by Gar Wilson
"Yeah," James replied. "I fucked up."
"Well..." Katz took a long draw on his cigarette. "There wasn't any real harm done, except perhaps that Wells and Smith might have a little less confidence in us now than they did before. I don't think they were exactly bubbling over with faith in us before this happened."
"I didn't tell Delia anything, Yakov," James stated. "She didn't pry about details, either. It was really just between the two of us. Just for the one night."
"You know, we're all human, Cal," the Israeli said with a sigh. "I don't really blame you. She's a lovely lady. This just isn't the time for it."
"Never is," James muttered. "When I joined Phoenix Force, I didn't figure we'd be on a mission every other month. We use so many phony names I'm not sure what to call you guys half the time. Sometimes I'm not sure what name I'm supposed to respond to. Worse than that, sometimes I'm not even sure who or what I am anymore."
"Yes, I know that feeling," Katz said with a nod. "I've been doing this sort of thing since before you were born, Cal. I've been doing it so long it seems like a normal way of life."
"Sometimes I don't feel like I'm a person anymore," James explained. "Brognola tells us to go to some country. Turkey, Greece, France, Finland or Mongolia, for God's sake. The only place that looks familiar anymore is the War Room back at Stony Man headquarters. Whether we're in Kenya or the Vatican or here in Jamaica, it's always the same. We run around telling lies to people we barely know and only work with for a few days. Then we wind up getting shot at and generally killing a bunch of people who are supposed to be bad guys. But I see so little of what we're supposed to be defending, Pm not always sure what the hell it is anymore."
Katz shrugged. "I think we all feel that way sometimes. Except maybe McCarter. That's one man who'd be lost without a battlefield. Perhaps we're all like that to a degree, or we wouldn't be doing this. The only thing that makes any sense is that we're fighting for some very important things. Freedom and civilization can seem pretty hard to grasp when you're always in the trenches with a gun in your hand."
"Yeah," James replied. "But I guess we see enough of what the other side does to know they can't be right. Maybe I should say the other sides."
"Evil has more than one face," Katz remarked.
"This time," James added, "it belongs to some bastard calling himself Cercueil. Whoever he is, he poisons innocent people, turns burned-out winos into brain-damaged killers and God knows what else. We sure as hell can't let him get away with that sort of stuff."
"Then let's get inside," Katz suggested. "We still have a lot of work to do."
9
Spanish Town is a unique relic of Jamaica's earliest history. The Spanish first settled in Jamaica in the early 1500s, when they began the cultivation of the sugarcane crop and the exploitation of slaves imported from Africa. Later, in 1655, the British captured the island, and thereafter influenced its culture, language and customs.
However, the influence of the original Spanish settlers — the Arawak Indians who were indigenous to Jamaica seldom get any sort of official recognition — can still be found in Spanish Town. Adobe buildings with whitewashed walls and red tile rooftops can still be found here. Spanish restaurants are popular, and calypso music is frequently sung in Spanish; some say it closely resembles the music of Trinidad and Tobago.
The mansion three kilometers from Spanish Town reflected a Spanish style of architecture. The hacienda, sometimes referred to as "the Palace of Madrid," belonged to Gabriel Carlos de Madrid, a wealthy sugarcane-plantation owner. His mulatto family heritage claimed to be part Spanish, part Arawak, and part Maroon — a term given to the original freed slaves of Jamaica. The family swore that de Madrid was their genuine family name. No one could prove it was not true, and few honestly cared much one way or the other. The rich are entitled to eccentric names if it makes them happy.
Sugarcane had always been a major crop in Jamaica, especially since it was used in making rum. Gabriel Carlos de Madrid had made a fortune selling sugarcane to refineries and to legal exporters. It was believed he had also made a secret second fortune by supplying sugarcane to Montgomery Penn for black market bootleg booze, most of which found its way to the United States.
A party was in progress at the Palace of Madrid that night, and the three bankers from Martinique were invited. A long black limousine pulled up to the great adobe hacienda. Rafael Encizo, clad in a dark blue chauffeur's uniform, sat behind the steering wheel. Calvin James, Yakov Katzenelenbogen and Gary Manning were seated in the back of the big luxury vehicle. James wished he could loosen the black bow tie at his throat. He was not accustomed to formal clothing. Gary Manning appeared to be equally uncomfortable in white dinner jacket and tie. The unflappable Katzenelenbogen seemed to accept the costume with ease. It took more than a bow tie to ruffle the Israeli's feathers.
"Jesus," James muttered, gazing through the tinted glass of the limo at the great house illuminated by floodlights. "This de Madrid dude not only has it, he knows how to flaunt it, too."
"Yeah," Manning agreed as he watched two large black men dressed in red tuxedo jackets approach the car. "Here comes the welcome wagon."
"Let's go," Katz declared, reaching for the door handle. "We don't want them to search this limo."
"Good luck, amigos," Encizo urged. "Watch your ass in there. The place is probably crawling with snakes who walk on two legs."
"I hope so," Katz said with a faint smile. "Otherwise, this trip is a waste of time." James, Katz and Manning emerged from the car.
The men in red jackets politely asked to see their invitations. Katz handed a passport with a note sticking from it to one of the men. He noticed that the other guy's jacket was open, and a strip of leather was visible at his shoulder, part of a holster rig. Music played within the mansion, and the murmur of dozens of voices carried to the front court outside.
"I believe this should satisfy Mr. de Madrid," Katz stated. "He is expecting us, out?"
"Henri Picard," the bodyguard remarked, reading the passport. The identification papers were excellent forgeries, printed by the French Sûreté for Phoenix Force for a previous mission. In fact, everything was genuine except the fingerprints, names and ID numbers.
"It is a French passport," Katz explained, easily adopting a Parisian accent, "and, as you may note, I have been living and working in Martinique for the last twelve years. I am a banker."
"Oh, yes," the man said, smiling as he returned the passport. "Mr. de Madrid told us to expect you. Please follow me."
Encizo drove the limo around the horseshoe-shaped driveway and headed out the exit gate. The two bodyguards in red watched the car depart. So did several men dressed as chauffeurs who were clustered about a row of expensive automobiles parked in the front court. These included two limos, three or four Mercedeses, a number of BMWs and at least one Rolls-Royce. The men of Phoenix Force could not see the line of cars well enough to count them or determine what sort of autos made up the collection of rich men's toys.
"Your driver could have waited," the bodyguard remarked. "The other guests' cars and drivers are staying until the party is over."
"The limousine is a rental," Katz explained. "So is the driver. We told him to leave after bringing us here and not to return until ten o'clock. I'm certain we'll have completed our business by then."
"I see," the man said, nodding. "One can't be too careful, eh?"
"A wise philosophy," Katz agreed as he and his companions followed the man into the big house.
The front hall, covered with a black-and-white tile floor in a checkerboard pattern, was enormous. It extended to a ballroom where dozens of men and women in formal dress danced, drank and conversed. Servants clad in red jackets carried trays of food and drinks among the guests. Patches of cigar smoke drifted above a group of men at a far corner of the room, standing apart from the others.
The Phoenix trio did not get a chance to see the ballroom in more detail. The bodyguard hastily escorted t
hem into a cloakroom, followed by two more servants in red. They could have all been former professional football players. It appeared that de Madrid hired servants based on their muscle bulk and the grimness of their features.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen," the bodyguard who had spoken to them earlier said, "but we have been instructed to search you before we allow you to enter the main ballroom. It is a matter of security. I hope you understand."
"Of course," Katz said with a nod. "Mr. de Madrid does not know us and he must be careful. Trust is something one must earn. Out?"
"I'm glad you understand," the guard replied.
"I understand," Katz assured him, "but I must make certain my associates also comprehend this situation so we do not have any unnecessary unpleasantness. N'est-ce pas?"
"By all means," the man agreed.
Katz addressed James and Manning in rapid French. Both men nodded and slowly unbuttoned their jackets. They removed the garments to reveal shoulder holsters with .38 revolvers sheathed in leather under their arms, then calmly allowed the handguns to be confiscated by the guards.
"We will return these guns to you when you leave," the guy in charge assured them. "Do you carry any other weapons?"
"No," Katz answered, gesturing with the gloved hand of his prosthesis. "But continue the search if you wish."
They did. De Madrid's men patted down the Phoenix Force trio, checking for ankle holsters, forearm sheaths, weapons at the small of the back or concealed in pockets. They were also checking for "wires," hidden microphones carried by undercover cops to record conversations for evidence. The servants were very thorough and examined buttons, shoes and creases in clothing with suspicion.
Katz's artificial arm surprised the guards. They seemed almost embarrassed as they examined the limb to make certain it was genuine. The contraption of plastic and steel strapped to the stump of the Israeli's right arm was not the sort of thing they were accustomed to handling. None of them really wanted to touch it. Like many people, the servants were uncomfortable in the presence of an amputee.
"Bone cancer," Katz explained. In fact, he had lost his arm in an explosion during the Six-Day War in the Middle East more than twenty years before.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Picard," the bodyguard said awkwardly.
"Il n'y a pas de quoi," Katz said with a shrug. "It is no problem. Out?"
The bodyguards nodded. They did not suspect that the index finger of the gloved "hand" was actually the barrel of a .22 Magnum built into Katz's prosthesis. Nor did they guess that a high-frequency radiomicrophone had been installed inside the artificial limb.
"I feel I should introduce myself," the leader of the servants began. "My name is Jemal. I apologize for this inconvenience and shall now take you to see Mr. de Madrid."
The three Phoenix Force commandos followed Jemal from the cloakroom into the hall. He led them past most of the guests in the ballroom. Couples danced to the music of the famous Blue Danube waltz by Strauss, performed by a band of orchestra musicians hired for the event. Some of the guests were content to drink champagne or stuff themselves at the buffet table. A few were bent over a mirror decorated with lines of white powder, snorting cocaine into their nostrils with glass straws.
Something for everybody, James thought as he glanced around at the regal setting. In addition to the wine and coke, high-priced ladies of the evening made certain none of the male guests were lonely. Middle-aged men sat with the expensive call girls, counting out cash while the females encouraged their generosity by displaying phony smiles and fondling the men suggestively.
Jemal escorted the Phoenix trio to a patio outside the hacienda. There were party-goers here as well, splashing in a kidney-shaped swimming pool. Some had not bothered to wear a bathing suit or trunks: a few were in their underwear, and others swam nude.
A group of men standing in a circle around a pit in the back lawn, despite their elegant attire in tuxedos and white dinner jackets, cheered and shouted in the style of men at a boxing match. They sounded like the types who enjoyed the violence of the sport without any appreciation of the skill. Jemal led James, Katz and Manning to the jeering spectators.
The sound of snarling animals revealed that the group was watching a sick, sadistic sport: two pit bulldogs tearing each other apart. Money was exchanged as the spectators bet on which poor beast would be the victor.
"Just a moment, gentlemen," Jemal urged as they waited for the snarls to end.
Soon only one dog growled. The other whimpered helplessly until a loud crunch of bone announced that its neck had been crushed by the jaws of its opponent. Several men cheered, and others moaned with disappointment. Losers paid the winners.
The three men of Phoenix Force were disgusted by the exhibition. None had any desire to watch the brutal entertainment that had been staged for the group of bastards. It wasn't that the men of Phoenix Force were squeamish. They had seen destruction a thousand times; each of them had lost count of how many opponents he had killed. But they had never murdered for pleasure or without good reason. Forcing two animals to fight to the death for the enjoyment of spectators was part of the worst side of man's make-up. The side that should have been left behind in the caves when human beings had started to walk upright.
"Hello," said a short, fat man with a round, dark face capped by a wavy mop of black hair, obviously a toupee, as he approached the three Phoenix fighters. "I am Gabriel Carlos de Madrid. Welcome to my home."
"Hello," Katz replied. He turned toward Manning and James. "I am Henri Picard from the Pointe Basse Trust and Investment Foundation. These are my associates, Mr. Bellefontaine and Mr. Maarten."
"A pleasure to meet you," de Madrid declared, smiling and bobbing his head like a toy dog ornament in the back window of a moving car. "Of course, I realize you are actually here to speak to one of my guests. A man whom I have often done business with and known for many years."
"That's what we've heard, Mr. de Madrid," Katz replied.
"Please." The plantation owner raised his hands and waved urgently. "Call me Carlos, s'il vous plait. We're going to have another dogfight as soon as they clean up the mess down in the pit. Care to make a bet?"
"We're bankers, not gamblers," Katz told him.
"Bankers gamble all the time," Montgomery Penn stated as he joined the discussion. "Beautiful system you've got, too. You only gamble with money that belongs to somebody else. That way you never lose, eh?"
"Bankers have gone to jail for that sort of attitude, Mr. Penn," Katz declared, gazing into the grinning face of the mulatto gangster. "You are Mr. Penn?"
"Actually," Penn began, lighting a Turkish cigarette with his gold-plated lighter, "I'm using a different name tonight. Let's talk over by the trees. You don't mind missin' the dogfight, do you?"
"We can live with the disappointment," Manning told him, a trace of French accent in his voice and an undisguised and genuine contempt for the cruel and bloodthirsty form of entertainment.
"You don't do this sort of thing in Martinique, eh?" Penn laughed. "How about boxing? You look big enough to hold your own in the ring. That is, if you got any guts and you know how to use your fists."
"I'm just a bank security officer and adviser, monsieur," Manning replied. "I never claimed to be a pugilist."
"Jemal told Carlos two of you blokes were packin' guns," Penn remarked as he escorted the Phoenix trio toward a row of coconut-palm trees. "Guess you don't need to box when you got a gun."
"These matters have nothing to do with business," Katz complained. "We were told you are interested in investing money in a special confidential account in Martinique."
"True," Penn nodded. "I'm just surprised little Kevinson got contacts like you. That is, if you really are bankers from Martinique."
Two figures approached them. One man was heavily muscled and looked like a professional wrestler dressed in a tuxedo. The other man was tall and slender and moved with a feline grace. Carrying a swagger stick with a silver handle, he seemed to glide acros
s the lawn, and a black top hat was perched on his head.
Holy hell, Calvin James thought as he recognized the familiar figure of a living nightmare that he had thought had ended years ago. It's Cercueil!
His skin crawled when he saw the incarnation of a man he had killed long ago. A human monster who had been the mastermind of the Black Alchemists. A cunning and cold-blooded butcher with less regard for human life than a hungry vulture.
The sight of the new Cercueil, with his undertaker's hat and death's-head walking stick, startled Katz and Manning nearly as badly as it had James. Hadn't the badass from Chicago personally killed the first Cercueil in the Colorado headquarters of the infamous Black Alchemists? James was unable to remove his eyes from the sinister figure.
He knew it couldn't be Maurice Cercueil. That was impossible. The Ton Ton Macoute chief wasn't really a bocor who could summon the spirits of voodoo and Baron Samedi back from the dead.
But James had to be sure. He had to know for certain he wasn't seeing the same man he had decapitated four years ago.
"Who are they?" Katz asked Penn, turning to face the Jamaican gangster and tilting his head toward the Haitians. "The local chimney sweeps?"
"Bon soir," Cercueil greeted them with a smile as cold as a grinning skull. "Comment allez-vous?"
"Tres bien," Katz replied with a nod. "Merci, monsieur. Et vous?"
"Bien, bien," Cercueil answered. He continued to address the three Phoenix commandos in French. "You gentlemen are from Martinique?"
"Perhaps," Katz said, raising an eyebrow. "Who are you, monsieur, and what do you want with us?"
"Who I am is not important," the Haitian replied, toying with his swagger stick. He glanced at Calvin James, who was still staring at him. "Your accent sounds more European than Martiniquais."
"I am from France," Katz said. "Are you a policeman? You wish to see my passport?"