“He had a wife.”
“Then she should thank me. Being married to someone so inherently dishonest could not have been pleasant.”
He agreed, but Ginger had loved the idiot. And this arrogant ass’s indifference was, like Schwartz’s earlier, pissing him off.
“I have spent the better part of my adult life studying Christopher Columbus,” Simon said. “I consider myself well versed in his peculiarities—”
“And the purpose of such a seemingly worthwhile endeavor?”
He saw Simon did not appreciate the rebuke. “Again, not something that is relevant to our current dealings.”
Simon stepped to the edge of the walk, near one of the low-voltage lights, and bent down. Malone watched as something was drawn in the soft sand.
The same strange letter combination from Scott’s letter to Ginger.
“This is the mark of the Admiral,” Simon said. “The way Columbus would sometimes sign his name. Odd, wouldn’t you say?”
To say the least.
Simon stood. “Interesting that the man would not use his given, Christian name.”
He wondered why that would matter.
“Instead he sketches out these letters. To this day, no one knows what he meant by it. There are many interpretations, none of them persuasive. Some say it’s a combination of Greek and Latin. Others say Hebrew. One thing we do know: He wished his heirs, after his death, to continue to use this triangular arrangement of letters as their signature.”
“What does this have to do with anything?”
“Everything. The book you bought contains the mark of the Admiral. Open your package and I will show you.”
That he could not do, since the book was long gone.
Simon stared at him. “Your trick in the bathroom fooled no one.”
He wasn’t going to be bluffed that easily.
Simon raised a hand and gestured. The man called Rócha appeared down the path and walked their way.
Holding the book from the auction.
A way of alarm swept through Malone.
Simon seemed to enjoy the moment and said, “I have Yann Dubois.” Rócha handed the book to Simon. “He is my prisoner, and will remain there until you do something for me.”
Simon opened the old volume. “By and large these words are worthless. But there is one page that is not.” He seemed to find what he was looking for. “Here.”
Malone saw a smooth cut at the edge nearest the binding, where a page had been surgically removed.
“On this missing folio was the mark of the Admiral and a message from Columbus. When I first found the book I saw it, but was not afforded the opportunity to translate the page. The writing is in Old Castilian, a language that only a few today can adequately understand. Unfortunately, Herr Brown knew all that. I wondered why he returned the book. Now I know. He removed the most important page, pocketed the reward money from the owner, then wanted to sell the page back to me.”
“But you don’t buy from people who steal from you.”
“Sends the wrong message. Don’t you agree?”
Malone gestured at Rócha. “So your lapdog killed Scott.”
“As he will Yann Dubois if you do not bring me that page.”
“What if I don’t have it?”
“I am betting you do. I suspected that Brown was not working alone. Your appearance here seems to confirm that.”
“If that is true, why would I buy the book?”
“I don’t know. But I am sure that you and Herr Brown are connected. Bring me that page.”
Interesting, this man who thought himself so careful made mistakes, too. But things were happening too fast for the right prep work. He was improvising, snatching Dubois the fastest way to generate a reaction.
“Tomorrow, Herr Malone. Bring me the page and Dubois will be unharmed. I have no argument with him. But, if not, then he will never be seen again.”
He thought of Elise and the two children. No way he could allow that to happen, so he asked, “Where and when?”
“I assume you want a public place. One with limited access. Preferably one way in and out.”
“I see you’ve done this before.”
Simon smiled. “More of that delightful southern America wit.”
“It’s a gift.”
Simon pointed south. “The Citadelle Laferrière.”
He knew the spot, had seen it from the air earlier before his flight landed. The fortress sat atop a mountain, built by Henri Christophe two hundred years ago.
“Ten AM,” Simon said. “That should give you plenty of time.”
No point arguing. He had no choice.
“Bitte, Herr Malone,” Simon said.
The two men started to walk off.
“Oh,” Simon said. “I nearly forgot.”
Something was tossed his way, which he caught.
Keys.
“To Herr Dubois’ vehicle. I assume you will need it to make your way around. He, of course, will not be using it.”
Simon and Rócha left.
Now he had a big problem.
Malone stepped from the car. His watch read 8:30 pm. He’d managed to find Yann Dubois’ house, recalling the route from earlier. The door to the shanty opened and Elise appeared, surely expecting her husband.
Instead all she saw was the stranger who’d shared their dinner.
He stepped to the lighted doorway.
She spotted the concern on his face.
Her eyes watered, but no tears came. “Yann is in trouble?”
He nodded. “The same men who killed Scotty have him.”
“And what do you plan to do about it?”
Interesting that she made no mention of police or anyone in authority. Only what he planned to do. He assumed people here had long ago abandoned any trust in government.
“I’ll get him back.”
“How can you promise such a thing?”
He couldn’t, but she did not need to hear that.
“You are the real secret agent, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“Scotty was a joyful man. Much like a child. He showed the children many tricks, winning their favor. But he was not what he wanted us to believe.”
“And you said nothing?”
“Why? He was harmless. In him, I sensed only opportunism. In you, I see resolve. You may actually be able to get my Yann back.”
This was an intuitive woman.
“I need to stay here tonight.”
She sensed his reason, and he saw the realization in her eyes. “Will they come here? After us?”
Matt Schwartz’s gun was nestled beneath his shirt.
“I doubt it. But to be sure, I’d like to stay.”
Malone stared up at the Citadelle Laferrière.
The night had passed uneventfully and he’d managed a few hours of light rest, remaining alert. He’d driven Dubois’ car fifteen miles south of town, into the mountains, to Bonnet de l’Évêque — the Bishop’s Miter — which rose 3,000 feet into a clear morning sky. A twisting road led to a parking lot just below the impressive fortress.
A cobblestoned track wound from the lot upward and could be either walked or ridden on horseback. He was thirty minutes early for the 10:00 rendezvous. No need to come any sooner, since he assumed that was precisely what Simon had done. Instead, he was counting on something else as his failsafe.
He stopped and studied a placard that told him about the locale, long designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Walls 130 feet high, 20 feet thick. Built to outlast the ages. No foundation, instead the gray grim stones rested only on rock, the heights held together by a mortar of limestone, molasses, and cow’s blood. Two and a half acres of enclosed space, once home to several thousand soldiers and enough food and water to sustain five thousand people for a year. Henri Christophe intended the fortress to be his last redoubt. If the French returned and invaded the north coast, he and his people would have burned Cap-Haïtien and the surrounding land, then retreated to the mountains and used the few passes as choke points, surviving at any cost, the idea to never again be slaves. Of course the French never returned, but the citadelle became a symbol of their will to fight for freedom, and it remained Haiti’s most revered monument. Unfortunately, that pride was marred by the fact that Christophe used 20,000 slave laborers to build it, many of whom died in the process.