Red Angel

One of Martinez’s men entered the house and came to him. After a whispered conversation, Martinez excused himself and left.

Adrianna reached out and took her aunt’s hand. “Have you known Martinez a long time?” she asked.

The old woman laughed. “For a hundred years,” she said.

“And you trust him?”

Maria squeezed her niece’s hand. “Completely.” She rolled her eyes. “He is a scoundrel, of course. But it is his job to be a scoundrel.” Her face became tender as she spoke about her friend. “And it is a thankless job. Of this there is no question. The secrecy of who he is, and what he does, denies him any recognition from the people, or even from his family and his friends. To those who know him personally, he is simply a police administrator who has risen so high and no more-a very modest success in life. For a proud man like Martinez, this is difficult, I think.”

Their heads turned as the door of the cottage opened. Martinez stood holding the door back, his eyes filled with mischief. Adrianna let out a gasp as a second man entered.

Fidel Castro walked slowly across the room. He was dressed in his trademark fatigues, free of any decorations or distinctions of rank. His gray-streaked beard hung to mid-chest, and his gait reflected his seventy- three years. He was a tall man, easily six-three, and he had the bearing of a man used to deferential treatment.

Devlin and Pitts stood as he approached, but Castro ignored them. He went straight to Maria Mendez and began speaking to her in Spanish.

The old woman immediately cut him off. “Speak in English, Fidel. I have guests who do not understand our language.”

Castro stiffened at the rebuke, then shook his head as if it were an indignity he should have expected.

“You know my English is bad,” he said. “Why do you make me do this?”

“It is a courtesy,” Maria snapped. “It is also my wish in my home.”

Castro raised his hands and let them fall back. “I come to tell you I am happy you are safe, and you treat me this way.” He looked down at Adrianna. “This is your niece?” he asked.

“My niece, Adrianna.”

Fidel reached down and took her hand, then bent and kissed it. Devlin detected a slight flush come to Adrianna’s cheeks.

“Your aunt torments her oldest friends,” Castro said. He gave Adrianna a sly wink. “But we all still love her … in spite of herself.”

“You do not love me enough to get me the medical supplies I need.”

Castro raised his hand-in exasperation this time. “You no longer work for the government. You resigned in protest. How can I get you anything?”

“Of course I resigned,” Maria snapped back. “You had abandoned the people’s needs. Something was needed to bring you to your senses.” She turned to Adrianna. “And do you know what he did? He had the government announce that I retired. Not that I resigned in protest, that I retired.”

Castro waved his hand in the air. “Let me announce that you have unretired.”

“Never.”

Castro shook his head. “I will find a way to get you the medicines and equipment you need. I do not know how, but I will find it somewhere.”

Maria stared at him for several long seconds. “And prostitution? Will you see to it that this disgusting practice that puts our young women on the streets-a practice you have permitted to return to our country-will you see to it that this is ended?”

Castro looked at the ceiling. “I will do everything in my power to see that the laws banning it are enforced,” he said.

Maria Mendez gave a firm nod of her head. “If you do these things, I will think about returning to my post,” she said.

Castro raised his hands, then let them fall back to his side in a surprising gesture of helplessness. “Torturer,” he said. He looked at the others as if seeking support. “She was this way even in the mountains when we fought Batista. Never a word of respect. Only arguments.”

Maria snorted, but said nothing.

With effort, Castro knelt before her. He took her hand. “You are a stubborn old woman,” he said.

“And you are a stubborn old man.”

“Si. We make a good pair,” Castro said. He placed a second hand on top of hers and stroked it gently. “I am pleased you are well. Cuba would be a poorer place without you.”

Maria reached up and stroked his beard. “Thank you for coming, Fidel.”

Castro nodded. “You will truly consider my proposal?”

“I will truly consider it.”

Again with effort, Castro pulled himself up. He nodded to Adrianna, then glanced at Devlin and Pitts. “I have heard about you two,” he said. He raised a finger and shook it, then headed for the door.

“That’s it?” Pitts said as the door closed. He stared at Martinez. “No medals? No Lycra concession? That’s it?”

“Be thankful we’re not in jail,” Devlin said. He looked down at Adrianna. There was a broad grin spread across her face.

“Fidel Castro kissed my hand,” she said.

25

Giovanni “John the Boss” Rossi sat in the small cell he shared with Mattie Ippolito. The bottle of oxygen that had been at his side for months stood in the corner. The Cuban jailer had put it there, even after he had explained it wasn’t necessary. He had not used oxygen since the ritual, and felt no need for it now. Or ever, he told himself.

What he did need was Cabrera, or Sauri, or somebody who could get him the hell out of this stinking cell. Then he could find a way out of the country. But this clown Martinez had kept him isolated. Not even a stinking phone call, or a lawyer. Nothing.

Rossi glanced around the cell. It was in the basement of a police station that resembled a small castle, and it had been obvious since they arrived that Martinez ran the show. Even his attempts to lay some serious money on his jailers had been ignored. A thousand bucks just to deliver a message. And these clowns had looked at him like he was crazy.

Rossi shook a finger at Ippolito. Mattie was seated on the opposite bunk, only three feet away. “We gotta find a way outta this shithole,” he said.

Ippolito raised his hands an inch from his lap, then let them fall back. “The cop said ten days before we could contact anybody. I think he means it. I think he’s gonna break our chops as long as he can.”

“These fucking Cubans think I’m gonna sit here eating rice and beans for ten days, they’re crazy.” Rossi placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “How much money you got?”

“A little over two grand,” Ippolito said.

“Okay. I got at least a grand in my pocket. At least the Cubans didn’t take our money away from us. So we’ll up the ante to these guards. Offer them two large, wave the cash under their noses. That still leaves us with a grand for traveling money.”

Ippolito reached into his pocket, then froze as the door to the cellblock opened. He withdrew his hand and leaned back against the wall as he watched Devlin and Pitts saunter in with the Cuban cop.

“Hey, Bathrobe. How’s it hangin’?” Pitts called. He grabbed hold of the bars and let his eyes roam the cell. “What a shithole. Hey, Martinez, if this is the way you treat Americans, I gotta tell you, I think it’s a fucking disgrace.”

Martinez feigned embarrassment. “But, Senor, these accommodations are among the best in Cuba. Our real