“And why was that, Colonel?”
“Minister Sauri wanted the Americans gone, even if it angered Señor Rossi. He was afraid our plans were being placed in danger.” He looked away, then forced himself to continue. “Another body was located. A woman of the same age and physical size as Dr. Mendez. The body was stolen from a cemetery and burned to conform with Dr. Mendez’s injuries, and the head and hands and one foot were removed. These were to be found later in a nganga placed in Plante Firme’s home …” He paused. “After his death.”
“So he could not contradict your finding?”
“Yes.”
“And this assassination was attempted by two of your men, who have since disappeared.” Martínez gave him the names of two men.
“Yes. Those were the men. We have not been able to locate them.”
“But the assassination failed, did it not?”
“Yes, it failed.”
“And Plante Firme’s grandson was murdered in his place.”
“Yes.”
Martínez turned to Devlin. “Are your questions answered, my friend?”
Devlin nodded. “Except for the location of Dr. Mendez’s body.”
Martínez turned back to Cabrera. “You can answer this question?”
“Yes.”
“Do so.”
“The body, or what remains of it, has been made part of a nganga now under the control of the palero Siete Rayos.”
“And the remaining parts of the body?”
“Destroyed, the ashes scattered at the direction of the palero Baba Briyumbe, who prepared the nganga”
“And the change-of-heads ritual for Señor Rossi is still to take place.”
“That is my understanding.”
“When?”
“Tonight. After dark.”
“And where will this happen?”
“At a house in Cojimar.”
“You have the address?”
Cabrera nodded, and Martínez did not correct him this time.
“Write it on the paper I have given you.”
As Cabrera did so, Martínez turned back to Devlin. “Is there anything else?”
“No. No more questions,” Devlin said. “I just want to get my hands on Rossi. Around his throat would be nice.”
Martínez smiled at him. “I take it you did not know that the lovely Señorita Méndez was always to be part of this killing that Señor Rossi paid so generously to arrange.”
“No. But I do now.”
Martínez raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I am afraid I cannot allow you to give him the death he deserves.” He raised one finger. “But I believe I can help you give him even greater misery.”
“How?” Devlin’s eyes were cold, blue steel, and the scar on his cheek, the gift of an old knife wound, had turned a vivid white.
“In time, my friend,” Martínez said. “But well before you take your leave of my country.”
He turned back to Cabrera, and noticed that the colonel had succeeded in regaining some composure. “Do you have something more to say, Colonel?”
Cabrera straightened his back. “I wish the privilege of an officer,” he said. His voice broke as he spoke the words. “I wish a pistol, and time alone in this room.”
Martínez walked back to the desk and turned off the tape recorder.
“I am afraid I cannot accommodate you.”
Martínez went to the door and rapped lightly three times, then stepped back. The door swung back slowly to reveal Plante Firme.
Devlin heard Cabrera gasp. The old palero was naked to the waist. He wore a straw hat with several large multicolored feathers protruding from the brim. In his left hand he held the long staff Devlin had seen at his home. It was nothing more than the straight limb of a tree, denuded of bark, the top forking into five separate branches, six to eight inches in length, each holding an individual white feather. Plante Firme’s mpaca hung from his neck on a leather thong, and in his right hand he held a crudely fashioned rattle, also covered in white feathers.
He stepped into the room and began to chant in a mixture of Spanish and Bantu as Cabrera shrank back in his chair, his eyes frozen with fear.
Martínez took Devlin and Pitts by the arm. “Perhaps you would like to leave now,” he said.
Devlin shook his head. “No, I’d like to stay.”
“As you wish, my friend.”
They watched as Plante Firme advanced. His steps were slow and methodical, each bare foot planted with an audible slap on the polished tile floor.
Cabrera’s eyes widened and his entire body shook. He pressed back in the chair as if hoping it would swallow him.
Plante Firme stood before him now, the feather-festooned rattle held high above Cabrera’s head. His low, rumbling voice rose until it seemed to shake the walls of the room. Then he lowered the rattle and thrust it against Cabrera’s chest.
The colonel’s body stiffened with the blow. He let out a high-pitched scream; his eyes bulged in his head, and his body began to jerk uncontrollably. His face twisted in agony, then collapsed with the rest of him into a limp mass.
Devlin stepped forward and placed two fingers against his neck. There was no pulse. He looked at Plante Firme. The palero‘s face was expressionless, except for a fading glint of hatred in his eyes.
Devlin turned to Martínez. “He’s dead.”
Martínez nodded, and Devlin turned back to look at Cabrera’s lips, waiting for a blue tinge to appear. Nothing happened.
“It wasn’t cyanide,” he said. “Maybe curare.” He turned to Martínez. “What’s your guess, Major?”
“I make no guess,” Martínez said. “Many would say it was magic.”
“You think if I opened Cabrera’s shirt, I’d find a small puncture wound near his heart?” He inclined his head toward Plante Firme. “Maybe from a needle embedded in his rattle?”
“I would not know,” Martínez said. “I do know that it would offend the palero if you were to do so. I must insist that you do not offend him.”
Devlin turned away from the body. Plante Firme took his arm and spoke. The words sounded urgent.
“The palero says you will be in great danger when you leave this house. He asks that you take great care.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we should listen.” Martínez went to the door and snapped out an order to his two men, and they immediately ran toward the rear of the house. Devlin heard a door open as the men headed into the rear yard.
Martínez glanced quickly at Devlin and Pitts. “To the front door,” he said. “With caution.”
All three had their weapons drawn as Martínez reached for the knob of the front door. He eased it back, then moved quickly across the open frame. The move drew immediate fire, only a second too late. Martínez flattened against the wall and shouted out a command. From each side of the house steady bursts of automatic-weapon fire erupted as the major’s men fired toward the street. Martínez leaned out and emptied the clip of his automatic.
Pitts swung into the door frame, crouched low, his weapon out in front. Devlin spun in behind, slightly higher, his own pistol leveled at the street. They fired, then jumped back. Another burst of automatic-rifle fire came from the sides of the house. There was no return fire.
Pitts jumped back into the door frame, ready to fire again. Devlin followed.
“Shit,” Pitts said. “It’s over, and I didn’t get off one clean fucking shot.”
Devlin pulled him back from the door. “Wait for Martínez’s boys to confirm the kills,” he ordered.
A few minutes later words were shouted in Spanish, and Martínez stepped out onto the front stairs, followed by Devlin and Pitts.
They eased their way to the street, weapons held down along their legs. Three men lay scattered on the roadway, two near one car, the third sprawled next to another. A fourth man was slumped against the steering wheel of the second car. Martínez’s men stood to each side of the cars, their w
eapons pointed toward the ground.
“Dead?” Devlin asked.
Martínez nodded.
“Cabrera’s people?” It was Pitts this time.
“No, I do not think so,” Martínez said. He glanced at Devlin. “I think Señor Rossi has not yet given up on his plans for you.”
Plante Firme stepped past them. He had followed them from the house unnoticed. He used his staff to turn one of the bodies, then reached down and tore open the man’s shirt, revealing a series of ritual scars.
“Abakua,” he said.
“Hey, we owe you,” Pitts said. He turned to Martínez. “The old boy must have seen them when he came in.”
“You discount magic?” Martínez said.
“Hey, magic is fine,” Pitts said. “As long as these scumbags are dead.”
Martínez turned to Devlin. “I detect skepticism in your detective,” he said. “I wonder what he would think if I told him that Plante Firme has been in this house since before we arrived. Or that he was kept in a room at the rear of the house on my orders.”
“Are you shitting me?” Pitts said.
Martínez smiled at both men. “No, my friends. I am not sheeting you. Even so, it seems the palero still knew about the Abakua. It is curious, no?”
Devlin pushed it aside. It was more than he wanted to deal with. “There’s something else that’s curious,” he said.
Martínez’s eyes glittered. “And what is that?”
“When you were grilling Cabrera, you said something in Spanish. It seemed to change everything. He was like a whipped dog after that. Now, I only caught a few words. Presentar was one. Then jefe, and técnico and investigación. What did you tell him, Martínez?”
The major stroked his mustache. “Your Spanish, it is improving,” he said. He looked down and studied the toe of his shoe. “It is quite simple,” he said. “I merely introduced myself to the colonel.”
“As what?” Devlin asked.
“As jefe de Departamento Técnico de Investigación. Chief of the secret police.” He offered Devlin a small bow. “General Arnaldo Martínez, at your orders, my friend.”
“I thought you said Cabrera held that job.”
Martínez shrugged. “A small lie, I am afraid. What the politicians would call a matter of convenience.”
21
You’re a sneak, General.”
Martínez smiled at Adrianna. “Yes, I am afraid it is so. Your beloved aunt has told me this many times in the past.”
“So now it’s Cojimar, is it?” Devlin asked.
They were seated in the kitchen of the Red Angel’s house, drinking strong Cuban coffee. Martínez studied his cup for a minute, then looked up at Adrianna.
“It is Cojimar,” he said. “But I must ask that the señorita does not accompany us.”
Adrianna started to object. Martínez held up a hand.
“Please,” he said. “There are good reasons that I ask this.”
“Tell me your reasons.” Adrianna’s voice was cold and hard and unhappy.
“First is the nganga,” Martínez said. “We will be finding the remains of the body it holds, and this is not something I wish to inflict on you. Next is the question of the Abakua who attacked us outside Cabrera’s home. I cannot be certain all were killed. It is possible there are others who we did not see. So I must insist that you remain here under the watch of my men. To do otherwise would be foolish, both to the memory of your beloved aunt and to your safety.”
“He’s right,” Devlin said.
Adrianna turned on him, eyes sharp, voice snappish. “But it’s okay for you and Ollie. For the two big guys.”
“Let’s just say it’s important for me. I want to be there when Rossi gets his.”
Adrianna turned away. “And they talk about Spanish machismo. Christ.”
Devlin took her hand, but she pulled it away.
“The general has the final say. I’ll go along with whatever he decides,” Devlin said. “I won’t like it if he says you can go, but I won’t try to change your mind.”
Adrianna’s eyes locked on Martínez. “Well?”
Martínez rolled his eyes. “Madre de Dios.” He looked at Devlin. “May Lenin forgive me.”
Devlin laughed. “That’s all right. She has that effect on everybody. You mess with her, you pay.”
Martínez drew a heavy breath. “A compromise,” he said. “You will come with us, but you will wait at a distance under the protection of my men.”
“But then I come in later,” Adrianna said.
“Yes, yes. You may come in later.” He turned to Devlin again. “She is always this way?” He watched Devlin nod. “Madre de Dios, Señor. Madre de Dios.”
They went in three cars, passing through the tunnel to Casablanca, then on to a nearly deserted highway for the ten-kilometer drive to the small fishing village of Cojimar. Everything changed quickly upon leaving Havana. The rural landscape took over, offering broad plains dotted with farmlands. Along the coast, quiet, unfettered pleasures of the seaside ruled, the beaches left mostly undeveloped and open to those who drove or hitchhiked out each morning.
Above the beaches, small pockets of well-tended houses sat in suburban clusters. Closer to the sea the houses were older and smaller and poorer, many little more than shacks. Martínez explained they were the homes of fishermen, not unlike the ones Hemingway had written about in his novella The Old Man and the Sea.
“Hemingway kept his sport-fishing boat here,” Martínez said. “Tourists think he kept it at the marina to the west of Havana that bears his name.”
They passed a restaurant, La Terraza, and Martínez explained that it was one of the author’s favorites. “He came to eat and drink here after fishing. It was cheap then. Now, because they have put his picture on the walls, the prices are those only tourists can afford.”
“What is this?” Pitts asked from the rear seat. “Everywhere I go, it’s Hemingway slept here, or ate here, or farted here. He’s like fucking George Washington.”
Martínez laughed. “You are offended we honor an American? He gave us our pride by praising our culture. Even when we lived under Batista’s heel. We do not forget such a gift.”
“And it brings in bucks from the tourists,” Devlin countered.
“Indeed,” Martínez said. “It is an enduring legacy. And a profitable one for the revolution.”
Devlin glanced out the rear window. Adrianna was in the next car, surrounded by Martínez’s men. A second car of armed men followed. He wondered if she was enjoying the scenery, or simply fuming at being treated like a helpless woman.
“How many men have you got assigned to this little caper?” he asked Martínez.
“There are nine with us, then we three, of course. I have four men watching the house, and three more who have followed Señor Rossi.”
“How many Abakua will we have to deal with?”
“My men say there are four at the house, plus the palero, Siete Rayos. Two more have picked up Señor Rossi and his man.”
“Has Rossi gotten to the house yet?”
Martínez picked up his handheld radio. “I will check,” he said.
He spoke briefly, listened to the response, then glanced across the front seat at Devlin. “He has just arrived. The ceremony should begin quickly now.”
Devlin calculated the odds. Six Abakua, plus the palero, Rossi, and Mattie the Knife. Nine in all, against the nineteen they would throw against them. But they held the house, and at least two or three of the men would be left to guard Adrianna. The odds might look good on paper, but he still didn’t like it. “You think it’s enough?” he asked.
“The ceremony will occupy their attention. We will take the men outside quietly, then move quickly on the house. It is safe to attack them here. Cojimar is not an Abakua stronghold.” He tapped on the steering wheel playfully. “Our force will be sufficient. Remember, the great English poet Robert Browning once said that less is more. It is a principle I have often found t
o be correct.”
Christ, Devlin thought, now I’m getting quotes from another dead writer. “I think the man was talking about poetry, not police work,” he said.
Martínez laughed again. “It is the art of police work.”
Devlin ground his teeth. “Just please make sure Adrianna is kept as far back as possible.”
“Do not fear,” Martínez said. “It is all arranged. You are in the very capable hands of the secret police.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Devlin said.
Juan Domingo Argudin had followed the three cars from Havana. The assault at Cabrera’s house had been a disaster; all his men had been killed. He had escaped, having been far enough back to avoid detection, but it was a hollow consolation.
He had returned to the house that he believed was the American’s base of operations, and had been proven correct. But the police also had been there in force, and his hopes for the wealth he had been promised had again been thwarted.
Now, as he followed the caravan of cars traveling east, his despair deepened. As they approached the outskirts of Cojimar, there was little question where the American and his police bodyguards were headed. His only hope was to get there first. Perhaps the old man would even pay for the warning. And then, if the old man escaped, there might be still another chance to kill his target.
Siete Rayos raised his arms toward the ceiling. The nganga he had brought from Santiago de Cuba sat before him, four lighted candles placed about it, marking the major points of the compass. The palero‘s voice rumbled with a prayer, largely in Bantu, the words running together so they were barely distinguishable, one from the other.
John the Boss sat across from the palero, the nganga between them. He studied the man’s face. It was painted with slashing lines of white chalk. He was naked, except for a pair of tattered shorts, and his chest was covered with ritual scars, which on his dark brown body appeared even darker, almost black.
Rossi leaned in toward the woman who had been sent as his new interpreter. She was short and fat and homely, and so far Mattie had not tried to fuck her.
“This palero, he seems young,” he whispered. “What’s he doing?”
“He prays to BabaluAye,” the woman whispered. “He asks the dead one be permitted to perform a change of lives. Yours for another.”
Red Angel Page 24