The Sierra Maestra Mountains rose in the distance as their taxi raced along the winding road that led from Antonio Maceo Airport to the port city of Santiago de Cuba. The mountains were as majestic and as beautiful as any Devlin had ever seen. Sharp peaks, covered in lush green foliage, seemed to leap from the arid plain below, punctuated by steeply descending valleys carved dramatically into their sides. It was a forbidding range, Devlin thought, clearly inaccessible except by foot, a place suited more to goats than people, the place where all Cuba’s revolutions had begun, the very place from which Fidel and his original eighty-six followers had fought their hit-and-run war with the forces of Fulgencio Batista, until the people of Cuba had risen up to join them.
And Maria Mendez was there with them. He glanced at Adrianna, and saw that she, too, was staring at the mountains. Undoubtedly thinking similar thoughts about the young woman, the young doctor who would later become Cuba’s Red Angel. All those years ago. Fighting somewhere in those mountains against the men who had tortured and raped her, the men who had crushed her chance ever to have children of her own.
Martinez’s voice broke Devlin’s reverie.
“Santiago is like a different Cuba,” he explained as they raced past a series of small cattle farms. “Where Havana is cosmopolitan, with people always rushing about, here it is very Caribbean, a slower, more gentle pace. But you must not be fooled. It is a place of great and deep feelings. If there is to be trouble in Cuba, it will begin here. This is where the first gun will be picked up.” He gave them his Cuban shrug, as if to say it could not be helped.
“So why don’t they rise up and throw you guys out?” Ollie Pitts asked. He was grinning at Martinez, trying to goad him into another defense of Fidel.
There was an impish glimmer in the major’s eyes as he took up the challenge. “Fortunately, the people are devoted to the revolution,” he said. He made an all-encompassing gesture with his hand. “Here, in the eastern part of our island, life was always poorer and more difficult. So it is here that the revolution has produced the most change. It is also mostly Negro in population, and Palo Monte and Santeria are very strong here, and the people know that Fidel has always been tolerant of their beliefs. Some even say he practices them himself.”
“Does he?” Pitts asked.
Now it was time for Martinez to offer a goading grin. “It is said Fidel has two paleros working just for him, and that this is why your CIA’s many attempts to kill him have always failed.”
Pitts refused to give up. “Oh, yeah? How far away is the Guantanamo Naval Base?”
Martinez laughed. “From here, about one hundred kilometers of winding mountain roads. From the people, it is more than a million miles.”
The taxi made its way through a series of narrow streets that skirted the port, corning to a stop at a large, tree-shaded central plaza. One end of the plaza was dominated by the sixteenth-century Catedral Ecclesia, its twin spires rising more than ten stories, its central stone angel gazing down upon the people who filled the park’s benches and walkways.
To the right of the cathedral stood the Hotel Casa Grande, one of Santiago’s oldest and most elegant hotels, its first-floor terrace looming ten feet above the street like some lingering patrician stronghold, its red-and-gray-striped awnings shading those within from the scorching afternoon sun.
Martinez left them at the hotel, explaining that men were already in place watching the hotel’s entrances to ensure that the Abakua would not get inside. He, himself, would stay at a nearby police station, where he could also conduct some preliminary inquiries into the local Abakua and their corrupt palero, Baba Briyumbe. He promised to return in one hour, and suggested they use the time to rest and refresh themselves for the long night ahead.
Devlin, Adrianna, and Pitts climbed the wide marble stairs that led to the hotel terrace and its adjoining reception area. Here the elegance of colonial Cuba reasserted itself, with gleaming marble floors, wrought-iron chandeliers, and a mix of wicker settees and chairs surrounding a marble statue of a sea nymph.
Ahead, the terrace ended in an ornate mahogany bar, its scattering of small tables and chairs situated so patrons could look down upon the people who filled the adjacent plaza. A sign to their right advertised a second terrace on the hotel’s rooftop, and Devlin wondered if the building’s architect had rendered his plans with an eye toward condescending views of the populace, as some colonial sign of preeminence.
Reception proved friendly, efficient, and quick, and they were led to adjoining rooms on the third floor. Adrianna was delighted with what she found. Their room was surprisingly spacious, with twenty-foot ceilings and graceful, old mahogany furniture-two queen-size beds, an armoire, matching upholstered chairs, and an oversized desk. Behind heavy brocade drapes, twelve-foot louvered windows overlooked the cathedral and the plaza, and when she opened them she smiled at the sound of the salsa rhythms that drifted up from the park.
“I feel like I’ve gone back in time,” she said, smiling at Devlin.
He inclined his head toward the bath. “Wait until you go in there. It’s all marble with gold fixtures. There’s even a bidet. It makes our hotel in Havana seem like a Times Square fleabag.”
A knock on their door produced Ollie Pitts, dressed now in a pair of massive red Bermuda shorts and another Hawaiian shirt. Devlin took in his enormous legs and thought of two tree trunks protruding from a billowing red tent.
“Martinez said we should refresh ourselves, so I’m thinking of a beer or two,” Pitts said. “Anybody interested?”
Adrianna turned back toward the bed. “I think he meant a shower or a nap,” she said. “I’m going to opt for a shower, then go down to the terrace with my sketch pad.”
Devlin encircled her with his arms and kissed the back of her head. “Sounds good. Maybe you’ll come up with another sketch we can use. I’m going to give my daughter a call and check in with the office. Then I’ll go with Ollie. I want to get a look around, myself, just to see if any of Cabrera’s boys have the hotel staked out.”
She turned to face him. “You think he knows we’re here? I thought that’s why we didn’t check out of our hotel in Havana. To throw him off. Isn’t that what Martinez said?”
Devlin winked at her. “Maybe it worked. Maybe not. But Cabrera’s the number two man in State Security, and Martinez claims he’s also the head of the secret police. If that’s true, I suspect the colonel knows just about everything that goes on in this country.”
“Then why would Martinez lead us on like that? Why does he want us to think we can get away from him?”
“Good questions. Unfortunately, like everything else on this infuriating island, I don’t have answers for those either.”
“So what’s happening at the office?” Pitts asked as they stepped into the elevator.
“Sounds like the mob settled their little war,” Devlin said. “Cavanaugh tailed Rossi to Kennedy Airport. Seems like John the Boss hopped a flight to the Bahamas.”
“You think the other families made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?” Pitts finished the sentence with an evil cackle.
“Looks that way. Cavanaugh said there was a sit-down at Rossi’s house a couple of days ago, and the old Bathrobe left town the next morning. Red wanted to know if he should follow him to the Bahamas.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“I told him to forget it.”
Pitts laughed again. “Hey, Cavanaugh ain’t stupid. It never hurts to ask.”
Despite Ollie’s protests, the beer he wanted was put on hold. Instead Devlin led him on a quick tour of the surrounding area, then up onto a wide stone piazza that ran along one side of the cathedral some thirty feet above the street. They did not enter the church, but took up positions behind one of two stone lions that guarded the staircase to the street.
“Watch for nasty boys dressed in white,” Devlin said. “If they’re watching us, they should start to move when we don’t come down.”
Twenty minutes later two men wearing white shirts and matching skullcaps exited a store across the street and took up a position in the park where they could watch the staircase that led up to the cathedral.
“Bingo,” Pitts said. “These Abakua must all be twins. Somebody should tell their mama to dress them a little less conspicuously. Those white costumes play hell on a good surveillance.”
Devlin raised his chin toward the park benches that had suddenly emptied with the appearance of the Abakua. “Martinez claims it’s a religious thing with this particular sect. It’s also supposed to be a type of intimidation. People know if they mess with an Abakua, the whole cult will be out to get them. The white outfits are supposed to be a warning.”
Pitts snorted at the idea. “Some fucking warning,” he said. “The two outside the witch doctor’s shack last night were a pair of pussies. They wouldn’t make it across the Port Authority Bus Terminal without getting sliced, diced, and fucking hung out to dry.”
Devlin smiled at Pitts’s bravado. It was exactly why he had brought him to Cuba. It was what Ollie Pitts was for.
Martinez arrived on the hotel terrace one hour later, as promised. He found Devlin and Pitts sipping orange juice and beer, respectively, their eyes fixed on the people milling about the plaza.
“Your Abakua are back,” Devlin said as Martinez seated himself at their table. He handed him a sketch of the men he had seen. Adrianna had also spotted them from the hotel terrace, and had produced a quick drawing before returning to their room.
“This is excellent,” Martinez said as he studied the drawing. “My men saw them as well, but could only give a general description.” He ran a finger along his mustache. “We also have another visitor to Santiago. Are you familiar with the name Robert Cipriani?”
“The fugitive financier?” Devlin asked. “The one my government has been trying to extradite for the past ten or fifteen years? I thought I read the Cubans had busted him and sentenced him to a long stretch in prison.”
“That is exactly so,” Martinez said. “At last report he was being held in one of Cabrera’s very exclusive cells at State Security headquarters. It would seem he has either escaped or has been given some special mission.”
“Us?” Pitts asked.
“It is possible. But I doubt that is the only reason he is here. Cipriani is not a killer. He is a financial gangster.”
“How do you know all this?” Devlin asked.
“Our police here work very closely with the immigration police at the airport. Just to be aware of who is coming into their territory. It would appear that Mr. Cipriani and another gentleman-who I suspect is one of Cabrera’s men-arrived on the flight following ours. They were met by two Abakua, who drove them to El Cobre.”
“What’s El Cobre?” Devlin asked.
“A small mountain village to the west. It is the site of a church that houses the shrine to the Virgin of Caridad.”
“Maybe they just wanna say a little prayer?” Pitts said.
Martinez smiled across the table. “Perhaps that is so. It is a very famous shrine. Your novelist, and Cuba’s great friend, Ernest Hemingway, presented his Nobel medal to the virgin shortly before his death.” He shifted his gaze to Devlin. “But I suspect Senor Cipriani is here for other than prayerful reasons.”
“I think we should find out,” Devlin said.
“Yes, we should.” He reached into a pocket and removed the small pouch containing the earth from the Red Angel’s burial site. He laid it on the table. The red feather Plante Firme had given them protruded from the top. “But first I think we must confront Baba Briyumbe. Just to stir the pot a bit.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Perhaps it would be better if we do this without Senorita Mendez. It could prove to be … difficult.”
“She’s resting in our room,” Devlin said. “I’ll leave her a note that we had some errands to run.”
“Good,” Martinez said. “My men will continue to watch all entrances to the hotel. No Abakua will be allowed inside.”
“What about State Security?” Pitts asked.
“No one from State Security will harm the niece of the Red Angel,” Martinez said. “They will have others do that for them.”
Baba Briyumbe’s house was located on Maximo Gomez Street, only a few blocks from the waterfront. It was a moderate walk from the hotel, along a twisting route of narrow streets, filled with the occasional sounds of barking dogs and crowing roosters. Before one house, two men busied themselves gutting a pig. A score of children had gathered to watch, and they let out squeals of delight and disgust as the entrails spilled to the ground.
“Jesus Christ, ain’t you guys ever heard of butcher shops?” Ollie Pitts groaned.
“Ah, but it is cheaper this way,” Martinez said. “And what they do not eat, they can sell. Hopefully for dollars.”
They waited at a corner for a battered truck to make its way past, its bed filled with people standing and sitting. It was followed by a horse-drawn wagon also filled with people.
“Our bus service from outlying neighborhoods and from the countryside,” Martinez said. “One of the many private enterprises the revolution now allows. This second one with the horse also confronts our great gasoline shortages. It is ingenious, eh?”
Pitts shook his head. “If you’re fucking Wyatt Earp,” he muttered.
They moved halfway down the next block. The street ran at a moderate downward pitch, and from this upper point they could see the harbor some three hundred yards distant. Martinez stopped them and raised his chin toward a dilapidated row of attached houses across the street. The houses were all two stories, but the one they faced had only a blank wall at its lower level, with narrow, steep stone stairs leading to a gallery above. On the side of the street where they stood, the stucco wall of another building bore a painted portrait of Fidel in profile. The words SOCIALISMO O MUERTE were written beneath it.
“The palero must get a lot of business,” Martinez said.
“Why is that?” Devlin asked.
Martinez turned to face the portrait. “The government only puts its propaganda in places where there is the movement of many people.” He smiled at the two Americans. “To maximize its efficiency. Is it not so for politicians in your country?”
“Only when there are elections,” Pitts said. “Then the politicians are running scared, because some other hacks are trying to take their jobs away, so we see their faces and their slogans everywhere.”
Martinez nodded. “So it is the same. Except here we have only one political party, so the politicians must seek support all the time, because they never know when or from where opposition will come.” He made a gun out of his index finger and thumb. “In such a system, change can be quick without great support of the people.”
Devlin raised his chin toward the palero’s house. “The civics lesson is very interesting, Major. Now what about Baba Briyumbe?”
Martinez looked down the street, then back the way they had come. Devlin followed his gaze and saw two men in each direction-two in civilian clothes, two in uniform.
“Your people?” he asked.
Martinez nodded. “When we enter the palero‘s house, they will move toward us. If there is trouble they have been told to force their way inside.”
“That’s very good cooperation from another city’s cops.”
“We are all the same, a national police, and the senior officer here is a captain, so he is at my orders.” He smiled. “Also, he dislikes Baba Briyumbe, who was once suspected of telling a follower to kill his uncle so a nganga could be made from his bones.”
“Did the follower do it?” Devlin asked.
“Oh yes.” Martinez paused, as if deciding whether to say more. “The follower was a member of the police,” he finally added. “A young man who was a secret member of the Abakua.” He shook his head. “His crime was never officially made known to the people. But of course they knew. The captain arrested the man, and he was sentenced to be shot. In reprisal, Baba Briyumbe put a curse on the captain’s family.”
“What happened to the captain?” Pitts asked. His voice sounded just a bit nervous.
“To him, nothing,” Martinez said. “But his child became very sick, and he was forced to go to another palero to have the curse removed.”
“Jesus Christ,” Pitts said. “I want a fucking piece. This Baba guy gives me any mumbo-jumbo shit, I wanna stick it up his nose.”
Martinez reached into his pocket and removed the bag containing the cemetery earth and the feather. He held it out to Pitts. “Take this,” he said. “It will give you more power over Baba Briyumbe than any other weapon.”
The door to Baba Briyumbe’s house was opened by a tall, slender man dressed all in white, another Abakua. There was an old knife wound running along his jawline, and his unbuttoned shirt revealed a crudely executed tattoo. To Devlin it appeared to be a solid red sphere the size of a grapefruit, bisected by five black arrows and a series of small crosses and circles. Behind the man, Devlin could see a tile-floored room, empty except for one thronelike chair facing five others. It reminded him of Plante Firme’s courtyard.
Martinez displayed his credentials. He spoke to the man in a soft voice, but his eyes were cold steel. What Devlin caught from his rapid-fire Spanish was a request to see Baba Briyumbe.
The Abakua eyed Martinez, then Pitts and Devlin. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but the sneer that broke out on his face added an easy ten years in street time. He raised his chin toward the major and uttered one word: “Irse.”
“The fuck is tellin’ us to scram,” Pitts said.
Martinez stepped through the door, bumping the man back with his shoulder, followed quickly by Devlin and Pitts. The man’s hand went to his pocket, but it wasn’t fast enough. The speed with which Martinez moved caught Devlin by surprise. The rigid fingers of one hand struck out, catching the man at the base of the throat. He staggered to one side, gagging, and Devlin quickly pinned his hand in his pocket. Not to be left out, Pitts took a step forward and drove his hamlike fist squarely into the man’s face. The Abakua bounced off the tile floor like someone hit by a fast-moving train.
Devlin pulled the hand from the man’s pocket and removed a six-inch gravity knife. He flicked it open and showed Martinez the razor-sharp edge.
“He thought you needed a shave,” Pitts said.
Martinez stared down at the man, his eyes still steel. The Abakua stirred and Martinez drove the point of his shoe into his temple. Then he bent down, turned the now unconscious man over, and cuffed him.
“Now, that’s definitely police brutality,” Pitts said. “You could definitely lose your pension.”
Martinez glanced up at him and Pitts shrugged. “Hell, it’s only fourteen bucks a month. I think you should kick the skinny asshole again.”
Martinez removed a nine-millimeter Beretta from his waistband and smiled when he saw both Devlin and Pitts stiffen. He inclined his head toward a door on the opposite side of the nearly empty room.
“I will shoot him later,” he said. “Now we must find Baba Briyumbe and search his house. The captain tells me that his ceremonial room is down on the first level.”
He led Devlin and Pitts to the door, his automatic held along his right leg. They entered a dark narrow stairwell and descended quietly. Ahead, they could hear the rapid jabber of two female voices. They slipped through another doorway, and into another tile-floored room. A nganga, almost as large as Plante Fume’s, stood in one corner, surrounded by numerous vases and statues, one a hideous depiction of a man whose face and body were covered with sores. An older black man sat in a folding beach chair, his eyes glued to a portable black-and-white television set tuned to a Spanish soap opera.
Martinez snapped out a command, and Baba Briyumbe jumped from the chair.
“Days of Our fucking Lives,” Pitts said. “The fucking witch doctor watches Days of Our fucking Lives.” He let out a snorting cackle.
Baba Briyumbe glared at them with pitch-black eyes. He was well into his sixties, his head shaved to a shiny, gleaming brown. His face was grizzled and lined by years in the sun. He was of medium height with a large belly that pushed out against a white Miami Dolphins T-shirt, which he wore over baggy white cotton slacks and bare feet.
Martinez snapped out another command, which seemed to have no effect on the Abakua palero. He grabbed the man’s arm and spun him around, then quickly patted him down.
Pitts had walked over to the statue that stood beside Baba Briyumbe’s nganga. He pointed to the hideous figure covered in festering sores. “This is the ugliest fucker I’ve seen in a long time. It looks like it’s got a terminal case of crud.”
Martinez had pushed Baba Briyumbe back into his beach chair and shut off the television. “It is BabaluAye, the god of sickness and death. One of the most powerful and feared of the orishas.”
“Yeah, well, he don’t look too fucking scary to me.”
“That is because you are a son of Chango, who plays tricks on all the other gods.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Pitts said. “I’m a regular fucking jokester.”
“Over here,” Devlin said. He was standing over a small nganga that had been covered by a white drop cloth. “Looks like one of those baby ngangas the other palero was growing in his courtyard.”
The others crowded around. Baba Briyumbe began to shout at them in rapid Spanish.
Martinez leveled his pistol at the palero‘s head. “Silencio,” he snapped.
The palero stared at the bore opening of the pistol and snapped his jaw shut.
Devlin pointed down into the cast-iron pot, which was two feet in diameter and, like Plante Firme’s, had a ring of small bones tied around its lip. The interior was filled with sticks, herbs, and old bandages, mixed in with clusters of bird feathers. Beneath the mass, they could see a glimmer of white bone.
“If we find bone and body parts, you’re capable of running DNA tests, right?” Devlin asked.
Martinez nodded uncomfortably, and Devlin glanced at Pitts.
“My pleasure,” Pitts said. He lifted one foot and kicked the pot over, sending the contents scattering across the tile floor.
Baba Briyumbe jumped from his chair and began shouting in a mix of Spanish and Bantu. Again, Martinez leveled the pistol at his head, but this time it had no effect.
“What’s he saying?” Devlin asked.
“He is placing a curse on Detective Pitts,” he answered.
Devlin looked over at Ollie, who was smirking. “In three days your dick will fall off,” he said.
Pitts narrowed his eyes, and Devlin could see that catching the witch doctor tuned in to a soap opera had dispelled any voodoo threat.
“Yeah, well, you tell old mumbo jumbo that if it does, I come back here and shove it down his fucking throat.”
Baba Briyumbe took three steps toward them, waving his arms and chanting. Pitts reached into his pocket and withdrew the pouch Martinez had given him outside. He held it up so the palero could see the red feather protruding from its top.
“Plante Firme,” he growled. “Ooga booga.” He pulled the pouch open, dipped two fingers inside, and withdrew a small portion of earth, which he then smeared across his forehead. He took two steps toward the palero and let out a lionlike roar.
Baba Briyumbe shrank back, eyes wide.
“Hey, I like this fucking mojo.” Pitts’s lips were spread in a wide grin. “Next time I go to the South Bronx, I’m gonna take this mother with me.”
Devlin jabbed a finger at the palero. “Sit,” he snapped.
Martinez repeated the order in Spanish. The palero, now ashen-faced, obeyed.
They knelt before the contents of the small nganga. A human skull lay in a mix of smaller bones. Devlin removed a pen from his pocket, fitted it into an eye socket, and lifted it so they could see it more clearly.
“It is an old skull,” Martinez said. “It is not the Red Angel.”
Devlin nodded. He turned the skull so he could see inside the cranial cavity. “You’re right. This one’s been in the ground for a while. If it was fresh, there’d still be bits of dried flesh attached somewhere. Even acid wouldn’t get it all.”
Martinez pointed to the other bones. “Feet and hands,” he said. “Large ones. More likely from a man.” Another small skull lay off to one side. It appeared canine. Then the bones of a bird, mixed among the black feathers. “We will search the house,” Martinez said. “Then we will take Baba Briyumbe somewhere where we can question him in privacy.”
Pitts raised his eyebrows and gave them a fast flutter. “I like your style. You get any openings on the Havana PD, you give old Ollie a call.”
“You’ll have to become a communist,” Devlin said.
“Hey, communist, right-wing Republican, what’s the difference? So long as I get to use my rubber hose.”
Baba Briyumbe sat in a straight-backed, wooden chair, his hands cuffed behind his back. They were in a front second-floor room on Calle Aguilera, diagonally across the street from Santiago de Cuba’s provincial palace. It was the “private place” Martinez had chosen to question the Abakua witch doctor.
Devlin stood at the window, watching people mount the high marble stairs to enter one of three arched portals guarded by provincial police. A large Cuban flag hung from an upper balcony. Beside it, a banner proclaimed EL PODER DEL PUEBLO. ESE SI ES PODER. Devlin gave it a rough translation: “The Power of the People. That Is Real Power.”
He glanced back at Martinez. He was standing in front of the palero, peppering him with questions. Devlin drew a long breath. Something in this whole scenario just didn’t jibe with what he’d been told. In the States, if a cop found a “private place” to interrogate a subject, he’d be on a oneway ride to the unemployment line, perhaps worse. Still, this wasn’t the States, and Martinez didn’t seem at all concerned. Yet Martinez had told him that Cubans weren’t lacking in civil rights. Police powers were certainly greater, but strict rules existed. Suspects in a crime, for example, could be held only for seventy-two hours before evidence had to be presented to a grand jury, which would then either indict or release them. Civil libertarians would howl, but it was a far cry from a police state.
He motioned to Pitts and led him into a hall outside the room. “What’s your take on this?” he asked.
“On the witch doctor?”
“No. On Martinez.”
Pitts pursed his lips. “At first I didn’t trust the little fuck.”
“Why?”
“He was too fucking nice. You can’t trust a nice cop.”
Devlin shook the argument off. “What else?”
“Well, now he’s suddenly Mr. Hard-ass, which I like. But it’s like he’s onto something he hasn’t told us about. I get the feeling we’re only seeing half of his game here.”
“Your Spanish is better than mine. What are you getting out of this interrogation?”
“Hey, my Spanish is only good enough to get me arrested,” Pitts said. He grinned at Devlin. “But he seems to be asking a lot of questions about Cabrera, about people maybe this witch doctor is supposed to meet. I’m not getting a sense that finding this Red Angel’s body is a big thing for him. Not unless he can link it to Cabrera.”
Devlin shook his head. “The last thing we need is to get dragged into some political game.”
Pitts laughed at the comment. “Hey, back in the Apple our whole life is a political game. Ever since the mayor decided he wanted his own special squad, we’ve been drowning in fucking politics.”
“Forget New York. Talk to me about here. What did you find out about Martinez while you were going through files at his office?”
“He’s something called a jefe de sector, which means he’s responsible for one section of Havana, sort of like a precinct commander, fairly mid-level in the command structure. I got pretty friendly with his second in command, a captain named Julio Pedroso. This Pedroso’s main job seems to be working as a liaison with something they call the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, or CDR, which is some kind of neighborhood watch that was set up after Fidel and his boys took over. To sort of keep an eye out for counterrevolutionaries. These CDR cats exist on just about every block. According to Pedroso, people on the block actually elect them every two years or so.”
“Political spies for the police?”
Pitts shook his head. “Not according to Pedroso. He claims they’re not used so much politically anymore. Now they pretty much keep an eye out for any criminal activity-burglary, street crime, even renting out rooms and not paying taxes on the profits. All kinds of shit like that. Pedroso says they report in every day, and it lets the cops know what’s going on in every neighborhood, every day of the week. It also lets them know who’s in that neighborhood when maybe he’s not supposed to be.” Pitts paused a moment. “What bothers you about the little dude?” he asked.
Devlin stared at his shoes. “I can’t quite pin it down.” He looked up at Pitts. “But you’re right. He’s too nice. He’s like some Spanish Columbo, and there’s no question he knows a helluva lot more than he’s letting on. He also seems to throw a lot of weight here in Santiago, especially for a precinct commander from a city that’s nine hundred kilometers away.”
“He says it’s because they’re all part of the national police.”
Devlin nodded. “Yeah, I got that part.” He gave Pitts a long stare. “You ever know a cop who didn’t guard his own turf? Who let some cop from another area just waltz in and take over.”
“Not unless word came down from pretty high up,” Pitts said. He grinned again. “I told you we shouldn’t trust the little fuck.”
Devlin nodded. “Maybe, maybe not. But it does make me wonder who Martinez has for a rabbi. Especially when he seems to be going up against a top dog in State Security, maybe even the secret police.”
Baba Briyumbe glared at them when they returned to the room. But he was sweating now, and it wasn’t from the heat.
“You get anything from our boy here?” Devlin asked.
Martinez reached out and lifted the palero‘s chin, forcing him to look him in the eye. Devlin noted that the glare Baba Briyumbe had given them disappeared quickly when he was forced to face Martinez.
“Baba Briyumbe is an unpleasant man, much impressed with his power,” Martinez said. “But he has seen the wisdom in speaking to me.” He gave them his innocent Cuban shrug. “It seems he was brought a body that was badly burned, and he performed a ritual, preparing it for a nganga dedicated to BabaluAye. It is to heal someone of great importance, he said. The ritual is a changing of heads, or changing of lives, which is a way of taking an illness from one person and giving it to another. There are many ways to do this ritual. Paleros have been known to go to hospitals and, through certain incantations, to take the sickness of a person in one room and give it to the person in another. It is a practice much feared in our hospitals. But when this is not possible, there is a second way.” Another shrug. “This involves the use of a dead one, who was once a great healer.”
“Yeah, that’s great mumbo jumbo,” Devlin said. “But where’s the body now?”
Martinez smiled. “It is not mumbo jumbo, my friend. I have seen this evil work with my own eyes. But, as to the body. He says it is in the hands of his disciple, a young palero named Siete Rayos, which means Seven Thunderbolts.” He smiled at the name. “He says the Abakua have taken both the palero and the body to Cobre.”
Devlin hesitated, as if he didn’t want to know the answer to the question he was going to ask. “Is the body … whole?”
“Baba Briyumbe would not say, but I suspect it is now part of a nganga. He would not leave such a task to a disciple.”
“And it’s in Cobre, the same place our friend Cipriani went.”
“Exacto.”
“So we go to Cobre.”
“Tonight,” Martinez said. “After I make some preparations.”
“What preparations?” Devlin asked.
Martinez simply held up one hand in a wait-and-see gesture.