Red Angel (8 page)

As the ancient Chevrolet made its way toward the Vedado section of Havana, Devlin lowered his window to gain some relief from the lack of air-conditioning. Music blared from open louvered doors and windows, and somewhere in the distance he heard a cock crowing. It was his first look at the morning madness of Cuban traffic. Bicycles and aging motorcycles dominated the streets, all with at least two riders. Many of the motorcycles were equipped with sidecars and carried two or three more—all of it, Martínez explained, a tribute to the fuel shortages that plagued the island. As they turned a corner, Martínez pointed out two enormous buses, the likes of which Devlin had never seen, each one disgorging its passengers into plumes of diesel smoke. The buses were tractor-trailer trucks converted to transport people. They had arrived on the island in exchange for Cuban sugar and citrus, part of a deal with the now defunct Soviet empire. The trailer section, which Martínez described as “a tribute to Cuban insanity,” had then been converted by Cuban engineers, fitted with
cheap plastic seats and a row of narrow windows that seldom worked. The engineers also created a large dip in the center to accommodate a second door, and it made the entire vehicle appear to have two enormous humps. “The people call the buses ‘camels,’” Martínez said. “They also call them many other things when the windows fail to work. Especially on steamy July days, like the one we are now enduring.”

Devlin stared out the window. The surrounding buildings looked battered and beaten, the absence of paint and repair leaving exterior walls pitted like decayed teeth. Sections of sidewalk had crumbled away, and holes in the roadway had been haphazardly filled with sand and stone.

In many ways, Havana had the look of a city that had endured a recent war. Except for the inhabitants. He had never seen people in a large city seem more relaxed or at ease with each other. Pedestrians wandered into the streets, unconcerned about oncoming traffic. And drivers simply stopped and waited for them to pass. There were no blaring horns, no shouted curses, threatening mayhem. It was as though everyone had the right to move about as they pleased, as if every inch of territory was shared equally. And, God, they were beautiful people, Devlin thought—almost uniformly beautiful, in every shade of white and tan and brown and black. Adrianna came by it naturally, he told himself. It was in her genes.

The funeral home was located on Calzada and K streets, and the sign out front identified it simply as FUNERARIA CALZADA Y K.

“Why was the body sent here?” Devlin asked as he stepped from the car onto another crumbling sidewalk.

They were standing on the edge of a small park, two blocks away from the U.S. Interests Section office. In the distance Devlin could see a long line of people, all waiting for a chance at a U.S. visa.

Martínez waved his arm, taking in the exterior of the funeral home. It was a shabby, three-story poured-concrete structure, dotted with small casement windows and fake marble trim. “This is considered the finest funeral home in Havana,” he said. “It is where the bodies of all high government officials are taken.”

Adrianna slipped her arm in Devlin’s. She was staring at the covered stone staircase that led to the second level. The interior beyond seemed forbidding, and her normally calm brown eyes were suddenly nervous.

“Do you want to go in?” Devlin asked. “I want to use Martínez to get into the areas the public doesn’t normally see. So we might end up in places—”

Adrianna shook her head, cutting him off. “No, I think I’ll wait here in the park. I brought a sketch pad with me. I’ll just find a place to sit and draw. I don’t need this to be any grimmer than it already is.”

The floor and walls of the lobby were covered with stark pink marble that had not been polished in a long time, and it gave off a dull, flat, lifeless look that offered little hope of comfort. From the lobby Martínez and Devlin entered a long, wide room where the marble gave way to stone. Here a line of identical wooden rocking chairs ran down the room’s center. Freestanding ashtrays had been placed between the chairs, all of which were now empty. Smaller rooms opened off the larger one. Devlin entered one and found an old man lying in an open coffin, its lid standing on end against a nearby wall. There was an elderly woman seated in a chair beside the old man’s bier. Devlin nodded a condolence, or an apology, he wasn’t certain which, then turned away. A stained-glass window at the far end of the room drew his eye. It offered the only natural light in this otherwise dimly lighted space, and it depicted a scene of a sailing ship out at
sea. Devlin wondered if it was meant to imply some final journey now under way.

“How long do bodies stay here?” he asked.

“Normally, only one day. Burials are done quickly here, because of the heat.”

“Is there any security when the place is empty?”

“It is never empty,” Martínez said. “It is our custom to have a family member remain with the body until it is buried the next day.”

“But that didn’t happen in this case.”

Martínez shook his head. “The Red Angel’s body never reached this room.”

“Let’s go see the room it did reach.”

The office was off the lobby. There were four people inside—a middle-aged woman seated behind a cluttered metal desk and four men lounging about, drinking coffee. All wore lab coats and bored faces.

Martínez flashed his badge and asked several questions in Spanish, the words coming too rapidly for Devlin to make even a stab at interpretation.

The woman nodded and signaled to one of the men, who immediately opened a rear door, beckoning them to follow. The man, who was tall and slender and somewhere in his mid-thirties, led them down a dark, narrow staircase that opened into a large, dingy room. Several carts were lined up along one wall, two of which held bodies covered with graying, white sheets. There was a hole in one of the sheets, through which the nose of one corpse protruded as if getting a final whiff of life. To the left was an open bay with two hearses parked in tandem, the hood of one jutting out into the street. An old man sat in a chair beside the open door.

Devlin raised his chin toward the old man. “Is he the only guard?”

Martínez relayed the question to their guide.

He answered with a terse “
Sí. Solo.
”

Martínez walked to the first of two other doors and opened it. Beyond. Devlin could see a refrigerated room that held more carts and bodies. He closed it and opened the second door, revealing the naked body of a young woman on a mortician’s table. Two men dressed in lab coats looked up quickly. The older of the pair stared at Martínez with annoyance. His younger assistant simply looked startled, as though he had been caught doing something illicit. Martínez displayed his badge and apologized, then turned back to Devlin and shrugged.

“What time did the body disappear?” Devlin asked.

Martínez glanced at his watch. “It was about this time of day.”

“Let’s find out if the old man was working then.”

The old man stared up at them, a slightly amused look spread across a weathered face.

Martínez loosed a string of questions, which the old man answered with a nod, a raised eyebrow, and a rapid flow of Spanish that Devlin could not follow.

“He was working here when the body disappeared,” Martínez said. A small smile played across his lips. “He is very defensive. He says he had to relieve himself and went to the
baño
—um, the bathroom. He says the body must have been taken then.”

“Where was the body?”

Martínez raised his chin toward one of the interior doors. “It was in the refrigerated room. He said the body still had bandages on it when it came from the hospital, and it is his job to remove them. He did this, and saw that the body had been badly burned about the face and arms. He feared decomposition would come quickly, so he placed it inside the room so it would remain cool.”

“Does he know who it was?”

Martínez asked the question, then turned back to Devlin
and shook his head. “He said the paperwork did not have a name. The driver told him he had not been given any, that it would be sent later in the day.”

“And he didn’t recognize who it was?”

Martínez relayed the question. “He says the face was badly burned and swollen, that it could have been his mother and he would not have known.”

The old man smiled at Devlin. He had only four teeth in the front of his head. He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a black feather, then began babbling in rapid Spanish. His final words were the only thing Devlin could understand. They were “Palo Monte.”

“Did I hear him right?” Devlin asked.

Martínez took the feather and nodded. “He says he found the feather inside the refrigerated room. I have seen these feathers before. They are from a scavenger bird called the
aura tinosa
, and are considered sacred by the followers of Palo Monte, who call the bird
mayimbe.
The feather is always used as a part of their
mpaca
, which is a type of charm made from an animal horn that must always be worn by a Palo Monte priest.”

“Did the old man tell anyone else about this feather?”

Martínez asked, then shook his head. “He says the young officer who was here treated him like an old fool, so he didn’t offer the information. He says he decided to save the feather so he could give it to the
palero
, the Palo Monte priest, when he returned for it.”

“Is that likely? That the
palero
will come back for it?”

Martínez shrugged. “I do not think so. There will be other feathers in the
palero’s nganga.
”

“His what?”

Martínez smiled and took Devlin’s arm. “Come. I think we have found everything we can here. If Palo Monte is involved in this, there is much that you must learn. And I can tell you only a small part of it.”

Two men are watching us,” Adrianna said. She handed Martínez her sketch pad. “I drew this. It only shows their faces in profile. It was the best I could do without them knowing.”

Martínez nodded. “Yes, the two men dressed in white. They have been following us since we left the hotel. I suspect they will continue to follow us, so this picture of their faces may be useful.” He tore off the top sheet, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

“Cabrera’s men?” Devlin asked.

“They are Abakua.” He pronounced the word
Ahh-bah-quah.
“This particular sect is unusual. They dress all in white and are known to work for State Security, which in itself is unusual. Normally, the Abakua shun the police and the government. Fortunately for us, these Abakua are not very good at their jobs.”

“What the hell is an Abakua?” Devlin asked.

“It is a secret society with many sects. Very violent and dangerous, and much feared by the people. They consider
themselves part of Palo Monte, yet apart from it. Most
paleros
wish they were even more apart.”

“Great. We’re being followed by
lunatic
voodoo worshipers, who also happen to work for the secret police.” He reached out and placed a hand on Martínez’s shoulder. “You have any good news?”

Martínez offered up one of his mournful smiles. “Soon, my friend. Soon we will have good news. I promise you.”

They drove a dozen blocks before Martínez pulled to the curb in front of a large, crumbling house that would easily qualify as a small mansion.

He turned to face Adrianna. “This is your ancestral home,” he said. “It was the home of your grandfather before he left Cuba. It was also the home of his father before him.”

Adrianna turned to look at the house. It was two stories of stone, covered with stucco that had fallen away in places. There were two balconies visible from the front, with ornately carved stone balustrades and curved floor-to-ceiling windows. The small front yard was closed off by a low stone wall and iron gates, and behind it thick tropical vegetation hid much of the house from view. There was a long driveway that led back to a large detached carriage house, with long-disused servants’ quarters above. It was one of those houses that years before must have seemed impervious to any changes that might come.

On either side stood equally once elegant homes, homes that now spoke of the new Cuba of the past forty years. To the left was a brightly painted and well-tended mansion that served as the headquarters of the Cuban Olympic Committee. To the right was an even larger, but fast-crumbling house that had been converted into apartments. A large Cuban flag hung from one window of the second house, while another held freshly washed clothing set out to dry.

“It’s like seeing a world that doesn’t exist anymore,” Adrianna said. “I’m trying to imagine what all this was like when my grandfather lived here.”

“It was an elegant neighborhood,” Martínez offered. “People like your grandfather lived in great splendor, while others barely lived at all.” He shrugged, as if apologizing for that regretful truth. “Your aunt returned to the house after the revolution. She lived here with her sister, Amelia, and her sister’s husband. But apparently the two women did not get along, and later Fidel gave her another house in Miramar, where many of the leaders of the revolution still live.”

“Fidel
gave
her a house?
Himself?
”

“Oh yes. All the houses given to heroes of the revolution were selected by Fidel, or at least personally approved by him. It is the same today. He is—how do you say it?—a micromanager?” Martínez seemed pleased with his use of the word. “Anyway, your tía Amelia lives here alone now. Her husband died several years ago. But certainly you knew that.”

Adrianna shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I never even met my aunt Amelia.” Her hands tightened in her lap. “I guess it’s time I did.”

A small, agitated woman with the darting eyes of an angry bird opened the door. Amelia Mendez de Pedroso glared at Adrianna, then at the two men. Her hair was pulled back in a tight gray bun. Strands had pulled free on either side, and it gave her a wild, slightly mad look. She was frail, almost shrunken, and well into her seventies. Yet there was an intimidating quality about her that caused Adrianna to hesitate.