William Heffernan - Red Angel

Adrianna stared at him for a long moment. “So Amelia was buried alive. My God, how horrible.”

Martinez looked at her with his soft eyes. “But that is not how it was seen,” he said. “To the people it showed only that even in death, Amelia had comforted her child, and people began to come to this place, and to pray to her for their own dying children.” He waved his hand, again taking in the small, inscribed tombstones. “And these miracles for these other children occurred. Or, at least, it is how our Cuban mothers would believe it to be.”

Martinez pointed to another nearby walkway. “And ahead, only a short distance from the much-revered Amelia, are the vaults of the Mendez family, where the equally beloved Red Angel was to be buried.”

Adrianna moved ahead of them now. It was, Devlin thought, as if she were moving into her ancestral past, discovering it for the first time. He moved up behind her as she stood before a low iron fence that surrounded a platform made of large marble blocks. Five vaults sat atop the platform, with room for several more. She studied the names, the most recent of which was that of her paternal grandmother, who had died several years before her father and grandfather had fled the island.

“Hard?” he asked.

She remained silent for several moments, then nodded. “I feel like such a stranger. It’s as though my family has been ripped in half, and this was the half I was never allowed to know.” She paused, thinking about what she had said. “It must have been very hard for my grandfather to leave.” She leaned her head against Devlin’s shoulder. “If you died, I don’t think I could ever go so far from where you were buried, know I’d never be able to visit your grave, never be able to come and tell you I still remembered, still loved you.”

Devlin tightened his arm around her shoulder. “We’ll bring your aunt here,” he said. “And we’ll come back and visit her.”

“I must show you something,” Martinez said. He was standing with Pitts on the other side of the gravesite.

Adrianna and Devlin made their way to the back and looked to where Martinez was pointing. At the corner of the gravesite a divot of earth had been removed from the ground.

“It is the same at all the corners,” Martinez said. He reached into his pocket and removed a cloth bag. “Now we must do as the Palo Monte have done. We must take earth from the same places and put with it the red feather that Plante Firme has given us.”

“And then?” Adrianna asked.

“And then we must keep it with us at all times,” Martinez said.

The State Security compound, known as the Villa Marista, takes up ten square blocks of a modest residential neighborhood in the city’s Sevillano district. Even from the street it appears ominous, the exterior as forbidding as the notorious prison known to be housed within its grounds. A high wall, topped with razor wire, circles the entire area. Watchtowers stand at the corners, each manned by armed guards. There are television cameras mounted every fifty feet capable of following any vehicle or person moving along the perimeter.

The interior is visible through the heavily guarded gate that serves as the compound’s sole entrance. Beyond the gate a wide, grass-covered parade ground precedes a row of cinderblock buildings. The buildings are painted a flat, dull green, and uniformed guards armed with automatic weapons protect each. It is not a friendly place, nor is it intended to be. It gives off both an aura of power and one of dread, a place that few enter willingly, and where those who leave do so only when permitted.

Cabrera’s office was stark and decidedly military, and when they entered, Devlin and Adrianna were offered equally plain and uncomfortable chairs. Cabrera sat behind a metal desk. He was dressed in uniform, his tunic adorned with numerous ribbons, and aside from the colonel, himself, the only other decorative touch was a large personally inscribed photograph of Fidel in battle fatigues and field cap.

Devlin took in the room, noting its sense of sparse isolation. Martinez had been asked to wait in the outer office. The major had seemed unconcerned, and Devlin had not objected. Both men recognized it as a time-honored police technique. Strip away any hope of assistance, and leave the subjects of interrogation feeling helpless and alone. The only question now was whether Cabrera would play good cop or bad cop.

“I believe another person has joined you in Havana,” Cabrera began. “A detective named Oliver Pitts?”

“That’s right, he came in last night,” Devlin said.

“I assume he is here to help you … make your own inquiries?”

Devlin forced a smile. “Would that be a problem?” he asked.

Cabrera returned the smile. “Yes. I am afraid it would be a serious problem. As I told you when you first arrived, a very thorough investigation is being conducted.”

“We have no doubt about that, Colonel.” Devlin decided to fall back on the cover story he and Martinez had worked out. “Actually, Detective Pitts brought me some papers from work that required my attention. He decided to combine that with a small vacation.”

Cabrera nodded. “And where is he now?”

“We dropped him off at Major Martinez’s office on the way here. He wanted to see a Cuban police station and the major was kind enough to oblige.” Devlin gave Cabrera another smile. “Sort of a busman’s holiday, as we say in the States. After that, I believe he plans to do some shopping.”

Pitts was actually reading through the reports on Maria Mendez’s death and disappearance. Placing those documents in foreign hands was a direct violation of Cuban law, and Martinez had assured them that Cabrera would be aware of that illegality before the day ended.

But he would not act on it, Martinez had said. Not officially, at least. The situation was politically awkward , and to move openly against a member of the Red Angel’s family-no matter how indirectly-might prove dangerous. Even for the head of the secret police.

Devlin decided to push that point now, to put Cabrera on the defensive.

“I was wondering if we could see your reports on the automobile accident, Ms. Mendez’s death, and the subsequent theft of her body.”

Cabrera rocked back in his chair. “I am afraid that is not permitted.” He came forward and folded his hands. “I assure you all steps are being taken. I can tell you that several individuals are being questioned, and I believe it is only a matter of time before we learn the reasons behind this unfortunate act.”

Adrianna leaned forward, drawing the colonel’s eye. Except for an initial greeting, Cabrera had ignored her, preferring to direct his questions to a fellow male, a fellow cop, and Devlin could see from her body language that the colonel’s little game had hit all the wrong buttons.

“Can you tell me why neither my aunt’s death nor the theft of her body has been reported in the newspapers?” There was an angry edge in her voice and it seemed to surprise the colonel. He obviously wasn’t accustomed to being challenged in his own office.

Cabrera raised his folded hands in front of his face. “You must understand that things are done differently in Cuba,” he began. “We are not required to release information about investigations that are being conducted. We consider such a practice unwise, since it would interfere with our efforts, and also give assistance to those who have committed the crime.” His eyes hardened. “We also do not allow foreigners to conduct their own investigations. I want you to be very clear about that.”

Devlin saw Adrianna’s back stiffen. “Colonel, you really surprise me.”

Again, Cabrera seemed taken aback. “And why is that, Senorita Mendez?”