Dream of a Falling Eagle

'It would be a perfect match if not for the fact that Moby was already dead, and probably had been for hours, when Mackintosh came in here. He was ready to cut me a check for two hundred thousand dollars, which I could presumably have toted right down to the bank. He may be deranged, but he's not crazy enough to throw away two hundred thou and draw attention to himself if he knew Moby was dead, or even if he suspected that somebody planned to kill him. Besides, here's the bottom line: if you were the CIA, would you use a jerk like Mackintosh for anything?'

'Come on, Mongo. They use people like Mackintosh all the time. You know that.'

'Yeah, you're right. But in this case, what would they have been using him for? To deliver a message to us about a black ex-convict and poet who's about to be offed by their own voodoo hit squad?'

Garth grunted, nodded his head. 'It's not only seriously bewildering, but surpassingly strange.'

'Well,' I said, putting aside my coffee mug and pressing a button on my intercom, 'it's time to begin getting unbewildered. We don't have a money trail to follow, so we'll set off down the stupids trail.'

'Yes, sir?'

'Francisco, get Margaret in here or hire a temp. You're about to become coauthor of our report to the Presidential Commission. It means you'll have to bring yourself up to speed on everything we've done to date, finish organizing it, and compose a first draft-which, incidentally, is probably going to be the final draft. You can use my office and files, but I'm afraid I've made a bit of a mess back here.'

'I have copies of everything on diskettes, sir, and I believe I am up to speed.'

'Bless you.'

'Thank you for the opportunity, sir.'

'Before you do anything else, call Mel over at the William Morris Agency. They may represent Taylor Mackintosh. If they don't, ask Mel who does. Then get a message to his agent that I want Mackintosh in my office at the earliest possible opportunity for an early Thanksgiving, and if he's not here within twenty-four hours it's his old turkey ass that's going to get basted.' 'Sir?'

'Just make sure Mackintosh gets the message. He'll understand. Then call William Kranes's PR people. Tell them you're a reporter for some newspaper and see if you can't find out his schedule for the next few days. I want to know where to find him on short notice.'

'Yes, sir.'

I spent the rest of the afternoon resorting papers and preparing a detailed outline for Francisco to follow. I was on my way out of the office when the phone rang.

'Hello?'

'Mongo, it's Lucas Tremayne. I've been trying to get hold of Garth. He's not up in his apartment, and his answering machine isn't on.'

'Are you home?'

'Yes.'

'If you look out your window in a little while, you'll probably see him cutting the grass. He's up in Spring Valley paying a courtesy call on Carl Beauvil, bringing him up to date on some of the things that have been happening around here. He's got some chores to do around the house, so he's staying there overnight. Or you can leave a message with me.'

'I'll go over to see him later, but I want you to know this too. I'm sorry it took so long for me to take care of this business, but it's not a subject Haitians-even those who know and trust me-like to talk about, even among themselves.'

'Uh, what business and subject are we talking about, Lucas? As I recall our last conversation-'

'You'll recall I said I wanted to help. I memorized the photograph you showed me of the voodoo altar, and I had one of my storyboard artists do a rendering from my description. Then I started showing it around the Haitian community up here.'

I sighed. 'Not a good idea, Lucas. Not a good idea at all.'

'I finally got some answers, Mongo. I found a voodoo priest who'd talk to me. I know what the symbols mean, and why the altar was set up that way.'

'So do we, Lucas. I talked to Fournier. He said the Spring Valley victim was using his picture as an icon, praying to him like he would to a saint. He was asking forgiveness for his sins, or something like that.'

There was a silence on the other end of the line that lasted for several seconds. Finally Lucas Tremayne said, 'I don't know why Guy

Fournier told you that, Mongo, but it's bullshit. I have absolute confidence in my source, and he tells me that the arrangement of the symbols and objects on that altar is what he calls a 'protection array.''

'The general was praying to Fournier for protection?'

'No, Mongo. The victim was praying for protection from Fournier. I don't know what Fournier did to that man, or what the man thought Fournier was going to do to him, but the victim was absolutely terrified of him.'

Chapter 8

Guy Fournier wasn't listed in the telephone directory, so it was back to Faul Hall. I'd set my alarm for 2:00 A.M. I rose, dressed, packed an appropriate computer diskette and some simple burglary tools in a duffel bag, then headed out and took the subway downtown. I got off near the university campus and spent a half hour casually strolling the perimeter, checking out security. There were a couple of guards on foot and two in a marked car, but all in all the security didn't look any tighter than it had been when I'd taught there years before. Finally I darted across the campus, keeping to the moon shadows under trees and beside buildings, until I reached Faul Hall. I used the weighted end of a rope to snare the bottom rung of the fire escape on the side of the building, then clambered up to the third floor and the window of Fournier's office. Using a penlight, shielding the glow with my body, I carefully checked around the edges of the frame for thin wires or a magnet that would indicate an alarm system that would have to be disabled. There wasn't any. The window was locked, but it took me less than half a minute to jimmy it open with a small crowbar. I climbed in over the windowsill, then closed the window behind me so as not to attract the attention of any passing security guard. Then I went directly to the computer console.

Unlike the rest of the office, the workstation was uncluttered, without even a sheet of paper or a manual on the steel table that supported the IBM computer. Using my penlight, I searched through the three drawers in the table, but found no diskettes-not even blank ones. Whatever information there was might be on the computer's hard drive. I turned on the machine and executed a few keystrokes to see what kinds of programs and menus I was dealing with. On one list I found indications of several coded files, markers on the trail to what I was looking for. I inserted the blank diskette I had brought with me, then executed a command to copy Fournier's files. That would take a while. While the computer whirred away at its busy-work, I went over and sat down behind Fournier's desk.

Again using my penlight, I searched through the desk drawers more carefully, found nothing but a collection of paper clips, rubber bands, and a dozen sharpened pencils of various colors that he apparently used to grade student papers. There were no filing cabinets. Except for whatever might be in his computer, Dr. Guy Fournier traveled light in the record-keeping department.

The books and magazines on his desk, many of them marked in a dozen or more places, all looked like standard armament for a professor of comparative religion. I leaned back in the chair, played the thin pencil of light around the office, over the stacks of literature piled on the floor to the hundreds of books filling the bookcases. I wondered how he found anything when he was looking for it.

Or how anybody else would find anything, assuming they were looking for something that could not be reduced to bytes of data and stored in a password-coded computer file. The place still looked more like a storage area than an office, but it also looked like an excellent place to hide something; burying it in plain sight, as it were.

I got up, began working my way slowly through the stalagmites of literature on the floor. There were books and magazines in French and English on everything from anthropology to Zen Buddhism, and they were all covered