The Admiral's Mark

by Steve Berry

  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. He didn’t know the rules of this game.”

  “But he took something Simon wants back.”

  Herr Brown managed to get ahead of us.

  “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.

  “I’m leaving,” he said.

  “Not until I say you can.”

  “I don’t work for you.”

  “But if you’re not going to cooperate, you’re going to leave this island. I can’t risk any more interference.”

  He’d already assessed the situation and concluded that the two young men who’d brought him were all the army Schwartz had, at least here. Only a handful of others wandered through the ruins, none raising any alarm. He assumed Schwartz was armed, so the first play was obvious.

  He shook his head and grinned. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  Schwartz pointed both palms skyward, shrugged, and said, “It’s my nature.”

  “Look,” he said, casually stepping closer, as if he wanted to say something in private, “I’ll leave—”

  His right arm swung out and clamped Schwartz’s neck in a vise as he brought the man toward him. The move caught his opponent off guard, and he was able to reach beneath the hanging shirttail and find the gun he knew was there. With weapon in hand he kneed Schwartz in the groin, doubling the man over.

  An elbow to the nape of the neck sent the Israeli to the ground.

  He whirled and caught the other two problems reaching for their own weapons. He fired at both, sending them scattering for cover among the crumbling stones.

  He darted right, seeking refuge behind a standing column. Making his escape would require a sprint of fifty yards, back down the grassy path to the parking lot. Schwartz was still on the ground, barely moving, the other two agents somewhere to his left. The next patch of safety lay twenty feet away. He leaped, hit the ground, and rolled toward it.

  Bullets came his way, but missed.

  He sprang to his feet behind a clump of stone infested with lichens and caught sight of Twittily Dee and Dittily Doo trying to make their way to Schwartz. He used that moment of distraction to race ahead and hop a waist-high stone wall that separated the grassy path from the rocks beyond.

  Crouching low, he kept heading forward until he turned a bend and was out of the line of fire. He leaped back over the wall, onto the grass, and raced to the parking lot.

  Now what?

  The car he’d come in waited to his right.

  No way were the keys in it, but he checked to be sure.

  Three more cars were there and he checked those too.

  No keys, either.

  He’d have to keep moving.

  The growl of an engine could be heard from the steep switchback road that led back to the highway.

  A vehicle appeared around the last bend.

  One he recognized.

  Dubois.

  The engine rattled and strained, but sounded to him like a fine orchestra. His ally wheeled to a stop. He jumped into the passenger’s side and said, “Good timing.”

  “I follow from hotel. They don’t look like good men.”

  “They’re not. Let’s get out of here.”

  Then something occurred to him.

  “Wait.”

  He popped open the door, stood, and fired one round into the Israeli’s car, flattening a rear tire.

  They drove back toward Cap-Haïtien, the tires wobbling, the wretched road more holes than pavement. No one had followed, and Dubois decided to take them to his house.

  “Scotty come there a lot. He like it.”

  The dwelling was another shanty, tin-sided, tin-roofed, a few hundred square feet. It sat among a cluster of several hundred, east of town, not far from the airport, the rough land succumbing to weeds. Goats milled around in the front and on the sides, and a group of children played. The stench was overpowering, but he’d become accustomed to the pall. Then again, who was he to judge? Dubois seemed like a hardworking, decent man who’d genuinely liked Scott Brown. Life was tough here, but he was making the best of it.

  Besides, he owed him one.

  Two of the children rushed over. The boy maybe nine or ten, the girl a bit younger. Both hugged Dubois.

  “These be mine. Violine is my precious girl, but Alain is future man of house.”

  Malone nodded to them both.

  “This be Cotton Malone. He was close to Scotty,” Dubois told them.

  “Are you a secret agent, too?” Alain asked.

  He threw Dubois a curious look.

  “Scotty told them he be an agent for the Americans. Worked for the Billet.”

  He decided not to burst anyone’s bubble. “I think it’s called the Magellan Billet.”

  “That’s what Scotty say. Very secret thing.”

  “Scotty say anything else?”

  Dubois shook his head. “Only that he be here on a mission. He need help. I give it, like I do with you.”

  The children ran back to their friends. A woman appeared in the shanty’s door. She was thin, long-haired, with bright eyes and a fresh face.

  “This be Elise. My wife.”

  Malone shook the woman’s hand, and she threw him a warm smile.

  “You were Scotty’s relative?” she asked.

  He nodded. “He was married to my wife’s sister.”

  “We liked him a lot. He was a good man.”

  Her English was cleaner than Dubois’ and carried no accent, each syllable perfectly pronounced.

  “Elise teaches school,” her husband said with pride in his voice. “She be real good at that.”

  The auction would begin in three hours. In the meantime he’d decided to talk with Stephanie Nelle. Though this trip hadn’t started off as Magellan Billet business, things had changed. His boss had to know about the Israelis.

  “I need to make a call,” he said. “I’ll step out over there where I can talk in private.”

  “Take your time,” Dubois said. “Elise make the food. We eat.”

  He nodded at the hospitality and found the phone in his pocket. It was state-of-the-art, Magellan Billet issue, satellite-rated. The smallest unit on the market, produced solely for U.S. intelligence. But he wondered how long it would be before everyone’s phone was similarly capable.

  Stephanie was in her office and answered the call.

  “I thought you were on vacation,” she said.

  “So did I.”

  He told her what had happened, omitting nothing.

  “Schwartz is right,” she said. “Zachariah Simon is a fanatic who just recently crept onto our radar. We’re not sure what he’s after, but we passed what we had along to the Israelis and they became awfully interested.”

  He knew his boss. “So you ran a full check?”

  “Of course. Simon is wealthy, reclusive, a religious zealot. But he keeps his finger
prints off everything. He also openly stays out of politics and never talks to the press.”

  “In other words he’s careful.”

  “Too much so, in my opinion.”

  “What’s he doing in Haiti?”

  “An excellent question. I’m sorry about what happened to your brother-in-law, but he was in way over his head.”

  “That much is obvious. What isn’t is why the Mossad wants us out of the way.”

  “I’d like to know what they’re up to.”

  He’d thought she might, and he had a way to find out. “I can do that, but I’ll need some help from your end. I want to go to the auction and buy that book. Simon wants it. My guess is the Israelis are interested, too. If nothing else, it’s our ante into the game.”

  “I agree. Do it. I’ll set up a line of credit. But, Cotton, keep the price reasonable. Okay?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  He walked back toward the house and could hear people all around him, some within their own dwellings, others out in the bright afternoon. Inside, he discovered that Elise Dubois was making rice and beans, along with a soup of potatoes, tomatoes, and meat, all simmering on a small electric stove. The house contained four rooms, sparsely furnished, everything clean and orderly.

  He sat at the table with Dubois and the two children.

  “What do you do?” his host asked.

  He decided again not to burst Scott’s bubble. “I work with the same people Scott does.”

  “You’re a secret agent?” Violine said, the young girl’s face alight with anticipation.

  “Not like Scotty. He was higher up than me. But I do work for the same people.”

  “Scotty taught us things,” Alain said. “Secret-agent things.”

  The boy pushed back from the table and rushed from the room.

  “They get excited,” Dubois said. “We not meet people like Scotty all the time.”

  Elise brought the meal to the table.

  Dubois squeezed his wife’s arm with affection. “She good teacher and good cook.”

  Alain returned with some papers, which he eagerly displayed.

  “Mr. Malone has no time for that,” the boy’s mother said. “Sit and eat your food.”

  Malone smiled. “He’s fine.”

  Alain pointed. “Can you read the messages?”

  The three pieces of paper were all blank.

  He shook his head. “Why don’t you read them for me.”

  “It’s easy.”

  The boy jumped up on his chair and held one of the blank sheets to the overhead light. Slowly, brown letters appeared on the paper.

  HELLO ALAIN.

  Then he knew. Lemon juice. Reacting to the heat of the bulb. “That is an old spy trick. Scotty should not have revealed that to you.”

  “It’s a secret?” Violine asked.

  “You use it, too?” Alain said as he hopped down. “Scotty said secret agents use this all the time.”

  “He was right. We do. All the time. But you can’t tell anyone.”

  “Scotty was a good man,” Elise said. “He spent a lot of time with the children. We were so sad when he died.”

  He saw that she meant it. Obviously, Scott had forged an ally in Dubois and his family, cementing that with the right words, said at the right time, coupled, most likely, with a liberal sprinkling of money. The Magellan Billet? Interesting Scott had used that as his cover. What kind of con had his brother-in-law been working?

  He doubted these people knew.

  So he kept his mouth shut and allowed them to continue to think the best.

  Malone entered La Villa St-Louis, the hotel located outside Cap-Haïtien, on the coast, inside a stunning building with Spanish and French influences. More upscale than where he was staying, its lush grounds fenced and guarded. The auction was held in a paneled hall that could accommodate a few hundred comfortably. He estimated that fewer than seventy-five were there, many already seated and awaiting the first item. To his right and near the front sat Zachariah Simon. The other man, Rócha, was not in sight. Malone grabbed a chair to the left of the center podium, at the end of an aisle of eight seats.

  A copy of the day’s International Herald Tribune lay on the next chair. To make himself less conspicuous, he grabbed the paper and scanned the front page, noticing an article about a Los Angeles Times reporter whose name he knew. Tom Sagan. Caught falsifying a story from the Middle East. Interesting. After an internal investigation, the Times had fired Sagan and apologized for the scandal. Too bad. He’d never thought Sagan the type to lie. His eyes drifted from the newspaper, keeping a watch on what was happening.

  More people drifted in.

  The auction began and four items were sold, three paintings and a beautiful piece of mahogany furniture, all from the same estate being liquidated. According to the catalog the 16th-century book would be the fifth offering, and it was brought in by a white-gloved attendant, who laid it before the auctioneer.

  Bids were called for. Simon wasted no time.

  “Five thousand.”

  Malone waited to see if anyone else planned to make a bid. Seeing none, he offered his own.

  “Six thousand.”

  The auctioneer’s eyes raked the crowd and waited.

  “Seven thousand” came Simon’s reply.

  “Eight,” Malone quickly added.

  “Ten.”

  A new voice.

  From behind.

  He turned to see Matt Schwartz, standing, his arm raised to identify himself.

  Simon spotted the newcomer, too, then said, “Twelve.”

  Malone decided to see how bad the Austrian, and the Israelis, wanted the book. “Fifty thousand.”

  Auctioneers were usually noted for their poker faces, but he’d clearly caught this one off guard. The surprise showed, but was quickly suppressed before he asked, “Any more bids?”

  “Seventy-five thousand,” Schwartz said.

  “One hundred thousand,” Simon countered.

  Apparently they both wanted the book. Okay, let’s make it really interesting. “One hundred fifty thousand.”

  Silence.

  Neither Schwartz nor Simon countered.

  The auctioneer waited thirty seconds before asking for any further bids.

  No reply.

  “Sold.”

  Malone accepted the book, nestled safely inside a clear plastic bag, wrapped in brown paper. The $150,000 had been transferred into the auction company’s account, thanks to an online account he’d accessed with the password Stephanie had provided.

  She was going to kill him.

  He’d just dropped a chunk of public money on a questionable purchase.

  But at least he had everyone’s attention.

  He exited the hall and, before leaving the hotel, detoured to the bathroom. There he entered one of the stalls, carefully opened the package, and passed the plastic-encased book beneath the divider. A hand grabbed the offering, then another book appeared—a French novel bought before arriving—which Malone stuffed into the brown wrapping. He left the stall and the bathroom. Dubois would wait five minutes then do the same, heading home with their prize.

  He knew it would not be long and, just as he exited the hotel and followed a lighted path toward the street, someone called out.

  “You paid far too much for that.”

  He stopped and turned. “And you are?”

  “The man you outbid. Zachariah Simon.”

  The older man stepped closer but offered no hand to shake. Good. He’d prefer to wring the SOB’s neck.

  Simon motioned to the package. “What’s your interest?”

  He shrugged. “I collect books.”

  “Why that one?”

  “You already know the answer to that question.”

  “Yet why do I feel that you do not? Which is interesting.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Simon pointed out beyond the palms, toward the ocean and an ever-darkening sky. “Not far from he
re was the first place Europeans settled in their New World.”

  “La Navidad.”

  “Ah, I see you are not wholly ignorant. Thirty-nine men left by Columbus to search for gold and make a colony. But none survived a year. Slaughtered by the Tainos for their cruelty toward the natives.”

  “A rare victory for the good guys.”

  Being a bibliophile also meant he was a reader. He’d read plenty about Columbus and the century after his discovery. Cultures that had existed for many millennia were violently extinguished—hundreds of thousands died—all in the name of religion and fueled by greed.

  “Who are you?” Simon asked.

  “Harold Earl Malone. But everyone calls me Cotton.”

  “Interesting nickname. How did you—”

  “Long story.” He motioned with the package. “Why did you want this?”

  “What do you know of Christopher Columbus?”

  A strange answer to his question. “In 1492 he sailed the ocean blue?”

  Simon grimaced. “I am not particularly fond of humor. From your accent, I would say you are from the American South.”

  “Georgia boy. Born and raised.”

  “That line you quoted,” Simon said. “It is from a poem written to commemorate Columbus Day, which for some reason Americans feel the need to celebrate.”

  “I think it’s just an excuse to take a day off from work.”

  “That actually might be correct, but the poem is fiction. Nearly nothing in it is true. Yet it has been used for decades as a teaching tool.”

  “You don’t sound like a Columbus fan.”

  “We know nothing of Christopher Columbus.”

  This man clearly wanted to talk, which bothered Malone. He’d expected more action. And where were the Israelis? Nearby? He hoped so. For once he was counting on them.

  “His birthplace, his parents, where he was raised, educated. His early life. All of that is unknown,” Simon said. “We don’t even know what Columbus looks like. Every portrait that exists was painted long after he was dead by people who never saw him. If you read many books on him, as I have, you would see that every account conflicts with the others. Columbus himself only added to the mystery, as he barely spoke of himself during his lifetime and the few mentions he did make were not consistent.”