Cabrera telephoned my office this morning. He says his men have found your aunt’s body.”
Adrianna sat at the kitchen table stunned into silence.
Devlin placed a hand on top of hers, then asked Martinez, “Do you think that’s possible?”
“No, I do not.”
Adrianna stared at Martinez. She seemed torn between hope and doubt. “Why? Why can’t they have found her?”
The major’s face softened, his entire demeanor seeming to offer consolation. Devlin thought he would have made a great funeral director.
“It is possible, of course. But very unlikely. I am convinced that Plante Firme is right, that the body, or at least portions of it, were taken by the Abakua to Santiago to prepare for a changing-of-heads ritual. If this is true, the rest of the body would have been destroyed to keep anyone else from using it to …” He waved his hand in the air, searching for the proper word. “To interfere with this ritual.”
“You mean there was never any hope of finding all of my aunt’s body?”
Martinez’s eyes filled with a genuine sadness. “I am afraid not. Once we learned that Palo Monte was involved, I felt certain we would find only certain parts needed for the ritual.”
“What would they have done with the rest?” Devlin asked.
Martinez seemed to regret his next words. He glanced at Adrianna, as if to apologize. “I am afraid the rest of the body would have been burned, and its ashes scattered so they could not be of use to another palero who might work in opposition to the ritual.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Adrianna demanded.
Martinez stared down at his hands. “There seemed no purpose to burden you with this unpleasant fact, unless we found …” He let the rest of the sentence die.
“What did Cabrera say about this body he supposedly recovered?” Devlin asked.
Martinez glanced at Adrianna again. “It is missing a head, its hands, and its feet.”
“Then it could be her. Even if what you say is true, it could be.” Adrianna stared at him, as if trying to force him to agree. “What if they messed up, and didn’t destroy the body yet? It’s possible, isn’t it?”
Martinez nodded. “There is no way I can say for certain it is not. I do not believe it is so, but I cannot prove it at this time. The body Cabrera has found is said to be badly decomposed.” He glanced down at his hands again. “Here, in the tropics, this is something that happens quickly. Also the head and hands are missing, along with the feet, making any forensic identification impossible. There is, of course, DNA, which takes a considerable amount of time-several weeks, even. And those results, of course, only give probabilities, something Cabrera could easily have worded to suit his needs.”
Adrianna stiffened. “Why are you so determined to prove it isn’t her?”
“Because I believe it was Cabrera who arranged your aunt’s assassination, and also the theft of her body. And that he gave the body to the Abakua so their palero, Baba Briyumbe, could create a nganga for the ritual.”
Devlin slipped his arm around Adrianna. “He’s right. It fits.”
“Why?” Her voice was challenging and angry.
“Because of what we found out in Santiago.” He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “This palero, Baba Briyumbe, told us he was brought a body that was badly burned like your aunt’s had been. He said it was prepared for a nganga, then turned over to a disciple named Siete Rayos, Seven Thunderbolts. That would mean the body was there in Santiago.”
“Maybe they brought it back,” Adrianna insisted.
“It is unlikely, but it is possible,” Martinez said. “But that would mean that Cabrera’s men found it during its journey back to Havana.” He paused, regret again filling his eyes. “But this is even more unlikely. State Security does not have a great number of its forces spread throughout the countryside. Certainly not enough to conduct roadblocks or any routine surveillance of the many routes through the mountains. Like your own FBI, for these things they use the police.”
“So if such a seizure had been made, your people would have been involved, and would have filed a report,” Devlin offered.
“Yes,” Martinez said. “And I have checked. No such report was filed.” He brought his hands together, as if preparing to pray. “There is also the question of the man in Cobre. He was visited by Senor Cipriani in the company of one of Cabrera’s men. I think we must assume that he was sent by Cabrera for some purpose. Baba Briyumbe told us the ritual was intended for this man in Cobre. But we know from Senor Caputo and his wife that it was not performed, and we know this man has returned to Havana, although we are uncertain exactly where he is.” He raised his clasped hands in front of his face and shook them. “So the changing-of-heads ritual will be performed here. And I believe Cabrera, and this new man we have discovered, this Senor DeForio, will lead us to both the man from Cobre and the nganga that holds the Red Angel’s remains.”
“And what should we do about this … body Cabrera says he found?” Adrianna asked.
“For now, I would like you to ignore it. Later it may serve our purpose to oblige the colonel.” He gave Adrianna a soft smile. “Colonel Cabrera does not know where you are, which is as we planned. It is why he called me with this news. He is concerned about this, and I assured him I would do all in my power to find you. If you agree, I will regretfully inform the colonel that I have failed.”
Adrianna stared at the tabletop. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what I should do.”
“Let us be patient,” Martinez said. “For now we must continue to follow Cabrera and this new man from the Capri Hotel. When the rabbit gets nervous, it runs. And I believe if Cabrera cannot find you, he will become a rabbit.” His eyes glittered with the idea. “I very much want to see this rabbit run. It will tell us some things that are important.”
“And what is that?” Adrianna asked.
Martinez smiled. “It will tell us what is behind your aunt’s assassination. But to reach that truth we must see what Cabrera will do next.”
Plante Firme entered the courtyard of his home at ten A.M., his eyes still heavy with sleep. He had worked late into the previous night, sitting with a dying man, and performing the rituals that would return the man’s spirit to his guardian orisha, Oggun.
He gestured to his grandson, indicating he should feed the pig, which was squealing loudly in its pen. Then he went to the outdoor kitchen and poured himself a cup of strong Cuban coffee.
He noticed there was no fresh bread and shook his head. His grandson was supposed to go to the bakery early each morning to get the government’s daily ration of bread, something he seemed to forget with growing regularity. The boy was fourteen and forgetting seemed to be a great part of his life.
Plante Firme smiled as he glanced over at the boy tending the pig. It was as it should be at fourteen, he thought. Much on the mind as the body changed to manhood. He felt a deep love for his grandson, and knew that soon-in only a few years-the boy would begin the long learning process that would one day allow him to become a great palero himself. Plante Firme prayed each day to Oggun that his grandson would be worthy of his duties, and that he, himself, would live to help him achieve that goal.
He put on a stern face and called to the boy. “There is no bread,” he growled in Spanish.
The boy lowered his eyes. “I forgot,” he said.
Plante Firme folded his arms across his chest. He was naked, except for the wrinkled cotton trousers he had slept in and the mpaca that hung by a leather thong from his neck. To the boy, he looked like a large, brown bear.
As the boy passed, Plante Firme threw an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, then began walking him toward the gate. It pleased him that the boy had grown so tall. His head was already past his grandfather’s shoulder.
“Next year, when you begin your studies, your memory must be stronger,” he said.
The boy nodded, but said nothing. To become a palero he would first endure the initiation of hacerse el santo, a spiritual rebirth that would require him to become a child again. During that time he would be allowed to do nothing, and would even be carried from room to room, as if he were incapable of walking. He would be fed and bathed like an infant, thereby repeating the entire process of growth as if he had been born again. He would even wear a diaper. It would go on for an entire week, and he was certain he could never bear the humiliation.
Plante Firme squeezed his shoulder as they reached the courtyard’s solid iron gate. “Get the good bread,” he said. “If they say the bread ration is all gone, tell them it is for me. If they know this, I am certain they will find some.”
Plante Firme was smiling at the boy when he opened the gate. The shotgun blast threw them both back, and the palero’s final vision of his grandson’s face was of an exploding mass of torn flesh.
When he hit the ground, he turned immediately toward the child. Ignoring the wound in his own shoulder, he ripped the mpaca from his neck and pressed it against his grandson’s chest. The boy’s body was still convulsing, then it seemed to stiffen and go suddenly limp, and the palero knew with certainty that nothing in his, or anyone’s, power would save his grandson. Slowly, his hand closed on the mpaca, then he threw back his head and let out a bellowing, anguished roar.
Across the street, the car from which the shot had been fired sped away. Neighbors would report later that the faces of the two men inside were pale with fear.
When the call came in, Devlin and Martinez were seated in the front seat of the rental car, just outside the entrance of the Capri Hotel’s parking garage. Martinez barked an order into the handheld radio, then stared out the rear window. Devlin turned with him and saw two men jump from a car fifty yards back.
“What’s going on?”
“There has been a shooting at Plante Firme’s house. The palero was wounded, and his grandson was killed.”
“I didn’t know you had men behind us,” Devlin said.
Martinez stared at him. His eyes were like two black coals. “I always have men behind us,” he said.
Earlier, before Martinez arrived that morning, Devlin had spoken to his organized-crime contact in New York. He now knew who DeForio was. What he didn’t know was whether Martinez knew it as well. The backup in the car behind them made him think that Martinez did. If so, they were both playing the same cat-and-mouse game, and Devlin wanted to know why Martinez was playing his.
“Arc you going to the crime scene?” Devlin asked.
“Yes. One of my men will stay with you.”
“You think this shooting is connected to us?”
“I am certain of it.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” Devlin said. “Have your men follow DeForio and we can catch up with them later.” He saw the uncertainty in Martinez’s eyes. “I’m a good homicide cop, Major. Maybe I can help.”
A large crowd had gathered outside the palero‘s home, well over one hundred, Devlin estimated. They were not the usual collection he had seen so many times in New York, people drawn by the morbid need to view the destruction of another human, as if being there somehow reaffirmed their own escape from mayhem. Here, the faces-almost entirely black-were filled with grief. Men and women chanted prayers he did not understand. Even the children were subdued.
“Are they praying for the palero?” he asked.
“And for his grandson,” Martinez said. “The boy was destined to replace his grandfather. He had been chosen by the orisha in Plante Firme’s nganga. This made him a holy child, not unlike someone the Catholics might consider a saint.”
Devlin shook his head. “I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got to move those people out of there. Your men have to search the perimeter of the house for evidence.”
“I know. My men should have done this, but I think they fear offending the palero. A great vengeance will follow this killing.”
“You mean from these people, his followers?”
Martinez shook his head. “No. From Plante Firme. All his powers will be used against the persons responsible. And I assure you, my friend, that is something to be feared.”
The people were moved back, and the search conducted. The shotgun-shell casing was found opposite the gate. It had been stepped on by people in the crowd, but Devlin felt certain its plastic coating would still yield at least a partial fingerprint from the person who had loaded the weapon.
Neighbors were questioned and reported seeing two men speed away. They had not been dressed in white, Devlin noted, not the sect of Abakua Cabrera had used against them.
“Cabrera would not trust this to the Abakua,” Martinez explained. “They would fear Plante Firme. As you saw, even Baba Briyumbe feared this palero.”
“And Cabrera’s men wouldn’t?” Devlin asked.
“Oh yes. They would fear him,” Martinez said. “That is why they shot him from afar, and why they ran when they saw they had not killed him.”
“But they still did it.”
“Reluctantly, my friend. And only because they also fear Cabrera.” He tapped the side of his nose. “They will still be running, afraid now that Plante Firme will find them, or that Cabrera will. When we find out who among Cabrera’s men is missing, then we will know who the assassins were.”
“And then you can pick them up.”
“Perhaps,” Martinez said. “If it is necessary. If not, I will simply tell Plante Firme who they are. His punishment will be more severe than any Cuba could give them.”
“What would Cuba’s punishment be?”
“Death,” Martinez said. “But a much kinder death than the one Plante Firme will devise.”
When they entered the courtyard they found the boy’s body covered by a blood-soaked sheet. Devlin pulled it back and stared at the child’s butchered face. He had seen many bodies during his years as a cop, many far worse than this, and he had become immune to most. But the body of a child still had impact. There was something obscene about it, something akin to the destruction of hope.
Plante Firme was in his sacred room, seated before his nganga, his wounded shoulder swathed in heavy bandages. He had refused offers of hospital treatment, and his wounds had been tended to here. There were smaller wounds on his face, where stray shotgun pellets had grazed his cheek. Devlin knew from experience that he would be feeling intense, steady pain, but he showed none of it. Instead he cast the coconuts and chanted in a low, rumbling baritone.
As they stepped into the room, the palero‘s eyes shot up, filled with anger at the interruption. When he saw Martinez his eyes softened, and the two men began to speak to each other. After a few minutes Devlin heard Cabrera’s name mentioned, and saw Plante Firme’s eyes harden with hate.
The palero began to chant in a mix of Spanish and Bantu. Again, Devlin heard Cabrera’s name as Plante Firme cast the coconuts. They rolled to a stop, showing two concave and two convex sides pointing up.
Plante Firme stared at them, his fists clenched in his lap, as he hissed the word “Eyife.”
When they left the room, Devlin took Martinez by the arm, stopping him. “Sounds like you dropped a dime on the colonel in there.”
Martinez was momentarily confused by the phrase, then seemed to grasp it. He nodded. “Yes, a dime has very much been dropped.”
“And?”
Martinez started walking again, moving toward the gate and the street beyond. “The palero consulted the nganga. He asked if it was Cabrera who ordered the murder of his grandson. The answer was eyife, a conclusive yes.”
“So what happens now?”
Martinez stepped through the gate and into the street. “I think the colonel’s life is about to take a very unfortunate turn.”
Martinez’s men had followed DeForio to the Calle de los Oficios, a street in Old Havana that had once housed its most prosperous merchants. There, he had entered the Casa de los Arabes, a three-story building of Moorish design with massive wooden doors that were several centuries old.
When Devlin and Martinez arrived, they found Ollie Pitts stuffed into a narrow doorway halfway down the block.
“Cabrera showed up fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “I gather DeForio’s already inside.”
“Did Cabrera go anywhere else first?” Devlin asked.
Pitts shook his head. “Just his office at the Villa Marista. He stayed there all morning, then left around one and came straight here.” He inclined his head toward the other end of the street. “His car and driver are in San Francisco Plaza, over by the docks, near some big church.”
“The Convent of San Francisco,” Martinez said. “For years it was Havana’s central post office. Now Fidel has allowed it to become a church again. But not for religion. The church and the convent have become a museum for tourists.” He smiled at Pitts. “Perhaps it was sentimentality on Fidel’s part. As a boy he studied under the Jesuits.”
“Hey, that’s great,” Pitts said. “Interesting as fucking hell.” He rolled his eyes. The major’s tour-guide act was becoming a pain in the ass. “Anyway, I saw the driver buy a ticket for the car ferry. Now, maybe he’s doin’ this for himself, but it seemed to happen right after Cabrera snapped some orders at him, so the detective in me suspects they might be taking a little boat ride.”
“Did you get a ticket?” Devlin asked.
“Of course,” Pitts said.
Devlin turned to Martinez. “Okay, this is the way I’d like to play this.” He pointed at Pitts. “We’ll let Ollie stick with Cabrera and keep your men on DeForio. You and I will head to wherever this ferry goes and try and get ahead of them. If they all get on the ferry together, your men can radio us and we’ll stay put. If not, if DeForio heads somewhere else when he leaves here, they can radio us and we’ll catch up with them. Sound good?”
Martinez nodded. “It will keep the only people Cabrera might recognize out of sight. It is best when the rabbit cannot see the hunter.”
“Where does the ferry go?” Devlin asked.
“One goes to Casablanca, the other to Regla.” He glanced at Pitts. “Your ticket will be good for both places, but it is unlikely they will go to Casablanca, unless they seek another expensive meal at the Battery of the Twelve Apostles.” He turned back to Devlin. “Regla, however, and the nearby town of Guanabacoa are strongholds of the Abakua.”