by Evan Graver
The boys continued to jabber amongst themselves until the boy Ryan had determined was the leader cut them off by saying, “For you, Cowboy.”
“What’s the fascination with calling every American Cowboy?”
“You are all John Wayne.” He made pistols with his fingers and imitated pulling them from a holster and shooting. “Bang. Bang.”
“I need to borrow a phone,” Ryan said.
“Where’s yours?”
“I dropped it on the bus on the way up here. I need to call my friend to let them know I’m here. I have some cash.”
“American dollars?”
“Oui.” Yes.
“Ah, he speaks French so well.” The boys began laughing.
“How much?” Ryan demanded, trying not to lose patience with the toughs.
“How much you got, American?”
“Ten dollars,” Ryan replied.
“For one call.”
“Fine.”
The boy handed over a new Samsung smart phone. Ryan dialed Greg’s number and got no answer. He began to dial another number, but the boy stopped him.
“One call, ten dollars. You make second call. It’s also ten dollars.”
Ryan handed over another ten bucks because he knew the boy would be pissed when he got the bill for an international call. Landis answered on the third ring.
“Landis, it’s Ryan. Don’t hang up.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Milot, Haiti.” He stepped two paces away from the boys. “I’m meeting Toussaint this afternoon at the Citadelle Laferrière.”
“The Haitian warlord? Is he the one buying weapons?”
“I assume so.”
“Okay,” Landis said. “I’m trying to line up some troops. We put protection on the girls.”
Ryan asked, “Can we get Larry Grove and his crew down here?”
“No go as of now. I’m trying. State doesn’t want to mess with anything happening in Haiti right now. They wouldn’t care if a nuke went off there. Right now, it’s up to you and Mango. Greg was in Jamaica, last I heard, and in the company of your bounty hunter, Volk.”
“Shit,” Ryan said with a roll of his eyes. Why couldn’t Greg stay out of this?
“I imagine they’re headed for Cap-Haïtien, or already there.”
“I’ll look for him.”
“Be careful down there. Toussaint Bajeux and Volk are some bad hombres.”
“Roger that. I’ll call or send a signal when I have more information.” Ryan hung up and erased the phone numbers from the phone’s memory. He hit a number on the phone’s favorites list to initiate a call to overwrite the data he’d just erased. Ryan knew getting the numbers was fairly easy if the user had a computer with recovery software. He wasn’t sure if this kid was that sophisticated, but he could at least cover his tracks for a little while. He handed the phone back along with a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks.”
“No problem, Cowboy.”
Ryan walked across the veranda and pretended to take in the view. From the corner of his eye, he watched the boy scroll through his phone. The boy looked up at Ryan before shoving the phone into his pocket. He and his companions hopped over the wall and disappeared into the jungle. Ryan figured Toussaint would know he made phone calls before he made it to the top of the Citadel.
He skipped the tour of the Sans-Souci Palace and searched out the four-wheel drive trucks designated to take tourists most of the way to the fortress. He paid the fee and climbed into the back with several other hikers. The ride was forty minutes over a rough road that jarred and jostled the passengers. At a small parking lot, the truck disgorged its commuters, and they set off up a paved path of rough cobblestones.
Ryan knew he was being watched. He could feel the eyes on his every move. He stopped at a small booth, what would pass for a rundown lemonade stand in the States, and purchased a coconut water. A stooped black woman used a machete to carve the top of a green coconut into a cone. She finished the job by lopping off the cone’s point and inserting a straw.
Ryan took a sip and said, “Oh, that’s good.” He took another long drink. “I’m meeting Toussaint Bajeux at the Citadel. Have you seen him go by?”
If she recognized the name, her wrinkled face didn’t show it. Her body was willow thin under a colorful dress and her hair streaked with silver. She shook her head. “Non.”
The worn athletic shoes he used for running and sightseeing were not the best choice of footwear for the long hike. They were better than the leather deck shoes he wore on the boat. His feet and ankles hurt, and he missed the support of his combat boots.
He continued to drink from the coconut while watching the trail. No one seemed to be paying attention to him. Even if the old woman had seen his party walk past, she probably wouldn’t have told him because he was a stranger, and a nèg blan—white man. Or she was afraid of Toussaint.
Ryan suspected Toussaint had an alternative method for arriving at the Citadel. He pulled a cigarette out and lit it while relaxing in the shade of spreading mahogany and eucalyptus trees. Barefoot children played along the trail and chased each other with shrieks and shouts. He laughed at their merriment and thanked the woman for her kindness before moving up the path with long strides.
The fortress was incredible. Moss formed a tapestry of green on the ancient rock. Pyramidal stacks of cannonballs lined the fort’s grounds, waiting for the return of the gunners to ram them home and send them flinging across the countryside. Ryan walked along the walls, climbing stairs toward the peak of the prow, Battery Croix-david. He estimated there were hundreds of stacks of cannonballs, some well over six feet high and at least a dozen feet long had been covered in wire mesh to hold them together.
He entered a courtyard with a roped-off set of stairs. A tall black man with a white skull painted on his face leaned against the stone block. He wore a top hat and had a boa constrictor draped across his shoulders. Sunlight made his muscular chest shine with perspiration under a long-tailed black coat.
“Welcome,” he said, pushing off the wall. “I am Baron Samedi, giver of life and master of death. I am awaiting your body to ensure it rots in hell.” He laughed diabolically, and half bowed as he swept a hand back and away toward the steps.
Ryan circled around him. His skin crawled when the snake lifted its head to watch him with black beady eyes. Its tongue flicked out. He couldn’t take his eyes off the snake. He hated snakes, detested their slithering bodies, and hooded eyes. His whole body shuddered. His foot caught on the rope and he almost fell as he tried to climb over it.
The vodou man laughed as he straightened and adjusted the snake. With a leering grin, he swung the snake’s head closer to Ryan. Ryan quickly retreated up the stairs, his back against the cool stone to keep an eye on the snake and still see where he was going. Baron Samedi did not follow but pulled a wooden gate across the stairs to prevent other tourists from climbing to the top.
Small weeds grew through the cracks in the stone steps. Ryan marveled at the way nature reclaimed man’s labors. At the top was a door flanked by two Haitians, holding AK-47s. One frisked Ryan thoroughly and efficiently, removing a folding knife before directing Ryan through the door. He had to duck under the low header to get into the room.
Standing just inside the door, he let his vision adjust to the dim light. Tables laden with candles provided the only illumination. The first thing he noticed was a woman clothed in a purple dress that fell to cover her feet. Purple lipstick offset her lustrous mahogany skin and her long jet-black hair had a slow curl to it. She stood behind a wiry black man, who sat in a chair with his legs crossed. He wore dark pants and an untucked white button-down shirt with the sleeves partially rolled up. Ryan’s gaze moved to the man’s face with its broad forehead, prominent cheekbones, almost square chin, and shaved head. The effect was not a handsome one.
“Welcome, Ryan Weller, ambassador of James Kilroy. I am Toussaint Bajeux.”
Ryan nodded, staring at Toussai
nt’s black eyes. It looked like the color had leaked from the irises and muddied the scleras into a strange brown.
“You have brought my merchandise, non?”
“It’s on the Santo Domingo.”
“Very good.”
“Where should we unload it?” Ryan asked.
“I will send barges to meet your ship.”
Ryan pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, keeping his eyes closed to retain his night vision in the low light of the room as the lighter’s flame flared. He offered the pack to Toussaint, the woman, and the armed man who stood in the shadows beyond the two small, round tables loaded with candles. Ryan’s eyes flicked back to the woman. She looked away, but when he focused on Toussaint, he felt her eyes on him.
Toussaint stood and walked behind the woman. When Toussaint draped an arm around her shoulders, Ryan saw her eyes flinch, but her face remained a stoic mask. He put his cigarette in his mouth, kept his thumb and forefinger on the filter, and took a long pull. He rolled his fingers to use his palm to shield his eyes from the flaring red cherry.
Toussaint leaned his face close to the woman’s. To Ryan, it looked as if it took every nerve in her being to not pull away from his thick lips. She stood rock still and pleaded with Ryan with her blue eyes. He had seen women of African heritage with blue eyes before and knew it was a genetic anomaly. Her/’s were startlingly bright and clear. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed them at first glance, but then he’d been distracted by her shapely figure.
He pulled the cigarette from his lips and let the smoke out through his nostrils.
“This,” Toussaint said proudly, “is Joulie. She is a vodou mambo—a priestess. She is my good luck charm, and soon to be my wife. Together, we will rule over Haiti.”
Her eyes closed as he used a finger to lightly brush a stray hair from her cheek.
“I was told to collect payment,” Ryan said around his cigarette.
“Ah, yes, your payment.” Toussaint stepped away from Joulie and clasped his hands behind his back. “It will be delivered when the cargo is unloaded.”
Ryan looked Toussaint in the eyes. “That’s not going to happen. I’ll take delivery of payment first.”
“You know why I am purchasing this cargo, non?”
Ryan stayed silent.
“Haiti has so much potential, yet we’ve squandered it for hundreds of years. Our labor has been exploited since the French first produced sugar here. We fought for our freedom only to be knocked down again and again. Even your United States government keeps us under its thumb by forcing us to quarter UN troops. Troops who will be remembered for bringing cholera to our country and sexually abusing our women.” He held up a finger. “True, they have built schools and hospitals and brought peace after Aristide let his grip on our people slip, but they were a foreign occupier on our sovereign shores. Even with these peacekeepers, gangs ran our nation. We, the warlords, have split the country into our own provinces, each policing our own territory, caring for our own people. Still, it is not easy. The government gives away our natural resources. Haiti has more oil than any other Caribbean nation, yet we see little money from the drilling contracts.”
Ryan listened to the man’s tirade, swiveling his gaze between Toussaint and Joulie. The guard lurked in the darkness.
“Come, let’s go outside.” Toussaint motioned for Ryan to follow. Joulie fell in step, and the guards trailed after them.
They climbed a set of stairs to the ramparts of the old fort. In the distant haze, Ryan could see Cap-Haïtien.
Toussaint walked to the angled prow and stood on the narrow point. He spread his arms to encompass the whole of the jungle. “Look at this beautiful country. We have killed our land by chopping down trees to cook and heat our homes. We have depleted the soil with poor farming practices and our rivers run with sewage and chemicals from factories and mining. Only bandits grow fat and rich in this godforsaken nation.” He dropped his arms to his sides and turned to face Ryan.
Ryan said, “Some say you made a deal with the Devil to escape French rule and he still rules your country with an iron fist. A fist made stronger by vodou.”
“Ah, the Devil,” Toussaint said with a mirthless chuckle. “He is present on this island. The vodou came with our ancestors from Africa. We look upon our vodou gods as God’s helpers, much like your Catholic saints.”
Ryan, again, remained silent. He had exhausted his thoughts on the matter. The gangster was charismatic, as were most leaders who rose to power. Toussaint’s muddied gaze roamed over Ryan and he felt a chill course through his body. In the light, Toussaint’s hooded eyelids reminded him of those of a cobra.
“Haiti has two of the world’s most powerful commodities, gold and oil. My people go hungry in their shanty towns while foreign corporations grow rich extracting our wealth. It’s time to bring the money home, to us.”
“By us, you mean you when you’ve conquered the other gangs and set up shop in Port-au-Prince.”
“You have a lot of sass for an arms dealer.”
“I’m just the delivery man.”
“Even more reason for you to fear and respect me. Your boss does. Why do you think he’s not here? Why does he send a middleman to do his dirty work?”
“To keep his hands clean,” Ryan replied.
Toussaint smiled. “Exactly. I will deliver payment when I have the equipment onshore.”
“You can inspect and test all the weapons and equipment on the ship. The gold will be loaded before we hand over a single bullet. I speak for my employer on this term. It’s non-negotiable.”
Toussaint wagged a finger at Ryan. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Weller. I like you. You will come work for me, lead troops for me.”
“I’m not a mercenary.”
“Were you a solider?”
Ryan grunted in disapproval. “I was a sailor.”
“Regardless, you took pay from your government to be a fighter. Is that not the definition of a mercenary?”
“A patriot.”
“Ah, a mercenary wrapped in the flag of his country.”
Ryan looked over at Joulie, who stood on the edge of the parapet gazing at the jungle floor, thousands of feet below. The wind ruffled the fabric of her dress and tousled her glossy hair.
“She is beautiful, non?”
“She is,” Ryan agreed. It was more than beauty, it was an inner strength, a magnetism that made him want to confide in her, to make love to her.
“You must come work for me when we complete this transaction.”
“I have a job,” Ryan retorted.
“I’ll make you a rich man. We’ll restore the glory of my country and take our rightful place among the island nations. Once again we’ll be the crown jewel of the Antilles.”
“I’m not looking for a war, Toussaint.”
“Yet, you are a merchant of death.”
Toussaint had made his point. Ryan was a fool to think he was anything but a mercenary and a death dealer by default, whether coerced or by choice. The original mission to find Guerrero’s pirates seemed innocuous at first glance, a self-righteous mission sanctioned by the DHS to clear hazards from the sea lanes. Taking out Arturo Guerrero had been a bonus to keep him from destroying any more of the American Southwest.
Breaking it down to bare bones, he was a mercenary paid by the U.S. government.
“Truth in my words, non?”
Ryan looked back at Toussaint. With a shrug, he said, “I’m like you. I work for what’s best for my country.”
“Yes,” Toussaint said with a rueful smile. “What the government asks us to do and what is best for the country are not always the same thing.”
“You said a mouthful there.”
Toussaint turned to a guard and motioned with his hand. The guard pulled out a cell phone and made a call.
The warlord gazed out over the landscape. “We will bring a new era to Haiti. You have a hand in that, Mr. Weller. Tomorrow, we’ll unload your ship.”
&n
bsp; From across the valley, the sound of rotor blades reached them. A dark green Bell 212, a civilian version of the Vietnam-Era UH-1 Iroquois, came charging toward them.
“Our ride to my home. Tonight, you’ll be my guest, and we’ll laugh and drink and scheme.”
“Can I have my knife back?” Ryan asked. “I’m here to sell you guns, not stab you to death.”
Toussaint gestured to the guards. One stepped forward to hand over the knife. Ryan slipped it into his pocket.
The helicopter settled on the moss-covered rocks. Its copilot hopped out and slid open the cargo door. Toussaint, Joulie, Ryan, and a guard climbed into the plush leather seats and settled headsets over their ears. Soundproof padding hung on the helicopter’s walls, but it did little to deaden the thunderous roar of the aircraft’s jet engine and rotor blades. Ryan had ridden in enough helicopters to know it was virtually impossible to communicate without the headsets.
The familiar lurch of his stomach rising into his chest accompanied the aircraft lifting off the deck. The fortress faded away as the helicopter turned north.
They flew over rugged mountains and then sprawling farm land before sweeping along the outskirts of Cap-Haïtien. Toussaint pointed out sights of interest, including the massive shipping quays and the Coast Guard base.
“What’s floating in the water?” Ryan asked.
“Trash,” Toussaint replied. “The ocean washes plastic bottles, aluminum cans, and all manner of debris from across the Atlantic. The locals pick through it to see if there is anything of value. Most of it is left to float.”
Ryan nodded. He’d seen similar rafts of junk polluting the waters and beaches of many countries. On every beach, a searcher could find cigarette butts, plastic containers, rope, fishing line, and various other litter throw away by passing ships, fisherman, and tourists. Most did not care about the litter, or if they did, there were few places to dispose of, or recycle, the garbage. It saddened him to see the apathy for the oceans.
The helicopter swept over shacks and shanties, stacked one atop the other, and painted garish shades of blue, yellow, and green, intermingled with the browns and whites of poorer hovels. A towering cathedral slid past, and they followed a long strand of beach.
