Steve Berry - The Admiral's Mark

He left the room, relocked the door, and made his way downstairs to the lobby. He needed to find Dubois. His ally had said he’d wait outside the main gates, on the street. People streamed back and forth through the hotel from the courtyard, two restaurants, and a bar that was doing a brisk business for the middle of the afternoon. He turned for the main doors and was immediately flanked by a man on either side. Both were young, clean-shaven, with short hair, dressed casually, their shirttails out.

“Mr. Malone,” one of them said.

So much for being anonymous. He said nothing and waited for them to make the next move.

“You need to come with us.”

He stopped walking. “I hope you have a better reason than that.”

“Like I said. You need to come with us.”

He could take them both. No problem. So he held his ground. “I don’t need to do anything.”

The other man reached into his back pocket and produced a leather wallet. He opened it and displayed an identification.

One he’d seen before.

HaMossad leModi’in uleTafkidim Meyuchadim.

Institute for Intelligence and Operations.

Israeli.

“What’s the Mossad’s interest in Haiti?” he asked.

“We need to talk. But not here.”

He stepped from the car, the two agents also exiting. He’d ridden with them a few miles outside of Cap-Haïtien to a spot he’d read about but never visited.

Sans-Souci Palace.

Henri Christophe, or King Henri I as he’d labeled himself—tall, strong, smart, and unruly—built it in the early part of the 19th century, part of his plan to show Europe and America the power of the black race. Eventually, scattered around the island, were six châteaus, eight palaces, and the massive citadelle , but none compared to Sans-Souci. An earthquake toppled much of the building in 1842, the ruins never rebuilt. Once the equivalent of Versailles, with fifty rooms, a Baroque staircase, and stepped gardens, home to a grandiloquent court of dukes and duchesses, centuries of neglect had allowed nature to again take control. But though gutted by flames, roofless, exposed to tropical wind and rain, the shell seemed in harmony with its surroundings.

He followed his minders toward the ruin across a carpet of green grass. He recalled that sans souci translated to “without care,” which did not accurately describe the current state of his emotions. Though the Israelis were allies, he’d never liked dealing with them. The fact that they were here, watching him, and he hadn’t known, made things worse.

What in the world had Scott involved himself in?

A man waited for him at the base of the crumbling château. Interesting that Christophe had built the palace to advance African supremacy, but everything here screamed European monarchal prestige. Few other people were around, odd considering that this one of the region’s main attractions.

“Mr. Malone, I appreciate your coming here,” the man said. He was mid-fifties, thin, fit, with a full head of brown hair. He, too, was dressed casually, and was clearly in charge. The two young men from the hotel withdrew to a discreet distance, keeping an eye on things, but not close enough to hear.

“You have a name?”

The man smiled. “Matt Schwartz.”

“And why is Israeli intelligence here in Haiti, watching me?”

“You’re a man to be watched. Quite a reputation. An agent with the famed Magellan Billet. One of Stephanie Nelle’s hand-chosen twelve. In fact, from what I’ve been told, you’re her prized agent, the one she sends on the toughest jobs.”

“You can’t believe everything my publicist says.”

Schwartz chuckled. “No, you can’t. What were you doing in Zachariah Simon’s room?”

“My mistake. Went into the wrong one. That hotel is like a maze.”

“I was hoping you might offer something more creative.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Professional courtesy?”

Now he smiled. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Simon is someone we’ve kept an eye on for a while. You know anything about him?”

He shook his head.

“Billionaire. Lives in Austria. His family is a big supporter of Israel. They survived the Holocaust, even prospered after the war. His father and grandfather helped form our state. But this third generation is not nearly as benevolent. In fact, Zachariah Simon is a problem.”

“Terrorism?”

Schwartz shook his head. “If so, not the garden variety.”

He wasn’t getting much more than what a department summary might reveal, available to anyone with even a minor security clearance. This man was doing his job, keeping things close, offering just enough so his listener might reciprocate. So he offered, “I’m not here on official business.”

“Really? You just decided to take a little trip down to Haiti?”

“My brother-in-law, Scott Brown, drowned here last week. I came to find out what happened.”

“Scott Brown.” Schwartz shook his head. “ That man was a problem, too.”

Malone was taken aback by the comment. Now he wondered if the Israelis had been part of what had happened, so he asked, “What did Scott do?”

“He nearly wrecked a year’s worth of effort. He was working some sort of con on Simon. But he had no idea who he was dealing with.”

Now he was getting angry. “So you let them kill him?”

“We didn’t let anything happen. It just did. Our surveillance on Simon is loose. We can’t spook him. He has no idea we’re watching. I want to keep it that way.”

“But you knew Scott was in danger?”

“With his background we figured he could take care of himself.”

“You figured wrong.”

Schwartz caught the message, but seemed undeterred. “You know the rules of this game.”

Yes, he did. But that didn’t mean he either liked or approved of them. One day, maybe, he’d get out, and then he could play by his own rules.

“My brother-in-law took a lot of chances. But he never played for keeps. His marks were the nonviolent type. He didn’t know the rules of this game.”

“But he took something Simon wants back.”

Herr Brown managed to get ahead of us .

“Unfortunately, we don’t know what that is.”

“And you want me to find out?”

“We were hoping you might help.”

He was still pissed about the cavalier attitude toward Scott’s death. He may not have liked Scott Brown, but the man was Ginger’s husband and she was family, and that counted for something.

And another reality hit home.

Seemed not only Scott had stumbled into a mess. So had he.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

“Not until I say you can.”

“I don’t work for you.”

“But if you’re not going to cooperate, you’re going to leave this island. I can’t risk any more interference.”

He’d already assessed the situation and concluded that the two young men who’d brought him were all the army Schwartz had, at least here. Only a handful of others wandered through the ruins, none raising any alarm. He assumed Schwartz was armed, so the first play was obvious.

He shook his head and grinned. “You don’t give up, do you?”

Schwartz pointed both palms skyward, shrugged, and said, “It’s my nature.”

“Look,” he said, casually stepping closer, as if he wanted to say something in private, “I’ll leave—”

His right arm swung out and clamped Schwartz’s neck in a vise as he brought the man toward him. The move caught his opponent off guard, and he was able to reach beneath the hanging shirttail and find the gun he knew was there. With weapon in hand he kneed Schwartz in the groin, doubling the man over.