The Admiral's Mark

The other man reached into his back pocket and produced a leather wallet. He opened it and displayed an identification.

One he’d seen before.

HaMossad leModi’in uleTafkidim Meyuchadim.

Institute for Intelligence and Operations.

Israeli.

“What’s the Mossad’s interest in Haiti?” he asked.

“We need to talk. But not here.”

He stepped from the car, the two agents also exiting. He’d ridden with them a few miles outside of Cap- Haitien to a spot he’d read about but never visited.

Sans-Souci Palace.

Henri Christophe, or King Henri I as he’d labeled himself—tall, strong, smart, and unruly—built it in the early part of the 19th century, part of his plan to show Europe and America the power of the black race. Eventually, scattered around the island, were six chateaus, eight palaces, and the massive citadelle, but none compared to Sans-Souci. An earthquake toppled much of the building in 1842, the ruins never rebuilt. Once the equivalent of Versailles, with fifty rooms, a Baroque staircase, and stepped gardens, home to a grandiloquent court of dukes and duchesses, centuries of neglect had allowed nature to again take control. But though gutted by flames, roofless, exposed to tropical wind and rain, the shell seemed in harmony with its surroundings.

He followed his minders toward the ruin across a carpet of green grass. He recalled that sans souci translated to “without care,” which did not accurately describe the current state of his emotions. Though the Israelis were allies, he’d never liked dealing with them. The fact that they were here, watching him, and he hadn’t known, made things worse.

What in the world had Scott involved himself in?

A man waited for him at the base of the crumbling chateau. Interesting that Christophe had built the palace to advance African supremacy, but everything here screamed European monarchal prestige. Few other people were around, odd considering that this one of the region’s main attractions.

“Mr. Malone, I appreciate your coming here,” the man said. He was mid-fifties, thin, fit, with a full head of brown hair. He, too, was dressed casually, and was clearly in charge. The two young men from the hotel withdrew to a discreet distance, keeping an eye on things, but not close enough to hear.

“You have a name?”

The man smiled. “Matt Schwartz.”

“And why is Israeli intelligence here in Haiti, watching me?”

“You’re a man to be watched. Quite a reputation. An agent with the famed Magellan Billet. One of Stephanie Nelle’s hand-chosen twelve. In fact, from what I’ve been told, you’re her prized agent, the one she sends on the toughest jobs.”

“You can’t believe everything my publicist says.”

Schwartz chuckled. “No, you can’t. What were you doing in Zachariah Simon’s room?”

“My mistake. Went into the wrong one. That hotel is like a maze.”

“I was hoping you might offer something more creative.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Professional courtesy?”

Now he smiled. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Simon is someone we’ve kept an eye on for a while. You know anything about him?”

He shook his head.

“Billionaire. Lives in Austria. His family is a big supporter of Israel. They survived the Holocaust, even prospered after the war. His father and grandfather helped form our state. But this third generation is not nearly as benevolent. In fact, Zachariah Simon is a problem.”

“Terrorism?”

Schwartz shook his head. “If so, not the garden variety.”

He wasn’t getting much more than what a department summary might reveal, available to anyone with even a minor security clearance. This man was doing his job, keeping things close, offering just enough so his listener might reciprocate. So he offered, “I’m not here on official business.”

“Really? You just decided to take a little trip down to Haiti?”

“My brother-in-law, Scott Brown, drowned here last week. I came to find out what happened.”

“Scott Brown.” Schwartz shook his head. “That man was a problem, too.”

Malone was taken aback by the comment. Now he wondered if the Israelis had been part of what had happened, so he asked, “What did Scott do?”

“He nearly wrecked a year’s worth of effort. He was working some sort of con on Simon. But he had no idea who he was dealing with.”