The Admiral's Mark

Simon and Rocha left.

Now he had a big problem.

Malone stepped from the car. His watch read 8:30 pm. He’d managed to find Yann Dubois’ house, recalling the route from earlier. The door to the shanty opened and Elise appeared, surely expecting her husband.

Instead all she saw was the stranger who’d shared their dinner.

He stepped to the lighted doorway.

She spotted the concern on his face.

Her eyes watered, but no tears came. “Yann is in trouble?”

He nodded. “The same men who killed Scotty have him.”

“And what do you plan to do about it?”

Interesting that she made no mention of police or anyone in authority. Only what he planned to do. He assumed people here had long ago abandoned any trust in government.

“I’ll get him back.”

“How can you promise such a thing?”

He couldn’t, but she did not need to hear that.

“You are the real secret agent, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

“Scotty was a joyful man. Much like a child. He showed the children many tricks, winning their favor. But he was not what he wanted us to believe.”

“And you said nothing?”

“Why? He was harmless. In him, I sensed only opportunism. In you, I see resolve. You may actually be able to get my Yann back.”

This was an intuitive woman.

“I need to stay here tonight.”

She sensed his reason, and he saw the realization in her eyes. “Will they come here? After us?”

Matt Schwartz’s gun was nestled beneath his shirt.

“I doubt it. But to be sure, I’d like to stay.”

Malone stared up at the Citadelle Laferriere.

The night had passed uneventfully and he’d managed a few hours of light rest, remaining alert. He’d driven Dubois’ car fifteen miles south of town, into the mountains, to Bonnet de l’Eveque—the Bishop’s Miter—which rose 3,000 feet into a clear morning sky. A twisting road led to a parking lot just below the impressive fortress.

A cobblestoned track wound from the lot upward and could be either walked or ridden on horseback. He was thirty minutes early for the 10:00 rendezvous. No need to come any sooner, since he assumed that was precisely what Simon had done. Instead, he was counting on something else as his failsafe.

He stopped and studied a placard that told him about the locale, long designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Walls 130 feet high, 20 feet thick. Built to outlast the ages. No foundation, instead the gray grim stones rested only on rock, the heights held together by a mortar of limestone, molasses, and cow’s blood. Two and a half acres of enclosed space, once home to several thousand soldiers and enough food and water to sustain five thousand people for a year. Henri Christophe intended the fortress to be his last redoubt. If the French returned and invaded the north coast, he and his people would have burned Cap-Haitien and the surrounding land, then retreated to the mountains and used the few passes as choke points, surviving at any cost, the idea to never again be slaves. Of course the French never returned, but the citadelle became a symbol of their will to fight for freedom, and it remained Haiti’s most revered monument. Unfortunately, that pride was marred by the fact that Christophe used 20,000 slave laborers to build it, many of whom died in the process.

He began his walk upward to the entrance.

He knew what had happened here in March 1811.

Faced with a revolt, come to extinguish Haiti’s first monarchy, Christophe, instead of fighting, killed himself inside the Sans-Souci Palace with a silver bullet fired into his heart. His wife and children dragged the body up the mountain to the citadelle, where it was flung into a vat of quicklime, depriving the mob of its prize.

His climb lasted about twenty minutes.

Sheer cliffs protected on three sides, the only entrance subject to unimpeded cannon fire from above. He stepped through the gates, still on their hinges, and wondered if the legend that Christophe, to test the mettle of his men, marched a company over the tower’s parapet was true.

And the other tale.

How the king had buried gold somewhere within the walls.

The ramps and steps loomed dim and damp. He exited the cool interior into a sunny courtyard. Most of the building roofs were gone, save a few that were red-tiled. Amazing that a man who could not read or write, who’d worked as a dishwasher and waiter, could create something so impressive.