Fifty yards down the street, Martinez and Devlin watched Cabrera’s men deploy. They were in Devlin’s rental car, parked in the driveway of an unoccupied house, to which Martinez also had a key. Two of his men were already inside. Again, the major seemed to have come up with just what he needed on very short notice. When questioned about it, he had only smiled.
“Our chess game takes an interesting turn,” Martinez said. “It would seem the colonel has decided the black king needs protection.”
“What’s your next move?” Devlin asked. “I assume you’re playing white in this game.”
“Ah, white has already made its move, my friend. Now a discovered check will be revealed. Watch.”
Satisfied that the men were positioned properly, Cabrera started for the front door. Unlike the Red Angel’s house, his was not hidden behind a high hedge. There had been one initially, but the colonel had ordered it removed to provide a clear view of anyone approaching his home. Floodlights, not presently engaged, also had been installed to illuminate the front and rear yards.
Cabrera climbed the front stairs. Three feet from the darkened front door, he came to an abrupt stop. A circle of cloth hung from the center of the door. There were five black feathers pinned to its surface and arranged in a circle around the skull of a bird.
The colonel felt a sudden chill. He understood the Palo Monte message. A curse had been placed on him, and the
Cabrera struggled against the fear. It was something instilled in him from his days as a child in the small rural city of Trinidad on Cuba’s southern coast. He felt frozen in place, and had to will himself to move. Slowly, he began to back down the stairs. Then panic set in and he whirled around and ran back toward his still-waiting car, shouting out orders to his men as he fled.
Martinez and Devlin watched Cabrera’s car race away, followed by the car holding his bodyguards.
“Are we going to follow him?” Devlin asked.
Martinez shook his head. “Another of my men will do so.” A small smile played across his lips. “But I suspect he is returning to the safety of the Villa Marista. Perhaps later, when he has calmed himself, he will begin to move again. But, unknown to the colonel, we have people waiting for him. We have the very efficient Detective Pitts at the Hotel Capri, equipped with a radio. And my men are watching the house in Guanabacoa should he later go to the man from Cobre. The lid on our box is closing, my friend.”
“What panicked him?” Devlin asked.
Martinez’s smile became full. “Let us drive down and see.”
Devlin stared at the warning pinned to Cabrera’s door. He turned to Martinez. “You put this here?”
Martinez shook his head. “One of my men saw it earlier and informed me.”
“Plante Firme?”
Martinez nodded.
“And this witch doctor just happened to have the colonel’s home address?”
Martinez took Devlin’s arm and started back to their car. “We must never underestimate powers we do not understand.”
In the dark, Devlin could not tell if the major was smiling again. He suspected he was.
“I think we oughta roust this guy DeForio,” Pitts said. “Put his feet to the fire. Maybe get this witch doctor to plant one of those little curses on his ass.”
Devlin and Martinez had joined Pitts outside the Capri Hotel and had told him about Cabrera’s run-in with the
“It is too early to take Senor DeForio out of play,” Martinez said. “He is here for some purpose we do not yet know.”
“But it doesn’t have anything to do with the disappearance of Maria Mendez’s body,” Devlin said. He was speculating, but at the same time trying to draw Martinez out.
“I suspect you are correct,” Martinez said. “But I know he is connected to Colonel Cabrera, and somehow to the man from Cobre. I want to know what this second connection is.”
“What about this cottage in Guanabo. The one the Red Angel mentioned in the letter Adrianna found?”
“Unfortunately, this cottage remains a mystery,” Martinez said. “I suspect it once belonged to our Red Angel’s father. In the days of Batista, it was common for members of the oligarchy to have such places by the sea. Guanabo is such a village, with hundreds of small houses facing the beach. Most have been turned over to the people living in that region, and some have been awarded to members of the government.”
“Then there should be records of her getting one,” Devlin said.
“Yes, if it was handled that way,” Martinez said. “It does not appear that it was. However, she could have simply kept it as part of her father’s estate. Those records are kept by the Ministry of Interior. They are quite old. Most date to the early days of our government, and have been stored away. Regrettably, they predate our use of computers, so I have arranged for a physical search.”
“How long?” Devlin asked. He wasn’t sure he bought the story. The NYPD had similar problems locating old cases and department records. But it struck him as another convenient excuse that allowed Martinez to keep his cards close to his vest.
“Tomorrow, perhaps. Certainly by the following day. Then we will go to this cottage and see what the Red Angel has hidden away.”
John the Boss shuffled across the tiled floor and slowly eased himself into the battered old sofa. The house they had given him was a shithole, he told himself. In the old days, when Meyer Lansky ran the country, they had lived like kings. Now everything was crap, and he was even forced to hide in a rat’s nest surrounded by goddamn niggers.
He reached out and picked up the oxygen mask that rested on the arm of the sofa. He took three long breaths, then looked up at the young woman who stood nervously before him. She had been provided by Cabrera as a translator, and he knew Mattie had been fucking her late at night.
When he thought you were asleep, Rossi told himself. Except now you don’t sleep so good anymore.
Rossi studied the young woman. She was young. Maybe twenty. No more than that. She was wearing a thin dress with nothing on underneath, showing off the shape of her tits. He wondered if she was wearing pants, but he couldn’t tell. She had long legs, nice legs, the kind he had liked years ago.
But those days were past. Now he was too old, and too sick. Maybe when this change of heads was done. Maybe then. He really didn’t care. He wanted to live, that was all. The doctor had given him a year, maybe two if he was careful. Careful. His mind snorted at the idea. Who the hell wasn’t careful in his business? You were careful some sonovabitch traitor didn’t stick a knife in your neck didn’t come up behind you and put your brains on the street. How could you be careful when your own heart turned out to be the traitor, or some cancer started eating your guts.
No, a young woman wasn’t what he wanted. He just wanted to live. And he wanted one other thing. He wanted that bastard Devlin dead.
Rossi waved his hand in a circle, getting the young woman’s attention. “A man is coming, an Abakua. He’s in the next room now, and when he comes in here I want you to translate for me.” He watched the young woman nod her understanding. “You tell him exactly what I say. And then you tell me what he says, understand?”
“
She’s got a high, girlish voice, Rossi thought, a pretty voice, like a real young kid. Christ, the people you gotta depend on in this fucked-up country.
He raised his hand to Mattie, who was standing by the door. “Get him in here. Let’s get this thing over with.”
Mattie hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to leave this with Cabrera? He said-”
Rossi cut him off. “Fuck Cabrera. He tells me he’s gonna take care of this, but nothing happens. Maybe he’s listening to this prick DeForio. Maybe he’s double-crossing me. I want it done. And I want it done now.”
Mattie raised his hands, as if warding off the verbal assault. “Okay. I just thought-”
“Don’t think. Just do what I say,” Rossi snapped, cutting him off again. “I want that sonovabitch cop dead.
