Red Angel

involved, I felt certain we would find only certain parts needed for the ritual.”

“What would they have done with the rest?” Devlin asked.

Martinez seemed to regret his next words. He glanced at Adrianna, as if to apologize. “I am afraid the rest of the body would have been burned, and its ashes scattered so they could not be of use to another palero who might work in opposition to the ritual.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Adrianna demanded.

Martinez stared down at his hands. “There seemed no purpose to burden you with this unpleasant fact, unless we found …” He let the rest of the sentence die.

“What did Cabrera say about this body he supposedly recovered?” Devlin asked.

Martinez glanced at Adrianna again. “It is missing a head, its hands, and its feet.”

“Then it could be her. Even if what you say is true, it could be.” Adrianna stared at him, as if trying to force him to agree. “What if they messed up, and didn’t destroy the body yet? It’s possible, isn’t it?”

Martinez nodded. “There is no way I can say for certain it is not. I do not believe it is so, but I cannot prove it at this time. The body Cabrera has found is said to be badly decomposed.” He glanced down at his hands again. “Here, in the tropics, this is something that happens quickly. Also the head and hands are missing, along with the feet, making any forensic identification impossible. There is, of course, DNA, which takes a considerable amount of time-several weeks, even. And those results, of course, only give probabilities, something Cabrera could easily have worded to suit his needs.”

Adrianna stiffened. “Why are you so determined to prove it isn’t her?”

“Because I believe it was Cabrera who arranged your aunt’s assassination, and also the theft of her body. And that he gave the body to the Abakua so their palero, Baba Briyumbe, could create a nganga for the ritual.”

Devlin slipped his arm around Adrianna. “He’s right. It fits.”

“Why?” Her voice was challenging and angry.

“Because of what we found out in Santiago.” He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “This palero, Baba Briyumbe, told us he was brought a body that was badly burned like your aunt’s had been. He said it was prepared for a nganga, then turned over to a disciple named Siete Rayos, Seven Thunderbolts. That would mean the body was there in Santiago.”

“Maybe they brought it back,” Adrianna insisted.

“It is unlikely, but it is possible,” Martinez said. “But that would mean that Cabrera’s men found it during its journey back to Havana.” He paused, regret again filling his eyes. “But this is even more unlikely. State Security does not have a great number of its forces spread throughout the countryside. Certainly not enough to conduct roadblocks or any routine surveillance of the many routes through the mountains. Like your own FBI, for these things they use the police.”

“So if such a seizure had been made, your people would have been involved, and would have filed a report,” Devlin offered.

“Yes,” Martinez said. “And I have checked. No such report was filed.” He brought his hands together, as if preparing to pray. “There is also the question of the man in Cobre. He was visited by Senor Cipriani in the company of one of Cabrera’s men. I think we must assume that he was sent by Cabrera for some purpose. Baba Briyumbe told us the ritual was intended for this man in Cobre. But we know from Senor Caputo and his wife that it was not performed, and we know this man has returned to Havana, although we are uncertain exactly where he is.” He raised his clasped hands in front of his face and shook them. “So the changing-of-heads ritual will be performed here. And I believe Cabrera, and this new man we have discovered, this Senor DeForio, will lead us to both the man from Cobre and the nganga that holds the Red Angel’s remains.”

“And what should we do about this … body Cabrera says he found?” Adrianna asked.

“For now, I would like you to ignore it. Later it may serve our purpose to oblige the colonel.” He gave Adrianna a soft smile. “Colonel Cabrera does not know where you are, which is as we planned. It is why he called me with this news. He is concerned about this, and I assured him I would do all in my power to find you. If you agree, I will regretfully inform the colonel that I have failed.”

Adrianna stared at the tabletop. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what I should do.”

“Let us be patient,” Martinez said. “For now we must continue to follow Cabrera and this new man from the Capri Hotel. When the rabbit gets nervous, it runs. And I believe if Cabrera cannot find you, he will become a rabbit.” His eyes glittered with the idea. “I very much want to see this rabbit run. It will tell us some things that are important.”

“And what is that?” Adrianna asked.

Martinez smiled. “It will tell us what is behind your aunt’s assassination. But to reach that truth we must see what Cabrera will do next.”

Plante Firme entered the courtyard of his home at ten A.M., his eyes still heavy with sleep. He had worked late into the previous night, sitting with a dying man, and performing the rituals that would return the man’s spirit to his guardian orisha, Oggun.

He gestured to his grandson, indicating he should feed the pig, which was squealing loudly in its pen. Then he went to the outdoor kitchen and poured himself a cup of strong Cuban coffee.

He noticed there was no fresh bread and shook his head. His grandson was supposed to go to the bakery early each morning to get the government’s daily ration of bread, something he seemed to forget with growing regularity. The boy was fourteen and forgetting seemed to be a great part of his life.

Plante Firme smiled as he glanced over at the boy tending the pig. It was as it should be at fourteen, he thought. Much on the mind as the body changed to manhood. He felt a deep love for his grandson, and knew that soon-in only a few years-the boy would begin the long learning process that would one day allow him to become a great palero himself. Plante Firme prayed each day to Oggun that his grandson would be worthy of his duties, and that he, himself, would live to help him achieve that goal.

He put on a stern face and called to the boy. “There is no bread,” he growled in Spanish.

The boy lowered his eyes. “I forgot,” he said.

Plante Firme folded his arms across his chest. He was naked, except for the wrinkled cotton trousers he had slept in and the mpaca that hung by a leather thong from his neck. To the boy, he looked like a large, brown bear.

As the boy passed, Plante Firme threw an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, then began walking him toward the gate. It pleased him that the boy had grown so tall. His head was already past his grandfather’s shoulder.

“Next year, when you begin your studies, your memory must be stronger,” he said.

The boy nodded, but said nothing. To become a palero he would first endure the initiation of hacerse el santo, a spiritual rebirth that would require him to become a child again. During that time he would be allowed to do nothing, and would even be carried from room to room, as if he were incapable of walking. He would be fed and bathed like an infant, thereby repeating the entire process of growth as if he had been born again. He would even wear a diaper. It would go on for an entire week, and he was certain he could never bear the humiliation.

Plante Firme squeezed his shoulder as they reached the courtyard’s solid iron gate. “Get the good bread,” he said. “If they say the bread ration is all gone, tell them it is for me. If they know this, I am certain they will find some.”

Plante Firme was smiling at the boy when he opened the gate. The shotgun blast threw them both back, and the palero’s final vision of his grandson’s face was of an exploding mass of torn flesh.

When he hit the ground, he turned immediately toward the child. Ignoring the wound in his own shoulder, he ripped the mpaca from his neck and pressed it against his grandson’s chest. The boy’s body was still convulsing, then it seemed to stiffen and go suddenly limp, and the palero knew with certainty that nothing in his, or anyone’s, power would save his grandson. Slowly, his hand closed on the mpaca, then he threw back his head and let out a bellowing, anguished roar.

Across the street, the car from which the shot had been fired sped away. Neighbors would report later that the faces of the two men inside were pale with fear.