jumped into the passenger’s side and said, “Good timing.”
“I follow from hotel. They don’t look like good men.”
“They’re not. Let’s get out of here.”
Then something occurred to him.
“Wait.”
He popped open the door, stood, and fired one round into the Israeli’s car, flattening a rear tire.
They drove back toward Cap-Haitien, the tires wobbling, the wretched road more holes than pavement. No one had followed, and Dubois decided to take them to his house.
“Scotty come there a lot. He like it.”
The dwelling was another shanty, tin-sided, tin-roofed, a few hundred square feet. It sat among a cluster of several hundred, east of town, not far from the airport, the rough land succumbing to weeds. Goats milled around in the front and on the sides, and a group of children played. The stench was overpowering, but he’d become accustomed to the pall. Then again, who was he to judge? Dubois seemed like a hardworking, decent man who’d genuinely liked Scott Brown. Life was tough here, but he was making the best of it.
Besides, he owed him one.
Two of the children rushed over. The boy maybe nine or ten, the girl a bit younger. Both hugged Dubois.
“These be mine. Violine is my precious girl, but Alain is future man of house.”
Malone nodded to them both.
“This be Cotton Malone. He was close to Scotty,” Dubois told them.
“Are you a secret agent, too?” Alain asked.
He threw Dubois a curious look.
“Scotty told them he be an agent for the Americans. Worked for the Billet.”
He decided not to burst anyone’s bubble. “I think it’s called the Magellan Billet.”
“That’s what Scotty say. Very secret thing.”
“Scotty say anything else?”
Dubois shook his head. “Only that he be here on a mission. He need help. I give it, like I do with you.”
The children ran back to their friends. A woman appeared in the shanty’s door. She was thin, long-haired, with bright eyes and a fresh face.
“This be Elise. My wife.”
Malone shook the woman’s hand, and she threw him a warm smile.
“You were Scotty’s relative?” she asked.
He nodded. “He was married to my wife’s sister.”
“We liked him a lot. He was a good man.”
Her English was cleaner than Dubois’ and carried no accent, each syllable perfectly pronounced.
“Elise teaches school,” her husband said with pride in his voice. “She be real good at that.”
The auction would begin in three hours. In the meantime he’d decided to talk with Stephanie Nelle. Though this trip hadn’t started off as Magellan Billet business, things had changed. His boss had to know about the Israelis.
“I need to make a call,” he said. “I’ll step out over there where I can talk in private.”
“Take your time,” Dubois said. “Elise make the food. We eat.”
He nodded at the hospitality and found the phone in his pocket. It was state-of-the-art, Magellan Billet issue, satellite-rated. The smallest unit on the market, produced solely for U.S. intelligence. But he wondered how long it would be before everyone’s phone was similarly capable.
Stephanie was in her office and answered the call.
“I thought you were on vacation,” she said.
“So did I.”
He told her what had happened, omitting nothing.
“Schwartz is right,” she said. “Zachariah Simon is a fanatic who just recently crept onto our radar. We’re not sure what he’s after, but we passed what we had along to the Israelis and they became awfully interested.”
He knew his boss. “So you ran a full check?”
“Of course. Simon is wealthy, reclusive, a religious zealot. But he keeps his fingerprints off everything. He also openly stays out of politics and never talks to the press.”
“In other words he’s careful.”
“Too much so, in my opinion.”
“What’s he doing in Haiti?”
