Red Angel

boys had bitten like the chumps they so often were, and had shot the plane down. And the embargo had remained in place.

“I love those Miami Cubans,” DeForio said. “They’ve made so much money, and gained so much political clout, the last thing they want is to see Castro gone. Christ, when the old bastard dies, they’ll all be crying in their rum.”

Burgess relaxed momentarily. “They have been helpful. And I’m sure they will be again if we need them.”

DeForio let out a raucous laugh. “Helpful. Hell, their little Helms-Burton bill was a stroke of genius. Castro was in a box with no place to go. The Soviet Union had collapsed and the Cuban economy-what was left of it-was in the toilet. The people wanted changes and they were fed up with the Comandante’s bullshit about remaining true to the revolution. They wanted trade with the U.S., and the money it would put in their pockets. They wanted freedom to travel, just like all the tourists who were flooding in from Europe and Canada and Mexico. They wanted the whole damn ball of wax, and they had Castro’s back to the wall. It was either give in, quit, or face a rebellion. Then the Helms-Burton bill passes, and all the Cubans who want change are faced with a very sticky problem. Suddenly all the very real goodies they’ve gotten over the past forty years are being threatened. All the agricultural land, all the houses they’ve been given, all of it will be up for grabs if Fidel goes under. And, just that fast, remaining true to the revolution doesn’t look so bad after all.” DeForio threw back his head and laughed again. “It was the smartest political maneuver in this cen tury, and it did the one thing we all wanted. It kept Fidel in power.” He paused, gave Burgess a wide grin, then added: “For now.”

Burgess offered his own weak version of a raucous laugh, joining in this small taste of revelry. Above all else he wanted to keep this man happy. Very happy. “And Helms-Burton isn’t going anyplace. Not for a long time.” He leaned forward, adding weight to his words. “The administration knows better than to step on Jesse Helms’s toes. When it comes to communists and U.S. foreign policy, that old cracker is a law unto himself. And it goes even beyond communists.” Burgess smiled, genuinely this time. “Hell, who else but Helms could suggest a naval blockade of Iraq-a country that’s ninety-nine percent landlocked-and not get himself laughed out of Washington?”

“Who, indeed,” DeForio said. He leaned forward, his dark eyes hard on Burgess. “So I can assure my people they won’t get sandbagged? That three or four months from now they won’t see the embargo flying off into space?”

Burgess twisted again. “You can tell them it’s a very safe bet.”

Mickey D crossed one leg over the other, adjusted the crease in his trousers, and kept his eyes hard. “Safe bets are nice,” he said. “But right now we’re in the final stages of a major development plan. We are buying up foreign companies that are licensed to do business with Cuba, and we’re finalizing negotiations that will give us control of Cuba’s major offshore island. These things will solidify our business position well into the next century.” He paused so his next words would have full effect. “We are talking about a two-billion-dollar investment over the next ten years. An investment of”-he tapped his chest-”our money. And a collapse of the embargo would hurt us.” He stopped and gave Burgess a blatantly false smile. “So we’re not looking for a safe bet, Senator. We’re looking for a sure thing. And we’re expecting you to pull out all the stops.”

Burgess swallowed a snappish answer, just as he had swallowed so much in the past fifteen years. “All stops are out,” he said. “You can give your people my assurance.”

When DeForio had left, Burgess stood at his study window, staring out at the beauty of Washington at night. God. he loved that view, loved this city, the sense of power he felt being an integral part of it. And, above all else, he wanted nothing, nothing to take it from him.

He snorted at the idea. He was baiting himself with the obvious, the first and only true rule of politics: the maintenance of power. He turned away from the window and returned to his desk, trying not to think about all he had done to maintain that power over the past fifteen years. And all because of that little gambling fiasco, all those many years ago. He drew a deep breath. And, since then, everything you’ve done that has added to it.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. God, how he hated these people. How he hated everything they stood for, everything they were. And most of all he hated that he was part of it, part of them, and always would be.

He placed his hands over his face and tried to console himself. At least it wasn’t treasonous. He didn’t care about the Cubans. He believed in his heart they deserved whatever they got. What stuck in his craw was the way he had allowed these Mafia bastards to entrap him. Him. All wrapped up in this insufferable web.

“Bastards,” he hissed aloud. “Goddamn bastards.”

7

You still don’t trust him, do you?”

Adrianna was seated across from him at the small terrace table, their light continental breakfast only picked at. Behind her, Devlin watched the people hurrying along the Prado, the steady line of “camel” buses jammed with morning travelers on their way to work. Cuba was beautiful and sensual, just the way the tropics were supposed to be, he thought. And it was constant chaos, the very antithesis of everything he had been taught to expect. It was the sultry Caribbean with a touch of madness.

“No, I don’t trust him,” he said. “I feel like we’re being manipulated into something, and I haven’t got the slightest idea what it is.”

Adrianna stared down into her coffee. “I don’t care about any of that, Paul. I just want to find my aunt. Just find her body and see that she’s buried.”

“I know that. I want that, too.”

She looked up at him, as if questioning the truthfulness of his words, then looked back into her coffee as if the answer might be there.

Devlin reached out and took her hand. “I love you. And I’ll do anything to keep you from being hurt. I just have to know what’s going on. And right now I don’t.”

“Maybe you never will. Maybe all this insane voodoo can’t be understood. At least not by us.”

“Maybe.”

Devlin watched an old man moving past the hotel. The man had been there ever since they arrived on the terrace. He just walked back and forth along the sidewalk, an ancient thermos bottle cradled in his arm, as he called out the word “cafe” to prospective buyers-the same, solitary word, over and over in a monotonous, pleading voice. Behind him an old woman followed his trail, two worn, already read copies of Granma held out in each hand, calling out the newspaper’s name; hoping someone would buy them and read them again. “Cafe.” “Granma.” Morning songs that might put food on their tables.

Martinez had told him that the highest pension a Cuban could get at retirement-no matter what his rank or position-was two hundred and fifty pesos a month. At the current rate of exchange, that translated into fourteen U.S. dollars.

He looked back at Adrianna. “There are a lot of things about this workers’ paradise that I don’t understand. And Martinez and your aunt, and everything they believed in, are at the head of my list.” He glanced back at the street, at the old man and the old woman. “Until we understand those things, I don’t think we’ll get close to solving this mess.”

A figure caught the corner of his eye and he looked up and found Martinez smiling down at him.

“Perhaps I can help,” the major said.

“With what?” Devlin asked.

“The great mystery of Cuba that you were just discussing.” He gave Adrianna a small bow, then turned back to Devlin. “People of your country have been trying to solve this mystery for years. But they have failed, because they have never asked the right question.”

“What’s the right question?”

Martinez gave him his Cuban shrug and sat down. He was still smiling. “The question is: Why do we love it