The Admiral's Mark

Settled in slavery, liberated in agony.

That was Haiti.

The unimpeded view for miles was of green slopes and rolling mountains. Terraces defined the fortress, creating several levels from which an attack could be repelled. Cannon were everywhere, some still on their carriages, most strewn about. Nearly four hundred of them, that was what the placard below had said. And a million cannonballs, stacked in pyramids, still awaited use. He spotted the mound in the center—solidified lime— where Christophe’s body had been dumped, and where it remained.

Then saw Simon.

To the right of the mound.

Maybe another fifty people milled about, admiring the grandeur left to crumble. Schwartz’s gun rested in Malone’s back pocket, shielded by his shirttail. The morning was warm and humid, his brow damp with sweat. He’d never been much of a gambler for money, not liking the house odds, but it seemed every day as a Magellan Billet agent was a gamble. Of late, he’d found himself tiring of the risks. Like now. Yann Dubois’ life depended on the bluff he was about to make, and the ante he hoped would come.

He stepped over to Simon and said, “I have it.”

“Show me.”

“Get real. If you want it, show me Dubois.”

A tour group appeared from within one of the buildings, the guide spouting something in English about how people said Henri Christophe would magically fly from the Sans-Souci Palace to the citadelle and his spirit was still seen roaming at night, looking for his soldiers. About ten formed the group, and they ambled closer to the lime pit. Simon seemed to resent the intrusion and drifted away. He followed, keeping an eye on what surrounded him.

“Herr Malone,” Simon said. “Do not take me for a fool. Herr Brown made that mistake. I would hope you learned from his error.”

“I have the page and, you’re right, the mark of the Admiral is there. I recognized it last night when you drew it. I don’t give a damn about that. I just want Dubois and the $600,000 in the Cayman Islands.”

Simon’s face lit with recognition. “Did Herr Brown cheat you?”

One of the advantages of an eidetic memory was the ability to recall exact details. Malone had been born with the gift, which had come in handy when he was a lawyer—and came in even handier in his current line of work.

“Account number 569328-78-9432. Bank of the Cayman Islands. I have a definite interest in that money.”

He’d thought about it last night and concluded that using what he’d learned from Simon’s own background check might work.

And it apparently had.

“I am aware of those funds,” Simon said, “and I have no claim to them. They are yours. I just want that missing page.”

“Then you’re wasting time.”

Simon seemed to know what was expected of him and pointed.

Malone turned to see Dubois standing a hundred feet away, across the courtyard, the man called Rocha beside him. Though he saw no gun, he knew Rocha was armed.

Okay, nearly all of the players were here.

He started toward Dubois.

“First, the page,” Simon called out.

He turned back. “After I make sure he’s okay.”

He held his ground, making clear that the point was non-negotiable. Simon hesitated, then nodded his consent.

He turned and kept walking.

If he’d read this right, Zachariah Simon was not a man prone to public displays. That was why he had Rocha. Not that Simon wasn’t a danger—it was only that the most direct threat lay in front of him, not behind.

His hand slipped into his back pocket and found the gun.

He leveled the weapon and fired at Rocha.

But his target had leaped to the left.

Dubois fled to the right. Hopefully, he’d get the hell out of here.

Malone huddled behind the limestone mound, taking refuge with Henri Christophe.

He turned back.

Simon had not moved.

People were scattering.

A few screaming.

A gunshot cracked and a bullet ricocheted off the stone a foot away from his face.

Rocha retaliating.