Red Angel

“And who did you give this assignment?”

“The Abakua who have worked for me in the past.”

“Their names?”

Cabrera rattled off a series of names.

“And these men, they used a truck to cause a car accident involving Dr. Mendez?”

“Yes.”

“And were these the same men who arranged the theft of our Red Angel’s body?”

“Yes. Together with a palero named Siete Rayos.”

“And they then took that body to Santiago de Cuba?”

“Yes.”

“Were you paid when that body was delivered?”

“Yes.”

Martinez went to the desk and picked up a piece of paper and a pen. He handed them to Cabrera. “You will write down the name and location of the bank, and the number of the account to which the money was sent.”

He waited while Cabrera complied, then continued.

“And were these same men who attacked Dr. Mendez, and who later took the corpse, the ones who later tried to kill Dr. Mendez’s niece, and the Americans accompanying her?” He paused. “And who attempted to kill me, as well?”

“Yes.”

Martinez stopped pacing. “You have done well, Colonel. There are but a few more questions.”

Cabrera looked up, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. Martinez ignored it.

“Now we must turn to the attempt on the life of the palero Plante Firme,” Martinez began again. “Was this ordered by you?”

“Yes.”

“And why was that, Colonel?”

“Minister Sauri wanted the Americans gone, even if it angered Senor Rossi. He was afraid our plans were being placed in danger.” He looked away, then forced himself to continue. “Another body was located. A woman of the same age and physical size as Dr. Mendez. The body was stolen from a cemetery and burned to conform with Dr. Mendez’s injuries, and the head and hands and one foot were removed. These were to be found later in a nganga placed in Plante Firme’s home …” He paused. “After his death.”

“So he could not contradict your finding?”

“Yes.”

“And this assassination was attempted by two of your men, who have since disappeared.” Martinez gave him the names of two men.

“Yes. Those were the men. We have not been able to locate them.”

“But the assassination failed, did it not?”

“Yes, it failed.”

“And Plante Firme’s grandson was murdered in his place.”

“Yes.”

Martinez turned to Devlin. “Are your questions answered, my friend?”

Devlin nodded. “Except for the location of Dr. Mendez’s body.”

Martinez turned back to Cabrera. “You can answer this question?”

“Yes.”

“Do so.”

“The body, or what remains of it, has been made part of a nganga now under the control of the palero Siete Rayos.”

“And the remaining parts of the body?”

“Destroyed, the ashes scattered at the direction of the palero Baba Briyumbe, who prepared the nganga”

“And the change-of-heads ritual for Senor Rossi is still to take place.”

“That is my understanding.”

“When?”

“Tonight. After dark.”

“And where will this happen?”

“At a house in Cojimar.”

“You have the address?”

Cabrera nodded, and Martinez did not correct him this time.

“Write it on the paper I have given you.”

As Cabrera did so, Martinez turned back to Devlin. “Is there anything else?”

“No. No more questions,” Devlin said. “I just want to get my hands on Rossi. Around his throat would be nice.”

Martinez smiled at him. “I take it you did not know that the lovely Senorita Mendez was always to be part of this killing that Senor Rossi paid so generously to arrange.”

“No. But I do now.”

Martinez raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I am afraid I cannot allow you to give him the death he deserves.” He raised one finger. “But I believe I can help you give him even greater misery.”

“How?” Devlin’s eyes were cold, blue steel, and the scar on his cheek, the gift of an old knife wound, had turned a vivid white.

“In time, my friend,” Martinez said. “But well before you take your leave of my country.”

He turned back to Cabrera, and noticed that the colonel had succeeded in regaining some composure. “Do you have something more to say, Colonel?”

Cabrera straightened his back. “I wish the privilege of an officer,” he said. His voice broke as he spoke the words. “I wish a pistol, and time alone in this room.”

Martinez walked back to the desk and turned off the tape recorder.

“I am afraid I cannot accommodate you.”

Martinez went to the door and rapped lightly three times, then stepped back. The door swung back slowly to reveal Plante Firme.

Devlin heard Cabrera gasp. The old palero was naked to the waist. He wore a straw hat with several large multicolored feathers protruding from the brim. In his left hand he held the long staff Devlin had seen at his home. It was nothing more than the straight limb of a tree, denuded of bark, the top forking into five separate branches, six to eight inches in length, each holding an individual white feather. Plante Firme’s mpaca hung from his neck on a leather thong, and in his right hand he held a crudely fashioned rattle, also covered in white feathers.

He stepped into the room and began to chant in a mixture of Spanish and Bantu as Cabrera shrank back in his chair, his eyes frozen with fear.

Martinez took Devlin and Pitts by the arm. “Perhaps you would like to leave now,” he said.

Devlin shook his head. “No, I’d like to stay.”

“As you wish, my friend.”

They watched as Plante Firme advanced. His steps were slow and methodical, each bare foot planted with an audible slap on the polished tile floor.

Cabrera’s eyes widened and his entire body shook. He pressed back in the chair as if hoping it would swallow him.

Plante Firme stood before him now, the feather-festooned rattle held high above Cabrera’s head. His low, rumbling voice rose until it seemed to shake the walls of the room. Then he lowered the rattle and thrust it against Cabrera’s chest.

The colonel’s body stiffened with the blow. He let out a high-pitched scream; his eyes bulged in his head, and his body began to jerk uncontrollably. His face twisted in agony, then collapsed with the rest of him into a limp mass.

Devlin stepped forward and placed two fingers against his neck. There was no pulse. He looked at Plante