William Heffernan - Red Angel

“What’s El Cobre?” Devlin asked.

“A small mountain village to the west. It is the site of a church that houses the shrine to the Virgin of Caridad.”

“Maybe they just wanna say a little prayer?” Pitts said.

Martinez smiled across the table. “Perhaps that is so. It is a very famous shrine. Your novelist, and Cuba’s great friend, Ernest Hemingway, presented his Nobel medal to the virgin shortly before his death.” He shifted his gaze to Devlin. “But I suspect Senor Cipriani is here for other than prayerful reasons.”

“I think we should find out,” Devlin said.

“Yes, we should.” He reached into a pocket and removed the small pouch containing the earth from the Red Angel’s burial site. He laid it on the table. The red feather Plante Firme had given them protruded from the top. “But first I think we must confront Baba Briyumbe. Just to stir the pot a bit.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Perhaps it would be better if we do this without Senorita Mendez. It could prove to be … difficult.”

“She’s resting in our room,” Devlin said. “I’ll leave her a note that we had some errands to run.”

“Good,” Martinez said. “My men will continue to watch all entrances to the hotel. No Abakua will be allowed inside.”

“What about State Security?” Pitts asked.

“No one from State Security will harm the niece of the Red Angel,” Martinez said. “They will have others do that for them.”

Baba Briyumbe’s house was located on Maximo Gomez Street, only a few blocks from the waterfront. It was a moderate walk from the hotel, along a twisting route of narrow streets, filled with the occasional sounds of barking dogs and crowing roosters. Before one house, two men busied themselves gutting a pig. A score of children had gathered to watch, and they let out squeals of delight and disgust as the entrails spilled to the ground.

“Jesus Christ, ain’t you guys ever heard of butcher shops?” Ollie Pitts groaned.

“Ah, but it is cheaper this way,” Martinez said. “And what they do not eat, they can sell. Hopefully for dollars.”

They waited at a corner for a battered truck to make its way past, its bed filled with people standing and sitting. It was followed by a horse-drawn wagon also filled with people.

“Our bus service from outlying neighborhoods and from the countryside,” Martinez said. “One of the many private enterprises the revolution now allows. This second one with the horse also confronts our great gasoline shortages. It is ingenious, eh?”

Pitts shook his head. “If you’re fucking Wyatt Earp,” he muttered.

They moved halfway down the next block. The street ran at a moderate downward pitch, and from this upper point they could see the harbor some three hundred yards distant. Martinez stopped them and raised his chin toward a dilapidated row of attached houses across the street. The houses were all two stories, but the one they faced had only a blank wall at its lower level, with narrow, steep stone stairs leading to a gallery above. On the side of the street where they stood, the stucco wall of another building bore a painted portrait of Fidel in profile. The words SOCIALISMO O MUERTE were written beneath it.

“The palero must get a lot of business,” Martinez said.

“Why is that?” Devlin asked.

Martinez turned to face the portrait. “The government only puts its propaganda in places where there is the movement of many people.” He smiled at the two Americans. “To maximize its efficiency. Is it not so for politicians in your country?”

“Only when there are elections,” Pitts said. “Then the politicians are running scared, because some other hacks are trying to take their jobs away, so we see their faces and their slogans everywhere.”

Martinez nodded. “So it is the same. Except here we have only one political party, so the politicians must seek support all the time, because they never know when or from where opposition will come.” He made a gun out of his index finger and thumb. “In such a system, change can be quick without great support of the people.”

Devlin raised his chin toward the palero’s house. “The civics lesson is very interesting, Major. Now what about Baba Briyumbe?”

Martinez looked down the street, then back the way they had come. Devlin followed his gaze and saw two men in each direction-two in civilian clothes, two in uniform.

“Your people?” he asked.

Martinez nodded. “When we enter the palero ‘s house, they will move toward us. If there is trouble they have been told to force their way inside.”

“That’s very good cooperation from another city’s cops.”

“We are all the same, a national police, and the senior officer here is a captain, so he is at my orders.” He smiled. “Also, he dislikes Baba Briyumbe, who was once suspected of telling a follower to kill his uncle so a nganga could be made from his bones.”

“Did the follower do it?” Devlin asked.

“Oh yes.” Martinez paused, as if deciding whether to say more. “The follower was a member of the police,” he finally added. “A young man who was a secret member of the Abakua.” He shook his head. “His crime was never officially made known to the people. But of course they knew. The captain arrested the man, and he was sentenced to be shot. In reprisal, Baba Briyumbe put a curse on the captain’s family.”

“What happened to the captain?” Pitts asked. His voice sounded just a bit nervous.

“To him, nothing,” Martinez said. “But his child became very sick, and he was forced to go to another palero to have the curse removed.”

“Jesus Christ,” Pitts said. “I want a fucking piece. This Baba guy gives me any mumbo-jumbo shit, I wanna stick it up his nose.”

Martinez reached into his pocket and removed the bag containing the cemetery earth and the feather. He held it out to Pitts. “Take this,” he said. “It will give you more power over Baba Briyumbe than any other weapon.”

The door to Baba Briyumbe’s house was opened by a tall, slender man dressed all in white, another Abakua. There was an old knife wound running along his jawline, and his unbuttoned shirt revealed a crudely executed tattoo. To Devlin it appeared to be a solid red sphere the size of a grapefruit, bisected by five black arrows and a series of small crosses and circles. Behind the man, Devlin could see a tile-floored room, empty except for one thronelike chair facing five others. It reminded him of Plante Firme’s courtyard.

Martinez displayed his credentials. He spoke to the man in a soft voice, but his eyes were cold steel. What Devlin caught from his rapid-fire Spanish was a request to see Baba Briyumbe.

The Abakua eyed Martinez, then Pitts and Devlin. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but the sneer that broke out on his face added an easy ten years in street time. He raised his chin toward the major and uttered one word: “Irse.”

“The fuck is tellin’ us to scram,” Pitts said.

Martinez stepped through the door, bumping the man back with his shoulder, followed quickly by Devlin and Pitts. The man’s hand went to his pocket, but it wasn’t fast enough. The speed with which Martinez moved caught Devlin by surprise. The rigid fingers of one hand struck out, catching the man at the base of the throat. He staggered to one side, gagging, and Devlin quickly pinned his hand in his pocket. Not to be left out, Pitts took a step forward and drove his hamlike fist squarely into the man’s face. The Abakua bounced off the tile floor like someone hit by a fast-moving train.

Devlin pulled the hand from the man’s pocket and removed a six-inch gravity knife. He flicked it open and showed Martinez the razor-sharp edge.