Red Angel pd-6

by William Heffernan

  “So why is Cabrera willing to play along? He knows who he’s dealing with.”

  Cipriani glanced at the chair Major Cepedes had occupied.

  “He went to the bathroom,” Mattie the Knife said.

  Cipriani lowered his voice. “Cabrera is one of the young turks waiting in the wings. He wants all the same things the other young turks want. But he also wants something else.”

  Rossi chuckled. “He wants to be the don, the king, when Castro bites the big one.”

  “Good bet,” Cipriani said. “That’s also why he was willing to do this little Palo Monte favor you asked for. You’ve been the opposition. Until now. So he wants to keep you happy.” He paused, deciding if he should continue.

  “Tell me, with all respect, did you ask for this favor because you knew it might kill the whole deal, or do you really believe in this Cuban voodoo?”

  Rossi stared at him, a small smile forming at the comers of his mouth. “What I believe in is none of your fucking business.”

  Cipriani raised his hands as if preparing to ward off a blow. “I’m just trying to cover my own back this time. I do not want to go back to one of Cabrera’s cells in the Villa Marista, or worse, to one of this country’s stinking prisons. And that’s just where I’ll go if I tell Cabrera you’re on board, and then find out you never were.” He shook his head. “I want out this time, Don Giovanni. That’s all I want. My money is already in Brazil, and I want to visit it as soon as possible.”

  Rossi sucked in another lungful of oxygen. “Let’s just say I have some personal reasons for wanting this little favor. And they have nothing to do with DeForio’s plan.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I’m the same age as Castro. This plan of DeForio’s, it’s a long-range thing. Oh, we’ll make money in the short term. But the big money will come when we control this fucking country again. And that won’t happen until Castro is dead and buried.” He took another drag of oxygen. “And where do you think I’ll be then, Mr. Moneyman? I’ll tell you where. If I’m lucky, I’ll be eating my fucking dinner through a straw.” He gave another dismissive wave. “DeForio’s plan means nothing to me. If it helps my friends, that’s all to the good. If not, any money I lose won’t mean a thing to me. So you tell your tin-pot colonel that John the Boss doesn’t give a shit. He has my blessing. And my thanks for this little favor.”

  Cipriani nodded. “When would you like this, ah, ritual performed?”

  “Tomorrow. In Havana. You tell them to take everything to Havana. I haven’t seen that city in forty years, and I wanna go there again.”

  “The Abakua will have to go by car,” Cipriani said. “They have to take their thing with them.”

  “In two days, then,” Rossi said. “But no longer than that. You tell them what I said. Two days. No more.”

  Cipriani hesitated, not sure how he wanted to continue. “There’s also the question about the niece and the New York cop,” he finally said.

  Rossi glared at him. “What about it?”

  A pained look crossed Cipriani’s face. “Cabrera said they’d be dealt with here. He told me I should supervise.”

  Rossi continued to stare at him, then he started to laugh. “Cabrera thinks I need help?”

  “I … I …”

  Rossi waved the man’s stuttering words away. “Get the fuck out of here,” he snapped. “If I wanna kill the man with an adding machine, I’ll call you.”

  When Cipriani and the others had gone, Mattie the Knife helped Rossi up from his chair.

  “Time for a rest, boss?”

  “Is the private jet ready to take us to Havana?”

  “We’re scheduled to leave at nine.”

  “Is Devlin on his way?”

  “I made a call a few minutes ago.” He glanced at his watch. “They should be leaving the hotel anytime now.”

  Rossi gripped Mattie’s arm, his fingers digging in like a claw. “I want him dead. I want him dead before I leave. And, when we get back to New York, I want his kid dead, too.”

  Mattie patted his hand. The consequences of the man’s plans chilled him. “Maybe you should think about this. This could be a bad thing. I know Cabrera has given the okay, but it could still hurt the deal DeForio’s got goin’, and that could upset some people back home.” He let his hand rest on Rossi’s, hoping it would be soothing. “A New York police inspector getting whacked in Cuba. It ain’t good. The Cuban cops are gonna have to take a serious look at that. And if they look hard, they’re gonna find Cabrera. And if they find him, they find DeForio.”

  Rossi glared at him. “Fuck Cabrera and DeForio. And fuck their deal. Devlin’s a dead man. And before I leave this place, I wanna spit in his dead eyes.”

  11

  They drove through the outskirts of the city, following the shoreline of Santiago’s sprawling harbor. They passed a cigar factory, a rum distillery, and a brewery, all positioned to send their cargoes out to sea-mostly to customers that no longer existed. Poor houses, no more than two- or three-room shacks, were jammed into narrow adjoining streets, all surprisingly clean despite the obvious poverty. Young boys, barefoot and shirtless, played in vacant lots and along sidewalks, as young girls stood watching them. Other children sat with women in front yards, some weaving baskets, or mending clothing, or washing dinner dishes in large tubs. On nearly every street, fathers and husbands gathered in small groups, trying to breathe life into beaten old cars and trucks.

  Adrianna, seated next to Devlin in the rear seat, let out a long sigh. “Everything is so damned poor here,” she said.

  The words didn’t seem to be directed at anyone, and Devlin wondered if she was just speaking to herself, just wondering aloud about this strange, impoverished country that was part of her heritage.

  She turned and spoke again, this time to the back of Martinez’s head. “It’s because of the embargo, isn’t it?” she asked. “That’s what’s keeping everyone so poor.”

  Martinez let out a sigh that matched her own. “It is a large part of it. But it is also too simple an answer.” He glanced back and gave her a regretful half smile. “An end to the embargo would make life easier. More tolerable. But Cuba must make changes, too. We survive the embargo. If anything, it gives us strength. It also gives us an excuse, an enemy at which we can point. If the embargo did not exist, changes would still have to be made. Now the government can simply make slogans about preserving the revolution.”

  “And that’s still important to the people?” Adrianna asked. “Preserving the revolution?”

  “Yes. Especially for the older ones, who knew the life Batista gave them. For the younger ones, not so much. They only remember the things they had before the East crumbled, and that these things they still want are no longer available to them.” He made a gesture with one hand like the flapping wing of a bird. “Many would fly to Miami tomorrow, if they could. They see the Miami Cubans who visit, and they see American movies and television, and that is their new paradise.” He glanced back and gave her another half smile. “There is a popular Cuban joke. A young child is asked what he wants to be when he grows up. The child says, ‘I want to be a tourist.’” He paused and glanced out the window, as if the joke was painful to him. “But these children who want to be tourists, I am afraid some of them are twenty and thirty years old.”

  “So why doesn’t your government make the changes?” Devlin asked.

  Martinez let out a small, bitter laugh. “Fidel will not allow it.” He glanced at Devlin, then Adrianna, his eyes harder now. “Fidel is like a monk. He sits in his cell and he worships his god, his revolution. And every small change he is forced to make causes him pain, and he fights it as long as he can.”

  “Sounds like Cuba needs a new revolution,” Pitts said. He made a pistol with his hand. “Knock, knock, Fidel. Time to smell the coffee.”

  “Ah, yes, that is one solution.” Martinez gave him a sad smile. “But what would we get, my friend? A puppet for U.S. business? The Miami Cubans and their old oligarchy?” He shook
his head. “At least Fidel is for the people. He is wrong in many ways. But he wants only good for Cuba.” Again he turned his hand into the wing of a bird. “Unfortunately, that good has also flown away.”

  They left the city and turned onto a narrow, winding road that rose into the Sierra Maestra Mountains. Here, in the lowlands, the earth was red clay, spotted with scrub pines and stunted brush. They passed soldiers walking along the road, then the small military base to which they were headed. A training ground on one side of the road was little more than a few rusted trucks and crumbling concrete fortifications, each pocked with bullet holes served up in training exercises.

  “That’s a military base?” Pitts asked.

  Martinez nodded. “It is the major one for this region.”

  “Jesus Christ, I’ve seen better training facilities at smalltown PDs. How come all the troops are walking?”

  Martinez seemed mildly annoyed. Pitts was digging at his national pride. “There are no parts for their trucks, and those that run have little petrol.”

  Pitts glanced back at Devlin. “And this is the big threat to national security that those assholes in Congress are always ranting and raving about?” he asked. “Shit, the NYPD could take this island.”

  Martinez glared at him. “If you could find us in the mountains,” he snapped.

  “Ollie?”

  Pitts turned to Devlin. “Yeah?”

  “Shut up, Ollie. Not another goddamn word.”

  The road continued to climb, the vegetation becoming thicker and more lush. Goats and the odd cow wandered the roadside. Their car was forced to stop when a large pig blocked their way. It eyed them curiously, sniffed the air as if they might be food, then ambled into the brush. They passed horse-drawn carts and open trucks-the autobuses particulares that plied Santiago’s streets-now carrying people home from their jobs in the city. Small cattle ranches appeared and disappeared, dotted with scrawny cows and men on horseback.

  As they approached the village of Cobre, people appeared on the roadside selling floral wreaths and homemade candles. Several ventured into the road, waving their products as they drove past.

  “For the shrine,” Martinez explained. “As an offering to the Virgin of Caridad.”

  “Who is this virgin?” Pitts asked.

  “Actually, it was a statue,” Martinez said. “Many, many years ago, some sailors were out to sea in a small boat. There was a great storm, and it was certain they would be drowned. Then a wooden statue came floating to them-a statue of the Virgin. They took it into the boat, and the sea became calm. The people said it was a miracle, and the shrine was built to the Virgin. Now people come and ask for her intercession in many matters.”

  “It was a fucking piece of wood?” Pitts asked.

  Martinez gave him a sly smile. “A wooden statue. It is religion, my friend. Just as Lenin said, the opiate of the people, no?”

  The car turned into a side road, marked by a barely identifiable sign. A church appeared in the distance. It seemed to float on a canopy of green foliage, a peak of the Sierra Maestras providing a dramatic backdrop. There was a central spire, flanked by two smaller ones. Here more people lined the roads, offering their wreaths and candles for sale.

  Devlin leaned forward to better see the church. High above the central spire two vultures soared in ever-widening circles. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eight. “Is the shrine still open?” he asked.

  “It is open until dark,” Martinez said. “So people may come after work. We are meeting someone there. There will, perhaps, be time for you to look inside.”

  “Who are we meeting?” Adrianna asked.

  “A member of the local CDR.”

  “One of the spies you guys have on every block?” Pitts asked.

  Martinez ground his teeth. “They are not spies. They are chosen by the people to help the police in their duty.”

  “Yeah,” Pitts said. “We got ‘em, too. We call ‘em snitches.”

  “Ollie.”

  Pitts raised his hands. He gave Devlin an innocent look. “Okay. Okay. Not another word.”

  The shrine was on a high bluff above the village. Its entrance, Martinez explained, was in the church apse, facing the mountain that rose behind it. There was a steep circular drive that led to the rear of the church, ending in a large dirt parking area. Martinez pulled the car between two others, each holding six men. He excused himself, then went to speak to the men in each car.

  Pitts raised himself up and peered into the car beside him. “I see at least two shotguns,” he said. He glanced back and forth between the cars. “Twelve guys. Looks like the major doesn’t fool around when he calls for backup.”

  “I’d like to see the shrine,” Adrianna said.

  Devlin gave her a quizzical look.

  “If there’s time,” she added.

  “I’ll check with Martinez.”

  “Certainly,” Martinez said. “I was actually going to ask the senorita to remain here with two of my men. The house we will be going to is a big question mark.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Only that I do not know what we will find. I would like to keep from placing the senorita in danger.”

  “Where’s the house?”

  “That is another question mark. The CDR man has not yet arrived.”

  Devlin stared up at the sky. The vultures were still circling. When he lowered his eyes, he saw that Martinez was now studying them.

  “Let us hope it is not an omen,” the major said.

  A steady stream of people moved along the walkway that led to the entrance of the shrine. Young men and small boys lined both sides, offering bits of stone and postcard-sized pictures of the Virgin. Devlin took a piece of stone that appeared to be granite and handed two dollars to a small boy with hungry eyes. The child quickly rattled off something in Spanish and gave Devlin a picture as well.

  “They’re a dollar each,” Adrianna said. “He doesn’t want to cheat you.”

  Devlin ruffled the boy’s hair, then reached in his pocket and handed the child two more dollars.

  “The kid would never make it in New York,” he said as he led Adrianna toward the entrance.

  “Why?”

  “Too honest.”

  Adrianna slipped her arm into his and squeezed it against her side. “But cute and clever,” she said. “Clever enough to get two extra bucks out of you.”

  Devlin stopped and turned her to face him. “You think I’ve been had?”

  “Oh yes.”

  His face broke into a wide grin. “The little bugger,” he said.

  They passed through a gate in the low iron fence that surrounded the shrine, then through a high arched doorway. Inside, they found themselves in a modest room, no more than twenty by thirty feet. Directly opposite, facing the entrance, was an ornate altar of Gothic arches and marble pillars. Set in its center was a statue of the Virgin of Caridad. The statue was dressed in satin robes of gold and ocher, and had a smaller statue of the infant Jesus cradled in its arms. On each side of the altar, and hanging in display cases on all the walls, were gifts of thanks to the Virgin, intermingled with pleas for help. A framed notice explained that there were thousands of these gifts and pleas, with many thousands more locked away in storage vaults, Hemingway’s Nobel medal among them.

  Devlin and Adrianna moved among the offerings. There were hundreds of military and sports medals, baseballs, soccer balls, small dolls, several full military uniforms, numerous passports and identity cards, even one membership card in the Cuban Communist Party. Most touching were the photographs and accompanying letters, each asking the Virgin to intercede on behalf of the person pictured. Some of the photos were of persons who were gravely ill, but most were alleged to be political prisoners, others, people who had simply disappeared. One photograph, Devlin noted, was draped with both a rosary and a red-and-white-beaded bracelet representing the Afro-Cuban god Chango.

  Adrianna read one of the letters that lay beside th
e photograph of a young man.

  “It’s from this man’s mother,” she said. “It says he was a soldier in the army, and that he was taken away at night and accused of spying. His mother says he was innocent, but was never given a lawyer until the day of the trial, that he was convicted after only an hour of testimony, and has spent the last ten years locked in a cell with seven other men. She says he is very sick, and will die unless he is freed, and that she has appealed to the government, even to Fidel, himself, but that no one will help. Now she is turning to the Virgin as the only hope for her son, who she says is a good Catholic.”

  Devlin studied the photograph. It showed a young man, dressed in the uniform of a baseball team. He was no more than nineteen or twenty when the photo was taken, and had dark, bright, happy eyes.

  “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. “Martinez 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. Martinez 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. Martinez said the government gave them that job almost ten years ago, because they didn’t have anything else to do.”