Suddenly there was a volley of explosions that shook the villa and lit up the heavens. The planes were bombing his island with napalm. In a matter of minutes the forests were ablaze with jellied fire and filling the sky with thick black smoke.
He could barely hear Lisa scream for the noise. Security alarms wailed and guards fired automatic weapons helplessly as bombs continued to rain across the island, filling the night with choking fumes from incendiaries and burning orchards of apricots and marijuana.
To the south two direct hits destroyed the marina and the processing plant as drums of ether sent flaming mushrooms into the sky. Another sweep took out the airstrip where three of his own planes were blown to shrapnel. When a bomb hit the road behind the villa, Antoine dashed inside. Lisa was on the floor crying hysterically, but no rockets had hit them. Antoine Ducharme's death was not the object of the raid. Just his operation-to destroy it now and forever.
It took less than thirty minutes for eight F-14 fighters to set ablaze half the island and every processing building and storage shed, including, Antoine would later learn, a small barge containing a load of apricot pits destined to leave tomorrow for Boston Harbor. And what the napalm didn't kill, a solitary B-52 bomber did in three passes over the southern slopes, spewing Agent Orange.
When it was all over one fighter jet peeled off from formation and sent two rockets into Reef Madness.
Crouched behind a window, Antoine Ducharme watched the boat explode. As his rainforests raged with fire, all Antoine Ducharme could think was that this was not supposed to happen. That his man had a friend in the White House. That his man's father-in-law was "bosom buddies" with Ronald Reagan.
That weasely little bastard, Quentin Cross. He would pay for this with all he had.
6
Ronald Reagan sat in his bathrobe in the private quarters of the west wing breakfasting on scrambled eggs and stewed apricots when his secretary called to say that Ross Darby was on the line with an urgent call. It was 6:55 A.M.
The President punched the lighted button. "I've got a seven-thirty meeting with Cap Weinberger, what's your excuse?"
"Sorry to call at this hour, Mr. President, but I have something of a problem."
Even though they had known each other for nearly half a century, Ross Darby just could not address his old pal by first name, because this was official business.
"I just got a call from an associate that U.S. naval jets bombed Apricot Cay in the Caribbean. I'm sure you're aware of that fact since you no doubt gave the orders."
There was a long pause as Darby waited for the president's response. Then Reagan cleared his throat and said, "Well, you put me in kind of a funny position, Ross. Frankly, these are matters of national security."
"National security?"
"Yes. What's the problem?"
"Mr. President, I don't know if you were aware that Apricot Cay was the sole habitat of the very species of apricot which our new cancer drug comes from. We just got FDA approval the other day, as you well know."
"The same island?"
"Yes, and from what I understand the entire crop and orchards have been incinerated. They were napalmed, every last tree, and it appears they finished off the place with some kind of defoliant."
More gaping silence as the president measured his words. "And you're calling to ask why."
"Ron, I invested millions in that island and staked the future of the company on that harvest, not to mention that we had a cure for many cancers in those trees."
"Hell, I'm sorry, Ross," Reagan's voice was low and scratchy. "But why in God's name did you pick the same island?"
"Same as what?"
"Ross, it's seven in the morning and I've got a long day ahead of me, so let's please stop playing games."
"I don't know what you are driving at."
"That Apricot Cay was trafficking ten to twenty billion dollars of cocaine and marijuana each year, and all of it heading for the American streets."
"What?"
"Ross, they had shipments moving in and out of there every day, by land and air, like it was New York Harbor. What I want to know is how you could have risked investing in such a place, especially given our anti-drug campaign. I don't know how to say it without saying it, but frankly I feel personally betrayed, as will Nancy."
"Ron, I didn't know."
"How in hell could you not know, for God's sake? You must have visited the place before you invested. You did, didn't you?"
"No."
"Well, whoever set up the deal for you must have known. They had to. Intelligence says the place was a fortress."
Darby listened in numbed silence as the president continued. Before he hung up, Reagan said, "Ross, I'm going to forget this call ever took place."
"Thank you, Mr. President," Ross said, and hung up.
For a long moment, Ross stared out the window into the gray light. He was shaking as if there were a brick of ice at the core of his body. Eighteen years ago he was Associate Professor of Pharmacology at Middlesex State University, and Darby Pharmaceuticals was a makeshift lab in his basement where he developed new compounds, selling the patents to companies such as Pfizer and Merck. Over the years he had turned Darby Pharms into a $70 million business because of his knack for developing pharmaceuticals with prestige, profit, and universal application, such as synthetic estrogenic hormones, cholesterol lowering drugs, and-Veratox. Yet he suddenly saw himself as a foolish old man everybody goes about humoring but never letting on with the truth that the sky is beginning to fall.
Quentin sat across from him studying the carpet, his eye twitching uncontrollably. Sometime around 4:30 that morning he had telephoned Ross with the news of the bombing. When pressed to explain the military's action, Quentin had no answer. That was when Ross dialed the White House.
"He said that the island was the major drug distribution center of the western hemisphere. Did you know that?"
Quentin could not raise his eyes to his. "You think I'd do business with a drug lord?"
"That's what the hell I'm asking you."
"I was there to buy apricots, period. I had no idea he was dealing in dope. None whatsoever."
Darby nodded, thinking what a miserable goddamn liar his son-in-law was. "We're ruined, I hope you know."
Quentin studied his cuticles without a word. Then he got up and walked to the window."
It was late November, and most of the trees had lost their leaves. A fine rain fell and glazed his gray Mercedes coupe in the executive lot. Quentin could just make out the Nantucket sticker on the windshield. Last month workmen had finished constructing their summer home on an oceanside bluff in Siasconset-a big sprawling place, called NewDawn, that put him in enormous debt in anticipation of taking over the pharmaceutical company with a patent for the world's first cancer cure.
"I didn't know."
"Turn around!" Darby's voice was like a gunshot.
Quentin turned.
"Look me in the eyes and say that again."
"I-I…," he trailed off, stuck on Darby's stare.
"Just what I thought," Ross said. He took a deep breath and hissed through his teeth. "According to your records we're half a million dollars in the hole to your drug buddy. Half a million for all the charcoal we could ever ask for." He slammed down his coffee cup. "He said the son-of-a-bitoh was the Don Corleone of the Caribbean. He said he had a fortress down there with his own army, a fleet of planes, processing plants, and shipping docks. And you didn't know. The goddamn DEA's been watching him for a year from spy satellites three hundred miles up, and you couldn't tell from ground level. What the hell do you take me for?"