Canal is owned by your government. Specifically, your army.”
The man might be crazy but he was no fool.
“True,” Chin conceded, “but the Canal Zone is quite small. Our international competitors, the Russians, for example, already are forming alliances with Venezuela, Nicaragua, even preparing to return to Cuba.”
“Countries where the United States is disliked by those in power. Chavez in Venezuela, for instance, would do business with the devil to stick his thumb in the Americans’ eyes.”
Chin shifted in his chair. “My country is more interested in economic expansion than sticking fingers in eyes. I am authorized to propose opening manufacturing plants in your country.”
“Manufacturing what?”
“Clothes, textiles, light manufacturing to begin with.”
He definitely had duPaar’s attention. “And then?”
“And then we will see.”
DuPaar made a steeple of his fingers and rested his chin on it. “And what would I get?”
“Get?” Chin pretended to be puzzled, knowing full well what the president for life meant. “You would have employment for a number of your people, money they lack today.”
DuPaar made a guttural sound, a sound of dismissal. “Do not play me for an idiot, Mr. Secretary. You know precisely what I mean.”
Chin took the opportunity to stub out his cigarette. “Well, for starters, as our American friends would say, I would anticipate five or six thousand Chinese soldiers would be stationed here to protect my country’s investment, prevent any further, er, abrupt changes in government.”
DuPaar shook his head. “The Americans would never allow Chinese soldiers on their doorstep.”
Chin smiled. “The Monroe Doctrine, the policy that the United States would tolerate no country out of this hemisphere to meddle in the affairs of a country in the Western Hemisphere, died in 1962 when Kennedy agreed not to invade Cuba again if the Russians would remove their missiles from the island. Their present president believes talk, not action, is the solution to all problems. In the end, the Americans will do nothing.”
DuPaar’s eyes narrowed. “These troops, who would command them?”
Now came the time for the vagueness that characterizes the accomplished diplomat.
“They would, of course, serve under their own officers. But who commands the officers…” He trolled the idea implicit in the unfinished sentence like a baited hook.
DuPaar leaned back in his chair again, puffed out his chest. “You will not be surprised to know I am well versed in military command. Not only did I serve as my country’s highest-ranking officer, I have read all the military works, the campaigns of Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, Frederick the Great, Stonewall Jackson, Rommel, Patton.. .” DuPaar inhaled deeply. “There are those who say I am the embodiment of those men. I believe I am their souls reincarnated in one body.”
Either the president for life had been smoking something other than his cigar or he was farther down the road to insanity than Chin had been informed. But then, mental problems had historically been an issue here. Francois “Papa Doc” Duvalier had believed the dogs and cats in the streets informed on his enemies, and acted accordingly. Crazy or not, if this fool thought the People’s Republic of China was going to trust him to command Chinese troops… Well, he was thinking just what Diem had been instructed to make him think. By the time he found out to the contrary, China would have a foothold within a few hundred miles of the American coast, a base from which its aircraft and navy could reach any place in the Caribbean, a sea that the Americans regarded as their own lake.
“Such a command would restore the glory of my country,” duPaar continued, “reminiscent of Toussaint L’Ouverture…”
“The former slave who defeated Napoleon’s brother-in-law and chased the French out of Haiti forever.” Along with a hefty helping hand from yellow fever, to which the indigenous population had some degree of immunity.
DuPaar smiled again. “You are acquainted with my country’s history. You see the similarity between me and the great Toussaint.”
More like his successor, Henri Christophe, tyrant and self-crowned emperor who ruled as Henri I. Believing he was too great a man to die a normal death, he shot himself with a silver bullet rather than be torn apart by a mob. It was he who started the practice that would ultimately make Haiti the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere: subdividing already-small parcels of arable land to distribute to his supporters. The predictable result was that few Haitians owned more than tiny plots, hardly enough to feed their families. He also bestowed empty titles, among which were the Duke of Marmalade and the Viscount of Beer.
But Diem said, “My superiors are aware of the parallel.”
Both men were silent for a moment, duPaar basking in imagined glory before he spoke. “I will agree to your proposal, but I need a sign of your country’s good faith first.”
Diem had been prepared for this. His government had authorized a bribe of up to ten million dollars to be paid into the president for life’s Swiss bank account. “And that would be?”
“I will need you to retrieve a very special object for me, one that will symbolize my might and grandeur, something that will proclaim my status to the world.”
Diem swallowed hard. He dared not think what this madman had in his twisted mind. The Holy Grail?
DuPaar was staring at him. “Did you know Haiti and the Dominican Republic were the same country in colonial days? It was known as Saint-Dominigue. It is my ambition to reunite us.”
The sudden change of subject caught the Chinese diplomat off guard. It took him a second to realize the tourist and agricultural industries of Haiti’s neighbor were worth billions of dollars, a good part of it from investors in the United States. If anything could provoke the American president into military action, this would be it.
“You have reason to believe the Dominicans wish such a reunion?”
DuPaar snorted. “When they see Haiti’s might, when they see the great symbol of military prowess you are going to bring me, they will have no choice.”
Military prowess. Diem relaxed a little. That would seem to exclude the Holy Grail. “What is this object you desire?”
DuPaar told him.
Shock stripped away the diplomat’s facade of calm. “But no one knows where such a thing is to be found. Or even if it still exists!”
DuPaar stood, took two steps toward the door through which he had entered and stopped. “When you have it, come back and we will discuss the terms under which you may build your factories and where you may construct such military facilities as you desire.”
He left the room without another word. The guard gave Diem a blank stare and followed. The Chinese diplomat sat for a full minute, sorting through the most unusual negotiations in which he had ever participated before getting up and heading for the waiting Mercedes.
Venice
18:20, February, the present year
Lang Reilly was not fond of Venice. The city was like a movie star long past her prime. Faded stucco peeled from stone walls like a woman unable to replace her makeup. The acqua alta, high water from the Adriatic, relentlessly flooded most of the city in its persistent effort to reclaim what had been taken from the sea.
It was a city of tourists, twenty-one million in 2007, as opposed to only sixty thousand residents remaining of the one hundred twenty thousand of twenty years ago. Many of the historic palazzos were now hotels, an increase in visitor accommodations of 600 percent in the last ten years. Claustrophobic byways, more alleys than streets, were far too tight for conventional vehicular traffic even if the city allowed it. They were so narrow they remained in shadow even during the day, perfect places for muggers or worse. Indeed, the city boasted a Street of the Assassins, reflecting a cottage industry of the city’s past. Many of the street signs, where there were any, were in the Venetian dialect, rendering a map useless. The numerous canals caused perpetual dampness and musty smells, adding to the reasons he and Gurt had chosen a hotel on the powdery sands of the Lido, a strip of beach-front a five-minute boat ride across the lagoon that it separated from the Gulf of Venice.
The hotel’s boat, resembling a perfectly restored Chris-Craft from the 1950s, complete with teak decking, wallowed in its own wake as the driver reversed, then cut the twin engines a few feet from what would have been steps up to the Molo San Marco had they not been under water. As it was, the craft’s passengers had to balance their way on a makeshift gangplank.
From dockside, Lang could see the winter rain was adding to the flooding of the Piazza San Marco, already
