Kingston Carnage

by Gar Wilson

  "Do they have any idea why these tourists were killed?" James inquired, glancing through a file folder. "You know, something nice and simple like robbery, maybe?"

  "If this was just a rash of ruthless thieves who didn't care if they killed people in the process, I wouldn't have called you guys to this meeting," Brognola answered, biting down on his cigar as if trying to demolish it. "We can't send Phoenix Force to handle every crime wave that occurs in this hemisphere, even if American citizens are the victims. Whatever motive the killers might have for murdering American citizens in Jamaica, robbery isn't it. Not a single victim was robbed, according to these reports."

  "Well, Jamaica has seen its share of political tension and violence," Encizo commented, leaning back in his seat. "Any terrorists or extremists taking credit for these murders?"

  "None," the Fed answered, "and there hasn't been any escalation of anti-American or pro-Marxist activity, either. The police are puzzled by the killings, and they don't really have any idea where to start. There seems to be only one clue that keeps popping up with each murder. Every one of them is somehow linked to voodoo."

  "Voodoo?" McCarter scoffed. "If I didn't know better, I'd figure this was some sort of elaborate practical joke."

  "Nobody's laughing, David," Brognola said grimly. "The prime minister of Jamaica isn't laughing, and neither is the President. The families of the murder victims sure don't think it's funny."

  "I didn't mean anything of that sort," the Briton said with a shrug. "It's just that stories about bloody voodoo are the sort of thing you expect to hear around a campfire in the middle of the night. Never thought we'd get a mission to go hunt down some blokes who've been stickin' pins in dolls."

  "That's what we're doing, David," Manning declared. He had discovered a photograph of the two figurines that had been found at the Blue Cuckoo after Perry and Teresa Hedge had fallen ill. "Take a look at this."

  "Read the file," Brognola urged. "You'll see that there was nothing supernatural about the deaths of those young people. They were poisoned. Food was laced with belladonna."

  "Belladonna?" James raised his eyebrows. "That's interesting. It's a natural poison found in plants of the Solanaceae family. Doesn't require a chemist to use belladonna for a poison. Used to be pretty popular among poisoners way back during the Roman Empire and the Middle Ages. Supposedly you can't smell it or taste it, but it leaves a red rash on the skin of the victim."

  "You must have covered some weird subjects in chemistry classes back in California," Encizo commented.

  "Herbal medicines were the original form of chemistry," James explained with a thin smile. "So were herbal poisons. Whoever the killers are, they must favor old-fashioned formulas over synthetic poisons."

  "You said eleven Americans were killed," Katz began thoughtfully, flicking his Ronson lighter to fire up a Camel cigarette. "Were they all poisoned, Hal?"

  "Most of them," Brognola answered. "A pair of senior citizens, who'd saved up for God knows how long to take a nice sunny vacation in the Caribbean, were found dead in their hotel room. They'd both been decapitated."

  "Yeah," Encizo said, examining the grisly photos in one of the file folders. "I've got that case here. Ethel and Dennis Jackson. Their naked bodies were found in the bathroom, slumped next to the tub, their hands were tied behind their backs with lamp cords. Must have been a goddamn nightmare for an elderly couple like that."

  "Doesn't sound like it would be a lot of fun for anybody at any age," James commented dryly. "Were the severed heads missing?"

  "No," Encizo answered, consulting the file. "The maid found the heads when she entered the room to make the bed. The heads were sitting on the pillows on the bed. Poor woman probably screamed her head off, but maybe that's not the best expression to use under the circumstances."

  "Cristo," the Cuban muttered, his face screwing up with disgust. "The mouths had been stuffed with salt and the lips sewed shut."

  "That's sick," Manning said, shaking his head. "What kind of lunatic would do something like that?"

  "That sounds vaguely familiar," Katz remarked, blowing a smoke ring across the table. "Salt was once regarded as a substance for purification — still is among some cultures. Believed to drive off evil spirits or something like that. During the witchcraft trials of the Spanish inquisition, witches were decapitated and their mouths were stuffed with salt to keep the devil from bringing them back to life."

  "Similar legends are found in voodoo folklore," James added. "People have a tendency to associate voodoo with the old animistic religions of Africa, but it actually borrowed as much from Christianity as from any other source."

  "I'd forgotten you know a bit about this hocus-pocus hogwash," McCarter commented. "In fact, that came up in your first mission with us, the time we took on those blokes from Haiti who called themselves the Black Alchemists."

  "Yeah," James replied. "And I told you then that followers of voodoo consider it to be a religion. They don't think it's bullshit."

  "Okay," Manning said, trying to prevent an argument. "Why would voodoo practitioners chop off somebody's head and stuff the mouth with salt?"

  "To prevent the dead from coming back as a zombie," James explained. "You know, like in Night of the Living Dead?"

  "Sounds pretty crazy," Encizo remarked, "but I think Calvin's right. A form of voodoo called obeah has been practiced in Jamaica for hundreds of years. Maybe the followers of some fanatic cult of voodoo or obeah have decided to kill off Americans for some reason we can't even guess. Apparently the Jamaican cops can't figure it out either."

  "The President thinks this is serious enough to send Phoenix Force to take care of it," Brognola announced. "Americans getting murdered is bad enough under any circumstances, but what's happening in Jamaica is practically genocide of U.S. tourists. Some of the President's advisers think Communists from Cuba or Nicaragua may be responsible. The Jamaicans are also upset. Tourism is a vital industry there. The economy suffered terribly after the riots and street violence in '84 and '85 scared away a lot of tourists. Jamaica seemed to have pretty well recovered from that setback, and now this happens."

  "When the economy goes to hell, the government in power is apt to fall from grace," Katz remarked. "Perhaps even fall from power."

  "Indeed," Brognola confirmed. "The United States doesn't want to see the present administration in Jamaica lose power. The former prime minister was a socialist who admired Fidel Castro and was slowly grooming his nation toward either a Communist system or a form of socialism very sympathetic to the Communists. I don't have to remind any of you what country is right next door to Jamaica."

  "You mean Cuba?" Encizo inquired. "Maybe we ought to consider another neighbor of Jamaica's — Haiti. The voodoo connection seems more the style of Haitians than Cubans. Of course, it could just be that the more radical obeah cults are acting up, but I can't begin to guess what they hope to accomplish."

  "You guys get the job," Brognola declared. "You unravel the mysteries after you get there and take care of the problem. Nobody does that better than Phoenix Force. Gary, you sure you're fit for duty?"

  "My arm had three months to heal," Manning assured him. "I'm quite ready for field duty now."

  "Good," the Fed said with a nod. "We'll fly you there via a Navy chopper from an aircraft carrier on maneuvers in the area. That way we don't have to worry about customs and crap like that. Transporting weapons and other equipment won't be a problem. The governor-general himself will sign the special weapons permits you'll need while in Jamaica. Can you be ready by morning?"

  "We can be ready in two hours, Hal," Katz answered.

  "You'll leave in the morning," Brognola insisted. "I suggest you enjoy the few hours you've got until then. Don't expect to find a Caribbean paradise when you get to Jamaica."

  3

  He called himself Cercueil, but that wasn't his real name. He had adopted the name three years previously after learning of the death of the original Cercueil. He had also c
hanged his manner of dress and persona] behavior. The transformation had occurred when the spirit of Maurice Cercueil came to him one night. Their souls had joined, and Maurice Cercueil had chosen his successor to continue his name and carry out his ambitions.

  Or so Cercueil — the "new" Cercueil — claimed.

  Not everyone believed that of course. Many realized it was simply a theatrical trick to impress the more gullible and superstitious members among them. Yet none could fault the results of the tactic. The new Cercueil played his role well. He always wore a formal black suit with a black tie and a matching silk top hat. The outfit would have seemed absurd unless one realized the black top hat was reminiscent of Baron Samedi, the lord of the legions of the dead in voodoo folklore.

  He carried a black swagger stick with a silver skull handle, identical to the sinister scepter carried by the original Cercueil. He never removed his dark glasses, I not even when indoors or at night. The new Cercueil played his role as skillfully as his namesake had before him.

  The First Cercueil had been a showman. The head of the infamous Ton Ton Macoute during the rule of François "Papa Doc" Duvalier, Maurice Cercueil had adopted his strange costume to play on the beliefs and fears of Haitians who believed in voodoo. Even the name "Cercueil" had probably been a prop. It was unlikely that the head of the Ton Ton Macoute had really been born with the family name "Coffin."

  The new Cercueil had formerly been known as Pierre Mazarin. Mazarin had been a captain in the Ton Ton Macoute under Jean-Claude Duvalier, the son of Papa Doc. One of the most feared and hated secret police organizations in history, the Ton Ton Macoute had been named after the demon-thieves of voodoo legend, which prowled the night and abducted children. Captain Mazarin had learned the value of terror when he'd served with the Ton Ton Macoute. Fear could be as effective as violence in subduing the rebellious masses. In Haiti, nothing was more feared than the dark side of voodoo.

  Realizing that, Papa Doc had encouraged the rumors of his alleged supernatural powers among the largely illiterate and superstitious Haitians. The senior Duvalier had ruled until his death in 1971 and had been succeeded by "Baby Doc," who was to be less successful than his father.

  Captain Mazarin believed that he knew why Jean-Claude Duvalier had failed to remain in power. In Mazarin's opinion. Baby Doc did not understand the Haitian people. The young dictator lacked his father's understanding of the power of voodoo over the island nation. Baby Doc had attempted to make reforms — at least publicly — to improve Haiti's image in the rest of the world. But when political opponents and union leaders had made problems, Baby Doc ordered the Ton Ton Macoute to crack down on them with mass arrests and brute force.

  Perhaps, Mazarin suspected, if Jean-Claude Duvalier had kept Maurice Cercueil as head of the Ton Ton Macoute, he might still be in power. Cercueil had understood the fears of the Haitian people. The fears of shadows that breathed and eyes that saw through the faces of pagan gods. Cercueil had started rumors that he was a bocor, a sorcerer who could kill with a curse and raise the dead to do his bidding. The Haitian peasants had been terrified of Cercueil.

  Baby Doc had been scared of the Ton Ton Macoute, as well, and had forced Cercueil into exile. The "Coffin" had fled to the United States and created a crime network that attempted to blackmail the federal government into financing his return to Haiti and his planned overthrow of Jean-Claude. The scheme went sour, and Maurice Cercueil was eventually hunted down by Phoenix Force and killed in a battle at his mountain fortress in Colorado.

  Jean-Claude Duvalier's schemes did not fare much better. Riots and demonstrations in Haiti had increased, and even the Ton Ton Macoute could not control the outraged masses. In January, 1986, fearful that Baby Doc's regime was about to fall, Captain Mazarin and many of his comrades fled Haiti. In February, the Duvalier regime collapsed, and the dictator and his family fled to France.

  Mazarin and his Ton Ton Macoute had come to roost in Jamaica. They kept a low profile, fearful of being deported back to Haiti. That fate was indeed terrifying to consider. Many former members of the Duvalier secret police had been killed in the streets by mobs of angry Haitians who finally had an opportunity to strike back at the vicious storm troopers who had terrorized them for almost three decades.

  In Jamaica, the Ton Ton Macoute renegades gradually formed a plan to allow them to seize power and authority once again. Mazarin's transformation into Cercueil had been part of the scheme. The new Cercueil's dreams of conquest were actually more ambitious than his namesake's, and the risks seemed to be far less.

  The man who had come to be known as Pierre Mazarin Cercueil sat behind a large mahogany desk in the air-conditioned cabin of his floating headquarters. His tall, lean frame rested comfortably in the leather armchair as he peered at the two men who stood on the opposite side of the desk. His long ebony fingers stroked the black shaft of the swagger stick on the desk top as he listened to Louis de Broglie's report on the progress of the Ton Ton Macoute operations in Jamaica.

  "Everything seems to be going quite smoothly," de Broglie declared. "The United States is warning Americans not to travel to Jamaica because the risk to tourists is too great. The authorities suspect pro-Marxist terrorists as being responsible for the deaths. The police suspect members of a local obeah cult killed the tourists. The People's National Party is accusing the administration and the Jamaican Labour Party of incompetence. The JLP is likewise accusing the PNP of helping to stir up trouble and supporting Communist factions they believe to be behind the killings."

  Cercueil smiled as he raised a cup of rum-laced tea to his lips. "Everyone is looking in the wrong direction. The fools will soon be fighting among themselves so fiercely they won't even realize their country is slipping away from them."

  Louis de Broglie nodded. He was a big man with broad shoulders, a chest as big as a keg of nails and hands that could easily have served as shovels. In Haiti, the muscular Ton Ton Macoute thug had enjoyed crushing the skulls of peasants with his bare hands.

  Yet de Broglie was not a dumb brute. Within his powerful body was a shrewd mind. Cercueil was too clever to choose a second-in-command just because the guy was big or well muscled. Louis de Broglie was a good organizer, well respected by both the other Ton Ton Macoute and the Jamaican underworld hoodlums connected with the conspiracy. He was also loyal to Cercueil. De Broglie was the only man Cercueil could truly trust, the only person he could consider his friend.

  "You're jumpin' to a lot of conclusions awful quick, my Haitian friend," Montgomery Penn declared as he reached inside his white silk jacket for a pack of Turkish cigarettes. "So a few American tourists are dead. You think that means you can take over an entire country? Mon, you'd better put your feet back on firm ground before you float away on inflated egos."

  Louis de Broglie glared at the Jamaican gangster. Penn was a mulatto, his skin a lighter shade than many a white with a deep tan. He smiled often, a mocking grin that displayed two gold teeth. Penn liked gold. His Rolex, rings, necklaces and cigarette holder were all made of gold. De Broglie considered him a flashy, arrogant petty crook who had probably risen to the top of the criminal sewer in Kingston by sheer luck rather than ability.

  Cercueil knew better. Penn might dress like a pimp, but he was no fool. The Jamaican did not give a damn if the Haitians liked him or not, and he did not care if he offended them. Penn was smart enough to realize they would not kill him as long as they needed him. Right now, they needed him. When that changed, Penn planned to take his blood money from Cercueil and head for the Bahamas.

  "You have a good point, Mr. Penn," Cercueil said, keeping his voice soft and even as he nodded approval of Perm's observation. "But we're judging success by what has happened thus far, and everything has gone exactly as planned. I'll admit that blind optimism is a weakness and overconfidence can be a fatal sin. Still, we must believe in what we're doing if we're going to accomplish our goals."

  "Taking over Jamaica is gonna be quite a feat, mon," Penn remarked. "I don
't even understand why you want to do this, let alone understand everythin' about how you plan to accomplish it."

  "Those aren't your concerns, Mr. Penn," Cercueil said politely. "I don't think you'll understand this, but I'm doing all this because I'm a patriot."

  "A patriot?" Penn laughed. "I never thought of the Ton Ton Macoute as patriots..."

  "Who do you think held Haiti together since 1957?" Cercueil demanded, a trace of outrage in his tone. "Who do you think served the interests of President Duvalier, enforced his laws and crushed his enemies? Who do you think maintained order and kept the whole nation from slipping into chaos?"

  "Never thought of it that way before," Penn confessed, keeping his true thoughts to himself, wisely avoiding a political debate with the powerful voodooist.

  "For fourteen years we kept the scum in their place and protected our president," Cercueil continued. "Then Duvalier died and that spoiled brat son of his took over. They called him 'Baby Doc,' and that's what he was. A squawking, ignorant baby who'd been raised on a satin pillow. He wanted world approval, and actually considered disbanding the Ton Ton Macoute to try to get it. Officially, that is; actually, we were still carrying on business as usual. Baby Doc was ashamed of us and wanted to pretend we weren't there. He should have listened to us but he didn't, and he lost power because of it.

  "I know most people think it's wonderful that Jean-Claude fled Haiti," Cercueil said with a sneer. "In fact, he wasn't half the ruler his father was. But look, what has happened to Haiti since? There is no real government in Haiti. Not one in five Haitians can read or write. How are they supposed to govern themselves? They're like superstitious children who need a strong father to keep them in line. I'm going to give them that — and a lot more as well."