Red Angel (27 page)

Martínez took Devlin’s arm and started back to their car. “We must never underestimate powers we do not understand.”

In the dark, Devlin could not tell if the major was smiling again. He suspected he was.

“I think we oughta roust this guy DeForio,” Pitts said. “Put his feet to the fire. Maybe get this witch doctor to plant one of those little curses on his ass.”

Devlin and Martínez had joined Pitts outside the Capri Hotel and had told him about Cabrera’s run-in with the
mayimbe.

“It is too early to take Señor DeForio out of play,” Martínez said. “He is here for some purpose we do not yet know.”

“But it doesn’t have anything to do with the disappearance of María Mendez’s body,” Devlin said. He was speculating, but at the same time trying to draw Martínez out.

“I suspect you are correct,” Martínez said. “But I know he is connected to Colonel Cabrera, and somehow to the man from Cobre. I want to know what this second connection is.”

“What about this cottage in Guanabo. The one the Red Angel mentioned in the letter Adrianna found?”

“Unfortunately, this cottage remains a mystery,” Martínez said. “I suspect it once belonged to our Red Angel’s father. In the days of Batista, it was common for members of the oligarchy to have such places by the sea. Guanabo is such a village, with hundreds of small houses facing the beach. Most have been turned over to the people living in that region, and some have been awarded to members of the government.”

“Then there should be records of her getting one,” Devlin said.

“Yes, if it was handled that way,” Martínez said. “It does not appear that it was. However, she could have simply kept it as part of her father’s estate. Those records are kept by the Ministry of Interior. They are quite old. Most date to the early days of our government, and have been stored away. Regrettably, they predate our use of computers, so I have arranged for a physical search.”

“How long?” Devlin asked. He wasn’t sure he bought the story. The NYPD had similar problems locating old cases and department records. But it struck him as another convenient excuse that allowed Martínez to keep his cards close to his vest.

“Tomorrow, perhaps. Certainly by the following day. Then we will go to this cottage and see what the Red Angel has hidden away.”

John the Boss shuffled across the tiled floor and slowly eased himself into the battered old sofa. The house they had given him was a shithole, he told himself. In the old days, when Meyer Lansky ran the country, they had lived like kings. Now everything was crap, and he was even forced to hide in a rat’s nest surrounded by goddamn niggers.

He reached out and picked up the oxygen mask that rested on the arm of the sofa. He took three long breaths, then looked up at the young woman who stood nervously before him. She had been provided by Cabrera as a translator, and he knew Mattie had been fucking her late at night.

When he thought you were asleep, Rossi told himself. Except now you don’t sleep so good anymore.

Rossi studied the young woman. She was young. Maybe twenty. No more than that. She was wearing a thin dress with nothing on underneath, showing off the shape of her tits. He wondered if she was wearing pants, but he couldn’t tell. She had long legs, nice legs, the kind he had liked years ago.

But those days were past. Now he was too old, and too sick. Maybe when this change of heads was done. Maybe then. He really didn’t care. He wanted to live, that was all. The doctor had given him a year, maybe two if he was careful. Careful. His mind snorted at the idea. Who the hell wasn’t careful in his business? You were careful some sonovabitch traitor didn’t stick a knife in your neck didn’t come up behind you and put your brains on the street. How could you be careful when your own heart turned out to be the traitor, or some cancer started eating your guts.

No, a young woman wasn’t what he wanted. He just wanted to live. And he wanted one other thing. He wanted that bastard Devlin dead.

Rossi waved his hand in a circle, getting the young woman’s attention. “A man is coming, an Abakua. He’s in the next room now, and when he comes in here I want you to translate for me.” He watched the young woman nod her understanding. “You tell him exactly what I say. And then you tell me what he says, understand?”

“
Sí
, I understand, señor.”

She’s got a high, girlish voice, Rossi thought, a pretty voice, like a real young kid. Christ, the people you gotta depend on in this fucked-up country.

He raised his hand to Mattie, who was standing by the door. “Get him in here. Let’s get this thing over with.”

Mattie hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to leave this with Cabrera? He said—”

Rossi cut him off. “Fuck Cabrera. He tells me he’s gonna take care of this, but nothing happens. Maybe he’s listening to this prick DeForio. Maybe he’s double-crossing me. I want it done. And I want it done now.”

Mattie raised his hands, as if warding off the verbal assault. “Okay. I just thought—”

“Don’t think. Just do what I say,” Rossi snapped, cutting
him off again. “I want that sonovabitch cop dead. And I want him dead before this change-of-heads thing happens.”

The Abakua was in his early forties. He was medium height, but heavily muscled, and his shirt was opened to mid-chest, revealing a pattern of ritual scars from his induction into the sect.

“You have news for me?” Rossi asked.

When the young woman had translated, the Abakua nodded, then shot back a reply in rapid Spanish.

“He says the ceremony will be tomorrow night in Cojimar,” the young woman said. “It is a village by the sea. He says the
palero
will send someone for you when everything, it is all ready.” She nodded rapidly, trying to confirm that Rossi had understood her translation.

“You tell him that’s good. You also tell him I have another job for him, and I’ll give him ten thousand U.S. dollars if he does it before this ceremony happens.”

Rossi listened to the translation and saw the Abakua’s eyes widen when the amount was mentioned. In a country where a sizable pension was fourteen dollars a month, he was being offered a fortune.

“He says he will be happy to do anything you want,” the young woman translated. There was a wildly hopeful look in her eyes, as if she were calculating some way to receive such a payment herself.

“All right,” Rossi said. “You tell him this is what I want him to do.”

When the Abakua had left, Rossi sent the young woman out of the room. Then he beckoned Mattie to him.

“This woman.” He raised his chin toward the door
through which the young woman had exited. “I don’t want witnesses to this agreement we made. You take her on a little walk. Tell her you wanna take her to some cantina.” He raised a bony finger. “But she don’t come back,
capisce
?”

Mattie let out an unhappy breath.

Rossi smirked at him. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you somebody else to fuck. Call Cabrera and tell him we need a new translator for this ceremony.” He gave Ippolito a cold smile. “You can tell him just what kind of translator you want.”

Mattie stared at his boss. After all these years he should have known better than to try to put one over on him. “What about the nigger?” he asked.

“When he does his job, we get rid of him, too.”

“What if he fucks it up?”

“Then we don’t have to worry about him.” He waved his arm, taking in everything—the room, the neighborhood, Cuba itself. “The kind of money I offered that Abakua bastard …” He paused to let the cold smile return. “The only way he’s gonna quit is if Devlin kills him.”

Devlin lay in bed, Adrianna nestled against his shoulder. They had just made love, slowly, tenderly, and he hoped it had helped drain away the fear she had felt throughout most of the day. He stroked her arm, thinking she was asleep, hoping to provide comfort to her dreams.

She ran her hand across his chest.

“I thought you had already dozed off,” he said.

He felt her cheek press harder against his shoulder. “Not yet. I was just thinking about everything that’s happened since we came here, and how sorry I am I dragged everyone into this.”

“You didn’t drag us in.”

It was Martínez. Devlin thought about that. It was the only thing that made sense. He knew he still didn’t have an
indisputable fix on the time line. But he was getting a feel for it. He thought about Martínez’s call: Your aunt is dying, and you must come at once if you wish to see her. Then the Red Angel’s death, and the theft of her body. But when they arrived they had learned that she had actually died earlier, even before Martínez’s call. The major claimed he hadn’t known, that the hospital had failed to notify him. It was a lame tale, and it wouldn’t surprise him to learn the order of events were actually the reverse, that the major had played them just like Cabrera had—because he, too, wanted them in Cuba. But why? That was the big question, and only one thing made sense. Martínez had known Rossi was involved, and their presence would draw him out. It was all part of some elaborate game he was playing. But Devlin also knew he’d never prove it, probably never get close to the real answer. The Cuban cop hadn’t come clean on anything yet.

“If we hadn’t come … If I hadn’t been such a wimp … If I hadn’t jumped at the chance for you to come with me …”

Devlin pulled Adrianna closer. He didn’t want to tell her about his suspicions. She didn’t need the added burden of knowing her dead aunt was being used in some political game.

“We’re getting close,” he said instead. “Martínez thinks we’ll wrap it up in the next day or two. Then we can bury your aunt and get the hell out of here.”

“What about Cabrera? Ollie pulled a gun on him today. Then he handcuffed him.”

Devlin turned and enfolded her in both arms. “I don’t think Cabrera is going to be a factor when this is over. I think he’s in this thing up to his neck. And Martínez thinks so, too. Don’t forget, he’s got Cipriani under lock and key, along with one of Cabrera’s goons. So Cabrera’s gotta think the major has a shot at proving it. But even if he can’t, I think Cabrera is going to be happy to see us on a plane. He tried to get rid of us—gave it his best shot, and he loused it
up. Once Martínez makes his move, I don’t think he’ll try again. He’ll just want us gone. At that point we’ll be a complication he doesn’t need.”

Adrianna was quiet, and Devlin knew she was thinking it through. “I hope you’re right,” she finally said.

So do I, Devlin thought. Because if I’m not …

The call came in to the Red Angel’s house shortly after ten the next morning. With Martínez’s men watching Cabrera, Ollie spent the night staking out the Capri Hotel. When Cabrera and another man arrived, he went immediately to a phone.

Fifteen minutes later Martínez was at the Red Angel’s house with two men ready to stand guard inside. As he hurried Devlin to his car, he explained that his own men had already notified him about the activity at the Capri Hotel.

They rode the service elevator to the Capri’s ninth floor, where Martínez produced a key to a room directly above the one occupied by DeForio. When they entered, Devlin found two more of Martínez’s men surrounded by high-tech surveillance equipment. The men were monitoring two TV screens attached to VCR recorders. Next to each were video cameras fitted with coaxial tubes that ran down into the floor.

Devlin shook his head. “How long have you had this setup?”

Martínez gave him a boyish grin. “It was a gift of our
long-departed Russian friends. Ingenious, no? The lenses of the cameras are actually in the ceiling of the room below, and the image runs up through the tube. I believe your FBI used something similar in their famous ABSCAM investigation.”

“Cut the crap, Martínez. I mean, how long have you had this
here
?” He was getting a little weary of the major’s bumbling-cop routine.

Martínez stroked his mustache, fighting off a smile. He had known exactly what Devlin had meant. “For several days, my friend. Unfortunately, until this morning, we have learned little.” The smile came out now, and he waved one hand in a circle. “Except for Señor DeForio’s sexual habits. My men tell me they are extensive.”

Martínez pointed to one of the VCR recorders, and one of his men removed his earphones and began to rewind it.

“We will watch what has transpired so far, then we will see what is going on now.” He held one palm out, then brought the other on top of it as if slamming a lid down. “The box, my friend. It is turning into a very nice one, I think.”

Cabrera extended his hand toward the third man. “You, of course, remember our deputy minister, Herman Francisco Sauri.” He spoke in English, a signal that DeForio should do the same, both men aware that the deputy minister prided himself on his fluency.

DeForio stepped forward and took Sauri’s hand. “It’s been too long, Minister. Six months at least, I think.”

Sauri extended his hands to his sides in an expression of regret. “I had hoped to get to New York earlier this year, but pressing matters here made that impossible.”

Sauri was tall and slender, in his mid-forties, with distinguished touches of gray in his jet-black hair. He was cleanshaven and would have been considered handsome except
for an unusually large nose that hooked sharply at its end. He wore a lightweight business suit that had the look of foreign tailoring, and an equally expensive silk necktie, all part of the image he chose to project. As the ranking first deputy of the Ministry of the Interior, he was among the most powerful of Cuba’s younger cadre of rising politicians, and he was often touted as a reflection of the new Cuba, even as a possible future head of state.

DeForio gestured toward a side table that held an assortment of breakfast rolls, coffee, and freshly squeezed juices. “Please help yourself to any refreshments,” he said.

Sauri waved away the offer. “Perhaps coffee, later. I think it best we get down to business.”

They went to the suite’s dining table, where DeForio had already arranged a series of maps and financial projections. The maps included an overall depiction of Cuba, a second of Havana and its environs, another of the resort community of Veradaro, and a final detailed rendering of a large island off Cuba’s southern coast, the Isle of Youth.