“Yes. It’s magnificent.”
“Well, in 1959, one day after Fidel marched triumphantly into Havana, lightning struck the statue of Christ, knocking off its head.” He began to laugh. “The leaders of the revolution, of course, were horrified. They were very aware of the people’s superstitions, and they feared the country would rise up and beg Batista to return. Within a day, the statue was repaired, and there is now a lightning rod running up its back to prevent any further comment by the Almighty.”
“No wonder he let the pope pay a visit,” Pitts said.
“How could it be otherwise?” Martinez stroked his mustache again. There was an impish glint in his eyes. “After all, Fidel was educated in Catholic schools.”
They entered the cemetery and made their way down a wide, stone walkway. Ahead stood a small, domed church in which religious funerals were conducted. To its right was a fifty-foot monument, topped by an angel, and dedicated to nine firefighters killed during a catastrophic blaze in 1890.
All about them there were elaborate tombs and above-ground burial vaults, many bearing the busts or photographs of the dead. It made Devlin wonder about the difficulties presented to Cuba’s horde of grave robbers. When they entered the cemetery, they had passed through heavy iron gates, and guards appeared to be everywhere. He asked Martinez about it.
“Yes, there are many guards,” the major said. “And at night the gates are closed and locked, and, as you see, the walls are quite high, and very visible from the street.”
“Then how do they grab the stiffs?” Pitts asked.
“By means of an old Cuban tradition,” the major answered.
“Bribery,” Devlin suggested.
“Let us just say that many of our cemetery guardians are known to shop in our dollar stores.”
They turned onto another walkway and passed a tomb shaped like an Egyptian pyramid.
“The tomb of Jose Mata,” Martinez said. “One of Cuba’s most renowned architects.”
He continued on another fifty yards, when Adrianna reached out and stopped him. She pointed to a vault set behind several others. At its head was a statue of a woman, cradling a child in one arm, while her other supported a large, marble cross. Surrounding the vault were small inscribed tombstones, at least fifty in all, each one garnished with a bouquet of flowers.
“What is that?” she asked.
Martinez gently took her arm and led her to the flower-festooned vault. “This is the grave of Amelia Goyri de Adot, a much-beloved patron of Cuban mothers. Each of the small tombstones that you see is a tribute to a miracle that Amelia is supposed to have performed for a dying child.”
Adrianna turned to him, her face openly curious.
“It is a rather grim story,” Martinez said. “But it speaks clearly about Cuban beliefs, or perhaps more correctly, what Cubans are
“Tell me the story,” Adrianna said.
Martinez studied his shoes for a moment, then began. “Amelia, as you see on her vault, died in childbirth in 1901, and her bereaved husband buried her with the dead infant placed at her feet. Years later, when the husband died, the vault was uncovered to accept his body, and for some reason the casket of Amelia was opened at that time. What was discovered startled those who were present, because the infant was no longer at its mother’s feet, but was cradled in the dead arms of Amelia.”
Adrianna stared at him for a long moment. “So Amelia was buried alive. My God, how horrible.”
Martinez looked at her with his soft eyes. “But that is not how it was seen,” he said. “To the people it showed only that even in death, Amelia had comforted her child, and people began to come to this place, and to pray to her for their own dying children.” He waved his hand, again taking in the small, inscribed tombstones. “And these miracles for these other children occurred. Or, at least, it is how our Cuban mothers would believe it to be.”
Martinez pointed to another nearby walkway. “And ahead, only a short distance from the much-revered Amelia, are the vaults of the Mendez family, where the equally beloved Red Angel was to be buried.”
Adrianna moved ahead of them now. It was, Devlin thought, as if she were moving into her ancestral past, discovering it for the first time. He moved up behind her as she stood before a low iron fence that surrounded a platform made of large marble blocks. Five vaults sat atop the platform, with room for several more. She studied the names, the most recent of which was that of her paternal grandmother, who had died several years before her father and grandfather had fled the island.
“Hard?” he asked.
She remained silent for several moments, then nodded. “I feel like such a stranger. It’s as though my family has been ripped in half, and this was the half I was never allowed to know.” She paused, thinking about what she had said. “It must have been very hard for my grandfather to leave.” She leaned her head against Devlin’s shoulder. “If you died, I don’t think I could ever go so far from where you were buried, know I’d never be able to visit your grave, never be able to come and tell you I still remembered, still loved you.”
Devlin tightened his arm around her shoulder. “We’ll bring your aunt here,” he said. “And we’ll come back and visit her.”
“I must show you something,” Martinez said. He was standing with Pitts on the other side of the gravesite.
Adrianna and Devlin made their way to the back and looked to where Martinez was pointing. At the corner of the gravesite a divot of earth had been removed from the ground.
“It is the same at all the corners,” Martinez said. He reached into his pocket and removed a cloth bag. “Now we must do as the Palo Monte have done. We must take earth from the same places and put with it the red feather that Plante Firme has given us.”
“And then?” Adrianna asked.
“And then we must keep it with us at all times,” Martinez said.
8
The State Security compound, known as the Villa Marista, takes up ten square blocks of a modest residential neighborhood in the city’s Sevillano district. Even from the street it appears ominous, the exterior as forbidding as the notorious prison known to be housed within its grounds. A high wall, topped with razor wire, circles the entire area. Watchtowers stand at the corners, each manned by armed guards. There are television cameras mounted every fifty feet capable of following any vehicle or person moving along the perimeter.
The interior is visible through the heavily guarded gate that serves as the compound’s sole entrance. Beyond the gate a wide, grass-covered parade ground precedes a row of cinderblock buildings. The buildings are painted a flat, dull green, and uniformed guards armed with automatic weapons protect each. It is not a friendly place, nor is it intended to be. It gives off both an aura of power and one of dread, a place that few enter willingly, and where those who leave do so only when permitted.
Cabrera’s office was stark and decidedly military, and when they entered, Devlin and Adrianna were offered equally plain and uncomfortable chairs. Cabrera sat behind a metal desk. He was dressed in uniform, his tunic adorned with numerous ribbons, and aside from the colonel, himself, the only other decorative touch was a large personally inscribed photograph of Fidel in battle fatigues and field cap.
Devlin took in the room, noting its sense of sparse isolation. Martinez had been asked to wait in the outer office. The major had seemed unconcerned, and Devlin had not objected. Both men recognized it as a time-honored police technique. Strip away any hope of assistance, and leave the subjects of interrogation feeling helpless and alone. The only question now was whether Cabrera would play good cop or bad cop.
“I believe another person has joined you in Havana,” Cabrera began. “A detective named Oliver Pitts?”
“That’s right, he came in last night,” Devlin said.
“I assume he is here to help you … make your own inquiries?”
Devlin forced a smile. “Would that be a problem?” he asked.
Cabrera returned the smile. “Yes. I am afraid it would be a serious problem. As I told you when you first
