William Heffernan - Red Angel

“Sounds like Cuba needs a new revolution,” Pitts said. He made a pistol with his hand. “Knock, knock, Fidel. Time to smell the coffee.”

“Ah, yes, that is one solution.” Martinez gave him a sad smile. “But what would we get, my friend? A puppet for U.S. business? The Miami Cubans and their old oligarchy?” He shook his head. “At least Fidel is for the people. He is wrong in many ways. But he wants only good for Cuba.” Again he turned his hand into the wing of a bird. “Unfortunately, that good has also flown away.”

They left the city and turned onto a narrow, winding road that rose into the Sierra Maestra Mountains. Here, in the lowlands, the earth was red clay, spotted with scrub pines and stunted brush. They passed soldiers walking along the road, then the small military base to which they were headed. A training ground on one side of the road was little more than a few rusted trucks and crumbling concrete fortifications, each pocked with bullet holes served up in training exercises.

“That’s a military base?” Pitts asked.

Martinez nodded. “It is the major one for this region.”

“Jesus Christ, I’ve seen better training facilities at smalltown PDs. How come all the troops are walking?”

Martinez seemed mildly annoyed. Pitts was digging at his national pride. “There are no parts for their trucks, and those that run have little petrol.”

Pitts glanced back at Devlin. “And this is the big threat to national security that those assholes in Congress are always ranting and raving about?” he asked. “Shit, the NYPD could take this island.”

Martinez glared at him. “If you could find us in the mountains,” he snapped.

“Ollie?”

Pitts turned to Devlin. “Yeah?”

“Shut up, Ollie. Not another goddamn word.”

The road continued to climb, the vegetation becoming thicker and more lush. Goats and the odd cow wandered the roadside. Their car was forced to stop when a large pig blocked their way. It eyed them curiously, sniffed the air as if they might be food, then ambled into the brush. They passed horse-drawn carts and open trucks-the autobuses particulares that plied Santiago’s streets-now carrying people home from their jobs in the city. Small cattle ranches appeared and disappeared, dotted with scrawny cows and men on horseback.

As they approached the village of Cobre, people appeared on the roadside selling floral wreaths and homemade candles. Several ventured into the road, waving their products as they drove past.

“For the shrine,” Martinez explained. “As an offering to the Virgin of Caridad.”

“Who is this virgin?” Pitts asked.

“Actually, it was a statue,” Martinez said. “Many, many years ago, some sailors were out to sea in a small boat. There was a great storm, and it was certain they would be drowned. Then a wooden statue came floating to them-a statue of the Virgin. They took it into the boat, and the sea became calm. The people said it was a miracle, and the shrine was built to the Virgin. Now people come and ask for her intercession in many matters.”

“It was a fucking piece of wood?” Pitts asked.

Martinez gave him a sly smile. “A wooden statue. It is religion, my friend. Just as Lenin said, the opiate of the people, no?”

The car turned into a side road, marked by a barely identifiable sign. A church appeared in the distance. It seemed to float on a canopy of green foliage, a peak of the Sierra Maestras providing a dramatic backdrop. There was a central spire, flanked by two smaller ones. Here more people lined the roads, offering their wreaths and candles for sale.

Devlin leaned forward to better see the church. High above the central spire two vultures soared in ever-widening circles. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eight. “Is the shrine still open?” he asked.

“It is open until dark,” Martinez said. “So people may come after work. We are meeting someone there. There will, perhaps, be time for you to look inside.”

“Who are we meeting?” Adrianna asked.

“A member of the local CDR.”

“One of the spies you guys have on every block?” Pitts asked.

Martinez ground his teeth. “They are not spies. They are chosen by the people to help the police in their duty.”

“Yeah,” Pitts said. “We got ‘em, too. We call ‘em snitches.”

“Ollie.”

Pitts raised his hands. He gave Devlin an innocent look. “Okay. Okay. Not another word.”

The shrine was on a high bluff above the village. Its entrance, Martinez explained, was in the church apse, facing the mountain that rose behind it. There was a steep circular drive that led to the rear of the church, ending in a large dirt parking area. Martinez pulled the car between two others, each holding six men. He excused himself, then went to speak to the men in each car.

Pitts raised himself up and peered into the car beside him. “I see at least two shotguns,” he said. He glanced back and forth between the cars. “Twelve guys. Looks like the major doesn’t fool around when he calls for backup.”

“I’d like to see the shrine,” Adrianna said.

Devlin gave her a quizzical look.

“If there’s time,” she added.

“I’ll check with Martinez.”

“Certainly,” Martinez said. “I was actually going to ask the senorita to remain here with two of my men. The house we will be going to is a big question mark.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only that I do not know what we will find. I would like to keep from placing the senorita in danger.”

“Where’s the house?”

“That is another question mark. The CDR man has not yet arrived.”

Devlin stared up at the sky. The vultures were still circling. When he lowered his eyes, he saw that Martinez was now studying them.

“Let us hope it is not an omen,” the major said.

A steady stream of people moved along the walkway that led to the entrance of the shrine. Young men and small boys lined both sides, offering bits of stone and postcard-sized pictures of the Virgin. Devlin took a piece of stone that appeared to be granite and handed two dollars to a small boy with hungry eyes. The child quickly rattled off something in Spanish and gave Devlin a picture as well.

“They’re a dollar each,” Adrianna said. “He doesn’t want to cheat you.”

Devlin ruffled the boy’s hair, then reached in his pocket and handed the child two more dollars.

“The kid would never make it in New York,” he said as he led Adrianna toward the entrance.

“Why?”

“Too honest.”

Adrianna slipped her arm into his and squeezed it against her side. “But cute and clever,” she said. “Clever enough to get two extra bucks out of you.”

Devlin stopped and turned her to face him. “You think I’ve been had?”

“Oh yes.”

His face broke into a wide grin. “The little bugger,” he said.

They passed through a gate in the low iron fence that surrounded the shrine, then through a high arched doorway. Inside, they found themselves in a modest room, no more than twenty by thirty feet. Directly opposite, facing the entrance, was an ornate altar of Gothic arches and marble pillars. Set in its center was a statue of the Virgin of Caridad. The statue was dressed in satin robes of gold and ocher, and had a smaller statue of the infant Jesus cradled in its arms. On each side of the altar, and hanging in display cases on all the walls, were gifts of thanks to the Virgin, intermingled with pleas for help. A framed notice explained that there were thousands of these gifts and pleas, with many thousands more locked away in storage vaults, Hemingway’s Nobel medal among them.

Devlin and Adrianna moved among the offerings. There were hundreds of military and sports medals, baseballs, soccer balls, small dolls, several full military uniforms, numerous passports and identity cards, even one membership card in the Cuban Communist Party. Most touching were the photographs and accompanying letters, each asking the Virgin to intercede on behalf of the person pictured. Some of the photos were of persons who were gravely ill, but most were alleged to be political prisoners, others, people who had simply disappeared. One photograph, Devlin noted, was draped with both a rosary and a red-and-white-beaded bracelet representing the Afro-Cuban god Chango.