Authors: William Heffernan
“Was she also aware of the plan to allow narcotics to be shipped from Cayo Largo?”
Cabrera shook his head. “We did not know. She said nothing of it to Deputy Minister Sauri.”
“But you feared she might also discover this?”
“No.” He hesitated. “We did not know. We feared … Minister Sauri feared she would take the matter to the Comandante himself, and that further inquiries would be ordered, and that it might expose who the American investors really were.”
“So you decided she must be killed.” Martínez said it as fact, not a question.
“That she be silenced in some way, yes.”
“And is this the same reason you
silenced
Manuel Pineiro, our former spymaster?”
Cabrera became agitated. “That was on Sauri’s order, not mine.”
Martínez shook his head. “Very well, we will concentrate on what
you
did. How did Señor Rossi fit into this plan to kill the Red Angel?”
Cabrera placed his hands on his face and slowly drew them down. He looked up at Martínez. His eyes seemed to be begging him to stop.
“Answer my question,” Martínez snapped.
Cabrera stared down at his lap. “It came about at the same time,” he began. “Señor Rossi sent a messenger to Cuba, suggesting that Dr. Méndez be used in a change-of-heads ritual. He is a believer in Palo Monte. It is an old belief, from many years ago when he lived in Havana. The messenger said he wished to save himself from a grave illness.”
“And did he offer you money to do this?”
Cabrera nodded.
“Say the words, Cabrera. Do not nod your head.”
“Yes, he offered me money.”
“How much?”
“Half a million dollars.” Again, Cabrera’s voice came out in a whisper.
“Louder, please,” Martínez snapped.
“Half a million dollars.”
“And this was all that was required of you. That you arrange for Dr. Mendez’s death, and the theft of her corpse.”
Cabrera shook his head, then realized he should answer aloud. “No. He also wanted me to contact Señorita Méndez in New York, and to tell her of the accident in such a way that she would come to her aunt.”
“And then?”
Cabrera swallowed. “The messenger said an American man would undoubtedly accompany her, and that he was to be killed, along with the woman.”
“Both were to be killed?”
“
Sí.
Yes, both.”
“And were you to be paid for this as well?”
Cabrera nodded again, then caught himself. “Yes. I was to be paid another half a million.”
Pitts let out a whistle.
Martínez held up a hand, warning him to be quiet. He began pacing again.
“So first you arranged the assassination of Dr. Méndez?”
“Yes.”
“And who did you give this assignment?”
“The Abakua who have worked for me in the past.”
“Their names?”
Cabrera rattled off a series of names.
“And these men, they used a truck to cause a car accident involving Dr. Méndez?”
“Yes.”
“And were these the same men who arranged the theft of our Red Angel’s body?”
“Yes. Together with a
palero
named Siete Rayos.”
“And they then took that body to Santiago de Cuba?”
“Yes.”
“Were you paid when that body was delivered?”
“Yes.”
Martínez went to the desk and picked up a piece of paper and a pen. He handed them to Cabrera. “You will write down the name and location of the bank, and the number of the account to which the money was sent.”
He waited while Cabrera complied, then continued.
“And were these same men who attacked Dr. Mendez, and who later took the corpse, the ones who later tried to kill Dr. Mendez’s niece, and the Americans accompanying her?” He paused. “And who attempted to kill me, as well?”
“Yes.”
Martínez stopped pacing. “You have done well, Colonel. There are but a few more questions.”
Cabrera looked up, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. Martínez ignored it.
“Now we must turn to the attempt on the life of the
palero
Plante Firme,” Martínez began again. “Was this ordered by you?”
“Yes.”
“And why was that, Colonel?”
“Minister Sauri wanted the Americans gone, even if it angered Señor Rossi. He was afraid our plans were being placed in danger.” He looked away, then forced himself to continue. “Another body was located. A woman of the same age and physical size as Dr. Mendez. The body was stolen from a cemetery and burned to conform with Dr. Mendez’s injuries, and the head and hands and one foot were removed. These were to be found later in a
nganga
placed in Plante Firme’s home …” He paused. “After his death.”
“So he could not contradict your finding?”
“Yes.”
“And this assassination was attempted by two of your men, who have since disappeared.” Martínez gave him the names of two men.
“Yes. Those were the men. We have not been able to locate them.”
“But the assassination failed, did it not?”
“Yes, it failed.”
“And Plante Firme’s grandson was murdered in his place.”
“Yes.”
Martínez turned to Devlin. “Are your questions answered, my friend?”
Devlin nodded. “Except for the location of Dr. Mendez’s body.”
Martínez turned back to Cabrera. “You can answer this question?”
“Yes.”
“Do so.”
“The body, or what remains of it, has been made part of a
nganga
now under the control of the
palero
Siete Rayos.”
“And the remaining parts of the body?”
“Destroyed, the ashes scattered at the direction of the
palero
Baba Briyumbe, who prepared the
nganga
”
“And the change-of-heads ritual for Señor Rossi is still to take place.”
“That is my understanding.”
“When?”
“Tonight. After dark.”
“And where will this happen?”
“At a house in Cojimar.”
“You have the address?”
Cabrera nodded, and Martínez did not correct him this time.
“Write it on the paper I have given you.”
As Cabrera did so, Martínez turned back to Devlin. “Is there anything else?”
“No. No more questions,” Devlin said. “I just want to get my hands on Rossi. Around his throat would be nice.”
Martínez smiled at him. “I take it you did not know that the lovely Señorita Méndez was always to be part of this killing that Señor Rossi paid so generously to arrange.”
“No. But I do now.”
Martínez raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I am afraid I cannot allow you to give him the death he deserves.” He raised one finger. “But I believe I can help you give him even greater misery.”
“How?” Devlin’s eyes were cold, blue steel, and the scar on his cheek, the gift of an old knife wound, had turned a vivid white.
“In time, my friend,” Martínez said. “But well before you take your leave of my country.”
He turned back to Cabrera, and noticed that the colonel had succeeded in regaining some composure. “Do you have something more to say, Colonel?”
Cabrera straightened his back. “I wish the privilege of an officer,” he said. His voice broke as he spoke the words. “I wish a pistol, and time alone in this room.”
Martínez walked back to the desk and turned off the tape recorder.
“I am afraid I cannot accommodate you.”
Martínez went to the door and rapped lightly three times, then stepped back. The door swung back slowly to reveal Plante Firme.
Devlin heard Cabrera gasp. The old
palero
was naked to the waist. He wore a straw hat with several large multicolored feathers protruding from the brim. In his left hand he held the long staff Devlin had seen at his home. It was nothing more than the straight limb of a tree, denuded of bark,
the top forking into five separate branches, six to eight inches in length, each holding an individual white feather. Plante Firme’s
mpaca
hung from his neck on a leather thong, and in his right hand he held a crudely fashioned rattle, also covered in white feathers.
He stepped into the room and began to chant in a mixture of Spanish and Bantu as Cabrera shrank back in his chair, his eyes frozen with fear.
Martínez took Devlin and Pitts by the arm. “Perhaps you would like to leave now,” he said.
Devlin shook his head. “No, I’d like to stay.”
“As you wish, my friend.”
They watched as Plante Firme advanced. His steps were slow and methodical, each bare foot planted with an audible slap on the polished tile floor.
Cabrera’s eyes widened and his entire body shook. He pressed back in the chair as if hoping it would swallow him.
Plante Firme stood before him now, the feather-festooned rattle held high above Cabrera’s head. His low, rumbling voice rose until it seemed to shake the walls of the room. Then he lowered the rattle and thrust it against Cabrera’s chest.
The colonel’s body stiffened with the blow. He let out a high-pitched scream; his eyes bulged in his head, and his body began to jerk uncontrollably. His face twisted in agony, then collapsed with the rest of him into a limp mass.
Devlin stepped forward and placed two fingers against his neck. There was no pulse. He looked at Plante Firme. The
palero
‘s face was expressionless, except for a fading glint of hatred in his eyes.
Devlin turned to Martínez. “He’s dead.”
Martínez nodded, and Devlin turned back to look at Cabrera’s lips, waiting for a blue tinge to appear. Nothing happened.
“It wasn’t cyanide,” he said. “Maybe curare.” He turned to Martínez. “What’s your guess, Major?”
“I make no guess,” Martínez said. “Many would say it was magic.”
“You think if I opened Cabrera’s shirt, I’d find a small puncture wound near his heart?” He inclined his head toward Plante Firme. “Maybe from a needle embedded in his rattle?”
“I would not know,” Martínez said. “I do know that it would offend the
palero
if you were to do so. I must insist that you do not offend him.”
Devlin turned away from the body. Plante Firme took his arm and spoke. The words sounded urgent.
“The
palero
says you will be in great danger when you leave this house. He asks that you take great care.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we should listen.” Martínez went to the door and snapped out an order to his two men, and they immediately ran toward the rear of the house. Devlin heard a door open as the men headed into the rear yard.
Martínez glanced quickly at Devlin and Pitts. “To the front door,” he said. “With caution.”
All three had their weapons drawn as Martínez reached for the knob of the front door. He eased it back, then moved quickly across the open frame. The move drew immediate fire, only a second too late. Martínez flattened against the wall and shouted out a command. From each side of the house steady bursts of automatic-weapon fire erupted as the major’s men fired toward the street. Martínez leaned out and emptied the clip of his automatic.
Pitts swung into the door frame, crouched low, his weapon out in front. Devlin spun in behind, slightly higher, his own pistol leveled at the street. They fired, then jumped back. Another burst of automatic-rifle fire came from the sides of the house. There was no return fire.
Pitts jumped back into the door frame, ready to fire again. Devlin followed.
“Shit,” Pitts said. “It’s over, and I didn’t get off one clean fucking shot.”
Devlin pulled him back from the door. “Wait for Martínez’s boys to confirm the kills,” he ordered.
A few minutes later words were shouted in Spanish, and Martínez stepped out onto the front stairs, followed by Devlin and Pitts.
They eased their way to the street, weapons held down along their legs. Three men lay scattered on the roadway, two near one car, the third sprawled next to another. A fourth man was slumped against the steering wheel of the second car. Martínez’s men stood to each side of the cars, their weapons pointed toward the ground.
“Dead?” Devlin asked.
Martínez nodded.
“Cabrera’s people?” It was Pitts this time.
“No, I do not think so,” Martínez said. He glanced at Devlin. “I think Señor Rossi has not yet given up on his plans for you.”
Plante Firme stepped past them. He had followed them from the house unnoticed. He used his staff to turn one of the bodies, then reached down and tore open the man’s shirt, revealing a series of ritual scars.
“Abakua,” he said.
“Hey, we owe you,” Pitts said. He turned to Martínez. “The old boy must have seen them when he came in.”
“You discount magic?” Martínez said.
“Hey, magic is fine,” Pitts said. “As long as these scumbags are dead.”
Martínez turned to Devlin. “I detect skepticism in your detective,” he said. “I wonder what he would think if I told him that Plante Firme has been in this house since before we arrived. Or that he was kept in a room at the rear of the house on my orders.”
“Are you shitting me?” Pitts said.
Martínez smiled at both men. “No, my friends. I am not
sheeting
you. Even so, it seems the
palero
still knew about the Abakua. It is curious, no?”
Devlin pushed it aside. It was more than he wanted to deal with. “There’s something else that’s curious,” he said.
Martínez’s eyes glittered. “And what is that?”
“When you were grilling Cabrera, you said something in Spanish. It seemed to change everything. He was like a whipped dog after that. Now, I only caught a few words.
Presentar
was one. Then
jefe
, and
técnico
and
investigación.
What did you tell him, Martínez?”
The major stroked his mustache. “Your Spanish, it is improving,” he said. He looked down and studied the toe of his shoe. “It is quite simple,” he said. “I merely introduced myself to the colonel.”
“As what?” Devlin asked.
“As
jefe de Departamento Técnico de Investigación.
Chief of the secret police.” He offered Devlin a small bow. “General Arnaldo Martínez, at your orders, my friend.”
“I thought you said Cabrera held that job.”