Authors: William Heffernan
“Tough lady,” he said as he took the same chair Devlin had occupied. “And, unless there’s been some change in plans, I thought she was supposed to be a dead lady.”
“There is no change,” Cabrera snapped. “Just an unexpected delay.”
“The Abakua screwed up?”
“My Abakua have disappeared. But there are other Abakua. By tonight, Señorita Méndez and her friends will be dead.”
Cipriani nodded. “I think that’s wise. There’s a great deal
of money involved, and as I said, I don’t think our friends will appreciate problems this late in the game.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve dealt with those gentlemen. They’re not known for their tolerance.”
Cabrera picked up an envelope from his desk and tossed it to Cipriani. “Since you are so concerned, I have decided to let you supervise the matter yourself. There is an airline ticket inside. It is for Santiago de Cuba, which, according to my informants at Cubana Airlines, is where our friends are now headed.” He smiled at the surprise on Cipriani’s face. “One of my men will go with you, of course, and some other Abakua friends will meet you in Santiago. You
will
return here, my friend. Whether or not you also return to your cell will depend on how well you do this little job.”
“Wait a minute, Colonel. Killing people is not my line.”
Cabrera stared at him, a small smile playing across his lips. “I understand your reluctance. You prefer to take people’s lives with a pen and a checkbook, not a knife or a gun. But do not fear. You will have only to supervise. Besides, there is another gentleman arriving in Santiago today, and since other matters will keep me in Havana, I would like you to represent me with him. It is a person you know well.”
“And who’s that?” Cipriani asked.
“An old friend of yours. The old man who has caused these problems. Giovanni Rossi. He is here both on a matter of health and on a matter of business. He will be staying in a villa in the mountains near Cobre.”
“And what do you want me to do with Rossi?” Cipriani asked.
Cabrera smiled again. “Allay his fears, my friend. Just as I will allay the fears of his associate, who arrives in Havana this evening.”
The Sierra Maestra Mountains rose in the distance as their taxi raced along the winding road that led from Antonio Maceo Airport to the port city of Santiago de Cuba. The mountains were as majestic and as beautiful as any Devlin had ever seen. Sharp peaks, covered in lush green foliage, seemed to leap from the arid plain below, punctuated by steeply descending valleys carved dramatically into their sides. It was a forbidding range, Devlin thought, clearly inaccessible except by foot, a place suited more to goats than people, the place where all Cuba’s revolutions had begun, the very place from which Fidel and his original eighty-six followers had fought their hit-and-run war with the forces of Fulgencio Batista, until the people of Cuba had risen up to join them.
And María Mendez was there with them. He glanced at Adrianna, and saw that she, too, was staring at the mountains. Undoubtedly thinking similar thoughts about the young woman, the young doctor who would later become Cuba’s Red Angel. All those years ago. Fighting somewhere in those mountains against the men who had tortured and raped her, the men who had crushed her chance ever to have children of her own.
Martínez’s voice broke Devlin’s reverie.
“Santiago is like a different Cuba,” he explained as they raced past a series of small cattle farms. “Where Havana is cosmopolitan, with people always rushing about, here it is very Caribbean, a slower, more gentle pace. But you must not be fooled. It is a place of great and deep feelings. If there is to be trouble in Cuba, it will begin here. This is where the first gun will be picked up.” He gave them his Cuban shrug, as if to say it could not be helped.
“So why don’t they rise up and throw you guys out?” Ollie Pitts asked. He was grinning at Martínez, trying to goad him into another defense of Fidel.
There was an impish glimmer in the major’s eyes as he took up the challenge. “Fortunately, the people are devoted to the revolution,” he said. He made an all-encompassing gesture with his hand. “Here, in the eastern part of our island, life was always poorer and more difficult. So it is here that the revolution has produced the most change. It is also mostly Negro in population, and Palo Monte and Santeria are very strong here, and the people know that Fidel has always been tolerant of their beliefs. Some even say he practices them himself.”
“Does he?” Pitts asked.
Now it was time for Martínez to offer a goading grin. “It is said Fidel has two
paleros
working just for him, and that this is why your CIA’s many attempts to kill him have always failed.”
Pitts refused to give up. “Oh, yeah? How far away is the Guantánamo Naval Base?”
Martínez laughed. “From here, about one hundred kilometers of winding mountain roads. From the people, it is more than a million miles.”
The taxi made its way through a series of narrow streets that skirted the port, corning to a stop at a large, tree-shaded central plaza. One end of the plaza was dominated by the sixteenth-century
Catedral Ecclesia, its twin spires rising more than ten stories, its central stone angel gazing down upon the people who filled the park’s benches and walkways.
To the right of the cathedral stood the Hotel Casa Grande, one of Santiago’s oldest and most elegant hotels, its first-floor terrace looming ten feet above the street like some lingering patrician stronghold, its red-and-gray-striped awnings shading those within from the scorching afternoon sun.
Martínez left them at the hotel, explaining that men were already in place watching the hotel’s entrances to ensure that the Abakua would not get inside. He, himself, would stay at a nearby police station, where he could also conduct some preliminary inquiries into the local Abakua and their corrupt
palero
, Baba Briyumbe. He promised to return in one hour, and suggested they use the time to rest and refresh themselves for the long night ahead.
Devlin, Adrianna, and Pitts climbed the wide marble stairs that led to the hotel terrace and its adjoining reception area. Here the elegance of colonial Cuba reasserted itself, with gleaming marble floors, wrought-iron chandeliers, and a mix of wicker settees and chairs surrounding a marble statue of a sea nymph.
Ahead, the terrace ended in an ornate mahogany bar, its scattering of small tables and chairs situated so patrons could look down upon the people who filled the adjacent plaza. A sign to their right advertised a second terrace on the hotel’s rooftop, and Devlin wondered if the building’s architect had rendered his plans with an eye toward condescending views of the populace, as some colonial sign of preeminence.
Reception proved friendly, efficient, and quick, and they were led to adjoining rooms on the third floor. Adrianna was delighted with what she found. Their room was surprisingly spacious, with twenty-foot ceilings and graceful, old mahogany furniture—two queen-size beds, an armoire, matching
upholstered chairs, and an oversized desk. Behind heavy brocade drapes, twelve-foot louvered windows overlooked the cathedral and the plaza, and when she opened them she smiled at the sound of the salsa rhythms that drifted up from the park.
“I feel like I’ve gone back in time,” she said, smiling at Devlin.
He inclined his head toward the bath. “Wait until you go in there. It’s all marble with gold fixtures. There’s even a bidet. It makes our hotel in Havana seem like a Times Square fleabag.”
A knock on their door produced Ollie Pitts, dressed now in a pair of massive red Bermuda shorts and another Hawaiian shirt. Devlin took in his enormous legs and thought of two tree trunks protruding from a billowing red tent.
“Martínez said we should refresh ourselves, so I’m thinking of a beer or two,” Pitts said. “Anybody interested?”
Adrianna turned back toward the bed. “I think he meant a shower or a nap,” she said. “I’m going to opt for a shower, then go down to the terrace with my sketch pad.”
Devlin encircled her with his arms and kissed the back of her head. “Sounds good. Maybe you’ll come up with another sketch we can use. I’m going to give my daughter a call and check in with the office. Then I’ll go with Ollie. I want to get a look around, myself, just to see if any of Cabrera’s boys have the hotel staked out.”
She turned to face him. “You think he knows we’re here? I thought that’s why we didn’t check out of our hotel in Havana. To throw him off. Isn’t that what Martínez said?”
Devlin winked at her. “Maybe it worked. Maybe not. But Cabrera’s the number two man in State Security, and Martínez claims he’s also the head of the secret police. If that’s true, I suspect the colonel knows just about everything that goes on in this country.”
“Then why would Martínez lead us on like that? Why does he want us to think we can get away from him?”
“Good questions. Unfortunately, like everything else on this infuriating island, I don’t have answers for those either.”
“So what’s happening at the office?” Pitts asked as they stepped into the elevator.
“Sounds like the mob settled their little war,” Devlin said. “Cavanaugh tailed Rossi to Kennedy Airport. Seems like John the Boss hopped a flight to the Bahamas.”
“You think the other families made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?” Pitts finished the sentence with an evil cackle.
“Looks that way. Cavanaugh said there was a sit-down at Rossi’s house a couple of days ago, and the old Bathrobe left town the next morning. Red wanted to know if he should follow him to the Bahamas.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“I told him to forget it.”
Pitts laughed again. “Hey, Cavanaugh ain’t stupid. It never hurts to ask.”
Despite Ollie’s protests, the beer he wanted was put on hold. Instead Devlin led him on a quick tour of the surrounding area, then up onto a wide stone piazza that ran along one side of the cathedral some thirty feet above the street. They did not enter the church, but took up positions behind one of two stone lions that guarded the staircase to the street.
“Watch for nasty boys dressed in white,” Devlin said. “If they’re watching us, they should start to move when we don’t come down.”
Twenty minutes later two men wearing white shirts and matching skullcaps exited a store across the street and took up a position in the park where they could watch the staircase that led up to the cathedral.
“Bingo,” Pitts said. “These Abakua must all be twins. Somebody should tell their mama to dress them a little less
conspicuously. Those white costumes play hell on a good surveillance.”
Devlin raised his chin toward the park benches that had suddenly emptied with the appearance of the Abakua. “Martínez claims it’s a religious thing with this particular sect. It’s also supposed to be a type of intimidation. People know if they mess with an Abakua, the whole cult will be out to get them. The white outfits are supposed to be a warning.”
Pitts snorted at the idea. “Some fucking warning,” he said. “The two outside the witch doctor’s shack last night were a pair of pussies. They wouldn’t make it across the Port Authority Bus Terminal without getting sliced, diced, and fucking hung out to dry.”
Devlin smiled at Pitts’s bravado. It was exactly why he had brought him to Cuba. It was what Ollie Pitts was for.
Martínez arrived on the hotel terrace one hour later, as promised. He found Devlin and Pitts sipping orange juice and beer, respectively, their eyes fixed on the people milling about the plaza.
“Your Abakua are back,” Devlin said as Martínez seated himself at their table. He handed him a sketch of the men he had seen. Adrianna had also spotted them from the hotel terrace, and had produced a quick drawing before returning to their room.
“This is excellent,” Martínez said as he studied the drawing. “My men saw them as well, but could only give a general description.” He ran a finger along his mustache. “We also have another visitor to Santiago. Are you familiar with the name Robert Cipriani?”
“The fugitive financier?” Devlin asked. “The one my government has been trying to extradite for the past ten or fifteen years? I thought I read the Cubans had busted him and sentenced him to a long stretch in prison.”
“That is exactly so,” Martínez said. “At last report he was being held in one of Cabrera’s very exclusive cells at State
Security headquarters. It would seem he has either escaped or has been given some special mission.”
“Us?” Pitts asked.
“It is possible. But I doubt that is the only reason he is here. Cipriani is not a killer. He is a financial gangster.”
“How do you know all this?” Devlin asked.
“Our police here work very closely with the immigration police at the airport. Just to be aware of who is coming into their territory. It would appear that Mr. Cipriani and another gentleman—who I suspect is one of Cabrera’s men—arrived on the flight following ours. They were met by two Abakua, who drove them to El Cobre.”
“What’s El Cobre?” Devlin asked.
“A small mountain village to the west. It is the site of a church that houses the shrine to the Virgin of Caridad.”
“Maybe they just wanna say a little prayer?” Pitts said.
Martínez smiled across the table. “Perhaps that is so. It is a very famous shrine. Your novelist, and Cuba’s great friend, Ernest Hemingway, presented his Nobel medal to the virgin shortly before his death.” He shifted his gaze to Devlin. “But I suspect Señor Cipriani is here for other than prayerful reasons.”
“I think we should find out,” Devlin said.
“Yes, we should.” He reached into a pocket and removed the small pouch containing the earth from the Red Angel’s burial site. He laid it on the table. The red feather Plante Firme had given them protruded from the top. “But first I think we must confront Baba Briyumbe. Just to stir the pot a bit.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Perhaps it would be better if we do this without Señorita Méndez. It could prove to be … difficult.”
“She’s resting in our room,” Devlin said. “I’ll leave her a note that we had some errands to run.”
“Good,” Martínez said. “My men will continue to watch all entrances to the hotel. No Abakua will be allowed inside.”