a finger at Cabrera and lowered his voice to a whisper. “If this brings the government down, we could all be fucked. We need the Comandante in power if the embargo is going to hold.”

“It is arranged,” Cabrera said. “It will be done tomorrow.”

“How?”

Cabrera leaned forward, bringing his own voice down to a whisper. “We have the body of another woman. The same age and size, and so badly burned and deteriorated a positive identification will be impossible.”

“What about her fucking dental records?” DeForio hissed.

Cabrera smiled. “Her head is missing. It will be found in a nganga at the house of a palero named Plante Firme. But only a portion of it. Without teeth, of course. It would seem this palero may have been in league with antigovernment insurgents.” Cabrera lowered his voice even further, and his eyes hardened. “This appears to be the course the investigation is following. This way, the evidence Martinez has gathered will not be contradicted.”

“And what if the palero denies all this crap?”

“That will be difficult,” Cabrera said. “Plante Firme will be dead tomorrow.”

When they left the restaurant, Pitts dropped off Cabrera and followed the second man to the Capri Hotel. Inside the lobby, DeForio veered off to the bar. Pitts quickly latched onto a young prostitute, who surprised him by speaking semifluent English. He took a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, her normal fee for an evening of pleasure, ripped it in half, and told her if she returned with the man’s name and room number, she would get the other half.

“Geev me twenty dollars more,” she said. Pitts was about to snatch the torn fifty from her hand, when she began nodding vigorously and assured him she would return with the name and room number in only a minute.

He handed her a twenty and watched as she approached a tall, slender young man, dressed in tan slacks and a white shirt and tie, one of several stationed around the lobby as security guards. She led the man to the entrance of the bar and whispered in his ear. When he whispered back, she handed him the twenty and returned to Pitts.

“Hees es called Miguel De-Four-e-o. Hees chamber es a berry es-pensive suite. Nombre Siete-zero-dos, how you say, Seben-o-two.” She reached out and plucked the second half of the fifty from Pitts’s hand. A wide smile spread across her beautiful face. “Now I tink I go and fuck heem.”

Devlin and Martinez stood on Calle Obrapia as a milling crowd of tourists waited to push their way into El Floridita, the so-called cradle of the daiquiri made famous by Ernest Hemingway’s patronage. A crazy man stood guard in front of the door, “protecting” the tourists and accepting tips. He refused to move despite warnings from the restaurant’s official doorman, who repeatedly stuck his head out to utter harsh Spanish threats.

The crazy man was at least six-foot-three, rail thin, and well into his fifties. He had a gentle brown face and was dressed in dirty red shorts and a dirty striped shirt, with a chain of beer-can tabs draped across his chest like a bandolier. He had a wooden stick, tied at both ends with twine, and slung from his shoulder like a rifle. Flip-flops, a battered bicycle helmet, and a full gray beard completed his costume. When Pitts arrived at ten-fifteen, the “guard” saluted him and held out his hand for a reward.

“I already gave in Times Square,” Pitts snarled.

“You’re late,” Devlin snapped, frustrated by his own unproductive day.

“Yeah,” Pitts said. “But I come bearing gold.”

They pushed their way inside and Martinez flashed his ID to the real doorman, who immediately made room for them at the crowded bar.

Pitts grinned. “Just like the Apple. A flash of tin works just like a double sawbuck.”

Martinez shook his head. “Is he speaking English?” he asked Devlin.

Devlin ignored him and eyed the crowded mahogany bar with displeasure. Two young women with Canadian accents, obviously alone and on the prowl, gave them appraising looks. El Floridita was a tourist trap, a beautiful one, but still a tourist trap. There was a mural on the back bar, depicting three-masted sailing ships entering Havana harbor. In front of it was a bronze statue of a man giving water to a child, and to either side, iron baskets filled with fruit. To the left was a bust of Hemingway, along with seven photos showing the author with various American luminaries. The only ones Devlin recognized were the actors Errol Flynn and Gary Cooper. Two other photos were of Hemingway with a young Fidel Castro.

He turned to Martinez. “Why the hell are we talking in here?” he asked.

Martinez’s soft eyes became infuriatingly tolerant. “Tourists have no interest in anything but pleasure,” he said. “We will be ignored when we offer none. And there is a convenient side door onto another street if we must leave quickly.” He added a gentle smile. “Besides, one of my men is outside. He will warn us if State Security put their noses in.” The answer didn’t satisfy Devlin, and Martinez placed a hand on his shoulder. “Trust me, my friend. I know how best to hide in my own city.”

Devlin turned to Pitts as Martinez ordered them each a frozen daiquiri. “What did you get?”

Pitts told him, making a point of the seventy dollars he had given the Capri Hotel hooker. He grinned. “I hope it’s worth seventy bucks in expense money,” he said.

Devlin stared at him. “Me, too, Ollie. Since it’s my seventy bucks.” He turned to Martinez. “The name mean anything to you?”

Devlin thought he saw a flicker in the major’s eyes.

“No,” he said. “But I will check our files, and also with the immigration police.” He turned to Pitts. “Did you get the number of the car?”

Pitts handed him a slip of paper.

“I can tell from this license-plate number it is a rental car.” Martinez said. “I will check that, also.”

“I want to do more than check it,” Devlin said. He took the slip of paper and copied the plate number in a notebook. “I’ll get on this guy tomorrow morning,” he said. “Ollie, I want you to follow Cabrera again. This time from his home. According to the major, he only lives a couple of blocks from the Red Angel’s house.”

“I will give you the address,” Martinez said. His eyes lost their gentleness. “And I will accompany you to the Capri Hotel. I want very much to see this man with my own eyes.”

When they left El Floridita, the crazy man was still on guard. As they moved past, he nodded to Martinez.

“Buenas noches, jefe,” he said.

Devlin stopped short and stared at the man, then at Martinez. “Your man?” His voice was both amused and incredulous.

Martinez fought off a smile. “A good disguise, no?”

15

Cabrera telephoned my office this morning. He says his men have found your aunt’s body.”

Adrianna sat at the kitchen table stunned into silence.

Devlin placed a hand on top of hers, then asked Martinez, “Do you think that’s possible?”

“No, I do not.”

Adrianna stared at Martinez. She seemed torn between hope and doubt. “Why? Why can’t they have found her?”

The major’s face softened, his entire demeanor seeming to offer consolation. Devlin thought he would have made a great funeral director.

“It is possible, of course. But very unlikely. I am convinced that Plante Firme is right, that the body, or at least portions of it, were taken by the Abakua to Santiago to prepare for a changing-of-heads ritual. If this is true, the rest of the body would have been destroyed to keep anyone else from using it to …” He waved his hand in the air, searching for the proper word. “To interfere with this ritual.”

“You mean there was never any hope of finding all of my aunt’s body?”

Martinez’s eyes filled with a genuine sadness. “I am afraid not. Once we learned that Palo Monte was

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