Steve Berry - The Admiral's Mark

An elbow to the nape of the neck sent the Israeli to the ground.

He whirled and caught the other two problems reaching for their own weapons. He fired at both, sending them scattering for cover among the crumbling stones.

He darted right, seeking refuge behind a standing column. Making his escape would require a sprint of fifty yards, back down the grassy path to the parking lot. Schwartz was still on the ground, barely moving, the other two agents somewhere to his left. The next patch of safety lay twenty feet away. He leaped, hit the ground, and rolled toward it.

Bullets came his way, but missed.

He sprang to his feet behind a clump of stone infested with lichens and caught sight of Twittily Dee and Dittily Doo trying to make their way to Schwartz. He used that moment of distraction to race ahead and hop a waist-high stone wall that separated the grassy path from the rocks beyond.

Crouching low, he kept heading forward until he turned a bend and was out of the line of fire. He leaped back over the wall, onto the grass, and raced to the parking lot.

Now what?

The car he’d come in waited to his right.

No way were the keys in it, but he checked to be sure.

Three more cars were there and he checked those too.

No keys, either.

He’d have to keep moving.

The growl of an engine could be heard from the steep switchback road that led back to the highway.

A vehicle appeared around the last bend.

One he recognized.

Dubois.

The engine rattled and strained, but sounded to him like a fine orchestra. His ally wheeled to a stop. He jumped into the passenger’s side and said, “Good timing.”

“I follow from hotel. They don’t look like good men.”

“They’re not. Let’s get out of here.”

Then something occurred to him.

“Wait.”

He popped open the door, stood, and fired one round into the Israeli’s car, flattening a rear tire.

They drove back toward Cap-Haïtien, the tires wobbling, the wretched road more holes than pavement. No one had followed, and Dubois decided to take them to his house.

“Scotty come there a lot. He like it.”

The dwelling was another shanty, tin-sided, tin-roofed, a few hundred square feet. It sat among a cluster of several hundred, east of town, not far from the airport, the rough land succumbing to weeds. Goats milled around in the front and on the sides, and a group of children played. The stench was overpowering, but he’d become accustomed to the pall. Then again, who was he to judge? Dubois seemed like a hardworking, decent man who’d genuinely liked Scott Brown. Life was tough here, but he was making the best of it.

Besides, he owed him one.

Two of the children rushed over. The boy maybe nine or ten, the girl a bit younger. Both hugged Dubois.

“These be mine. Violine is my precious girl, but Alain is future man of house.”

Malone nodded to them both.

“This be Cotton Malone. He was close to Scotty,” Dubois told them.

“Are you a secret agent, too?” Alain asked.

He threw Dubois a curious look.

“Scotty told them he be an agent for the Americans. Worked for the Billet.”

He decided not to burst anyone’s bubble. “I think it’s called the Magellan Billet.”

“That’s what Scotty say. Very secret thing.”

“Scotty say anything else?”

Dubois shook his head. “Only that he be here on a mission. He need help. I give it, like I do with you.”

The children ran back to their friends. A woman appeared in the shanty’s door. She was thin, long-haired, with bright eyes and a fresh face.

“This be Elise. My wife.”

Malone shook the woman’s hand, and she threw him a warm smile.

“You were Scotty’s relative?” she asked.

He nodded. “He was married to my wife’s sister.”

“We liked him a lot. He was a good man.”

Her English was cleaner than Dubois’ and carried no accent, each syllable perfectly pronounced.

“Elise teaches school,” her husband said with pride in his voice. “She be real good at that.”

The auction would begin in three hours. In the meantime he’d decided to talk with Stephanie Nelle. Though this trip hadn’t started off as Magellan Billet business, things had changed. His boss had to know about the Israelis.

“I need to make a call,” he said. “I’ll step out over there where I can talk in private.”

“Take your time,” Dubois said. “Elise make the food. We eat.”

He nodded at the hospitality and found the phone in his pocket. It was state-of-the-art, Magellan Billet issue, satellite-rated. The smallest unit on the market, produced solely for U.S. intelligence. But he wondered how long it would be before everyone’s phone was similarly capable.

Stephanie was in her office and answered the call.

“I thought you were on vacation,” she said.

“So did I.”

He told her what had happened, omitting nothing.

“Schwartz is right,” she said. “Zachariah Simon is a fanatic who just recently crept onto our radar. We’re not sure what he’s after, but we passed what we had along to the Israelis and they became awfully interested.”

He knew his boss. “So you ran a full check?”

“Of course. Simon is wealthy, reclusive, a religious zealot. But he keeps his fingerprints off everything. He also openly stays out of politics and never talks to the press.”

“In other words he’s careful.”

“Too much so, in my opinion.”

“What’s he doing in Haiti?”

“An excellent question. I’m sorry about what happened to your brother-in-law, but he was in way over his head.”

“That much is obvious. What isn’t is why the Mossad wants us out of the way.”

“I’d like to know what they’re up to.”

He’d thought she might, and he had a way to find out. “I can do that, but I’ll need some help from your end. I want to go to the auction and buy that book. Simon wants it. My guess is the Israelis are interested, too. If nothing else, it’s our ante into the game.”

“I agree. Do it. I’ll set up a line of credit. But, Cotton, keep the price reasonable. Okay?”

“Don’t I always?”

He walked back toward the house and could hear people all around him, some within their own dwellings, others out in the bright afternoon. Inside, he discovered that Elise Dubois was making rice and beans, along with a soup of potatoes, tomatoes, and meat, all simmering on a small electric stove. The house contained four rooms, sparsely furnished, everything clean and orderly.

He sat at the table with Dubois and the two children.

“What do you do?” his host asked.

He decided again not to burst Scott’s bubble. “I work with the same people Scott does.”

“You’re a secret agent?” Violine said, the young girl’s face alight with anticipation.

“Not like Scotty. He was higher up than me. But I do work for the same people.”

“Scotty taught us things,” Alain said. “Secret-agent things.”

The boy pushed back from the table and rushed from the room.

“They get excited,” Dubois said. “We not meet people like Scotty all the time.”

Elise brought the meal to the table.

Dubois squeezed his wife’s arm with affection. “She good teacher and good cook.”

Alain returned with some papers, which he eagerly displayed.

“Mr. Malone has no time for that,” the boy’s mother said. “Sit and eat your food.”

Malone smiled. “He’s fine.”

Alain pointed. “Can you read the messages?”

The three pieces of paper were all blank.