by Steve Berry
The Admiral’s Mark is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A 2012 Ballantine Books eBook Original
Copyright © 2012 by Steve Berry
Excerpt from The Columbus Affair copyright © 2012 by Steve Berry
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53440-8
www.ballantinebooks.com
Cover design: Marc J. Cohen and Scott Biel
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Eight Years Ago
About the Author
Excerpt from The Columbus Affair
EIGHT YEARS AGO
Cotton Malone hated funerals. The only thing worse was a wedding. Both events involved an expected display of emotion, and both sparked memories better left forgotten. He’d attended only a handful of either since leaving the navy six years before and working full-time for the Justice Department. Today’s funeral was further complicated by the fact that he hadn’t particularly liked the man in the coffin.
Scott Brown had been married to Ginger, his wife, Pam’s, sister. Scott had never held a real job, was always pitching some risky venture to investors, most of the schemes borderline illegal. Two years ago Malone had to intercede with Texas authorities and smooth over one that involved a few hundred thousand dollars and a lot of angry ranchers. Luckily, Scott still had the money and its return made everything go away.
This time things had turned out different.
Scott Brown was dead.
Killed in a diving accident off the coast of Haiti. What he was doing there was anybody’s guess. Haitian officials could not have cared less. They fished him from the Caribbean, labeled the death accidental, and shipped him home for burial.
One less problem they had to worry about.
One more for Malone.
“You have to go to Haiti,” his wife said to him. “Ginger is devastated.”
Pam’s sister was two years younger, ten years less mature, and liked the bad boys. Scott was her third husband. Of the crop, he was probably the cream, which wasn’t saying much. Handsome, he’d been a talkative soul, never met a stranger, which had certainly helped with his cons. His problem came from not knowing, to quote the song, “when to hold ’em, when to fold ’em, and when to walk away.” He just couldn’t resist the lure of an easy buck. Thankfully, there were no children of the union, and Ginger worked a solid job that paid the bills.
“And why do I have to go to Haiti?” he asked. “Scott drowned. Case closed.”
A report had accompanied the body. It explained everything the locals knew—which wasn’t much—and was signed by a police inspector in Cap-Haïtien.
“Scott called Ginger a day before he died. He sounded like he was in trouble. He said people were after him.”
“He’s a pathological liar, and he was always in trouble.”
He spotted the look on her face. The one that said, You can argue all you want, but you’re going down there to see what happened. So he decided to try, “I’m off for the next week. I thought you wanted me home to spend more time with you and Gary?”
His son was eight and growing up fast. First the navy had kept him away, now it was his job with the Magellan Billet. He’d missed most of Gary’s childhood, a sore spot between him and Pam.
Their marriage was in trouble. And they both knew it.
“I want you to do this,” she said, her voice calm. “It’ll help Ginger get over him.”
“What am I looking for?”
“How would I know? You’re the secret agent. Find out what happened to him.”
There was no sense arguing any further. When Pam made up her mind, that was it.
The graveside service was ending, the few who’d attended paying their respects to Ginger.
“I should check out their apartment,” he said.
The Browns lived on Atlanta’s south side.
“I doubt your sister has been totally honest about what her husband was involved in. She knows how we feel.”
Pam handed him a key from her purse. “I’ve lived with an agent long enough to know the drill. Go, while everyone is at our house after the funeral.”
He was beginning to wonder how much planning she’d invested in this.
“I love my sister,” she said. “But she’s blind when it comes to men. There’s no telling what’s going on.”
He found the apartment complex just off the interstate, one of hundreds that dotted the Atlanta metropolitan area. No gate barred access and the parking lot was devoid of cars, most of the residents at work on a Tuesday afternoon. The Browns lived on the second floor, and he used the key to gain access. Inside was spotless, everything in its place. Ginger, like her sister, appreciated order. Interesting how she waived that rule when it came to her love life. He’d visited here only a couple of times, as usually the Browns came to the Malone house on the other side of town.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but found a checkbook in a drawer, the account only in Ginger’s name, with $4,200 on deposit. A savings book showed another $14,000. Good to know that his sister-in-law kept some money under her control.
A stack of mail caught his attention.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Which startled him.
Another knock.
He hadn’t locked the knob after he’d entered. Why would he? Nobody was around. Family and friends were at the funeral.
The knob began to turn.
He retreated to the bedroom and slid under the bed. A frilly dust ruffle draped down on three sides and provided cover. He wasn’t sure why hiding was necessary, but something didn’t ring right.
“Is anyone home?” a male voice said.
A moment of silence.
“Check the rooms.”
A gap of about half an inch provided a line of sight past the dust ruffle out into the bedroom. He pressed his cheek into the carpet and watched as two feet stepped to the bedroom door, hesitated a moment, then walked to the bathroom and closet, checking both.
“No one is here,” another male voice said.
A burglary?
“They are still at the funeral, so we have some time. Make a search.”
If so, apparently not an ordinary one.
He heard drawers open, items shuffled about.
“No need to look any further,” the first voice said. “Here is what we want.”
He gently raised the dust ruffle enough so that he could see more than shoes.
Past the bedroom doorway he spotted two men. One was maybe fifty, pale, with salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard. The other man was younger, black-haired, dark-complexioned. The older man was holding the stack of mail. He tossed the letters aside and kept one, removing what was inside a large brown envelope.
The older man shook his head. “Seems Herr Brown led us on a diversion. This is nothing.”
“But the wife read it.”
“It would mean nothing to her.”
He watched as the letter was replaced in the envelope and tossed back on the table.
“There is no need to linger,” the older man said. “Unfortunately, Herr Brown managed to get ahead of us. The answers we seek are not here, but we had to come for a look.”
They both left, gently closing the door behind them.
>
He slid from beneath the bed and rushed to the window, watching as the two men exited the building toward a dark blue Honda.
They climbed inside and started to leave.
He darted to the table, grabbed the envelope, then raced downstairs, slowing his pace to a normal gait as he came to the bottom and walked toward his car.
The Honda was turning a corner, heading toward the exit gate.
He jumped into his own vehicle and followed.
He switched off the car engine and watched as the two men parked the Honda. They’d driven from the apartment complex, found Interstate 85, then headed south to Fayette County and a small private airport. He’d first thought their destination to be Hartsfield-Jackson International, which could have proven a problem. Thankfully, they’d avoided Atlanta’s main terminal. Several single-engine craft and two luxury turboprops waited near a large hangar. His targets entered a metal-sided administration building, stayed a couple of minutes, then climbed aboard one of the turboprops. A few minutes later engines whined and the plane taxied to the runway.
He’d opted not to confront them.
Instead, he should be able to learn what he needed without drawing any unnecessary attention. Before leaving the car he grabbed the envelope from the apartment, which displayed a handwritten return address for the Hotel Creole, Cap-Haïtien, Haiti. He slid out a single sheet of unfolded paper and studied what was there.
He had no idea what the combination of letters meant.
He tossed the envelope on the passenger’s seat and stepped from the car. Inside the building he displayed his Justice Department badge. “Who were the two men who left in the plane just now?”
The person on duty, a short stump of a man, seemed not to want to answer.
“We can do this here, or back in Atlanta in a more formal setting. Your choice.”
Magellan Billet headquarters was located in Atlanta. Its head, Stephanie Nelle, had insisted on that as a condition of her employment, wanting the unit away from Washington and the Department of Justice, both physically and symbolically. Which worked. The Billet had developed a reputation for independence, utilized on the most sensitive of investigations, both domestic and international. Twelve agents worked under Stephanie’s exclusive control, selected by her and specially trained. Of course he was bluffing, since none of this had anything to do with Billet business. Still, something out of the ordinary was definitely happening.
“Older guy is Zachariah Simon. He showed an Austrian passport. The other guy was—”
He watched as the man tried to remember.
“Rócha. Yeah, that was it. Rócha.”
“He have another name.”
The guy shrugged. “Can’t remember. Didn’t know I had to. They flew in on a charter, paid their fees, bought some gas, and left.”
“And that car outside?”
“Mine. They rented it.”
“When did they get here?”
“A few hours ago.”
“You get their passports?”
He knew the rules. Small airports like this were required to maintain copies of entry documents for Customs.
“Yeah, I got ’em.”
“I need them.” Now for what he really wanted to know. “Where are they headed?”
“These guys in trouble?”
“If they are, here’s the problem. They’re gone, and you’re still here.”
He hoped the message was clear.
“The charter pilot filed a flight plan for Cap-Haïtien.”
Cap-Haïtien was a town of 180,000 people on Haiti’s north coast. Its architecture reminded Malone of New Orleans, the same gingerbread-style houses lining its narrow streets, the same French feel throughout, though its overwhelming poverty spoiled any further comparisons. Streets, where they existed, suffered potholes and puddles, their gutters trickling with stinking sewage. Hundreds of tin-roofed shacks crumbling in the heat dominated bare mountain slopes. Two hundred years ago the harbor would have been filled with merchant ships, here to load coffee and sugar from French planters. Now the bay loomed empty save for a few small boats, its waters ruined by pollution. A strong odor of decay filled the humid afternoon air. Yesterday, after what had happened in the Browns’ apartment and at the airport south of Atlanta, he’d questioned his sister-in-law about the envelope.
“What were you doing in my apartment?” Ginger asked.
“I sent him,” Pam said. “I gave him my key and told him to look around.”
“What for?”
“Your husband’s dead. Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“Of course, but—”
“Do you have any idea what this means?” he asked her, showing her the sheet from the envelope.
Ginger shook her head. “It came from Haiti a day or so after Scott died. He told me on the phone he sent me something. But he didn’t tell me what it means.”
“And you never mentioned this envelope to me,” Pam said, with an irritation that he’d come to know.
“I didn’t think it was important. Come on, Scott drowned.”
“But he said someone was after him,” Pam said.
“I know. But I have to confess, I didn’t believe him.”
Pam had continued to reprimand Ginger for not telling anyone about the letter, but all that brought was tears. For safety, she’d insisted Ginger stay at their house, though he doubted there’d be any more visits.
Whatever was going to happen, would happen here, in Haiti.
Before leaving Cap-Haïtien’s airport, he located the private hangars and learned that the plane from Atlanta was there. Inside, $50 U.S. bought him the name of the hotel where Zachariah Simon and Rócha were staying. Hotel Creole. The same one noted on the envelope Scott had sent. He could start with the police, or with the charter boat Scott had used, or with the two men who’d come to Atlanta. He decided that the charter boat seemed the best bet, so he bartered for a cab into the congested mess of central downtown.
Haiti filled the west half of an island Columbus discovered in 1492, which he named Hispaniola. Populated first by native Tainos, then the Spanish, then by slaves brought to work the cane fields, the island fell under the control of the French in 1697. Forty thousand colonists lorded over 500,000 Africans. By 1790 it was one of the richest places on earth—France’s number one revenue source—thanks to immense profits from sugar, coffee, and indigo. It was also one of the most picturesque, with dense tropical forests, sparkling clear water, and towering mountains. Palm-shaded châteaus filled with Parisian furnishings were common. Its Code Noir established rigid social rules, making it one of the world’s most efficient slave colonies. Eventually, though, freed mulattos, offspring of colonists, and female slaves combined forces with thousands of other slaves and expelled the French, establishing the only nation ever born of a black revolt.
Then the turmoil started.
After two hundred years Haiti was now the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere, its forests gone, waters ruined, poverty an accepted way of life. He’d read an article recently about how the cruise ships had stopped coming—simply because passengers complained at how depressing the place could be.
The cabdriver dropped him at the waterfront, where crumbling docks jutted from a narrow mud beach. Tin-roofed wooden sheds stood at their base, a small crane at the end of one. A pale green sea, splashed with shades of blue, stretched to the horizon. Soft white waves lapped the shore. From the police report he knew the name of the owner who’d taken Scott out, and found him after asking around.
The boat was a twenty-footer, with a small cabin forward and a cluttered deck aft. The man moving about on board was short, thin, and walked with a hitch in his left knee. He had a broad nose, tense jaw, and dark eyes, his black hair cut close.
“Bonsoir. Are you Yann Dubois?”
The man glanced up at him with a faint smile. “You want to dive?”
“Looks like a calm day. Can you take me out?”
He saw t
hat he’d now attracted interest. Here was money to be made, and Dubois seemed ready to accommodate.
“Sure, I take you out. You have card?”
He shook his head. “Not on me. But I’m U.S. Navy certified. I can handle it.”
He assumed that requirements like diving certifications were not much of a problem in Haiti.
Dubois smiled. “U.S. Navy. That’s good, mon. Where you want to go?”
“Same place the guy drowned last week.”
Dubois’ pleasant attitude vanished. “You police? Here to bother me more? I don’t want that.”
“No police. A relative. The man who died was my brother-in-law. I need to find out what happened.”
“He drown. That what happened. Not my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was. I just want to see where it happened. Have a look around. I’ll pay double your usual rate.”
He watched as Dubois considered the offer, but the outcome was never in doubt.
“Let’s go, mon.”
Malone donned the air tank and buoyancy vest, fastening the belt around his waist and adjusting the shoulder straps. Not the newest of equipment, but it appeared in reasonable shape. The trip out from shore had been short, the stern engulfed in a boiling exhaust from overheating engines. They were anchored no more than three hundred yards from the beach, dark smudges in the turquoise water indicating a reef below. A wet wind blew steady from the west. He kept time with the deck’s jerking pitch, glad to know that his sea legs had not left him.
The navy had taught him how to dive ten years ago. He liked it but, unlike his father who’d been a submariner, he hadn’t wanted a career underwater. The sky appealed to him, so he learned to fly fighter jets. Ultimately, he was steered toward the law, where he found a home first as a JAG officer, now in the Justice Department.
“We go down thirty feet,” Dubois said as he adjusted his own harness. “Lots of current. Watch yourself. I show you where it happened.”
“Did you fish him out?”
“Yeah, mon. He not come up, so I go down.”
“Why didn’t you go down with him?”
Dubois eyed him with irritation. “ ’Cause Scotty say he don’t want me down there.”