As the woman finished explaining, the palero lowered his arms, withdrew a long-bladed knife from his belt, and extended it across the nganga. He spoke to Rossi in Spanish.
“Now you must feed the nganga with your blood,” the woman whispered.
Rossi winced at the idea. All the paleros he had known in the past had been old men. This one was no more than forty, forty-five tops. He believed in the rituals, had even seen them work in the old days, but they had all been performed by men well into their sixties, even older.
He placed his arm over the nganga and watched as the palero made a small cut in the heel of his hand, then turned it so the blood would drip into the iron pot.
Rossi watched the trail of his own blood. It dripped onto a mixture of sticks and herbs, beneath which he could just make out a faint glimmer of white that had to be the woman’s skull. There would be other bones, too. He knew that, but he could not make them out. Her hands, cleaned of all flesh, would be there, and the bones of at least one foot. There would also be the bones of a dog to carry messages for the dead one, and those of the night bird to help the dead one see through the darkness of death.
“You okay, boss?”
Mattie had leaned down to whisper in his ear, but Rossi made a quick gesture with his free hand, telling him to move away.
The palero filled his mouth with rum and spit it into the pot. He began to chant.
“BabaluAye erikunde. BabaluAye binkome. BabaluAye nfumbe. Nikise.”
He picked up a handful of small, fragile seashells, no larger than peas, that sat next to him on the floor. He placed the shells in a mortar, then began grinding them with a pestle until they were transformed into a fine, white powder.
“You must place both hands over the nganga so you may receive the powder,” the woman whispered.
Rossi did as he was told, and the palero emptied the mortar into his cupped palms. Then he took Rossi’s hands and turned them over so the fine, white dust fell into the nganga.
He reached across the pot and opened Rossi’s shirt, revealing his pale, bony, old man’s chest. He dipped one finger into the pot and gathered some of the white powder, then rubbed the finger into the still-leaking wound on Rossi’s palm. Reaching out again, he used the mixture to draw three lines on Rossi’s chest.
Rossi felt a surge of warmth fill his chest, almost as if some power were forcing its way beneath his skin. The palero began to chant.
“Angel Roja, nfumbe. Opiapa. BabaluAye binkome.”
One of the Abakua, who had been standing in the shadows, moved forward now, leading a tethered black goat. The goat’s head had been covered with a hood, and the animal moved hesitantly, its hooves clicking erratically on the tiled floor.
When he reached the palero, the Abakua forced the animal down, pulled the hood from its head, then grabbed its horns, and forced the head back so the neck was exposed.
The palero slashed quickly with his knife and the animal bucked violently. The goat’s mouth opened in a bleat of pain and surprise, but only a gurgling hiss of air escaped the gaping wound in its throat. Blood poured into a bowl beneath it.
The thrashing animal became still, and the palero picked up the bowl of blood and began to mumble an unintelligible prayer. Finished, he extended the bowl across the nganga.
“Now you must drink,” the woman whispered.
Rossi’s hands trembled slightly as he took the bowl. Behind him, he heard Mattie suck in a sharp breath as he brought the bowl to his lips.
“You must drink half, then what is left must be fed to the nganga,” the woman whispered.
Rossi held his breath and drank. The blood was warm and surpassingly sweet in his mouth, but he still felt his stomach wrench violently as he swallowed. He fought it off, then tipped the bowl, pouring what was left into the nganga.
The palero raised his arms above his head and began rotating his head. His eyes closed as a second Abakua began a rhythmic beat on a drum. The woman next to Rossi folded her arms across her chest, then lowered her upper body in a deep bow and began to sway back and forth.
Rossi wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand. He was certain he could feel strength returning to his body, strength he had not felt in years. He straightened his back and drew a long, deep breath.
Juan Domingo Argudin parked his car at the top of a hill that overlooked the house. It was nine-fifteen, but a half-moon cast enough light that he could see at least two men hidden in the brush below, their presence unknown to the four Abakua who guarded the front of the house.
The rear of the house faced the sea, a place from which there could be no escape. He calculated the odds of reaching the rear door unseen. There was an overturned skiff not far from the final bit of cover, then only ten meters or so of open sand to the corner of the house. He studied the rear of the house for other watchers, but saw none. One man might do it, he decided, providing his movement was very slow, using every bit of cover, every shadow that offered concealment. But only one. For more it would be impossible. He picked up a large rock and hurled it into the heavy foliage between the two police watchers he had spotted. He hoped the sound would draw the attention of the two Abakua guards and concentrate the police on any movements they made. From the height of the hill he could see the lights of three cars approaching along the road, about half a kilometer away, and he knew it was the caravan he had followed from Havana.
Argudin slipped into the heavy brush and began to make his way down the hill. There was little time now. Almost none at all.
“How do you feel, boss?”
Mattie Ippolito helped Rossi to his feet. The old man’s legs were cramped, and he held tightly to Mattie’s arm.
He stood and stretched. He shook one leg, then the other, forcing the flow of blood back into each limb.
“I feel good. Good, Mattie. It’s unbelievable how good I feel.”
“I thought I’d puke when I saw you drinking that goat’s blood,” Ippolito said.
Rossi chuckled. “I thought I would, too. But, you know, it didn’t taste bad at all. Like a warm, sweet wine.”
Mattie shuddered and shook his head. “Hey, I’ll stick to Chianti. You know what I mean?”
Rossi reached up and gave his cheek a sharp pat. “When those bastards in the other families see me like this, they’ll shit their pants,” he said. “They already had the stinking lilies ordered for my funeral.”
The rear door opened and Argudin slipped inside. He hissed a warning at the two Abakua inside, and they immediately went for the rifles that lay on the floor at their feet.
Argudin hurried across the room and began babbling at Rossi.
“What the fuck is he talkin’ about?” Rossi snapped. He grabbed the woman by the arm. “Tell me what the fuck he’s saying.”
“He says the police are outside. He says they will be here in minutes.” The woman’s eyes were wide with fear.
Rossi pushed her toward Argudin. “Ask him if Devlin is with them. The American. Ask if the American is with them.”
The woman did as she was told. Argudin nodded vigorously at Rossi, then used some of the few English words he knew.
“Outside. He come. Berry soon.”
Rossi moved across the room, more quickly than Mattie had seen him move in years. He grabbed a rifle from one of the Abakua and thrust it toward Argudin. He turned to the woman. “You tell him to get outside and kill the American. I want him dead. No matter what happens I want that son of a bitch dead.”
22
On Martínez’s orders, the drivers killed their lights and coasted to a stop fifty meters from the house. A bend in the road provided concealment, and Martínez dispersed his men in two teams, one along the rock-strewn beach, a second through the heavy foliage at the base of a small hill that rose above the sea. Two men remained behind with Adrianna. Their orders were to hold that position, even if the others came under heavy fire.
Devlin, Martínez, and Pitts moved down the road, keeping to the edge that
offered the most cover. They would be the first to draw fire, Devlin realized, and while he admired Martínez’s chutzpah as a leader of men, he felt a sudden longing for an NYPD SWAT team.
Martínez raised a hand, stopping them near a banana tree. A cluster of the green fruit hung just above their heads, and Pitts reached up and picked one.
“You taking a meal break?” Devlin hissed.
Pitts ignored him, peeled and bit into the undersized banana, then spit it out. “Tastes like shit,” he whispered.
Martínez shook his head. “It is a plantain. It is better cooked.” He inched closer to Devlin. “Is he always like this?” he asked.
“Always,” Devlin said.
Martínez pointed toward the house. It was little more than a shack built on pilings. Narrow stairs led to a porch that ran along the entire front. Two Abakua stood at the bottom of the stairs, two above on the porch. All were dressed in white, all easy targets for the rifles and shotguns carried by Martínez’s men.
Devlin estimated the distance to the house at thirty yards, and he knew Martínez’s men would be even closer.
“They have to know we’re here,” Devlin said. “If they’re going to resist, they should have at least taken cover by now. I can see two more at the windows. They haven’t even killed the lights behind them.”
“Señor Rossi may be counting on Cabrera to protect him if he is taken.”
“What about the rear of the house? Any chance of a boat coming in to pick Rossi up?”
“It is low tide, and it is shallow near the beach. He would have to wade out at least fifty meters. Such a plan would be suicidal.”
Martínez brought his handheld radio to his lips and whispered orders to his men.
“I am sending three men to the rear of the house, and the others will begin closing in on the front from both flanks. Let us go forward, slowly.” He began to move down the road again, staying low and close to the heavy foliage. Devlin and Pitts followed.
Argudin slipped out the rear door and flattened himself against the sand. He crawled the ten meters to the overturned skiff, keeping the rifle parallel to his body, then rolled into the thick brush at the edge of the sandy strip. He waited, listening for movement, then crawled again to the heavy foliage at the base of the hill. Just as he reached it, two men came out of the thick growth ten meters ahead and ran low to the ground to the rear of the house. Both carried automatic assault rifles.
Argudin let out a relieved breath. He touched the red-and-white beaded necklace at his throat and thanked Chango for watching over him. Had he left ten seconds later, he would have been trapped on the sand with no chance of escape.
He waited and watched as the two men were joined by a third, who had come from the other side of the house. When they took up positions outside the rear door, he began to inch his way up the hill. He wanted a shooting position that provided a clear field of fire at the front door, and close enough to his waiting car to provide a quick escape.
Rossi looked out the window and smiled. Twenty yards out he could make out three figures moving at the edge of the road. They were staying close to cover, but sooner or later, he knew, they would have to enter the house. With the lights from the windows and the open door, the Abakua on the hillside should have a clear shot at that son of a bitch Devlin.
He turned back to Mattie. “Tell the woman I want the Abakua to get rid of the weapons. Then I want them outside. Tell her they should have the others ditch their weapons, too. No resistance, tell her. Our friends will get us out of this later.”
“What about Devlin?” Mattie asked.
“I think he’s gonna have an accident,” Rossi said. “But we’ll be in here with our hands up. We won’t be part of it, capisce?”
Martínez lowered his radio. “My men say the Abakua have thrown their weapons into the brush.”
“Don’t trust it,” Devlin warned.
“Yeah,” Pitts added. “Where that old bastard’s concerned, don’t trust anything.”
Devlin studied the house, now only twenty yards distant. The front door was open, and together with the windows to each side, it threw a heavy beam of light on the front porch and stairs. Too much light.
“I suggest we keep to the side of the road, then get inside as fast as we can when your men hit the door.”
“The light,” Martínez said. “Yes, I have noticed it, too.”
They moved up until they were only ten yards from the stairs. Martínez’s men had herded the Abakua to one side, searched them, and forced them to the ground with their fingers locked behind their heads. A second team had moved through the front door, weapons ready, and Devlin was certain those at the rear of the house had also closed in.
At Martínez’s order they moved quickly, low to the ground, up the stairs and in, pistols held low against their legs. High up on the hillside Argudin scrambled to a position just below his car. He saw the Americans follow the Cubans into the house too late to line up a shot. He touched the beads about his neck. When they came out, with the help of Chango, he would be ready.
Rossi sat in a chair in the center of the room, his eyes fixed on Devlin. His shirt was still unbuttoned, and beneath it the marks of the ritual were still visible. Mattie Ippolito stood slightly behind him, and to his left the palero knelt before the nganga.
“Bathrobe,” Pitts said. “What are you doin’ here? They got good cannoli in Cuba?”
Devlin walked across the room and looked down into the nganga.
“He must be makin’ minestrone,” Pitts said. “Maybe a little pasta fagioli.” He moved next to Devlin and looked inside. Blood and white powder were splattered across the wood and herbs. “Don’t look too appetizin’.” He used the barrel of his pistol to spread open Rossi’s shirt, revealing the ritual paste of blood and powder that marked his skinny, old man’s chest. “Not too nice, Bathrobe. I see you missed your Saturday bath again.”
The palero began babbling in Spanish, and Pitts reached into his open-necked shirt and removed the pouch containing the dirt from the cemetery, topped by the red feather. He waved it at the palero and saw the man shrink back.
“Ooga booga,” he said, grinning.
“You still have that thing. And you’re wearing it.” Devlin couldn’t hide his surprise.
Pitts seemed momentarily embarrassed, then recovered his bravado. “Hey, after I saw old Plante Firme in action this afternoon, I figured what the hell.”
Devlin looked down at Rossi. Throughout it all, the old man had remained silent. Devlin bent down and stared into his hate-filled eyes. “What’s the matter, Bathrobe? Nganga got your tongue?”
Rossi gave him a cold smile. “Nice to see you, Devlin. What more could an old man ask than to see an old friend one last time?”
“You going somewhere, Bathrobe?”
Rossi let out a cold laugh. “Me? Sure. I’m goin’ back to New York. You plan on goin’ somewhere, Devlin?”
“I’m on vacation,” Devlin said.
“Hey, it’s always nice to take one last vacation.”
Devlin returned the laugh. It was as biting and as cold as Rossi’s had been. He nodded toward the nganga. “You take the cure, Bathrobe?”
“Hey, it’s wonderful. You should try it. I feel a hundred percent. I may live another fifty years.” He laughed again. “Now, wouldn’t that piss some people off?”
“Don’t count on it,” Devlin said. He held Rossi’s eyes. “Dr. Méndez might not have worked her powers for somebody who tried to ice her niece.”
Momentary concern—maybe even fear, Devlin thought—flickered across Rossi’s face, then disappeared. The old bastard really believes in this stuff, he thought. Martínez had come up beside him, and Devlin held out an arm, keeping him back. He turned to Pitts. “Kick that fucking thing over,” he snapped.
Pitts placed his foot against the lip and pushed. The nganga tipped over, spilling its contents across the floor. The palero screamed, and Pitts grabbed the pouch around his neck and waved it
again.
“Ooga fucking booga.”
“Ah, my friend. It is sacrilege,” Martínez moaned.
“Tough shit,” Devlin snapped. He pointed down at the human skull, the bones of two hands and a foot, all the digits still held together by bits of cartilage. He turned back to Rossi. “You’re screwed, Bathrobe. DNA is gonna put your skinny guinea ass in a Cuban jail.”
Rossi threw back his head and laughed, with genuine pleasure this time. “Hey, Devlin, how you gonna arrange that?” He inclined his head toward the bones. “Let them run their tests. It’s gonna show I was in New York when whoever that is croaked.”
Martínez motioned to one of his men, who began gathering the bones and placing them in a large plastic bag.
He turned to Rossi. “You are under arrest, señor.” Then to Mattie: “As are you. The American Interests Section will be notified at the end of ten days.”
“What the fuck you mean, ten days?” Mattie growled.
“Cuban law, señor.” He gave them his patented Cuban shrug. “Proper procedures must be followed.”
A rustle of activity came from behind them, and Devlin turned to see Adrianna coming through the front door, still guarded by the two Cuban cops.
Martínez growled at the men, and received a rapid and humble reply. He let out a long breath.
“It seems Señorita Adrianna would wait no longer.” He looked at Devlin. “Madre de Dios, señor.”
Devlin moved toward her, trying to block her view, but she quickly stepped to one side, her eyes riveted on the spilled nganga and the Cuban cop holding the clear plastic bag filled with bones.
“You know that bag of bones, lady?” Rossi called out. He let out another cold laugh. “My condolences.”
Pitts’s hand shot out and grabbed Rossi’s face between his thumb and fingers. He squeezed until the old man’s face was a mask of pain.
Mattie lunged forward, but Pitts struck out with his free hand, the fingers held rigid. The blow caught Ippolito at the base of the throat and he staggered back, then collapsed to one knee, gagging for breath.
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