Haitian Hit

by Don Pendleton

  Don Bartoli kept the artificial smile in place. "I know the way things used to be. Times change. Some people say the Aces had to scatter, make whatever deals they could when Pat and Mike went down. Some say the only Aces left are hiring out to capos, one-on-one."

  "You can't believe everything you hear."

  "My thoughts exactly."

  "I appreciate a cautious man. You've had some trouble, lately."

  "Oh?"

  "Somebody tried to clip your payroll shipment Friday afternoon. They missed the jackpot." He exhaled a perfect ring of smoke. "You shouldn't count on clearing up your problem with an air strike."

  "You're pretty well informed for someone new in town."

  "I have my sources. Better yet, I have the answers."

  "What's the question?"

  "Oh, I'd say you're interested in who's responsible for your misfortune, what they have in mind, and how you can protect your operation most efficiently."

  "I'm listening."

  "You've got some people in New York who're hungry all the time. The problem is, they like to eat for free. Let someone else prepare the meal, pick up the tab, then ease the rightful owners out and wolf the whole thing down before they know what hit them."

  "They need to learn some table manners. Pigging out that way, a man could choke to death."

  "It happens, but before they go, they ruin things for everyone."

  "You figure I've got uninvited guests around my table?"

  "It's a possibility. I'm talking hypothetically, of course, but let's suppose they were afraid to back your action here. They thought it was a losing game, whatever. Now, you're looking at the payoff and they want a slice. Except these guys can't settle for a slice. They want it all."

  "They'll get it over my dead body."

  "The way I understand it, that's the plan."

  "You speak for La Commissione?"

  "I work for the Commission. There's a difference."

  "Yeah, whatever. If they sent you here, then they must know what's going on."

  "I wouldn't be surprised."

  "And yet they're sitting on their hands? Explain that to me, will you?"

  Bolan smiled and spread his hands. "They're nervous. Can you blame them? New York carries nearly half the weight on the Commission. They've got more than half the buttons. If it comes to all-out war, the strain could tear this thing apart."

  "One way. New York comes out on top and everybody's screwed. The other way, there's nothing left but ashes."

  "I believe you've got the picture."

  "So, they cut me loose? I'm finished, just like that?"

  "I don't remember anybody saying you were finished. Did I say that? If I did…"

  "What are you saying?"

  "The Commission is concerned. New York is everybody's problem, but we have to use finesse. The members of the board aren't prepared to go on record with a sanction at the present time, the way things stand."

  "That's double-talk."

  "I'm here to offer you conditional support."

  "Conditional?"

  "You will receive assistance in the form of money, weapons and personnel, to be employed at your discretion. In return for that assistance, you'll prosecute your war against New York without involving the Commission. You will not request a formal vote of censure or complain in any way. My sponsors are prepared to back your plan and validate your actions when the smoke clears."

  Don Bartoli wore a skeptical expression. "New York's bound to notice all the reinforcements. Hell, they know the size of my reserve as well as I do."

  "Granted. They won't complain because complaints might force a vote that they are bound to lose. New York might be ambitious, but they're not prepared to tackle the Commission as a whole. They'd rather take it slow and gobble up the territory one piece at a time."

  "You're making sense," Bartoli admitted, "but there's a problem."

  "Namely?"

  "I can't guarantee the noise will be confined to Haiti. If I stop the bastards here, they're liable to attack my operations in Miami or Fort Lauderdale. If they pull that shit, I'm honor-bound to hit them where they live."

  "That's been anticipated. The Commission knows you can't defend yourself with handcuffs on."

  "You mean, I've got a license?"

  Bolan frowned. "Let's say the board is predisposed to leniency if you're required to bend the rules. That doesn't mean they want Miami — or Manhattan — looking like a combat zone."

  "I understand completely."

  "Good. If you have no objections, the Commission has appointed me to serve as your liaison. Any questions or requests will pass through me, avoiding any leaks along the way."

  Bartoli thought it over for a moment, then finally nodded. "Sure. Why not?"

  "Outstanding. Have you taken any steps, beside this morning's jungle action?"

  "I was thinking I could use some reinforcements out of Lauderdale to beef things up around the building site."

  "That's fine. We have to safeguard our investment, after all."

  The capo stiffened, caught himself and wiped the frown away. "I'll put the wheels in motion."

  "Excellent." The soldier rose and moved toward the door. "I think we're going to work well together."

  "Yeah. I'm looking forward to it. Have you got a local number?"

  Bolan smiled. "I'll be in touch." He closed the door behind him and followed his escort to the stairs.

  Bartoli would be on the phone to Florida within the hour, calling up a hard force. Bolan hoped that he wouldn't attempt to contact members of the Mafia Commission, checking on his visitor's credentials. If he did, the net result should be confusion, capos rushing helter-skelter to consult with one another, making sure that no one had dispatched an Ace to Haiti. By the time they finished cross-examining one another, Bolan should be finished the mission.

  Providing he survived.

  The next phase of his plan involved Bartoli's reinforcements. They would come expecting war, and he wasn't about to disappoint them. They deserved a hot reception, and the Executioner was happy to oblige.

  * * *

  Bartoli waited for the visitor to clear the gates before he summoned Marco Rizzi to his study.

  "Have a seat," he ordered.

  Rizzi obeyed.

  "You saw that guy?"

  "I saw him, Mr. B., and I saw his ace."

  "We had a little chat about New York."

  "Oh, yes?"

  "Oh, yes. He tells me that the Families are cutting in, just like I thought. Those chicken shits on La Commissione have got it figured, but they're all afraid to force the issue."

  "So?"

  "So, this. They offer me a deal. Unlimited support against New York, with their approval retroactive, but we have to make it look like no one's helping out."

  "That won't be easy."

  "Easy, hell. It's gonna be impossible. They figure someone in New York will tumble right away, but then the Families will be afraid to beef because it could mean war."

  "You buy that?"

  "Shit, who cares? As long as we get reinforcements, I don't care if some fat bastard in Chicago wants to make believe we're fighting Peter Pan."

  "I guess so, but there's bound to be a price."

  Bartoli scowled. Omega's words were ringing in his brain: "We have to safeguard our investment." Right. As if the damned Commission had a dime in Haiti. Our investment.

  "There's a price, all right. They want a cut."

  "How much?"

  "He didn't say, but you can figure the Commission isn't thinking peanuts. By the time they're done, I wouldn't be surprised to see us on the short end of a sixty-forty split."

  "You went for that? I mean, with all due respect…"

  Bartoli raised his hand. "Don't get your gonads in an uproar, Marco. I agreed to let them help us out. I'd be a fucking moron if I turned them down, okay? But no one mentioned any numbers, and I'm not about to fight a war so someone else can step in afterward and skim the crea
m."

  "I hear you, Mr. B., but fighting the Commission…"

  "Who said anything about a fight? They've got to help us with New York before we owe them anything. I can foresee all kinds of casualties before we're done, you follow me?"

  A grin creased Marco's face. "I hear you, boss. They might not have the muscle left to take you on by that time."

  "Bingo. And the muscle that survives might have a vested interest in protecting us, to keep those extra paychecks rolling in."

  "I like it," Rizzi said. "But what about the Aces?"

  "I've seen one. He didn't look so goddamned tough to me."

  "I don't know, Mr. B. I hear a lot of stories…"

  "Fairy tales. Okay, they used to be a major force inside the outfit, but there can't be more than twenty, thirty Aces left in service."

  "Even so…"

  "There might be only one."

  "You think?"

  "I plan to do some checking, quiet like."

  "That changes things."

  "I'd say." He spent a moment staring out his window at the blue Caribbean. "I want you on the phone to Lauderdale," he said at last, the moment broken. "Thirty guns, for starters. Make that forty. Book a charter so that they can check their hardware through without some hangup at security."

  "You got it, Mr. B."

  "That's all for now."

  When he was left alone, Bartoli rose and went to stand before the window, facing northward. If he closed his eyes and called on his imagination, he could see Miami gleaming like a jewel beside the ocean, nubile bodies flashing in the surf, cocaine piled up in drifts with eager nostrils waiting to receive it.

  Was he crazy, striking off in new directions when he had a decent living all sewn up in Florida? Was Haiti a monstrous mistake?

  It didn't matter.

  He was in it now, and there was no way he could make the problem disappear. Time only changed its course in science-fiction films, and Anthony Bartoli was a captive of reality.

  If he couldn't go back, however, he could still push forward. With some help from the Commission, he could beat New York. And after that?

  Commissions were an antiquated concept. Take a dozen men and throw them in a room together, you came out with twelve opinions every time you asked a question. Sometimes, when a group decided to cooperate — as in the case of New York's Families — you found the tail wagging the dog. Whichever way it played — confusion, or control by a vociferous minority — Bartoli didn't like the tune.

  It might be time, he thought, for one determined man to take the helm. The concept had been good enough for other bosses, spanning several centuries, and it was good enough in Sicily today. Of course, Bartoli knew that he could never run the country, that was ego talking, but he might — just might — be able to dismantle the Commission if he played his cards right, cutting slices from the several territories for himself before he turned the other capos loose to do their thing.

  It was a gamble, but so was Haiti. So was life.

  Don Anthony Bartoli was a winner.

  He could feel it in his bones.

  10

  Father Paul Langois wasn't prepared to grant his enemies a victory by default. The rebel camp had been destroyed, but there were still survivors in the forest — Jacques Petoit among them — and he knew that they would organize another fighting band in time.

  If they survived.

  They needed a diversion at the moment, and a demonstration in the streets of Port-au-Prince seemed made to order. It would serve a dual function, occupying the Macoutes and venting the unholy rage Langois had carried in his heart since the assault upon the rebel compound.

  The demonstration had been fairly simple to arrange. He knew a hundred activists in Port-au-Prince who could be counted on to organize at a moment's notice. Each of them in turn knew others like themselves, and with a thousand people in the streets, the rest would follow naturally. The poor and homeless, disaffected, even petty criminals would join the march for reasons of their own. Langois would welcome each and every one of them this time. He needed numbers, to distract police and soldiers from the planning of a mop-up operation in the countryside.

  By half-past ten the crowd was forming, waiting for their signal to begin. Langois didn't address them as a leader; that wasn't his function or his place. These people had no need for a reminder of the dangers they were facing. Some of them would certainly be beaten in the streets, and those might be the lucky ones. Arrest would mean interrogation by Macoutes, and while Langois had heard the stories countless times, he still had doubts about his own ability to stand up under torture.

  Sometimes there was shooting, and he wondered if the march that he had organized would lead to a loss of lives. He looked around, examining the bright, excited faces, and wondered if some would be concealed beneath a bloody sheet before the afternoon was over.

  It would be another burden on his soul, but he had made his choice.

  The priest raised the megaphone and spent a moment trying to be heard among the general chatter. Finally, when they were still enough to hear him, he described the route of the march: downtown, directly past the misnamed Ministry of Justice, to the presidential palace. Somewhere on the route they would be met by force. It was a given fact of life, beyond debate.

  Langois reminded all those present of their history, the generations of oppression they had suffered. It was coming to an end, he promised them, but only through their own determined efforts. Through their sacrifices.

  Lowering the megaphone, he turned and gestured with his arm to urge the people forward, marching at their head in the direction of the nearest intersecting street. Police wouldn't be waiting for them here; they would have several blocks at least before they met the barricade and had to make a choice between assault and silent prayer.

  Langois wasn't prepared to make that choice himself just now. His mind and heart were in a turmoil, yearning for a chance to take revenge against his enemies, aware that he was flying in the face of God's commandments, overstepping bounds that had restricted members of the priesthood for a thousand years.

  But at the moment, Father Paul Langois wasn't concerned about his soul. He had a job to do, and he was ready to perform that task to the best of his ability. The risks and sacrifice were nothing in comparison with everything his people stood to gain.

  * * *

  The powder factory had been established in a loft above a seedy lawyer's office and a voodoo shop, the windows painted black to frustrate the curious. Bolan circled once around the block on foot, conspicuous in his «Omega» garb, drawing stares from local businessmen and homeless derelicts alike.

  For once he didn't mind the scrutiny. With any luck at all, it might prove helpful.

  Setting up the powder factory in Port-au-Prince had been Bartoli's brainstorm. It was cheaper to refine the Turkish heroin in Haiti than in France, where well-armed Corsicans insisted on a payoff for "protection." Haiti had cheap labor, friendly rulers, and its proximity to Florida made shipment safer than a transatlantic voyage. In the past twelve months, two shipments bound from Haiti to the Keys had been discovered by the Coast Guard. Spokesmen for the DEA, meanwhile, insisted loads were moving through Miami at the rate of three or four deliveries per month.

  It added up to millions for Bartoli's Family, and untold suffering for victims of the spreading sickness in America. The drug trade was a side effect of Syndicate invasion, hidden by the hoopla and publicity surrounding the «legitimate» diversions planned for Liberté. The latter would include a wholesale skimming operation and sophisticated money laundry, Bolan knew, but neither raised his hackles like the traffic in narcotics, wasting countless human lives.

  He had considered several angles of approach, from a direct assault to subterfuge, deciding on a combination of the two. As he approached the narrow stairwell leading to the powder factory, he heard a commotion in the street some blocks away, and paused to check it out.

  A crowd had formed downrange, with sighs
and banners in the vanguard, moving slowly toward the place where Bolan stood. Along the sidewalk, several hundred gawkers alternately cheered and cursed the marchers, some applauding, others darting in to take a swing at stragglers on the fringe of the parade. A fight erupted, the combatants quickly pulled apart by friends, and so the march moved on.

  Bolan frowned, considering the risks involved if he proceeded with his plan, deciding that a demonstration in the street might actually help him pull it off. If nothing else, it would facilitate his exit, offering some unexpected cover as he worked his way back to the car.

  Unbuttoning his jacket, he continued toward the stairwell and was intercepted by a gunner in his early twenties who appeared from nowhere, scowling in an effort to appear more dangerous.

  "You going somewhere?"

  "Just upstairs."

  "You'll have to reconsider, pal. They don't like visitors up there."

  "It's not a social call," the Executioner replied, his right hand sliding toward the inner pocket of his jacket.

  "Not so fast."

  The kid was young, but he was no fool. He had a grip on Bolan's wrist, his free hand hovering around his own lapel, prepared to dive for hardware if the need arose.

  "I think you ought to see my card."

  "You selling something?" The kid looked skeptical, but Bolan's eyes prevented him from laughing. "Go ahead, then. Slowly."

  Bolan palmed the ace of spades and held it up before the young man's eyes. They widened, and the sentry swallowed hard. His face lost all color as he realized that he had touched an Ace.

  "Excuse me, sir… I mean, I didn't know, you know? If I'd have known…"

  "You did your job. There's no need to apologize for that."

  The gunner nearly wilted with relief. "No, sir."

  "I need to see the man in charge. Right now."

  "Yes, sir. This way."

  The stairwell carried an aroma of decay, as if the very walls exuded rot. It was an odor Bolan had become accustomed to while touring the neighborhood, produced in equal parts by backed-up sewage, poverty, the urban blight of overcrowding. It was stronger in the stairwell, permeating Bolan's clothes and clinging to his skin.