William Heffernan - Red Angel

The major led them into the small park, the surrounding sidewalks of which were filled with used-book stalls. “We will buy one of Tamayo’s books,” he said. “He will be very honored if you present it for him to sign.” He let out a small laugh. “Like the orishas , Cubans also do not like to work for free.”

“What kind of books does he write?” Adrianna asked.

“He is a great follower of your American writers Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. I do not know the work of these men, but it is said that Tamayo’s is very similar.”

“They were very good,” Adrianna said. “What we call ‘hard-boiled’ fiction.”

“Ah, yes,” Martinez said. “That is Tamayo. Very hard-boiled. But only in his writing.”

After buying a copy of one of Tamayo’s books, they made their way through the plaza and into a government building that housed offices for the Ministry of the Army. Once inside, they immediately moved to a side door that opened onto an adjacent street. Three entry ways down, they turned into a dark, narrow hall covered in ancient mosaic tiles.

“This is Tamayo’s building,” Martinez said as he led them to a narrow staircase that had frayed electric wires hanging from the ceiling. “The Abakua will be staring at the government building we first entered, wondering who in the army is giving us aid and comfort.” He laughed. “It will also give Colonel Cabrera great concern when they tell him where we went.”

Devlin glanced at the ceiling of the battered building they had entered. “He won’t have anything to worry about if we don’t get out of this firetrap alive.”

Martinez followed Devlin’s gaze. “Do not worry,” he said. “Tamayo is a son of Chango, the god of thunder and fire-a very powerful rascal-and he will not allow flames to touch the home of his follower. Besides, Tamayo also keeps a statue of Eleggua behind his door, which he feeds every day.”

“Feeds?” Devlin asked.

Martinez nodded. “Yes, feeds, my friend. From his mouth he sprays it with aguardiente, a cheap Cuban rum. This way he gives Eleggua his ache , his spirit, and this assures the god is content and that Tamayo has nothing to fear inside these walls.”

“Jesus Christ,” Devlin said. “Is there anybody in Cuba who doesn’t believe in these gods?”

“Oh yes,” Martinez said. “There are many. You will know them by the misery in their lives.”

They climbed the battered staircase, past crumbling walls and metal doors, many of which had more than one lock. Martinez had told them that Tamayo was one of Cuba’s most revered and successful writers. Now he had also told him that the man practiced a form of voodoo that was beyond Devlin’s comprehension. And that those who didn’t practice voodoo could be known by the misery in their lives? He glanced about him as he climbed the steamy, battered staircase to the fourth floor of this hellhole firetrap of a building. If this was viewed as the absence of misery, he wondered what life in Cuba was for those who rejected these two hundred and thirty-six African gods. And what had it been before the arrival of Comandante Fidel. Perhaps that was it, he thought. Like Castro, perhaps these strange religious beliefs simply offered hope in a country where hope had always been the one elusive commodity of life.

A tall, slender, coffee-colored man with short, tightly curled gray hair opened the door of the apartment. He was well into his sixties, but his face was spread into a smile that made him seem far younger, a smile so genuine that Devlin had the inexplicable feeling they had known each other for years.

The man bubbled forth in perfect, if somewhat formal English. “I am Jose Tamayo. Welcome. Welcome. I am honored to have you visit my home.”

Over Tamayo’s shoulder Devlin glimpsed a small, sparsely furnished apartment. There was a main room, consisting of four dinette-type chairs covered in plastic, set in a line before an old black-and-white television set. A small table sat next to one of the chairs, holding only a telephone and a single ashtray in which a large cigar smoldered. Off that room was a galley kitchen, giving off a rich aroma of Cuban coffee, and a long, narrow terrace overlooking an in terior courtyard. Two open louvered doors on the terrace led to small, cramped bedrooms. Martinez had told them that Tamayo’s son and daughter-in-law lived there as well, but that both were now at work.

Tamayo ushered them into the main room and seated them on the dinette chairs with all the formality of someone offering the comfort of a plushly furnished room. He then hurried to the kitchen, returning with steaming cups of coffee. When Adrianna presented the battered book they had purchased, his face again burst into youthful radiance, and he quickly signed it with the exuberance of a child opening gifts on Christmas morning.

As he handed back the book, Tamayo’s expressive face filled with unabashed regret. “My wife, who is away working this morning, asked me to add her condolences to my own,” he said. He reached out and took Adrianna’s hand. “Your aunt was a great woman, and a great hero of our revolution, and my wife and I were greatly honored by her friendship.”

For the first time since she learned of her aunt’s death, Devlin saw tears form in Adrianna’s eyes. He leaned forward, drawing the writer’s attention.

“The major tells me you once worked with the political police,” he said. “We are hoping you can use your knowledge to help us find the body of Maria Mendez.”

Tamayo nodded, then made a small wave with one hand, as if brushing aside his past activities.

“I was merely a propagandist, senor. My job was to put forth my government’s views on political matters.” He wagged his head from side to side. “Sometimes they were accurate expressions, sometimes merely views my government wished others to share. So, my police abilities, I’m afraid, are really limited to my fictional writings.” He leaned forward, his face filling with more sincerity than Devlin had ever seen crammed in the face of one man.

He nodded toward Martinez. “Arnaldo has explained, however, that Palo Monte may be involved. In this I can help you. I have written extensively about Palo Monte in my fiction, and I am also a believer in its powers.”

Martinez interrupted, explaining what they had discovered at the funeral home. He handed Tamayo the black feather the ancient security guard had given them.

Tamayo held the feather up to the light and nodded. “There is no question this is from the aura tinosa. ” He looked at Devlin. “This is the scavenger bird we call mayimbe , very sacred to the Palo Monte, and very integral to their rituals.”

“We are also under surveillance by two Abakua,” Martinez added.

Tamayo’s eyes hardened into a look of true hatred. He turned to Adrianna. “First, I must tell you that I have grave doubts that your aunt’s death was the result of any accident.”

Adrianna’s eyes widened and she seemed ready to speak, but Tamayo hurried on. “I have no proof of this.” He brought his hand to his chest. “But from here I believe this is true.”

“What makes you believe it?” Devlin asked.

Tamayo shook his head, his eyes still severe. “Something sinister is going on in my country, Senor Devlin. I do not know what it is, but I do know that two people high in our government also held this belief. And now both are dead.” He looked back at Adrianna. “Regrettably, one of those people was your beloved aunt.”

“Who was the other?” Adrianna asked.

Tamayo drew a deep breath. “Are you familiar with the name Manuel Pineiro?”

Adrianna shook her head. Tamayo turned to Devlin and received the same response.

Tamayo picked up his cigar, noted that it had gone out, and returned it to the ashtray. “Manuel Pineiro was known as Barba Roja to the people-or Red Beard. For twenty years he was the head of our intelligence apparatus, our spymaster as my fellow novelist John le Carre would say, and someone equally as respected in the intelligence community as the famous East German Markus Wolf, who le Carre used as the model for his great villain. In short, he was very good at his job-a man who knew all the secrets.”