William Heffernan - Red Angel

“Your truck is on the other side of the park,” he said. “If they leave the hotel, take care of this matter tonight. If not, do so in the morning.”

One of the Abakua, a tall, lean, hard-eyed man somewhere in his thirties, stared down at Cabrera. There was no fear in his eyes as he confronted the colonel.

“It will be easier to make it seem an accident if they are driving.”

“They will definitely be driving in the morning,” Cabrera said. “They have an appointment at State Security at ten. But tonight, if possible. It will be better in darkness. And an evening stroll could put them in your headlights.”

“And if the major is with them?” the second Abakua asked.

“As I told you once before, I have little concern for the major’s safety,” Cabrera said.

Devlin and Adrianna arrived on the terrace at eleven-thirty. Adrianna was dressed in khaki slacks and a scoopneck, sleeveless yellow jersey. Despite efforts to appear outwardly calm, she could not hide the hint of nervousness in her eyes.

“You are dressed in the color of Ochun,” Martinez said. “Plante Firme’s nganga is dedicated to Oggun, who has always favored this goddess of beauty. It is a good omen.” He turned to Devlin, taking in his green, short-sleeved shirt. “And green is the color of Oggun,” he said. “Another favorable omen.”

“What about me?” Pitts asked, pulling at the front of his flamboyant Hawaiian shirt.

Martinez smiled. “The gods are tolerant,” he said.

Devlin glanced at Pitts, noting that his shirt was not tucked into his trousers-the street cop’s method of concealing a weapon when going jacketless. He knew Ollie was not carrying, had made sure of it when he arrived at the airport, and he wondered if he had chosen to wear his shirt this way out of habit or to give himself the comfort of at least pretending he had a weapon.

Devlin had no such need. He hated guns, a hatred that stemmed from the times he had been forced to use one lethally. He still dreamed about those times, especially the first, when he had been forced to take the life of a fellow cop gone mad. That’s right, the man’s a cop killer. John the Boss Rossi’s words flooded back at him. He shuddered inwardly. Never again, he thought. Please, God, never again.

“I think we must be going,” Martinez said. “Plante Firme’s home is in the Lawton district, and it will take us twenty minutes, or more, to get there. And I want to go carefully, to see if we are followed.”

Martinez drove his old Chevrolet along the Avenida de Maceo, which fronted the coast. Like the streets of Old Havana, here the sidewalk promenade was awash with people, many with small children, all escaping the heat-filled confines of small apartments. At the National Hotel, which stood on a high bluff overlooking the sea, Martinez cut back inland, then headed south on the Avenida de los Presidentes. As they entered a large traffic circle with a fountain at its center, he pointed to a tall, stark building on his right.

“That is the Hospital Infantil,” he said. “It is where your aunt worked as a young intern before the revolution.” He gave a small shrug. “But then it was only for the children of the rich. Later your aunt changed that, and it was at this hospital that most of Havana’s children received their inoculations. To this day many people still call it the Hospital of the Red Angel.”

As he had done since they started out, Martinez kept a constant watch in the rearview mirror. From the rear seat, where he sat with Adrianna, Devlin glanced out the back window.

“I don’t see our Abakua friends,” he said.

“No,” Martinez said. “Just the same truck that has remained fifty meters behind since we began.”

Devlin gave the truck greater attention. As he did, the truck pulled out and accelerated. It seemed to leap ahead, coming quickly alongside their rear quarter panel. Now, under the streetlights, Devlin could see two white-clad men behind the windshield.

“Watch it,” he shouted. “They’re in the truck.”

“I see them,” Martinez shouted back. He hit the accelerator and the old Chevy’s big V-eight threw the car forward.

Devlin watched as the truck also jumped forward, quickly coming even with the Chevy’s rear bumper. Before he could warn Martinez, the truck cut sharply to the right, and he felt the jolt and the simultaneous thump as the truck struck the rear fender. Instinctively, he threw his arm around Adrianna and pulled her toward him, hoping his body would serve as a buffer to any heavier impact.

The truck pulled out, preparing to swerve into them again. They were headed down a steep incline, a large rock formation on their right, a sharp right-hand curve rapidly approaching.

As the truck started to jerk toward them again, Martinez hit the brakes, allowing the truck to slide past. Then he cut the wheel left, pressed the accelerator to the floor, and began a quick passing maneuver before the truck could respond.

“Give me your piece,” Pitts growled from the passenger seat. “I’ll pump a few in their door.”

“No,” Martinez snapped.

The Chevy leaped forward, and Martinez took it into the sharp right-hand turn at full speed. The car fishtailed, then straightened, racing along Avenida Rancho Boyeros, then into another sharp turn onto Avenida 20 de Mayo.

To their right, as they made the rum, the large marble monument to Jose Marti loomed above them. Opposite the statue, the wall of the Ministry of the Interior displayed an illuminated silhouette of Che Guevara.

“Back there, in the heavily treed area behind Jose Marti’s statue, is where Fidel’s office is,” Martinez said.

Devlin noted there was no hint of fear in his voice. “Never mind the tourist crap, Martinez,” Devlin snapped. “Just get us the hell out of here.” He tightened his arm around Adrianna. He could feel her tremble under his touch.

“Hey, maybe we should drop in and pay a social call,” Pitts said. “Maybe Fidel’s got some boys with Uzis who can discourage these fucking voodoo assholes.” He jabbed a finger toward Martinez. “You know, you really pissed me off, not giving me your piece back there.”

“I will try to remember next time,” Martinez said. “For now, I must concentrate on losing our pursuers.”

Martinez cut off the main thoroughfare and into a rabbit warren of small streets, turning right, then left at every third or fourth intersection, gradually weaving his way through clusters of small houses, past scattered residential shops, the streets growing darker, the houses poorer with each turn.

The old Chevy, with its large engine and more maneuver-able chassis, quickly left the truck behind. Now the streetlights vanished, the houses became even smaller and more squalid. Here the occasional faces staring out from the sidewalks and front porches were entirely black, the quiet broken only by the sporadic strains of Latin music drifting out from open windows.

Five minutes later Martinez pulled the car to a stop in front of a small blue cinderblock house, with a matching high wall that enclosed a small courtyard.

The major let out a long breath. “We are here,” he said as he climbed out and walked to the rear of the car. Devlin heard him utter a curse as he viewed the damage to his left rear fender.

“We are here,” Pitts mimicked. His eyes roamed the darkened street, taking in a small group of black youths gathered a short distance down the street. “We’re in fucking Harlem and Senor Major’s got the only heat, which, if you ask me, he probably forgot to load.”

“Shut up, Ollie,” Devlin snapped. “In case you didn’t notice, Senor Major kept us from being roadkill back there. So cut him some slack.”

Pitts pushed open his door and heaved his bulk onto the sidewalk. “I hope that’s the only thing that gets cut around here.” He walked to the rear of the car. “Hey, Major, nice neighborhood. You got any baseball bats in the trunk.”