Red Angel (31 page)

Martínez shrugged. “A small lie, I am afraid. What the politicians would call a matter of convenience.”

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 to 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.”

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.