Lars stepped forward. “We are captives under international law—”
“Fuck international law! I’ve spared you and your first mate. Like the doctor, you will be valuable to me. But I’m the law here.”
First Mate Tobias Jensen had stood erect and never looked away from his captain. Tobias was new to the ship, having arrived only a few days earlier.
By my count, there had been at least ten shots fired, so I knew that the authorities would check on us. Sure enough, just as Juarez was threatening us, the pilothouse radiotelephone buzzed. Everyone knew it was the authorities, Coast Guard, maybe even the National Police.
Alberte Juarez had thought of that possibility, too. He faced Lars. “You’re alive to communicate with the Léogâne authorities. Tell them the men were drinking but you have them all under control. And no funny stuff.”
Alberte saw that the captain was determined to resist and slammed his rifle butt down on Lars’ right hand. Lars shrieked in pain, but Alberte’s clamped his hand over his mouth. “Now do it right.”
With his jaw clenching, he responded to the telephone caller. “Sorry about that. Just some ass-drunk sailors. No worries. All is well on the Ana Brigette.”
CHAPTER THREE
Temporary Facilities
Ministry of Finance
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
10:56 p.m.
THE GUN MADE NO more noise than a popping balloon. The enormous silencer on the front of the minuscule pistol didn’t suppress the sound of the shot so much as the tiny .22 caliber didn’t make that much noise to begin with. The gun was so small that it had to be fired directly into the head of the victim, or the heart, to be lethal.
Gabriel slumped to the floor, a bullet hole in the side of his head. It looked and sounded, freakishly, like the Assistant Minister of Finance had just lost his life to a cap gun.
“Mr. Cheval, has your vote changed?”
Cheval was shaking so hard he had difficulty getting the words from his mouth. “Ye-yes. I-I’ll vo-vote for y-your proposals.”
“Too late. I expect prompt and decisive responses to my generous offers.”
The second guard raised and fired twice, striking Cheval in the right eye. Duran’s assistant slumped over and fell out of his chair.
Duran lifted his cell phone to call Jakjak, but Baccus slapped the phone from his hand and motioned to the guard who had executed Gabriel. “Kill the Minister’s bodyguard.”
The big man turned and ran out the door.
Baccus looked at Duran. “Now, you will sign these papers so we can conclude our business here.”
Duran thought for a moment, folded his arms on his chest, and leaned toward Baccus. “No. I’ll not be intimidated by criminals. Kill me, as well, but I’ll not sign anything.”
Baccus, tired of delay, broke open his briefcase and took out his personal revolver. The briefcase dropped to the floor and Baccus stepped forward and put the slim .357 to Duran’s temple. “Sign or I’ll kill you.”
Duran looked Baccus in the eye. “Koulangyet Manman’w.”
Baccus’ face grew red. He slowly pulled the trigger. There was the snap of the hammer slamming home on an empty chamber. “Let’s play Russian roulette. Second chance? Maybe the bullet is here.”
Again he pulled the trigger. Duran did not flinch. SNAP! No bullet.
Outside, Baccus’ guard stayed in the shadows as he approached the Mercedes. There was no way to see through the heavily tinted windows of the car. Creeping up from behind the Mercedes, the bodyguard raised a chunk of concrete in his left hand and smashed the driver’s side glass. He quickly aimed the deadly pop-gun at where the man would be if he were sitting at the steering wheel and fired five shots, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, riddling the dash and driver’s seat with holes. He paused and listened. There was no movement in the car. He opened the door to see nothing.
Jakjak was crouched in the back seat. He threw open the car door, knocking the assassin down. Jakjak jumped out, slammed his fist into the shooter’s kidney, then twisted his gun hand around his back until the shoulder snapped. The man grunted in extreme pain. Jakjak released his grip. The bodyguard attempted to turn but was met with a ferocious uppercut. His eyes dimmed and then his knees buckled. He fell with a hard slap on the cement, unconscious. Jakjak took the gun from the limp arm and shoved it into his pocket.
Clearly, Minister Duran was in trouble, somewhere. Jakjak took off running across the piles of rubble. He got to the office building. The door was locked. He sensed the spirit of the cat, the evil Iwa, clawing his body. He could feel the spirits of dead men coming from the door and Iwa pushing him to use the black magic powers of Petro.
He ran to a side window and saw Baccus pointing a gun at Duran’s head and the Minister’s assistants lying dead on the floor. Jakjak took a quick five steps back, drew his .45, and then sprinted forward, exploding through the window. Baccus’ remaining bodyguard turned to fire but Jakjak fired two expertly aimed rounds into his chest, dropping him.
Suddenly the room was frantic. Baccus dropped the revolver, which had never been loaded, and lunged for his briefcase on the floor. His two associates fumbled to remove .45-caliber MAC 10s from their briefcases. Baccus drew a pistol to shoot the Minister and Jakjak dove headfirst into the line of fire. Baccus fell backwards, spraying the room with random fire.
With Baccus sprawled on the floor, Jakjak raised his pistol to shoot.
But he suddenly grew weak. The black cloak of Iwa wrapped around his body. He tried in vain to push the cloak aside, to breathe, to move forward. Feeling a dull burning pain in his chest, he looked down and saw two round holes in his shirt. A rush of blood spurted out. His only thought was to kill Baccus. The image of Baccus whirled in his head. Then, Jakjak saw only blackness and the face of a giant cat opening its jaws to snap his neck.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aboard the Ana Brigette
Léogâne, Haiti
1:00 a.m.
ALBERTE AND HIS FIVE lieutenants assembled in the pilothouse of the Ana Brigette. Lars Paulissen and I stood nearby, bound and gagged.
The group waited tensely as a short man with a heavy beard and a waxed mustache with pointed ends boarded the ship. He was accompanied by an entourage of five, tall, muscular black men, dressed in military fatigues. The bearded man looked like Yasser Arafat, with his keffieyeh headdress and its flowing white tail draped over his right shoulder. A bulky thobe covered his body and he carried a riding crop in his hand.
Upon his arrival, Alberte and his five men bowed to the floor. “Welcome, Great Emir,” Alberte said, and kissed his leader’s hand.
A tall, thin, Caucasian man wearing a gray tweed sport coat and khakis, who had been the last of the entourage to board, stepped into the pilothouse. The emir introduced him as Phellipe Armbrister. Under his arm he carried a roll of architectural plans. The emir looked at Lars and spoke in a thin, reedy voice, “Mr. Armbrister has some modifications that will greatly enhance your ship’s design.”
Captain Paulissen was sent below in handcuffs, with two of the emir’s bodyguards, to show Armbrister the layout of the Ana Brigette.
Turning to his crew, the emir gritted his teeth and said, “Alberte, I planned for a precise, flawless takeover of this ship. How did you fuck up so badly?”
“It was the doctor. He sounded the ship’s bell.”
“A feeble excuse that I do not accept,” the emir said as he slapped Alberte’s thigh with a riding crop.
The emir nodded to his bodyguard on the right. The man pulled out a small, nasty-looking gun, a .22, like the kind used by muggers, but with an immense noise suppressor screwed into the barrel. Alberte knew what that meant. He opened his mouth to scream right as the bullets popped him between his eyes.
The emir turned to Alberte’s men and pointed to one. “Mobuto, can you lead these men?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, sir.”
He then turned to me. “You’re Doctor James, yes? You and your friend, Elizabeth Keyes, are royal pains in the ass.”
He instructed one of his guards to take the gag from my mouth.
“Huh?” I said. “How do you know us?”
“Some peoples’ reputations follow them, as does yours. Especially when you’re an enemy of ISIS.”
“Couldn’t be enemies with a nicer bunch of fellows.”
The emir’s face turned red and twisted into a wrinkled knot. His whole body shook. “You’re a pig, and you’ll die like one. Allah is not a forgiving God. And He tells me to make an example of you.” He spit in my face and then struck my jaw so hard with his crop that it cut my cheek.
If my hands hadn’t been tied behind my back, I’d have kicked the shit out of the little guy. “So shoot me right now.”
“I’ll kill you in time, but not with the mercy of a bullet,” he said. “Meanwhile, your doctor friend in Léogâne will be calling you every day, and I have to keep you alive to reassure him that all is well.”
“I can’t wait to tell him how much fun we’re having on the Ana Brigette.”
“In five days, after I achieve my objectives, I’ll have plenty of time for my amusement—watching you die, very slowly. And I’ll be sure your girlfriend, Elizabeth Keyes, is here to see your ‘brave’ face melt to ‘pathetic’ as you beg me to die.”
“Five days? That’s Saturday,” I said.
“Yes, Saturday. The entire world will know of my greatness on that day.”
There was something familiar about the emir, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
He looked at me with his beady eyes, red in his fury, and again spat in my face. Then he took a deep breath and smiled as he said in a quiet voice, “With your help, I’ll find Elizabeth Keyes. As you say in English, ‘With one stone I shall kill two birds.’”
He turned to his men and spoke so softly that they had to lean forward to hear his words. “I’ll teach this infidel not to laugh at Allah’s leader of all His earthly followers. In five days, we will have a feast to celebrate the death of millions of American Christian and Jewish pigs.”
He pointed at me and began to tremble as he shouted, “At this feast, you will be roasted slowly and placed on my dinner table for all my followers to enjoy with the finest arak and French wines. Elizabeth Keyes will dance at the dinner, so all can see her beautiful, naked body before she is placed on the table beside you, and we’ll make sushi of her luscious, delicious flesh! And she’ll be awake while we carve our meal!”
The emir regained his composure. “Lock him up. Bind his hands and legs. When Dr. Duran calls, force him to act civilized.”
They took me to my cabin down the hall from the captain’s quarters. Several rooms aboard the ship had doors that had been fitted so they could be barred from the outside, in case the captain needed a brig or a holding tank. The crew could really lock someone up if they needed to. My cabin was one of those with an outside bar lock.
Before they locked me up, they searched the cabin and took most of my belongings. Captain Paulissen and Tobias Jensen were locked in the captain’s quarters, again after a careful search and removal of most of Lars’ personal belongings.
I sat on the side of my bunk, my hands secured behind my back with duct tape and my feet similarly bound. The calmness I’d displayed to the emir and his men was gone. Now, my heart raced. I was more concerned about the act of terrorism the emir was planning than about my own execution. Millions of dead Americans? And he plans to have Keyes here when he celebrates his victory? In just five days?
I had to escape. I jerked and twisted as hard as I could in an attempt to free my hands and feet, but the tape held firm.
I looked at the full-length aluminum mirror attached to the door. That’ll do it. Just have to break the mirror and cut the tape with the broken glass.
I hopped over to the mirror and turned my back to it so I could grab it with my hands. I twisted and turned and yanked at the mirror, but it wouldn’t budge. It was securely welded.
The bed frame.
I plopped onto the bed and slid to my knees next to one of the legs of the bed. It was solid metal and welded to the floor, impossible to bend or break. And all the edges were rounded, so they couldn’t be used.
The drinking glass. But it was flimsy plastic.
Every substantial piece of glass or metal in the room was of no use to me.
I looked at the glass on the clock face, but it was thin and would crumble before it cut the tape. The shaving cream canister and a medicine bottle on the counter were of no use, either, and my captors had taken my razor.
I looked all over the small room but saw nothing to help me.
God, I could use a drink and a smoke.
I backed up to my desk and opened the drawer. My Sobranie Blacks were there, and my spare cigarette lighter was still tucked in one of the packs.
No way could I get a cigarette to my lips, but maybe I could get the lighter on my leg restraints. I tried to lower my arms over my hips to reach my legs, but I couldn’t get them below my waist. I took the lighter and lay face-down on the bed, scooting into a position where I could see myself in the mirror. I arched my back until my hands touched my ankles. The position was painful and strenuous to hold. I started breathing hard, and sweating. I lit the lighter and touched the tape. The tape was flammable. A flame licked out and burned my leg. I quickly rolled over and smothered the flames.
I turned over and lit the lighter again. Holding it as close to the tape as possible, I let it burn a little more before rolling onto my back and putting out the fire. My burned leg was killing me. I caught my breath before trying again. This time, I pushed my legs apart as the tape burned. Again, I felt the horrible pain of my leg being burned. I snapped off the lighter and jerked my legs away. Just then my legs popped free.
I rubbed my burned leg against the bed sheets and turned to the job of releasing my hands. For this, I stood with my back to the mirror so I could see what I was doing. After a few tries, I was free.
I jumped up and went to the door to see if it was unlocked.
Hearing the knob rattle, the guard outside the door stomped his feet and screamed, “Silans!”
“Go to hell!” I yelled.
The next thing I knew, a bullet punched a tiny hole through the door and whizzed above my head.
I decided not to respond further.
CHAPTER FIVE
Beneath the National Palace
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
2:10 a.m.
JULIEN DURAN SAT ON a metal bed frame in the basement of what had been the National Palace prior to the quake. The white building had been beautiful and a symbol of pride for the people. Haitians likened it to the United States’ White House. The center arch of the three arcades had collapsed in the quake as had all the interior ceilings and walls. Despite a feeble attempt to restore it after the quake, it was never usable, and when the bulldozers came, the demolition was mainly cosmetic.
Four barred cells still stood in the bowels of the destroyed building, hidden beneath the mountain of debris. A week earlier, this largely undamaged basement had been secretly cleared of earthquake rubble and prepared for holding captives again, as it had been used by Haitian presidents in the distant past. Few people knew of the jail’s existence.
Duran’s hands remained tied behind his back. His captors had taken his clothes and shoes, and given him an old T-shirt and jeans, but no shoes. He was still alive, despite the three death threats Baccus had already given him after he’d failed to sign papers authorizing the transfer of the relief funds to Charles Roche’s accounts.
In the adjacent cell, Jakjak lay dying. He needed medical treatment for bullet wounds to his chest, but Baccus refused.
A huge granite block covered the entrance. When
Duran heard the entrance stone roll aside, he sat tall, expecting a visit from his captor, Virgil Baccus. But now, as he looked through the cloud of cement dust stirred by the visitor, a new face emerged—that of a tall, muscular man weighing over three hundred pounds. His head was shaved, and his frown was fixed. The enormous man opened the barred cell door.
“What’s your name, and who do you work for?” Duran demanded.
“I’m Lugar.”
“Don’t you provide for your captives? I’m hungry, and Jakjak needs a doctor.”
The man twirled the ends of his handlebar mustache. “You’re fed once a day. We gave you rations earlier this morning,” he grumbled with a heavy French accent.
“But my hands are tied behind me. The meal spilled on the dirt floor as I tried to remove it from the plate with my mouth.”
Lugar spat on the food-stained floor, his spittle splashing on Duran’s feet. “Then you’ll have to learn to eat from the floor.”
“Jakjak will die without medical assistance.” Duran gestured to the man lying on the cot in the adjacent cell.
Jakjak was covered in dried blood. His breathing was shallow and fast. Sweat covered his face, and he moaned incessantly. His eyes opened every few minutes while he whispered prayers to Iwa, the Vodoun spirit.
Lugar’s left eye began to twitch. “Shut the fuck up. I’ll ask the questions. And you’ll answer them all. I don’t have the patience of Mister Baccus. If you refuse to answer honestly, I’ll punish you severely.”
From behind his back, the man pulled out a bull whip. “We need the account number and bank where the Haiti Relief Aid Fund is kept.”
“If you wish to deposit the half billion dollars your group promised, I’ll give you that number. It’s in the City Bank, account number 5555–4000–1663–2112.”
“Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. Who do I contact to withdraw money?”
“That’s the account I opened to accept the money you pledged. If you haven’t made a deposit, there’s none to withdraw.”
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