Red Angel (10 page)

“Oh yes,” Martínez said. “There are many. You will know them by the misery in their lives.”

They climbed the battered staircase, past crumbling walls and metal doors, many of which had more than one lock. Martínez had told them that Tamayo was one of Cuba’s most revered and successful writers. Now he had also told him that the man practiced a form of voodoo that was beyond Devlin’s comprehension. And that those who didn’t practice voodoo could be known by the misery in their lives? He glanced about him as he climbed the steamy, battered staircase to the fourth floor of this hellhole firetrap of a building. If this was viewed as the absence of misery, he wondered what life in Cuba was for those who rejected these two hundred and thirty-six African gods. And what had it been before the arrival of Comandante Fidel. Perhaps that was it, he thought. Like Castro, perhaps these strange religious beliefs simply offered hope in a country where hope had always been the one elusive commodity of life.

A tall, slender, coffee-colored man with short, tightly curled gray hair opened the door of the apartment. He was well into his sixties, but his face was spread into a smile that made him seem far younger, a smile so genuine that Devlin had the inexplicable feeling they had known each other for years.

The man bubbled forth in perfect, if somewhat formal English. “I am José Tamayo. Welcome. Welcome. I am honored to have you visit my home.”

Over Tamayo’s shoulder Devlin glimpsed a small, sparsely furnished apartment. There was a main room, consisting of four dinette-type chairs covered in plastic, set in a line before an old black-and-white television set. A small table sat next to one of the chairs, holding only a telephone and a single ashtray in which a large cigar smoldered. Off that room was a galley kitchen, giving off a rich aroma of Cuban coffee, and a long, narrow terrace overlooking an in terior
courtyard. Two open louvered doors on the terrace led to small, cramped bedrooms. Martínez had told them that Tamayo’s son and daughter-in-law lived there as well, but that both were now at work.

Tamayo ushered them into the main room and seated them on the dinette chairs with all the formality of someone offering the comfort of a plushly furnished room. He then hurried to the kitchen, returning with steaming cups of coffee. When Adrianna presented the battered book they had purchased, his face again burst into youthful radiance, and he quickly signed it with the exuberance of a child opening gifts on Christmas morning.

As he handed back the book, Tamayo’s expressive face filled with unabashed regret. “My wife, who is away working this morning, asked me to add her condolences to my own,” he said. He reached out and took Adrianna’s hand. “Your aunt was a great woman, and a great hero of our revolution, and my wife and I were greatly honored by her friendship.”

For the first time since she learned of her aunt’s death, Devlin saw tears form in Adrianna’s eyes. He leaned forward, drawing the writer’s attention.

“The major tells me you once worked with the political police,” he said. “We are hoping you can use your knowledge to help us find the body of María Méndez.”

Tamayo nodded, then made a small wave with one hand, as if brushing aside his past activities.

“I was merely a propagandist, señor. My job was to put forth my government’s views on political matters.” He wagged his head from side to side. “Sometimes they were accurate expressions, sometimes merely views my government wished others to share. So, my police abilities, I’m afraid, are really limited to my fictional writings.” He leaned forward, his face filling with more sincerity than Devlin had ever seen crammed in the face of one man.

He nodded toward Martínez. “Arnaldo has explained, however, that Palo Monte may be involved. In this I can help you. I have written extensively about Palo Monte in my fiction, and I am also a believer in its powers.”

Martínez interrupted, explaining what they had discovered at the funeral home. He handed Tamayo the black feather the ancient security guard had given them.

Tamayo held the feather up to the light and nodded. “There is no question this is from the
aura tinosa.
” He looked at Devlin. “This is the scavenger bird we call
mayimbe
, very sacred to the Palo Monte, and very integral to their rituals.”

“We are also under surveillance by two Abakua,” Martínez added.

Tamayo’s eyes hardened into a look of true hatred. He turned to Adrianna. “First, I must tell you that I have grave doubts that your aunt’s death was the result of any accident.”

Adrianna’s eyes widened and she seemed ready to speak, but Tamayo hurried on. “I have no proof of this.” He brought his hand to his chest. “But from here I believe this is true.”

“What makes you believe it?” Devlin asked.

Tamayo shook his head, his eyes still severe. “Something sinister is going on in my country, Señor Devlin. I do not know what it is, but I do know that two people high in our government also held this belief. And now both are dead.” He looked back at Adrianna. “Regrettably, one of those people was your beloved aunt.”

“Who was the other?” Adrianna asked.

Tamayo drew a deep breath. “Are you familiar with the name Manuel Pineiro?”

Adrianna shook her head. Tamayo turned to Devlin and received the same response.

Tamayo picked up his cigar, noted that it had gone out, and returned it to the ashtray. “Manuel Pineiro was known as
Barba Roja
to the people—or Red Beard. For twenty years
he was the head of our intelligence apparatus, our spymaster as my fellow novelist John le Carré would say, and someone equally as respected in the intelligence community as the famous East German Markus Wolf, who le Carré used as the model for his great villain. In short, he was very good at his job—a man who knew all the secrets.”

“And he was also killed?” Devlin asked.

Tamayo nodded. “Also in a car crash earlier this year.”

“Was his body stolen?”

“No,” Tamayo said. “But there were reports that several men dressed all in white were seen near the site of the crash. I believe they were members of a particular sect of the Abakua.”

Devlin turned to Martínez.

“This is true.” Martínez glanced at Adrianna, his eyes filled with regret. “Police also saw these Abakua near the scene of your aunt’s accident. The Abakua fled when they arrived, and I am ashamed to say the police did not pursue them. There were only two police officers, and at least five Abakua. As I explained, they are much feared by the people.” He hesitated, then added: “And some of our less courageous police.”

“And it is known that these Abakua—the ones who dress in white—are often the tools of State Security,” Tamayo added.

Devlin sat back and digested what he had been told. He let out a long breath. “Tell me how Palo Monte fits into this.”

Tamayo took time to relight his cigar, sending a stream of thick smoke up toward the high ceiling. “Before you can grasp what I am about to tell you, you must first understand something about our Afro-Cuban religions.” He raised two fingers of one hand, then one of the other hand. “There are two of these religions, and one false religion. First is Regla de Osha, which is also known as Santeria. It is the most gentle of the religions in its divination rites, and it is very
closely tied to Catholicism. It was brought to Cuba by highly educated African slaves from Nigeria. Next is Regla Mayombe, also known as Palo Monte. This is a much darker and more primitive religion, which performs its divinations through contact with the dead. It originates from very primitive Bantu slaves brought here from the Congo. And finally there is the Abakua, which is not a true religion, but rather a secret society that believes in solving all problems through violence. These Abakua originally came from West Africa’s Calabar River basin, where they were part of the leopard society of the Negbe people. Here in Cuba, they have formed their own sects, which are tied to Palo Monte through the use of corrupt
paleros
who seek to use the power of the Abakua.”

“And you think one of these corrupt
paleros
was behind the theft of María Mendez’s body?”

Tamayo nodded.

“Why?” Devlin asked.

“To make a
nganga
to the god BabaluAye.”

Devlin let out another long breath and held up his hands. “You are losing me again. First, I keep hearing about all this
nganga
business, but I can’t seem to find out what the hell it is.”

Tamayo smiled. “I will explain.” He turned to Adrianna and his face filled with regret. “Some of the things I will tell you will sound unreasonable, perhaps even cruel and barbaric. I ask you to be indulgent, and to remember that the followers of Palo Monte hold these beliefs as strongly as those who believe deeply in the teachings of Judaism or Christianity or any other religion.”

He turned back to Devlin. “The
nganga
is at the center of all Palo Monte ritual. It is basically a large pot”—he made a circle with his arms, indicating something two and a half to three feet in diameter—“into which various sacred items are placed. The
nganga
is dedicated to one of the gods, but its
purpose is to speak to the dead, and get the dead to answer questions about the future, and to perform certain acts for its owner—acts of both good and evil. But the main purpose of the
nganga
is to protect the owner from harm.

“Central to the
nganga
are the bones of a dead one—man or woman—with whom the owner can drive a bargain by feeding the
nganga
his own blood at least once each year. In addition, the owner must give the
nganga
whatever it asks for, which is usually money or some offering, but in some rare cases it has been known to involve the life of another—even someone very dear to the owner.

“So first we start with the bones of a dead one—the skull so it can think and speak; fingers so it can do what it must; feet so it can travel wherever necessary. There also may be the bones of other dead ones, but the first bones—the oldest—rule the
nganga
, and the other dead are there only to assist.”

Tamayo glanced at Adrianna to assure himself that his words were not causing her distress.

“The bones that are selected for the
nganga
determine the type of power it will possess. If, for example, the owner wants to do harm to his enemies, he will use the bones of a killer, or a person who was evil in life. If, on the other hand, he wishes to cure an illness, or protect against illness, he will choose the bones of a great healer.” Again he glanced at Adrianna.

“Where do they get these bones?” Devlin asked.

Tamayo gave him a somewhat sheepish half smile. “Usually, they are stolen from cemeteries.”

“Is this common?” Adrianna asked.

Another half smile. “Let us say it is more common than the government would like it to be known. Let me give an example. For some reason that I have never been able to understand, Palo Monte believes that the bones of a Chinese are very lucky, and can be used to bring good fortune.” He
shrugged away his lack of understanding. “For this reason many Cubans have
paleros
make
ngangas
with Chinese bones, or have them include Chinese bones in
ngangas
made for other purposes.” He leaned forward. “Here in Cuba, the Chinese have their own cemeteries, and the theft of Chinese bodies is so prevalent that most of the graves in these cemeteries have been protected by alarms.”

“Burglar alarms?” Devlin sounded incredulous.

“I am afraid that is so,” Tamayo said. “To the Chinese, we are viewed as a nation of grave robbers.”

“What else goes into these
ngangas?
” Adrianna asked.

“Ah, many things. First there is earth from the four sides of the grave from which the body was taken, or where it was to be buried. Then there is the hide of a snake, which was the origin of the religion, and which consolidates the
nganga
‘s power. Then the skeleton of a dog to go and fetch things for the dead one. Also the skeleton and feathers of
mayimbe—
the scavenger bird I told you about. There will also be the bones and feathers of a night bird to allow the dead one to see in the dark. Then there are many sacred woods from the forest—
palo monte
actually means ‘sticks of the forest.’ These are woods that can do either good or evil. One of the most powerful of the sticks is from a tree called the
jaquey.
Another is from the
rompezaraguey
, a very evil forest wood. Then, of course, there are things needed by the dead one to perform his duties—herbs for healing, if that is the purpose. A knife or gun for killing, perhaps. And then there are the things needed by the god to whom the
nganga
is dedicated. If that god were BabaluAye, there would be items related to illness and death and healing. If it were to the great warrior Oggun, it would be filled with objects of metal, over which Oggun holds all power.”

“But once you have all these things, how does it work?” Adrianna asked.

“Everything is based on the three principles of magic,”
Tamayo said. He raised three fingers. “First, that the same produces the same. Next, that things that have been in contact influence each other. And, finally, that everything—man, animal, object—has a soul.” He folded his hands in front of him as if preparing to pray. His voice became solemn. “Using these principles, the
palero
questions the dead one—or asks its assistance in certain matters. He does this through prayers, chanted in a mixture of Bantu and Spanish, and by throwing the coconuts—special religious shells that the
palero
has made from pieces of the coconut shell, each about the size of a large coin. The dead one answers the questions and requests put to it by means of the shells. Let me show you.”

Tamayo left for a moment and returned with some paper and a pencil. He began drawing and writing rapidly.

“Now, the coconut shells have both a concave and convex side, and how they end up when they are thrown by the
palero
determines the answer of the dead one.” He pointed to the first drawing, which showed all the shells with the concave sides turned up. “This answer is
Alafia.
It means yes, good news, but is not conclusive. More questions need to be asked, or offerings made if it involved a request.