The Iglesia de la Virgen de Regla faced Havana harbor and offered a clear view of the ferry landing only a few hundred yards away. Standing beside it, an ancient ceiba tree seemed to dwarf the small church in its wide-spreading limbs.
Martinez explained that the presence of the tree, considered sacred in the Afro-Cuban religions, was not a coincidence.
“All Catholicism in Cuba is tied to the orishas, the Afro-Cuban gods,” he said as they entered the church and started down the center aisle.
“Many years ago, when slavery still existed on our island, both Palo Monte and Santeria were banned, and their practitioners greatly persecuted. Because of this, believers began using the Catholic Church to hide their religions. They did this by identifying their gods with various Catholic saints.”
Martinez pointed to the statues of saints that lined the walls of the church interior. “Chango became Santa Barbara because of her traditional red robes, which is also Chango’s color. Oshun, always dressed in gold and white, became the Virgin of Caridad. Eleggua came to be represented by Saint Martin, Oggun by John the Baptist, and so on.”
He stopped in front of the altar and pointed to the statue of a black Virgin dressed in blue and white, the traditional colors of Mary, the mother of Christ. “And. of course, Yemaya, the goddess of the sea and the protector of sailors, the great mother of all the people.”
They started back up the aisle. Worshipers, mostly black, knelt before the plaster replicas of various saints. A second statue of the black Virgin stood near the main entrance, and attracted the largest number of worshipers. Bouquets of flowers had been left at the statue’s feet, along with an assortment of offerings and pleas for help-photographs of loved ones, a scrap of cloth with feathers sewn to it, a bowl of fruit, another of water, a small glass holding a dark liquid that appeared to be rum.
“At first the Catholic Church resisted this syncretism with the African religions.” Martinez stopped and waved his hand in a wide circle. “But the people kept flooding into their churches, and the church saw it was more practical to ignore it. Now it has grown so common some priests actually encourage it. I have even heard priests give sermons in predominantly Negro churches in which the names of the African gods were invoked.”
“I didn’t know you were a churchgoing man,” Devlin said.
Martinez offered a faint smile. “There was a time when the government feared that these priests might try to use these African religions against the revolution. So the police paid very close attention to what was being said. Those fears proved unjustified, but in those days, because of this fear, Sunday became a day when many of us went to mass.” He raised a finger. “But we did not put our pesos in the collection basket.”
Devlin laughed. “I’m sure you didn’t. Marx would have spun in his grave.”
They left the church and headed for the expansive shade of the ceiba tree. From there they could see a car ferry headed toward the landing.
“They will not be on this ferry,” Martinez said. “My men will radio us when they board.”
“I just hope they come, and we don’t find ourselves chasing back to Havana, playing catch-up.”
Martinez stared out into the harbor. “They will come,” he said. “This is where the Abakua palero will perform the ritual of the changing of heads.”
“You seem very certain.”
“I am, my friend. I can feel it.”
DeForio and Cabrera stood on the dock, waiting to board the ferry. Cabrera’s car idled beside them in a long line inching toward the loading bay. DeForio’s Spanish was more than adequate, but at Cabrera’s insistence they spoke only in English, a language the driver did not understand. Cabrera had risen in a system where listeners were everywhere. It was a system he knew better than most, and he saw no reason to take chances.
“So, you have no idea where this niece and these two New York cops are,” DeForio said.
Cabrera glanced out at the water. The car pulled ahead three feet, then stopped again. Still, he lowered his voice. “They will be found. And, when they are, the men searching for them have orders to take them into custody.”
“What happens then?” DeForio asked.
“That depends on how they react to the body we have found for them.” Cabrera glanced at the American. He was lying to him, but that could not be helped. One way or another, the Americans would disappear. He had a secondary understanding with the old man-what Rossi had called a side deal-and it was far too profitable to ignore. “Hopefully, they will accept our findings. If not, I will see to it that they leave the country. It is only important that the government accept the body as that of our Red Angel.” He gave DeForio what he hoped was a confident smile. “And that has already been arranged.”
“Well, you better find them before they stumble across the real body,” DeForio warned.
“It is impossible,” Cabrera said. “Only parts of the body remain, and they are in a nganga under the control of the Abakua. Even if these people somehow overcame the Abakua, which is most unlikely, certain tests would have to be performed on the remains.” He shook his head and smiled. “I assure you, if they find the nganga, no one will survive long enough to order those tests.”
“It would be better if they just accepted the phony body, buried it, and went home. It would be cleaner.”
Cabrera nodded his agreement. DeForio was right. It would be much cleaner. But unfortunately, such a scenario was impossible. The old man had made that very clear. No matter the outcome, the Americans were going to disappear-permanently. He smiled at DeForio.
“I am certain that they will,” Cabrera said. “Then, I assure you, I will personally put them on the plane.”
Cabrera’s driver called to him through the open car window, and the colonel excused himself. DeForio watched as he spoke on the car’s radio. When he returned, DeForio thought the colonel looked agitated, even a bit nervous.
“Another problem?” he asked.
“Plante Firme survived our attack.” His voice was a low hiss. “His grandson was killed.”
“What about your men?”
Cabrera drew a breath. “They escaped.” He let the subject die there. He had no intention of telling DeForio that his men were missing, presumably running in fear-from both the palero and himself.
“What does this do to your plan? The rest of this phony body was supposed to be found at this guy’s house?” DeForio’s eyes had hardened. It was clear these repeated reversals were eroding his confidence.
Cabrera waved away DeForio’s concern. He needed to make the problem seem less significant. “The man is only a Negro witch doctor, a superstitious old fool. We will do as we wish with him, and no one will take seriously anything he says, or does.” Cabrera felt a tingle of fear as he spoke the words. He attributed it to the superstitions of his own youth and pushed it aside. There was too much at stake to allow old, childhood fears to intrude on what had to be done.
He gave DeForio a false smile. “This old palero knows what can be done to him now. It would not surprise me if he disappeared into the countryside. There, he can shake his rattle and issue curses on those who killed his grandson.”
DeForio found logic in Cabrera’s words. “Jesus, what the hell does Rossi see in all this shit? No wonder those old-timers got thrown out of here fifty years ago. They were all probably listening to these goddamn witch doctors.” He shook his head. “Fucking old Sicilians. Thank God Rossi’s one of the last of them.” He looked at Cabrera and smiled. “Can you imagine, a man like that, one of the heads of the five families, believing in this shit?”
Cabrera returned the smile, fighting to ignore the fear that gnawed at him. Yes, he could believe it, he thought. He could believe it all too well, no matter how much he told himself he did not.
“Senor Rossi is an old man,” he said. “We must be indulgent.”
The crowd pressed in, surrounding the dancers. Bodies swayed and heads bobbed as the beat of the drums provided a steady, undulating rhythm. From the rear of the crowd, Devlin could see only two of the dancers. Both were men, standing on high stilts, both dressed in costumes of bright yellow and red, colors worn to honor Chango, a much-favored orisha among the Abakua.
They had followed DeForio and Cabrera from the ferry, and now found themselves in the subcity of Guanabacoa, a small, independent municipality that still fell under the overall jurisdiction of Havana. But only technically, Martinez had explained. Guanabacoa was truly controlled by the Abakua. It was their stronghold, and few in the government sought to challenge it.
“This little festival,” Martinez said, “it has been proclaimed only by the Abakua. The government does not recognize it.” He waved his finger in a small circle. “But you see how many people are here. They are supposed to be at work. But the Abakua have declared a holiday, so for them it is a holiday.”
Pitts and Martinez’s men were ahead of them, staying close to Cabrera and DeForio, who had abandoned their car because of the crowd. Martinez and Devlin had remained as far back as possible.
“Keep your wallet and your pistol under guard,” Martinez said. “Our friends dressed in white are Cuba’s only danger to tourists.”
Along the edge of the crowd, standing like sentries, Devlin could see a ring of white-clad Abakua guarding the ceremony. As they drew closer to the center of the circle, he could see the other dancers, men and women, each dressed in an elaborate costume, the women’s bodies writhing to the beat of the drums, the men swaying beneath long poles, the tops of which were decorated in brightly colored cloth woven into intricate patterns to represent the orishas who were being honored that day.
The crowd seemed alive, like a single organism, and Devlin realized it would not take much to turn these people against a perceived enemy. Martinez had been right when he had used the term “stronghold.” And the people who controlled it, the Abakua, belonged to Cabrera.
He leaned into Martinez. “How are you going to stop this changing-of-heads ritual if it happens here?” he asked.
“I am not going to stop it, my friend,” Martinez said. “The ritual will take place. But after it does, the nganga will be taken away to safety. Then, I will seize it.”
“And the Americans, and Cabrera?”
“They, too, will not go far. But first we must locate this man from Cobre and the nganga that has been made for him. Then we will close the lid of our little box.”
When they cleared the crowd, one of Martinez’s men was waiting for them at the corner of a narrow side street. He reported in rapid Spanish.
“They have gone into a house on this street,” Martinez said. “There is a rental car parked in the driveway. The license plates tell us it comes from a rental agency that operates out of the domestic terminal at Havana airport-the same terminal where the plane used by the man in Cobre landed. I suspect we have found his hiding place.”
“We need to be sure.”
Martinez nodded. “Yes, my friend, you are right. As soon as Cabrera and Senor DeForio leave, we will execute a little plan that I have.”
“What do you mean, tomorrow night?” Rossi glared at Cabrera. “It was supposed to be tonight. You think I wanna stay in this nigger-infested shithole another day?”
Cabrera held out his hands in an expression of regret. “The palero will not come tonight,” he said. “Siete Rayos has cast the coconuts, and has been told by the dead one that he must wait.”
Rossi considered this, then let out a long breath. “All right, all right. Tomorrow night.”
DeForio couldn’t believe what he was seeing. John the Boss Rossi, one of the most powerful figures in organized crime, giving in to the mumbo jumbo of a goddamn witch doctor. He stared at Rossi. The man was old and sick, but still someone to be feared. And he believed in this shit. He actually believed in it. DeForio ground his teeth. This had to stop. He had to talk to his people back home. A two-billion-dollar investment, and it was all hanging on some goddamn nigger rolling coconut shells on the fucking floor. And all of it right under the noses of the government. If the woman’s body was found … If the two things were ever connected … He closed his eyes and pressed a thumb and index finger against them. He had to do something to lower the risk. At the very least get this thing moved out into the countryside. He turned a false smile on Rossi.
“Don Giovanni, with all respect, I have to move ahead with the business we’re here to conduct.”
Rossi turned his glare on DeForio. “The two things got nothin’ to do with each other. You do what you think is best.”
DeForio tried to phrase the next words in his mind before saying them aloud.
“This woman’s body. It’s causing some complications.” He gave Rossi a helpless shrug. “Before, when this thing was being done so far away, it didn’t present much of a problem.” He spread his arms to take in the room. “But here, so close to Havana, it’s right under everybody’s nose. I just think it’s dangerous.” He placed one hand against his chest. “To all of us. To what we’re trying to do.”
Rossi jerked his chin toward Cabrera. “The colonel’s got that under control.” He stared at Cabrera. “Am I right?”
Cabrera nodded. “Si, senor. It is all under control.”
“With all respect again,” DeForio began. “But it doesn’t seem that way to me. We got a lot of exposure here that we don’t need.”
Mattie the Knife Ippolito stepped out from behind Rossi’s chair. “Hey, you heard what he said. It’s under control. You just watch your fucking mouth.”
“I’m just trying-”
Rossi cut him off. “You don’t try nothin’. You’re a fucking errand boy here. You do what you’re here to do. and you keep your mouth shut. The heads of the other families agreed to this little thing I’m doing here. You don’t like it, you take it up with them. But I warn you. You go up against me, they’ll bury you with your fancy college diplomas sticking out of your ass. You got that?”
DeForio felt a chill. He shook his head. “I’m not going up against-”
Again, Rossi cut him off. “You bet your fucking life you won’t.” He gave DeForio a cold smile. “Because that’s just what you’re betting if you try.”
Adrianna sat at the small, cluttered desk, her aunt’s papers and correspondence spread out before her. It was clear that someone had gone through these same papers. The woman’s meticulousness was amazing, yet many of the papers had been stuffed back into folders or the drawers of her desk with little care. Something clumsy and rushed, as if the papers had been found useless and were being cast aside.
The apparent search did not surprise her. Certainly, the disappearance of her aunt’s body would have prompted police to investigate any possible threats from, or contacts with, groups or individuals who might be responsible. But it also bolstered Martinez’s belief that her aunt had been murdered after she stumbled on information that endangered someone in the government. In either case, a search might then have been conducted either by Martinez himself or by someone looking for that information.
Adrianna sat back in the hard wooden chair her aunt had chosen for her desk. It was useless to speculate, and she doubted Martinez would tell her if it was he who had ordered the search. She glanced about the room. It was austere and simple, lacking even a single luxury. She recalled Martinez’s claim that Fidel Castro lived and thought like a monk, and she wondered if many of those who had brought about Cuba’s revolution had chosen that personal lifestyle.
Martinez had told her another story, this one about Che Guevara. Shortly after the new government had taken power, Guevara learned that he and other top officials were receiving compensation that was disproportionately high, and had ordered an immediate readjustment. Later, Martinez claimed, Guevara found he was unable to pay the family’s electric bill. Fearing the power would be turned off, he had his wife telephone the appropriate official to ask for additional time. Martinez had insisted such an action never would have been taken against Che, but that he and Senora Guevara had obviously believed they were subject to that penalty.
She smiled at the story, perhaps true, perhaps only part of the Guevara legend. Still, she recognized that the country had changed from those idealistic days. Now there were private clubs for high government officials. There were comfortable homes and lifestyles that far exceeded those of the average Cuban. And there were men like Cabrera, who, if Martinez was right, were corrupting everything her aunt and the other founders of the revolution had struggled to achieve.
She wondered if she was really offended by that corruption, and found that she was. It was strange, since she did not believe in the core principles of the revolution itself. Still, it was there. A recognition that some effort for good, however naive or misguided, had been tainted by the same self-serving class who always seem to emerge at the end of every struggle-the people who always view an opportunity to give as a chance to take even more for themselves.
Adrianna stared at the papers spread across the desk. Her search had lasted three hours and had produced little more than a picture of her aunt’s persistent idealism. She pushed herself back and began to rise when her knee struck the corner of the desk’s middle drawer. Wincing in pain, she reached down to rub it, and found her hand brushing against something that had not been there before.
Adrianna pushed the chair back and peered into the desk’s kneehole. The bottom of the middle drawer had fallen away, revealing a false bottom that held a single sheet of paper. She pulled the paper free and began to read. It was a simple message, and she translated it as she read.
“In the event of my death or disappearance, I direct investigators to my cottage in Guanabo. There, under the floor, you will find a safe. It may be opened with the following combination: 17 L; 32 R; 6 L; 27 R; 9 L. Documents within support my belief that corruption exists in our government that threatens the very fabric of the revolution.”
It was signed simply Maria Mendez, M.D.
Adrianna copied the message in English, then returned the original to the hidden compartment. She stared at the copy. “My cottage in Guanabo.”
Earlier she had come across a map of Cuba. She went quickly through the desk drawers and found it again. Guanabo appeared to be a small seaside village no more than fifteen or twenty kilometers from Havana.
But where? There was no address. Nothing to indicate where the cottage was located. Certainly, if investigators, or others who had searched her house, had known about the cottage, they would already have searched there as well. But what if they hadn’t? Then the evidence her aunt had written about would still be there. She could think of only one person who might know about the cottage. Her aunt Amelia.
The taxi dropped Adrianna in front of her aunt’s house fifteen minutes later. She crossed the crumbling sidewalk, then hesitated as her hand reached for the front gate. She wondered how her aunt would react to yet another unannounced visit. She had assured Devlin that her aunt Amelia had been overwhelmed by their earlier invasion of her home, perhaps even frightened by the presence of so many strange men. But even then she had doubted that was true. Amelia Mendez de Pedroso did not strike her as a frightened old woman. Her main concern had been that someone-specifically Adrianna-might want to take something from the home she had wrested from her “communist sister.” Now Adrianna was coming back to ask about a cottage that might have been another bone of contention between the two women.
Adrianna took a deep breath and pushed the gate open, just as a hand reached out and took her arm. She twisted around and found herself facing two men. The one holding her arm had a thin mustache and a self-satisfied smile on his face. The other, standing directly behind the first, was taller and heavier and stared at her with open hostility. Both were in their early thirties and both wore civilian clothes, but there was no question in Adrianna’s mind that she was facing two of Cabrera’s men.
Adrianna pulled her arm free and glared at the man who had grabbed her.
“How dare you place your hands on me?” she snapped in Spanish.
At first the man seemed surprised, then his satisfied smile returned.
“I beg your forgiveness, Senorita Mendez,” he said in Spanish.
Adrianna noted there was no regret in his voice.
“Colonel Cabrera wishes to speak with you. State Security has located the remains of your aunt, and it is necessary that you make a formal identification.”
The second man had moved closer so he, too, could grab her if she attempted to run. Adrianna struggled to appear unconcerned.
“I see,” she said. “That is very good news. Please tell Colonel Cabrera that I will come to the Villa Marista later this afternoon. Right now I must see my other aunt, who has been taken ill.”
The first man smirked at her. “I think your aunt has recovered from her illness. She left her home more than an hour ago.” A car pulled to the curb behind him, and he gestured toward it. “I think we will go now.” he said.
Adrianna shook her head. “No. I will wait for my aunt.”
The second man stepped forward and took her wrist. His hand felt like a vise, and as she tried to pull away, he quickly slapped her elbow forward and twisted her arm up behind her back. Adrianna closed her eyes against the pain.
“Do not make us hurt you, senorita,” the first man said. He reached out and stroked her cheek. “Beautiful women should be given pleasure, not pain.”
Adrianna pulled her head away and glared at him. Her anger produced another smile.
“Now I think we will go,” he said. “The colonel has been searching for you for more than a day. And he is a man who does not like to be kept waiting.”