Red Angel

Martinez ignored Cabrera’s question. He looked around the room.

Devlin did the same. The study was richly furnished. The sofa, like the chair in which Cabrera sat, was covered in glove-soft leather. There was a wall of books, almost all of which appeared to be rare and presumably valuable. The desk also appeared to be an antique, as did several side tables, one of which held an array of small figures that Devlin recognized as pre-Columbian.

“You live well, Colonel,” Martinez finally said. “But I imagine you would have lived an even richer life once Senor DeForio had deposited five million American dollars into your foreign bank account.”

Cabrera stared at him. The color seemed to have drained from his face. “It is a lie.”

“Then it is a lie that we have on videotape, Colonel.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then nodded. “Yes, the suite at the Capri Hotel was wired.” He waved his hand in a circle. “But, perhaps you and Deputy Minister Sauri were only luring Senor DeForio into a well-laid trap. Perhaps this trap also involved the assassination of Maria Mendez, and the later theft of her body at the request of the American gangster Senor Rossi.” He raised his hands, then let them fall back. “Of course, some might consider this theft of our Red Angel’s body an extreme technique of entrapment, but it would indeed be an interesting defense, would it not?”

Cabrera seemed to pull himself together. Again, his eyes took on a hard glint. “You believe you will defeat me this way, Martinez?”

Martinez stroked his mustache, as if considering the question. “You are already defeated, Colonel. You will receive a military trial for your crimes, and, as you know, the rules are quite different under those circumstances.” He turned to Pitts. “As I explained earlier to the inspector, in our military courts, evidence is presented by the state and is presumed to be correct by those who sit in judgment. The defendant is then required to prove his innocence.” He gave them his Cuban shrug. “He is not helpless, of course. He is given an attorney. But unfortunately, the attorney is not assigned until the very day the case is presented to the court, so the defense has a difficult task.”

“I like it,” Pitts said. “Who’s the judge, a kangaroo?”

Martinez smiled. “There are five judges. Three military officers and two civilians.”

“Hey, three kangaroos out of five. That’s not bad.” He turned to Cabrera and shook his head. “Sounds like you’re fucked, Colonel.”

Cabrera glared at him, then turned back to Martinez. “These American fools seem to have emboldened you, Martinez. Perhaps you should explain what will happen when your political frailties are exposed.”

“I doubt such exposure will occur.”

Cabrera let out a derisive snort. His eyes filled with contempt. He turned back to Devlin and Pitts. “Since you are so fond of Martinez, and his great powers, I will see to it that you all share the same cell.”

The major shook his head. “It is embarrassing to see you debase yourself in this way,” he said. “I hope you will show more dignity when you are brought before the military court.”

Cabrera straightened in his chair, his entire body filled with defiance. “And who will bring me before this court? You, Martinez?” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “And under what authority, if I may ask?”

Martinez leaned in close, so his face was only inches from Cabrera’s. He spoke softly-this time in Spanish. Devlin only caught a few words-presentar, jefe, departamento, tecnico, and investigacion-but the effect on Cabrera was instantaneous.

The colonel paled, and his lips and his hands began to tremble. Martinez sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “As you now realize, your trial is assured. But, perhaps, you can spare yourself the ultimate penalty, your execution. That, of course, will depend on your level of cooperation.”

Cabrera’s voice came out in a croak. “What is it you want to know?”

Martinez withdrew a voice-activated tape recorder from his pocket, placed it on the desk, and pressed the start button. He gave the time, place, date, and Cabrera’s name. Then he stood and began pacing back and forth. “First, let us begin with Dr. Mendez,” he said. “Who ordered her assassination?”

“I did.” Cabrera’s voice was barely audible.

“Please speak louder, Colonel Cabrera.”

“I did.”

“Was this at the direction of an American gangster named John Rossi?”

Cabrera let out a shuddering breath. “In part, yes.”

“Did it also involve certain information that Dr. Mendez had uncovered?”

“Yes.”

Martinez stopped pacing and again folded his hands. “Tell us about this.”

Cabrera’s arms were trembling now, and he clenched his fists to fight it off. “Dr. Mendez learned of the plan to permit gambling on the Isla de la Juventud. She went to the Ministry of Interior to express her opposition.”

“Was she also aware of the plan to allow narcotics to be shipped from Cayo Largo?”

Cabrera shook his head. “We did not know. She said nothing of it to Deputy Minister Sauri.”

“But you feared she might also discover this?”

“No.” He hesitated. “We did not know. We feared … Minister Sauri feared she would take the matter to the Comandante himself, and that further inquiries would be ordered, and that it might expose who the American investors really were.”

“So you decided she must be killed.” Martinez said it as fact, not a question.

“That she be silenced in some way, yes.”

“And is this the same reason you silenced Manuel Pineiro, our former spymaster?”

Cabrera became agitated. “That was on Sauri’s order, not mine.”

Martinez shook his head. “Very well, we will concentrate on what you did. How did Senor Rossi fit into this plan to kill the Red Angel?”

Cabrera placed his hands on his face and slowly drew them down. He looked up at Martinez. His eyes seemed to be begging him to stop.

“Answer my question,” Martinez snapped.

Cabrera stared down at his lap. “It came about at the same time,” he began. “Senor Rossi sent a messenger to Cuba, suggesting that Dr. Mendez be used in a change-of-heads ritual. He is a believer in Palo Monte. It is an old belief, from many years ago when he lived in Havana. The messenger said he wished to save himself from a grave illness.”

“And did he offer you money to do this?”

Cabrera nodded.

“Say the words, Cabrera. Do not nod your head.”

“Yes, he offered me money.”

“How much?”

“Half a million dollars.” Again, Cabrera’s voice came out in a whisper.

“Louder, please,” Martinez snapped.

“Half a million dollars.”

“And this was all that was required of you. That you arrange for Dr. Mendez’s death, and the theft of her corpse.”

Cabrera shook his head, then realized he should answer aloud. “No. He also wanted me to contact Senorita Mendez in New York, and to tell her of the accident in such a way that she would come to her aunt.”

“And then?”

Cabrera swallowed. “The messenger said an American man would undoubtedly accompany her, and that he was to be killed, along with the woman.”

“Both were to be killed?”

“Si. Yes, both.”

“And were you to be paid for this as well?”

Cabrera nodded again, then caught himself. “Yes. I was to be paid another half a million.”

Pitts let out a whistle.

Martinez held up a hand, warning him to be quiet. He began pacing again.

“So first you arranged the assassination of Dr. Mendez?”

“Yes.”