studied what was there.
He had no idea what the combination of letters meant.
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
He had no idea what the combination of letters meant.
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
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