William Heffernan - Red Angel

To the right of the cathedral stood the Hotel Casa Grande, one of Santiago’s oldest and most elegant hotels, its first-floor terrace looming ten feet above the street like some lingering patrician stronghold, its red-and-gray-striped awnings shading those within from the scorching afternoon sun.

Martinez left them at the hotel, explaining that men were already in place watching the hotel’s entrances to ensure that the Abakua would not get inside. He, himself, would stay at a nearby police station, where he could also conduct some preliminary inquiries into the local Abakua and their corrupt palero , Baba Briyumbe. He promised to return in one hour, and suggested they use the time to rest and refresh themselves for the long night ahead.

Devlin, Adrianna, and Pitts climbed the wide marble stairs that led to the hotel terrace and its adjoining reception area. Here the elegance of colonial Cuba reasserted itself, with gleaming marble floors, wrought-iron chandeliers, and a mix of wicker settees and chairs surrounding a marble statue of a sea nymph.

Ahead, the terrace ended in an ornate mahogany bar, its scattering of small tables and chairs situated so patrons could look down upon the people who filled the adjacent plaza. A sign to their right advertised a second terrace on the hotel’s rooftop, and Devlin wondered if the building’s architect had rendered his plans with an eye toward condescending views of the populace, as some colonial sign of preeminence.

Reception proved friendly, efficient, and quick, and they were led to adjoining rooms on the third floor. Adrianna was delighted with what she found. Their room was surprisingly spacious, with twenty-foot ceilings and graceful, old mahogany furniture-two queen-size beds, an armoire, matching upholstered chairs, and an oversized desk. Behind heavy brocade drapes, twelve-foot louvered windows overlooked the cathedral and the plaza, and when she opened them she smiled at the sound of the salsa rhythms that drifted up from the park.

“I feel like I’ve gone back in time,” she said, smiling at Devlin.

He inclined his head toward the bath. “Wait until you go in there. It’s all marble with gold fixtures. There’s even a bidet. It makes our hotel in Havana seem like a Times Square fleabag.”

A knock on their door produced Ollie Pitts, dressed now in a pair of massive red Bermuda shorts and another Hawaiian shirt. Devlin took in his enormous legs and thought of two tree trunks protruding from a billowing red tent.

“Martinez said we should refresh ourselves, so I’m thinking of a beer or two,” Pitts said. “Anybody interested?”

Adrianna turned back toward the bed. “I think he meant a shower or a nap,” she said. “I’m going to opt for a shower, then go down to the terrace with my sketch pad.”

Devlin encircled her with his arms and kissed the back of her head. “Sounds good. Maybe you’ll come up with another sketch we can use. I’m going to give my daughter a call and check in with the office. Then I’ll go with Ollie. I want to get a look around, myself, just to see if any of Cabrera’s boys have the hotel staked out.”

She turned to face him. “You think he knows we’re here? I thought that’s why we didn’t check out of our hotel in Havana. To throw him off. Isn’t that what Martinez said?”

Devlin winked at her. “Maybe it worked. Maybe not. But Cabrera’s the number two man in State Security, and Martinez claims he’s also the head of the secret police. If that’s true, I suspect the colonel knows just about everything that goes on in this country.”

“Then why would Martinez lead us on like that? Why does he want us to think we can get away from him?”

“Good questions. Unfortunately, like everything else on this infuriating island, I don’t have answers for those either.”

“So what’s happening at the office?” Pitts asked as they stepped into the elevator.

“Sounds like the mob settled their little war,” Devlin said. “Cavanaugh tailed Rossi to Kennedy Airport. Seems like John the Boss hopped a flight to the Bahamas.”

“You think the other families made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?” Pitts finished the sentence with an evil cackle.

“Looks that way. Cavanaugh said there was a sit-down at Rossi’s house a couple of days ago, and the old Bathrobe left town the next morning. Red wanted to know if he should follow him to the Bahamas.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“I told him to forget it.”

Pitts laughed again. “Hey, Cavanaugh ain’t stupid. It never hurts to ask.”

Despite Ollie’s protests, the beer he wanted was put on hold. Instead Devlin led him on a quick tour of the surrounding area, then up onto a wide stone piazza that ran along one side of the cathedral some thirty feet above the street. They did not enter the church, but took up positions behind one of two stone lions that guarded the staircase to the street.

“Watch for nasty boys dressed in white,” Devlin said. “If they’re watching us, they should start to move when we don’t come down.”

Twenty minutes later two men wearing white shirts and matching skullcaps exited a store across the street and took up a position in the park where they could watch the staircase that led up to the cathedral.

“Bingo,” Pitts said. “These Abakua must all be twins. Somebody should tell their mama to dress them a little less conspicuously. Those white costumes play hell on a good surveillance.”

Devlin raised his chin toward the park benches that had suddenly emptied with the appearance of the Abakua. “Martinez claims it’s a religious thing with this particular sect. It’s also supposed to be a type of intimidation. People know if they mess with an Abakua, the whole cult will be out to get them. The white outfits are supposed to be a warning.”

Pitts snorted at the idea. “Some fucking warning,” he said. “The two outside the witch doctor’s shack last night were a pair of pussies. They wouldn’t make it across the Port Authority Bus Terminal without getting sliced, diced, and fucking hung out to dry.”

Devlin smiled at Pitts’s bravado. It was exactly why he had brought him to Cuba. It was what Ollie Pitts was for.

Martinez arrived on the hotel terrace one hour later, as promised. He found Devlin and Pitts sipping orange juice and beer, respectively, their eyes fixed on the people milling about the plaza.

“Your Abakua are back,” Devlin said as Martinez seated himself at their table. He handed him a sketch of the men he had seen. Adrianna had also spotted them from the hotel terrace, and had produced a quick drawing before returning to their room.

“This is excellent,” Martinez said as he studied the drawing. “My men saw them as well, but could only give a general description.” He ran a finger along his mustache. “We also have another visitor to Santiago. Are you familiar with the name Robert Cipriani?”

“The fugitive financier?” Devlin asked. “The one my government has been trying to extradite for the past ten or fifteen years? I thought I read the Cubans had busted him and sentenced him to a long stretch in prison.”

“That is exactly so,” Martinez said. “At last report he was being held in one of Cabrera’s very exclusive cells at State Security headquarters. It would seem he has either escaped or has been given some special mission.”

“Us?” Pitts asked.

“It is possible. But I doubt that is the only reason he is here. Cipriani is not a killer. He is a financial gangster.”

“How do you know all this?” Devlin asked.

“Our police here work very closely with the immigration police at the airport. Just to be aware of who is coming into their territory. It would appear that Mr. Cipriani and another gentleman-who I suspect is one of Cabrera’s men-arrived on the flight following ours. They were met by two Abakua, who drove them to El Cobre.”