Red Angel (25 page)

“It would be better if they just accepted the phony body, buried it, and went home. It would be cleaner.”

Cabrera nodded his agreement. DeForio was right. It would be much cleaner. But unfortunately, such a scenario was impossible. The old man had made that very clear. No matter the outcome, the Americans were going to disappear—permanently. He smiled at DeForio.

“I am certain that they will,” Cabrera said. “Then, I assure you, I will personally put them on the plane.”

Cabrera’s driver called to him through the open car window, and the colonel excused himself. DeForio watched as he spoke on the car’s radio. When he returned, DeForio thought the colonel looked agitated, even a bit nervous.

“Another problem?” he asked.

“Plante Firme survived our attack.” His voice was a low hiss. “His grandson was killed.”

“What about your men?”

Cabrera drew a breath. “They escaped.” He let the subject die there. He had no intention of telling DeForio that his men were missing, presumably running in fear—from both the
palero
and himself.

“What does this do to your plan? The rest of this phony body was supposed to be found at this guy’s house?” DeForio’s eyes had hardened. It was clear these repeated reversals were eroding his confidence.

Cabrera waved away DeForio’s concern. He needed to make the problem seem less significant. “The man is only a Negro witch doctor, a superstitious old fool. We will do as we wish with him, and no one will take seriously anything he says, or does.” Cabrera felt a tingle of fear as he spoke the words. He attributed it to the superstitions of his own youth and pushed it aside. There was too much at stake to allow old, childhood fears to intrude on what had to be done.

He gave DeForio a false smile. “This old
palero
knows what can be done to him now. It would not surprise me if he disappeared into the countryside. There, he can shake his rattle and issue curses on those who killed his grandson.”

DeForio found logic in Cabrera’s words. “Jesus, what the hell does Rossi see in all this shit? No wonder those old-timers got thrown out of here fifty years ago. They were all probably listening to these goddamn witch doctors.” He shook his head. “Fucking old Sicilians. Thank God Rossi’s one of the last of them.” He looked at Cabrera and smiled. “Can you imagine, a man like that, one of the heads of the five families, believing in this shit?”

Cabrera returned the smile, fighting to ignore the fear that gnawed at him. Yes, he could believe it, he thought. He could believe it all too well, no matter how much he told himself he did not.

“Señor Rossi is an old man,” he said. “We must be indulgent.”

The crowd pressed in, surrounding the dancers. Bodies swayed and heads bobbed as the beat of the drums provided a steady, undulating rhythm. From the rear of the crowd,
Devlin could see only two of the dancers. Both were men, standing on high stilts, both dressed in costumes of bright yellow and red, colors worn to honor Chango, a much-favored
orisha
among the Abakua.

They had followed DeForio and Cabrera from the ferry, and now found themselves in the subcity of Guanabacoa, a small, independent municipality that still fell under the overall jurisdiction of Havana. But only technically, Martínez had explained. Guanabacoa was truly controlled by the Abakua. It was their stronghold, and few in the government sought to challenge it.

“This little festival,” Martínez said, “it has been proclaimed only by the Abakua. The government does not recognize it.” He waved his finger in a small circle. “But you see how many people are here. They are supposed to be at work. But the Abakua have declared a holiday, so for them it is a holiday.”

Pitts and Martínez’s men were ahead of them, staying close to Cabrera and DeForio, who had abandoned their car because of the crowd. Martínez and Devlin had remained as far back as possible.

“Keep your wallet and your pistol under guard,” Martínez said. “Our friends dressed in white are Cuba’s only danger to tourists.”

Along the edge of the crowd, standing like sentries, Devlin could see a ring of white-clad Abakua guarding the ceremony. As they drew closer to the center of the circle, he could see the other dancers, men and women, each dressed in an elaborate costume, the women’s bodies writhing to the beat of the drums, the men swaying beneath long poles, the tops of which were decorated in brightly colored cloth woven into intricate patterns to represent the
orishas
who were being honored that day.

The crowd seemed alive, like a single organism, and Devlin realized it would not take much to turn these people against a perceived enemy. Martínez had been right when he
had used the term “stronghold.” And the people who controlled it, the Abakua, belonged to Cabrera.

He leaned into Martínez. “How are you going to stop this changing-of-heads ritual if it happens here?” he asked.

“I am not going to stop it, my friend,” Martínez said. “The ritual will take place. But after it does, the
nganga
will be taken away to safety. Then, I will seize it.”

“And the Americans, and Cabrera?”

“They, too, will not go far. But first we must locate this man from Cobre and the
nganga
that has been made for him. Then we will close the lid of our little box.”

When they cleared the crowd, one of Martínez’s men was waiting for them at the corner of a narrow side street. He reported in rapid Spanish.

“They have gone into a house on this street,” Martínez said. “There is a rental car parked in the driveway. The license plates tell us it comes from a rental agency that operates out of the domestic terminal at Havana airport—the same terminal where the plane used by the man in Cobre landed. I suspect we have found his hiding place.”

“We need to be sure.”

Martínez nodded. “Yes, my friend, you are right. As soon as Cabrera and Señor DeForio leave, we will execute a little plan that I have.”

“What do you mean, tomorrow night?” Rossi glared at Cabrera. “It was supposed to be tonight. You think I wanna stay in this nigger-infested shithole another day?”

Cabrera held out his hands in an expression of regret. “The
palero
will not come tonight,” he said. “Siete Rayos has cast the coconuts, and has been told by the dead one that he must wait.”

Rossi considered this, then let out a long breath. “All right, all right. Tomorrow night.”

DeForio couldn’t believe what he was seeing. John the Boss Rossi, one of the most powerful figures in organized crime, giving in to the mumbo jumbo of a goddamn witch doctor. He stared at Rossi. The man was old and sick, but still someone to be feared. And he believed in this shit. He actually
believed
in it. DeForio ground his teeth. This had to stop. He had to talk to his people back home. A two-billion-dollar investment, and it was all hanging on some goddamn nigger rolling coconut shells on the fucking floor. And all of it right under the noses of the government. If the woman’s body was found … If the two things were ever connected … He closed his eyes and pressed a thumb and index finger against them. He had to do something to lower the risk. At the very least get this thing moved out into the countryside. He turned a false smile on Rossi.

“Don Giovanni, with all respect, I have to move ahead with the business we’re here to conduct.”

Rossi turned his glare on DeForio. “The two things got nothin’ to do with each other. You do what you think is best.”

DeForio tried to phrase the next words in his mind before saying them aloud.

“This woman’s body. It’s causing some complications.” He gave Rossi a helpless shrug. “Before, when this thing was being done so far away, it didn’t present much of a problem.” He spread his arms to take in the room. “But here, so close to Havana, it’s right under
everybody’s
nose. I just think it’s dangerous.” He placed one hand against his chest. “To all of us. To what we’re trying to do.”

Rossi jerked his chin toward Cabrera. “The colonel’s got that under control.” He stared at Cabrera. “Am I right?”

Cabrera nodded.
“Sí
, señor. It is all under control.”

“With all respect again,” DeForio began. “But it doesn’t seem that way to me. We got a lot of exposure here that we don’t need.”

Mattie the Knife Ippolito stepped out from behind
Rossi’s chair. “Hey, you heard what he said. It’s under control. You just watch your fucking mouth.”

“I’m just trying—”

Rossi cut him off. “You don’t try nothin’. You’re a fucking errand boy here. You do what you’re here to do. and you keep your mouth shut. The heads of the other families agreed to this little thing I’m doing here. You don’t like it, you take it up with them. But I warn you. You go up against me, they’ll bury you with your fancy college diplomas sticking out of your ass. You got that?”

DeForio felt a chill. He shook his head. “I’m not going up against—”

Again, Rossi cut him off. “You bet your fucking life you won’t.” He gave DeForio a cold smile. “Because that’s just what you’re betting if you try.”

Adrianna sat at the small, cluttered desk, her aunt’s papers and correspondence spread out before her. It was clear that someone had gone through these same papers. The woman’s meticulousness was amazing, yet many of the papers had been stuffed back into folders or the drawers of her desk with little care. Something clumsy and rushed, as if the papers had been found useless and were being cast aside.

The apparent search did not surprise her. Certainly, the disappearance of her aunt’s body would have prompted police to investigate any possible threats from, or contacts with, groups or individuals who might be responsible. But it also bolstered Martínez’s belief that her aunt had been murdered after she stumbled on information that endangered someone in the government. In either case, a search might then have been conducted either by Martínez himself or by someone looking for that information.

Adrianna sat back in the hard wooden chair her aunt had chosen for her desk. It was useless to speculate, and she
doubted Martínez would tell her if it was he who had ordered the search. She glanced about the room. It was austere and simple, lacking even a single luxury. She recalled Martínez’s claim that Fidel Castro lived and thought like a monk, and she wondered if many of those who had brought about Cuba’s revolution had chosen that personal lifestyle.

Martínez had told her another story, this one about Che Guevara. Shortly after the new government had taken power, Guevara learned that he and other top officials were receiving compensation that was disproportionately high, and had ordered an immediate readjustment. Later, Martínez claimed, Guevara found he was unable to pay the family’s electric bill. Fearing the power would be turned off, he had his wife telephone the appropriate official to ask for additional time. Martínez had insisted such an action never would have been taken against Che, but that he and Señora Guevara had obviously believed they were subject to that penalty.

She smiled at the story, perhaps true, perhaps only part of the Guevara legend. Still, she recognized that the country had changed from those idealistic days. Now there were private clubs for high government officials. There were comfortable homes and lifestyles that far exceeded those of the average Cuban. And there were men like Cabrera, who, if Martínez was right, were corrupting everything her aunt and the other founders of the revolution had struggled to achieve.

She wondered if she was really offended by that corruption, and found that she was. It was strange, since she did not believe in the core principles of the revolution itself. Still, it was there. A recognition that some effort for good, however naive or misguided, had been tainted by the same self-serving class who always seem to emerge at the end of every struggle—the people who always view an opportunity to give as a chance to take even more for themselves.

Adrianna stared at the papers spread across the desk. Her search had lasted three hours and had produced little more
than a picture of her aunt’s persistent idealism. She pushed herself back and began to rise when her knee struck the corner of the desk’s middle drawer. Wincing in pain, she reached down to rub it, and found her hand brushing against something that had not been there before.

Adrianna pushed the chair back and peered into the desk’s kneehole. The bottom of the middle drawer had fallen away, revealing a false bottom that held a single sheet of paper. She pulled the paper free and began to read. It was a simple message, and she translated it as she read.

“In the event of my death or disappearance, I direct investigators to my cottage in Guanabo. There, under the floor, you will find a safe. It may be opened with the following combination: 17 L; 32 R; 6 L; 27 R; 9 L. Documents within support my belief that corruption exists in our government that threatens the very fabric of the revolution.”

It was signed simply María Mendez, M.D.

Adrianna copied the message in English, then returned the original to the hidden compartment. She stared at the copy. “My cottage in Guanabo.”

Earlier she had come across a map of Cuba. She went quickly through the desk drawers and found it again. Guanabo appeared to be a small seaside village no more than fifteen or twenty kilometers from Havana.

But where? There was no address. Nothing to indicate where the cottage was located. Certainly, if investigators, or others who had searched her house, had known about the cottage, they would already have searched there as well. But what if they hadn’t? Then the evidence her aunt had written about would still be there. She could think of only one person who might know about the cottage. Her aunt Amelia.

The taxi dropped Adrianna in front of her aunt’s house fifteen minutes later. She crossed the crumbling sidewalk, then
hesitated as her hand reached for the front gate. She wondered how her aunt would react to yet another unannounced visit. She had assured Devlin that her aunt Amelia had been overwhelmed by their earlier invasion of her home, perhaps even frightened by the presence of so many strange men. But even then she had doubted that was true. Amelia Méndez de Pedroso did not strike her as a frightened old woman. Her main concern had been that someone—specifically Adrianna—might want to take something from the home she had wrested from her “communist sister.” Now Adrianna was coming back to ask about a cottage that might have been another bone of contention between the two women.