Red Angel (34 page)

“When my men realized who the other, unconscious
woman was, I was called to the scene, and when I learned the Abakua were involved, I knew it had to be Cabrera’s work, and I immediately ordered the deception.”

“So she’s been hidden here all the time.”

“Yes.”

“Did she know what you were doing? The way you were using her niece?”

Martínez looked horrified. “Oh no. Never.” He glanced across the room. “But I suspect she is learning this now, and that soon I will pay for my sins.”

Devlin turned to the two women. Adrianna was looking at him, tears glistening on her cheeks. He went to them, and knelt before the older woman.

“It’s my aunt,” Adrianna said, barely able to speak the words.

“I know. Martínez just told me what happened.” He reached out and lightly touched the woman’s unbandaged hand. “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said. “Very unexpected.”

María Mendez’s eyes glittered with pleasure. “I, too, am pleased,” she said. “I have heard much about you, but only in letters.” She looked down at his bandaged arm. “I see the intolerable Martínez has put you through much these past days. He is a scoundrel.”

She looked past Devlin, and forced her eyes to harden, but Devlin could tell it was done with effort.

“You will pay for this, Martínez,” she snapped. “Even generals are not immune to my wrath.”

Martínez came across the room, drawing a heavy breath as he approached. “Ah, my beloved Red Angel. It was a necessary pragmatism, only intended to keep you safe.”

María Mendez held his eyes in an unrelenting stare. “I have remained safe for sixty-four years without your help. I am sure I could have survived these few days as well. Even in the mountains, with Batista hunting me, I survived. And
all of it, when you were sitting on your mother’s knee.” She wagged a finger at him. “You think you must protect me, Arnaldo? You think you are so powerful just because the revolution has made you a general? I think it is time you had a lesson, and learned about
my
powers.”

“Get him,” Pitts said from behind them. “The man’s a shoofly.”

Martínez ignored him. He raised his hands in a gesture of futility. “I assure you, I have great respect for your powers. We have been friends for many years, and I have watched in fascination as you have tormented members of our government.” He stepped closer, a small smile starting to form. “But I am confident my actions to guarantee your safety will be approved at the highest levels. You are a treasure to our country, María.”

María Méndez rolled her eyes. She turned to Adrianna. “Listen to this man. He is the father of all scoundrels.”

“But a devoted scoundrel,” Martínez said. “Both to you and to the revolution.”

María Méndez reached out and pulled Adrianna to her again. “At least he was not able to kill you all,” she said. “If I had known of his insane plan, I never would have allowed it.”

She glanced past Adrianna’s shoulder. Martínez was still standing before her, and Devlin thought he saw a small smile begin to form on her lips. “Thank you for your protection, Arnaldo. Even if it was unnecessary and overdone.” She paused a moment. “And what have you done with Cabrera?”

Martínez inclined his head to one side. “I am afraid he is no longer with us.”

A cold glint came to María Mendez’s eyes, and Devlin realized he was not watching some helpless old woman.

“And that thief Sauri?” she asked.

“He is under house arrest,” Martínez said. “We also have in custody Señor Cipriani, Señor DeForio, and the mañoso Rossi, who had hoped to make use of your body.” He raised
a finger. “Which reminds me. There is a certain service I believe you can perform for Señor Devlin. If you will permit me, I will arrange it for tomorrow morning.”

“Is this another of your scoundrel’s tricks?” the old woman asked.

“But of course,” Martínez said. “But it is one I think you will enjoy.”

An hour later they were seated in a semicircle about María Méndez, listening as she explained how she had learned of the plan to bring gambling to the Isle of Youth.

“I was told of this plan by Manuel Pineiro, who once ran our intelligence service. He was very concerned, and believed something very wrong, perhaps even corrupt, was happening.” She shook her head. “But he was retired for many years, and no longer had strong contacts in the Ministry of Interior. He said they just brushed his concerns aside.” Her eyes hardened. “And then, of course, he was killed. In an ‘automobile accident.’” She shook her head. “I did not even suspect he had been murdered. So I went to Sauri, who I knew, and expressed
my
opposition.”

“What did he do?” Adrianna asked.

“At first he tried to bribe me,” she said, laughing. “He said the government would add a condition to the plan—a demand that the foreign developers build and endow a children’s hospital on the Isla de la Juventud.” She held up one hand like a traffic cop. “This made me suspicious. Sauri had always opposed all my efforts to draw money away from the revolution’s grand projects.” She waved her hand in a broad circle. “And to use that money for our deteriorating health programs.” She wagged a finger. “Now, suddenly, the health needs of the people were important, and he wanted to include them in
his
plan. It was a miracle. And it smelled like
old fish. That is when I went to Martínez and told him he must investigate.”

“And that,” Martínez added, “was when I learned that Cabrera’s men had put our Red Angel under strict surveillance.”

“And then you started to tumble to the rest of their plans,” Devlin said.

“Yes,” Martínez said. “But before I had adequate proof, they moved against her.” He nodded toward María Mendez, momentary relief flooding his eyes. Then it was gone as he hardened himself against any display of sentiment. “The rest, of course, you know,” he added.

One of Martínez’s men entered the house and came to him. After a whispered conversation, Martínez excused himself and left.

Adrianna reached out and took her aunt’s hand. “Have you known Martínez a long time?” she asked.

The old woman laughed. “For a hundred years,” she said.

“And you trust him?”

María squeezed her niece’s hand. “Completely.” She rolled her eyes. “He is a scoundrel, of course. But it is his job to be a scoundrel.” Her face became tender as she spoke about her friend. “And it is a thankless job. Of this there is no question. The secrecy of who he is, and what he does, denies him any recognition from the people, or even from his family and his friends. To those who know him personally, he is simply a police administrator who has risen so high and no more—a very modest success in life. For a proud man like Martínez, this is difficult, I think.”

Their heads turned as the door of the cottage opened. Martínez stood holding the door back, his eyes filled with mischief. Adrianna let out a gasp as a second man entered.

Fidel Castro walked slowly across the room. He was dressed in his trademark fatigues, free of any decorations or
distinctions of rank. His gray-streaked beard hung to mid-chest, and his gait reflected his seventy-three years. He was a tall man, easily six-three, and he had the bearing of a man used to deferential treatment.

Devlin and Pitts stood as he approached, but Castro ignored them. He went straight to María Mendez and began speaking to her in Spanish.

The old woman immediately cut him off. “Speak in English, Fidel. I have guests who do not understand our language.”

Castro stiffened at the rebuke, then shook his head as if it were an indignity he should have expected.

“You know my English is bad,” he said. “Why do you make me do this?”

“It is a courtesy,” María snapped. “It is also my wish in my home.”

Castro raised his hands and let them fall back. “I come to tell you I am happy you are safe, and you treat me this way.” He looked down at Adrianna. “This is your niece?” he asked.

“My niece, Adrianna.”

Fidel reached down and took her hand, then bent and kissed it. Devlin detected a slight flush come to Adrianna’s cheeks.

“Your aunt torments her oldest friends,” Castro said. He gave Adrianna a sly wink. “But we all still love her … in spite of herself.”

“You do not love me enough to get me the medical supplies I need.”

Castro raised his hand—in exasperation this time. “You no longer work for the government. You resigned in protest. How can I get you anything?”

“Of course I resigned,” María snapped back. “You had abandoned the people’s needs. Something was needed to bring you to your senses.” She turned to Adrianna. “And do
you know what he did? He had the government announce that I
retired.
Not that I resigned in protest, that I
retired.
”

Castro waved his hand in the air. “Let me announce that you have
unretired.
”

“Never.”

Castro shook his head. “I will find a way to get you the medicines and equipment you need. I do not know how, but I will find it somewhere.”

María stared at him for several long seconds. “And prostitution? Will you see to it that this disgusting practice that puts our young women on the streets—a practice
you
have permitted to return to our country—will you see to it that
this
is ended?”

Castro looked at the ceiling. “I will do everything in my power to see that the laws banning it are enforced,” he said.

María Méndez gave a firm nod of her head. “If you do these things, I will
think
about returning to my post,” she said.

Castro raised his hands, then let them fall back to his side in a surprising gesture of helplessness. “Torturer,” he said. He looked at the others as if seeking support. “She was this way even in the mountains when we fought Batista. Never a word of respect. Only arguments.”

María snorted, but said nothing.

With effort, Castro knelt before her. He took her hand. “You are a stubborn old woman,” he said.

“And you are a stubborn old man.”

“
Sí.
We make a good pair,” Castro said. He placed a second hand on top of hers and stroked it gently. “I am pleased you are well. Cuba would be a poorer place without you.”

María reached up and stroked his beard. “Thank you for coming, Fidel.”

Castro nodded. “You will truly consider my proposal?”

“I will truly consider it.”

Again with effort, Castro pulled himself up. He nodded
to Adrianna, then glanced at Devlin and Pitts. “I have heard about you two,” he said. He raised a finger and shook it, then headed for the door.

“That’s it?” Pitts said as the door closed. He stared at Martínez. “No medals? No Lycra concession? That’s it?”

“Be thankful we’re not in jail,” Devlin said. He looked down at Adrianna. There was a broad grin spread across her face.

“Fidel Castro kissed my hand,” she said.

Giovanni “John the Boss” Rossi sat in the small cell he shared with Mattie Ippolito. The bottle of oxygen that had been at his side for months stood in the corner. The Cuban jailer had put it there, even after he had explained it wasn’t necessary. He had not used oxygen since the ritual, and felt no need for it now. Or ever, he told himself.

What he did need was Cabrera, or Sauri, or somebody who could get him the hell out of this stinking cell. Then he could find a way out of the country. But this clown Martínez had kept him isolated. Not even a stinking phone call, or a lawyer. Nothing.

Rossi glanced around the cell. It was in the basement of a police station that resembled a small castle, and it had been obvious since they arrived that Martínez ran the show. Even his attempts to lay some serious money on his jailers had been ignored. A thousand bucks just to deliver a message. And these clowns had looked at him like he was crazy.

Rossi shook a finger at Ippolito. Mattie was seated on the opposite bunk, only three feet away. “We gotta find a way outta this shithole,” he said.

Ippolito raised his hands an inch from his lap, then let them fall back. “The cop said ten days before we could contact anybody. I think he means it. I think he’s gonna break our chops as long as he can.”

“These fucking Cubans think I’m gonna sit here eating rice and beans for ten days, they’re crazy.” Rossi placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “How much money you got?”

“A little over two grand,” Ippolito said.

“Okay. I got at least a grand in my pocket. At least the Cubans didn’t take our money away from us. So we’ll up the ante to these guards. Offer them two large, wave the cash under their noses. That still leaves us with a grand for traveling money.”

Ippolito reached into his pocket, then froze as the door to the cellblock opened. He withdrew his hand and leaned back against the wall as he watched Devlin and Pitts saunter in with the Cuban cop.

“Hey, Bathrobe. How’s it hangin’?” Pitts called. He grabbed hold of the bars and let his eyes roam the cell. “What a shithole. Hey, Martínez, if this is the way you treat Americans, I gotta tell you, I think it’s a fucking disgrace.”

Martínez feigned embarrassment. “But, Señor, these accommodations are among the best in Cuba. Our real prisons are truly horrible. But this …” He waved his hand at the cell. “This is luxury.”

Rossi sneered at the trio. “Hey, a comedy act. This joint even has entertainment. Martin and Lewis. Abbott and Costello.” He raised his chin, indicating Devlin. “Whassamatter, Inspector? You don’t know any jokes? You join in, you guys could be the Three fucking Stooges.”

“You’re the only joke I know, Bathrobe.” Devlin grinned at the old man. “How much bribe money did you lay on the guards today?” He shook his head. “Oh, yeah, the cell’s bugged. But you knew that, right, Bathrobe?”

“Fuck you,” Rossi snapped.

Devlin stepped up next to Pitts and placed his hands on the bars. “How you feeling, old man? How’s your health today?”

Rossi sneered at him. “I’m a hundred percent, Devlin. It’s like twenty years fell off me.” He used both hands to slap his chest. “I’m like a young bull again.”

Devlin glanced at Pitts. “Mind over matter?” he asked.

“Definitely,” Pitts said. “I think the old Bathrobe really believes in all that ooga-booga crap. I think those mumbo-jumbo witch doctors coulda put a fucking bag lady in that pot, and old Bathrobe woulda believed in the fucking cure.”