Red Angel

distance under the protection of my men.”

“But then I come in later,” Adrianna said.

“Yes, yes. You may come in later.” He turned to Devlin again. “She is always this way?” He watched Devlin nod. “Madre de Dios, Senor. Madre de Dios.”

They went in three cars, passing through the tunnel to Casablanca, then on to a nearly deserted highway for the ten-kilometer drive to the small fishing village of Cojimar. Everything changed quickly upon leaving Havana. The rural landscape took over, offering broad plains dotted with farmlands. Along the coast, quiet, unfettered pleasures of the seaside ruled, the beaches left mostly undeveloped and open to those who drove or hitchhiked out each morning.

Above the beaches, small pockets of well-tended houses sat in suburban clusters. Closer to the sea the houses were older and smaller and poorer, many little more than shacks. Martinez explained they were the homes of fishermen, not unlike the ones Hemingway had written about in his novella The Old Man and the Sea.

“Hemingway kept his sport-fishing boat here,” Martinez said. “Tourists think he kept it at the marina to the west of Havana that bears his name.”

They passed a restaurant, La Terraza, and Martinez explained that it was one of the author’s favorites. “He came to eat and drink here after fishing. It was cheap then. Now, because they have put his picture on the walls, the prices are those only tourists can afford.”

“What is this?” Pitts asked from the rear seat. “Everywhere I go, it’s Hemingway slept here, or ate here, or farted here. He’s like fucking George Washington.”

Martinez laughed. “You are offended we honor an American? He gave us our pride by praising our culture. Even when we lived under Batista’s heel. We do not forget such a gift.”

“And it brings in bucks from the tourists,” Devlin countered.

“Indeed,” Martinez said. “It is an enduring legacy. And a profitable one for the revolution.”

Devlin glanced out the rear window. Adrianna was in the next car, surrounded by Martinez’s men. A second car of armed men followed. He wondered if she was enjoying the scenery, or simply fuming at being treated like a helpless woman.

“How many men have you got assigned to this little caper?” he asked Martinez.

“There are nine with us, then we three, of course. I have four men watching the house, and three more who have followed Senor Rossi.”

“How many Abakua will we have to deal with?”

“My men say there are four at the house, plus the palero, Siete Rayos. Two more have picked up Senor Rossi and his man.”

“Has Rossi gotten to the house yet?”

Martinez picked up his handheld radio. “I will check,” he said.

He spoke briefly, listened to the response, then glanced across the front seat at Devlin. “He has just arrived. The ceremony should begin quickly now.”

Devlin calculated the odds. Six Abakua, plus the palero, Rossi, and Mattie the Knife. Nine in all, against the nineteen they would throw against them. But they held the house, and at least two or three of the men would be left to guard Adrianna. The odds might look good on paper, but he still didn’t like it. “You think it’s enough?” he asked.

“The ceremony will occupy their attention. We will take the men outside quietly, then move quickly on the house. It is safe to attack them here. Cojimar is not an Abakua stronghold.” He tapped on the steering wheel playfully. “Our force will be sufficient. Remember, the great English poet Robert Browning once said that less is more. It is a principle I have often found to be correct.”

Christ, Devlin thought, now I’m getting quotes from another dead writer. “I think the man was talking about poetry, not police work,” he said.

Martinez laughed again. “It is the art of police work.”

Devlin ground his teeth. “Just please make sure Adrianna is kept as far back as possible.”

“Do not fear,” Martinez said. “It is all arranged. You are in the very capable hands of the secret police.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Devlin said.

Juan Domingo Argudin had followed the three cars from Havana. The assault at Cabrera’s house had been a disaster; all his men had been killed. He had escaped, having been far enough back to avoid detection, but it was a hollow consolation.

He had returned to the house that he believed was the American’s base of operations, and had been proven correct. But the police also had been there in force, and his hopes for the wealth he had been promised had again been thwarted.

Now, as he followed the caravan of cars traveling east, his despair deepened. As they approached the outskirts of Cojimar, there was little question where the American and his police bodyguards were headed. His only hope was to get there first. Perhaps the old man would even pay for the warning. And then, if the old man escaped, there might be still another chance to kill his target.

Siete Rayos raised his arms toward the ceiling. The nganga he had brought from Santiago de Cuba sat before him, four lighted candles placed about it, marking the major points of the compass. The palero‘s voice rumbled with a prayer, largely in Bantu, the words running together so they were barely distinguishable, one from the other.

John the Boss sat across from the palero, the nganga between them. He studied the man’s face. It was painted with slashing lines of white chalk. He was naked, except for a pair of tattered shorts, and his chest was covered with ritual scars, which on his dark brown body appeared even darker, almost black.

Rossi leaned in toward the woman who had been sent as his new interpreter. She was short and fat and homely, and so far Mattie had not tried to fuck her.

“This palero, he seems young,” he whispered. “What’s he doing?”

“He prays to BabaluAye,” the woman whispered. “He asks the dead one be permitted to perform a change of lives. Yours for another.”

As the woman finished explaining, the palero lowered his arms, withdrew a long- bladed knife from his belt, and extended it across the nganga. He spoke to Rossi in Spanish.

“Now you must feed the nganga with your blood,” the woman whispered.

Rossi winced at the idea. All the paleros he had known in the past had been old men. This one was no more than forty, forty-five tops. He believed in the rituals, had even seen them work in the old days, but they had all been performed by men well into their sixties, even older.

He placed his arm over the nganga and watched as the palero made a small cut in the heel of his hand, then turned it so the blood would drip into the iron pot.

Rossi watched the trail of his own blood. It dripped onto a mixture of sticks and herbs, beneath which he could just make out a faint glimmer of white that had to be the woman’s skull. There would be other bones, too. He knew that, but he could not make them out. Her hands, cleaned of all flesh, would be there, and the bones of at least one foot. There would also be the bones of a dog to carry messages for the dead one, and those of the night bird to help the dead one see through the darkness of death.

“You okay, boss?”

Mattie had leaned down to whisper in his ear, but Rossi made a quick gesture with his free hand, telling him to move away.

The palero filled his mouth with rum and spit it into the pot. He began to chant.

“BabaluAye erikunde. BabaluAye binkome. BabaluAye nfumbe. Nikise.”

He picked up a handful of small, fragile seashells, no larger than peas, that sat next to him on the floor. He