thanks to the Virgin, intermingled with pleas for help. A framed notice explained that there were thousands of these gifts and pleas, with many thousands more locked away in storage vaults, Hemingway’s Nobel medal among them.
Devlin and Adrianna moved among the offerings. There were hundreds of military and sports medals, baseballs, soccer balls, small dolls, several full military uniforms, numerous passports and identity cards, even one membership card in the Cuban Communist Party. Most touching were the photographs and accompanying letters, each asking the Virgin to intercede on behalf of the person pictured. Some of the photos were of persons who were gravely ill, but most were alleged to be political prisoners, others, people who had simply disappeared. One photograph, Devlin noted, was draped with both a rosary and a red-and-white-beaded bracelet representing the Afro-Cuban god Chango.
Adrianna read one of the letters that lay beside the photograph of a young man.
“It’s from this man’s mother,” she said. “It says he was a soldier in the army, and that he was taken away at night and accused of spying. His mother says he was innocent, but was never given a lawyer until the day of the trial, that he was convicted after only an hour of testimony, and has spent the last ten years locked in a cell with seven other men. She says he is very sick, and will die unless he is freed, and that she has appealed to the government, even to Fidel, himself, but that no one will help. Now she is turning to the Virgin as the only hope for her son, who she says is a good Catholic.”
Devlin studied the photograph. It showed a young man, dressed in the uniform of a baseball team. He was no more than nineteen or twenty when the photo was taken, and had dark, bright, happy eyes.
“Do you think that’s true? That he was never given a lawyer until the day of the trial, then convicted within an hour?”
Devlin nodded. “Martinez explained the different court systems here. Civilians have to be given a lawyer within ten days of being charged. From that point on, it’s pretty much as it is back home. Bail. House arrest if you’re sick or old. Innocent unless the state can prove otherwise. Martinez says the military isn’t bound by those rules. There, you can be held indefinitely, and you’re guilty unless you can prove them wrong. And you get one day in court to do that, with a lawyer you’ve never met, or even spoken to, going up against a panel of five judges, three of whom are military officers who approved the charges in the first place.”
“God.”
“I don’t imagine it makes for very high morale, but it doesn’t seem to matter. They aren’t doing much soldiering anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every Cuban man has to spend two years in the army. He gets his basic training, but then he’s usually sent to work on a farm. That’s the army’s main function now. Providing cheap agricultural labor. It also runs a chain of hotels for the tourist industry. Martinez said the government gave them that job almost ten years ago, because they didn’t have anything else to do.”
Devlin took her arm and led her back toward the door. “We better check with Martinez and see if his block watcher showed up.”
Adrianna put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Do you think we’ll find her, Paul? Find her body?”
Devlin shook his head. “I don’t know, babe. I think we’re getting close. But there’s too much going on that I still don’t understand. I have no idea how the game is played here. Hell, it’s worse than that. I don’t even know the name of the game we’re playing.”
Outside, they found Martinez just inside the low iron gate. He was speaking with a smallish man, about fifty years old, dressed in rumpled trousers and a work-stained T-shirt. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and matching three-day growth of stubble on his cheeks.
“This is Senor Miguel Caputo,” Martinez said. “He works as a foreman on a nearby pineapple farm, and also as one of our CDR officers here in Cobre.”
Devlin sighed inwardly. The man didn’t exactly inspire confidence.
Martinez rattled off a quick explanation of who Devlin and Adrianna were, and it was met with a broad, almost toothless grin. Caputo turned to Adrianna and jabbered away in rapid-fire Spanish.
“He says he is honored to be of service, and that his entire neighborhood will be honored to have helped the police in this way.”
Devlin nodded and smiled at the man. He turned to Martinez. “That’s great,” he said. “I’m happy he’s honored. But what has he got for us?”
Ollie Pitts wandered through the gate. “Who’s honored?” he asked.
“Senor Caputo,” Devlin said. “The CDR guy.”
“So what’s the little snitch got to say?”
Martinez gestured with his hands, urging patience. “He has just arrived this very moment. Allow me to question him.”
Martinez began with the man as Adrianna translated for Devlin.
“Martinez is reminding him that he filed a report about strangers coming to the village. Caputo is saying yes, that’s true, that at first two strangers came to stay in a large house that sits on a hillside over there.”
Devlin and Adrianna turned to where the CDR man was pointing, but apparently the church blocked the hillside in question. Devlin shook his head in frustration. Adrianna continued to translate.
“He says one of the strangers is an old man, who seemed to be sickly. The man with him is younger, but not too young, and is bigger and more robust. He says there were four Abakua with them. Then more men came today. A small man, who could be a gringo, and a Cuban who looked like a policeman. They had two Abakua with them as well. He says the second group of men left by car about an hour ago.”
Devlin turned to Martinez. “The gringo? You think, maybe, Cipriani?”
Martinez questioned the CDR man again, then turned back to Devlin. “The description is fitted to him. But right now I am more interested in the one who seems to be sick. I have already left instructions that Cipriani is to be stopped if he tries to take a plane from the airport.”
“What if he leaves by car?” Devlin asked.
Martinez shrugged. “There is a main road that takes twelve hours to reach Havana. On this road we would find them. But there are also many small roads through the mountains, and few police to patrol them. If they choose this way, then it will be difficult for us. But I doubt he will travel that way, unless he suspects we are pursuing him. It would take him two days to reach Havana, and Cabrera will want his information more quickly. And if this involves the death of the Red Angel, he will not want it discussed on the telephone.” He raised a finger. “But this other man. He is a mystery. And he is apparently ill, and has at least four Abakua with him. This we must investigate.”
“Who’s watching the house now?” Devlin asked.
A group of worshipers was moving past and Martinez lowered his voice. “Senor Caputo says his wife is being of service in his absence.”
“Jesus.”
Martinez’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Is this not how you would conduct a surveillance in New York?”
Before Devlin could answer, Caputo let out a shout and threw himself forward. Devlin spun around just as a man in a white shirt sent a knife slashing toward the little pineapple foreman’s throat. Caputo moved just in time, and the knife cut across his shoulder. Devlin pushed Adrianna behind him, his hand instinctively reaching for a nonexistent pistol, as Caputo staggered and fell to one knee. The assailant advanced, his knife low, his eyes fixed on Devlin. Behind him, a knife flashed in the hand of a second man. Devlin concentrated on the first man, his attention fixed on the knife, his own hands held slightly above the blade so he could ward off any upward thrust.
The first man feinted to his left, then took a quick step forward. Just as he was about to hook his knife upward in a killing thrust toward Devlin’s heart, Caputo threw his body into the man’s knees. The assailant staggered, still lunging forward, but Devlin grabbed his wrist, twisting it away. His other hand shot out, slapping the back of the man’s head, then pushing down as his knee smashed into the attacker’s face.
The man hit the ground and his knife spun away. Devlin’s eyes snapped up, searching for the second man. That fight was already over. The man lay on the ground, Martinez’s pistol only inches from his face, Ollie Pitts’s
