prompted police to investigate any possible threats from, or contacts with, groups or individuals who might be responsible. But it also bolstered Martinez’s belief that her aunt had been murdered after she stumbled on information that endangered someone in the government. In either case, a search might then have been conducted either by Martinez himself or by someone looking for that information.
Adrianna sat back in the hard wooden chair her aunt had chosen for her desk. It was useless to speculate, and she doubted Martinez would tell her if it was he who had ordered the search. She glanced about the room. It was austere and simple, lacking even a single luxury. She recalled Martinez’s claim that Fidel Castro lived and thought like a monk, and she wondered if many of those who had brought about Cuba’s revolution had chosen that personal lifestyle.
Martinez had told her another story, this one about Che Guevara. Shortly after the new government had taken power, Guevara learned that he and other top officials were receiving compensation that was disproportionately high, and had ordered an immediate readjustment. Later, Martinez claimed, Guevara found he was unable to pay the family’s electric bill. Fearing the power would be turned off, he had his wife telephone the appropriate official to ask for additional time. Martinez had insisted such an action never would have been taken against Che, but that he and Senora Guevara had obviously believed they were subject to that penalty.
She smiled at the story, perhaps true, perhaps only part of the Guevara legend. Still, she recognized that the country had changed from those idealistic days. Now there were private clubs for high government officials. There were comfortable homes and lifestyles that far exceeded those of the average Cuban. And there were men like Cabrera, who, if Martinez was right, were corrupting everything her aunt and the other founders of the revolution had struggled to achieve.
She wondered if she was really offended by that corruption, and found that she was. It was strange, since she did not believe in the core principles of the revolution itself. Still, it was there. A recognition that some effort for good, however naive or misguided, had been tainted by the same self-serving class who always seem to emerge at the end of every struggle-the people who always view an opportunity to give as a chance to take even more for themselves.
Adrianna stared at the papers spread across the desk. Her search had lasted three hours and had produced little more than a picture of her aunt’s persistent idealism. She pushed herself back and began to rise when her knee struck the corner of the desk’s middle drawer. Wincing in pain, she reached down to rub it, and found her hand brushing against something that had not been there before.
Adrianna pushed the chair back and peered into the desk’s kneehole. The bottom of the middle drawer had fallen away, revealing a false bottom that held a single sheet of paper. She pulled the paper free and began to read. It was a simple message, and she translated it as she read.
“In the event of my death or disappearance, I direct investigators to my cottage in Guanabo. There, under the floor, you will find a safe. It may be opened with the following combination: 17 L; 32 R; 6 L; 27 R; 9 L. Documents within support my belief that corruption exists in our government that threatens the very fabric of the revolution.”
It was signed simply Maria Mendez, M.D.
Adrianna copied the message in English, then returned the original to the hidden compartment. She stared at the copy. “My cottage in Guanabo.”
Earlier she had come across a map of Cuba. She went quickly through the desk drawers and found it again. Guanabo appeared to be a small seaside village no more than fifteen or twenty kilometers from Havana.
But where? There was no address. Nothing to indicate where the cottage was located. Certainly, if investigators, or others who had searched her house, had known about the cottage, they would already have searched there as well. But what if they hadn’t? Then the evidence her aunt had written about would still be there. She could think of only one person who might know about the cottage. Her aunt Amelia.
The taxi dropped Adrianna in front of her aunt’s house fifteen minutes later. She crossed the crumbling sidewalk, then hesitated as her hand reached for the front gate. She wondered how her aunt would react to yet another unannounced visit. She had assured Devlin that her aunt Amelia had been overwhelmed by their earlier invasion of her home, perhaps even frightened by the presence of so many strange men. But even then she had doubted that was true. Amelia Mendez de Pedroso did not strike her as a frightened old woman. Her main concern had been that someone-specifically Adrianna-might want to take something from the home she had wrested from her “communist sister.” Now Adrianna was coming back to ask about a cottage that might have been another bone of contention between the two women.
Adrianna took a deep breath and pushed the gate open, just as a hand reached out and took her arm. She twisted around and found herself facing two men. The one holding her arm had a thin mustache and a self-satisfied smile on his face. The other, standing directly behind the first, was taller and heavier and stared at her with open hostility. Both were in their early thirties and both wore civilian clothes, but there was no question in Adrianna’s mind that she was facing two of Cabrera’s men.
Adrianna pulled her arm free and glared at the man who had grabbed her.
“How dare you place your hands on me?” she snapped in Spanish.
At first the man seemed surprised, then his satisfied smile returned.
“I beg your forgiveness, Senorita Mendez,” he said in Spanish.
Adrianna noted there was no regret in his voice.
“Colonel Cabrera wishes to speak with you. State Security has located the remains of your aunt, and it is necessary that you make a formal identification.”
The second man had moved closer so he, too, could grab her if she attempted to run. Adrianna struggled to appear unconcerned.
“I see,” she said. “That is very good news. Please tell Colonel Cabrera that I will come to the Villa Marista later this afternoon. Right now I must see my other aunt, who has been taken ill.”
The first man smirked at her. “I think your aunt has recovered from her illness. She left her home more than an hour ago.” A car pulled to the curb behind him, and he gestured toward it. “I think we will go now.” he said.
Adrianna shook her head. “No. I will wait for my aunt.”
The second man stepped forward and took her wrist. His hand felt like a vise, and as she tried to pull away, he quickly slapped her elbow forward and twisted her arm up behind her back. Adrianna closed her eyes against the pain.
“Do not make us hurt you, senorita,” the first man said. He reached out and stroked her cheek. “Beautiful women should be given pleasure, not pain.”
Adrianna pulled her head away and glared at him. Her anger produced another smile.
“Now I think we will go,” he said. “The colonel has been searching for you for more than a day. And he is a man who does not like to be kept waiting.”
17
Devlin stood in the apartment window, staring out at the house in Guanabacoa. Cabrera and DeForio had left fifteen minutes earlier, followed by Pitts and two of Martinez’s men.
The owner of the apartment stood behind Devlin muttering in Spanish. Two more of Martinez’s men stood next to the man, whose home had been invaded and temporarily seized with a flash of Martinez’s credentials. Now Devlin watched as Martinez approached the front door of the house across the street.
He knocked and waited until the door was opened by Mattie the Knife Ippolito. He could see the major bobbing his head submissively as he gestured toward the car parked in the driveway. Ippolito simply glared at him, then shut the door in his face.
“A very unpleasant gentleman,” Martinez said when he returned to the apartment. “I simply informed him that I was a mechanic who would be happy to serve him if he had difficulty with his car.” The major smiled. “He was very rude. From his accent I would say he is an American, perhaps even from your own city.”
“You’ve been to New York?” Devlin asked.
“Oh yes,” Martinez said. “I have traveled extensively in your country.”
