by Gar Wilson
"There are thousands of Haitian refugees in the United States," Katz said. "It shouldn't be surprising if a few of them happen to be criminals like Tigershark."
"Not just criminals, Yakov," the Cuban insisted. "Jenson said Tigershark always wore a short-sleeved blue shirt and dark glasses."
"That's right," Manning confirmed. "And there were several more black guys dressed the same way at the warehouse."
"That's the unofficial uniform of the Ton Ton Macout," Encizo declared. "The secret police of Haiti."
"I've heard of them," James nodded. "Real sons of bitches. Papa Doc's version of the Gestapo."
"Papa Doc?" Ohara frowned.
"That was the nickname for François Duvalier," Encizo explained. "He became president of Haiti back in 1957. Later made himself president for life in order to insure his absolute authority on Haiti. Duvalier was one of the worst tyrants in history. He set up the Ton Ton Macout to enforce his oppressive rule."
"Yeah," James agreed. "The Ton Ton Macout was part of Papa Doc's method of taking advantage of the widespread belief in voodooism, which is still practiced in Haiti."
"I thought Catholicism was the main religion in Haiti now," Manning said.
"Don't believe it," Encizo replied. "That's a smoke screen by the Haitian government. Voodoo is still the main religion in Haiti."
"That's right," James added. "Catholic saints serve double duty for voodoo gods. Christian symbols are used as magic amulets, and Latin scriptures are combined with juju chants in rituals. Christianity hasn't conquered voodoo in Haiti. It's been incorporated into the old religion."
"How do you blokes know so much about this mumbo jumbo?" McCarter asked.
"Those who practice voodoo don't consider it mumbo jumbo," James said almost defensively. "Any more than Christians or Jews regard their religions to be just superstitions. I know a little about it because voodoo is part of black America. Africans brought to the western hemisphere were denied their freedom, their culture, the right to speak their native language."
"And missionaries tried to force them to adopt Christianity," Katz added.
"Right," James said, nodding. "But you can't force people to give up their old beliefs and religions. Hitler and Stalin proved that. What happened instead was a new religion based on the African juju that also incorporated Christianity and certain European witchcraft practices. Ever hear about voodoo dolls? Sticking pins and thorns into an effigy to put a curse on an enemy started in Europe."
"I'm familiar with voodoo because it's still found throughout the Caribbean," Encizo stated. "It's best known in Haiti, of course, but it's also practiced in some parts of Cuba. There's a form of voodoo called Obeah in Jamaica and a similar religion called Macumba in Brazil."
"And voodoo is still practiced in the United States," James added.
"Well, I don't claim to know much about it as a religion," Encizo admitted. "But I do know the Ton Ton Macout are the worst kind of stormtroopers. They've been known to commit cold-blooded murder in broad daylight. A couple Ton Ton even beat a victim to death right in front of an NBC cameraman. They didn't give a damn if it got on film or not."
"It sounds like the Ton Ton Macout has probably learned a lot about the value of terror," Katz mused. "The Black Alchemist conspiracy could very well be a scheme by these Haitian butchers."
"The macabre nature of the terrorists and the very title of the Black Alchemists seems to support the theory," Manning agreed.
"Well, their alchemy consists of killer chemicals and their juju sticks fire bullets," McCarter commented. 'That's the sort of witchcraft I can understand. Let's find the Hi-Quality Tobacco Corporation and see about performing an exorcism, eh?"
"Don't jump to conclusions, David," Katz said. "The Cancer Ward warning about cigarettes from the Hi-Quality Corporation suggests the place is to be a victim of terrorist sabotage, not an enemy stronghold."
"The twenty-third is tomorrow," Ohara announced. "Thai means we'd better do something about this newest threat quickly or those cigarettes will already be on the market."
"Yeah," James muttered. "Otherwise a lot of people might find out just how hazardous to their health smoking can be."
13
Phoenix Force arrived in Virginia the following morning. Stony Man computers had discovered the Hi-Quality Tobacco Corporation was located at the outskirts of Richmond. Brognola had arranged for a contact to meet Phoenix Force when its C-130 landed at a small private airfield.
Two men waited at the runway. They had been given a description of the six men who emerged from the airplane. They did not know anything about Phoenix Force or Stony Man. The pair were cutouts, front men used by intelligence organizations as intermediaries. Like most insignificant cutouts, their mission was simple. They were given no details and they asked no questions. No one would have told them the truth anyway.
"Boker tov," Katzenelenbogen addressed the pair. "Ma shlomkah?"
"Ay neni mayven," one of the cutouts replied. "Ani moodabaur rak ahnglit."
"Then we'll speak English," Katz told him.
"Your Hebrew accent is very good," the bilingual cutout remarked.
"I've had a lot of practice," the Israeli answered. "You have something for us?"
"Green Chevy van parked next to the lamppost," the man said as he handed Katz a set of keys.
The cutouts walked away. Their job was finished. Phoenix Force found the van. Its six members loaded several long aluminum cases into the vehicle before climbing in themselves.
"Passwords in Hebrew," James mused. "Clever."
"We'll have to come up with something a hell of a lot more clever than that if we're going to stop the Black Alchemists," Manning commented.
"First we have to do something about the Hi-Quality Tobacco Company," Ohara said.
"Cal," Yakov began, turning to James. "You're the chemist. How do you think the terrorists will try to sabotage the cigarettes?"
"I've been thinking about that," James answered. "My guess is nicotine sulfate. It's one of the deadliest poisons in the world. Just a couple drops inhaled with cigarette smoke may be fatal. Possibly just touching the cigarette with your lips is enough. And what's worse, nicotine sulfate is almost impossible to detect in an autopsy of a smoker with traces of nicotine already in his body."
"Is there any way to detect it in the tobacco?"
"A dark-brown liquid mixed in with a bin of tobacco?" James shook his head. "That's the problem. There's no way we can prove sabotage has taken place."
"Then we'll have to do something else," McCarter smiled. "Something a mite radical, eh mates?"
"You have a suggestion?" Katz asked.
"I have an idea, but it's a bit risky."
"All of your ideas are a 'bit risky,'" Encizo declared, rolling his eyes heavenward.
McCarter shrugged. "If it works we'll take care of the poisoned tobacco and possibly drive some rats out of the woodwork as well. Of course, if anything goes wrong, we'll be in a hell of a mess."
"What's new about that?" Manning sighed.
* * *
Rafael Encizo drove a Ford pickup to the front gate of the Hi-Quality Tobacco Corporation, with Gary Manning and David McCarter crowded into the seat beside him. All three wore white coveralls, gloves, sunglasses and baseball caps.
"This had better work," Manning muttered.
"Nobody else came up with another plan," McCarter replied.
"Somebody should have," the Canadian said sourly.
The security guard who emerged from his shack and approached the truck appeared to be a typical rent-a-cop: elderly, overweight, carrying neither gun nor baton. He was a warm body in a uniform who was at the site only because the company would rather pay minimum wage for token security than higher insurance rates.
"Morning. You got an appointment?"
"Telephone repair," Manning replied.
"I wasn't told nothin' 'bout that."
"Phone lines are down," the Canadian explained.
&nb
sp; "I got a call from the main office a few minutes ago."
"It just happened," McCarter told him, concealing his East London accent with a flawless imitation of an American Midwest TV anchorman. "But the lines within the plant aren't affected. Try an outside line. You'll see what I mean."
"Wait here."
The guard returned to the shack and reached for a telephone on his desk.
"I hope Keio cut the right lines," Encizo whispered.
"We'll know soon enough," McCarter said crossly, offended because not everyone shared his faith in the plan.
"I think the guard just wrote down our license-plate number," Manning commented as he watched the old man scribble something on a clipboard.
They had stolen the pickup truck less than half an hour before. There was no need to worry about the license plates because they intended to abandon the truck as soon as possible. The guard walked to the vehicle and held out his clipboard.
"Okay. Sign right here."
Manning used a pseudonym on the log sheet. The Canadian was ambidextrous. His left-hand penmanship looked nothing like his usual right-hand signature.
The guard waved them through.
When they reached the main building, the Phoenix Force trio quickly vacated the cab of the truck. Manning and McCarter set up a tall ladder while Encizo took three utility belts from the back. Each belt had a sturdy screwdriver, a pair of wire cutters and a radio transceiver.
After the ladder was braced against the wall, the three men donned the utility belts. Manning also took a U.S. Army mechanic's tool bag from the vehicle. He and McCarter then scaled the ladder to the roof. They immediately found a trap door and a large metal box with water pouring from its vents.
"Hey, amigo," McCarter said into his communicator. "You read me down there?"
"Loud and clear, amigo," Encizo's voice replied. They addressed each other in this way to avoid using proper names while transmitting. "How's the view up there?"
"Loverly," the Briton stated. "Located the outside vents to the air-conditioning system and an entrance from the roof."
"Okay. Keep me posted."
Manning removed two canvas bags from his tool kit, handed one to McCarter and placed the other within easy reach. The Canadian then extracted a large green canister and put it in front of the air conditioner. The only marking on its surface read CS. Tear gas.
"We're just about ready to start the show, amigo."
"I'm taking a stroll around the plant," Encizo's voice replied. "Plenty of windows. Cartons of cigarettes are stored in the west wing. Bins of tobacco are in the south."
"Christ," Manning complained as he unzipped his bag and removed an M-17 gas mask. "Does he think we've got a compass?"
"Don't worry." McCarter smiled. "I'm a pilot. I've got a compass inside my head."
"Always wondered what you kept in there," the Canadian muttered. "Better get that trap door open."
"Right," McCarter agreed. He spoke into the radio once more. "All right, amigo. Show time."
The Briton and Manning donned gas masks. After checking filters and eyepieces, they exchanged nods to confirm the equipment was sound. Manning then pulled the pin from the canister.
The gray-white smoke that billowed from the device was sucked into the air-conditioner vents. The tear gas quickly circulated through the building. Soon it infiltrated every room in the plant.
McCarter used his screwdriver to jimmy the lock to the trap door. Manning followed him down the rungs of an iron ladder. It led to a catwalk overlooking the cigarette assembly line.
Dozens of workers had already reacted to the tear gas. Shouting and yelling, they pawed at tear-filled eyes and coughed violently as the air-conditioner vents emitted the grayish fog. Glass shattered: Encizo lobbed a gas grenade through a window. More smoke billowed from the sputtering canister.
The employees bolted from the assembly hall and charged from the building, desperately seeking fresh air for their tortured lungs. With apparently no witnesses, McCarter and Manning found a flight of metal stairs and descended from the catwalk.
"Amigos," Encizo's voice called from the Briton's communicator. "I think everybody has abandoned ship."
"The assembly line certainly has," McCarter replied. "What about the packing area and the offices?"
"I lobbed another grenade into the packing section. Everybody hauled ass. Peeked through a couple office windows. Every room looks deserted."
"Bloody good," the Briton declared. "We'll make certain there isn't anybody left inside. You take care of the blokes who've already left. Remember they're innocents."
"I won't forget," Encizo assured him. "Just don't waste any time in there. A police helicopter might cruise by any second and spot the smoke from the plant. "Comprende?"
"We'll wait until we leave to take our coffee break," McCarter promised.
The two Phoenix Force invaders quickly checked the plant. To their relief, all the employees had fled the building. Manning opened his bag and removed four red canisters with timing devices attached to detonators.
"You take care of the packing and storage rooms," he told his partner. "I'll handle the tobacco bins and the assembly section."
"Only one of these per room?" McCarter asked as he took two canisters.
"They're loaded with thermite. This whole building will be in flames."
"Hope it's insured."
"Brognola will make sure the government pays for all damages," Manning said. "They'll rebuild this place and nobody will lose his job. We only have to worry about ourselves. Make sure you set those dials for three minutes. We'll need enough time to get out of here or we'll be roasted alive."
They quickly put the canisters in place and set the timers. McCarter met Manning in the assembly hall as the Canadian finished preparing the last incendiary. They exchanged nods to confirm everything was ready, then hurried from the building.
They emerged to find Encizo and fifty-three plant personnel in the parking lot. The Cuban's face was covered by an M-17 gas mask. The filters distorted his spoken words, but an M-10 Ingram in his fists helped him gain the cooperation of the executives and employees.
The Hi-Quality Tobacco people, dazed and coughing from the tear gas, offered no resistance when Encizo herded them to the parking lot and ordered them to wait. Nearby was the security guard whom Encizo had handcuffed to the fender of a station wagon.
Manning headed for the stolen pickup truck as McCarter addressed the stunned congregation.
"We've set incendiaries in the plant," the Briton declared, still impersonating a Midwestern as he spoke, loud enough to be heard through the M-17. "In approximately one minute the plant is going to burst into flames. Do not attempt to enter. That would be suicide. You won't be able to stop the blaze. It's thermite. So..."
The whoomp of four mild explosions, tumbling together to make a single terrific blast, confirmed McCarter's statement. Windows popped out as the fierce blaze erupted. People gasped in horror. Encizo held up his machine pistol and they fell silent.
"None of you are in any danger — yet," McCarter assured them. "But stay away from the building."
Manning pulled the truck forward. Encizo and McCarter backed toward it. The Cuban hopped in the back of the rig while McCarter moved to the passenger door.
"Wait until we're out of sight and then get the hell off this property," the Briton ordered before he climbed into the Ford.
"Why are you doing this?" the plant manager demanded. "Who are you people?"
"Militant nonsmokers," Encizo replied.
Manning stomped the gas pedal. The pickup truck shot through the front gate and skidded onto the dirt road beyond.
14
Calvin James and Yakov Katzenelenbogen drove to the site of the Hi-Quality Tobacco Corporation. The building was still in flames. Three fire trucks from the Richmond Fire Department hosed the structure with water, but the thermite inferno stubbornly raged. The firemen could do little but stand by and let it burn itself out.
The plant executives and employees had pulled their vehicles onto the road where they waited for the police to arrive. James parked the rented Pinto behind a trio of squad cars. A uniformed cop quickly appeared at the car door.
"This area is blocked off, fella. Keep moving."
"Henry Albert Kincaid," James announced briskly as he snapped open an id folder. "Special investigator for the United States Government. Do you intend to stand in the way of the United States Government? ''
"Well, uh..." The cop swallowed hard.
"Where's your superior?" James demanded, opening the car door. "We want to talk to someone in authority."
"Yes, sir," the officer nodded.
James and Katz emerged from the Pinto. The Israeli wore a five-fingered prosthetic and pearl-gray gloves. Although it featured a built-in .22 Magnum pistol with a hollow steel index finger for the barrel, the device was basically cosmetic. Unless one noticed that Katz's right hand was unusually rigid, one would not suspect he was an amputee.
Yakov was impressed by the way James had handled the cop. The young black man was a natural con artist, an ability that has limitless potential. The Phoenix Force pair followed the patrolman to a plainclothesman who was wearily questioning the plant manager.
"I'm Lieutenant Cabot," the detective stated.
"Special Investigator Kincaid," James replied. "This is Investigator Silverman. We want to talk to these people about the conditions of their plant."
"The condition of the plant is obvious," Cabot said dryly. "It's burning down. Take a look."
"Exactly," James nodded, glancing at the Hi-Quality Tobacco personnel. "We want to know what fire regulations may have been violated."
"Wait a minute," Cabot began. "What department of the government are you guys with?"
"The Occupational Safety and Health Association," Katz answered, showing the detective a forged id card.
"Hell," Cabot snorted. "This is a case of arson, for crissake. OSHA doesn't have any jurisdiction here."
"Fire-prevention violations still apply in a case of arson," the Israeli insisted. "If this fire was indeed set deliberately, and this isn't a cover-up for faulty wiring or carelessness."
