"It's unfortunate that you got an early taste of how things can go here. From the minute you set foot in this country until the minute you leave, you're struck by the contrast between how beautiful the countryside is while how incredibly impoverished the people are. I'm from Chicago and I grew up in a pretty rough area on the South Side, but it was heaven compared to this place."
He pointed Brian to a black Tahoe with diplomatic plates that was idling at the curb. When Tom knocked on the tailgate, the driver raised it so Brian could put his luggage inside. As he opened the rear door, Brian observed that the vehicle had been modified. The door was much thicker than normal and was reinforced with steel. Tom took the passenger seat and Brian heard the doors lock with a solid thump as they pulled away.
Their driver was dressed in the same casual clothes as his partner. He gave Brian a wave. "I'm Gordon White, Mr. Sadler. We're taking you to the Marriott, correct?"
Brian confirmed his hotel and Tom said, "Gordon's a Texas boy - I think you are too, right?"
"Right. I was born in Longview and I live in Dallas now."
"Texarkana boy myself," White replied. "Just up the road from Longview. Small world."
He learned that they were active-duty Marines, part of a team serving a two-year tour in Port-au-Prince. Their primary responsibility was security of embassy personnel and their families. "Usually we're protecting the ambassador or other staffers when they're outside the compound," Tom explained. "And other times it's babysitting. For instance, we take the ambassador's kids back and forth to school every day." Security was tight at the embassy, he continued. Given the general uncertainty in the world today and the specific animosity many Haitians felt toward Americans, there were occasional demonstrations and burnings in effigy.
They talked for a moment about his plans for tomorrow. First was his meeting with the ambassador and then a short plane ride. Before Brian's arrival they had been briefed on his plans to fly to Cap-Haitien in northern Haiti to visit the area where archaeologists had recently found what could be the remains of the Santa Maria. He also wanted to see the coastline; somewhere nearby was the site of the missing fort of La Navidad. Tom had arranged the flight and would accompany Brian on his day trip.
When they arrived at the hotel, Tom handed Brian a thick embassy envelope and his business card. "You'll find safety information in here," he advised. "I suggest you read it even if you don't plan on going far. Two quick things I can't emphasize strongly enough. Don't go anywhere at night without us, and don't go to the slums - the Cite Soleil - at all. It's indescribably bad. You might be tempted to walk around town in the daytime, but I'd rather you call me and let us pick you up. A hotel driver's the only other solution; taking a taxi is a good way to get robbed."
He checked in and went to his room, thankful for a decent hotel and connectivity. Having a rare couple of hours of free time, he logged on to the Internet and let Nicole know he was situated. Then he knocked out a couple of work-related projects he'd brought along in case there was time. As the sun was setting, he headed down to the hotel's beautiful La Sirene Restaurant and took a table on an expansive veranda that overlooked the capital. The darkness hid the poverty-ridden city and its one million inhabitants, many of whom lived in the slums he'd been cautioned about. Tonight the view was stunning, with tall office buildings nearby and towering mountains in the distance. This scene could have been the skyline in Vancouver instead of Port-au-Prince.
At 9:30 a.m. he met Tom in the lobby. Although he wore a jacket and tie for his meeting with the ambassador, Brian had stashed jeans and a Polo shirt in his backpack for the trip to Cap-Haitien. The embassy occupied a three-story building in a suburb not far from the Marriott. He had coffee and conversation with the official, passed along President Harrison's greetings and gave him the envelope. A half hour later they were on their way.
Brian changed clothes in the private aviation terminal at the airport. He and Tom boarded a twin-engine Cessna 421 he'd chartered for the one-hour flight to Cap-Haitien, where they'd spend the day. An embassy-arranged driver met them and soon they were heading northwest out of the city. Tom and the driver knew each other from previous trips and they conversed in French as he drove through the beautiful countryside.
They arrived at a desolate knoll covered by scrub and grass. Ocean breezes swept over the landscape and powerful waves crashed onto a deserted beach a hundred feet below. Brian found it easy to imagine the Santa Maria just out there on the water that fateful night when a cabin boy had steered the ship to disaster. The driver spoke to Tom, who pointed and interpreted, "A hundred yards or so out there is a hidden sandbar. It's the place the archaeologists believe what's left of the Santa Maria lies. Our driver is from this area. When he was young, his grandfather brought him here and said the fortress of La Navidad stood on this high ground. He thinks it's true."
The driver spoke again and then ran back to the car and opened the trunk.
Tom explained that the man had brought along a shovel and a metal detector. "He says he's never used one here before. I'm hoping it might show us something; I doubt much searching has been done out here with detectors."
Good planning, Brian mused, just hoping the guy hadn't come out yesterday and planted something for them to "discover."
They spent an hour establishing a grid and the driver began searching the expanse. He occasionally got a hit, turning up things like bottle caps, a horseshoe and coins from the 1960s. While he used the machine, Tom and Brian searched unsuccessfully for any sign of a structure or that people had once lived here.
They took a break for sandwiches and colas the driver had been instructed to pack for their lunches. Then he went back to work, walking the grid and swinging the machine back and forth slowly.
Two long hours passed; Brian and Tom walked the shoreline, looked out to sea in the general direction where the shipwreck might have been, and killed time while the driver kept working.
Brian was about to call it quits when the driver got the best signal of the day. With a whoop he put down his detector and began to dig furiously. Twelve inches down he hit something solid, knelt and swept away the dirt with his hands. He brought up an intact small round clay pot three inches in diameter that was sealed with a lid. Brian and Tom excitedly crowded around him to see it.
He spoke rapidly as he brushed off the vessel, hoping to see an inscription but finding only a smooth surface.
Tom told the driver to put the pot down. "We need to take a breather," he said to Brian. "The driver wants to open it. Haitian law on antiquities says we must turn the pot over to the government in Cap-Haitien without examining it any further. Since I'm the employee of a foreign government, there could be serious repercussions if we break the law. Legally we can’t allow him to open it."
Brian had been in this situation more than once in the past. Here they stood on a remote hill. The last people they'd encountered were in a horse-drawn carriage ten miles back on the road. Third-world countries had laws to protect antiquities, but the locals didn't care. If the driver had been alone, he'd have opened the pot. To be honest, Brian figured he would have too. It was illegal, but there was a practical side to the situation too.
"If you're saying we're taking this to town and turning it in, we'll never learn what's inside. If there's anything valuable, no museum will ever see it either. The government official you turn it over to - that's the one guy who'll benefit from our find. I’m meeting with the head archaeologist for the entire country tomorrow morning. I’ll explain to him what we’ve done."
Tom agreed. "Works for me. You're the one footing the bill, so you'll hear no argument from me if you let him open it. I just pointed out what I felt obligated to say."
The pot would be opened, but Brian was first going to do some basic fieldwork to record the venue and establish where it was found. He took pictures of the area, the hole it came out of and the vessel. From a field kit he'd brought, he took out a ruler to measure depths and the size of the pot. He
shot a lot more photos, satisfying himself that he'd done as much - and probably far more - to record this find than the Haitian government would have done. When he was done he turned to the driver and with a smile said, "Let's see what's in that damned pot. Be careful! I don't want it broken if you can help it."
"Allez-y mais ne le cassez pas," Tom said. Go ahead, but don't break it.
The driver ran a penknife carefully along the seal that held the lid tight. Once he'd released it, he slowly twisted the lid until he could pull it off. He looked inside and smiled at the others as he began to shake it. Jingling. There was something metal inside.
He handed the jar to Brian, who turned it and shook out a handful of pieces, mostly round but some irregular. With his thumb, he wiped the surface of one and saw a shield and stylish letters around the circumference of one side. The other had two engravings.
He took a cloth and a magnifying loupe from the kit and examined the piece closely. He wrote the legible letters on his notepad:
F E R N _ _ _ V S E T E _ _ S A B
He began to tremble with excitement. Coins and currency weren't his area of expertise, but like everything else in his business, he had a basic knowledge about them. These were coins and they were like ones he'd seen in Central America. One important question remained - were they dated? He examined both sides closely and saw nothing.
Perfect! Just as he'd hoped, there was no date.
Tom had remained quiet for as long as he could. Noting Brian's enthusiasm, he asked excitedly, "So what do you think?"
"They're definitely coins."
"French?" Tom was referring to when France ruled Haiti - the 1600s until 1804.
"Earlier. These are Spanish reals. I don't know the denomination because the early ones weren't marked. This one also doesn't have a date, which is good news for us. Around 1600 they started putting dates on them. I think these coins are much older than that. I think they date back to the 1400s."
"Seriously? What makes you think that?"
Brian drew a breath. This was heady stuff and he was so exhilarated he could hardly form the words. "Because of the letters." He showed Tom the notepad.
"But some are missing."
"And I know what they are. I've seen copper coins like these before."
He filled in the blanks:
F E R N A N D V S E T E L I S A B
Tom still didn't understand. "What does it say now?"
"They're names. In English, they're Ferdinand and Isabel. You know them, right? You can't live in Haiti and not know everything about Columbus."
"Of course. Isabel was the queen of Spain, the one who sent him to the New World." He paused to fill in the driver.
There was a rapid-fire response and a Haitian whose face looked like he was waiting to find out what prize was behind door number one.
"He'd like to know if these coins are valuable."
"Not as much as you'd think, although to him a hundred bucks is probably a fortune. To be so old and historically significant they aren't that rare at all. There are thousands of them in the hands of collectors. Think about it - hundreds of Spanish ships came to and from Europe over a two-hundred-year span and everybody on board had these copper coins. They used them to trade with the locals. These turn up on beaches all over the Caribbean. In pristine condition, they're worth a few hundred dollars. One in this shape might bring seventy-five."
Tom translated for the driver and then said, "If I'm understanding correctly, the exciting part here is not so much the coins, but what it might mean that they were buried here. You're the expert - does this tell you the fortress of La Navidad was nearby?"
"Scientists would require more evidence than a pot of fifteenth-century Spanish coins that somehow ended up buried on a windy hill in Haiti that could be the place where the Santa Maria was wrecked. I don't believe much in coincidence, but then again I'm not a scientist either. My bet is that one of Columbus's thirty-nine men buried his stash of coins, intending to someday dig them up again but getting massacred by Indians before he got back to it. As crazy as it sounds, I think we may be onto something here. La Navidad may have been right where we're standing."
CHAPTER NINE
They spent another hour at the site but turned up only modern debris. Brian called a halt; it was time to head to the airport. As they drove back to Cap-Haitien, the driver and Tom were deep in a conversation marked by exhilaration and smiles. Brian expected the driver would drop them and hurry back as quickly as he could to keep looking.
Brian sat in the backseat and looked at each coin without removing any dirt and grime. That would happen back in the States, where they could be examined without damaging them.
The agent finally turned to Brian and said, "He says he has a cousin in Port-au-Prince who sells artifacts. He admits most of the guy's stuff is modern fakes designed for tourists, but our driver's seen some very old books - maybe ship's logs, maybe something else - at his cousin's shop. He thinks they may have something to do with Columbus. He wants us to divvy up the coins and then he'll give you his number. This could be a con - these guys are masters at it. Whether he has a cousin, whether there are any old books, who knows? All he wants is a third of the coins. Keep in mind too that lots of these drivers speak a little English, but they don't want you to know it. Watch what you say."
"We can't split up the coins. I must examine every single one of them. These are historical artifacts and there's no telling what they might reveal. There are thirty-three coins. I'll pay him in cash for his third of the stash and you the same for yours."
Tom raised his hands in mock surrender. "Not me! I'm out of this deal. I've broken enough laws for one day! It's fifty-fifty between you and him. Let me see what I can do."
He and the driver went back and forth. Despite the language barrier, their bartering was unmistakable.
"He'll take four hundred for his share. You might have negotiated better than I did, but we started at a thousand and here's where we ended up."
Without hesitating, Brian handed over the cash - the equivalent of a year's wages for the lucky driver. Brian felt lucky too; he'd have paid more.
"Now ask him about his cousin's books."
The driver listened to Tom, shaking his head emphatically now and then. Once Tom said, "Non!" and, "Ce nest pas possible." Brian got the gist of it. Tom was rejecting some of the driver's suggestions. As they entered the suburbs of Cap-Haitien, they appeared to reach a conclusion and both seemed satisfied, which Brian took as a good sign. At a red light the driver jotted something on a piece of paper and handed it to Tom.
"Where do we stand?" Brian asked. "What did he give you?"
"The cousin's contact information. I'll tell you everything once we're alone."
They bid goodbye to the driver and soon were flying back to Port-au-Prince. "There's good news and bad news," Tom advised as he handed Brian the slip of paper.
"But we won't know that until I see what the cousin has."
"Here's the bad part. His shop's in the market at Cite Soleil - the slums. As a government employee, I'm expressly forbidden from going there, so you'd be on your own. If you got into trouble, it's likely we couldn't get you out. It's a frightening place, Brian. I can't emphasize that enough. I don't know where you've been in your world travels, but I guarantee you've never seen the likes of this."
"After all that gloom and doom, what's the good news?"
"The good news is that you apparently have the cousin's contact information and the driver promised to call ahead. His cousin speaks some English, which also helps, and the driver's a reliable guy we've used before, so there may be something to this. I have to say again that regardless of how enticing this news may be, you really don't want to go -"
Brian interrupted with a grin. "Okay, okay. You only need to tell me once. I get it. Cite Soleil's not a safe place for Americans."
"I don't think you really understand," Tom replied tersely. "It's not safe for anybody. It's a hellhole."
It
was dusk when they arrived back at the Marriott. Tom made Brian promise he wouldn't leave the hotel without calling first. "If you decide to go in there alone, at least tell me so we can notify your next of kin when you never return."
"Funny," Brian retorted.
"I wasn't joking."
To be honest, Brian didn't know what to do. He had only two days left in Haiti, and as excited as he was, he knew better than to go into the slums after dark. He called the cousin's number and was pleased to discover that the driver had followed through; the man was expecting Brian's call. The shopkeeper said he'd bring some Columbus-related items to the Marriott tomorrow evening so that Brian wouldn't have to come to his stall in the Cite Soleil.
Brian laid the thirty-three coins out on his bed and looked them over once again. He examined the pot and found nothing remarkable about it. He'd send it to an expert he knew in hopes he'd find out its age. He put the coins in a baggie and locked them and the pot in his room safe.
He met the agents at eight thirty the next morning. Today was museum day; they would drive him to several sites around the capital, but there was a first stop. The ambassador had arranged a meeting with the director of Antiquities, Haiti's top archaeologist.
As they wound through the busy streets, Brian told Tom he'd contacted the shopkeeper and they were meeting at six thirty tonight.
Tom replied, "I'd like to join you. I'm sure you'll be safe in the hotel, but you're still my responsibility while you're in Haiti." That was fine with Brian; he had thought already about asking him because his fluency in French could help.
The French also came in handy today when Brian met with the archaeologist. In developed nations, many things that are taken for granted - the arts, archaeology, historic preservation and the like - are the bastard stepchildren of third-world countries. In impoverished and often corrupt nations like Haiti, funds barely exist even for essentials such as highway infrastructure. The National Museum building was a good example. A once-imposing and stately building, today it needed a good power washing and was seriously overdue for maintenance. Missing windowpanes were covered by cardboard and there were a hundred cigarette butts tossed away beside the massive entry doors. Just inside the building, an old woman sat in a chair. When they approached, she held out her hand and Tom gave her a coin.
The Black Cross (Brian Sadler Archaeological Thrillers Book 6) Page 6
