Red Angel Page 6

  It was a strange turn of fate. Robert Cipriani was a fugitive from the United States. There, he had done what other financiers do daily. He had taken money from fools. He, however, had been caught, and had fled—twenty million dollars in hand—to one of the world’s few havens from extradition. Here, the Cubans had accepted him, and his money, allowing him to live well for more than a decade. Then they had come in the night and dragged him away, convicted him of financial crimes against the government, which to this day were vague at best. All of it to one purpose. To put him where he was now, serving the interests of State Security.

  But at least there was decent food, and the weekly teenage whore. There was his computer, which allowed him to work again, and over the past five years he had accumulated another five million. And that was the best game there was. Better even than anything the teenage whore could offer.

  “Tell me your troubles,” Cipriani said. He studied the colonel’s dour expression. He was a tall man—six-foot-two, a full six inches taller than Cipriani—and when dejected, his tall, hard, angular body curved like a great, bony question mark. He was hatless today, and it pleased Cipriani to see his balding head glistening above his dark beard. The man was only forty, at best, and he already had less hair than the prisoner he pissed on at will. He also had a big nose that ruined any chance of being handsome. You were handsome once, Cipriani told himself. But that was before. Before they turned you into a walking skeleton.

  Cabrera told him about Devlin and Adrianna Mendez. “I did not know María Mendez had any relatives, other than her lunatic sister. I only learned of her after the old man told me what he wanted done.”

  “Look, you agreed to what the old man wanted. That’s a fait accompli. And I still don’t see the problem.” Cipriani shrugged away concern. “This is Cuba. They are in a maze with only one exit, the airport.”

  “I told you the problem. This woman, this niece of María’s, her lover is a detective.”

  “But he’s a detective walking in the same maze.”

  “But he has a guide.” Cabrera told him about Martínez. “I had no idea they would have this kind of help. If they begin to inquire too deeply …”

  Cipriani shook his head. “You have the ability to stop all of them. I’m still missing the problem.”

  Cabrera glared at him. “The problem is María Mendez, a hero of the revolution. Everyone above me is shitting their pants that the people will learn, not only that she has died, but that her body has been stolen. If they learn this, and then learn that her only surviving relative is raising questions about her death …” He lowered his eyes and ground his teeth. “It could become serious—serious enough to put our plan in jeopardy.”

  Cipriani rubbed his face, feeling again its cadaverlike transformation. We, he thought. It’s always we when things don’t work out. “I still don’t know why you chose the Red Angel.” He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, I know we needed her dead anyway, that it was necessary to keep her from putting the screws to our overall plan. But then to give that crazy old man what he thought he needed? Just so he’d finally give his support?” He shook his head. “That, my friend was a mistake. You should have thought about the effect, the disgrace it might bring on Fidel and his cronies. Christ, we’d already gotten Fidel to accept what we wanted.” He shook his head. “If you recall. I told you this Palo Monte-Red Angel nonsense was dangerous. There were other ways to keep the old man happy. Christ, we could have found any doctor. The old man never would have known the difference.”

  Cabrera jumped up from the bed, furious. “He wanted her.”

  Cipriani drew a breath, buying time. He kept his voice soft, free of accusation. “Yes, he did. And now, from what you tell me, there are people who want him dead.”

  Cabrera spun away and stared at the cell door. “That is not the reason. They wanted him dead before this happened. Because he at first opposed the plan.”

  “Yes, but only because they thought he wanted a bigger share. But that was a matter that could be negotiated. Resolved.” Cipriani raised his hands. “Since he’s coming here, maybe it already has been resolved.” He shook his head. “But now, because of the Red Angel, there may be no share for anyone. This, they will not forgive. And they will blame him. Perhaps even you.”

  Cabrera spun back, eyes glaring. “Is that all you have to offer? I could get more from some crazy palero, rolling coconut shells on the floor to divine my future.”

  “What do you want me to tell you? Finding the body now is impossible, unless you want to produce a corpse with its head and hands and feet missing.”

  “That may be my only choice.”

  “Then you will have to have arrests. Arrests that could lead back to you.”

  “Not if the people responsible are dead.”

  Cipriani shrugged. “That’s always a solution.” He tapped a finger against his lips. “And for more than just your fellow conspirators.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Cipriani stroked his chin, as if ready to impart a unique wisdom. “Tell me something first. Does Mickey D know about any of this?”

  “He knows about the ritual that will be performed,” Cabrera said.

  “But not about these problems?”

  Cabrera shook his head. “No, he knows nothing. He is due to arrive here in a few days. I am hoping to have it resolved by then.”

  Cipriani nodded. “I think that’s wise. In fact, I think it’s imperative that it is resolved by then. Unless you want to see this whole deal blow up in your face.”

  Cabrera stared at him. “And what do you suggest?”

  “I think you need another accident. I’m talking about María Mendez’s niece. And her detective lover. And Martínez.” He gave Cabrera a regretful smile. “There are billions of dollars at stake, my friend. You’ve already gotten rid of two people who threatened our little deal—that Pineiro guy, and the Red Angel. So, do what you did the other times our plan was threatened. Arrange another automobile accident.”

  Cabrera’s jawline hardened. “I have considered this, and already I have people in place.” He let out a long breath. “But, of course, you are right. There is no choice now. It is something that must be done quickly.”

  Before they left the hotel, Devlin got a list of available flights from Cubana Airlines, then placed a call to New York. Ollie Pitts mumbled something about grave-robbing communists when Devlin explained the problem. He grunted when Devlin told him what he wanted. Then he cackled when Devlin said he would personally cover the cost of the flight, the hotel, and all the detective’s meals and expenses. When Pitts started to negotiate beer money as an expense, Devlin gave him two choices. He could arrive in Havana later that night via a connecting flight from the Bahamas, or he could spend the rest of his career wondering what “new shit assignment” HIS BOSS would have for him each and every day.

  That done, Devlin changed Martínez’s plan. Putting together their collection of misfits could wait, he said. The first stop he wanted to make was the funeral home that had managed to lose María Mendez’s body.

  As the ancient Chevrolet made its way toward the Vedado section of Havana, Devlin lowered his window to gain some relief from the lack of air-conditioning. Music blared from open louvered doors and windows, and somewhere in the distance he heard a cock crowing. It was his first look at the morning madness of Cuban traffic. Bicycles and aging motorcycles dominated the streets, all with at least two riders. Many of the motorcycles were equipped with sidecars and carried two or three more—all of it, Martínez explained, a tribute to the fuel shortages that plagued the island. As they turned a corner, Martínez pointed out two enormous buses, the likes of which Devlin had never seen, each one disgorging its passengers into plumes of diesel smoke. The buses were tractor-trailer trucks converted to transport people. They had arrived on the island in exchange for Cuban sugar and citrus, part of a deal with the now defunct Soviet empire. The trailer section, which Martínez described as “a tribute to Cu
ban insanity,” had then been converted by Cuban engineers, fitted with cheap plastic seats and a row of narrow windows that seldom worked. The engineers also created a large dip in the center to accommodate a second door, and it made the entire vehicle appear to have two enormous humps. “The people call the buses ‘camels,’” Martínez said. “They also call them many other things when the windows fail to work. Especially on steamy July days, like the one we are now enduring.”

  Devlin stared out the window. The surrounding buildings looked battered and beaten, the absence of paint and repair leaving exterior walls pitted like decayed teeth. Sections of sidewalk had crumbled away, and holes in the roadway had been haphazardly filled with sand and stone.

  In many ways, Havana had the look of a city that had endured a recent war. Except for the inhabitants. He had never seen people in a large city seem more relaxed or at ease with each other. Pedestrians wandered into the streets, unconcerned about oncoming traffic. And drivers simply stopped and waited for them to pass. There were no blaring horns, no shouted curses, threatening mayhem. It was as though everyone had the right to move about as they pleased, as if every inch of territory was shared equally. And, God, they were beautiful people, Devlin thought—almost uniformly beautiful, in every shade of white and tan and brown and black. Adrianna came by it naturally, he told himself. It was in her genes.

  The funeral home was located on Calzada and K streets, and the sign out front identified it simply as FUNERARIA CALZADA Y K.

  “Why was the body sent here?” Devlin asked as he stepped from the car onto another crumbling sidewalk.

  They were standing on the edge of a small park, two blocks away from the U.S. Interests Section office. In the distance Devlin could see a long line of people, all waiting for a chance at a U.S. visa.

  Martínez waved his arm, taking in the exterior of the funeral home. It was a shabby, three-story poured-concrete structure, dotted with small casement windows and fake marble trim. “This is considered the finest funeral home in Havana,” he said. “It is where the bodies of all high government officials are taken.”

  Adrianna slipped her arm in Devlin’s. She was staring at the covered stone staircase that led to the second level. The interior beyond seemed forbidding, and her normally calm brown eyes were suddenly nervous.

  “Do you want to go in?” Devlin asked. “I want to use Martínez to get into the areas the public doesn’t normally see. So we might end up in places—”

  Adrianna shook her head, cutting him off. “No, I think I’ll wait here in the park. I brought a sketch pad with me. I’ll just find a place to sit and draw. I don’t need this to be any grimmer than it already is.”

  The floor and walls of the lobby were covered with stark pink marble that had not been polished in a long time, and it gave off a dull, flat, lifeless look that offered little hope of comfort. From the lobby Martínez and Devlin entered a long, wide room where the marble gave way to stone. Here a line of identical wooden rocking chairs ran down the room’s center. Freestanding ashtrays had been placed between the chairs, all of which were now empty. Smaller rooms opened off the larger one. Devlin entered one and found an old man lying in an open coffin, its lid standing on end against a nearby wall. There was an elderly woman seated in a chair beside the old man’s bier. Devlin nodded a condolence, or an apology, he wasn’t certain which, then turned away. A stained-glass window at the far end of the room drew his eye. It offered the only natural light in this otherwise dimly lighted space, and it depicted a scene of a sailing ship out at sea. Devlin wondered if it was meant to imply some final journey now under way.

  “How long do bodies stay here?” he asked.

  “Normally, only one day. Burials are done quickly here, because of the heat.”

  “Is there any security when the place is empty?”

  “It is never empty,” Martínez said. “It is our custom to have a family member remain with the body until it is buried the next day.”

  “But that didn’t happen in this case.”

  Martínez shook his head. “The Red Angel’s body never reached this room.”

  “Let’s go see the room it did reach.”

  The office was off the lobby. There were four people inside—a middle-aged woman seated behind a cluttered metal desk and four men lounging about, drinking coffee. All wore lab coats and bored faces.

  Martínez flashed his badge and asked several questions in Spanish, the words coming too rapidly for Devlin to make even a stab at interpretation.

  The woman nodded and signaled to one of the men, who immediately opened a rear door, beckoning them to follow. The man, who was tall and slender and somewhere in his mid-thirties, led them down a dark, narrow staircase that opened into a large, dingy room. Several carts were lined up along one wall, two of which held bodies covered with graying, white sheets. There was a hole in one of the sheets, through which the nose of one corpse protruded as if getting a final whiff of life. To the left was an open bay with two hearses parked in tandem, the hood of one jutting out into the street. An old man sat in a chair beside the open door.

  Devlin raised his chin toward the old man. “Is he the only guard?”

  Martínez relayed the question to their guide.

  He answered with a terse “Sí. Solo.”

  Martínez walked to the first of two other doors and opened it. Beyond. Devlin could see a refrigerated room that held more carts and bodies. He closed it and opened the second door, revealing the naked body of a young woman on a mortician’s table. Two men dressed in lab coats looked up quickly. The older of the pair stared at Martínez with annoyance. His younger assistant simply looked startled, as though he had been caught doing something illicit. Martínez displayed his badge and apologized, then turned back to Devlin and shrugged.

  “What time did the body disappear?” Devlin asked.

  Martínez glanced at his watch. “It was about this time of day.”

  “Let’s find out if the old man was working then.”

  The old man stared up at them, a slightly amused look spread across a weathered face.

  Martínez loosed a string of questions, which the old man answered with a nod, a raised eyebrow, and a rapid flow of Spanish that Devlin could not follow.

  “He was working here when the body disappeared,” Martínez said. A small smile played across his lips. “He is very defensive. He says he had to relieve himself and went to the baño—um, the bathroom. He says the body must have been taken then.”

  “Where was the body?”

  Martínez raised his chin toward one of the interior doors. “It was in the refrigerated room. He said the body still had bandages on it when it came from the hospital, and it is his job to remove them. He did this, and saw that the body had been badly burned about the face and arms. He feared decomposition would come quickly, so he placed it inside the room so it would remain cool.”

  “Does he know who it was?”

  Martínez asked the question, then turned back to Devlin and shook his head. “He said the paperwork did not have a name. The driver told him he had not been given any, that it would be sent later in the day.”

  “And he didn’t recognize who it was?”

  Martínez relayed the question. “He says the face was badly burned and swollen, that it could have been his mother and he would not have known.”

  The old man smiled at Devlin. He had only four teeth in the front of his head. He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a black feather, then began babbling in rapid Spanish. His final words were the only thing Devlin could understand. They were “Palo Monte.”

  “Did I hear him right?” Devlin asked.

  Martínez took the feather and nodded. “He says he found the feather inside the refrigerated room. I have seen these feathers before. They are from a scavenger bird called the aura tinosa, and are considered sacred by the followers of Palo Monte, who call the bird mayimbe. The feather is always used as a part of their mpaca, which is a type of charm made f
rom an animal horn that must always be worn by a Palo Monte priest.”

  “Did the old man tell anyone else about this feather?”

  Martínez asked, then shook his head. “He says the young officer who was here treated him like an old fool, so he didn’t offer the information. He says he decided to save the feather so he could give it to the palero, the Palo Monte priest, when he returned for it.”

  “Is that likely? That the palero will come back for it?”

  Martínez shrugged. “I do not think so. There will be other feathers in the palero’s nganga.”

  “His what?”

  Martínez smiled and took Devlin’s arm. “Come. I think we have found everything we can here. If Palo Monte is involved in this, there is much that you must learn. And I can tell you only a small part of it.”

  4

  Two men are watching us,” Adrianna said. She handed Martínez her sketch pad. “I drew this. It only shows their faces in profile. It was the best I could do without them knowing.”

  Martínez nodded. “Yes, the two men dressed in white. They have been following us since we left the hotel. I suspect they will continue to follow us, so this picture of their faces may be useful.” He tore off the top sheet, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

  “Cabrera’s men?” Devlin asked.

  “They are Abakua.” He pronounced the word Ahh-bah-quah. “This particular sect is unusual. They dress all in white and are known to work for State Security, which in itself is unusual. Normally, the Abakua shun the police and the government. Fortunately for us, these Abakua are not very good at their jobs.”

  “What the hell is an Abakua?” Devlin asked.