William Heffernan - Red Angel

The major accepted with obvious gratitude, then smiled in turn at Adrianna and Devlin. “I am pleased you have both decided to assist me,” he began.

Devlin cut him off. “We haven’t decided anything. Not until you’ve explained some things.”

“Of course. That is understood.” Martinez held his sad smile.

“Number one.” He paused to emphasize that more than one explanation was needed, then leaned toward Martinez and softened his tone. “First, we need to know your involvement in this. Your official involvement. And we need to know Cabrera’s involvement. And I want some clarification on these confusing statements you keep making about him. Does he work for State Security, or not. For the secret police, or not. And what the hell is the difference between the two.”

A waiter brought coffee, and Martinez sat smiling and silent until he had left.

“Let me explain our police structure first. When you understand this, you will understand who Cabrera is. And who I am. Perhaps then you will better understand what I am doing, and why it must be so.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “First, you must understand that there are many police agencies in Cuba-nine that are known to the people, and one more that officially does not exist. All come under the Ministry of Interior.”

He raised a finger, then clasped it with his other hand. “First is the national police, in which I serve. We have a simple duty. We are to protect our citizens against crime.” He released his finger and waved his hand in dismissal. “Next are several police agencies that do not concern us. The coast guard, fire protection, the immigration police, all of whose functions are explained by their names. Then there are political police. They deal in propaganda and in making sure the attitudes of the government personnel do not become anti-revolutionary or revisionist.” He shrugged. “The mind police.” He laughed at the term. “Most Cubans today listen to what they say, and then ignore them.”

He leaned even closer to the table. “Now we come to the more serious and more secret agencies. First is the intelligence service.” Another shrug. “Our spies. Next is the counterintelligence service. Our spy catchers. And finally is our Office of Internal Security, or State Security. These are the people who watch everything that goes on inside Cuba, and who are responsible for serious crimes against the government. And it is this organization in which Colonel Antonio Cabrera serves as number two in command.”

“And the unofficial police agency?” Devlin asked.

“This is the Departamento Tecnico de Investigacion, the DTI, more commonly known as our secret police.” Martinez smiled across the table. “The DTI have no offices, but work out of ordinary-looking houses in utmost secrecy. No one, except their own officers, knows who is a member. Those who are, are drawn from other police agencies and each of the various ministries, where they all continue to work, supposedly undetected. It is their job to watch the people who are watching everyone else. And they answer to no one except the highest people in the government. It is said that evidence presented against you by the DTI assures that you are doomed.”

“Sounds like the man in charge pretty much holds the fate of everyone in his hands,” Devlin said.

Martinez inclined his head. “If he has done what I believe he has, even he is vulnerable.”

“So, who is he?”

Martinez smiled. “It is a secret, of course. One that only the highest people in our government are supposed to know.”

“But you know.”

“Yes,” Martinez said. “I know. The head of our secret police is Colonel Antonio Cabrera.”

“And how do you know?” Especially as a freshly minted major with a shiny new badge, Devlin added to himself.

“I was told several years ago, by someone high in our government. Someone who trusted me, and who believed that certain things were happening in our government that could destroy the revolution.” He turned to Adrianna. “I was told by your aunt. Maria Mendez.”

Adrianna seemed at a loss for words. “She would know something like that?” she finally asked.

Martinez let out a long sigh. “There was very little that our Red Angel did not know.”

“And what was she afraid was happening?” Devlin asked.

Martinez gave him a regretful look. “That, my friend, I cannot tell you. Let us just say it is something that could jeopardize the security of my country. So, in this matter, I will have to ask you to trust me.”

Devlin sat back and stared at this small, sad, middle-aged man. Trust you, he thought. I don’t even know you. “And why should we trust you?” he asked.

Martinez made a helpless gesture with his hands. Devlin suspected that his helplessness was as phony as his rumpled clothing and mournful eyes. “I believe you should trust me, because in this matter we have a common interest. Finding the body of Maria Mendez.”

“Do you believe she died as a result of a car accident?” Devlin held his gaze, searching for a lie.

Martinez shook his head. “But I cannot prove this. Not yet.”

“Who would have wanted her dead?”

A sly look came to Martinez’s eyes. It seemed so out of character it was almost comical. “Perhaps the same person who is now charged with finding her corpse.”

“Cabrera,” Adrianna said.

“This is what the investigation by the national police has found?” Devlin asked.

“There has been no investigation by the national police,” Martinez said. “The matter was taken from us before any investigation could begin. It was given to State Security. The explanation we received is the same one Cabrera gave last night. That the theft of the Red Angel’s body is somehow an act against the government.”

“Have you gone to anyone with your suspicions?” Adrianna asked.

“Ah, senorita. And who would I go to? Someone that I know for certain is not a member of Cabrera’s secret police? And who would that be?”

“So who’s working with you?” Devlin asked.

“I am hoping you and Senorita Mendez will be working with me,” Martinez said.

“Just us? That’s it?” Devlin’s tone was pure incredulity.

“The gentleman we will see this morning may also help.”

“Who is he?”

“He is a well-known Cuban mystery writer, who, before he retired, also worked as a propagandist with our political police.”

“That’s it?” Devlin snapped. “One Cuban cop, a retired mystery writer, and a pair of tourists? And against us we’ve got the Cuban secret police?”

“You are much more than a tourist, my friend.”

Devlin shook his head emphatically. “No, I am not, my friend. Here, I am definitely just a tourist.”

“I am also hoping that Plante Firme will assist us,” Martinez said.

“The witch doctor?” Devlin stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Please, senor. The term ‘witch doctor’ would be an offense to him. He is called a palero , a priest of the Palo Monte sect, a follower of the Regla Mayombe.”

“Great,” Devlin snapped. “One Cuban cop, one retired writer, two tourists, and a goddamn palero. ”

“A powerful mix, my friend. If used well, a very powerful mix.”

Devlin leaned forward, eyes hard on Martinez’s mournful face. “Well, not quite powerful enough for me, Major.” He held up a hand, stopping the words Martinez seemed about to speak. “I’ll help you,” he said. “Because I damned well want to know what happened to this woman’s body. But there’s a condition.”

“A condition?” Martinez blinked several times.

“I bring one of my people from New York to help us.”

“Who, Paul?” It was Adrianna.