Dream of a Falling Eagle

'Sure. Like I told Lucas, Fournier might be able to connect some of the dots we're writing up right now.'

'You go talk to him. I'm about ten times faster on the computer than you are.'

'No, you go. Academe is your province, and he'll have heard your name bandied about more than once in those hallowed halls. He'll be more comfortable with you. Besides, I'm on the verge of a breakthrough; I think I'm about ready to begin using four fingers.'

Chapter 5

Dr. Guy Fournier's office at the university was on the third floor of a four-story, rather nondescript building called Faul Hall on the southwest edge of the sprawling campus in lower Manhattan, just off Washington Square. I had decidedly mixed feelings upon returning to the university where I had worked for so many years at a job I'd loved, abruptly walking away because of an act of betrayal, one of a series of betrayals that had almost cost Garth and me our lives. I was early for our appointment, and the door was open, so I went in. The office was rather long and narrow, with two walls taken up by floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases crammed full of books in English and French. There was a small wooden desk to the left of the doorway, and its surface was piled high with a clutter of student papers and books festooned with multicolored book markers. A gleaming computer workstation was set up against the opposite wall, next to a dirt-streaked window that looked out on a fire escape and a view of the campus that would have been more pleasant if the window hadn't been so dirty. The work-station and its cleared perimeter comprised the only neat area in the office; the floor was littered with stalagmite-like stacks of more books and old magazines, also in English and French. It looked more like a neglected storage area than a place to meet students. I sat down on a stack of ancient National Geographies and waited.

Dr. Guy Fournier arrived precisely at 11:15, the appointed time. His office might be shabby, but he was not. The white-haired man wore sharply creased black slacks, expensive black loafers, and a lightweight gray blazer over a white cotton turtleneck. The man had presence. He was a little over six feet, and stood very erect, almost as if he were at attention. In person, his large, gleaming black eyes in the triangular face were even more striking than in his photograph, which had apparently been taken a few years before. I put him in his early sixties.

'A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Fournier,' I said, rising off the magazines and extending my hand. 'I'm Robert Frederickson. I very much appreciate your agreeing to see me. Your door was open, so I came in. I hope you don't mind.'

'The pleasure is mine, Dr. Frederickson,' he said in a rich baritone that was pleasantly laced with a rather lilting Creole accent. He set down a worn leather briefcase on top of a stack of papers on his desk, moved across the room, and turned around the chair at the computer workstation so that it was facing the desk. 'My door is always open, especially to such a distinguished visitor as yourself. Please sit down.'

I did, pulling the chair even closer. Fournier went behind his desk and settled himself into a wooden swivel chair that creaked as he leaned back and crossed his legs, folding his hands with their long fingers across his flat stomach. 'Dr. Robert Frederickson,' he continued, smiling easily. 'Mongo le Magnifique-the name you used when you were a star with the Statler Brothers Circus. Your friends still call you Mongo. Criminologist, ex-college professor who taught at this very university, black-belt karate expert, private investigator extraordinaire. Along with your brother, an ex-police detective, you have been involved in some most unusual-one might even say bizarre-cases. I particularly enjoyed reading about your exploits with that previously unknown creature.'

'You seem to know a lot about me.'

He shrugged. 'Doesn't everyone? As you can see by looking around you, I read a lot, and you are a celebrity. Time magazine once referred to you as 'the deadly dwarf.''

'I must have missed that issue.'

'People here still talk about you all the time. It seems you were an extremely popular professor, always playing to a packed house. And you knew your stuff, used to publish a lot of research papers. There are wild rumors, but nobody seems to know for certain the reason you left. You and your brother are currently working as part of a Presidential Commission examining the CIA. Your particular assignment is to investigate and attempt to document alleged illegal activities by the CIA in Haiti.'

'I'm impressed. May I ask how you know all this, Doctor?'

'The formation of the Presidential Commission was never formally announced, but its existence and task are no secret to people who follow politics closely. It was reported in both The New York Times and The Washington Post. Also, I'm quite active in Haitian affairs in this country. What you're doing is common knowledge in the Haitian community throughout this country. We-most of us, that is-appreciate what you and the president are trying to do. There is much hope for righting great wrongs, but there is also a good deal of terror. Hope is not a feeling that comes easily to my people; it has been crushed, along with their bodies, too many times. News of what has happened to people who spoke to you-or who might have been willing to speak to you-has traveled fast. I'm afraid you'll meet with considerable resistance from any remaining witnesses you wish to talk to.'

'Actually, we're in the process of wrapping things up.'

'Yet you are here, and I assume your visit is in connection with your investigation. As for myself, I am not afraid. I would love nothing better than to help bring the CIA criminals to justice; they helped ruin my country. Unfortunately, despite my extensive experience with the dupes of these criminals, any hard evidence of criminal activity I have is probably considerably less than any hard evidence you now have. I can regale you for hours with some blood-chilling stories, but my guess is that you've already heard all of them. If you've come to me for some kind of documentation, I'm afraid you've wasted your time. As I'm sure you're aware, I was considered a pariah, and officials of the Church, government, and army did not exactly whisper secrets in my ear. However, I will try to answer any questions you may have, and I will be more than happy to appear as a witness at congressional hearings to testify to atrocities I have seen-but I can't prove any connection to the CIA.'

'That's very decent and courageous of you, Professor. I'll discreetly pass along your offer to the head of the commission, who'll keep it in the strictest confidence. Actually, I've come to see you about another matter.'

The man with the coal-black eyes and mesmerizing gaze frowned slightly. 'Oh? And what would that be?'

'I wanted to ask if you have any idea why someone would place your photograph on a voodoo altar.'

Fournier leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk and lacing his long fingers together under his narrow chin. 'My photograph on a voodoo altar?'

'Yes, sir. In the place of honor, if you will-right in the center. You seemed to be the point of the display.'

He lowered his gaze, sighed, shook his head slightly. 'This is very embarrassing.'

'Why is that, sir?'

Fournier looked back up, smiled wryly. 'Haiti is a Catholic country, as I'm sure you know, Dr. Frederickson. Virtually everyone is Catholic. But Haiti is also, as you know, the home of a panoply of pagan practices transplanted there by African slaves, a belief system Americans call voodoo. Unfortunately, many ordinary Haitians tend to mix the two belief systems-voodoo and Catholicism; Catholic saints become voodoo saints, and vice versa. Haitians see no contradiction. Voodoo is very old, and it's embedded in the fabric of our society. I was known as a political dissident and a fighter for the rights of the underclass-which is ninety-nine percent of our people. I was considered by many people to be a hero, and now, apparently, one of those misguided souls has promoted me to saint. The person was probably using my photograph as an object of worship.'

'That doesn't seem likely in this case.' 'Oh?'

'The guy who had your picture on his altar was an ex-general by the name of Vilair Michel, a murderer and torturer who ran Fort Dimanche for a while. He was in this country illegally. You wouldn't exactly have been a hero to him, much less a saint. His background indicates he'd have preferred to have your head on a platter rather than as an object of worship on an altar. I'd have liked to ask him myself what it was all about, but when we found him his heart had been cut out.'

'Another one,' Fournier said, grimacing and turning his head away sharply. 'That's disgusting.'

'He was a mess, all right.'