The Admiral's Mark (Short Story) (2 page)

He tossed the envelope on the passenger’s seat and stepped from the car. Inside the building he displayed his Justice Department badge. “Who were the two men who left in the plane just now?”

The person on duty, a short stump of a man, seemed not to want to answer.

“We can do this here, or back in Atlanta in a more formal setting. Your choice.”

Magellan Billet headquarters was located in Atlanta. Its head, Stephanie Nelle, had insisted on that as a condition of her employment, wanting the unit away from Washington and the Department of Justice, both physically and symbolically. Which worked. The Billet had developed a reputation for independence, utilized on the most sensitive of investigations,
both domestic and international. Twelve agents worked under Stephanie’s exclusive control, selected by her and specially trained. Of course he was bluffing, since none of this had anything to do with Billet business. Still, something out of the ordinary was definitely happening.

“Older guy is Zachariah Simon. He showed an Austrian passport. The other guy was—”

He watched as the man tried to remember.

“Rócha. Yeah, that was it. Rócha.”

“He have another name.”

The guy shrugged. “Can’t remember. Didn’t know I had to. They flew in on a charter, paid their fees, bought some gas, and left.”

“And that car outside?”

“Mine. They rented it.”

“When did they get here?”

“A few hours ago.”

“You get their passports?”

He knew the rules. Small airports like this were required to maintain copies of entry documents for Customs.

“Yeah, I got ’em.”

“I need them.” Now for what he really wanted to know. “Where are they headed?”

“These guys in trouble?”

“If they are, here’s the problem. They’re gone, and you’re still here.”

He hoped the message was clear.

“The charter pilot filed a flight plan for Cap-Haïtien.”

Cap-Haïtien was a town of 180,000 people on Haiti’s north coast. Its architecture reminded Malone of New Orleans, the same gingerbread-style houses lining its narrow streets, the same French feel throughout, though its overwhelming poverty spoiled any further comparisons. Streets, where they existed, suffered potholes and puddles, their gutters trickling with stinking sewage. Hundreds of tin-roofed shacks crumbling in the heat dominated bare mountain slopes. Two hundred years ago the harbor would have been filled with merchant ships, here to load coffee and sugar from French planters. Now the bay loomed empty save for a few small boats, its waters ruined by pollution. A strong odor of decay filled the humid afternoon air. Yesterday,
after what had happened in the Browns’ apartment and at the airport south of Atlanta, he’d questioned his sister-in-law about the envelope.

“What were you doing in my apartment?” Ginger asked
.

“I sent him,” Pam said. “I gave him my key and told him to look around.”

“What for?”

“Your husband’s dead. Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“Of course, but—”

“Do you have any idea what this means?” he asked her, showing her the sheet from the envelope
.

Ginger shook her head. “It came from Haiti a day or so after Scott died. He told me on the phone he sent me something. But he didn’t tell me what it means.”

“And you never mentioned this envelope to me,” Pam said, with an irritation that he’d come to know
.

“I didn’t think it was important. Come on, Scott drowned.”

“But he said someone was after him,” Pam said
.

“I know. But I have to confess, I didn’t believe him.”

Pam had continued to reprimand Ginger for not telling anyone about the letter, but all that brought was tears. For safety, she’d insisted Ginger stay at their house, though he doubted there’d be any more visits.

Whatever was going to happen, would happen here, in Haiti.

Before leaving Cap-Haïtien’s airport, he located the private hangars and learned that the plane from Atlanta was there. Inside, $50 U.S. bought him the name of the hotel where Zachariah Simon and Rócha were staying. Hotel Creole. The same one noted on the envelope Scott had sent. He could start with the police, or with the charter boat Scott had used, or with the two men who’d come to Atlanta. He decided that the charter boat seemed the best bet, so he bartered for a cab into the congested mess of central downtown.

Haiti filled the west half of an island Columbus discovered in 1492, which he named Hispaniola. Populated first by native Tainos, then the Spanish, then by slaves brought to work the cane fields, the island fell under the control of the French in 1697. Forty thousand colonists lorded over 500,000 Africans. By 1790 it was one of the richest places on earth—France’s number one revenue source—thanks to immense profits from sugar, coffee, and indigo. It was also one of the most picturesque, with dense tropical forests, sparkling clear water, and towering mountains. Palm-shaded châteaus
filled with Parisian furnishings were common. Its
Code Noir
established rigid social rules, making it one of the world’s most efficient slave colonies. Eventually, though, freed mulattos, offspring of colonists, and female slaves combined forces with thousands of other slaves and expelled the French, establishing the only nation ever born of a black revolt.

Then the turmoil started.

After two hundred years Haiti was now the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere, its forests gone, waters ruined, poverty an accepted way of life. He’d read an article recently about how the cruise ships had stopped coming—simply because passengers complained at how depressing the place could be.

The cabdriver dropped him at the waterfront, where crumbling docks jutted from a narrow mud beach. Tin-roofed wooden sheds stood at their base, a small crane at the end of one. A pale green sea, splashed with shades of blue, stretched to the horizon. Soft white waves lapped the shore. From the police report he knew the name of the owner who’d taken Scott out, and found him after asking around.

The boat was a twenty-footer, with a small cabin forward and a cluttered deck aft. The man moving about on board was short, thin, and
walked with a hitch in his left knee. He had a broad nose, tense jaw, and dark eyes, his black hair cut close.

“
Bonsoir
. Are you Yann Dubois?”

The man glanced up at him with a faint smile. “You want to dive?”

“Looks like a calm day. Can you take me out?”

He saw that he’d now attracted interest. Here was money to be made, and Dubois seemed ready to accommodate.

“Sure, I take you out. You have card?”

He shook his head. “Not on me. But I’m U.S. Navy certified. I can handle it.”

He assumed that requirements like diving certifications were not much of a problem in Haiti.

Dubois smiled. “U.S. Navy. That’s good, mon. Where you want to go?”

“Same place the guy drowned last week.”

Dubois’ pleasant attitude vanished. “You police? Here to bother me more? I don’t want that.”

“No police. A relative. The man who died was my brother-in-law. I need to find out what happened.”

“He drown. That what happened. Not my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was. I just want to see where it happened. Have a look around. I’ll pay double your usual rate.”

He watched as Dubois considered the offer, but the outcome was never in doubt.

“Let’s go, mon.”

Malone donned the air tank and buoyancy vest, fastening the belt around his waist and adjusting the shoulder straps. Not the newest of equipment, but it appeared in reasonable shape. The trip out from shore had been short, the stern engulfed in a boiling exhaust from overheating engines. They were anchored no more than three hundred yards from the beach, dark smudges in the turquoise water indicating a reef below. A wet wind blew steady from the west. He kept time with the deck’s jerking pitch, glad to know that his sea legs had not left him.

The navy had taught him how to dive ten years ago. He liked it but, unlike his father who’d been a submariner, he hadn’t wanted a career underwater. The sky appealed to him, so he learned to fly fighter jets.
Ultimately, he was steered toward the law, where he found a home first as a JAG officer, now in the Justice Department.

“We go down thirty feet,” Dubois said as he adjusted his own harness. “Lots of current. Watch yourself. I show you where it happened.”

“Did you fish him out?”

“Yeah, mon. He not come up, so I go down.”

“Why didn’t you go down with him?”

Dubois eyed him with irritation. “ ’Cause Scotty say he don’t want me down there.”

None of which had been detailed in the police report. But the whole thing was more overview than report. Few details, even fewer conclusions. Just a simple statement of “diving accident.”

“Scotty?” he said. “You and him buddies?”

Dubois eyed him again with a cool stare. “I like him. He okay.”

Then Dubois rolled over the side into the water.

Malone followed.

A gray reef shark immediately greeted him. The air from his tank carried a dank, oily aftertaste, probably from a bad compressor. He hadn’t
been underwater in five years, but he quickly acclimated himself, listening to the burbling sound of his exhaled breath.

Dubois led the way to the bottom.

He checked the depth gauge snaking from his regulator.

Twenty-five feet.

Shallow enough to have no decompression worries.

He stared around in the aquamarine sea and noticed only a few tropicals here and there, some wrasses and an angel, but nothing like the numbers one would expect. He knew Haiti’s reefs had been decimated by overfishing and sedimentation. Most of the trees on the island were gone—cut down for fuel and shelter with few replantings—allowing rainwater to cascade from the mountains unimpeded, carrying along tons of mud that ended up on the seafloor. Not enough reef fish also meant fewer to keep the coral clean of algae. So the twisted limestone hulks loomed mostly lifeless, everything stained dark green.

Dubois motioned to a formation fifty feet away and indicated that Malone should lead the way.

He swam toward it.

A loud rasp from the regulator accompanied each of his breaths. He was trying to ignore the foul-tasting air and hoped nothing was toxic.

They came to a coral formation, this one, too, devoid of polyps. A few fish were gorging on the algae. The shark had drifted off. The water was warm and comforting, almost too much so, and he cautioned himself to stay alert. Rays of bright sunshine, fractured by the surface, danced to a quick beat. Dubois had been right. A steady current in their face made the going difficult.

They arrived at the limestone hulk, which rose ten feet toward the surface, stretching out many more yards toward the open sea. A darker hue in the water a few hundred feet away signaled greater depths, and he assumed that was where the shallow reef ended.

Dubois pointed to an opening in the rock, where chunks had fallen away to reveal a crack that spread for twenty feet. A small, cavelike opening led into the crevice. Dubois motioned with his hands, indicating that a storm had caused the damage.

Malone swam close and peered inside. He saw what appeared to be wood timbers on the bottom, encrusted with barnacles and algae. Other shapes lay embedded in the sand, thick with encrustation.

A wreck of some sort. Old, too. Hidden beneath this rock mound for a long time. He motioned—
Is this all?
—and Dubois nodded. He decided he’d seen enough. He’d need to return for a closer inspection, but first more information was called for.

He motioned for them to surface.

They drifted away from the limestone wall.

Scott had apparently found a shipwreck. But there were probably thousands of those in these waters, as Cap-Haïtien had been a bustling seaport. French, Spanish, British, and Portuguese ships had plied these waters, along with buccaneers. Probably hard even to count the number of ships that met the bottom.

What made this one so special?

He exhaled and turned his attention toward the surface, watching as the bubbles drifted upward.