His legs were going numb from lack of circulation, and he thought that might turn out to be a blessing in disguise. The stainless-steel trapeze cut deep behind his knees, but where the metal had been cold at first, it now seemed warm and clammy, slick with perspiration. Handcuffs on his wrists were tight enough to kill sensations in his fingers, and again, Dupree was thankful.
He was naked, and the air-conditioning raised goose bumps on his flesh, in counterpoint to the assorted bruises, cuts and burns. He felt a dozen different kinds of pain between his chin and groin — never mind the throbbing agony inside his skull. With any luck, a stroke might come along and end his suffering.
Étienne didn't feel lucky.
He had spilled his guts already, but the damned Macoutes were never satisfied. They took a break from time to time, and during intermissions he could hear another team, still working on Toussaint next door. The barber's screams made Etienne wish that he could die.
Again, no luck.
It had been twenty minutes since they used the cattle prods, eliciting a broken repetition of his story. Were they satisfied at last? Was there a chance that he might be allowed to live? To leave?
Étienne heard footsteps, felt another presence in the room. A pair of khaki legs swung into view, their owner dangling from the ceiling like a bat and glowering in fury at Dupree. Despite his misery, the bloody mist that seemed to fill his skull, he recognized Jean-Claude Solange. One did not come of age in Haiti without recognizing the supreme commander of the Tonton Macoutes.
Solange was studying Dupree the way a shopper might examine a side of beef. He muttered something to his aides, and one of them produced a cattle prod. Solange accepted it and thumbed the switch to test its charge.
"I've told you everything!"
Dupree recognized his mistake at once. He'd spoken first, without a question being asked, but in his desperation he couldn't afford to wait. He had to make the bastards understand that he was holding nothing back.
"The rebel camp?" Solange's voice was soft and cultured, not at all a killer's voice.
"I've told you everything," Étienne repeated, weeping openly. "Toussaint refused to give me the directions. All I know…"
The kiss of the electrodes snapped his teeth together, cutting off his words. A shriek boiled up inside him, pried his lips apart and rocketed around the small interrogation room.
"The camp."
"If I knew anything…" Again. The voltage set him thrashing, rattling the chains that held his perch suspended from the ceiling. At a distance, he was conscious of the cuffs and leg irons cutting through his flesh.
"The camp."
He tried to speak, but someone had replaced his tongue with ancient flannel. Bending close, Solange was smiling at him now.
"What's that? I can't quite hear you."
"I don't… I don't…"
Solange stepped back and kicked Étienne squarely in the face, the impact flattening his nose and filling his mouth with blood. His tongue was lubricated now, but he was drowning. When he retched and spit, an abstract crimson pattern blossomed on the floor.
"The camp."
He found it difficult to speak, and realized that several of his front teeth were broken off, his lips puffed up like sausages.
Solange reached out and drew the prod across his chest, electrodes moving upward, past his naval, through his tangled pubic hair, until they grazed his scrotum.
"Once again. The camp."
Dupree could only shake his head and try to brace himself against the coming pain, attempting to imagine it and thus eliminate the torture of anticipation. There was no escape. He had delivered everything, and now his mind was too befuddled to create a satisfying lie. If only they would listen to him and attempt to understand.
This time, it seemed his wailing cry went on forever, reaching a crescendo as his body thrashed and twisted on its perch. His lips peeled back from bloody gums, the muscles in his neck and shoulders standing out like cables under strain. He'd lose consciousness at any moment now. He must.
But he didn't.
Solange withdrew the prod, examining the tip as if he feared the twin electrodes might be damaged from their contact with a peasant. Satisfied at last, he stooped to whisper in Étienne Dupree's ringing ear.
"Again. The camp."
* * *
Michelle had left the camp unnoticed, gliding through the forest like a shadow, homing on the stream. Henri, her brother, still complained about conditions in the compound, missing their accommodations in the city, but Michelle had taken to the jungle like a natural, delighting in its beauty and its mystery. Before she'd been a week in camp, she'd memorized surrounding trails and come to know the local fauna, picking out the harmless snakes and insects, matching them against the specimens she must avoid at any cost.
Her thoughts weren't on solitude, however, as she worked her way along a narrow game trail toward the stream. She thought about Mike Blanski, felt the now-familiar stirrings, and was painfully aware of how she looked, the way she smelled.
The forest was a fascinating place, but living out of tents and buckets meant that hygiene was borderline at best. For peasant soldiers, bathing was never a top priority, and some of them were positively overwhelming. Others took a weekly bath, regardless of their need, and muttered all the while about the wasted time that would be better spent with weapons, training exercises, raids against the enemy.
Michelle, by contrast, felt incomplete if she was kept from bathing for a day. The stream provided her with some relief, although the compound had no store of soap, shampoo, deodorant or any of the other bare necessities. She did her best with what she had, and now with Blanski in the camp, it seemed especially important that she take care of herself.
But why?
He was attractive, granted, but there was a difference in their ages. And he was American, a mercenary passing through the camp who would be gone the day after tomorrow.
No time to waste, then.
Startled by her thoughts, Michelle couldn't prevent the blush that crept into her cheeks. She felt flushed and breathless, picking up her pace and counting on the stream to cool her down.
Surrounded by the sounds and smells of the forest, she stripped her clothes off, folded them and set them beside the garments she'd carried with her from the camp — another shirt, a clean pair of jeans. When she was finished bathing, she'd rinse out the others and let them dry on the bushes.
The stream was cool. As always, it surprised her, raising gooseflesh on her body, puckering her nipples as she waded out to ankle depth. A few more strides, and water lapped around her thighs. She crouched, pushed off and glided several yards underwater before she broke the surface, floating on her back and paddling lazily.
Michelle stopped paddling, allowed her legs to sink until she found the bottom with her toes. She realized she'd been singing and wondered if her voice had possibly alerted enemies to her position. Upstream a movement in the undergrowth along the bank caught her attention Michelle was shivering, although her body had adjusted to the stream's temperature. She focused on the trees and creepers, trying to forget about her sudden terror.
There! A man-shape slid in and out of cover, closing on the point where she'd left her clothes. If she was very quick, she might emerge in time to meet him, but she certainly wouldn't have time to dress.
So much for speed.
She opted for discretion, sinking lower in the water, almost kneeling now, and praying that he wouldn't scan the surface, see her frightened face. If seen, she would be helpless, absolutely at the stranger's mercy. No one in the camp would hear her screams.
Directly opposite her position, the American emerged as if from nowhere, a magician practicing his act. He saw her clothing, raised his eyes and seemed to find her on instinct, studying her face without a word.
Unconsciously she drifted closer to the shore, until her knees brushed over polished stones. Surrendering to impulse, she stood, water streaming from her bod
y as she rose. She didn't speak to him, didn't beckon him in any way, but it would take a fool to miss her invitation. Startled by her own aggressive move, Michelle felt dizzy and tremendously excited at the same time.
The soldier studied her, a frank appraisal. She could almost feel his eyes upon her, covering her flesh like eager hands. A spark was struck inside her, and she felt the flames begin to spread.
On shore the soldier smiled… and turned away. Three strides and he was gone, the forest swallowing him alive. She blinked, uncertain how she should react. Was Blanski one of those commandos who believed that sex and war were mutually exclusive? Did he find her physically repulsive? Or was it simple decency that made him turn away?
She moved toward shore, retrieved her clothing and swiftly dressed herself. Embarrassed now, she wondered if she had the courage to confront the big American again, demand an explanation for his actions.
Did she really want an explanation?
Yes.
But she'd have to build up her courage, recover something of her confidence, and there wasn't much time to spare. Tonight he'd be working with the troops. The day after tomorrow, he'd be gone, her only hope gone with him if she didn't act in time.
Determined to proceed, but needing time to think, she found her dirty clothes and turned back toward the stream. Before she finished, she'd have a plan. Michelle was good at thinking on her feet, and there was much at stake.
She had a world to win, and everything to lose.
7
Bolan rose at dawn. He'd been restless through the night, intent on getting down to business with his own campaign against Bartoli, and the meeting with Michelle Saint-Cyr hadn't been calculated to relieve his tension.
He could see her body in his mind's eye, glistening and wet, emerging from the stream like tawny Venus rising from the sea. He switched the vision off before his body shifted into overdrive, and concentrated on the girl herself.
The woman.
He had a fair idea of what Michelle was after, from their fleeting conversations. Penned up in the camp, «protected» from the world by men who loved her father and revered his memory, she'd begun to chafe at boundaries and limitations, aching for an opportunity to make her own mark in the world. Her father's politics had predisposed her toward dissent, and Bolan had no doubt that she would try to organize his followers if she returned to Port-au-Prince.
He also had no doubt the move would get her killed.
The military junta — or its watchdogs, the Tonton Macoutes — had killed Armand Saint Cyr to still his angry voice. The priest, Langois, was probably correct when he asserted that the government was sniffing after Saint-Cyr's offspring, hoping for a triple play. It stood to reason that the children of a dissident, surrounded by his memory and nurtured on his fiery speeches, would attempt to follow in his footsteps, picking up the fallen banner.
Bolan understood Michelle's frustration, her desire to make things happen now. The murder of his family so long ago had left him in a similar position, but the Executioner had been prepared to move against his enemies from strength. Michelle was starting out from scratch, and she'd be an easy mark for a preemptive strike by the Macoutes.
Emerging from his makeshift quarters into misty forest daylight, Bolan felt relieved that it wasn't his problem. He'd one more exercise to run with the commandos, and his session as a drill instructor was completed. Later in the morning he'd plan another move against Bartoli and the nest of vipers at Liberté. If Jacques Petoit made good his offer of assistance, that was fine. If not, the Executioner was ready to proceed alone.
He smiled as he recalled the Seabee motto from another war: the difficult we do at once. The impossible takes a little longer.
Fair enough. He'd been doing the impossible from the beginning of his war, and if he had to try it one more time, it would be nothing new. The names and faces changed, but Bolan's enemies remained the same at heart, where their corruption festered like a cancer on the soul.
Michelle would find her own solutions.
"Good morning."
Bolan turned to face her watching him from twenty feet away.
"Hello," he replied, remembering to keep his eyes fixed firmly on her face.
"I couldn't sleep," she said.
"I know the feeling."
Glancing backward toward the ashes of the cooking fires, she moved a little closer. "Breakfast won't be ready for at least an hour. I was going for a walk."
"Be careful."
"Always." She toyed with the zipper of her jacket. "Would you care to join me?"
Bolan frowned. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Why not?" Her smile was playful, daring him to spell it out.
Instead he flicked a glance in the direction of the tents where Jacques Petoit and Father Langois slept. "I get the feeling that your friends fall out on the protective side. They like you close to home."
"This isn't home, and I'm not a prisoner," she snapped, then caught herself and smiled again. "Besides, they hate it when I wander through the jungle without an escort. If you really want to make them happy, you should come along."
"Or you could wait a while."
"I don't believe in wasting time. Do you?"
"That all depends."
"An hour until breakfast," she repeated. "Three times that before the men are ready for their daily lesson."
"Final lesson," he corrected her.
"More reason why we shouldn't waste this time."
She turned away and moved toward the tree line, disappearing in the shadows there without a backward glance. Behind her, Bolan scanned the sleeping compound, shrugged and followed.
* * *
"We are blessed with the advantage of surprise. Before they recognize their danger, it will be too late."
Jean-Claude Solange surveyed his captive audience of helicopter pilots and Macoutes, a fierce smile lighting his face. This morning he would have revenge on those who killed his brother and embarrassed his administration with their sly guerrilla tactics. He would grind them into dust beneath his heel.
"Our information on the camp's location has been verified by inside sources," he declared, remembering Toussaint and Dupree. Their sacrifice had been a warm-up for the main event. "The rebels still believe themselves secure. It's our duty to inform them otherwise."
A ripple of amusement passed among his troops. They all seemed enthusiastic — except the curly haired American who had been foisted on him by Descartes. A "friend of the administration," the man was assigned to ride a gunship and observe the raid. It made no difference to Solange, as long as he wasn't a journalist or left-wing politician. If he tried to interfere, the American would have an accident and damn the consequences.
It was more important to avenge René.
In truth Solange had never liked his younger brother, but the family was still important as a symbol of authority and unity. The men who killed his brother had issued a challenge — to Jean-Claude Solange and the government at large. It was an insult that couldn't be tolerated if he meant to do his job.
And after all these years with the Macoutes, from the regime of Papa Doc to his position as commander of the force, Solange had cared for nothing more than his position, his authority.
His power.
He turned to the map beside him, picked up a pointer and jabbed at the crimson blot that marked their target.
"Thirty-seven miles from Port-au-Prince," he said. "We make our own approach from this direction, here." The pointer swiveled southward, scratching out an arc designed to circumvent the lookouts whom his enemies were bound to have on major access routes. "They should be sitting down to breakfast when we get there. I suspect that we will spoil their appetites."
More laughter, and he even got a narrow smile from the American. Solange decided he'd keep this friend of the administration close at hand, prepared to crush him like a bug if he made one move to interfere.
A hand was raised, the officer in charge of gunship numbe
r two.
"Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir. Are we after prisoners?"
Solange pretended to consider the suggestion, rendering his verdict in a thoughtful tone. "According to our information, everyone inside the rebel camp is armed and hostile. They have sworn to fight and die without submitting to arrest. Of course, if someone had a sudden change of heart, I will do everything within my power to protect him."
"Thank you, sir."
It was the standard lie, which told his raiders everything they had to know. If someone accidentally survived the raid, he'd be taken in for questioning… and would disappear. Ideally they would catch the rebels napping — or in this case, dining — and their job would be as simple as eliminating vermin.
"Other questions?"
The American had raised his head. Solange delayed the call, allowing his subordinates another moment to respond, but all of them seemed comfortable with their assignments.
"Yes?"
"Is it confirmed these people hit the convoy Friday afternoon? I mean, you've got a lot of assholes raising hell out there, but have you pinned the right ones down?"
Solange maintained his cool expression with an effort. If a member of his staff had spoken to him thus, he might have shot the man himself. This friend of the administration was an arrogant intruder, but he had a point.
"Our methods of interrogation are… persuasive." Smiling, he appreciated the response from his assembled staff. "I think it safe to say that nothing was withheld."
"I know about your methods, Captain…"
"Colonel."
"Right, whatever. I was thinking people sometimes tell you anything you want to hear, just so you'll let them walk away."
Solange felt angry color rising in his cheeks and locked his hands around the pointer, squeezing hard enough to blanch his knuckles.
"I'm satisfied that we received an accurate accounting. Naturally you will have a chance to verify identities." He smiled, relaxing. "I believe you saw the raiders, did you not? Before you managed to… escape?"
Haitian Hit Page 7