William Heffernan - Red Angel

He felt a familiar tension as the man reached into a pocket. Normally, the appearance of a badge would have relieved that tension. This time it remained as the man displayed the credentials of a major in the national police. The first storm trooper? Devlin gave the man a quick once-over. He had thinning hair and a deeply weathered face that seemed as worn and weary as his eyes. Yet the badge he carried looked almost new. It glittered in the fluorescent light, in sharp contrast to the man’s aging suit coat and slightly frayed sport shirt.

“My name is Martinez. Major Arnaldo Martinez. And I would very much like to speak with you.” The major directed his words at Adrianna, offering Devlin only a faint smile. “Perhaps I could drive you both to your hotel, and we could speak on the way.” The smile became stronger. “It is much cheaper than a taxi.”

“I recognize your voice,” Adrianna said.

Martinez nodded. “We spoke yesterday. Forgive me for not identifying myself.” He offered Adrianna a small shrug. “As I said then, sometimes it is not wise to do so on our telephones. If you’ll wait until we are in my car, I will explain.”

“Do we have a choice about going with you?” Devlin asked.

“Of course you have a choice, Inspector Devlin.”

“You know my rank, I see.”

“Yes, Inspector Devlin. I know who you are.”

The major’s car was a battered 1957 Chevrolet. Devlin had last ridden in one in high school. That car had been a ten-year-old relic owned by a teenage friend. This one was an ancient, rusting hulk that only a collector could love. Definitely not a police car.

“This your personal car, Major?”

Martinez smiled. “Yes, it is.”

“Are you restoring it?” Devlin asked.

“Restoring?” Martinez seemed puzzled at first, then began to laugh. “Senor, I have been restoring this car for thirty years. Every week it needs some new restoration.”

As Martinez opened the rear door, Devlin placed a hand on his arm. “Major, that tin you flashed back there, it looked a little shiny. You mind if I take another look at it?”

Martinez seemed confused. “Tin? Shiny?” The light-bulb went on and he smiled again. He took out his credential case and handed it to Devlin. “You are right, Senor Devlin. The badge is new. I was just recently promoted.” He retrieved the credential case and returned it to his pocket. “You see, in Cuba, until just a few years ago there were no ranks above captain. Fidel was commandante-which is equivalent to a major-and everyone else held a rank below that. Now”-he shrugged-“things have changed. Now we even have generals. Luckily, the new promotions finally made their way down to me. Here in Cuba, these things come more slowly for people who are not high in the government.”

They drove out of the airport and onto a main thoroughfare which seemed to have more people hitchhiking or riding bicycles, than cars. It was nine P.M., when traffic in any large city would still be moderately heavy. Yet cars were scarce, and most were not unlike the antiquated wreck Martinez drove.

“Lot of old cars here,” Devlin said.

Martinez nodded. “Yes, many. Your country’s embargo has been in place since 1963, senor. The only new cars you will see all belong to car rental companies. Only the tourists drive them. Oh, you will see some newer than mine, of course-some that are only ten years old-but they are mostly Russian, and they are garbage. They break down more than the old cars do.” He patted the steering wheel as if assuring his own car that the words were intended as a compliment. “But we can’t get parts for the old ones, or even the not-so-old ones, so it doesn’t make much difference. It is why Cubans are the best mechanics in the world. It is a gift of the embargo. Give a Cuban some chewing gum and wire and he can make anything run-at least for a day or two.”

Adrianna leaned forward from the rear seat. “Major, you said you’d explain the phone call. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m very worried about my aunt.”

From his place in the front, Devlin could see Martinez’s jaw tighten.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

He pulled the car to the side of the road. They were next to a park that overflowed with people, all out searching for relief from the tropical July heat.

Martinez turned in his seat; his eyes were more sad and weary than normal. Devlin could sense what was coming.

“I’m afraid I must tell you very bad news, Senorita Mendez. The automobile accident in which your aunt was involved left her very badly burned. The hospital informed my office this morning that your aunt died of her injuries.” He heard Adrianna gasp, and hesitated a moment before going on. “The news, I’m afraid, is even worse. The funeral home where her corpse was taken reported that her body disappeared shortly after it arrived there.”

Devlin had moved into the rear of the car, and now held Adrianna in his arms. Martinez was driving more rapidly, hurrying to get Adrianna to their hotel in Old Havana.

“What have you found out about the body being taken?” Devlin asked.

“Only that it disappeared three days ago-only a few hours after she died.”

“Three days ago? What the hell are you talking about? You said your office just got the call this morning, and Adrianna spoke to the hospital yesterday.”

“The death was not reported,” Martinez said. “At least not to us, as it should have been.”

“Who … was it … reported … to?” It was Adrianna this time, her voice broken by sobs.

“It was reported to State Security,” Martinez said. “Both the death and, later, the theft.”

“The secret police?” Devlin’s voice was incredulous.

“No, the secret police are different. I will explain later.”

“Why would anyone want to steal her body?” Adrianna asked.

Martinez let out a long breath. “Are you familiar with Regla Mayombe, senorita?”

“What the hell is that?” Devlin snapped.

“It is one of the Cuban-African religions. Very primitive and very feared. Also very widespread in our country.”

Devlin’s voice was still snappish and angry. “For chrissake, what are you trying to say? That we’re dealing with some kind of voodoo?”

“Yes, senor,” Martinez said. “That is exactly what I am telling you.”

The Hotel Inglaterra is located on the Paseo Marti, a name personally created by Fidel. To the people the street is known as the Paseo del Prado, the name it carried for more than two hundred years. The hotel is directly across from a small park and flanked by the Gran Teatro de la Habana, a baroque architectural masterpiece that would rival anything in Europe. The exterior of the Inglaterra rises four stories, its neoclassical facade marked by high French windows that lead to small, individual terraces outside each room so guests can view the nightly chaos that rules the street and the park beyond. Inside, the mood harkens back to the 1870s when the hotel was part of La Acera del Louvre, a meeting place for Creole revolutionaries. Here it changes to a mixture of Sevillian and Moorish designs. Mosaic tiles and a massive gate of twisted ironwork accent the lobby, mixed together with stained glass and ancient heraldic symbols, all rising to an intricately ornate, gold-leaf ceiling. It is like stepping into Bizet’s Carmen , or-to Devlin’s eye-a comfortable, old Humphrey Bogart film.

Major Martinez waited at a table in the Sevillana Bar while Devlin took Adrianna to their room. He seemed decidedly out of place, his well-worn jacket and frayed shirt standing out among the designer labels worn by the tourists and the sleek, sensual clothing that decorated the prostitutes gathered at the bar. Behind him a gold statue of a woman dancing with castanets added to the contrast. It glittered almost as brightly as his shiny new badge.