William Heffernan - Red Angel

Devlin laughed. “That’s a great line, Martinez. I suppose you’ll want to swear us to secrecy.”

“But of course, my friend. That is exactly my hope. You may disagree, of course, in which case I am sure the government will decide that a public trial is necessary. But then you will all have to remain here as witnesses for the state. And these trials can take a very long time. There is also an additional problem. As you know, you have broken many laws in my country, which I am willing to overlook. But if others begin to investigate, this may not be possible-”

“Enough. Enough,” Devlin said. “I don’t care how you handle this. I just want to wrap this thing up, bury what’s left of Adrianna’s aunt, and get the hell out of here.”

Martinez stared straight ahead again, and Devlin thought the Cuban major was trying not to laugh.

“Ah, I hope I have not given a poor impression of my country,” he said. “The office of tourism would be very upset if that were the case. I am sure they would like you to remain and enjoy the many pleasures we have to offer.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they would,” Devlin said. “But I think I’ll get back to New York. People only try to kill me there about once a year.”

Martinez pulled his car to a stop in front of Cabrera’s house. Two of his men were waiting outside. He spoke to them briefly, then sent them away.

“No witnesses?” Pitts asked.

Martinez raised his eyebrows, feigning offense. “You are too suspicious, my friend. There are other men inside. I have sent these men to Guanabacoa, to make sure our forces are adequate to watch Senor Rossi.”

“Hey, that’s just what I thought you were doing,” Pitts said. He turned to Devlin. “Isn’t that what you thought, Inspector?”

“What I think is that we should get this thing over with.” He took Martinez by the arm. “But if you’re going to rough Cabrera up, do it when we’re not around. All I want is some answers, and whatever’s left of this woman’s body. Okay, Major?”

Martinez nodded. “It is understood. I promise you will have what you want. I also promise that you will not see my men and me touch even a hair on the colonel’s head.”

When they reached the front door, Devlin noticed that the mojo, or whatever it was, no longer hung from Cabrera’s door. He asked Martinez what had happened to it.

“It had to be removed,” Martinez said. “It was a very potent Palo Monte curse. Even my own men would not dare enter such a cursed house.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Pitts said.

Martinez let out a long, tired breath. “No, my friend. I do not joke. Perhaps, before you leave Cuba, you will understand.”

They followed Martinez across the foyer and into a well-appointed living room. A young man stood next to a paneled door with a Russian assault rifle cradled in his arms. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but immediately snapped to attention as the major approached. Martinez spoke to him briefly, then turned to Devlin and Pitts.

“The colonel is in his study, contemplating his fate. Another of my men is watching him do this. I think we should join them and help the colonel understand exactly what his fate is.”

“Let’s do it,” Devlin said.

Martinez spoke to the guard in Spanish. Devlin couldn’t understand what was being said, but it seemed he was giving the guard detailed instructions. Then he opened the door. A second guard, also armed with an assault rifle, stood just inside. Martinez issued another set of instructions, and the second guard joined the first outside.

Cabrera was seated in a leather chair. He glared at the major, then launched into a diatribe in Spanish.

Martinez held up his hand. When he spoke his voice seemed unnaturally calm.

“You will speak in English, Colonel. As a courtesy to our American guests.”

Again, Cabrera rattled off harsh words in Spanish.

Martinez let out an exasperated breath. “I have assured these men that you will not be harmed in their presence. So you have a choice, Colonel. You may speak English now, or we will leave this room and send in the two men outside, who will convince you of the wisdom of following my orders. Then we will return, and you will speak English. Which do you prefer?”

“You dare to threaten me?” Cabrera spoke the words in English.

“That is very good, Colonel,” Martinez said. “And yes, I do dare to threaten you. As of this moment you are relieved of your duties. You may consider yourself under arrest, and whatever authority you enjoyed under the revolution is suspended indefinitely.”

Cabrera snapped out in Spanish.

“English, Colonel.” Martinez inclined his head toward the door, indicating his men outside. “I will not warn you again.”

“I said you have no right to suspend my authority,” Cabrera snapped.

Martinez walked to Cabrera’s desk and perched himself on its edge. “That is an argument you can make at a later date, Colonel. For the present, you will simply answer my questions, or you will suffer the consequences.”

“What crimes are you charging me with?”

Cabrera’s face was red with anger, and Devlin realized he was not frightened. The man had a lot of power, and he knew it, and Devlin wondered if what Martinez had on him would be enough, or if the major was overplaying his hand. This wasn’t the United States. It was a country that operated under a different set of rules, and Devlin had no idea what those rules were.

Martinez ignored Cabrera’s question. He looked around the room.

Devlin did the same. The study was richly furnished. The sofa, like the chair in which Cabrera sat, was covered in glove-soft leather. There was a wall of books, almost all of which appeared to be rare and presumably valuable. The desk also appeared to be an antique, as did several side tables, one of which held an array of small figures that Devlin recognized as pre-Columbian.

“You live well, Colonel,” Martinez finally said. “But I imagine you would have lived an even richer life once Senor DeForio had deposited five million American dollars into your foreign bank account.”

Cabrera stared at him. The color seemed to have drained from his face. “It is a lie.”

“Then it is a lie that we have on videotape, Colonel.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then nodded. “Yes, the suite at the Capri Hotel was wired.” He waved his hand in a circle. “But, perhaps you and Deputy Minister Sauri were only luring Senor DeForio into a well-laid trap. Perhaps this trap also involved the assassination of Maria Mendez, and the later theft of her body at the request of the American gangster Senor Rossi.” He raised his hands, then let them fall back. “Of course, some might consider this theft of our Red Angel’s body an extreme technique of entrapment, but it would indeed be an interesting defense, would it not?”

Cabrera seemed to pull himself together. Again, his eyes took on a hard glint. “You believe you will defeat me this way, Martinez?”

Martinez stroked his mustache, as if considering the question. “You are already defeated, Colonel. You will receive a military trial for your crimes, and, as you know, the rules are quite different under those circumstances.” He turned to Pitts. “As I explained earlier to the inspector, in our military courts, evidence is presented by the state and is presumed to be correct by those who sit in judgment. The defendant is then required to prove his innocence.” He gave them his Cuban shrug. “He is not helpless, of course. He is given an attorney. But unfortunately, the attorney is not assigned until the very day the case is presented to the court, so the defense has a difficult task.”

“I like it,” Pitts said. “Who’s the judge, a kangaroo?”