said.
“What did they say?”
He shook his head again. “Honey, Maria Mendez is no country doctor who just works with little kids.” He blew out a stream of air. “Up until a few months ago she was the top medical official in the Cuban government.” He paused, still digesting it all. “Adrianna, she’s one of the original heroes of the Cuban Revolution. She fought in the mountains with Castro in the fifties, and since then she’s been the closest thing they’ve had to a living saint. The people down there call her
2
HAVANA, CUBA
The international arrivals terminal at Jose Marti Airport is a sprawling, modern edifice that would befit any major city in the world. Completed in 1998, it replaced a small, dark, musty building that made arriving visitors feel they had just entered an oppressive banana republic. It is a carefully stated message, a clear abandonment of the old workers’ state, all part of a new Cuban image, intended to make tourists and foreign businesspeople believe that their much-sought-after dollars will be well spent in this former bastion of Soviet-sponsored communism.
Devlin felt slightly overwhelmed by the unexpected glitter of glass and steel, and the complete absence of expected threat left him mildly disoriented. He had telephoned his daughter-who had been left behind with his sister in Queens-just to tell her they had arrived safely in Castro’s Cuba.
“Are there guys with long beards and guns?” she had asked, her nine-year-old mind a victim of U.S. television.
“Not yet, sweetie,” Devlin had replied. “Most of the people working here are young, and the airport reminds me of the new terminals at La Guardia. Only it’s cleaner.”
His daughter had sounded disappointed.
As he and Adrianna waited for their bags to be disgorged onto a gleaming carousel, they watched other travelers unload dozens of large corrugated boxes. A fellow passenger had explained the practice. It was all part of the new dollar economy born of the U.S. embargo. Each week traveling “Samaritans” would bring in money and goods sent to Cuban nationals by relatives in the U.S. It was all done for a hefty fee-20 percent of the money and five dollars a pound for the goods, and only a few years ago it would have put everyone involved behind bars. Now, for many, it was a full-time business, which a financially strapped and desperate Cuban government chose to ignore.
When the bags arrived, Devlin loaded them on a cart and headed for a rapidly moving customs line. They had gone through passport control with only a cursory check of their documents. Devlin had expected hard-eyed inspectors who would view Americans with suspicion. Instead he had found smiling men and women, all dressed in crisp khaki uniforms, all eager to make processing as painless as possible.
Customs proved the same, a few terse questions from a pleasant young woman. It was like entering Canada from the U.S., and far less challenging than returning to the States from anywhere in the world. All U.S. customs officials, Devlin decided, should be turned over to Fidel Castro for training. If nothing else, they would learn how to manage an occasional smile.
“I’m still waiting for the storm troopers,” Devlin said as they made their way through the packed lobby toward ranks of cabs and buses that lay beyond sliding-glass doors.
“So am I.” Adrianna raised her eyebrows at the chaotic, non-threatening scene that surrounded them. It could have been any airport in any U.S. city. “This is so strange. It’s the opposite of everything I expected. And somehow it doesn’t seem real. It’s making me feel like Dorothy after she woke up in Oz.”
They were stopped by a short, stocky, mustachioed man somewhere in his mid-fifties. He spoke softly behind sad, weary, gentle eyes that still managed to display authority. Very much a cop’s eyes, Devlin decided.
He felt a familiar tension as the man reached into a pocket. Normally, the appearance of a badge would have relieved that tension. This time it remained as the man displayed the credentials of a major in the national police. The first storm trooper? Devlin gave the man a quick once-over. He had thinning hair and a deeply weathered face that seemed as worn and weary as his eyes. Yet the badge he carried looked almost new. It glittered in the fluorescent light, in sharp contrast to the man’s aging suit coat and slightly frayed sport shirt.
“My name is Martinez. Major Arnaldo Martinez. And I would very much like to speak with you.” The major directed his words at Adrianna, offering Devlin only a faint smile. “Perhaps I could drive you both to your hotel, and we could speak on the way.” The smile became stronger. “It is much cheaper than a taxi.”
“I recognize your voice,” Adrianna said.
Martinez nodded. “We spoke yesterday. Forgive me for not identifying myself.” He offered Adrianna a small shrug. “As I said then, sometimes it is not wise to do so on our telephones. If you’ll wait until we are in my car, I will explain.”
“Do we have a choice about going with you?” Devlin asked.
“Of course you have a choice, Inspector Devlin.”
“You know my rank, I see.”
“Yes, Inspector Devlin. I know who you are.”
The major’s car was a battered 1957 Chevrolet. Devlin had last ridden in one in high school. That car had been a ten-year-old relic owned by a teenage friend. This one was an ancient, rusting hulk that only a collector could love. Definitely not a police car.
“This your personal car, Major?”
Martinez smiled. “Yes, it is.”
“Are you restoring it?” Devlin asked.
“Restoring?” Martinez seemed puzzled at first, then began to laugh. “Senor, I have been restoring this car for thirty years. Every week it needs some new restoration.”
As Martinez opened the rear door, Devlin placed a hand on his arm. “Major, that tin you flashed back there, it looked a little shiny. You mind if I take another look at it?”
Martinez seemed confused. “Tin? Shiny?” The light-bulb went on and he smiled again. He took out his credential case and handed it to Devlin. “You are right, Senor Devlin. The badge is new. I was just recently promoted.” He retrieved the credential case and returned it to his pocket. “You see, in Cuba, until just a few years ago there were no ranks above captain. Fidel was commandante-which is equivalent to a major-and everyone else held a rank below that. Now”-he shrugged-“things have changed. Now we even have generals. Luckily, the new promotions finally made their way down to me. Here in Cuba, these things come more slowly for people who are not high in the government.”
They drove out of the airport and onto a main thoroughfare which seemed to have more people hitchhiking or riding bicycles, than cars. It was nine P.M., when traffic in any large city would still be moderately heavy. Yet cars were scarce, and most were not unlike the antiquated wreck Martinez drove.
“Lot of old cars here,” Devlin said.
Martinez nodded. “Yes, many. Your country’s embargo has been in place since 1963, senor. The only new cars you will see all belong to car rental companies. Only the tourists drive them. Oh, you will see some newer than mine, of course-some that are only ten years old-but they are mostly Russian, and they are garbage. They break down more than the old cars do.” He patted the steering wheel as if assuring his own car that the words were intended as a compliment. “But we can’t get parts for the old ones, or even the not-so-old ones, so it doesn’t make much difference. It is why Cubans are the best mechanics in the world. It is a gift of the embargo. Give a Cuban some chewing gum and wire and he can make anything run-at least for a day or two.”
Adrianna leaned forward from the rear seat. “Major, you said you’d explain the phone call. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m very worried about my aunt.”
From his place in the front, Devlin could see Martinez’s jaw tighten.
“Yes, of course,” he said.
He pulled the car to the side of the road. They were next to a park that overflowed with people, all out
