A color photo displayed the book. He’d seen many like it before. Books were a love of his. He collected them by the hundreds, all encased in plastic sheaths, lined on metal shelves in his basement back in Atlanta. Pam hated them, as they took up a lot of room, not to mention the money he spent on them. But he was a hopeless bibliophile. A dream that he allowed himself to sometimes enjoy was to one day own a rare-book shop.
He wondered what it was about this book that was so interesting.
The brochure noted that the auction began at 6:00 P.M. His watch read a little after two. He decided that his anonymity could be stretched a little further, so he’d be there to see what happened.
He left the room, relocked the door, and made his way downstairs to the lobby. He needed to find Dubois. His ally had said he’d wait outside the main gates, on the street. People streamed back and forth through the hotel from the courtyard, two restaurants, and a bar that was doing a brisk business for the middle of the afternoon. He turned for the main doors and was immediately flanked by a man on either side. Both were young, clean-shaven, with short hair, dressed casually, their shirttails out.
“Mr. Malone,” one of them said.
So much for being anonymous. He said nothing and waited for them to make the next move.
“You need to come with us.”
He stopped walking. “I hope you have a better reason than that.”
“Like I said. You
He could take them both. No problem. So he held his ground. “I don’t need to do anything.”
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
He followed his minders toward the ruin across a carpet of green grass. He recalled that
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. “
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.”
Now he was getting angry. “So you let them kill him?”
“We didn’t let anything happen. It just did. Our surveillance on Simon is loose. We can’t spook him. He has no idea we’re watching. I want to keep it that way.”
“But you knew Scott was in danger?”
“With his background we figured he could take care of himself.”
“You figured wrong.”
Schwartz caught the message, but seemed undeterred. “You know the rules of this game.”
Yes, he did. But that didn’t mean he either liked or approved of them. One day, maybe, he’d get out, and then he could play by his own rules.
“My brother-in-law took a lot of chances. But he never played for keeps. His marks were the nonviolent type.
“But he took something Simon wants back.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t know what that is.”
“And you want me to find out?”
“We were hoping you might help.”
He was still pissed about the cavalier attitude toward Scott’s death. He may not have liked Scott Brown, but the man was Ginger’s husband and she was family, and that counted for something.
And another reality hit home.
Seemed not only Scott had stumbled into a mess. So had he.
