Red Angel

Cabrera’s eyes shot to Martinez, cold and hard and filled with contempt. “Perhaps the major would be kind enough to bring you.”

“I am at your orders, Colonel,” Martinez snapped.

“Yes, I know you are,” Cabrera said. There was a small smile on his lips, but it held nothing but disdain.

When Cabrera had left, Devlin noticed that the hookers had all disappeared from the bar. One glimpse of the colonel’s crisply starched uniform had sent them scurrying into the night.

“So now you have met our Technical Department of Investigation, our secret police,” Martinez said as he reclaimed his chair.

“I thought you said State Security wasn’t the secret police,” Devlin said.

Martinez held out one hand and wiggled it back and forth. “It is more complicated than that. But I will explain tomorrow. For now, I would like you to agree to go some places with me in the morning. Both of you, if possible.”

“Where?”

“I would like to invite you to meet a very close friend of the Red Angel. He is a man who may have some interesting things to tell you. Then I would like to take you to meet the Red Angel’s sister, your lovely Adrianna’s other aunt. And finally, I want you to accompany me to the home of Plante Firme, one of the most revered priests of the Regla Mayombe.”

“A witch doctor?”

“Much more than a witch doctor, my friend.”

Devlin sat back and shook his head. “And why are we doing all this?”

“I assure you it will be necessary if we are to find the body of the Red Angel.”

“We?” Devlin stared across the table, incredulous. “I thought State Security was doing that.”

Martinez shook his head. “No, senor. We will find the body. Provided you are willing.”

Cabrera’s car was parked half a block away, with a clear view of the hotel’s front entrance. He sat in the rear and watched Martinez leave. Two young men sat in front, both dressed completely in white. One turned to look at him, as if anticipating an order.

“It will not be necessary to follow the major,” Cabrera said. “That is already being done. I want you to concentrate on our two visitors. I want the names of everyone they contact. And I want those names quickly.”

“Should we take action if-”

Cabrera waved a hand impatiently, cutting the man off. “First I want to know who is helping them. We do not want just one or two vipers. We want the entire nest. But do not underestimate the man. He is a trained detective, so you must assume he is a danger to us.”

“If he finds-”

Again, Cabrera waved away the man’s words. “If our visitors become dangerous, we will see to it that they disappear.”

“Permanently?”

“I know of no other way to disappear.” Cabrera raised a cautioning hand. “But only on my order.”

“And Martinez?”

“If he interferes …” He paused as if considering the wisdom of his words. It was a dangerous decision, but there really was no choice. The fact that he despised the scruffy little major made it easier. “If he interferes, we will see to it that he disappears as well.”

3

But why, Paul? What does he think we can do?”

Devlin considered the question. They were seated in the hotel dining room, where a breakfast buffet had been set out for guests, made up mostly of fruits and rolls and some type of processed ham that Adrianna had dubbed “Cuban mystery meat.”

All about them vacationers stumbled from buffet to table, all recovering from the delights of Cuban nightlife. They were a mix of Spaniards, Brits, Italians, Canadians, Mexicans, and Germans, part of the steady flow of foreigners that filled hotels each week. Many were men vacationing alone-here to sample the island’s newfound position on the world sex-tour circuit-many bringing last night’s “catch” to breakfast with them, slender and lithe women, mostly mulatto and black (Negroes in the Cuban terminology), all still dressed in the blatantly short skirts, revealing tops, or brightly colored body stockings they had worn the night before. Devlin studied the parade, then turned back to Adrianna.

“I have no idea what Martinez is thinking, but right now he may be our only shot at finding out what really happened.”

“But you don’t trust him.”

“I sure as hell don’t. And I trust Cabrera even less. Between the two of them, I feel like we’re being hung out to dry, and there’s nobody even watching our backs.” He shook his head. He had been in the country for less than twelve hours and already felt thoroughly mystified. He glanced around the dining room again, studying the parade. And this was certainly a first, he thought: Here less than twelve hours, and you’re having breakfast in a whorehouse.

“What did Martinez tell you about my aunt?”

Adrianna’s words drew him back. Her eyes seemed both eager and fearful, and Devlin wondered just how much of it she could handle. In the end, he told her all of it. There was nothing Adrianna liked less than being protected by “a big strong man.”

When he finished, she just sat and stared at him for several moments. She had handled the ugly news well, concentrating instead on the new things she was learning about her aunt’s life.

“My God. I had no idea. She was really a hero.” She stared at Devlin. “I mean, really.”

“Yes, she was,” Devlin said.

The waiter arrived at their table and he had to ask a second time if Adrianna wanted coffee.

She looked at him as though he had arrived from another planet, then shook her head as if freeing it of cobwebs.

“Si, gracias,” she said. The shake of her head and affirmative answer seemed to confuse the waiter even more. She looked back at Devlin and shook her head again.

“She never told me any of that, Paul. Not the attempt to kill Batista. Not her arrest. The torture. The rapes?” She closed her eyes momentarily. “Oh, God.” She stared into her freshly poured coffee as if wondering how it got there. “She never even told me about the two years she spent in the mountains with Castro, or the work she did after the revolution was won. All she ever talked about was her work with children, and how she had been given a government position that involved making sure they were all immunized.”

“Didn’t your father ever tell you the rest of it? He must have known.”

Adrianna shook her head again. “He would never talk about her. He said she was a communist, and a disgrace to the family.” She clasped her hands, the fingers intertwined, and held them in front of her face. “My father was very young when he left Cuba. He was ten years younger than Maria, only about twelve when she was arrested. Two years later, when Castro took power, he and my grandfather fled to Miami, and then to New York. My grandfather had disowned my aunt for what she had done. He refused to have her name spoken in their home. When he died, eight years later, my father said his last words were a curse on her name.”

Tears formed in the corners of Adrianna’s eyes and she brushed them away. “When my grandfather died, my father was forced to leave college. That’s when he joined the New York Police Department.” She gave her head another small, sad shake. “My dad was very much like his own father-a very hard, very unforgiving man.” She folded her hands again and stared across the table at Devlin. “In all the time before he was killed, he honored his own father by never speaking my aunt’s name in our home.” She paused, started to pick up her coffee cup, then stopped and let out a long, tired sigh. “Even when she wrote to him when my mother died, he refused to answer the letter.