He darted to the table, grabbed the envelope, then raced downstairs, slowing his pace to a normal gait as he came to the bottom and walked toward his car.
The Honda was turning a corner, heading toward the exit gate.
He jumped into his own vehicle and followed.
He switched off the car engine and watched as the two men parked the Honda. They’d driven from the apartment complex, found Interstate 85, then headed south to Fayette County and a small private airport. He’d first thought their destination to be Hartsfield-Jackson International, which could have proven a problem. Thankfully, they’d avoided Atlanta’s main terminal. Several single-engine craft and two luxury turboprops waited near a large hangar. His targets entered a metal-sided administration building, stayed a couple of minutes, then climbed aboard one of the turboprops. A few minutes later engines whined and the plane taxied to the runway.
He’d opted not to confront them.
Instead, he should be able to learn what he needed without drawing any unnecessary attention. Before leaving the car he grabbed the envelope from the apartment, which displayed a handwritten return address for the Hotel Creole, Cap-Haitien, Haiti. He slid out a single sheet of unfolded paper and studied what was there.
He had no idea what the combination of letters meant.
He tossed the envelope on the passenger’s seat and stepped from the car. Inside the building he displayed his Justice Department badge. “Who were the two men who left in the plane just now?”
The person on duty, a short stump of a man, seemed not to want to answer.
“We can do this here, or back in Atlanta in a more formal setting. Your choice.”
Magellan Billet headquarters was located in Atlanta. Its head, Stephanie Nelle, had insisted on that as a condition of her employment, wanting the unit away from Washington and the Department of Justice, both physically and symbolically. Which worked. The Billet had developed a reputation for independence, utilized on the most sensitive of investigations, both domestic and international. Twelve agents worked under Stephanie’s exclusive control, selected by her and specially trained. Of course he was bluffing, since none of this had anything to do with Billet business. Still, something out of the ordinary was definitely happening.
“Older guy is Zachariah Simon. He showed an Austrian passport. The other guy was—”
He watched as the man tried to remember.
“Rocha. Yeah, that was it. Rocha.”
“He have another name.”
The guy shrugged. “Can’t remember. Didn’t know I had to. They flew in on a charter, paid their fees, bought some gas, and left.”
“And that car outside?”
“Mine. They rented it.”
“When did they get here?”
“A few hours ago.”
“You get their passports?”
He knew the rules. Small airports like this were required to maintain copies of entry documents for Customs.
“Yeah, I got ’em.”
“I need them.” Now for what he really wanted to know. “Where are they headed?”
“These guys in trouble?”
“If they are, here’s the problem. They’re gone, and you’re still here.”
He hoped the message was clear.
“The charter pilot filed a flight plan for Cap-Haitien.”
Cap-Haitien was a town of 180,000 people on Haiti’s north coast. Its architecture reminded Malone of New Orleans, the same gingerbread-style houses lining its narrow streets, the same French feel throughout, though its overwhelming poverty spoiled any further comparisons. Streets, where they existed, suffered potholes and puddles, their gutters trickling with stinking sewage. Hundreds of tin-roofed shacks crumbling in the heat dominated bare mountain slopes. Two hundred years ago the harbor would have been filled with merchant ships, here to load coffee and sugar from French planters. Now the bay loomed empty save for a few small boats, its waters ruined by pollution. A strong odor of decay filled the humid afternoon air. Yesterday, after what had happened in the Browns’ apartment and at the airport south of Atlanta, he’d questioned his sister-in-law about the envelope.
