I tried to place the gun back under my belt in case the shark came back, but my arms wouldn’t move. I was too fatigued.
With all the strength I had left, I removed my belt and wrapped it around the heavy piece of wood. I fashioned a loop and hooked my arm in it. I was floating with no effort on my part.
I tried to paddle toward shore using my legs, but after a few minutes, the whole world started closing down, going gray. My legs wouldn’t move. I felt myself sinking in the water. Then all went black.
CHAPTER NINE
Beneath the National Palace
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
10:23 p.m.
JULIEN DURAN WAS HUNGRY and tired. Blood still oozed from where Lugar’s whip had struck his back, chest, and legs. His entire body ached from the whipping, but he was more concerned about Jakjak’s health than his own. His faithful servant lay on the floor, silent most of the time. When awake, Jakjak moaned and prayed to Iwa.
At around ten in the evening, Baccus and Lugar entered Jakjak’s cell, lifted the injured man to his feet, dragged him into Duran’s cell, and held him upright in front of the Minister. “If you don’t sign the papers giving me access to your banks, I’ll kill him,” Baccus said.
Minister Duran frowned. “Jakjak is dying. Take him to a hospital immediately.”
“All you have to do is sign the papers, and I’ll free him and take him to the hospital.”
Duran shook his head. “No.”
Lugar took Jakjak’s right hand and bent his index finger all the way back until Jakjak cried out in pain. Tears came to Duran’s eyes. Lugar pulled out a machete. Baccus held Jakjak’s head against Duran’s cell bars.
“Sign or I’ll blind him,” Baccus threatened,
By now, Jakjak was awake and aware. “Souple. Please, Minis Duran, don’t sign no papers. Let them kill me.”
Lugar raised the point of the blade to Jakjak’s face. Jakjak closed his eyes and shivered.
Duran shouted, “Stop! I’ll sign your goddamned papers. Just help this man.”
“Deal,” Baccus responded.
Lugar placed a small table in Duran’s cell. Baccus handed the documents and a pen to Duran.
Duran signed and wrote in the bank names and account numbers. “I’ve done my part. Now, release Jakjak as you promised.”
Baccus paused to consider the situation.
“Alright. I’ll take him to the hospital.”
“Thank you,” Duran whispered. “Thank you.”
Baccus gestured to Lugar. Even though Jakjak weighed over 200 pounds, Lugar lifted him and carried him away in his arms like a child. Baccus followed.
Dodging segments of the collapsed basement wall, they walked fifty yards to a closed door. The moment Baccus opened it, the stench of the dozen rotting corpses inside hit them in the face. Lugar threw Jakjak on the stack of bodies. Jakjak never moved.
Baccus walked to Jakjak, raised his pistol, and closed his left eye, aiming at Jakjak’s head. He was about to pull the trigger but lowered the gun to his side.
“What’s the problem? Would you rather I shot him?”
“No. I’m afraid the sound of the gun may echo down the hallway and make Minister Duran suspicious. There are more papers for him to sign, and I need his cooperation. If this man’s not already dead, he’ll die shortly.”
Jakjak’s body lay still as they walked away.
CHAPTER TEN
Ministry of Finance
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
6:30 a.m.
TOMAS HAD STAYED IN his father’s office, sleeping on the sofa. When he awoke, he turned on the computer to find that during the night, one billion dollars had been transferred from the Haiti Relief Aid Fund to Disaster Inc.
There was also an e-mail from the Office of the President. The night before, Tomas had requested information concerning the nature of Disaster Inc. He quickly opened and read the response:
Disaster Inc. is unknown to Haitian officials and not listed with any group operating in Haiti.
Tomas searched through the rest of the mail. Again, he found no message from his father or his captors.
It had been a long, hard night. Over the course of the evening, Tomas had left the office for only forty-five minutes for dinner, and while he was gone, the body of Cheval had been removed. All the while, he’d felt as though someone was watching him.
His cell phone rang. The caller ID read “Caller Unknown.”
“Yes?” he answered.
A raspy, mechanically altered voice said, “Your father has signed the papers. By his choice, he has imbibed spirits in excess. He is drunk now, and his signature reflects this.”
“Is he alright?” Tomas asked.
“He’s fine.”
“Let me speak with him.”
“No. He says he does not wish to talk to you yet. Maybe soon.”
“Where is he?”
“On St. John.”
“When can I see him?”
“Soon.”
“I will not cooperate until I see him.”
“Then he will die.”
The line went dead.
Tomas’ cell phone rang again. He recognized the number: It was Javier Conrad, Chief of the Haitian National Police. Tomas picked up.
“Dr. Duran, this is Chief Conrad. There’s been trouble.”
Tomas started to respond but decided to hear what Conrad had to say first.
“I just got a call from Captain Paulissen. Your friend from America, the doctor, went berserk on the Ana Brigette and shot up the place. He killed some of the crew.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Tomas said.
“Believe what you want, but he shot several of the sailors and jumped overboard,” Conrad said. “The Captain said he may be swimming to Léogâne. Have you seen or heard from him? You’re his only contact on the island, so if he survived the swim, he’ll be calling you. The currents were strong last night, so he may well have drowned. Hard to see how he could have swum that far in the current.”
Tomas didn’t answer.
Chief Conrad was quiet for a minute before saying, “If he does contact you, call me immediately. He is dangerous.”
Tomas hung up without mentioning anything about his father.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Beach near Miragoâne, Haiti
7:30 a.m.
I FELT SOMETHING HIT my feet. Is it the shark? Back to finish me off?
I lifted my legs and looked for the gun. It was gone.
Then I felt something dragging across my legs. I tried to kick it, but my feet struck a familiar surface … sand! I was on land!
And it was daylight.
A wave broke over my face. I lifted my head and coughed as I inhaled sea water.
I unhooked my arm from the belt that bound me to the timber and struggled to my feet.
My legs were wobbly, and the left one hurt. I looked down. There was no blood, but there was an abrasion where the shark’s body had hit my leg. It felt like sandpaper had been rubbed against me, abrading my skin.
I stumbled up onto the dry beach and looked around. A dead, seven-foot shark lay just a few yards down the beach. Blood oozed from a hole in its head.
When the shark had hit me, I was a long way from land and it was still dark. The last thing I remembered was tying myself to the plank.
The current must have changed when the tide changed.
I’d been lucky.
The beach was isolated. Two miles to the west, I could see several houses with a half dozen fishing boats in the water in front of them. To my east were only isolated beaches as far as I could see. I started walking toward the fishing village, but I was so stiff and sore from the previous night’s swimming party that it took a quarter-mile for my muscles to loosen up. My right ankle was raw from the
burn I’d inflicted on myself with my cigarette lighter.
When I reached the village, I walked up to a fisherman who was mending his lines after an early-morning trip. The man was old, between seventy-five and eighty. He smiled and extended his hand when I approached, giving his name as “Claude.” I shook his hand.
One of the reasons I’d chosen to come to Haiti was because I got to use my French, which was passable. “Any luck fishing today?” I asked.
“I’ve been fishing since I was a boy, and my catches get smaller each year. In the old days, fish were that long.” He held his outstretched hands about two feet apart. “And I could fill my boat with them. I made a good living selling snapper and yellowtails. Now, I get barely enough to feed my family. Except for today. I had an exceptional catch this morning. See here?”
I looked in his five-gallon bucket, which had about ten fish, each no more than six inches long.
“What’s so exceptional about those?”
He pointed to three fish about five inches in length, brown with black polka dots on their undersides, and with sharp protruding teeth. The fisherman picked up one of them and scratched its belly. It blew up like a balloon. He smiled and looked at me. “I’ll get two thousand gourdes apiece for these puffer fish, and only about two hundred for all the rest
of them.”
“Must taste good to sell for that much.”
Claude laughed. “No, it’s not wise to eat them.”
“Why would anyone buy fish he couldn’t eat?”
The old man cleared his throat. “Certain priests and priestesses use them in religious ceremonies.”
I waited for him to explain, but he just looked at me with a blank expression.
Finally, I asked, “How far is it to Miragoâne? I need to make a phone call so I can get a ride back to Léogâne.
“There is no need to go to Miragoâne. I can help you. There are more phones in this village than there are fish in these waters. And I have a motor bike. For two hundred gourdes, I’ll drive you to Léogâne. With the bad roads, it takes an hour and a half to get there.”
I made a quick calculation. He was asking for only about five US dollars. “I accept your kind offer. And I’ll give you another two hundred gourdes to borrow a telephone for a few minutes.”
Claude smiled and ran to the first cottage.
I reached in my pocket. My wallet was soaking wet, but the gourdes I’d put in it for another bottle of American bourbon were still there. So were the five, one-hundred-dollar bills I’d folded and tucked under my driver’s license.
The fisherman quickly returned with a Samsung Galaxy smart phone and gratefully accepted the money I gave him.
“Nice phone,” I said. Since coming to Haiti, I’d been continually amazed that almost everyone had a cell phone and that many had expensive ones, like this one. People couldn’t afford food and clothing, but their budgets permitted the purchase of black-market technology.
I turned my back on Claude and dialed Tomas’ number. I was surprised, first, that the phone worked and, second, that Tomas answered so quickly.
“Hello, Tomas. This is—”
“What happened?” Tomas interrupted. “Police Chief Conrad is looking for you. He says you shot up the hospital ship and killed two people.”
“Whoa! Wait a minute. That’s not what happened. The Ana Brigette was hijacked on Monday by thirty terrorists. They shot everyone but me, Captain Paulissen, and one crewman. They kept me alive in case you called.”
“What? How’d you escape? Where are you now?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“I have some problems here, too,” Tomas said. “My dad’s been kidnapped, one of his aides has been killed, and the Haiti Relief Aid Fund is being liquidated.”
“Look, there may be ears listening. Better if we talk in person. I’ll be there in a few hours.”
“I’m at my dad’s office. But don’t come here. They know our connection, so I’m sure they’re watching. The police will arrest you on sight,” Tomas warned. “And dump your clothes. Wear something native and try to look French.”
‘‘I’ll call when I get to the city, and you can tell me where to meet you.”
I turned to the fisherman and offered to double his fee if he’d bring the smart phone with us and swap clothes with me. He was happy to oblige.
While the old man went to get his moped, I used the smart phone to send an e-mail to the address, [email protected]:
I’m in Haiti. Our little friend with
the big Rolex is having us for dinner.
I need your brilliant mind (and your
beautiful body). Please come. STAT.
I’m on the run. So be obscure and safe.
I thought about “beautiful body” and quickly struck it, replacing it with “and your beautiful presence.” I thought it best to play it low-key.
I pressed the send button and hoped the message would get through.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Aden, Yemen
Midnight
AFTER A TWELVE-HOUR flight from Haiti in his Learjet 60, Omar Farok boarded a police boat, paid each of the two Yemeni policeman 81,000 yer (almost $400), and motored to an isolated beach just south of the Mercuri Aden Hotel. Two of his Congolese bodyguards waded up to their thighs to greet Farok and assist him from the boat. They held the diminutive man high in the air to keep the water off his black suit and pleated white shirt with diamond buttons.
They entered a Jeep parked at the edge of the Adriatic Sea and drove to a side entrance of a nearby four-story, five-star hotel. Avoiding the elevator, they carried Farok up the stairs to a lavishly appointed five-room suite.
Farok entered the large bathroom/dressing room, where three, young, attractive women seated him in front of a mirror. Two of them wiped the moisture from his face, shaved his eight-hour stubble, and applied fresh make-up. The third woman manicured and polished his nails.
His bodyguards removed their seawater and sweat-drenched clothing and put on freshly laundered black suits, starched white shirts, and new-from-the-box black shoes.
After thirty minutes, Farok entered the living room. Ten men dressed in business suits sat in gold and blue, satin-covered wingback chairs. Four bodyguards stood beside two of the men. Farok directed them to a second dining room to “give a little privacy to his distinguished visitors.” Once the bodyguards saw the beautiful girls, they readily accepted the invitation.
Farok stood before the group. At five-foot-six and 120 pounds, he was dwarfed by the six-foot-four, muscular, Congolese bodyguards flanking him.
“I’m sure you are hungry after your long journey here,” he said. “I have a special treat for you.”
He clapped his hands, and a stream of servers entered bearing tray after tray of Middle Eastern delicacies. On a long buffet table, they placed falafel, khooshkash kebab with rare lamb, fried kibbeh, baba ghannouj, and an endless parade of desserts.
Sitting at the head of the large banquet table, Farok held his glass high. “Drink the best, triple-distilled arak made here in our host country. For those who choose to abstain, enjoy the best Turkish coffee in the world, prepared in my own factory.”
The men all raised their glasses and toasted. “To our esteemed leader. May he direct us in great conquests.”
After the men had feasted, Farok stood and addressed his guests in a quiet voice. “Jorad Hormand is dead. Our ISIS leader died bravely in an assault on America. Before his death, he appointed me as his successor.”
A man in the second row stood and said, “You have credited yourself with the planning of that mission.”
“Thank you for your input, General Moza. That mission was bold and successful. It planted fear in the hearts of all Americans, fear that we will strike again and soon.”
The still-standing general continued.
“You planned it so well that all of our people involved were either killed or captured. Those that died are honorable in the eyes of Allah. But the captives revealed secrets vital to ISIS. Because of that, more than a hundred of our leaders and best soldiers are detained at Guantanamo, and most of our bank accounts have been seized. Our once generous benefactors now refuse our pleas for funding. Our coffers are nearly empty.” The general paused. “And you are to blame.” He turned to speak to everyone in the room. “ISIS, under the guidance of the emir, Farok, is not the way. I am going to give my allegiance to Al Qaeda.”
The general looked around the room to see whether any of the other men supported him. But they remained mute. Four of Farok’s guards entered the room.
“General, I appreciate your comments and thank you for them. Now, I am sorry that you and I do not see eye to eye.” Farok clapped his hands, and the black-suited Congolese grabbed the general.
“Simbau! Hajar! Help me!” he shouted to his own attendants, but neither of them appeared.
One of the Congolese men clamped a hand over the general’s mouth.
The other guests in the room looked around at Farok’s men. One of the guests stood to leave the room but the guards blocked his exit.
Farok’s guards dragged General Moza to the adjacent bedroom. On the bed were the bodies of his bodyguards, Simbau and Hajar, as well as the bodies of all the other guards. Blood still flowed from deep gashes in their necks.
Moza looked from one dead man to the other and then back at his assailants. His face paled and his eyes opened wide. As he opened his mouth to call out, a man slashed his throat with a jambiya dagger. His words bubbled through the blood that flowed over his windpipe.
A second man in Farok’s assembly stood and was about to speak when he heard the gurgling utterances of the dying man. Quickly, he sat down.
“Sirhan, you wish to speak about my authority? The floor is open for your remarks,” Farok said softly.
“No. I have nothing to say.”
“Anyone else wish to have the floor?” Farok said, raising his voice.
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