by Gar Wilson
"No need," Cercueil assured him, fixing his gaze on Calvin James. "Is there a reason I fascinate you so, Monsieur...?"
"Bellefontaine," James answered. "J did not stare at you on purpose, but I haven't seen anyone dressed like Fred Astaire for a long time. Is there a special reason for that outfit?"
"Watch your tongue or you might lose it," Louis de Broglie warned. The big, muscular Haitian glared at James and folded thick arms on his barrel chest.
"Louis," Cercueil shook his head. "Don't take offense at Monsieur Bellefontaine's remark. It is just the sort of stupid thing Americans say when they don't understand something."
James stiffened. He felt his stomach knot as Cercueil fixed his icy gaze on the Phoenix pro's face. A smug smile slithered across the Haitian's lips.
"Your French is fluent, Bellefontaine — although I doubt that is your true name," Cercueil began, switching to English. "But your accent is less than perfect. You are from the United States. The Midwest, perhaps?"
"Born and raised in Chicago," James admitted. "Got in a little trouble back there a few years ago and moved to Martinique for my health."
"Your health?" The Haitian raised his eyebrows.
"The idea of going to prison makes me break out in a rash," James said with a shrug.
"Hey," Montgomery Penn snapped, opening his jacket in case he needed to draw his Largo pistol from shoulder leather. "What the fuck is this? You blokes are suppose to be from Martinique..."
"We are from Martinique," Katz told him. "You think everyone who lives on that island was born there? Zut alors! What sort of games are you playing here? Kevinson said we'd be dealing with you, not these Haitians."
"Why do you think we're Haitians?" Cercueil inquired.
"You aren't the only person who can recognize a regional accent," the Israeli replied. "My bank did business with some of your government officials before Duvalier's government fell. You people were never a very good risk,"
"That might change," Cercueil replied. "Excusez-moi, but I simply tested you gentlemen to see if you really are from Martinique. At least you speak French. Unfortunately, I'm still not certain about you one way or the other."
"Mr. Penn," Manning said with a sigh. "Are we going to discuss the possibility of opening a confidential account at our bank, or do we spend the rest of the evening with this idiotic chatter?"
"Please, let's discuss business," Cercueil urged. "You don't mind if I chat with Mr. Bellefontaine for a moment?"
"Just don't wander out of sight," Katz replied. "I like to know where my men are."
"Of course," the Haitian agreed. He turned to James. "No objections to a little private conversation? I'm curious about the opinions of an American."
"Sure," James agreed, but his skin crawled as he followed Cercueil. Although it wasn't the same man he had killed in Colorado, there was a remarkable similarity to the original Cercueil. Deceptively charming, clever and dangerous.
The Haitian led James away from the others and to a small wooden bridge that extended across a thin stream of water between two miniature ponds. Frogs croaked softly as moonlight reflected on the surface of the water.
"You left America because you were in trouble with the law," Cercueil mused, staring at the white globe that shimmered on the pond surface as if it were a crystal ball. "Why did you go to Martinique? Because you speak French?"
"Seemed like a good reason," James answered.
"Why didn't you come to Haiti instead?" Cercueil asked.
"Gimme a break," James snorted. "Haiti has the lowest standard of living in the Western Hemisphere."
"Many American tourists don't find that so bad," the Haitian remarked. "They like to fish and stay at the hotels in Port-au-Prince. Some enjoy the casinos."
"I needed a place to live, not a vacation spot," James stated. "Don't tell me you're upset that I didn't want to live in Haiti. If it's so great, how come you're here?"
"I have my reasons," Cercueil replied. "At least Haiti was an independent nation."
"Was?" James inquired. "Thought it still is. Just 'cause Baby Doc has gone doesn't mean it has become a puppet government to anybody else."
"It isn't a country anymore," Cercueil said sadly. "It is just a maelstrom of chaos and anarchy without law and order or control. Yet it was a nation of black people ruled by a black president. Martinique is a slave state where blacks are subject to the white government of France. Just as in America, where you were a black peasant to a white-dominated power structure."
"Sure," James chuckled. "I could've gone to Haiti and maybe lived in a chicken coop instead. Maybe I'd be lucky and the Ton Ton Macoute would decide not to use it for target practice, huh?"
"Really?" Cercueil glared at James and gripped his swagger stick in both fists.
The Phoenix pro felt a cold tremor shift up his spine. The first Cercueil had carried a walking stick very similar to the one the Haitian held. It was a cane sword with a long, razor-sharp blade sheathed in its wooden shaft. James wondered if such a weapon was also hidden in the new Cercueil's swagger stick.
"Do most black Americans share your opinion of Haiti under the rule of Duvalier and his son?" Cercueil asked. "Do they also feel contempt and loathing for the Ton Ton Macoute?"
"I don't think most Americans — black or white — paid much attention to Haiti until Jean-Claude split," James answered. "Kind of odd, when you think about it. You see, in the United States a lot of people are protesting apartheid in South Africa because blacks don't get equal treatment in that country. Before that they protested the white government of Rhodesia for the same reason. Yet blacks had virtually no human rights in Haiti — except the government bosses and the Ton Ton Macoute, of course. Hardly anyone in America seemed to give a damn. Maybe if Duvalier had been white or a Communist or whatever it would have been different. I guess most people figured a black dictator with black storm troopers could do whatever he wanted to black people in his own country."
"So you hated the Duvaliers and the Ton Ton Macoute?" Cercueil said softly, a slight edge to his tone, like a razor resting on velvet.
"I don't like tyrants and I don't like police states," James admitted. "You expect me to figure it's okay that a black ruler and his homegrown Gestapo can prove they're as bad as any of their white counterparts in other countries? That's one form of equality I can do without. The whole fucking world can do without it."
"Well..." Cercueil's smile seemed frozen in a jack-o'-lantern grin as he spoke through clenched teeth. "I did ask your opinion, didn't I? Shall we see how the others are doing, Mr. Bellefontaine?"
10
"What have we got so far?" Rafael Encizo asked as he entered the special surveillance van parked by the wire mesh fence at the end of the sugarcane fields.
"They made contact with Penn," Rodney Leaky replied. The small, wiry black man sat on a folding chair beside a wall of radio receivers, tape recorders and night-sight scanning gear. A headset was clamped around his skull, and the reels of a large recorder turned steadily. "Good idea your mate had about putting that radio mike in his artificial arm. Never thought of a trick like that, and I've been doin' this sort of thing for eight years."
Leaky was an expert in electronic surveillance. He was a professional snoop, an eavesdropping expert from the governor-general's council on internal security. Colonel Wells had assured them little Rodney was the best man for the job. So far, Leaky had lived up to the colonel's claim.
"What have they been talking about in there?" the Cuban commando inquired as he unbuttoned the high collar of his chauffeur's uniform. "Anything we can nail them on?"
"Not much so far," Leaky admitted, polishing the thick lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. "Penn has discussed his desire for a confidential bank account, but he seems reluctant to trust your friends. Some Haitians were talking to them in French, and I don't know what that was about..."
Encizo cut him off. "Haitians? Are you sure they're Haitians?"
"That's what they said," Leaky confirmed. "Why wou
ld anybody lie about being Haitian?"
"Stay on it," Encizo urged as he grabbed his Heckler & Koch MP-5 from a weapons rack and bolted out the door.
Outside, David McCarter nervously paced the muddy ground, splattering his paratrooper boots as he muttered to himself. McCarter was all dressed up for combat, clad in black night camouflage uniform. An Ingram M-10 machine pistol hung from a shoulder strap near his right hip, and a Browning Hi-Power autoloader pistol was tucked in shoulder leather under his left arm. Spare ammo magazines for both weapons were stored in belt pouches. He even carried an SAS flash-bang concussion grenade. McCarter was ready for a fight and champing at the bit to get on with it.
"They pulled a surprise on us, David," Encizo said softly. "There are Haitians at Senor de Madrid's little party."
"Bloody hell," McCarter rasped. "Cercueil one of 'em?"
"I wouldn't be surprised," the Cuban answered. "Whoever they are, they seem to be chummy with Penn."
"We might have a chance to get all the ringleaders at once," McCarter said eagerly. "I say we raid the bloody party. Grab Cercueil, Penn and maybe a couple of others."
"What are we gonna charge them with?" Encizo asked.
"Who cares?" the Briton snorted. "Let's just get them and let Calvin pump some scopolamine in the bastards. After they talk, we'll be able to get all the evidence we need to shut them down for good."
"That's blunt, crude and impulsive," Encizo remarked. "Not to mention illegal as hell."
"So is terrorism," McCarter insisted. "You know my plans are never very fancy, but they usually work."
"Let's wait a bit," Encizo urged. "Maybe Rodney will get some more evidence on tape so the Jamaicans will be able to put the terrorists behind bars without having to ignore every right granted to their people under their constitution."
"Regardless of what else happens," McCarter said, "we have to get our hands on Cercueil. If he gets away, this whole mess will just start up again somewhere else."
"You two seem to be having an intense conversation," Sergeant Bristol remarked as he stepped from the cab of the surveillance van. "What is it? Or can't I be trusted with the details?"
Bristol was bitter because he felt his own department was trying to burn him for shooting a suspect in the back. He was not happy to be part of the backup team with Encizo and McCarter. Although this suggested he was still needed for the mission, Bristol felt he had been placed in the least important role as driver of the van because they did not trust him with anything more complex.
He also resented having to take orders from the foreigners, especially McCarter. Bristol's unreasonable hatred of Britons made the task even more unpleasant for the Kingston cop. Not unlike most bigots, Bristol tended to put as much blame as possible on the nationality he was prejudiced against. Everything that was wrong with Jamaica just had to be the fault of the British who had formerly ruled the island nation, along with any Brits who still lived in Jamaica. Working with an actual British citizen — a white man with an East London accent — was the ultimate humiliation for Bristol.
"We're trying to decide on strategy..." Encizo began, but he abruptly went silent as a pair of headlights cut through the darkness.
An American-made army-surplus jeep approached the van along the muddied track; a grim-faced driver sat behind the steering wheel while another figure stood up, pointing a British Sterling submachine gun over the top of the windshield at McCarter, Encizo and Bristol. The jeep rolled to a halt, headlights trained on the two Phoenix fighters and their Jamaican ally.
"This is private property," the man with the chattergun declared. "You're bloody well trespassin'."
"Kingston police," Bristol replied, reaching for his badge folder. "Put down that gun or..."
Encizo suddenly slammed into Bristol, knocking him off his feet, driving him to the ground. The cop and the Cuban fell just as a burst of 9 mm rounds snarled from the gunman's Sterling, raking the side of the van. Rodney Leaky cried out, but his voice was distorted by the sound of gunshots. The others did not know if the CIS snoop had been injured or merely frightened.
McCarter had dropped to one knee, grabbed his Ingram and immediately returned fire. He triggered a long salvo of parabellum slugs that ripped into the upper torso of the enemy gunman, who tumbled sideways over the edge of the jeep, downed by the force of five 115-grain bullets.
Encizo adopted a prone stance, holding the H&K submachine gun in both hands as he aimed the muzzle at the jeep's windshield. The driver, who had ducked during the shooting, now raised his head with a pistol in one fist. Encizo fired a 3-round volley. A trio of bullet holes cracked a spiderweb pattern in the glass, and the driver's face was transformed into a crimson smear.
"Rodney!" McCarter shouted as he ran to the rear of the van. "You all right, Rodney?"
"I... I think so," the electronic snoop replied in an unsteady voice as he staggered from the vehicle. The wire-rimmed glasses hung crookedly on his nose, and his hands were still shaking. "A couple bullets pierced the wall. I think one took out the radio."
"You can't just gun down people in cold blood," Bristol snapped, looking for someone to lash out at and choosing McCarter as the best choice. "We're supposed to represent law and order."
"That bloke fired his weapon first," the Briton told him. "Besides, I'm not a bleedin' copper. You want to get killed in the line of duty, that's your business, but don't expect me to join you."
"Why don't you two save this for later?" Encizo advised, staring at the fields of sugarcane in the soggy ground beyond the fence. "I wonder if they heard the shooting at the hacienda."
"Depends on how loud the party is," McCarter commented. "If de Madrid has more than one security patrol roving about, the shots were probably heard by the others. Maybe we'll be lucky and the rest of the guards will be hangin' around the house, watchin' the guests."
"We'd better not count on being lucky," Encizo said, sliding the strap of his MP-5 onto his shoulder. "Carver and I are gonna take the limo and head around front. It will seem less suspicious than the van. You guys radio for help."
"I suggest you blokes don't hang around here while you're waiting," McCarter added. "More of de Madrid's men might show up."
"Good idea," Leaky said, bobbing his head as if trying to work it loose from his neck. He was accustomed to radios and telescopes, not guns and bullets.
"You go ahead," Bristol declared. He glared at McCarter and Encizo. "I'm going with you two."
"We can cover each other," Encizo told him. "Rodney might need your help if he gets in trouble before reinforcements arrive."
"You mean you don't trust me," Bristol muttered.
"We don't have time to worry about whether you like it or not," McCarter said gruffly. "We told you what to do and you'll damn well do it. The success of this mission is more important than your opinion of us, Bristol."
"So are the lives of our partners," Encizo added. "Which may be in jeopardy right now."
* * *
Most of the guests at the Palace of Madrid failed to notice the distant chatter of automatic weapons that drifted across the sugarcane crop. Another dogfight was in progress in the pit, and de Madrid and several of his guests were cheering on the beasts. The waltz music inside the house had been replaced with a loud rock-and-roll number featuring lots of amplified electric guitar, thundering drums and a female vocalist who seemed to do more screaming and howling than singing.
However, Katz, James and Manning recognized the familiar sound of automatic fire and guessed that it meant McCarter and Encizo had encountered opposition. Cercueil and Montgomery Penn also heard the shooting. Penn suddenly lost interest in discussing banking practices in Martinique. He left the three Phoenix Force commandos and headed for the dog-pit to speak with de Madrid.
Cercueil and Louis de Broglie remained with the Phoenix trio. The two Haitians had drawn pistols from their jackets and pointed them at the "bankers" from Martinique.
"Don't call out or do anything to draw attenti
on," Cercueil instructed, aiming a silver-plated .25 auto at Katz's stomach. "Don't raise your hands, but keep them where we can see them."
"We were already searched before we came in," the Israeli stated, holding the gloved hand of his prosthesis in his left palm. "What is this for?"
"You gentlemen suddenly arrive here after a rushed invitation arranged by an associate of Mr. Penn," the Haitian replied. "Now someone is firing full-auto weapons somewhere on the plantation. I'm very suspicious of coincidence. I don't believe your presence here isn't connected with the shooting... any more than I believe you three are bankers from Martinique."
"So you figure we're cops or something?" James asked, glancing at the snubnose .357 Magnum in de Broglie's big fist. "Stuff it, man. This isn't Haiti under your hero Papa Doc. You can't expect to kill people in front of dozens of witnesses and just walk away."
"Shut up," de Broglie grunted, cocking the hammer of his revolver to emphasize the order.
"You'd better listen to Beilefontaine instead of thinking like a Ton Ton Macoute storm trooper," Gary Manning stated. "If the police are out there, you ought to be concerned with getting away from here. They're probably after Penn, not you two. Maybe de Madrid is the main target. They have enough cocaine in there to get an elephant high for a week. If you leave now, you can probably get away..."
"How considerate," Cercueil said with a smile. "I don't know who you are, but I don't believe you're bankers. I've met a number of bankers from the Antilles Islands before. They talk more than they listen. They chatter about what a wonderful system of savings and investment their bank offers, and they generally warn that these golden opportunities won't last long and urge their potential clients to act quickly. You didn't act that way. You seemed too curious about Penn's activities and associates and not the least concerned about the interests of your bank. Whatever you are, you aren't bankers."
Penn approached the Haitians while de Madrid began hustling his guests into the house. Jemal and two other servants in red jackets walked toward the three Phoenix Force captives. Katz wondered how much longer they could stall the outlaws. Long enough for the others to come to their assistance?