Red Angel

24

The half-moon sat above the sea, sending out a rippling beam of liquid gold. Water lapped gently against the shore no more than twenty yards from the road. Adrianna stared out the open car window and thought about the violence they had just witnessed and the soft, peaceful scene that lay before her now. It was as though the sea needed to exert calm, she thought, to bring everything back, to let everyone find their lives again.

She reached out and took Devlin’s hand. “How’s your arm?” she asked. “Does it hurt much?”

“It’s fine.” He glanced at the freshly bandaged wound, then smiled at her. “Knives,” he said. “Whenever I get myself into something, there always seems to be somebody with a knife.”

“You’re going to look like a quilt if you don’t retire,” she said.

He grunted in reply, not wanting to deal with her unspoken question. “Are you okay?” he asked. “That wasn’t very easy for you back there.”

Martinez’s car passed over a narrow, steel bridge that spanned a small, tidal river. Children played near the road on the other side. Most looked ten, maybe twelve, a few younger. The smaller ones were probably little brothers and sisters, Adrianna thought. It was eleven at night, and they all still wore bathing suits.

They were in Guanabo now, the small seaside village where, years ago, her grandfather had taken his family to enjoy the sea. She wondered if her father and her two aunts had been like these children, laughing and playing late into the night.

“Those children are still out, still playing,” Adrianna said, now avoiding his question. “It’s as if they don’t want to give up the day.”

Devlin squeezed her hand. He thought he understood what was going through her mind, what she was feeling. He realized that talking about it wouldn’t help her. Not now. They could do that later when she was ready.

He looked at Pitts and Martinez in the front seat. Ollie had his head back and seemed to be dozing. Martinez drove, glancing occasionally at the houses they passed.

“Tell me about this place,” Devlin said. “Ever since we found out who you really are, your skills as a tour guide have fallen off.”

“You are right,” Martinez said. “My intention was to instruct you about my country.” He paused. “And to distract you at times.” He briefly took his hands from the wheel, holding them up in a “what can I say?” gesture. “But I found I also enjoyed it. Perhaps I have discovered a new vocation for my retirement years.”

Pitts grunted, letting them know he was awake and listening. “Hey, that tour-guide business might work, Martinez. You and your boys could keep even better tabs on the tourists.”

Martinez laughed. “You misunderstand the duties of the secret police, my friend. We do not watch foreign visitors. There are others who have that duty. We watch the people who watch the foreigners. And we watch the other police and the government officials who might be serving their own interests instead of the revolution’s. It is not unlike your own government and police agencies, I think. They all have their divisions of internal affairs, no?”

Pitts sat up in his seat as if someone had goosed him. “Jesus, Martinez. Don’t say that. Don’t tell me I’ve been working with the goddamn Cuban shooflies.” He turned to Devlin. “Holy shit, you can’t tell anybody about this, Inspector. God, I’ll be ruined, anybody finds out.”

Devlin waved him off. “Tell me about this place, Martinez.”

Martinez put his arm out the window and pointed toward the houses they were passing. They were like beach houses in many seaside communities back in the States, almost all uniformly small, somewhat battered, and well worn by the sea.

“Guanabo has always been a place of escape. In the days before the revolution it was only the oligarchy who could do this. They would flee the pressures of Havana with their families and come here to rest and enjoy the pleasures of the ocean.

“When the new government took power, many of the houses were given to the people of the region. None were taken by the leaders of the revolution. It was something that was not done in those years.” He cocked his head to one side, in what Devlin thought of as a gesture of regret. “Our ideals were more pure then,” he added.

“And later?” Devlin asked.

“Later those attitudes changed. But mostly among those who held high posts below the leaders.” He glanced back at Adrianna. “Of course there were those like your aunt, who kept houses that had been in their families for years. In her case, I know for a fact, it was more an act of sentiment, a way of remembering her family and what their life together had been like.”

“So some of these beach houses belong to the big shots,” Devlin said.

“Yes, some.”

Devlin thought he detected a note of bitterness in his voice. “You are a purist, aren’t you, Martinez?” he said.

“Yes, I am afraid you are right. There is little I would not do to preserve our revolution, or at least the good I believe it has done. But at times it seems a losing battle.”

“But you still fight it,” Adrianna said.

“Si. Yes, still I fight.” He glanced back again. “Your aunt often called me the Cuban Don Quixote. I am afraid, at times, she was right.”

“But she was the same,” Adrianna said. “Everything I’ve ever heard about her says so. You told me she even argued with Castro.”

“Yes. Yes.” He laughed. “But if I had called her Dona Quixote, she would have chased me down the street.”

Adrianna looked toward the sea, her mind filled with her aunt. “I wish I could have seen her here. Here in Cuba. In her real element.”

Martinez said nothing. He slowed the car. “Up ahead, on that small rise of beach, overlooking the sea. That is the house.”

Adrianna stared out the window. The house was small and neat, with a cluster of coconut palms off to one side, the fronds swaying now in the soft breeze that came off the water. There was a porch that appeared to encircle the entire house, and as their car drew closer, she could see beach chairs placed about it, all of them arranged to face the sea.

There were lights on inside the house, and Adrianna saw shadows on the porch she thought were men. “Do you have people here?” she asked.

Devlin had been lost in his own thoughts, his weariness, and the pain that throbbed in his arm. Now his eyes snapped toward the house. He could see them, too, at least three men, posted well apart. Guards watching every approach.

“How long have you had them here?” he asked.

Martinez ignored him. He picked up his handheld radio. “Let me give a warning that it is only us,” he said.

He spoke rapidly as he pulled the car into the sandy drive that cut into the front yard, then stepped out quickly as one of his men approached. Devlin noticed the man was carrying an Ingram M-10 submachine gun, fitted with a sionic suppressor. It was a small weapon, easily concealed, only ten inches long with the wire stock collapsed, but still capable of repelling a large force, spitting out seven hundred.45-caliber rounds per minute, the suppressor assuring that each round was no louder than a book lightly slapping against a table.

Devlin climbed out of the car, followed by Adrianna and Pitts. He nodded at the weapon. “Pretty heavy firepower, Martinez. And it won’t even wake up the neighbors.”

He could see a faint smile play across the man’s lips as he turned and started toward the house. “Come,” Martinez said. “It is time to finish our little adventure.”

They climbed the front stairs. Another of Martinez’s men opened the front door, then stepped aside to allow Adrianna to enter first. The others followed her into the house, then watched as she seemed to stagger, then come