Devlin had no such need. He hated guns, a hatred that stemmed from the times he had been forced to use one lethally. He still dreamed about those times, especially the first, when he had been forced to take the life of a fellow cop gone mad.
“I think we must be going,” Martinez said. “Plante Firme’s home is in the Lawton district, and it will take us twenty minutes, or more, to get there. And I want to go carefully, to see if we are followed.”
Martinez drove his old Chevrolet along the Avenida de Maceo, which fronted the coast. Like the streets of Old Havana, here the sidewalk promenade was awash with people, many with small children, all escaping the heat-filled confines of small apartments. At the National Hotel, which stood on a high bluff overlooking the sea, Martinez cut back inland, then headed south on the Avenida de los Presidentes. As they entered a large traffic circle with a fountain at its center, he pointed to a tall, stark building on his right.
“That is the Hospital Infantil,” he said. “It is where your aunt worked as a young intern before the revolution.” He gave a small shrug. “But then it was only for the children of the rich. Later your aunt changed that, and it was at this hospital that most of Havana’s children received their inoculations. To this day many people still call it the Hospital of the Red Angel.”
As he had done since they started out, Martinez kept a constant watch in the rearview mirror. From the rear seat, where he sat with Adrianna, Devlin glanced out the back window.
“I don’t see our Abakua friends,” he said.
“No,” Martinez said. “Just the same truck that has remained fifty meters behind since we began.”
Devlin gave the truck greater attention. As he did, the truck pulled out and accelerated. It seemed to leap ahead, coming quickly alongside their rear quarter panel. Now, under the streetlights, Devlin could see two white- clad men behind the windshield.
“Watch it,” he shouted. “They’re in the truck.”
“I see them,” Martinez shouted back. He hit the accelerator and the old Chevy’s big V-eight threw the car forward.
Devlin watched as the truck also jumped forward, quickly coming even with the Chevy’s rear bumper. Before he could warn Martinez, the truck cut sharply to the right, and he felt the jolt and the simultaneous thump as the truck struck the rear fender. Instinctively, he threw his arm around Adrianna and pulled her toward him, hoping his body would serve as a buffer to any heavier impact.
The truck pulled out, preparing to swerve into them again. They were headed down a steep incline, a large rock formation on their right, a sharp right-hand curve rapidly approaching.
As the truck started to jerk toward them again, Martinez hit the brakes, allowing the truck to slide past. Then he cut the wheel left, pressed the accelerator to the floor, and began a quick passing maneuver before the truck could respond.
“Give me your piece,” Pitts growled from the passenger seat. “I’ll pump a few in their door.”
“No,” Martinez snapped.
The Chevy leaped forward, and Martinez took it into the sharp right-hand turn at full speed. The car fishtailed, then straightened, racing along Avenida Rancho Boyeros, then into another sharp turn onto Avenida 20 de Mayo.
To their right, as they made the rum, the large marble monument to Jose Marti loomed above them. Opposite the statue, the wall of the Ministry of the Interior displayed an illuminated silhouette of Che Guevara.
“Back there, in the heavily treed area behind Jose Marti’s statue, is where Fidel’s office is,” Martinez said.
Devlin noted there was no hint of fear in his voice. “Never mind the tourist crap, Martinez,” Devlin snapped. “Just get us the hell out of here.” He tightened his arm around Adrianna. He could feel her tremble under his touch.
“Hey, maybe we should drop in and pay a social call,” Pitts said. “Maybe Fidel’s got some boys with Uzis who can discourage these fucking voodoo assholes.” He jabbed a finger toward Martinez. “You know, you really pissed me off, not giving me your piece back there.”
“I will try to remember next time,” Martinez said. “For now, I must concentrate on losing our pursuers.”
Martinez cut off the main thoroughfare and into a rabbit warren of small streets, turning right, then left at every third or fourth intersection, gradually weaving his way through clusters of small houses, past scattered residential shops, the streets growing darker, the houses poorer with each turn.
The old Chevy, with its large engine and more maneuver-able chassis, quickly left the truck behind. Now the streetlights vanished, the houses became even smaller and more squalid. Here the occasional faces staring out from the sidewalks and front porches were entirely black, the quiet broken only by the sporadic strains of Latin music drifting out from open windows.
Five minutes later Martinez pulled the car to a stop in front of a small blue cinderblock house, with a matching high wall that enclosed a small courtyard.
The major let out a long breath. “We are here,” he said as he climbed out and walked to the rear of the car. Devlin heard him utter a curse as he viewed the damage to his left rear fender.
“We are here,” Pitts mimicked. His eyes roamed the darkened street, taking in a small group of black youths gathered a short distance down the street. “We’re in fucking Harlem and Senor Major’s got the only heat, which, if you ask me, he probably forgot to load.”
“Shut up, Ollie,” Devlin snapped. “In case you didn’t notice, Senor Major kept us from being roadkill back there. So cut him some slack.”
Pitts pushed open his door and heaved his bulk onto the sidewalk. “I hope that’s the only thing that gets cut around here.” He walked to the rear of the car. “Hey, Major, nice neighborhood. You got any baseball bats in the trunk.”
Martinez ignored him. He was still staring at the crumpled rear fender. Even with the lack of light, Pitts could see his face was glowing with rage.
“I’m sorry about your car,” Devlin said as he and Adrianna joined him. “It seems the colonel wants our visit postponed a little longer than he said.”
Martinez nodded. “So it would seem.” He looked up at Pitts, his eyes still angry. “And you do not have to fear our Negroes, Detective. Here in Cuba, they have no need to attack an oppressor. Here we all share misery together.”
Martinez took a bottle of rum from the Chevy’s oversized glove box and led them to a solid iron gate set in the high blue wall. He pulled a chain that rang a small bell inside. Moments later the gate was opened by a thirtyish brown-skinned man, dressed only in a pair of shorts and rubber shower sandals. He greeted Martinez in rapid Spanish, then led them into the small courtyard.
“This is Plante Firme’s son,” Martinez explained. “He asks that we be seated while he gets his father.” The major turned to Devlin and Pitts. “The
The courtyard was small and sparsely furnished. There were four kitchen chairs arranged in a line so they faced a larger, solitary chair that sat with its back to the house. A small pen stood off in one corner, and they could see a half-grown pig snuffling about in the dirt. Martinez pointed to two cast-iron pots off to one side, one slightly larger than the other.
“These are
“They got the bones of some stiff in them?” Pitts asked.
Martinez nodded. “Among other things.”
They seated themselves in the four chairs. Devlin noticed bunches of feathers hanging from an arbor, along with bundles of sticks. The skull of what he thought was a dog sat on a small table off to his right, and, inexplicably, there were posters of American cowboys hanging on the exterior wall of the house.
A large black man came around a corner of the house and entered the courtyard. He stopped at the pen that housed the pig, picked up a bucket, and threw feed to the grunting animal. Finished, he walked slowly-majestically,
