What would you like to bet, said Dolan, that your lady friend was pulling a paycheck from the U.S. government?
Harrington had half-expected to hear this about Jackie because no other explanation of her behavior made much sense. She was working for the Feds then? That’s what you’re saying? he said neutrally. Dolan clicked his tongue in exasperation and Tom, with a sidelong glance, felt the reproach of his flinty look.
Feds who? said Dolan, caustic, bristly. I can’t say yes and I can’t say no. Sometimes you can be in it and not be in it at the same time, if you get my drift, or you can be in a part of it that’s at war with another part and go missing in action. The goddamn thing only looks monolithic from the outside. Inside, it’s all tribes in the jungle, my friend.
At the fortresslike entrance to the embassy, they slid their passports through the slot in the bulletproof glass to the marine on duty and endured the menace of his scrutiny. Dolan repeated the name of the deputy chief of mission, the hour of their appointment, then watched as the guard phoned upstairs and wrote their names in the log and finally buzzed them through the doors into the relief of the air-conditioned building. They were greeted by the garish red smile of a birdlike woman in heels, blouse, and a pencil skirt whose silent mistrust was reciprocal and reminded Tom of why he disliked coming here, crossing the street of a sovereign nation to enter a parallel universe of power to which you always came a beggar, bowing to its vanity. Without bothering to identify herself, she invited Dolan to have a seat in the reception area and, before Dolan could protest, whisked Tom down the hall and up a set of stairs to the DCM’s office, past a formidable-looking secretary, knocked on the door of the inner sanctum as she swung it open and chirped as she retreated, There you are.
The deputy chief of mission, tall without appearing athletic, his narrow face beaming with the pride of reason, rose from behind his desk to shake Tom Harrington’s hand and congratulate the human rights advocate on his work, Harrington’s tenacious efforts to achieve what the DCM’s predecessor had done everything in his power to prevent him from achieving. Tom nodded cautiously, recalling the erstwhile DCM’s shrewd joviality and aversion to eye contact. The predecessor, an African-American with the unfortunate name of Lynch, a former basketball star and student activist at a midwestern state university, had, during the early days of the occupation promised Harrington, in the name of the ambassador and the president, all aid and assistance at his disposal in support of the establishment of a Commission of Truth and Justice for the newly democratic republic. And instead, in the passing months, the embassy seemed more inclined to act as pimps for the ancien régime, good at providing the ringleaders with golden parachutes, silk lifejackets, Washington’s attitude—let’s just forget it and move on—surely not conducive to righting wrongs but to burying them. His final meeting with Lynch had taken place two days after his disastrous trip up north with Jackie Scott and was attended by the embassy’s general counsel, Haiti’s interim Minister of Justice, a senile and imperious member of the high court retired by the tyrants, and a staff member from the National Security Council.
Harrington had listened to the counsel’s bland tone informing him of the embassy’s position on the Commission and why it was never likely to be seated: not in the interest of the common good, no absolute necessity, the road to the future must not detour into the past, and so on. After a sentence of flowery boilerplate praise for Tom’s service to the republic, the minister consented to this betrayal and doddered from the room. Lynch, who had seemed indifferent to the proceeding, his pensive gaze directed out the office window toward the glare of the late morning, had turned toward Tom with an insipid half-smile and said this democracy thing was still playing out down here and let’s not be so hasty as to give anyone an advantage. The general counsel nodded glumly and declared we don’t like the old guys, but we don’t much like the new guys, either. Who do you like? Tom had asked. We’re constantly working that, said Lynch. Still in diapers, said the general counsel. The unborn are looking pretty good too. The staff member from the NSC, a black, not from Arkansas like Lynch but from Massachusetts, educated at Haverford and Georgetown, tipped forward in his chair and confided in Harrington, You can’t get around the fact that they’re crazy niggers. Everyone stunned into silence. The general counsel frowned. Lynch chuckled through a grimace and threw out his hands as if to say, There you have it. Face it, Tom had said, bellicose, standing up, you’re a fucking disgrace.
We appreciate all you’ve done, said Lynch, rising to his feet as well to walk Tom to the door. It’s had a great impact on our ability to scout the players, keep score, leverage out some of the bad guys who should never be given the ball.
Lynch had opened the door for him and followed Tom out of the office, lowering his voice to say he had heard about Tom’s adventure up north and was pleased to learn that Tom—good old Tom, the Great American Tom Harrington—knew how to take care of himself. Lynch had extended his hand, smiling, exaggerating the whispered enunciation of his words, as if he were a singing messenger.
Unless you really dig it down here in the pit, bro, pack your bags and go home.
Sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, flanked by the Stars and Stripes, the new deputy chief of mission sat at his desk beneath a row of framed photographs—autographed portraits of the president of the United States and the secretary of state, an unsigned portrait of the president of Haiti, pictures of the DCM shaking hands with Nelson Mandela, eyeball to eyeball with Fidel Castro, sharing a joke with Slobodan Milosevic, a much younger, mustachioed DCM among a trio of envoys meeting the Shah of Iran. Tom saw in him the perfected embodiment of the diplomatic caste: an attentive, inquisitive smile, intellectually fit, at least for the fluid conversation of receptions and dinner parties, among people cozy within their own ranks but otherwise aloof, supernaturally calm and thus naturally and perhaps even unconsciously brave, displeased by confrontation, self-assured in the blithe arrogance of their optimism, prepared to push their mothers off a cliff for the sake of almighty policy.
I love Miami, said the DCM, and they pretended to relax into a chatty dialogue about favorite restaurants in South Beach and Coral Gables. But as Tom began to feel courted by the official, his own half of the conversation became more guarded and at the first lull he broke the pretense of their ease.
Why am I here?
Sorry? said the DCM, ostentatious in his puzzlement. You made an appointment.
A private investigator by the name of Conrad Dolan made the appointment and you have him on ice down in the lobby.
Ah, Connie Dolan, said the DCM. His eyes brightened and he raised his arms and leaned back into the cushion of his chair, locking his fingers behind his head.
You know him? asked Harrington, trying not to show his surprise. Without quite answering, the DCM lifted his eyebrows in coy encouragement. Then you probably also know he’s working a case, a homicide. An American, a woman.
Yes, he is, isn’t he? the DCM said with strange enthusiasm and sat forward again, folding his large hands together on the desk. Which returns us to the interesting question you yourself asked—Why are you here? Your legal and investigative skills are better applied to noble projects. Causes, crusades. You’re quite a legend here in this building, an inspiration. The march you led with the bishop of Gonaïves—my God, Tom, you’re lucky to be alive. And I want you to know that we are doing everything within the limits of our power to restore the rule of law here, and when that day comes, the work you’ve done will serve as the foundation to round up all the people guilty of gross human rights violations and other such crimes and prosecute them in a credible manner. The day is coming. You have my word on that, Tom. But my point is this—What does the tragic murder of this woman have to do with you?
Nothing, said Harrington, which was as true as if he had answered, everything. Dolan asked if I could help him out.
And you said yes.
That’s very interesting, said the DCM absently, looking at his wristwatch and then pressing a button on his intercom to tell his secretary if so-and-so had arrived, send him in, and in he came, immediately recognizable to Harrington as an abstract ideal packaged in human form and erected in a moral landscape of bold silhouettes. Charcoal business suit, silver necktie, shoes like gleaming cubes of obsidian. The fraternal Ivy League thuggishness of his sharply handsome face. Clean-shaven, youthful despite graying temples, well-tended, and in his goading eyes the steel of fierce discipline—Tom could imagine him in a Dartmouth sweatshirt, jogging during his lunch hour on the mall in Washington. When a person was so dramatically successful at inhabiting his own stereotype, it seemed to Tom that that person was in fact endowed by a pure exoticism, an individuality like a Bengal tiger.
Let me guess, said Tom, rising to offer his hand. Department of Justice.
Albert Neff, he said, introducing himself with the thin smile of hubris and an unexpectedly flaccid grip, as if he found such things as manners and etiquette to be a delay of game. I have colleagues who speak well of you, Neff said as he lowered himself onto a leather couch to the side of the DCM’s desk, the accordion file he had carried in with him resting on his knees. Harrington acknowledged the compliment and recited the names of several people he had coordinated with at Justice until Neff interrupted him. And I have colleagues who think you’re a sanctimonious prick.
Fair enough, said Harrington, his face reddening, and sat back down warmed by the splash of animosity into his veins. Men like Neff didn’t just represent the system to him, they were the system, and in their proximity he could feel the inescapable gravity of the state tugging at his viscera, and he instinctively tugged back. For your own verification, Tom said, his riposte delivered with a frozen smile, would you like to have a little suck? Just to be sure? You’re familiar with the taste of sanctimony, I take it. We’re talking pricks here, right?
Fellas, said the DCM, uselessly.
Have you known Mr. Dolan very long, counselor? Albert Neff asked.
I want to know why you’re asking me that.
Neff retrieved a black-and-white photograph from the file and passed it to Harrington. Do you know these two men?
Dolan, said Tom, looking at an image of the grandfatherly Irishman bellied up to a bar, a bartender pouring a martini from a shaker. Who’s the other guy?
Mr. Dolan’s client.
Parmentier?
No comment, counselor.
All right, gentlemen, said Harrington. If it hasn’t yet dawned on you that I have nothing to give you, it’s just become clear to me that the same would not be true for you.
In confidence, said the DCM. Mr. Dolan has some very interesting friends.
Mr. Dolan’s client murdered his wife, said Neff.
Maybe so, said Tom, but how do you know that?
Mr. Dolan’s client killed his wife, Neff emphasized. What complicates that fact, and troubles us, is that Mr. Dolan’s client was also Special Agent Dolan’s informant during a sting operation the Bureau ran in Tampa before Dolan retired.
I see, said Harrington calmly, but then couldn’t stop himself from blurting out, No shit?
No shit, counselor. Under the protection of Special Agent Dolan, Mr. Dolan’s client was implicated in an extravagant variety of crimes, including homicide, for which he was arrested but never indicted.
Tom Harrington tried to keep his head clear from the cloud he felt pressing in. What’s Dolan doing in Haiti?
The same old, same old—trying to save his ass. Once you start protecting a fuckhead like his client, you’re married for life.
And what was his client doing in Haiti?
The DCM chose to answer. Selling forged passports to some very interesting people. That’s what interested us most, but he was also involved in a number of business deals that the US government, unlike our Haitian friends, did not look upon with favor.
Okay, said Tom. Got it. And what about the girl, Renee Gardner?
Not her real name. Cokehead, bimbo, gold digger, said Albert Neff.
Are you telling me she wasn’t working for the government?
Are you suggesting she was? Neff asked, and he exchanged a sidelong glance with the DCM, who returned his questioning look without a hint of evasion and shrugged.
Not to my knowledge, said the DCM, and Mr. Neff removed a notepad and fountain pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and jotted a few words. Uh, hold on, the DCM thought for a moment. I seem to recall someone mentioning she was on the DEA’s rat list. He paused, looked down at the surface of his desk, looked up, less sure of himself. No, actually, I think I’m confusing her with someone else.
If that’s true, said Harrington, why was her body shipped out within less than twelve hours of her death, on a military flight? And why an embassy van to retrieve the corpse?
Right, said the DCM, looking nonplussed, these details are unusual, but the flight was on the up-and-up, nothing irregular there, and the ambassador accepts responsibility for any embarrassment that might possibly result from these details.
I’m not clear about what you’re saying.
Favoritism, taxpayer expense, that sort of thing.
I still don’t get it, said Harrington.
You wouldn’t, unless you knew who the victim’s father was, said the DCM. One of our own at State, an undersecretary. A gwos neg, so to speak, he smiled, using the Kreyol phrase for Big Man.
Not exactly a family background that produces coked-out bimbos.
You know better than that, counselor, said Neff.
We cabled him the night of the murder, the DCM continued. He insisted her body be returned to him ASAP, even if it meant we had to charter a plane. The army flight was a happy coincidence, a scheduled exfiltration of troops.
What troops? The marine guard here at the embassy? I thought the Pentagon had cleared out.
Advisors, trainers, small SF contingents—it’s not a secret, said the DCM. But the point is, the father was distraught, the strings he pulled were readily available to a man of his position. And just between you and me, he was furious that his daughter had married this criminal, and he wanted him brought to justice.
Well, that’s a pretty irony, said Harrington.
I’m not following, said the DCM.
You spring him out of jail and put him on a plane to Miami before there was any chance you might lose him here in the tar pit.
The alternative was extremely messy, as you well know.
A pretty irony, this justice.
Am I finished here? Neff, impatient with the conversation, asked the DCM.
I have a question, said Harrington. If you’re certain Dolan’s client arranged for the murder of his wife, the motive is what? Dolan mentioned an insurance policy but that seems rather tawdry for your suspect, who, from what you’ve implied, seems to operate at a more artful level and I’d guess for much higher stakes.
Men like him, girls like her, said Neff with condescending distaste. You never go wrong handicapping their colossal stupidity. My guess is she attempted to extort her husband. Marital problems among crooks are often resolved with a double cross and bloodshed. She had filed for a divorce. That might explain it.
Does Connie Dolan know that? asked Harrington.
I don’t know what Dolan knows, Tom, said Albert Neff. That’s why we’re talking. But I can tell you this. Dolan’s days of protecting this dirtbag are over. That’s why you’re here. In this room.
Well, that’s only partially true, added the DCM. Keeping you out of trouble strikes me as a worthy goal.
Anything else you can tell us? asked Neff.
I knew her, you know. Back during the occupation. She was using a different name.
Y
es, we know, said Neff. I’m told you had an adventure together up north.
Right. That’s what people here like to say. An adventure up north.
Anything to that?
No. I don’t know.
I’ve heard a bit of the story, offered the DCM. Sounds harrowing.
You want my opinion, said Neff, face-to-face with Harrington. What happened up north in those mountains with you and this little bitch has nothing to do with this case. Dolan’s boy murdered her and the only issue unresolved in my mind is what it’s going to take to get retired Special Agent Conrad Dolan to back off. He’s complicating a very straightforward affair. In my book, that’s called obstruction. Tell him to step away.
I don’t know about Dolan, said Tom, but I think you’re right about the north.
Then let’s leave it at that, Tom, the DCM said magnanimously. No sense dragging yourself up there to stir up old grievances. Am I right?
So you’re aware of what happened up there?
The unpleasantness, yes. We heard some things.
The girl made enemies.
As did you, correct? But those enemies vanished into thin air, is what I understand. You can’t connect dots that don’t exist.
You just said you didn’t want me stirring up old grievances. What’s going on in Cap?
I’m simply trying to save you from a very strenuous, risky journey that would be a complete waste of your time. You’ve already agreed with us. The north is not part of this investigation. We’re certain of it. Believe me, we know what happened up there.
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