HAVANA, CUBA
The international arrivals terminal at Jose Marti 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.”
“Senorita 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 Martinez. Major Arnaldo Martinez. 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.
Martinez 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?”
Martinez smiled. “Yes, it is.”
“Are you restoring it?” Devlin asked.
“Restoring?” Martinez seemed puzzled at first, then began to laugh. “Senor, I have been restoring this car for thirty years. Every week it needs some new restoration.”
As Martinez 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?”
Martinez 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, Senor 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 Martinez drove.
“Lot of old cars here,” Devlin said.
Martinez nodded. “Yes, many. Your country’s embargo has been in place since 1963, senor. 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 Martinez’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.
Martinez 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, Senorita 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. Martinez 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,” Martinez 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,” Martinez 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.
Martinez let out a long breath. “Are you familiar with Regla Mayombe, senorita?”
“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, senor,” Martinez said. “That is exactly what I am telling you.”
The Hotel Inglaterra is located on the Paseo Marti, 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 Martinez 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 Martinez’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 Martinez.
“It is better she is sleeping,” Martinez said. “What I have to tell you would only be more upsetting for her.”
Across the room, two prostitutes, no more than eighteen, offered up welcoming smiles. “I thought Castro did away with all the hookers,” Devlin said.
“Yes, it is true. There is no prostitution in Cuba.” Martinez glanced at the two young women. “There are only thousands of friendly children, each one looking for romance.” He shrugged. “And dollars to feed their families.” He paused to light a cigarette and sent a stream of smoke across the table. “Great mechanics are not the only thing your embargo has given us.”
Devlin ignored the political gibe. He needed Martinez on their side-if possible-at least for now. “Tell me about Maria Mendez,” he said.
Martinez flicked the ash of his cigarette. “She was my friend. My very dear friend.” He drew on the cigarette again, then put it out. “Did you know the people of Cuba called her the Red Angel?”
“Someone in the U.S. Interests Section told me that.”
Martinez nodded. “Yes, they would know about her. She was a very powerful figure. Until recently, she was even powerful politically.”
“Why until recently?”
“She had a falling-out with Fidel.”
“With Castro, himself?” Devlin’s voice sounded incredulous, even to his own ears.
Martinez nodded again. “She and Fidel were very close for many years. It is even said they were lovers many years ago.” He smiled. “But Fidel is known to have had many lovers. Along with several wives. And children. Some say he doesn’t remember most of their names.”
“But Maria Mendez was not one of those.” Devlin spoke the words for Martinez.
“No. She was very important in the government. And very important to the people. She was one of the few who could tell Fidel he was wrong.”
“Are you implying she did that once too often? That Fidel bounced her out of the government?”
“Fidel would never be that foolish. For the people, there are some heroes who must never be tarnished. Fidel, of course, is one. Then Che Guevara. And there is also the Red Angel.”
“How did she come to be … so revered?”
The major’s eyes became a wistful mix of pleasure and pain. “Ah, that is both a beautiful and a sad story. In the early years Maria Mendez became a symbol of everything that was good in our revolution. And in recent years she became a symbol of everything about it that has failed.”
A waiter brought them cups of strong Cuban coffee that Martinez had ordered. Devlin pushed his aside and leaned forward. “Tell me about her.”
Martinez lit another cigarette and sat back in his chair.
“In 1957, Maria Mendez had just graduated from the medical school at Havana University. She was young, younger than the other graduates. She was a brilliant child. She graduated from high school at fifteen. And from university at eighteen. Now, at twenty-two, she had completed her medical studies, and was an intern at the Infantil Hospital.
“You must understand those times, my friend. Batista ruled our country with an iron fist, and his secret police crushed anyone who opposed him. Fidel had already attempted one insurrection and had failed. The Mafia controlled Havana, and it had become a playground for the rich, a city filled with gambling and drugs and prostitution.
“But for the people it was hell. Batista had become rich selling off the land to foreign corporations and a handful of cronies. Cuba was an oligarchy. The peasants owned nothing, and were paid almost nothing for the work they did. Only the rich received medical care, and education was available only to the sons and daughters of the privileged class.
“Maria Mendez was one of those privileged children, as was Fidel, himself. She was the daughter of a successful physician, but unlike her father, her heart was with the people.
“Maria was not political. She was certainly not a revolutionary. She knew Fidel because he was at the university law school when she began her studies, and he was a respected figure among the students. But violence of the kind that Fidel and many other students preached was something alien to her. She told me this many times. She wanted a political solution. She simply believed in the people, and the desperate need to ease their suffering.”
Martinez paused and smiled. “An idealist, eh? Like so many young people everywhere.”
He took a sip of his coffee and glanced again at the young women at the bar. Devlin thought he was perhaps wishing idealism would find its way to them.
“But there were others, students who realized that idealistic goals were impossible as long as Batista lived. They formed a plan to kill him. They believed the peasants in the countryside would rise up once he was dead.
“The plan involved an assault on the Presidential Palace in March of 1957, where Batista would be assassinated. But the students knew that many of them would be killed or wounded in the attack. They needed secret hospitals where the wounded could be taken, where the secret police who would be hunting them would not think to look. Maria was one of the young doctors they went to for help.
“It was foolishness, of course. The students were untrained and poorly armed. The attack failed, and the police easily followed the wounded back to their secret hospitals.”
“And Maria?” Devlin asked.
“She was arrested, of course. She had refused to leave the dying student she was trying to save.” Martinez closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them they were filled with a deep sadness.
“She was tortured, asked to give the names of others who had escaped. When she refused, she was turned over to her guards. She was raped so many times that her organs were badly damaged. She was never able to have children because of this.” He paused again, his entire face now marked by the sadness of his eyes. “Perhaps that is why she chose to work with children. Perhaps that is why your lovely Adrianna became so important in her life.”
Martinez seemed to push the speculation aside. He lit another cigarette and finished his coffee.
“She was saved by her father. It took several months, and many bribes, but she was finally released from prison. By that time Fidel’s second invasion in Oriente Province was well under way, and his troops had established bases in the Sierra Maestra Mountains.
“Maria joined him there, not only as a doctor, but fighting at his side. She became a fierce warrior, it is said, leading other men and women into battle against Batista’s troops. She had come to understand, you see, that brutality such as Batista’s could only be fought with guns.”
A wan smile came to Martinez’s lips. “Of course, the revolution succeeded. And when Fidel entered Havana in 1959, Maria was with him. She, like Che Guevara, was one of the great heroes. And like Guevara, who was also a physician, she knew that the health of the people-especially its children-was the first task the revolution had to address.
“It is said that she and Guevara went to Fidel and convinced him of this need. He put her in charge. Guevara was needed elsewhere in the government. And so it fell to Maria Mendez to bring health to the people.”
“That sounds like quite a job,” Devlin said.
“Even more than you think.” Martinez spread his arms, as if taking in the entire room, perhaps the entire country. “Cuba is a difficult place. Even more difficult in 1959.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You recall that I asked Senorita Mendez if she was familiar with our Cuban-African religions?” He waited while Devlin nodded. “Well, in Cuba, even today, the people will consult the priests of these religions about their illnesses. Some will even go to a priest first, to see if they really need a doctor. And even the more sophisticated people-those who believe in the powers of scientific medicine-will still consult these priests after they see a doctor.” He smiled. “Just to be certain the doctor was right.” He wagged his head from side to side. “Even Fidel does this. In fact, he once had a personal physician who was also a babalau, which is the highest rank among these priests.”
Martinez seemed to fight back a smile, as if he were enjoying the look of surprise on Devlin’s face.
He nodded vigorously. “Yes, it is so. These beliefs are very widespread. They are at every level of our society. And among the poor and less educated they are even more strongly held.” He raised his hands, indicating futility. “So from the start, as you can imagine, Maria Mendez had this obstacle to overcome. But she was not only an intelligent woman, she was also a wise one. She formed very strong alliances with these priests. And she seduced them into helping her. And it worked, you see. Within a few years all the children of our island had been inoculated against the great diseases that had always killed so many of our people. All pregnant women were receiving prenatal care, and the doors to the hospitals-once closed to everyone but the rich-were now flooded by people seeking care. And today everyone receives this care. Today Cuba has more than sixty thousand doctors serving the people, all of it her doing. And it has the lowest infant mortality rate in Latin America-the same rate they have in France and Italy and Israel.” He raised his hands, then let them fall back to the table. “So now, perhaps, you can see why the people love her, why they think of her as their Angel Rojo. Their Red Angel.”
Devlin was about to reply, when he noticed Martinez’s eyes snap toward the entrance of the bar. He turned and found a tall, uniformed officer approaching their table. When he reached them, Martinez was already standing.
“Colonel Cabrera, I am at your orders,” Martinez said.
A small smirk formed on the colonel’s lips. He was tall and angular, with a carefully trimmed beard as black as his eyes. His tan uniform was crisply starched, as though it had just come off a hanger. “You address me in English now, Major?” There was a cutting edge to the words.
“In deference to our guest. Colonel.”
Devlin noticed that Martinez’s eyes were hard, almost defiant. They remained that way as he turned abruptly and extended a hand toward Devlin.
“Colonel Antonio Cabrera, may I introduce Senor Paul Devlin of the United States. He is here-”
“I know why he is here,” Cabrera said, cutting him off.
Devlin stood and offered his hand. “Everyone seems to know who I am. Are the Cuban police always this well informed?”
Cabrera inclined his head, as if accepting an undeserved compliment. “Had I known you were arriving today, I would have met you at the airport, senor. Unfortunately, I was not informed until you had checked into this hotel.” His gaze hardened on Martinez. “Obviously, the major’s information was superior to mine.” The colonel’s features softened. “I was hoping to offer my condolences to Senorita Mendez.”
“I’m afraid she’s asleep,” Devlin said. “The news about her aunt’s death, and the theft of the body, came as quite a shock.”
Cabrera nodded. “Understandable, of course.” He had put as much sympathy in his words as possible. Yet his demeanor showed none of it. He remained erect and formal and intimidating, as if those were things he could never quite shed.
“Has there been any progress in the investigation?” Devlin asked. “Anything I could pass on to her?”
Cabrera shot Martinez a look. Devlin could not tell if it was a warning to remain silent, or simply because their dislike was mutual.
“I’m afraid there is not much I can tell you. We believe enemies of the revolution stole the body. The plan may even have come from Miami. There are Cubans there, as you know, who are always seeking ways to undermine the government. It is why the matter has been turned over to State Security.”
“You have suspects?”
“Yes. That I can tell you. There are suspects presently under investigation.”
Devlin nodded. He had used the same line of bullshit more times than he cared to remember. If this were New York, it would mean the investigation had hit a brick wall.
“Then I expect we’ll have a body to bury shortly,” Devlin said.
“It is our hope, senor.” Cabrera let his eyes fall hard on Devlin. “You plan to remain, then?”
“I don’t see that we have any choice,” Devlin said. “I don’t believe Senorita Mendez will want to leave with her aunt’s body still missing.”
Cabrera seemed to grow another inch or two. “Then I would like you both to come to my headquarters tomorrow to discuss certain matters.”
“When?”
“Would late afternoon be convenient?”
“I’m sure we’ll make it convenient,” Devlin said. “How do we get there?”
Cabrera’s eyes shot to Martinez, cold and hard and filled with contempt. “Perhaps the major would be kind enough to bring you.”
“I am at your orders, Colonel,” Martinez snapped.
“Yes, I know you are,” Cabrera said. There was a small smile on his lips, but it held nothing but disdain.
When Cabrera had left, Devlin noticed that the hookers had all disappeared from the bar. One glimpse of the colonel’s crisply starched uniform had sent them scurrying into the night.
“So now you have met our Technical Department of Investigation, our secret police,” Martinez said as he reclaimed his chair.
“I thought you said State Security wasn’t the secret police,” Devlin said.
Martinez held out one hand and wiggled it back and forth. “It is more complicated than that. But I will explain tomorrow. For now, I would like you to agree to go some places with me in the morning. Both of you, if possible.”
“Where?”
“I would like to invite you to meet a very close friend of the Red Angel. He is a man who may have some interesting things to tell you. Then I would like to take you to meet the Red Angel’s sister, your lovely Adrianna’s other aunt. And finally, I want you to accompany me to the home of Plante Firme, one of the most revered priests of the Regla Mayombe.”
“A witch doctor?”
“Much more than a witch doctor, my friend.”
Devlin sat back and shook his head. “And why are we doing all this?”
“I assure you it will be necessary if we are to find the body of the Red Angel.”
“We?” Devlin stared across the table, incredulous. “I thought State Security was doing that.”
Martinez shook his head. “No, senor. We will find the body. Provided you are willing.”
Cabrera’s car was parked half a block away, with a clear view of the hotel’s front entrance. He sat in the rear and watched Martinez leave. Two young men sat in front, both dressed completely in white. One turned to look at him, as if anticipating an order.
“It will not be necessary to follow the major,” Cabrera said. “That is already being done. I want you to concentrate on our two visitors. I want the names of everyone they contact. And I want those names quickly.”
“Should we take action if-”
Cabrera waved a hand impatiently, cutting the man off. “First I want to know who is helping them. We do not want just one or two vipers. We want the entire nest. But do not underestimate the man. He is a trained detective, so you must assume he is a danger to us.”
“If he finds-”
Again, Cabrera waved away the man’s words. “If our visitors become dangerous, we will see to it that they disappear.”
“Permanently?”
“I know of no other way to disappear.” Cabrera raised a cautioning hand. “But only on my order.”
“And Martinez?”
“If he interferes …” He paused as if considering the wisdom of his words. It was a dangerous decision, but there really was no choice. The fact that he despised the scruffy little major made it easier. “If he interferes, we will see to it that he disappears as well.”