searching for relief from the tropical July heat.
Martinez turned in his seat; his eyes were more sad and weary than normal. Devlin could sense what was coming.
“I’m afraid I must tell you very bad news, Senorita Mendez. The automobile accident in which your aunt was involved left her very badly burned. The hospital informed my office this morning that your aunt died of her injuries.” He heard Adrianna gasp, and hesitated a moment before going on. “The news, I’m afraid, is even worse. The funeral home where her corpse was taken reported that her body disappeared shortly after it arrived there.”
Devlin had moved into the rear of the car, and now held Adrianna in his arms. Martinez was driving more rapidly, hurrying to get Adrianna to their hotel in Old Havana.
“What have you found out about the body being taken?” Devlin asked.
“Only that it disappeared three days ago-only a few hours after she died.”
“Three days ago? What the hell are you talking about? You said your office just got the call this morning, and Adrianna spoke to the hospital yesterday.”
“The death was not reported,” Martinez said. “At least not to us, as it should have been.”
“Who … was it … reported … to?” It was Adrianna this time, her voice broken by sobs.
“It was reported to State Security,” Martinez said. “Both the death and, later, the theft.”
“The secret police?” Devlin’s voice was incredulous.
“No, the secret police are different. I will explain later.”
“Why would anyone want to steal her body?” Adrianna asked.
Martinez let out a long breath. “Are you familiar with Regla Mayombe, senorita?”
“What the hell is that?” Devlin snapped.
“It is one of the Cuban-African religions. Very primitive and very feared. Also very widespread in our country.”
Devlin’s voice was still snappish and angry. “For chrissake, what are you trying to say? That we’re dealing with some kind of voodoo?”
“Yes, senor,” Martinez said. “That is exactly what I am telling you.”
The Hotel Inglaterra is located on the Paseo Marti, a name personally created by Fidel. To the people the street is known as the Paseo del Prado, the name it carried for more than two hundred years. The hotel is directly across from a small park and flanked by the Gran Teatro de la Habana, a baroque architectural masterpiece that would rival anything in Europe. The exterior of the Inglaterra rises four stories, its neoclassical facade marked by high French windows that lead to small, individual terraces outside each room so guests can view the nightly chaos that rules the street and the park beyond. Inside, the mood harkens back to the 1870s when the hotel was part of La Acera del Louvre, a meeting place for Creole revolutionaries. Here it changes to a mixture of Sevillian and Moorish designs. Mosaic tiles and a massive gate of twisted ironwork accent the lobby, mixed together with stained glass and ancient heraldic symbols, all rising to an intricately ornate, gold-leaf ceiling. It is like stepping into Bizet’s
Major Martinez waited at a table in the Sevillana Bar while Devlin took Adrianna to their room. He seemed decidedly out of place, his well-worn jacket and frayed shirt standing out among the designer labels worn by the tourists and the sleek, sensual clothing that decorated the prostitutes gathered at the bar. Behind him a gold statue of a woman dancing with castanets added to the contrast. It glittered almost as brightly as his shiny new badge.
Devlin made his way to the table, his eyes taking in every comer of the room. A small smile played across Martinez’s lips. Police, he thought, were the same everywhere.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Devlin said. “I wanted to make sure Adrianna was asleep. This little surprise you laid on us has hit her pretty hard.” He adjusted his chair so it faced the entrance to the bar. It produced another small smile from Martinez.
“It is better she is sleeping,” Martinez said. “What I have to tell you would only be more upsetting for her.”
Across the room, two prostitutes, no more than eighteen, offered up welcoming smiles. “I thought Castro did away with all the hookers,” Devlin said.
“Yes, it is true. There is no prostitution in Cuba.” Martinez glanced at the two young women. “There are only thousands of friendly children, each one looking for romance.” He shrugged. “And dollars to feed their families.” He paused to light a cigarette and sent a stream of smoke across the table. “Great mechanics are not the only thing your embargo has given us.”
Devlin ignored the political gibe. He needed Martinez on their side-if possible-at least for now. “Tell me about Maria Mendez,” he said.
Martinez flicked the ash of his cigarette. “She was my friend. My very dear friend.” He drew on the cigarette again, then put it out. “Did you know the people of Cuba called her the Red Angel?”
“Someone in the U.S. Interests Section told me that.”
Martinez nodded. “Yes, they would know about her. She was a very powerful figure. Until recently, she was even powerful politically.”
“Why until recently?”
“She had a falling-out with Fidel.”
“With Castro, himself?” Devlin’s voice sounded incredulous, even to his own ears.
Martinez nodded again. “She and Fidel were very close for many years. It is even said they were lovers many years ago.” He smiled. “But Fidel is known to have had many lovers. Along with several wives.
“But Maria Mendez was not one of those.” Devlin spoke the words for Martinez.
“No. She was very important in the government. And very important to the people. She was one of the few who could tell Fidel he was wrong.”
“Are you implying she did that once too often? That Fidel bounced her out of the government?”
“Fidel would never be that foolish. For the people, there are some heroes who must never be tarnished. Fidel, of course, is one. Then Che Guevara. And there is also the Red Angel.”
“How did she come to be … so revered?”
The major’s eyes became a wistful mix of pleasure and pain. “Ah, that is both a beautiful and a sad story. In the early years Maria Mendez became a symbol of everything that was good in our revolution. And in recent years she became a symbol of everything about it that has failed.”
A waiter brought them cups of strong Cuban coffee that Martinez had ordered. Devlin pushed his aside and leaned forward. “Tell me about her.”
Martinez lit another cigarette and sat back in his chair.
“In 1957, Maria Mendez had just graduated from the medical school at Havana University. She was young, younger than the other graduates. She was a brilliant child. She graduated from high school at fifteen. And from university at eighteen. Now, at twenty-two, she had completed her medical studies, and was an intern at the Infantil Hospital.
“You must understand those times, my friend. Batista ruled our country with an iron fist, and his secret police crushed anyone who opposed him. Fidel had already attempted one insurrection and had failed. The Mafia controlled Havana, and it had become a playground for the rich, a city filled with gambling and drugs and prostitution.
“But for the people it was hell. Batista had become rich selling off the land to foreign corporations and a handful of cronies. Cuba was an oligarchy. The peasants owned nothing, and were paid almost nothing for the work they did. Only the rich received medical care, and education was available only to the sons and daughters of the privileged class.
“Maria Mendez was one of those privileged children, as was Fidel, himself. She was the daughter of a successful physician, but unlike her father, her heart was with the people.
“Maria was not political. She was certainly not a revolutionary. She knew Fidel because he was at the university law school when she began her studies, and he was a respected figure among the students. But violence of the kind that Fidel and many other students preached was something alien to her. She told me this many times.
