Red Angel (4 page)

“There really isn’t a lot I do know about her,” she said at length. “I know that sounds strange, but it’s true. My father always refused to talk about her, and when I finally got to meet her after he died, she was always very reticent about
what she did. All she really ever told me was that she was a doctor who specialized in children’s problems. I do know her government sent her to several conferences at the UN and the World Health Organization, because we’d see each other during those trips. She was here eight or nine times like that, and she always stayed a week or two, so we saw a lot of each other when she was here. But that’s really all I know about her life. That, and the fact that she hated Batista, and was a fierce supporter of Fidel Castro, and everything she thought he’d done for Cuba.”

“You must know more than that,” Devlin said.

“Paul, I don’t. After my father died, she sort of adopted me from afar. I was an adult by then—” She stopped, as if considering her own words. “I guess I never recognized it before, but all our interactions were about me—her hopes for me and my work, whatever problems there were in my life. That’s all that seemed to interest her.
My
life.
My
welfare. Everything. All of it centered around me. Whenever I asked about her, she just dismissed herself as some country doctor who took care of children. All she ever wanted to talk about was me, and my problems, my hopes, my needs. I guess you could say she was more mentor than aunt.” She closed her eyes and fought back tears. “She was wonderful, Paul. She was the first
real
intellectual friend I ever had. The first person who ever took me seriously.”

The call from the U.S. Interests Section in Havana came as they were completing their packing. Devlin spent twenty minutes on the phone, making notes about the arrangements that had been made and listening to a detailed explanation of what they could expect to find when they arrived.

When he replaced the receiver he stood quietly, digesting what he had been told.

“What is it, Paul?”

He shook his head, a look of mild disbelief in his eyes. “I just found out a little more about your aunt,” he said.

“What did they say?”

He shook his head again. “Honey, María Mendez is no country doctor who just works with little kids.” He blew out a stream of air. “Up until a few months ago she was the top medical official in the Cuban government.” He paused, still digesting it all. “Adrianna, she’s one of the original heroes of the Cuban Revolution. She fought in the mountains with Castro in the fifties, and since then she’s been the closest thing they’ve had to a living saint. The people down there call her
Angel Rojo
, the Red Angel.”

The international arrivals terminal at José Martí Airport is a sprawling, modern edifice that would befit any major city in the world. Completed in 1998, it replaced a small, dark, musty building that made arriving visitors feel they had just entered an oppressive banana republic. It is a carefully stated message, a clear abandonment of the old workers’ state, all part of a new Cuban image, intended to make tourists and foreign businesspeople believe that their much-sought-after dollars will be well spent in this former bastion of Soviet-sponsored communism.

Devlin felt slightly overwhelmed by the unexpected glitter of glass and steel, and the complete absence of expected threat left him mildly disoriented. He had telephoned his daughter—who had been left behind with his sister in Queens—just to tell her they had arrived safely in Castro’s Cuba.

“Are there guys with long beards and guns?” she had asked, her nine-year-old mind a victim of U.S. television.

“Not yet, sweetie,” Devlin had replied. “Most of the people working here are young, and the airport reminds me of the new terminals at La Guardia. Only it’s cleaner.”

His daughter had sounded disappointed.

As he and Adrianna waited for their bags to be disgorged onto a gleaming carousel, they watched other travelers unload dozens of large corrugated boxes. A fellow passenger had explained the practice. It was all part of the new dollar economy born of the U.S. embargo. Each week traveling “Samaritans” would bring in money and goods sent to Cuban nationals by relatives in the U.S. It was all done for a hefty fee—20 percent of the money and five dollars a pound for the goods, and only a few years ago it would have put everyone involved behind bars. Now, for many, it was a full-time business, which a financially strapped and desperate Cuban government chose to ignore.

When the bags arrived, Devlin loaded them on a cart and headed for a rapidly moving customs line. They had gone through passport control with only a cursory check of their documents. Devlin had expected hard-eyed inspectors who would view Americans with suspicion. Instead he had found smiling men and women, all dressed in crisp khaki uniforms, all eager to make processing as painless as possible.

Customs proved the same, a few terse questions from a pleasant young woman. It was like entering Canada from the U.S., and far less challenging than returning to the States from anywhere in the world. All U.S. customs officials, Devlin decided, should be turned over to Fidel Castro for training. If nothing else, they would learn how to manage an occasional smile.

“I’m still waiting for the storm troopers,” Devlin said as they made their way through the packed lobby toward ranks of cabs and buses that lay beyond sliding-glass doors.

“So am I.” Adrianna raised her eyebrows at the chaotic, non-threatening scene that surrounded them. It could have been any airport in any U.S. city. “This is so strange. It’s the opposite of everything I expected. And somehow it doesn’t seem real. It’s making me feel like Dorothy after she woke up in Oz.”

“Señorita Mendez. Un minuto, por favor.”

They were stopped by a short, stocky, mustachioed man somewhere in his mid-fifties. He spoke softly behind sad, weary, gentle eyes that still managed to display authority. Very much a cop’s eyes, Devlin decided.

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 Martínez. Major Arnaldo Martínez. 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.

Martínez 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?”

Martínez smiled. “Yes, it is.”

“Are you restoring it?” Devlin asked.

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

As Martínez 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?”

Martínez 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, Señor 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 Martínez drove.

“Lot of old cars here,” Devlin said.

Martínez nodded. “Yes, many. Your country’s embargo has been in place since 1963, señor. 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 Martínez’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.

Martínez 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, Señorita 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. Martínez 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,” Martínez 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,” Martínez 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.

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

“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, señor,” Martínez said. “That is exactly what I am telling you.”

The Hotel Inglaterra is located on the Paseo Martí, 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 Martínez 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.

Devlin made his way to the table, his eyes taking in every comer of the room. A small smile played across Martínez’s lips. Police, he thought, were the same everywhere.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Devlin said. “I wanted to make sure Adrianna was asleep. This little surprise you laid on us has hit her pretty hard.” He adjusted his chair so it faced the entrance to the bar. It produced another small smile from Martínez.

“It is better she is sleeping,” Martínez said. “What I have to tell you would only be more upsetting for her.”