William Heffernan - Red Angel

“Well, you better find them before they stumble across the real body,” DeForio warned.

“It is impossible,” Cabrera said. “Only parts of the body remain, and they are in a nganga under the control of the Abakua. Even if these people somehow overcame the Abakua, which is most unlikely, certain tests would have to be performed on the remains.” He shook his head and smiled. “I assure you, if they find the nganga , no one will survive long enough to order those tests.”

“It would be better if they just accepted the phony body, buried it, and went home. It would be cleaner.”

Cabrera nodded his agreement. DeForio was right. It would be much cleaner. But unfortunately, such a scenario was impossible. The old man had made that very clear. No matter the outcome, the Americans were going to disappear-permanently. He smiled at DeForio.

“I am certain that they will,” Cabrera said. “Then, I assure you, I will personally put them on the plane.”

Cabrera’s driver called to him through the open car window, and the colonel excused himself. DeForio watched as he spoke on the car’s radio. When he returned, DeForio thought the colonel looked agitated, even a bit nervous.

“Another problem?” he asked.

“Plante Firme survived our attack.” His voice was a low hiss. “His grandson was killed.”

“What about your men?”

Cabrera drew a breath. “They escaped.” He let the subject die there. He had no intention of telling DeForio that his men were missing, presumably running in fear-from both the palero and himself.

“What does this do to your plan? The rest of this phony body was supposed to be found at this guy’s house?” DeForio’s eyes had hardened. It was clear these repeated reversals were eroding his confidence.

Cabrera waved away DeForio’s concern. He needed to make the problem seem less significant. “The man is only a Negro witch doctor, a superstitious old fool. We will do as we wish with him, and no one will take seriously anything he says, or does.” Cabrera felt a tingle of fear as he spoke the words. He attributed it to the superstitions of his own youth and pushed it aside. There was too much at stake to allow old, childhood fears to intrude on what had to be done.

He gave DeForio a false smile. “This old palero knows what can be done to him now. It would not surprise me if he disappeared into the countryside. There, he can shake his rattle and issue curses on those who killed his grandson.”

DeForio found logic in Cabrera’s words. “Jesus, what the hell does Rossi see in all this shit? No wonder those old-timers got thrown out of here fifty years ago. They were all probably listening to these goddamn witch doctors.” He shook his head. “Fucking old Sicilians. Thank God Rossi’s one of the last of them.” He looked at Cabrera and smiled. “Can you imagine, a man like that, one of the heads of the five families, believing in this shit?”

Cabrera returned the smile, fighting to ignore the fear that gnawed at him. Yes, he could believe it, he thought. He could believe it all too well, no matter how much he told himself he did not.

“Senor Rossi is an old man,” he said. “We must be indulgent.”

The crowd pressed in, surrounding the dancers. Bodies swayed and heads bobbed as the beat of the drums provided a steady, undulating rhythm. From the rear of the crowd, Devlin could see only two of the dancers. Both were men, standing on high stilts, both dressed in costumes of bright yellow and red, colors worn to honor Chango, a much-favored orisha among the Abakua.

They had followed DeForio and Cabrera from the ferry, and now found themselves in the subcity of Guanabacoa, a small, independent municipality that still fell under the overall jurisdiction of Havana. But only technically, Martinez had explained. Guanabacoa was truly controlled by the Abakua. It was their stronghold, and few in the government sought to challenge it.

“This little festival,” Martinez said, “it has been proclaimed only by the Abakua. The government does not recognize it.” He waved his finger in a small circle. “But you see how many people are here. They are supposed to be at work. But the Abakua have declared a holiday, so for them it is a holiday.”

Pitts and Martinez’s men were ahead of them, staying close to Cabrera and DeForio, who had abandoned their car because of the crowd. Martinez and Devlin had remained as far back as possible.

“Keep your wallet and your pistol under guard,” Martinez said. “Our friends dressed in white are Cuba’s only danger to tourists.”

Along the edge of the crowd, standing like sentries, Devlin could see a ring of white-clad Abakua guarding the ceremony. As they drew closer to the center of the circle, he could see the other dancers, men and women, each dressed in an elaborate costume, the women’s bodies writhing to the beat of the drums, the men swaying beneath long poles, the tops of which were decorated in brightly colored cloth woven into intricate patterns to represent the orishas who were being honored that day.

The crowd seemed alive, like a single organism, and Devlin realized it would not take much to turn these people against a perceived enemy. Martinez had been right when he had used the term “stronghold.” And the people who controlled it, the Abakua, belonged to Cabrera.

He leaned into Martinez. “How are you going to stop this changing-of-heads ritual if it happens here?” he asked.

“I am not going to stop it, my friend,” Martinez said. “The ritual will take place. But after it does, the nganga will be taken away to safety. Then, I will seize it.”

“And the Americans, and Cabrera?”

“They, too, will not go far. But first we must locate this man from Cobre and the nganga that has been made for him. Then we will close the lid of our little box.”

When they cleared the crowd, one of Martinez’s men was waiting for them at the corner of a narrow side street. He reported in rapid Spanish.

“They have gone into a house on this street,” Martinez said. “There is a rental car parked in the driveway. The license plates tell us it comes from a rental agency that operates out of the domestic terminal at Havana airport-the same terminal where the plane used by the man in Cobre landed. I suspect we have found his hiding place.”

“We need to be sure.”

Martinez nodded. “Yes, my friend, you are right. As soon as Cabrera and Senor DeForio leave, we will execute a little plan that I have.”

“What do you mean, tomorrow night?” Rossi glared at Cabrera. “It was supposed to be tonight. You think I wanna stay in this nigger-infested shithole another day?”

Cabrera held out his hands in an expression of regret. “The palero will not come tonight,” he said. “Siete Rayos has cast the coconuts, and has been told by the dead one that he must wait.”

Rossi considered this, then let out a long breath. “All right, all right. Tomorrow night.”

DeForio couldn’t believe what he was seeing. John the Boss Rossi, one of the most powerful figures in organized crime, giving in to the mumbo jumbo of a goddamn witch doctor. He stared at Rossi. The man was old and sick, but still someone to be feared. And he believed in this shit. He actually believed in it. DeForio ground his teeth. This had to stop. He had to talk to his people back home. A two-billion-dollar investment, and it was all hanging on some goddamn nigger rolling coconut shells on the fucking floor. And all of it right under the noses of the government. If the woman’s body was found … If the two things were ever connected … He closed his eyes and pressed a thumb and index finger against them. He had to do something to lower the risk. At the very least get this thing moved out into the countryside. He turned a false smile on Rossi.