William Heffernan - Red Angel

After five minutes of soothing assurances, he returned the phone to its cradle and stared across at Sharon Levy. “I’m going to be leaving you with this whole Rossi bag for at least a week,” he said. “Providing I can get the mayor to pull some political strings.”

“What’s wrong, Paul?” There was genuine concern in Levy’s voice.

“Adrianna’s aunt has been in a serious accident.” He shook his head and offered up a weak, uncertain smile. “Now I have to find a way to get us both into Cuba.”

The SoHo loft that Devlin shared with Adrianna Mendez was located on Spring Street, amid a collection of iron-fronted buildings that decades earlier had been home to glove manufacturers and tanning merchants. Later, rising costs had forced those companies to flee the city, and the architecturally unique district had been abandoned to the bums and vagrants who wandered in from the Bowery. Then struggling artists in search of large and inexpensive work areas had discovered the loft-warehouses that made up a part of each building. Within a few years the artists were followed by real-estate speculators, who sniffed the aroma of financial gain. Touting the area as the “new bohemia,” they sold the battered lofts to young stockbrokers and commodity traders and other upwardly mobile denizens of fashion. Soon the artists were driven away, save the few successful enough to afford the now pricey lofts. But the artists were no longer necessary. They were replaced by a collection of galleries and restaurants and boutiques, which seemed to sprout unbidden like wildflowers in an abandoned field, and the area, which had once seen animal hides stacked on sidewalks, became the city’s newest attraction for well-heeled tourists.

Adrianna had been one of the artists able to remain. She had moved to the area as a struggling painter, and the birth of the “new bohemia” had coincided with her sudden recognition as a major talent. The only other “old residents” were the bums and vagrants who had refused to leave. They were the city’s crabgrass, constantly reappearing despite all efforts at eradication. To Devlin they were the only mark of humanity the real-estate moguls had failed to devour, and much to the chagrin of neighboring merchants, he kept a ready supply of dollar bills stuffed in his pocket to encourage their continued presence.

Devlin found Adrianna packing when he entered the loft. She glanced up at him over a half-filled suitcase. “I can get into Cuba from Canada, Mexico, or the Bahamas,” she said. “I have a travel agent checking flights for me.”

“If the U.S. government finds out, it’s ten years, or up to a quarter of a million in fines.”

“They won’t find out. The travel agent told me the Cubans don’t stamp your passport. It’s their way of helping U.S. citizens beat the embargo. So there’s no record of you ever having been there.”

Devlin crossed the room, lifted her to him, and slipped his arms around her waist. “I’m sorry about your aunt,” he said. “And you don’t have to sneak in the back way. Howie Silver made some calls. Your license from the Treasury Department and your Cuban visa will be ready tomorrow morning. Mine, too.”

“Yours?”

“You didn’t think I was going to turn you loose in Cuba all alone, did you? The place is supposed to be overrun with sexy male salsa dancers.”

Adrianna’s head fell against his chest. “Thank God,” she said. “I was terrified. I just didn’t want to tell you. All the stories I grew up with, the stories about Castro’s storm troopers, have been playing in my mind all day. And the phone calls to the hospital in Havana haven’t helped.”

“What did the hospital tell you?”

She shook her head against his chest, her long, raven-black hair swinging slightly. “When I got the first call, telling me my aunt Maria had been in a car accident, I called the hospital right away. At first they couldn’t be more helpful. Then her doctor got on the line, and suddenly everything changed. He acted like I wasn’t supposed to know. Like someone calling from the United States was somehow suspicious.”

He stroked her head. “You told me she was a respected doctor-even worked a bit for the government. That’s probably why.” He ran his hand down her back, trying to comfort her. “You know what hospitals and doctors are like when it comes to their own. They’re like cops.”

She shook her head again, then stepped back and looked up at him. Her light brown eyes were weary, and her normally smiling mouth was now tight and narrow. “It was more than that, Paul. The doctor was acting like I might find out something I wasn’t supposed to. I was sure he was lying to me.”

“What did he say about her condition?”

“He said it was grave. ” She pronounced the word in Spanish-graa-VEY.

Devlin stroked her arm. “I put in a call to the American Interests Section at the Swiss embassy in Havana. The congressman Howie got to expedite the U.S. license and the Cuban visa recommended we do that. No one was available, but I left our number here. The congressman told Howie he’d make sure someone got back to us.”

“Thank God you have friends in high places,” she said. “When I called the State Department for help, the person I spoke with acted like I was crazy. He said I needed this idiotic license from Treasury, because everything involving Cuba falls under something called the Trading with the Enemy Act.” She shook her head again as if none of it made sense. “So I was transferred to the Treasury Department, something called the Office of Foreign Assets Control.”

“What did they say?”

“They told me it could take as long as six months to get a license. Apparently it’s a policy thing to try and discourage people from going there.”

“You told them it was a family emergency?”

“Paul, they couldn’t have cared less. The woman I spoke with was more concerned about throwing regulations and restrictions at me. Like, if I got a license and visa and everything, I still couldn’t spend more than a hundred dollars a day while I was there.”

Devlin grinned at her. “So, what’s the problem? You get a good hotel room, and you don’t eat. Or you can sleep on a park bench and have all the rice and beans you want. Makes sense to me.”

Adrianna leaned against him again. “I wish stupid government regulations were the only part of this that seems so wrong.” She fought back a sob, hardened herself against it. “But it’s more than that. Maybe I’m just being paranoid because I’m so upset. But somehow nothing about this seems right. The second person who called to tell me about the car accident acted so odd. When I asked who he was, all he’d say was that he was a friend. He wouldn’t even give me his name.”

“Wait a minute, what do you mean, the second person who called about the accident? There were two?”

Adrianna nodded, then seemed to think about what she had just said. “Yes, there were two calls. That is strange. I was so upset I didn’t even think about it. First this-” She stopped and rummaged around on a table until she found a piece of paper with a name on it. “This Colonel Cabrera called. He sounded very official, and said my aunt had been in a serious accident, and I should come at once if I wanted to see her. He said to call him back and he’d have me met at the airport.” She stared into his eyes and shook her head, as if trying to make sense of what she was saying. “Then, after I talked with the hospital, the second man called. He said he was a friend of my aunt’s. And he was, I’m sure of it, because he knew about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He asked if Senor Devlin was coming with me. He said he’d make hotel reservations for a double room, if you were.”