William Heffernan - Red Angel

Martinez turned to Devlin. “I detect skepticism in your detective,” he said. “I wonder what he would think if I told him that Plante Firme has been in this house since before we arrived. Or that he was kept in a room at the rear of the house on my orders.”

“Are you shitting me?” Pitts said.

Martinez smiled at both men. “No, my friends. I am not sheeting you. Even so, it seems the palero still knew about the Abakua. It is curious, no?”

Devlin pushed it aside. It was more than he wanted to deal with. “There’s something else that’s curious,” he said.

Martinez’s eyes glittered. “And what is that?”

“When you were grilling Cabrera, you said something in Spanish. It seemed to change everything. He was like a whipped dog after that. Now, I only caught a few words. Presentar was one. Then jefe , and tecnico and investigacion. What did you tell him, Martinez?”

The major stroked his mustache. “Your Spanish, it is improving,” he said. He looked down and studied the toe of his shoe. “It is quite simple,” he said. “I merely introduced myself to the colonel.”

“As what?” Devlin asked.

“As jefe de Departamento Tecnico de Investigacion. Chief of the secret police.” He offered Devlin a small bow. “General Arnaldo Martinez, at your orders, my friend.”

“I thought you said Cabrera held that job.”

Martinez shrugged. “A small lie, I am afraid. What the politicians would call a matter of convenience.”

You’re a sneak, General.”

Martinez smiled at Adrianna. “Yes, I am afraid it is so. Your beloved aunt has told me this many times in the past.”

“So now it’s Cojimar, is it?” Devlin asked.

They were seated in the kitchen of the Red Angel’s house, drinking strong Cuban coffee. Martinez studied his cup for a minute, then looked up at Adrianna.

“It is Cojimar,” he said. “But I must ask that the senorita does not accompany us.”

Adrianna started to object. Martinez held up a hand.

“Please,” he said. “There are good reasons that I ask this.”

“Tell me your reasons.” Adrianna’s voice was cold and hard and unhappy.

“First is the nganga ,” Martinez said. “We will be finding the remains of the body it holds, and this is not something I wish to inflict on you. Next is the question of the Abakua who attacked us outside Cabrera’s home. I cannot be certain all were killed. It is possible there are others who we did not see. So I must insist that you remain here under the watch of my men. To do otherwise would be foolish, both to the memory of your beloved aunt and to your safety.”

“He’s right,” Devlin said.

Adrianna turned on him, eyes sharp, voice snappish. “But it’s okay for you and Ollie. For the two big guys. ”

“Let’s just say it’s important for me. I want to be there when Rossi gets his.”

Adrianna turned away. “And they talk about Spanish machismo. Christ.”

Devlin took her hand, but she pulled it away.

“The general has the final say. I’ll go along with whatever he decides,” Devlin said. “I won’t like it if he says you can go, but I won’t try to change your mind.”

Adrianna’s eyes locked on Martinez. “Well?”

Martinez rolled his eyes. “Madre de Dios.” He looked at Devlin. “May Lenin forgive me.”

Devlin laughed. “That’s all right. She has that effect on everybody. You mess with her, you pay.”

Martinez drew a heavy breath. “A compromise,” he said. “You will come with us, but you will wait at a distance under the protection of my men.”

“But then I come in later,” Adrianna said.

“Yes, yes. You may come in later.” He turned to Devlin again. “She is always this way?” He watched Devlin nod. “Madre de Dios, Senor. Madre de Dios.”

They went in three cars, passing through the tunnel to Casablanca, then on to a nearly deserted highway for the ten-kilometer drive to the small fishing village of Cojimar. Everything changed quickly upon leaving Havana. The rural landscape took over, offering broad plains dotted with farmlands. Along the coast, quiet, unfettered pleasures of the seaside ruled, the beaches left mostly undeveloped and open to those who drove or hitchhiked out each morning.

Above the beaches, small pockets of well-tended houses sat in suburban clusters. Closer to the sea the houses were older and smaller and poorer, many little more than shacks. Martinez explained they were the homes of fishermen, not unlike the ones Hemingway had written about in his novella The Old Man and the Sea.

“Hemingway kept his sport-fishing boat here,” Martinez said. “Tourists think he kept it at the marina to the west of Havana that bears his name.”

They passed a restaurant, La Terraza, and Martinez explained that it was one of the author’s favorites. “He came to eat and drink here after fishing. It was cheap then. Now, because they have put his picture on the walls, the prices are those only tourists can afford.”

“What is this?” Pitts asked from the rear seat. “Everywhere I go, it’s Hemingway slept here, or ate here, or farted here. He’s like fucking George Washington.”

Martinez laughed. “You are offended we honor an American? He gave us our pride by praising our culture. Even when we lived under Batista’s heel. We do not forget such a gift.”

“And it brings in bucks from the tourists,” Devlin countered.

“Indeed,” Martinez said. “It is an enduring legacy. And a profitable one for the revolution.”

Devlin glanced out the rear window. Adrianna was in the next car, surrounded by Martinez’s men. A second car of armed men followed. He wondered if she was enjoying the scenery, or simply fuming at being treated like a helpless woman.

“How many men have you got assigned to this little caper?” he asked Martinez.

“There are nine with us, then we three, of course. I have four men watching the house, and three more who have followed Senor Rossi.”

“How many Abakua will we have to deal with?”

“My men say there are four at the house, plus the palero , Siete Rayos. Two more have picked up Senor Rossi and his man.”

“Has Rossi gotten to the house yet?”

Martinez picked up his handheld radio. “I will check,” he said.

He spoke briefly, listened to the response, then glanced across the front seat at Devlin. “He has just arrived. The ceremony should begin quickly now.”

Devlin calculated the odds. Six Abakua, plus the palero , Rossi, and Mattie the Knife. Nine in all, against the nineteen they would throw against them. But they held the house, and at least two or three of the men would be left to guard Adrianna. The odds might look good on paper, but he still didn’t like it. “You think it’s enough?” he asked.

“The ceremony will occupy their attention. We will take the men outside quietly, then move quickly on the house. It is safe to attack them here. Cojimar is not an Abakua stronghold.” He tapped on the steering wheel playfully. “Our force will be sufficient. Remember, the great English poet Robert Browning once said that less is more. It is a principle I have often found to be correct.”

Christ, Devlin thought, now I’m getting quotes from another dead writer. “I think the man was talking about poetry, not police work,” he said.

Martinez laughed again. “It is the art of police work.”

Devlin ground his teeth. “Just please make sure Adrianna is kept as far back as possible.”

“Do not fear,” Martinez said. “It is all arranged. You are in the very capable hands of the secret police.”