Red Angel (29 page)

“It wouldn’t be hard. You’re a well-known artist, babe, and your Cuban ancestry has been written about pretty extensively. Your aunt was also a well-known figure in Cuba.”

“And it would make sense that I’d come here if anything happened to her.”

“Yes, it would,” Devlin said. “Especially if you were told she was hurt and dying. And that old bastard was right. He knows me. He knows I wouldn’t let you waltz into Cuba alone, or slip in illegally through Canada or Mexico. Not with all the hoopla the U.S. government spreads about it being unsafe to travel here.”

“And you think Martínez found all that out?”

“At least some of it. And when he realized that Rossi was trying to set me up, I think he decided to get us both here and use us to force DeForio’s hand. And Cabrera’s. Remember, Cabrera’s supposed to be the head of the secret police, as well as the number two guy in State Security. He’s got a lot more power than a major in the national police. But Martínez has
us.
Suddenly we’re here, and Cabrera can’t get to us, and neither can Rossi, and now we’re involved in the investigation of your aunt’s disappearance. That had to put pressure on Cabrera. But more importantly, it had to make DeForio think that things were starting to unravel. It made the whole thing a threat to what he was trying to do, and all because of your aunt and Rossi, and this crazy change-of-heads ritual.”

“That is a very good theory, and very close to the truth.”

They turned and saw Martínez in the doorway.

“What part is wrong?” Devlin asked.

Martínez smiled at him. “Later, my friend. I promise you. Later you will have all the answers you need. But first, I must do something else. I must go to Cabrera’s house and conduct my interrogation. There are some answers I need, before I can provide answers for you. Are you interested in accompanying me?”

“You bet your ass I am,” Devlin said.

* * *

Juan Domingo Argudin was becoming frustrated. Everywhere the American went he was surrounded by Cuban police. His men had followed the gringo to this neighborhood where all the big shots lived, only to find police surrounding the house he had entered.

The police seemed unusually alert, so Argudin decided to be cautious. He stationed his men at both ends of the block, far enough away to avoid suspicion, but positioned so at least one car could follow the American when he left again. His own car was a block and a half away, just close enough to detect any activity at the house. He knew an attack here was impossible. There were simply too many police. He also knew the American would not stay here indefinitely. When he left, they would follow, and sooner or later there would be fewer police. Then, he thought, they would have their chance, and the American would die. Then, finally, his pockets would be filled with ten thousand American dollars.

Martínez left his men behind to guard Adrianna when he escorted Devlin and Pitts to his waiting Chevrolet. He drove the four blocks to Cabrera’s house with the pedal pressed to the floor, the engine of the ancient Chevrolet whining like an angry cat. He was a madman on a mission, Devlin thought.

He turned to Pitts. “You think the major might be anxious to get this done?”

“I dunno,” Pitts said. He leaned over the rear seat. “You anxious, Major? You warming up your rubber hose?”

“It is a pleasure I have been looking forward to for many months,” Martínez said.

“Could cause a bit of a scandal, couldn’t it?” Pitts asked. “I mean two top guys mobbed up like this? A little government plan to let the wiseguys open a casino? A little side
deal on narcotics?” Pitts tried to catch Martínez’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He wanted to give him an evil grin.

Martínez stared straight ahead. “It is possible, of course. It is also possible it will never be known here in Cuba.” He glanced at Devlin, a small smile playing on his lips. “It is different here, you see. Trials need only be public when it serves a greater purpose. Some matters that involve our government officials and our military can be handled more discreetly. It is a question of the nation’s morale.”

Devlin laughed. “That’s a great line, Martínez. 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.”

Martínez 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.”

Martínez 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.

Martínez 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 Señor 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 Martínez 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?”

Martínez 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 Martínez what had happened to it.

“It had to be removed,” Martínez 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.

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

They followed Martínez 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. Martínez 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.

Martínez 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. Martínez 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.

Martínez 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.

Martínez 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,” Martínez 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.” Martínez 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.

Martínez 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 Martínez 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.

Martínez 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,” Martínez finally said. “But I imagine you would have lived an even richer life once Señor 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 Señor DeForio into a well-laid trap. Perhaps this trap also involved the assassination of María Méndez, and the later theft of her body at the request of the American gangster Señor 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, Martínez?”

Martínez 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?”

Martínez smiled. “There are five judges. Three military officers and two civilians.”

“Hey, three kangaroos out of five. That’s not bad.” He turned to Cabrera and shook his head. “Sounds like you’re fucked, Colonel.”

Cabrera glared at him, then turned back to Martínez. “These American fools seem to have emboldened you, Martínez. Perhaps you should explain what will happen when your political frailties are exposed.”

“I doubt such exposure will occur.”

Cabrera let out a derisive snort. His eyes filled with contempt. He turned back to Devlin and Pitts. “Since you are so fond of Martínez, and his great powers, I will see to it that you all share the same cell.”

The major shook his head. “It is embarrassing to see you debase yourself in this way,” he said. “I hope you will show
more dignity when you are brought before the military court.”

Cabrera straightened in his chair, his entire body filled with defiance. “And who will bring me before this court? You, Martínez?” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “And under what authority, if I may ask?”

Martínez leaned in close, so his face was only inches from Cabrera’s. He spoke softly—this time in Spanish. Devlin only caught a few words—
presentar, jefe, departamento, técnico
, and
investigación
—but the effect on Cabrera was instantaneous.

The colonel paled, and his lips and his hands began to tremble. Martínez sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “As you now realize, your trial is assured. But, perhaps, you can spare yourself the ultimate penalty, your execution. That, of course, will depend on your level of cooperation.”

Cabrera’s voice came out in a croak. “What is it you want to know?”

Martínez withdrew a voice-activated tape recorder from his pocket, placed it on the desk, and pressed the start button. He gave the time, place, date, and Cabrera’s name. Then he stood and began pacing back and forth. “First, let us begin with Dr. Mendez,” he said. “Who ordered her assassination?”

“I did.” Cabrera’s voice was barely audible.

“Please speak louder, Colonel Cabrera.”

“I did.”

“Was this at the direction of an American gangster named John Rossi?”

Cabrera let out a shuddering breath. “In part, yes.”

“Did it also involve certain information that Dr. Méndez had uncovered?”

“Yes.”

Martínez stopped pacing and again folded his hands. “Tell us about this.”

Cabrera’s arms were trembling now, and he clenched his fists to fight it off. “Dr. Méndez learned of the plan to permit gambling on the Isla de la Juventud. She went to the Ministry of Interior to express her opposition.”