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

2
HAVANA, CUBA
    The international arrivals terminal at José Martí Airport is a sprawling, modern edifice that would befit any major city in the world. Completed in 1998, it replaced a small, dark, musty building that made arriving visitors feel they had just entered an oppressive banana republic. It is a carefully stated message, a clear abandonment of the old workers’ state, all part of a new Cuban image, intended to make tourists and foreign businesspeople believe that their much-sought-after dollars will be well spent in this former bastion of Soviet-sponsored communism.
    Devlin felt slightly overwhelmed by the unexpected glitter of glass and steel, and the complete absence of expected threat left him mildly disoriented. He had telephoned his daughter—who had been left behind with his sister in Queens—just to tell her they had arrived safely in Castro’s Cuba.
    “Are there guys with long beards and guns?” she had asked, her nine-year-old mind a victim of U.S. television.
    “Not yet, sweetie,” Devlin had replied. “Most of the people working here are young, and the airport reminds me of the new terminals at La Guardia. Only it’s cleaner.”
    His daughter had sounded disappointed.
    As he and Adrianna waited for their bags to be disgorged onto a gleaming carousel, they watched other travelers unload dozens of large corrugated boxes. A fellow passenger had explained the practice. It was all part of the new dollar economy born of the U.S. embargo. Each week traveling “Samaritans” would bring in money and goods sent to Cuban nationals by relatives in the U.S. It was all done for a hefty fee—20 percent of the money and five dollars a pound for the goods, and only a few years ago it would have put everyone involved behind bars. Now, for many, it was a full-time business, which a financially strapped and desperate Cuban government chose to ignore.
    When the bags arrived, Devlin loaded them on a cart and headed for a rapidly moving customs line. They had gone through passport control with only a cursory check of their documents. Devlin had expected hard-eyed inspectors who would view Americans with suspicion. Instead he had found smiling men and women, all dressed in crisp khaki uniforms, all eager to make processing as painless as possible.
    Customs proved the same, a few terse questions from a pleasant young woman. It was like entering Canada from the U.S., and far less challenging than returning to the States from anywhere in the world. All U.S. customs officials, Devlin decided, should be turned over to Fidel Castro for training. If nothing else, they would learn how to manage an occasional smile.
    “I’m still waiting for the storm troopers,” Devlin said as they made their way through the packed lobby toward ranks of cabs and buses that lay beyond sliding-glass doors.
    “So am I.” Adrianna raised her eyebrows at the chaotic, non-threatening scene that surrounded them. It could have been any airport in any U.S. city. “This is so strange. It’s the opposite of everything I expected. And somehow it doesn’t seem real. It’s making me feel like Dorothy after she woke up in Oz.”
    “Señorita Mendez. Un minuto, por favor.”
    They were stopped by a short, stocky, mustachioed man somewhere in his mid-fifties. He spoke softly behind sad, weary, gentle eyes that still