by Jon McGoran
“That’d be great.”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Look, Doyle, I don’t know what you’re doing down there, but you know you’re not getting away with too many more of these spectacular fuckups in your career, right?”
“Yeah, I know it.”
“You want me to talk to Suarez? Tell him where you are? Tell him you’re sick or whatever?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll deal with it when I get back.”
As I got off the phone and returned to the table, Elena came out with two plates of food. Daylight was quickly fading, and she plugged in a set of Christmas lights strung along the awning before she went back inside.
We ate quietly at first. The plantains were okay, but the chicken was amazing—tender and juicy, mild but accompanied by a slaw of spicy pickled hot peppers. There was also a tasty corn porridge, like polenta, with tomatoes and vegetables and spices.
After a few minutes, Baudet put down his beer. “How do you like it?”
“It’s delicious.”
He nodded in agreement and pointed his fork at the porridge. “My sister is famous for her mayi moulin.”
“It’s very tasty.”
After a few more minutes of eating, Baudet put down his fork. “Tell me about this man Sable.”
“I barely know him.”
“Who does he work for?”
I paused, and we looked at each other, negotiating how much we trusted each other, how much faith we had in Miriam’s judgment of each other.
“He said he works for a group called Beta Librae.”
He nodded.
“You’ve heard of them?”
“Vague mentions. Environmental activists, of a sort. Very quiet, eh? Beta Librae is a star in the constellation Libra. It’s also called the Northern Claw. That’s all I know.”
The Northern Claw. That sounded ominous. I ate the last of my food and wiped my hands and mouth on a paper napkin. “So you know Miriam from college?”
“University of Pennsylvania,” he said. “I got a scholarship. Premed, before I went into public health. We were quite good friends. She was my first, best, and only remaining college friend.” He laughed. “When I returned to Haiti, no one else kept in touch.”
“You know her pretty well?”
He gave me a look I couldn’t read, then nodded.
I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “Miriam said her next move after coming here was to find someplace without extradition and try to clear her name from there. Do you think it’s possible she just fled?”
He picked at the label of his beer bottle, thinking. “It must be a desperate time for her, so yes, anything is possible. But if so, she’ll get in touch somehow. She’ll let me know. You said she was bringing files, no?”
I nodded.
“If she thinks they’re important, she’ll make sure I get them.”
46
I opened my mouth to tell him about the copy I’d faxed to Nola, that maybe she could fax it back to Baudet. But I didn’t. I trusted Baudet a lot, but not with Nola. Not yet. I’d already put her at risk just by sending her that fax. Besides, there was already a copy of those files right here in Cap-Haïtien.
“Earlier, you mentioned a trade summit,” I said. “Is that why Energene and Stoma are here?”
He nodded and shrugged at the same time. “As I said, they’d be here anyway, but yes, they’re lobbying hard. President Cardon is opposed to allowing the biotech companies to do as they please. His predecessor, Martine, wanted to let them bring in whatever new hybrids and genetically modified seeds they wanted. He wanted to give them long leases for broad swaths of farmland up north so they could grow corn for export, for biofuels instead of food, at a time when we are importing most of our food from the Dominican Republic. Cardon is against all that. He thinks the genetically modified foods need more research to prove their long-term safety, not just health and the environment but also to the economy. President Abelard felt the same way, but when Martine took office last year, he opened our markets to GMOs. The biotech corn has displaced much of the domestic corn. Cardon is against them, and I agree. They need more research, and we need to strengthen our native agricultural sector, so Haiti can be more self-sufficient.”
He paused and took a deep breath. “But yes, on Monday, CASCATA will consider a proposal to tighten regulations on biotech imports throughout the entire region. President Cardon will likely cast the deciding vote. Stoma, Energene, and the others are in a tizzy. And the American government, they consider any kind of regulation an affront to democracy.”
“Speaking of democracy, it sounds like this is your third president in three years. Is that right?”
He nodded with a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “Cardon was prime minister under President Abelard. In last year’s election, Abelard lost to Charles Martine. Martine received massive amounts of outside money to win that election from Energene, Stoma, and the like. It was not something we were used to dealing with.”
“And then Martine died?”
“Yes, Martine came in and threw open the gates like they wanted. He invited Stoma to bring in their corn. That mayi moulin we just ate was almost certainly Stoma-Grow corn. Then he invited the rest, Energene and the others. Two months later, he died of a heart attack. Dropped dead on the spot.” He smiled ruefully. “Some people had conspiracy theories about that, but the way the man ate, I’m surprised his heart lasted as long as it did. Anyway, there was a special election. Martine’s backers had spent a fortune to defeat Abelard, sowing misinformation and confusion that peaked right before election. A lot of that came to light after the election, so there was already a backlash against Martine’s people. With the special election, the American companies didn’t have time to do it again. They barely had time to field a candidate—a man named Dupuis no one had ever heard of. Abelard was too old and tired to run again, so Cardon stepped in and won.”
“Is Cardon popular?”
He shrugged. “Cardon is a good man. I don’t see him much now that he’s such a big shot, but when we were kids, we were like cousins. Many people like him, others don’t. Martine was pro-corporate, pro-biotech, pro-GMO, and that was controversial. Cardon is against it, and that is controversial, too. Either way, people are upset. And some feel Haiti shouldn’t even be in CASCATA, that it violates our sovereignty. People on both sides get hot about it, which is part of the reason the police are so tense.”
“The protests seem pretty peaceful.”
“Yes, well, the protests are only part of the reason. The bigger part is Ducroix, the interior minister. He oversees the police. The more he convinces Cardon there is trouble, the more indispensable and powerful he becomes.”
As he said it, his face lit up like the clouds had parted to reveal the sun. I thought it was a strange reaction to his last statement.
Then I realized he was looking over my shoulder.
47
“Portia!” he exclaimed as he scrambled to his feet. I turned to see the woman from the jail, his assistant. Her yellow sneakers were glowing in the darkness as she approached the pool of light that surrounded us.
Her smile was only slightly more restrained than his, but whereas Baudet’s was a little bit goofy, hers was all-out dazzling. At least, it was until I got to my feet, as well, and she turned to look at me.
I don’t know if my presence put her off her stride, but she and Baudet came together awkwardly, clasping each other’s hands between them, their bodies maintaining a twelve-inch buffer.
They murmured what sounded like a restrained but intimate greeting. Then Baudet pulled his eyes off her with an effort, like there was Velcro involved.
“I believe you met Doyle Carrick,” he said, turning to me. “Doyle, this is Portia Larose, my assistant deputy health minister.”
“Detective Carrick,” she said coolly, clearly still unswayed by my charms.
Baudet gave me a smile that was bashful, but not apologetic. I understood, too. She was not the ki
nd of woman you would ever make apologies for. “Doyle and I were just having a good talk about politics in Haiti.”
Her smile returned in a different form. “Is it possible to have a good talk about this country’s politics?” she asked in English.
Elena came out with some sort of fruit drink for Portia. They exchanged kisses and a quick, familiar greeting in Kreyol. Then Elena slipped back inside.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds like Cardon’s not so bad.”
She took a sip of her drink, savoring it in a way that strongly suggested it was not just fruit juice. “Cardon seems good,” she said, “but it’s only been a few months.”
“So you must give him a chance,” Baudet said. It sounded as though this was a conversation they’d had before.
“Absolutely,” she said. “But there is plenty of time for corruption to catch up with him. Either his own or someone else’s.”
Baudet seemed to be resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the end of the block lit up and an armored police vehicle turned the corner toward us. Its headlights flashed across us as it turned, and a spotlight mounted by the driver’s window swept back and forth up the otherwise darkened street. As it rumbled closer, the sound was deafening. It slowed alongside us, the spotlight resting on us. I felt a moment of anxiety, wondering if they were going to harass us.
Baudet and I shielded our eyes, but Portia stared defiantly into the glare, barely squinting, until the truck continued on its way.
“Speaking of someone else,” she said, watching the truck disappear around the next corner.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes.
Baudet leaned forward. “Ducroix’s men. The Polis Nasyonal. Portia doesn’t trust them.”
Her eyes flashed. “And you do?”
Baudet put up his hands like he didn’t want to argue.
“So there’s no military, and Ducroix controls all the police?” I asked.
“Some more than others,” Baudet said.
“The Polis Nasyonal are the worst,” Portia said. “They are completely under Ducroix’s control.”
“I had expected to see more UN troops around. I haven’t seen any.”
“They’re mostly down in Port-au-Prince, anyway, but Ducroix requested even more of them down there. In case there was trouble, which, according to Ducroix, there always is.”
“You don’t believe him?”
She laughed sadly. “There’s always something going on. People are upset. They want to have a voice. They’re suspicious of outside interference, and history says they’re right to be. This trade summit has people worried we’re going to be swamped by biotech corporations, what it could do to the farmers, to the land, to everyone. But there’s been no violence. Ducroix makes it sound like they’re about to launch a bloody rebellion, but I don’t see that at all. So I wonder what he’s up to.” She shot Baudet a knowing look. “He seems to be overstepping in other areas, as well.”
He wrinkled his brow and frowned at her.
“What?” she said, challenging him. Before Baudet could answer, she turned to me. “Cardon kept Ducroix on from Martine’s administration. Political expediency, I guess, but he seems too corrupt and ambitious to be given so much power.”
Elena came out, holding her apron in one hand and our check in the other. Baudet handed her a handful of bills. I reached for my wallet, but he waved it away. “I insist,” he said. He exchanged a few more words with her in Kreyol. She nodded and bent over to kiss his forehead, then mumbled some form of good night, ending with “Bonswa.”
“Bonswa, Elena,” we all said as she turned to walk down the block.
Baudet watched her depart, then shot a glance at me and looked around, as if to see if anyone else was listening. He leaned toward Portia and whispered, “I told Doyle about Saint Benezet.”
She shot upright and her eyes went wide, momentarily flickering over at me. “You did what?” Her voice was a hoarse, scratchy cross between a whisper and shriek. “Are you crazy?”
Baudet held up his hands. “It’s okay,” he said.
She turned to me. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t know you. He doesn’t know you. He shouldn’t have told you.”
“We were sharing information,” he said calmly. “Doyle has told me some interesting things, as well.”
He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I shrugged and nodded. In for a penny, in for a pound.
He told her about Ron’s murder and Miriam’s framing and escape, how I had been helping her. Portia put her hand over her mouth and her eyes welled up, but she looked at me with a new appreciation. Then he told her about Ron and Miriam’s suspicions about Energene and people getting sick from the Soyagene, but he added that his tests didn’t support that. By the time he was done, her eyes had gone from shock and sorrow to anger and stunned fear.
“I told you it was not Ebola,” she said quietly when he was done. She turned to me. “In Saint Benezet. It was not Ebola. Regi said they would not lie about something like that. But I think he is wrong. Perhaps it was chikungunya or dengue or maybe even some other hemorrhagic fever, but it was not Ebola. Ducroix’s medics had no business diagnosing it or treating it. They don’t know how to treat cholera, much less Ebola.” Her eyes burned. “If they’d known what they were doing, those people might be alive.”
Baudet shook his head. “You can’t believe that.”
She glared at him. “You are too naïve.”
A tense silence stretched on until a phone buzzed. It took me a moment to realize it was mine, a text from Danny reading, “FAA reports no downed planes or unauthorized landings, Helio or otherwise.”
I read it to out loud and texted back, “Thanks.”
“That’s good news, I guess,” Baudet said. “Yes?”
“I guess so.”
Portia remained quiet, I think annoyed at Baudet for confiding in me and for dismissing her suspicions.
As we sat there in somber silence, the day caught up with me. I’d been outrunning it, holding it at bay, keeping myself ready to move at a moment’s notice as soon as I had something to do, somewhere to go. But Danny and the FAA turned up nothing. Suddenly, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I turned to Baudet. “No word from Toma?”
He shook his head. “He might not call back until tomorrow.”
It occurred to me that if I was going to be any use when he did call, I needed to rest while I could.
As if reading my mind, Baudet said, “I have a very uncomfortable sofa you are welcome to, but Elena has a guesthouse just down the block, a few doors away from me. Basic but clean and comfortable.”
I smiled. “Thanks. That sounds great.”
48
Portia said a chilly good night to Baudet and a polite one to me. Baudet drove me two blocks through darkened streets, placing a quick call on the way. When we pulled over in front of the guesthouse, Elena was waiting in the doorway. Next to a bare bulb being pelted by a dozen moths and other insects was a tiny plank of wood with hand-painted letters, OTÈL WAYAL. I smiled as I realized it was The Royal Hotel.
She greeted us warmly as we approached and gave us each a kiss on the cheek.
“Welcome,” she said.
Baudet and I exchanged phone numbers and agreed to call each other as soon as we heard anything. Then he walked up the street to a small house three doors away.
I followed Elena through the front door and into a small vestibule. To the left was a tiny office, and past the office was a hallway, painted a deep blue, with the steps to the second floor. We climbed the stairs to a second-floor hallway with three doors. She opened one of them and gave me the key, then stepped aside, waving me in.
The room was purple, with bright green furnishings. The colors were an assault, but a cheerful one. I found myself smiling for no reason.
She smiled and closed the door.
I looked at my watch. It said nine thir
ty. I took out my phone, put in the zero-one-one and started entering Nola’s number, but I paused and put in Laura Tennison’s instead.
She answered tentatively on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Laura. It’s Doyle.”
“Doyle?” she said.
I heard a scuffling sound, and for a moment I thought something terrible had happened. Then Nola’s voice said, “You disappear to Haiti, leave me hanging like this, and when you finally call, you call Laura?”
“Nola, sorry, I—”
“Jesus, Doyle, I’ve been worried sick. What’s going on with you?”
“I called Laura’s number in case someone was listening in on yours.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Is that really a concern?”
“I don’t know. Just trying to be safe. Especially after the … note … I sent you earlier. I didn’t want to do anything else to draw attention to you. Or to this phone.”
“Oh.”
I sat back on the bed, feeling the waves of exhaustion wash over me. “Are you okay?”
She sighed. “I’m fine. I’m worried about you, about what you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”
“This one came to me,” I said a little defensively.
“Regardless. I don’t know if you’ve spoken to anyone, but apparently you’re back on Suarez’s shit list.”
I smiled, thinking, There was a time when I wasn’t on Suarez’s shit list? Then I said, “I know. I forgot to call out of work.”
“Yes, well apparently there’s also something about a case file you were supposed to bring in.”
I winced. “Crap.”
Maybe it was the stress, but for some reason, we shared a good laugh at that.
“I miss you,” she said quietly.
“I miss you, too.”
“Where are you staying?”
I laughed. “The Royal Hotel.” I told her about Baudet and Elena.
“Sounds very nice.”
“It is.”
“Any news on Miriam?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Do you think she’s…”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I don’t know. Look, I might need you to do something else for me tomorrow. Those pages, the ones you’re sending to Mikel, I might need you to fax them back to me tomorrow, from somewhere safe.”
