Haitian Hit

by Don Pendleton

  "Of course, we shall make every effort…"

  "You've been making 'every effort' since they tried to rip my payroll off last Friday. So far, all you've got to show for it is vacancies among your own security police."

  "In fact, monsieur, a rebel stronghold was annihilated yesterday. I have reports…"

  "You killed the wrong damned rebels, then. Or else a shitload of them got away."

  "I understood your latest problems were — how shall I say? — a Family matter."

  "I've been checking into that. There might be something to it, but I can't be sure." Bartoli made a sour face. "This woman — what's her name?"

  "Michelle Saint-Cyr."

  "Okay. She's Haitian, right? Her father was some kind of flaming radical or something?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. So, there you are. It doesn't play with the New York scenario. If someone from the Families was scouting me, they'd have a fix in with the cops, first thing. You'd know about it, right?"

  "I can assure you…"

  "Yeah, forget it. What I'm saying is, New York has no more interest in the rebel cause than I do. If the junta falls, we're all shit out of luck, you follow me?"

  "Indeed. But, as I say…"

  "As I said, what we need is quick results in mopping up this peasant army. When my people land, I'm sending them directly to Liberté. They'll be on duty at the site, in shifts, until your people put their house in order. If any uninvited guests drop by — I don't care if they're coming from New York or Port-au-Prince — I'll notify the next of kin first chance I get."

  Descartes was getting fidgety again. "I must advise you that the leaders of the junta are concerned about the recent violence, especially that involving your employees yesterday."

  "They'd better be concerned. It's real pitiful when visitors aren't safe inside their own hotel rooms. I imagine that the press back home would have some fun with that. You think your tourist trade is in the crapper now? Let's make believe you've got a Haitian massacre of U.S. businessmen on every front page, coast to coast."

  "The story has been covered."

  "Covered up, you mean. I have to hand it to you there. Of course, there's still a chance someone might let it slip. I think the boys from NBC might just be interested, don't you?"

  "Your own concerns would scarcely benefit from such a leak."

  "I've got no damned concerns, unless you bring your people into line. I can't do business in a madhouse."

  "I will share your views with my superiors."

  "I'm sure you will. And make it quick, okay? I haven't got a lot of time to waste."

  Descartes assurances were interrupted by the intercom.

  "What is it?"

  "Phone call, Mr. B. The banker. Sounds excited."

  "Yeah, okay. I'll take it. Put him on."

  "Monsieur Barton?"

  As he listened to the rush of anxious words, Bartoli felt his stomach churning. Frozen halfway to his feet, Descartes beheld the new expression on Bartoli's face and dropped back in his chair.

  "One man? He got how much? He gave you what?"

  He slammed the telephone receiver down on stammering apologies.

  "A goddamned marksman's medal! Seven hundred thousand dollars in the bag, a couple million up in smoke, and now I've got another marksman's medal!"

  "Monsieur…"

  "I want these bastards dead, you hear me? If I have to do the job myself, I will. Just say the word and get your sorry soldiers off the street. I'm finished playing games with these smart sons of bitches."

  "If you will excuse me…"

  "Not a chance. You've used up your excuses, Frankie Boy. Next time I hear your voice I want good news, or you can name your beneficiary. I hope that's crystal clear."

  "Of course, Monsieur Bartoli."

  When he was alone, Bartoli poured himself a shot of bourbon and drank it down. The liquor burned his throat and helped to calm the nervous rolling of his stomach.

  A marksman's medal.

  Whether it was Bolan or Omega, he'd have to give the bastard credit. First the smack, and then the hit on Geoffrey Stuart. Now the bank. He was looking at a sudden cash-flow crisis and faced hassles from his troops next time he tried to meet a payroll — and came up short.

  Omega-Bolan knew what he was doing. He was pushing all the buttons right on cue, as if…

  As if he'd done it all before.

  Bartoli poured himself a double shot and waited for the other shoe to drop.

  * * *

  The riot started seven minutes into the march. Petoit didn't see Blanski leave, though he was vaguely conscious of a clamoring alarm somewhere behind him, lost in the confusion of the moment. Up ahead the leaders had encountered barricades, and the usual ultimatums were announced by the police.

  One minute to disperse, or there would be reprisals.

  Jacques had finished knotting the bandanna that covered his nose and mouth, when they began to fire the tear gas. Rolling clouds erupted in front of the marchers, while hissing canisters were hurled above the heads of demonstrators farther back. One landed at his feet, still spewing gas. He scooped it up and threw it back at the police.

  The fight was joined as riot troops closed in with truncheons and electric prods. The dissidents fought back with fists and placards, some producing lengths of pipe or chains from underneath their clothing. Angry shouts and curses drowned the chanting of the marchers, punctuated by the sound of bludgeons striking flesh.

  Petoit was drifting toward the curb when he was suddenly confronted by an officer in khaki, his face invisible behind the lowered visor of his helmet, his truncheon raised to strike. Jacques feinted to the left, ducked back and took the glancing blow across his shoulder, putting all his weight behind a snap kick to his adversary's groin.

  The trooper doubled over, clutching his wounded genitals, and Jacques was able to disarm him, striking with the riot stick before his enemy had time to realize his danger. Two blows did the job, and he was on his way, the stick discarded. He then heard the first reports of gunfire on the far side of the milling crowd.

  Petoit reversed direction, digging for the compact submachine gun he had lifted from a dead Macoute the day before. Along the north side of the street, a group of officers had started firing shots into the crowd at random. Petoit glanced toward the rooftops and saw his nearest rifleman already lining up a shot.

  The rebel fired, his own shot muffled by the gunfire of police, and Jacques saw one of the troopers topple forward on his face. The dead man's fellow officers looked momentarily confused, deciding someone in the crowd had fired the fatal shot, and they unleashed another volley at the demonstrators. Near Petoit, a woman went down screaming, and he heard a bullet whisper past his face.

  As the rooftop sniper fired again, another of the khaki killers tumbled out of line. Petoit was now close enough to join the party, his submachine gun rising to waist level as he waited for an opening.

  As if on cue, a trooper with a riot gun unleashed two blasts and cleared the field of fire. Petoit cut loose as screaming men and women broke in all directions, terrified of being caught up in a cross fire. Sweeping his weapon from left to right, the rebel leader dropped one target, then another. He was tracking on the third when general firing opened up along the marching route.

  Retreating, Jacques could see that many of the officers were firing warning shots, the muzzles of their weapons pointed skyward. Two or three had seen his nearest rifleman, and they were blasting rounds in the direction of the rooftop in a bid to pin him down. No more than half were firing at the demonstrators, but it was enough to flood the street with bodies and put surviving dissidents to flight.

  Petoit was homing on a narrow side street when the human tidal wave engulfed him, sweeping him away. Behind him, the sporadic rifle fire began to sputter, dying out for want of targets.

  As he ran, Petoit discovered that his victory had lost its flavor. He swallowed hard, but couldn't shake the taste of death.

/>   18

  The general and his two favorite colonels faced Francois Descartes across a heavy wooden table elevated on a dais. The luckless man was standing, while his three interrogators sat in high-backed, leather-covered chairs, regarding him with vague expressions of suspicion of contempt.

  "You are aware of the events this morning?" the general asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then you know we have a crisis on our hands in Port-au-Prince. Eleven dead Americans and three more critical, butchered in their own hotel. Two hours later, sixteen Volunteers for National Security were assassinated by subversives, their commander mutilated. Seven officers and thirteen demonstrators were killed this morning, in a riot half a mile from where we sit."

  "Yes, sir."

  "There have been other acts of violence, directed toward the architects of Liberté."

  "Yes, sir. And toward myself."

  "Of course." The general nodded condescendingly. "You had a broken window, I believe."

  "I was attacked with rifle fire inside my office."

  "All the more incentive for a personal involvement in solution of the problem."

  "Yes, sir. As you say."

  "You knew Solange?" the shorter of the colonels asked.

  "Of course, sir."

  "You understood his methods?" the other asked.

  Hedging cautiously, Descartes replied, "I have no training in police techniques, or…"

  "Neither did Solange," the general replied. "He got results because he was a patriot, determined to defend his country from the Communists, subversives, homosexuals and others who would drag us down to abject degradation. He was ruthless with our enemies, as his successor must be ruthless."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I believe you have worked closely with Monsieur Bartoli?"

  "Yes, sir." He would play along with the charade, despite the fact that each of his interrogators was receiving money from Bartoli, payoffs channeled through Descartes for distribution to the junta's ranking officers.

  "Our economic future lies in Liberté," the shorter colonel said. "Without new tourist income, we are facing bankruptcy — collapse — within a year to eighteen months."

  "I understand."

  "It is essential that construction should proceed," the second colonel added. "We can tolerate no further interruptions."

  "Yes, sir. I've assured Monsieur Bartoli…"

  The commanding general raised a hand to cut him off.

  "We are determined that Jean-Claude's replacement as commander of the Volunteers for National Security must be a man acquainted with the special needs and problems of our foreign friends. They must be granted every opportunity to prosper, for the health of Mother Haiti."

  "Yes, sir."

  Descartes was suddenly uneasy, troubled by the new direction of the conversation. He had expected reprimands, perhaps dismissal, and had come prepared to play the role of scapegoat after the Macoutes had blown their final bid to snare the rebels. If Solange had managed to survive, the bastard would certainly have demoted Descartes, possibly removed him from office for his final blunder. Now, instead of being fired or clapped in jail, Descartes suspected he was being given a promotion.

  If his instincts were correct, he was about to be appointed chief of Volunteers for National Security — the dread Tonton Macoutes.

  The posting brought remarks and certain risks, epitomized by the last moments of Jean-Claude Solange. In time, Descartes would earn a reputation of his own, but meanwhile…

  He wasn't convinced that he could do the dreadful things Jean-Claude had done, but there would always be subordinates to carry out his orders, if it came to that. The new position meant a raise, and greater power over others. He could serve himself and Haiti all at once. There was no reason why the blood should ever touch his hands.

  "…may be the man." The general hesitated, frowning. "Are you listening, Descartes?"

  "Of course, sir."

  "Very well. Are you prepared to take command?"

  "I should familiarize myself with basic operational procedures, sir."

  "Begin at once." The general and his watchdogs frowned in unison. "You are dismissed."

  Outside, a sudden wave of apprehension struck Descartes. Suppose he was unable to produce results. Was there another candidate in waiting to replace him even now?

  Descartes shook off the morbid thoughts of failure and defeat. He would succeed. He had to. He had waited all his life for such an opportunity, and he couldn't afford to let it slip away.

  * * *

  The raid on Don Bartoli's bank had been the final straw, from all appearances, and Bolan found the mafioso's other operations buttoned tight as he began a roving tour of Port-au-Prince. The «studio» where bargain-basement porno films were made for ghetto markets had been padlocked, shutters bolted into place across the tiny window. On the other side of town, a small casino had been "closed for renovation." Even the established whorehouse, catering primarily to government officials and police, was dark for the duration.

  Bolan gave it up. Bartoli had decided to retreat behind a wall of silence and invisibility, maintaining distance from the battlefront until the issue had been settled. He had lost enough already, and the capo was prepared to cut his losses.

  The next thrust, when it came, would have to be at Liberté. It wouldn't take Bartoli long to recognize that fact; he was preparing for the battle now, reducing the availability of targets, channeling his opposition toward a battlefield of the mobster's choosing.

  Deprived of targets, Bolan went to see Michelle Saint-Cyr.

  Petoit had placed the lady in another safehouse, this one protected by a pair of his commandos. After the engagement at the factory, Michelle had suddenly turned silent, uncommunicative, drawing back into herself. Afraid to press it, running short of time for preparations, Bolan had withdrawn to spend the evening huddled with Petoit, arranging strategies before they both caught several hours' badly needed sleep. That morning when he rose, Michelle had still been locked inside her room. There had been no opportunity for conversation.

  Now, returning to the guarded nest at noon, he found her trying to pretend that she had totally recovered from her ordeal. Still, he saw the haunted look around her eyes and understood that she was putting up a front. When they were closed inside her room, she sat beside him, lowering her voice.

  "I was a fool," she said.

  I wouldn't go that far. You pushed your luck. It didn't hold."

  "I wanted to accomplish something. For my father. For Henri."

  "You have. According to the latest bulletins, the character you nailed was the Macoute commander."

  Bolan watched the haunted look return.

  "I saw him murder Father Paul. And then he… he…"

  "You don't owe the world an explanation," he informed her. "You're the victim here. You didn't bring it on yourself or 'ask for it' in any way. The guilt lies squarely with the other side. Why don't you let them carry it awhile?"

  The tears were flowing now, but she wasn't hysterical. It was a cleansing from within, an unburdening of the soul.

  "I couldn't sit in safety, thinking of my family, while everyone around me did their part to help the movement. Someone has to carry on my father's work… his legacy."

  "So give it time. Your father had to start from scratch. You've got a leg up on the game, but no one ever said the victory was coming overnight."

  "So many wasted lives."

  "Not wasted. Not unless their effort counts for nothing in the end. If they're forgotten and the cause isn't pursued, then you can call their sacrifice a waste."

  "You're very wise."

  "I've been a long time getting here," he told her, smiling gently. "Once upon a time, I thought that I could save the world by putting on a uniform. It didn't work. While I was fighting a world away, my family was being chewed up by the same kind of people who're trying to get a foothold in Haiti. It's easy to believe that hitting back will make things better, but you ha
ve to watch your timing. Make it count. Sometimes, you might find breaking even is the best that you can do."

  "And have I? Broken even?"

  "You set up yesterday's festivities and took out three Macoutes, all by yourself. It turns out one of them was Mr. Big. Without a doubt, he staged the raid that killed your brother. It's a safe bet that he cut the orders on your father, too. I'd say you were doing fine."

  * * *

  It was his second trip to meet a plane, but Sonny Esposito knew that he was lucky just to be alive. It had been touch and go for several moments when Bartoli heard the news about the massacre at the hotel. Sometimes, it seemed that capos still believed in the old tradition of killing the messenger who brought bad tidings, but Sonny had squeaked through by showing off his cuts and bruises, pleading injury.

  The worst of it had been the look on Bartoli's face when Esposito had described the gunman. He froze, as if he were looking at a ghost, and then said, "Omega." Marco Rizzi seemed to understand, but Sonny hadn't felt like prying. At the moment, he was pleased to be forgotten on the sidelines.

  Marco hadn't joined him on the airport run this time. He was involved with preparations out at Liberté, where Sonny and the soon-to-arrive troops would join him. The plan was simple, fortify the site and slaughter anyone who tried to knock it over — but he couldn't help suspecting they had overlooked some vital point.

  The more he thought about it, Esposito realized they were confronted with a one-man killing machine. The guy might have used backup when he hit the payroll convoy, but there was no evidence of a second hitter at the hotel. And it had been the same man. The little mafioso could admit that, now, without collapsing into jitters on the spot.

  The guy had already picked off twelve of Don Bartoli's men when Sonny tried to make his play, and there seemed little doubt it would have been a clean sweep all the way. The sheer audacity of going door-to-door and blowing away a dozen guys astounded Sonny.

  He felt a sudden chill. A remark from Don Bartoli clicked, and suddenly the pieces started to fall into place. The capo had been grumbling to himself, a litany of curses fired off at his enemies, the government, his friends, when he had dropped a line about a "goddamned marksman's medal." Esposito hadn't caught it at the time, but now he understood. In spades.