I grabbed a chair and cocked it back, ready to strike anyone or anything that might harm us. A tall, thin man with a bent-over posture charged. His mouth was open and drooling. His eyes were open so wide they were round.
Before he could tackle me, I swung the chair. Someone jumped from behind our assailant and took the full force of the chair. It was Emmanuel!
He jerked the chair from my hands. I balled up my fists to hit him, but he turned his back on me and grabbed the bizarre-looking guy behind him.
What the hell was happening?
Sanfia magically appeared. Her face showed fury as she screamed at me. “What have you done? Fornicating in my house!”
Keyes answered, “Sorry, we didn’t try to—”
“Estipid moun blan! Stupid blancs! You think I don’t know everything? You need to respect my men and this house.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
With that, Sanfia marched out the door and down the stairs, with Emmanuel doing all he could to subdue her anger.
Keyes and I stood watching the closed door and allowing our pulses to drop a bit. Finally, I walked to her and led her back to the mattress. We lay down, and I wrapped my arms around her. We were still naked, but neither one of us dared do much more. She was comfortable with that, and we soon fell asleep in each other’s arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sanfia’s Home
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
5:00 a.m.
ELIZABETH KEYES AND I were awakened by the sound of children singing. Though I didn’t understand much Haitian Creole, I enjoyed the melodic songs. The singing continued for twenty minutes. When it ended, Keyes got up from the mattress and rearranged her clothes as I watched.
”Put your eyes back in your head,” she said.
I laughed and tucked my colorful shirt into the fisherman’s trousers.
“I sure could use a hot shower,” she said.
I shook my head. “I’m not opening any more doors without Sanfia’s permission. Besides, with all the problems I’ve seen in Haiti, I doubt this house has running water, much less hot water.”
She looked serious. “What’s going on in those basement rooms?”
I shivered just thinking about it. “Don’t know, but there’s something eerie down there.”
Someone knocked on the door. I opened it to see Jakjak standing in the darkness, smiling.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked.
Though we’d had only a couple hours of sleep, I felt better than I had in a long time. “Very well, thank you. How are you feeling?”
“Never felt better.”
“Don’t believe you,” I said. “Let me see for myself.”
I felt his pulse; it was about 120. I listened to his breathing; it was shallow and rapid, with wheezing. I laid my hand on his forehead; he was hot, probably 102 or 103 degrees. I had to treat this man soon or he’d die of sepsis in a couple days.
Emmanuel drove Tomas’ Lexus, and Jakjak lay in the back seat with his head on my lap. Keyes rode in the front passenger seat. She was as amazed as I had been, not just of the extensive damage caused by the earthquake but of how little had been done to make repairs in the years since the quake. Occasionally, we came across a rebuilt home, and there was one newly constructed flat-topped school. But my impression of Port-au-Prince was a city with thousands of unemployed, empty-faced men and women wandering the streets and children and beggars in ragged clothes standing by the roads.
“I’m shocked that so little has been rebuilt since the quake,” Keyes said as we drove down roads with un-repaired ruts and fissures.
Finally, we encountered a recently repaired highway with the designation RN2.
Jakjak coughed as he told Keyes, “Madmwazél, this is the road to Léogâne, where the hospital and Duran’s home are located. This is one of two major highways that have been fixed since the quake.”
The “fixing” involved smoothing and grading but not actual repaving. But it was much better than the other roads in Port-au-Prince.
The road was scenic, with the cerulean blue Caribbean Sea to the right. The beach was wide and covered by pearly white sand, but there were no bathers. I looked where the Ana Brigette had been anchored a mile from the beach, but it was gone.
As we traveled down the highway, I told Keyes about how my life was in ruins back home. I hadn’t told anyone this before, but I had started drinking after the events two months prior. Until then, I’d been happy with my work and my family. Keyes knew all about Herb Waters, the hospital administrator who’d framed me for a couple murders. In fact, with her help, I’d been able to sort things out and clear my name.
I told Keyes that I’d taken over Herb Waters’ job after his death and gained custody of my two boys in the divorce.
I’d fled to Haiti, in part, because I knew I had to dry out while on the hospital ship. Finally, I talked with her about the hijacking and my escape two nights earlier.
Keyes was quiet the rest of the drive. She looked at Haiti for the first time in her life. The destruction of the earthquake of January, 2010, was evident everywhere. Eighty percent of the buildings in Port-au-Prince were either damaged or destroyed. Three thousand bodies had been counted, and it was estimated that another thousand were still buried underneath houses that had not been razed or hidden in rubble carted away to the dumps. Years had passed, and only sixty percent of the quake debris had been bulldozed and carried to ravines and low-lying areas to be flattened in preparation for new home construction.
People still lived in tent cities, which we saw everywhere we looked. The tents were fabricated using sheets, cardboard, and discarded tin from the roofs of demolished homes. Numerous ten-foot-tall wooden poles stuck up from the ground, supporting electrical wires. From the sparse supply of electricity, a few wires with bare bulbs dropped to the lucky tent dwellers that were afforded the luxury of light.
We saw less earthquake damage as we neared Léogâne.
When we approached the Duran house, Jakjak got excited. “Doktè, Mrs. Duran’s car is gone. She’s not home, so we don’t have to explain nothin’ to her.”
“Can’t we trust her?”
“I’m certain we can, but the fewer people who know what’s going on, the better.”
We drove up a hill devoid of trees and shrubbery in an affluent neighborhood. Many of the yards of the homes were covered with rock debris. Lawns that were formerly well-maintained had knee-high grass in need of mowing. We pulled into the driveway of a dust-covered, two-story, white stucco home with a red tile roof.
Jakjak had a key, and he led Keyes and me into the house. We saw the opulently decorated interior, which was in sharp contrast to the rough exterior appearance of all the homes in the neighborhood. Jakjak showed Keyes the offices of both Julien and Tomas Duran, each equipped with a computer.
Keyes turned and whispered to me, “This is good. I can search their computer network. That may be helpful.”
Just then, there was a loud clunk. Keyes hunched over and looked around while Jakjak searched the house. He opened every door except the one to Mrs. Duran’s bedroom. Earlier, he had told me, “Madame Duran’s bedroom is off limits to everyone except her husband.” Even the maid was not allowed there.
Keyes put her head on my shoulder and said softly, “Forgive me. I’ve been a tough bitch for so much of my life. Now I’m terrified that Omar Farok will find me. Maybe I’m not the totally brave and fearless woman you knew in North Carolina. But it was you who caused my change. You’re the first good man I’ve ever met who hasn’t tried to take advantage of me or possess me. You showed me the right way to live, and you opened my heart. But once you allow yourself to feel love, you are also open to feeling fear and all the pain that goes with it. So, to survive, I’ve sort of shut everything down for the past two months, so it’s going to take me a while to open back up again.
I hope you understand.”
“Of course. I’ll help you work through this. You’ll be safe with me.”
Then, she stood tall and pushed me away. “Go. Take care of Jakjak. I’ll be fine. I’m not usually jumpy like that.”
I watched as she went to Minister Duran’s desk. Before sitting at his computer, she looked under the desk, behind the sofa, and in the small closet. I backed out the door and hurried to the car.
Aden International Airport
Aden, Yemen
6:30 a.m.
The white and blue-striped Kaza West jet landed and taxied to a hangar owned by Farok. As the plane approached the building, the hangar doors opened. The plane came to a stop just inside and the doors closed. Immediately, a dozen men in camouflage fatigues exited the Kazakh plane and circled it. They stood at attention, holding their semiautomatic rifles in front of them.
A 747 was already in the hangar. It was Farok’s plane, the one he had used when he flew to Kazakhstan. Farok exited his aircraft and took the Kazakh plane’s manifest from the pilot. After reviewing it, he nodded and the cargo hatch of the Kazakh’s plane lowered, revealing two crates. A forklift lifted the largest crate, a lead-lined container the size of a mid-sized car, and carried it to Farok’s 747, where it was transferred to the jet’s interior. Most of the 747’s seats had been removed and replaced with a flat platform that had heavy cleats and straps to hold the cargo.
The cargo hatch of a third plane, Farok’s camouflage-painted Piaggio Avanti, opened. A group of men loaded a smaller crate onto a wheeled dolly and rolled it off the Kazakh plane and into the Piaggio.
Within thirty minutes, the Kazakh’s plane was in the air and Farok was sweating profusely as he gave instructions to the crew of his Piaggio. After the Piaggio flew away, he walked to the Bentley parked in the hangar and got in.
The driver turned to him. “Everything go well?”
Farok did not answer.
He sighed as the guard to his right poured him a glass of Scotch. But he raised both his palms to the offering. “No. I’ll not celebrate until all the pieces of my puzzle are in place and millions of American infidels are dead.”
Farok remained silent all the way to his apartment in Aden.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Emergency Room
Hospital Sainte Croix
Léogâne, Haiti
8:00 a.m.
EMMANUEL PARKED A BLOCK away from the hospital. We told him to wait there. As Jakjak and I walked toward the building, a police cruiser pulled up to the front entrance.
I ducked my head and walked parallel to the hospital, pretending to go to some shops at the far end of the building. I couldn’t enter the hospital with police watching.
“Uh, oh.” I said as uniformed officers exited a side entrance and started walking toward us. I knew they were coming for me.
I kept looking at the pavement and counting the number of steps between us—until they were right in front of us. I stopped and looked up, expecting to be handcuffed. But they kept walking. Beyond us. To the waiting patrol car. I thought I would have a heart attack. Jakjak let out a sigh.
As the police drove away, we walked quickly to a back entrance, where Dr. Christophe Roupe was waiting for us.
“Does anyone else know we’re here?” I asked.
Chris looked at me. “No. I’ve told no one.”
I could only hope he was being honest with me. Am I going to be captured while in surgery? I didn’t know, but Jakjak’s life was at stake, so I had no choice.
Chris had the set-up ready. He started the IV and gave antibiotics as I injected the local anesthetic over the bullet holes and the section of depressed rib. I was still trembling from the police encounter and had to take a couple of deep breaths before I could operate.
“This might hurt, but I need you awake.”
Jakjak nodded, but he was trembling like I had been when the police came at us. This time, I knew it was me he was scared of.
I put on a pair of surgical gloves and prepped Jakjak’s chest with Betadine. He winced when I stuck the fourteen-gauge needle in his right chest cavity. But I hit pay dirt. The thin, bloody fluid poured out. I sniffed it. It had the sour smell of infection. That was bad. Within five minutes, I’d sucked out more than a liter of fluid.
I nodded to Chris. He listened to Jakjak’s chest with a stethoscope.
“The right sounds clear,” he said. “The left side’s still bad.”
As I moved to Jakjak’s left side, I took the sterile towel clip from the tray. I paused before beginning. A slip of my instruments or a spear of the broken rib could tear the chest wall lining, which would cause the left lung to suck in the room air and then completely collapse. That would be disastrous.
I took a deep breath. With one hand I felt the depressed rib, and with the other hand I snapped the sharp pincers of my towel clip through the skin and solidly into the most depressed part of the broken rib. Palpating with one hand and pulling upward with the other, I felt the two sections of the rib move. But they wouldn’t snap into place. The anterior section of the rib overrode the posterior. I grasped the clip with both hands and pulled upward.
Jakjak groaned. I paused a second to relax and catch my breath. I tried to lift the rib that the bullets had knocked into his chest cavity. The rib took up critical space needed by the lungs. I put one hand on Jakjak’s chest to keep from lifting him off the table and pulled with the other. The bones were impacted; they would not give way. If I couldn’t make the adjustment, Jakjak’s future looked bleak.
I turned to Chris. “I’ll have to open the wound. Get me a couple of periosteal elevators and some Propofol. You’ll have to knock him out for a couple minutes. If he moves and the bone spikes cut into the chest, his lung will collapse and he’ll die.”
Chris ran to the operating room for the medication and more instruments.
The Duran Home
Léogâne, Haiti
9:02 a.m.
Keyes was seated at Minister Duran’s computer when the closed door burst open.
She was startled but tried not to show it. Smiling, she looked up at an attractive, thin, bleached blonde with smooth skin, blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, a fit and well-proportioned physique, and a rigidly erect posture.
The blonde asked, “Just who are you, my dear? And what are you doing in my house?”
“I’m Helen Hart. I’m helping Dr. James. He’s at the hospital with Dr. Roupe right now. Jakjak said I could use the computer. You must be Mrs. Duran.”
“Good to meet you, Miss Hart,” she said without smiling.
Keyes looked at Mrs. Duran in her stylish blue satin dress and blue suede stilettos. Jakjak had said she was forty-five, but she looked much younger.
Mrs. Duran glared at Keyes. “What exactly are you doing to help Dr. James ... on my husband’s computer?”
Keyes had ad-libbed many times in the past, so she had no difficulty improvising answers that quelled Mrs. Duran’s suspicions without divulging any information.
“So how long will it be before I greet your Dr. James?” Mrs. Duran’s voice was now syrupy sweet.
Keyes responded with no hesitation. “I expect him this afternoon, not ’til at least three o’clock.”
“I’m anxious to see him again.” Mrs. Duran smiled. “I met him once when he was working with my son.” With that, she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Keyes went back to work on the computer. A few minutes later, she heard Mrs. Duran talking quietly on the phone. Noticing a phone in the room, she crept over and carefully lifted the receiver and listened.
“Chief Conrad’s office. How can I help you?”
“This is Mrs. Duran. I need to speak to the chief right away.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
After a few seconds, a man answere
d. “Hello, Ingrid.”
“Javier, there’s a woman in my house. She says she’s Helen Hart, but she looks like the woman you’re looking for, Elizabeth Keyes,” Mrs. Duran said. “And Dr. James will be at the Léogâne Hospital for the next five hours.”
“I need to handle this myself. Keep her in your house. I’ll bring two men and be there as quickly as I can. My friends in Léogâne will get the doctor.”
As soon as the call ended, Keyes erased all her entries and closed out the computer. She checked the window. It opened easily. She slipped out, closed the window, and ran behind the pool house. She dialed the phone she hoped James still had and sighed with relief when she heard his voice.
“Mrs. Duran is on to us. Stop what you’re doing and pick me up right away.” Keyes quickly looked around. “I’ll be running toward you on the street directly behind the Duran’s. I’ll be hiding, so I’ll find you.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just come. Now. You’ll be arrested if you stay there. And they want me too.”
“But nobody even knows you’re here.”
“Nobody except Mrs. Duran, the police, and by now, probably half of Port-au-Prince. Get your ass outta there now!”
“Okay, I’ll finish the operation and then come get you.”
“Hurry!”
Hospital Sainte Croix
Léogâne, Haiti
9:31 a.m.
Dr. Roupe ran in and placed the sterile instruments on my Mayo stand. “Trouble,” he said. “The police are upstairs and they’re looking for you.”
“Stall them. I need fifteen minutes to do the procedure.”
He nodded and ran out of the ER.
I turned to Jakjak. “The heavy sedation I promised is a no-go without Chris to help. I’ll have to do it with only the local, and it’ll hurt. A lot!”
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