Haitian Hit

by Don Pendleton

  The compound proper was a motley collection of tents and makeshift buildings, some constructed out of plywood, others out of corrugated metal. Many of the rebels wore fatigues, but others dressed in khaki pants or jeans and woolen shirts, destroying the facade of uniformity. Cooking fires were tended by a KP detail that included several women. Bolan knew enough of peasant wars and revolutions that their presence in the camp didn't surprise him.

  Everyone in the compound was armed, and Bolan noted that their weapons — like the ambush party — ran the gamut from a scattering of ancient sporting arms to modern military hardware. If compelled to guess, the soldier would have said that they were short on ammunition, keeping up their meager stockpile through a string of periodic raids on government patrols. It was a risky business, but for rebels short of money it could often be the only game in town.

  The thought of money brought a sour taste in Bolan's mouth. Unless he missed his guess, Bartoli would be sitting on the payroll by now, preparing a list of enemies who might have enough nerve to try to rob him. Bolan's name wouldn't be on the list — not yet — and that could prove to be the situation's only saving grace.

  Assuming he survived the next few seconds.

  Several inhabitants of the camp had formed a welcoming committee, while the rest barely acknowledged their arrival, demonstrating fair self-discipline. Victorious returns — and with a prisoner in tow — wouldn't be such a frequent happening around the compound that its tenants had become blase. The Executioner was properly impressed.

  Bolan scanned the five who waited to receive them. Two were gunners, plain and simple. Another was tall and nearly fair, the evidence of mixed blood obvious in hair and pigmentation. At his side, a dark-skinned boy — perhaps sixteen — stood watching Bolan closely, studying his every move. That scrutiny was nearly rivaled by the final member of the group, a slender woman, young, café-au-lait. Her eyes were piercing, captivating Bolan, drawing his attention from a body that seemed luscious even in a pair of olive-drab fatigues.

  The tall man and Petoit conversed in French for several moments, going over details of the raid, discussing Bolan with a bland assurance, though he couldn't understand their words. The woman took no part in their discussion, but the nervous-looking boy relaxed a little, and the soldier took that for a sign.

  The tall man turned to Bolan. "Mr. Blanski, I am Father Paul Langois. I bid you welcome."

  "Father?"

  "In the jungle, cassocks are impractical. I serve my people in their time of need, regardless of the place or uniform. Michelle, Henri, will you excuse us, please?"

  The boy departed on command, retreating toward the cooking fires. The woman lingered for a moment, looking Bolan up and down before she turned away.

  "Michelle Saint-Cyr," Langois explained. "The young man is Henri, her brother. They are children of Armand Saint-Cyr."

  The name recalled words from Bolan's briefing. If his memory was accurate, Saint-Cyr had been an opposition leader in the days before the military junta seized control of Haiti. Afterward he had continued his resistance and, a few weeks earlier, had paid for it in blood.

  "I recognize the name," he said.

  "Then you must realize the junta and Macoutes would kill them even now if they weren't protected. Here, at least they have a chance."

  "So what you have here is a sanctuary?"

  "That's part of it. We also fight the enemy, as you have seen."

  "Who's 'we'?"

  "The people of a generation crushed beneath oppression, poverty, disease," Jacques Petoit chimed in. "Some finally surrender, let themselves be used and thrown away. We say, 'Enough. "

  His spirit and the humble camp called up unbidden memories of other rebels, other times: Afghanistan, the Everglades, where anti-Castro activists still dreamed of going home to "Cuba Libra." Bolan didn't know if they would ever reach their destination, but he knew where they had been. And sometimes just standing up and fighting was enough.

  "I wish you luck."

  The priest was studying his face. "Jacques tells me you make war against the gamblers."

  "That's my game."

  "They are our enemies as well. Perhaps, if we cooperate…"

  "I'd say you've got your hands full as it is. It wouldn't pay to spread yourselves too thin."

  "One rat or many, it's all the same. If one survives, the colony will breed again."

  The warrior turned to face his hosts.

  "So, tell me what you had in mind."

  * * *

  Beside the cooking fire, Michelle Saint-Cyr watched Father Paul and Jacques in conversation with the new man, Blanski. Father Paul's dismissal was a galling fact of life around the compound, where Michelle and Henri were concerned. Their father had become a martyr to the cause, and through his death he had bestowed a kind of sainthood on his children. They were treasured by the rebels, viewed as symbols of the holy cause, but they were isolated from the fighting, screened — and thus excluded — from the conduct of the war that had consumed their father's life.

  The odd arrangement seemed to please Henri, but he was still a child. Michelle was anxious to embrace the struggle that had been her father's, make something of her life before she grew too old and hardened to believe in anything. If she could strike a blow against the enemy, make any contribution toward the effort, she was willing. But the priest and Jacques continued to exclude her from their strategy discussions, guarding her as if she were some kind of fragile doll.

  The new man might be different. He was a soldier, carrying the mark of a professional, and he might recognize the value of the name Saint-Cyr in stirring opposition to the junta. If he could persuade the others, turn their thoughts away from chivalry, toward action…

  She was dreaming. This man, Blanski, had not come to join their struggle. He was an American, just passing through, distracted from his private war against the gangsters who were building Liberté. This much she knew from Jacques's abbreviated introduction, and she had no reason to believe that he would stay to help the rebels.

  On the other hand, if he was leaving soon she might convince him to provide an escort back to Port-au-Prince, where she could make connections with her father's friends and followers. They still existed, silenced, driven underground, but with the proper leadership, they might respond.

  She knew the way, wasn't afraid to make the trip alone, but many things could happen in the forest. She wasn't a warrior, but she might be called upon to risk her life, to kill. If Blanski would accompany her…

  A small, unbidden thrill surprised Michelle, and she could feel the color rising in her cheeks. He was a foreigner, a stranger, but she felt herself attached to him all the same. It was a feeling she hadn't experienced in weeks, since they were driven from their home in Port-au-Prince to hide like bandits in the jungle.

  Jacques Petoit desired her, it was obvious, but he wouldn't make a move because her last name was Saint-Cyr. In that, at least, she had been fortunate. He was a decent man, a patriot, but he was like an uncle to Michelle, and she couldn't imagine taking him to bed.

  Mike Blanski would be older still, but as a stranger he didn't inspire the feelings that were so akin to incest. There was a quality of mystery about him, and adventure, which enticed her, even as she understood that he wouldn't be staying long.

  The smile that played across her face bore elements of hunger.

  5

  Standing on the sidelines, Bolan watched the rebels practice hand-to-hand combat. They used real knives and never seemed to pull their punches, but the only injuries appeared to be a scattering of cuts and bruises. When the exercise was finished, everyone changed sides, defenders taking on the role of the aggressors.

  "Are we winning?"

  Jacques Petoit seemed interested in the Executioner's opinion.

  "I see rough spots," he replied, "but overall, I'd say they're doing pretty well."

  "It would be better with a qualified instructor?"

  "Probably. But you make do
with what you have."

  "We are not soldiers, Mr. Blanski."

  "Mike."

  "A few of our recruits have military service, but their training was inadequate to say the least. They aren't qualified to lead."

  "They have a leader."

  "Oui, but I'm not a warrior. Any skills I have were learned through trial and error, sometimes at the cost of lives."

  "That's war." He saw the conversation's general direction and could think of no way to divert it.

  "With the proper training, some of these might stand a better chance." The rebel leader hesitated for a moment, finally working up his nerve. "If you would help us…"

  "Sorry, Jacques. I've got my own agenda at the moment, and there's no spare time for boot camp."

  "We've given you our trust, returned your weapons."

  "I appreciate it."

  "With direction, we could help you level Liberté."

  "I'm not recruiting. It's a one-man job."

  "Without equipment? Most of yours was lost, as I recall."

  "I'll pick up what I need along the way. Construction crews are bound to have explosives. If they don't, I'll find another source."

  " We have explosives."

  "Jacques…"

  "Three days. Is that so much?"

  "Not near enough for what you have in mind."

  "Perhaps. But at the end of three days' time, I'll supply you with explosives, weapons, ammunition. Anything you need. My soldiers will assist you — or, if you prefer, they will remain behind and let you fight alone."

  He watched the rebels shadowboxing, grappling awkwardly with one another in the middle of the compound. On his left, one of them caught a hard knee in the crotch and doubled over, writhing on the ground. He thought again of exiled Cubans, Contras and Afghanis, rebel patriots around the world who fought against the odds each waking hour of their lives.

  "Three days?"

  "And not a moment longer."

  "I ought to have my head examined."

  "Possibly. But I can vouch for the condition of your heart."

  "I hope you're not blowing smoke about the hardware."

  "We have dynamite, plastique, electric fuses, hand grenades."

  "Your source?"

  "The enemy." Petoit smiled grimly. "We stopped a convoy several weeks ago en route from Port-au-Prince to Léogane. The supplies were our reward."

  "An early Christmas?"

  "More or less."

  A number of the rebels had retired to help their injured comrade off the field. The rest were standing idly about.

  "Do they speak English? I doubt they'd understand my version of French."

  "Some. A few."

  "You planning to interpret?"

  "Sadly I'm needed elsewhere, but I thought, perhaps…" He turned away and beckoned someone from the general direction of the cooking pits. "Michelle!"

  * * *

  The Haitian presidential palace had seen better days. Declining fortunes, revenue diverted into graft and general apathy had all contributed to its decline. Still lavish in comparison with ordinary dwellings — most of which were little more than shanties — it was still an eyesore to the likes of Anthony Bartoli.

  Since arriving on the island, Don Bartoli had been «privileged» to call upon the seat of Haitian government at least a dozen times. He never failed to shake his head in wonder at the fading paint, the general condition of the structure and the grounds. One day he might suggest a facelift, something that would whip the old place back in shape and make it worthy of respect.

  But not today.

  Today he was concerned with something far more serious than paint jobs. Like survival.

  If New York was moving in, by one means or another, he would need the government behind him, standing by with men and guns to safeguard his investment. Enzo Mitrione might have eyes for Haiti, but he couldn't take the island if Bartoli had the junta in his pocket. So far there had been no problems, but a healthy dose of paranoia helped Bartoli stay alive, and he was hungry for a confirmation of the government's commitment to his dream.

  The soldiers standing guard outside the palace let him pass through, and he was greeted by a butler who led him up marble stairs and along a corridor where everything smelled stale and old. Francois Descartes had bagged himself an office with a view — if you could call it that. The windows faced toward downtown Port-au-Prince, a walking nightmare where the sick and starving rubbed grimy shoulders with the wealthy and secure.

  Descartes was on his feet before the butler announced Bartoli. As he shook hands, the mafioso managed to suppress a shudder at the dark man's clammy touch.

  From the early days of his negotiations with the junta, Anthony Bartoli had been doing business with Descartes, a functionary hired to save the dying tourist industry, if such a miracle was possible. Along the way, Descartes wasn't averse to growing wealthy in the service of the Syndicate, and he had pushed the plans for Liberté with evangelistic fervor, overriding the initial qualms of ranking junta leaders.

  He had done his job so far — but he hadn't endured a trial by fire.

  Bartoli wasted no time on preliminaries. "I assume you heard about my payroll shipment."

  "Yes, indeed." Descartes put on a solemn face, the plastic smile put back in storage for a more appropriate occasion. "Some troops were also murdered by the rebels."

  "Things are tough all over. I'm concerned about protection for my people on the job. It's obvious a token visit every week or so won't do the trick."

  "The government of Haiti is committed to the destruction of these rebels and their Communist supporters. We…"

  "I've heard the speech, okay? I'm interested in action now. Are you prepared to help my people out or not?"

  "Of course, monsieur. The government is totally committed to security for Liberté. Our tourist industry…"

  "Is dead and buried if you screw this up," Bartoli growled. "I know your people are committed to the concept. I'm concerned about their personal commitment to the source."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "There are people in New York who didn't have the faith to put their money up when I was getting started on this deal. They said that Haiti wasn't worth the trouble or the cost. I went ahead without them, and they're feeling different now. They want to buy a slice as cheap as possible, or take the project over if they can."

  Descartes was frowning. "These are people in… your line of work?"

  "The very same, except they'd rather let me do the work and rip me off than put their precious dollars on the line."

  "Disgraceful."

  "Damn right. For all I know, these bastards might have started making overtures already."

  "You believe they are responsible for yesterday's unpleasantness?"

  "It's possible. Right now, I'm more concerned about security at your end. Just because my enemies are trying to avoid construction costs, it doesn't mean they won't pay off. If I find out that someone's double-dipping, here…"

  "Monsieur!" Descartes expression was a fair facsimile of outrage. "If you mean to say…"

  "I mean to say that anyone who takes my money works for me. Comprendez-vous? If anybody's screwing me, he can expect to have his dick for breakfast one day soon."

  "I promise you…"

  "Not good enough. I want results, you hear me? Get these fucking rebels off my back, and if New York comes sniffing at the trough, I want to know about it yesterday."

  "Of course. I understand."

  Bartoli was already on his feet, and he ignored the proffered hand.

  "Don't keep me waiting. I get nasty when I'm nervous."

  * * *

  Michelle Saint-Cyr watched Bolan choose his volunteers from the assembled troops. Four men to start, the largest in the group, though none of them were quite as tall or broad across the chest as their instructor. She interpreted his brief directions, then stood clear as Bolan was surrounded by the soldiers he'd chosen.

  "Now," he said, "I want
you to attack me. Don't hold back."

  She passed the message on with trepidation, fearful that he might be injured, startled to discover that she cared. Michelle had learned to live with pain and death, accepting losses when the men and boys she saw each day were killed on raids against the junta, but the stranger moved her in a different way, against her will, as if…

  The rush cut short her train of thought. From every side, the men converged on Bolan, throwing punches, aiming kicks in the direction of his groin. He caught one trooper's ankle, twisted, and before the man could save himself he'd become a weapon, knocking down the next in line on Bolan's left.

  The American ducked under one determined roundhouse punch and took another on his shoulder, striking back with short, swift jabs that toppled number three. The fallen rebel clutched his abdomen and gasped for breath, his lungs refusing to participate on cue.

  The fourth man threw himself across Bolan's shoulders, one arm snaking around his throat. The warrior responded with a dip and twist that tossed his adversary clear, pursuing with ferocious speed. He pinned the fallen soldier, delivering a blow that might have killed if he hadn't pulled back short of impact.

  Bolan rose and found his first two adversaries on their feet again. They circled warily, attempting to divide his concentration, closing in from both sides simultaneously. Bolan feinted left, unleashed a kick that dropped the soldier on his right, then swiveled to confront the sole remaining threat.

  Instinctively the Haitian trooper drew his knife and advanced in a crouch. The move was lightning-fast, and Michelle couldn't remember, afterward, precisely how the rebel soldier was disarmed. One instant, he was lunging with his blade; the next, his knife was lying in the dirt and he was airborne, howling in dismay as Bolan hoisted him, then dropped him to the ground.