William Heffernan - Red Angel

Adrianna held his eyes. “My aunt was a respected, perhaps even an honored member of your government.”

“That is very true-”

Adrianna didn’t allow him to finish. “But so far, not only have you refused to give me any meaningful information about her death or the theft of her body, but now you seem to be telling me-perhaps even warning me-not to inquire into how these things happened.”

Cabrera held out both hands, as if warding off her words. “Senorita, please allow me to give all assurances-”

Again, Adrianna cut him off. “No, Colonel, let me assure you of a few things. First, that I intend to find out what happened to my aunt. Next, that I intend to see that her body is recovered. And, finally, that I intend to give her a decent burial.” She continued to stare Cabrera down, but allowed her voice to soften. “One more thing, Colonel. I sincerely doubt that any responsible member of your government will object to these rather small intentions. So if you refuse to help me, be assured that I will find someone in your government who will.”

Cabrera’s face reddened, and Devlin could see him fighting for control. “You will have whatever assistance I can give you,” he snapped. “Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do for you at this moment.”

Adrianna stood, still holding his eyes. “Then I assume we are free to go.”

“Of course,” Cabrera said.

As Adrianna headed for the door, Devlin stood and nodded to the colonel. “Nice to see you again, Colonel,” he said.

Martinez threw back his head and laughed as Devlin told him about the interview. They had just driven through the gate and were headed back to his office to collect Pitts.

“Senorita Mendez, you must pardon me, but I think you may have-how do you say it? — pissed the colonel off.” He began to laugh again.

A hint of concern came to Adrianna’s eyes, then disappeared. “Since he already tried to have us killed, that doesn’t seem like much of a problem.” She glanced out the rear window, expecting to see white-clad Abakua trailing behind them. “Are we still being followed?”

“No,” Martinez said. “Not once this morning. I imagine the colonel is wondering what has happened to his Abakua.”

“And what has happened to them?” Devlin asked.

“They are like Detective Pitts,” Martinez said. “They are taking a small holiday.”

Robert Cipriani entered Cabrera’s office from a small adjoining room. A bug in the colonel’s desk had allowed him to listen to the interview with Devlin and Adrianna.

“Tough lady,” he said as he took the same chair Devlin had occupied. “And, unless there’s been some change in plans, I thought she was supposed to be a dead lady.”

“There is no change,” Cabrera snapped. “Just an unexpected delay.”

“The Abakua screwed up?”

“My Abakua have disappeared. But there are other Abakua. By tonight, Senorita Mendez and her friends will be dead.”

Cipriani nodded. “I think that’s wise. There’s a great deal of money involved, and as I said, I don’t think our friends will appreciate problems this late in the game.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve dealt with those gentlemen. They’re not known for their tolerance.”

Cabrera picked up an envelope from his desk and tossed it to Cipriani. “Since you are so concerned, I have decided to let you supervise the matter yourself. There is an airline ticket inside. It is for Santiago de Cuba, which, according to my informants at Cubana Airlines, is where our friends are now headed.” He smiled at the surprise on Cipriani’s face. “One of my men will go with you, of course, and some other Abakua friends will meet you in Santiago. You will return here, my friend. Whether or not you also return to your cell will depend on how well you do this little job.”

“Wait a minute, Colonel. Killing people is not my line.”

Cabrera stared at him, a small smile playing across his lips. “I understand your reluctance. You prefer to take people’s lives with a pen and a checkbook, not a knife or a gun. But do not fear. You will have only to supervise. Besides, there is another gentleman arriving in Santiago today, and since other matters will keep me in Havana, I would like you to represent me with him. It is a person you know well.”

“And who’s that?” Cipriani asked.

“An old friend of yours. The old man who has caused these problems. Giovanni Rossi. He is here both on a matter of health and on a matter of business. He will be staying in a villa in the mountains near Cobre.”

“And what do you want me to do with Rossi?” Cipriani asked.

Cabrera smiled again. “Allay his fears, my friend. Just as I will allay the fears of his associate, who arrives in Havana this evening.”

The Sierra Maestra Mountains rose in the distance as their taxi raced along the winding road that led from Antonio Maceo Airport to the port city of Santiago de Cuba. The mountains were as majestic and as beautiful as any Devlin had ever seen. Sharp peaks, covered in lush green foliage, seemed to leap from the arid plain below, punctuated by steeply descending valleys carved dramatically into their sides. It was a forbidding range, Devlin thought, clearly inaccessible except by foot, a place suited more to goats than people, the place where all Cuba’s revolutions had begun, the very place from which Fidel and his original eighty-six followers had fought their hit-and-run war with the forces of Fulgencio Batista, until the people of Cuba had risen up to join them.

And Maria Mendez was there with them. He glanced at Adrianna, and saw that she, too, was staring at the mountains. Undoubtedly thinking similar thoughts about the young woman, the young doctor who would later become Cuba’s Red Angel. All those years ago. Fighting somewhere in those mountains against the men who had tortured and raped her, the men who had crushed her chance ever to have children of her own.

Martinez’s voice broke Devlin’s reverie.

“Santiago is like a different Cuba,” he explained as they raced past a series of small cattle farms. “Where Havana is cosmopolitan, with people always rushing about, here it is very Caribbean, a slower, more gentle pace. But you must not be fooled. It is a place of great and deep feelings. If there is to be trouble in Cuba, it will begin here. This is where the first gun will be picked up.” He gave them his Cuban shrug, as if to say it could not be helped.

“So why don’t they rise up and throw you guys out?” Ollie Pitts asked. He was grinning at Martinez, trying to goad him into another defense of Fidel.

There was an impish glimmer in the major’s eyes as he took up the challenge. “Fortunately, the people are devoted to the revolution,” he said. He made an all-encompassing gesture with his hand. “Here, in the eastern part of our island, life was always poorer and more difficult. So it is here that the revolution has produced the most change. It is also mostly Negro in population, and Palo Monte and Santeria are very strong here, and the people know that Fidel has always been tolerant of their beliefs. Some even say he practices them himself.”

“Does he?” Pitts asked.

Now it was time for Martinez to offer a goading grin. “It is said Fidel has two paleros working just for him, and that this is why your CIA’s many attempts to kill him have always failed.”

Pitts refused to give up. “Oh, yeah? How far away is the Guantanamo Naval Base?”

Martinez laughed. “From here, about one hundred kilometers of winding mountain roads. From the people, it is more than a million miles.”

The taxi made its way through a series of narrow streets that skirted the port, corning to a stop at a large, tree-shaded central plaza. One end of the plaza was dominated by the sixteenth-century Catedral Ecclesia, its twin spires rising more than ten stories, its central stone angel gazing down upon the people who filled the park’s benches and walkways.