin asked, over her shoulder.
Martínez’s men raced in from the parking lot. Martínez turned away from the fallen attacker and holstered his automatic.
“Yes, they are Abakua,” he said. His face filled with rage as he stared at the fallen CDR man. Blood poured from a wound only inches from the small man’s throat.
Martínez snapped out a command, and one of his men raced back toward the parking lot. Then he knelt next to the fallen man and spoke soothing words in Spanish.
“He’s telling him that his man is going for a medical kit and to radio for an ambulance,” Adrianna said. She watched as Martínez took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the wound. “I think he’s worried the knife may have hit an artery.”
Devlin pulled away and knelt down next to Caputo. The little man’s color had faded badly, and he seemed about to go into shock. Devlin turned back to Adrianna and asked for the shawl she was wearing, then covered Caputo’s body as best he could.
“How’s he doing?” Devlin asked.
Martínez’s head snapped up. “Who, this unimportant little pineapple farmer? This … snitch?”
“He’s a brave man.”
Martínez looked down again, and ran a hand along Caputo’s f
orehead. “When he was just a small boy, he fought in these mountains with Fidel. He was twice wounded. When the revolution ended, the Comandante personally awarded him a medal for his courage.” He looked up again.
Devlin chewed his lip. “I owe him,” he said.
The major’s eyes did not soften. “Yes, señor, you do.”
* * *
They hit the house half an hour later. Martínez’s men moved in quickly and professionally. Doors were smashed open, and the house was searched room to room. It was empty.
Caputo’s wife arrived and told them that a car had left with six men and headed for the shrine. She said she followed it to the foot of the drive that led to the parking area and saw it leave quickly. That was almost a half hour ago, she said. And, when it left, the car held only four men.
Martínez told her what had happened and ordered one of his men to take her to her husband. Adrianna and three of Martínez’s officers had remained with the fallen CDR man to await the ambulance that had been summoned from Santiago.
Devlin glanced at his watch. “The four who took off could be at the airport by now,” he said.
“I will radio ahead,” Martínez said. He gave Devlin a steady look. “Whoever they are, they were waiting to see you dead.”
12
I give to you several choices,” Martínez said. “I have available to me a very fast boat that can get you to Key West in a matter of hours. I believe a telephone call can also have American police waiting there when you arrive.
“Next is our own court system, a choice that will undoubtedly lead to one of the many prisons that are even less pleasant man the Villa Marista.
“Finally, you may choose to help the police in their duties, and when all is finished, you may find yourself sitting on one of the lovely beaches of Brazil.”
Robert Cipriani stared at his shoes and said nothing. He was seated in the same room where Baba Briyumbe had been questioned. Cabrera’s man, Major Cepedes, was under guard in an adjoining room. The two Abakua, who had accompanied them to the airport, were now sharing a cell with the pair arrested in Cobre after the attempt on Devlin’s life. Much to Martínez’s displeasure, the four men who had fled the shrine by car were still at large.
Cipriani looked up at the major. His eyes were devoid of any hope. “I’ve already answered your questions. I want to be returned to the Villa Marista.”
Martínez turned to Devlin and Pitts. “This is the first time in my experience that anyone has volunteered for a cell in the Villa Marista. State Security must have greatly improved the accommodations.” He spun around and brought his face within inches of Cipriani’s. “This is your last chance. If you continue to tell me you were released, under guard, so you could visit an anonymous friend, you will be held incommunicado for ten days, as our law allows. Then you will be placed on trial for conspiracy to commit murder. I suspect Colonel Cabrera will also charge you with escape, and Major Cepedes will be given a medal for achieving your capture. If you are found innocent of these charges, you will be placed on the fast boat I spoke of, and returned to the United States, where a long prison term awaits you. Now speak, or prepare yourself for everything I have told you.”
Cipriani closed his eyes. “What is it you want to know?”
Martínez rubbed his hands over his face. “The same thing I have asked you for the past hour. The names of the persons you visited in Cobre, the purpose of your visit, and whether or not you were sent there by Colonel Cabrera, as the presence of Major Cepedes would seem to indicate.”
“You’re not offering me anything but a prison cell or a death warrant,” Cipriani said.
“I am offering you a beach in a country that does not have an extradition treaty with the United States. If my information is correct, you were preparing to go to that country when you were arrested by Colonel Cabrera.”
Cipriani shook his head. “I understand they’ve also got nice cemeteries in Rio.”
“If you are afraid of Colonel Cabrera, I assure you he will present no problem for you.”
Cipriani gave him a mirthless laugh. “I’m not worried about Cabrera. If you get what you want, he’ll be too busy trying to avoid a firing squad.”
“Who are you afraid of?” It was Devlin this time. “Are we talking narcotics? Like maybe your visitor flew in from Medellín, and our poking around is screwing up some drug deal Cabrera has working?”
Cipriani shook his head. “I’ll take my chances with Cabrera. When Cepedes and I don’t show up, he’s going to start looking.” He let his eyes fall hard on Martínez. “You ready to take on State Security, Major?”
Martínez gave him a cold smile. “It would appear I already have, señor.”
They sat at a large table on the Casa Grande’s rooftop terrace. It was after midnight and a rumba band provided the rhythm for several dozen swaying hips. Devlin, Adrianna, and Pitts showed no interest in the music. Neither did the three men at the next table. They were Martínez’s men, sent to play bodyguard while the major put the finishing touches on the arrests he had made.
Adrianna stared out over the waist-high terrace wall. There, appearing almost close enough to touch, the twin spires of the cathedral hovered in the darkness, the large granite angel set between them like some avenging specter. Beyond the cathedral, even the lights of the harbor seemed ominous, as if their normally romantic glow were hiding some new and yet-to-be-revealed threat.
Adrianna turned away from the view. “I don’t like this city. It looks so small and peaceful, but it’s not.”
Pitts grinned at her. “Hey, it’s hard to like a place where witch doctors put curses on you and a bunch of ‘yoms try to slice you up with shivs.”
“Watch the racist crap,” Devlin warned.
Pitts raised his hands. “Okay, okay. A bunch of Abakua. The same group of loonies who tried to do us in with a truck in Havana.” He glanced at Adrianna and grinned again. “So how do you feel about Havana?”
Adrianna ignored him. She turned to Devlin. “Maybe we should forget everything and go home. My aunt’s dead. Let the Cubans find her and bury her. She wouldn’t want this. Not if it meant having you killed, too.”
Devlin reached out and covered her hand. “Your aunt didn’t even know me.”
“No, she didn’t. But I wrote to her, and told her how much I love you.”
Pitts raised his chin. “I hate to break up this moment we got going here, but I think I see our little major headed this way.”
They turned and watched Martínez weave his way through the dancers. As he reached the table, he placed a hand on his midsection and gave his hips a small rumba sway.
“Ah, the music is wonderful,” he said as he took an empty chair.
“You seem very jolly,” Pitts said. “Cipriani finally spill his guts? Or maybe your major from State Security?”
“I am afraid not. Señor Cipriani and Major Cepedes both remain very unhelpful. They are now on their way back to Havana by car. Under guard. My men will use back roads, so it will take them two days, but that will also make it difficult for Colonel Cabrera to find them, no?” He smiled. “It will also make them available to us if we need them. I have made arrangements for us to return to Havana tomorrow morning. We will fly to Varadero, where a car will meet us and drive us the last one hundred and forty kilometers.” He gave them his Cuban shrug. “This will also present some difficulties for the colonel.”
“Why are we going back?” Devlin asked. “I thought Plante Firme said we’d find the body here?”
Martínez nodded. “But I believe the body is being taken back to Havana by Baba Briyumbe’s disciple.”
“This Seven Thunderbolts guy?” Pitts asked.
“Yes, by Siete Rayos.”
“Why do you think that?” Adrianna asked.
“Some new information has come to me.” Martínez leaned forward and lowered his voice so it could just be heard over the music. “The men who fled the shrine—the old, sickly man and his companion, along with
the two Abakua—left Santiago on a private jet, which is why my men at the airport failed to observe them. A later check of flight records showed that they arrived in Havana three hours ago.”
“Did customs get their names?” Devlin asked.
“Unfortunately, there are no customs for internal flights, so there was no report filed in Havana. I did check on the flight’s initial arrival in Cuba. It flew in yesterday with two passengers: a Señor John Smith and a Señor Matthew Jones. Both had Canadian passports that I believe to be false. One of the men required assistance getting off the aircraft, and both seemed to receive special consideration going through customs and immigration. Their entry forms indicated they were businessmen.”
“Where did they fly in from?” Devlin asked.
“From Nassau in the Bahamas,” Martínez said.
Devlin and Pitts exchanged looks, but remained silent.
Devlin decided to stick with the missing body. “What makes you think this changing-of-heads ritual hasn’t already been done?” he asked.
“I am sure that it has not,” Martínez said.
“Why?” Adrianna asked.
“Because the house in which the men stayed was being watched at all times. By either Señor Caputo or his wife. There were no visitors until Señor Cipriani arrived. And, most important, there was no nganga. In Cuba, the arrival of a nganga would not go unnoticed.”
“And you’re sure this sickly man is the reason my aunt’s body was stolen?”
Martínez nodded. “Everything points in that direction. And now everything points back to Havana. I suspect the nganga is on its way there now. And that it will arrive within days.”
“You think it’s going by car?” Adrianna asked.
Martínez smiled. “It would make strange baggage on an airline, no? Even if it were loaded on a private jet, it would not go unnoticed or unchallenged by the immigration police.”
“What about roadblocks?” Pitts asked. “Maybe you can find it before it gets to Havana.”
Red Angel Page 16