Red Angel (5 page)

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.” Martínez 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 Martínez on their side—if possible—at least for now. “Tell me about María Mendez,” he said.

Martínez 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.”

Martínez 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.

Martínez 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.
And
children. Some say he doesn’t remember most of their names.”

“But María Mendez was not one of those.” Devlin spoke the words for Martínez.

“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 María 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 Martínez had ordered. Devlin pushed his aside and leaned forward. “Tell me about her.”

Martínez lit another cigarette and sat back in his chair.

“In 1957, María 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.

“María 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.

“María 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. She wanted a political solution. She simply believed in the people, and the desperate need to ease their suffering.”

Martínez paused and smiled. “An idealist, eh? Like so many young people everywhere.”

He took a sip of his coffee and glanced again at the young women at the bar. Devlin thought he was perhaps wishing idealism would find its way to them.

“But there were others, students who realized that idealistic goals were impossible as long as Batista lived. They formed a plan to kill him. They believed the peasants in the countryside would rise up once he was dead.

“The plan involved an assault on the Presidential Palace in March of 1957, where Batista would be assassinated. But the students knew that many of them would be killed or wounded in the attack. They needed secret hospitals where the wounded could be taken, where the secret police who would be hunting them would not think to look. María was one of the young doctors they went to for help.

“It was foolishness, of course. The students were untrained and poorly armed. The attack failed, and the police easily followed the wounded back to their secret hospitals.”

“And María?” Devlin asked.

“She was arrested, of course. She had refused to leave the dying student she was trying to save.” Martínez closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them they were filled with a deep sadness.

“She was tortured, asked to give the names of others who had escaped. When she refused, she was turned over to her guards. She was raped so many times that her organs were
badly damaged. She was never able to have children because of this.” He paused again, his entire face now marked by the sadness of his eyes. “Perhaps that is why she chose to work with children. Perhaps that is why your lovely Adrianna became so important in her life.”

Martínez seemed to push the speculation aside. He lit another cigarette and finished his coffee.

“She was saved by her father. It took several months, and many bribes, but she was finally released from prison. By that time Fidel’s second invasion in Oriente Province was well under way, and his troops had established bases in the Sierra Maestra Mountains.

“María joined him there, not only as a doctor, but fighting at his side. She became a fierce warrior, it is said, leading other men and women into battle against Batista’s troops. She had come to understand, you see, that brutality such as Batista’s could only be fought with guns.”

A wan smile came to Martínez’s lips. “Of course, the revolution succeeded. And when Fidel entered Havana in 1959, María was with him. She, like Che Guevara, was one of the great heroes. And like Guevara, who was also a physician, she knew that the health of the people—especially its children—was the first task the revolution had to address.

“It is said that she and Guevara went to Fidel and convinced him of this need. He put her in charge. Guevara was needed elsewhere in the government. And so it fell to María Mendez to bring health to the people.”

“That sounds like quite a job,” Devlin said.

“Even more than you think.” Martínez spread his arms, as if taking in the entire room, perhaps the entire country. “Cuba is a difficult place. Even more difficult in 1959.”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You recall that I asked Señorita Mendez if she was familiar with our Cuban-African religions?” He waited while Devlin nodded. “Well, in Cuba, even today, the people will consult the
priests of these religions about their illnesses. Some will even go to a priest first, to see if they really need a doctor. And even the more sophisticated people—those who believe in the powers of
scientific
medicine—will still consult these priests
after
they see a doctor.” He smiled. “Just to be certain the doctor was right.” He wagged his head from side to side. “Even Fidel does this. In fact, he once had a personal physician who was also a
babalau
, which is the highest rank among these priests.”

Martínez seemed to fight back a smile, as if he were enjoying the look of surprise on Devlin’s face.

He nodded vigorously. “Yes, it is so. These beliefs are very widespread. They are at every level of our society. And among the poor and less educated they are even more strongly held.” He raised his hands, indicating futility. “So from the start, as you can imagine, María Mendez had this obstacle to overcome. But she was not only an intelligent woman, she was also a wise one. She formed very strong alliances with these priests. And she seduced them into helping her. And it worked, you see. Within a few years all the children of our island had been inoculated against the great diseases that had always killed so many of our people. All pregnant women were receiving prenatal care, and the doors to the hospitals—once closed to everyone but the rich—were now flooded by people seeking care. And today everyone receives this care. Today Cuba has more than sixty thousand doctors serving the people, all of it her doing. And it has the lowest infant mortality rate in Latin America—the same rate they have in France and Italy and Israel.” He raised his hands, then let them fall back to the table. “So now, perhaps, you can see why the people love her, why they think of her as their Angel Rojo. Their Red Angel.”

Devlin was about to reply, when he noticed Martínez’s eyes snap toward the entrance of the bar. He turned and found a tall, uniformed officer approaching their table. When he reached them, Martínez was already standing.

“Colonel Cabrera, I am at your orders,” Martínez said.

A small smirk formed on the colonel’s lips. He was tall and angular, with a carefully trimmed beard as black as his eyes. His tan uniform was crisply starched, as though it had just come off a hanger. “You address me in English now, Major?” There was a cutting edge to the words.

“In deference to our guest. Colonel.”

Devlin noticed that Martínez’s eyes were hard, almost defiant. They remained that way as he turned abruptly and extended a hand toward Devlin.

“Colonel Antonio Cabrera, may I introduce Señor Paul Devlin of the United States. He is here—”

“I know why he is here,” Cabrera said, cutting him off.

Devlin stood and offered his hand. “Everyone seems to know who I am. Are the Cuban police always this well informed?”

Cabrera inclined his head, as if accepting an undeserved compliment. “Had I known you were arriving today, I would have met you at the airport, señor. Unfortunately, I was not informed until you had checked into this hotel.” His gaze hardened on Martínez. “Obviously, the major’s information was superior to mine.” The colonel’s features softened. “I was hoping to offer my condolences to Señorita Mendez.”

“I’m afraid she’s asleep,” Devlin said. “The news about her aunt’s death, and the theft of the body, came as quite a shock.”

Cabrera nodded. “Understandable, of course.” He had put as much sympathy in his words as possible. Yet his demeanor showed none of it. He remained erect and formal and intimidating, as if those were things he could never quite shed.

“Has there been any progress in the investigation?” Devlin asked. “Anything I could pass on to her?”

Cabrera shot Martínez a look. Devlin could not tell if it
was a warning to remain silent, or simply because their dislike was mutual.

“I’m afraid there is not much I can tell you. We believe enemies of the revolution stole the body. The plan may even have come from Miami. There are Cubans there, as you know, who are always seeking ways to undermine the government. It is why the matter has been turned over to State Security.”

“You have suspects?”

“Yes. That I can tell you. There are suspects presently under investigation.”

Devlin nodded. He had used the same line of bullshit more times than he cared to remember. If this were New York, it would mean the investigation had hit a brick wall.

“Then I expect we’ll have a body to bury shortly,” Devlin said.

“It is our hope, señor.” Cabrera let his eyes fall hard on Devlin. “You plan to remain, then?”

“I don’t see that we have any choice,” Devlin said. “I don’t believe Señorita Mendez will want to leave with her aunt’s body still missing.”

Cabrera seemed to grow another inch or two. “Then I would like you both to come to my headquarters tomorrow to discuss certain matters.”

“When?”

“Would late afternoon be convenient?”

“I’m sure we’ll make it convenient,” Devlin said. “How do we get there?”

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

“I am at your orders, Colonel,” Martínez 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,” Martínez said as he reclaimed his chair.

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

Martínez 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.”

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