Dust Up: A Thriller

by Jon McGoran

  I shook my head.

  He resumed driving, through the intersection and around an old pickup truck piled high with sacks of some kind of produce. “The UN brought it in. Their soldiers. A tragic mistake, and one we were unprepared for. Nine thousand dead. Seven hundred thousand sick.” He sighed again. “Haiti has enough plagues. We do not need Ebola, as well. So I understand.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

  “Why was the Interior Ministry in charge? Shouldn’t you have been there?”

  He nodded but remained quiet for several seconds. “Yes, we should have. Ducroix, the interior minister, he said it was a national security issue, which it was. My boss, Rene Dissette, the minister of health, he is a feeble old man. He didn’t want to get into a turf battle. I don’t think he wanted to deal with Ebola, either. By the time President Cardon got involved, the village was gone.” I could hear the bitterness in his voice, the frustration.

  “What about Miriam?” I asked. “What about you? You were both there earlier, right? Shouldn’t there be a quarantine? Shouldn’t there be announcements, to warn people?”

  “The incubation period had passed before I even knew about it. I tried to contact Miriam as soon as I found out. I admit, I was concerned when I couldn’t reach her. I am very sorry to hear about Ron, about Miriam’s current troubles, but I am relieved her health is okay, as I knew it would be. My people are all fine. The same with the Energene people who were in the village when we were. Everyone is fine—everyone but the villagers. They are all dead.” He let out a deep, sad sigh. “So it was not the stolen soybeans that made people sick.”

  “The entire town had Ebola, and none of it showed up in the blood tests you ran?” It didn’t make sense to me.

  He shook his head. “The tests we have for Ebola don’t work until you are symptomatic for several days. No symptoms, no positive results.”

  “But there were symptoms, right? That’s why you were there. That’s why you and Miriam were there, right?”

  He looked at me a little longer than I would have liked as we lurched along the fractured road.

  “There were respiratory symptoms,” he conceded quietly. “But not necessarily Ebola symptoms. Maybe that was something different. I don’t know.”

  I felt something cold, dark, and horrible deep down inside my chest, like something had collapsed and left a tiny black hole in its place.

  43

  “Ron was pretty sure the Soyagene was causing the allergic reactions, and he even suspected that people at Energene knew it and were hiding it,” I told Baudet. “Before the police took them, I read some of those secret memos. There was plenty in there about allergenicity issues.”

  “And you understood what they were saying? What they meant? Miriam is very smart and a trained nurse, and you tell me she says she didn’t understand it.”

  “Maybe not. But she also said Ron was sure there was a connection between the grain hijacking and the illness at Saint Benezet. And it scared the hell out of him.”

  “So you think the Soyagene was hijacked and distributed locally, and that’s what caused the respiratory distress syndrome?”

  I shrugged. “That’s what Ron and Miriam thought. Makes sense.”

  We drove quietly for a minute. “Well, I tested it, and there was virtually no reaction. It’s possible perhaps by coincidence some other fate also befell Saint Benezet, something that coincided with the hijacking. Perhaps a pesticide exposure. Something else made them sick, and then they also suffered the Ebola outbreak.”

  A hell of a coincidence, I thought. I could feel the cold spot in my heart swell. My stomach grumbled loudly, as if in agreement.

  “If we could find out if any of the stolen soy ended up anywhere else, we could see how those people were doing, if they were exhibiting any of the same symptoms.”

  He glanced at me, then thought for a moment. As he turned back to look at the road, he mumbled under his breath, “Toussaint Casson.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Toussaint Casson. A local gang leader. If there was a hijacking anywhere near Saint Benezet or Cap-Haïtien, he would be behind it, or at least aware of it. He could tell us if it ended up anywhere else. My nephew Toma, unfortunately, is Toussaint’s right-hand man.”

  Baudet pulled over and took out his phone. Looking out the window, he muttered a staccato stream of Kreyol.

  Seeing him on his phone reminded me I needed to call Nola.

  “I left Toma a message,” he said as he put the phone in his pocket. “Hopefully, he’ll call back soon.”

  My stomach grumbled even louder this time. Baudet raised an eyebrow. “You are hungry?”

  I was about to say I was starving, but it struck me that I was in a place where that could be a literal concern. “Very. But I need to call home and let my girlfriend know I’m okay.”

  Baudet offered to let me use his phone, but we’d passed several places that sold prepaid cell phones, so we stopped in one, a corner store selling a bit of everything: phones, rum, coffee, cigarettes, groceries, even clothing.

  I noticed a row of five-pound bags of cornmeal. At the bottom of each bag, tucked into the corner, was the Stoma-Grow logo. Miriam said they were everywhere.

  I gestured at the small display of plastic-encased cell phones behind the counter. “Prepaid cell phone?” I asked.

  Baudet translated, and the man behind the counter reached back and grabbed one off the rack, putting it on the counter between us. He scrunched up his face for a moment, then said, “Three thousand five hundred gourde.”

  The gourde was the Haitian currency. I don’t know what it was worth in dollars. The phone was an old-fashioned flip model. It looked like it had just gotten out of some kind of cell phone time machine.

  “Can I call the States with this?”

  Baudet again translated, and the man sighed and grabbed another one off the rack and switched them. “Four thousand gourde.”

  I wasn’t crazy about using a credit card, especially after having taken such pains not to go through the airport, but I needed a phone, and it was all I had. While I was at it, I got cash at an ATM in the corner. I didn’t like being broke, either. Looking at the prices for the soft drinks, I estimated it was 50 gourde to the dollar, so I got 5,000 gourde, a thick sheaf of 250-gourde notes.

  Before I left the store, I activated the phone. I paused for a moment, debating the safety of it. I didn’t know for sure whether my iPhone was being tapped, but I knew this one wasn’t. As we stepped back onto the crowded street, I called Nola.

  She answered on the first ring, her voice tentative and suspicious. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Thank God. Are you back?”

  “I’m still in Haiti. They took my phone—”

  “Who?”

  “It’s a long story. Miriam never turned up. We’re trying to find out what happened to her. And still trying to figure out what happened to Ron.” Baudet was standing by his car, waiting. I turned away from him and lowered my voice. “Did you get the fax?”

  “Yes, just a little while ago. The fax machine ran out of ink, and it took me all day to find a cartridge. I have it now, though, and I have the Mikel Group’s address in New York. I’ll send it out first thing in the morning. What does he have to do with all this, anyway? What’s going on?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out. Ron and Miriam thought Energene was up to something bad. Mikel’s people are trying to help Miriam.”

  “And now Ron is dead and Miriam has disappeared.”

  “Tell me what you know about Beta Librae.”

  “Not much. Mikel’s a billionaire, but also an environmentalist. He funds Beta Librae. They’re quiet, but they’ve done some impressive things. They financed an indigenous group in Peru who fought off a logging venture. There was a town in India they helped get restitution when a sugar manufacturer ruined their lake. But like I said, they’re pretty quiet. There were rumors they were involv
ed in releasing secret documents exposing an illegal e-waste operation in Nigeria and illegal benzene dumping in Texas. I don’t know what else they’re up to.”

  “Do you think I can trust them?”

  She laughed weakly. “Doyle, I don’t know. They seem well-intentioned, but if you could trust a billionaire, would he be a billionaire?”

  “Right. Are you someplace safe? Don’t tell me where.”

  “I’m staying with a friend who I’ve been really meaning to spend some more time with.” She said it with a touch of sarcasm. She was staying with Laura.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s just the two of us, until later.” Danny was back in town tonight.

  “Okay, good.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I don’t know. Tomorrow, I hope. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. Doyle, I worry about you.”

  “I’m fine. You stay safe.”

  “You too.”

  “Okay. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you soon.”

  The phone connection had felt like a physical attachment, something concrete connecting me to the woman I love, to my home, to the familiar world. As I watched the connection icon fade, I felt myself snapped back to this alien, unfamiliar world.

  When I looked up, Baudet gave me a warm smile. “Everything okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Good, good. I called someone I know with the local police. He will see what he can do about getting your phone and those files, but it may not be until tomorrow. Best I can do.” He gestured to the car. “Let’s get you some food while we wait to hear back from Toma.”

  44

  Baudet pulled over two blocks away next to a jumble of plastic tables and chairs out on the sidewalk. Behind them, under a narrow awning, a sign on the wall read BBQ CENTRAL.

  “Best food in Cap-Haïtien,” he said, adding, with a grin, “plus, my sister works here.”

  I unfastened my seat belt and reached over to open my car door, but Baudet put his hand on my forearm.

  “Wait one moment,” he said.

  I followed his gaze and saw that there was a lone customer, a man in a military uniform. Then I noticed a sleek black SUV parked out in front.

  “What is it?”

  He didn’t answer at first. A bear of a man wearing a white T-shirt and a nervous smile came out of the restaurant. The man in uniform stood and shook his hand, slapping him on the shoulder. They stood and chatted for a moment.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “That’s Marcel, the owner. The other man is Dominique Ducroix, the interior minister.” He looked at me and smiled apologetically. “I don’t like him very much.”

  I nodded. My stomach grumbled again.

  Marcel and Ducroix shook hands once more, then Ducroix slapped him on the shoulder one last time, put on his shades, and got into the back of the SUV. As soon as the door was closed, the vehicle sped past us down the street.

  Baudet watched it in the rearview mirror, and when it turned the corner, he smiled and unfastened his seat belt.

  I looked at him as we got out.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “I just didn’t want to talk to him.”

  We crossed the road, and Baudet gestured for me to take a seat. As we were sitting, a high-pitched squeal made me jump.

  “Regi!” said the voice. I turned to see a woman maybe ten years older than Baudet, with glasses and a cloth over her hair. Her face beamed as she closed on him with hugs and kisses.

  “Bonswa, Elena,” Baudet said, grinning. He introduced me to her in Kreyol, and then in English said, “This is my sister, Elena.”

  She grasped my hand in both of hers and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Bonswa,” she said, then she rattled off something fast in Kreyol. All I understood of Baudet’s reply was the last word—“American.”

  Elena nodded then turned back to me and slowly said, “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” I said. “Bonswa,” I added.

  She and Baudet exchanged a few more words, and then she hustled back inside.

  Moments later, the bearlike man in the white T-shirt came out, exclaiming, “Bonswa, Regi! Kouman ou ye?”

  Baudet stood and said, “Marcel!” They smiled broadly, and then Baudet held out his arm to me. “Sa se mesye Doyle Carrick.”

  Marcel and I shook hands and bid each other, “Bonswa.”

  “Doyle se yon Ameriken,” Baudet told him.

  Marcel smiled and said, “Good, good. Welcome to Cap-Haïtien.”

  They bantered back and forth for a few seconds in Kreyol. I heard Baudet say “Ducroix,” and Marcel rolled his eyes. He turned to me and waved his hand in the direction Ducroix’s car had gone. “My number-one customer, that guy,” he said. “He is a dirty dog and probably a Duvalierist but…” He shrugged. Business is business.

  Baudet asked him a question in Kreyol.

  Marcel shook his head, saying, “No, no, no,” and patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. Then he turned to me. “Chicken and fried plantain?”

  Baudet said, “Trè bon,” so I did, too.

  When Marcel went back inside, I said, “What’s up with that Ducroix guy? Is there a problem?”

  “No, not really. He’s annoying is all. He loves this place, which is understandable, because the food is so good. But I don’t like seeing him here.”

  Elena brought out two bottles of Prestige beer, dripping with condensation. We thanked her, and she disappeared. Baudet watched her go with a twinkle in his eye, but when he turned back, it faded, like he didn’t have the energy to maintain it. He raised his beer and said, “Santé.”

  We both drank deeply. It was crisp and light, but I knew I had to be careful until I got some food in my stomach.

  “So what about Miriam?” I asked. “Where else can we look for her?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. She’s not here. The plane didn’t land in Haiti. There’s no reports of crashes in the area. You said this man Sable was shot?”

  “It looked like it, yeah.”

  He shrugged. “They might have landed somewhere in Florida.” He sighed. “Or ditched in the ocean, I guess. I hope not.”

  I pointed at his phone. “Can you do a search? Google the last twenty-four hours. Plane, crash, and Florida, or plane, wreckage, Florida?”

  He picked up his phone and tapped away at it for a moment, then scrolled through the results and shook his head. He repeated the process a few times, then looked up and said, “Nothing. I tried it with ‘Caribbean,’ ‘Bahamas,’ and ‘Cuba,’ as well.”

  We drank quietly for a few moments. I looked at my watch. It was after six. “Could you try them again? Your friend with the police and your friend at the airport?”

  He smiled. “Mr. Carrick, I have done what I can in that regard. These are not close friends of mine. They are acquaintances. Annoying them will be counterproductive. Miriam means very much to me. Her welfare is important to me, too. Perhaps you have a friend you could call at the FAA?”

  I shook my head, thinking I’d have to add FAA to the list of relevant agencies where I didn’t have any friends. Then I realized I did have one friend with the feds who I had forgotten about.

  45

  Danny answered on the third ring with a suspicious, “Hello?”

  “Hey, partner. How’s life with the Federales?” I had gotten up from my chair and was pacing the sidewalk ten feet from where Baudet was sitting.

  “Doyle? Where are you calling from? You sound like shit, and your number has like thirty digits.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, I’m out of town. I need a favor.”

  “Well, I figured, since it’s you.”

  “A couple favors, actually.”

  “Goes without saying. Wait, where are you?”

  I laughed again. It was kind of ridiculous. “I’m actually in Haiti right now.”

  “Haiti?! What are you talking about?”

  “Long story, actually.
You probably don’t want to know about it.”

  “Is this about the Hartwell thing? Oh, wait a second—did I hear that you blew off a shift today?”

  “Shit! I forgot to call out.”

  “You forgot?” He started laughing. “I leave town for a few days, and you piss off to Haiti and forget to call in?”

  He was laughing so hard now that Baudet was smiling at me, thinking something hilarious was going on. I turned to face away from him.

  “I need you to keep an eye on Nola, okay?”

  That brought him down to Earth. “Sure, of course. Wait, isn’t she staying—”

  “Yes,” I cut him off. I knew they weren’t tapping his phone or my burner, but I didn’t want to take any chances. “She is.”

  “What’s going on?” Totally serious now. “Is this part of the Hartwell thing, too?”

  “Yes, it is. There’s guys with guns, and they’re not shy about using them.” I told him about the Liberty Motel, about Everglades City. “They might be the same guys that shot Ron Hartwell. Look, I’m probably overreacting, but that’s why I need you to keep an eye on things.” I paused. “How are the kids?”

  He paused, too. “They’re great,” he said quietly. “I guess they can stay with their friends for another day or two.”

  “That would probably be best. Just a day or two, to be sure.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll be home in a couple hours.”

  “Great. I need something else, too.” I told him briefly and obliquely some of the details of Miriam and Sable’s escape in the Helio Courier. “Anyway, since you’re in good with the feds, and since you’re not involved in this case, really, I’m wondering if you can use your FBI connections and see if FAA has any reports of planes like that coming down, unauthorized landings, anything suspicious like that, in or around Florida.”

  “You know I’ve only been here a couple days. I’m basically on a glorified training assignment.”

  “I know it’s more than that, but I also know I’m asking a lot of you.”

  “It’s not that, it’s just … Sure, whatever. Yeah, I’ll call. I’ll just call FAA. Text you back at this number?”