Simon seemed to know what was expected of him and pointed.
Malone turned to see Dubois standing a hundred feet away, across the courtyard, the man called Rócha beside him. Though he saw no gun, he knew Rócha was armed.
Okay, nearly all of the players were here.
He started toward Dubois.
“First, the page,” Simon called out.
He turned back. “After I make sure he’s okay.”
He held his ground, making clear that the point was non-negotiable. Simon hesitated, then nodded his consent.
He turned and kept walking.
If he’d read this right, Zachariah Simon was not a man prone to public displays. That was why he had Rócha. Not that Simon wasn’t a danger—it was only that the most direct threat lay in front of him, not behind.
His hand slipped into his back pocket and found the gun.
He leveled the weapon and fired at Rócha.
But his target had leaped to the left.
Dubois fled to the right. Hopefully, he’d get the hell out of here.
Malone huddled behind the limestone mound, taking refuge with Henri Christophe.
He turned back.
Simon had not moved.
People were scattering.
A few screaming.
A gunshot cracked and a bullet ricocheted off the stone a foot away from his face.
Rócha retaliating.
He’d seen no guards when he entered, but he assumed a place like this had to employ security. Gunshots and mayhem would draw attention.
So he needed to act fast.
He decided to draw Simon in. The Austrian continued to stand his ground, confident that Malone would not shoot him and that Rócha had the situation under control.
He whirled the gun, but before he could fire the earth around Simon erupted in explosive puffs. Three. Four. Five. Which finally caused a reaction as Simon realized someone other than Malone had him in their sights.
The shots came without a retort, which meant a sound-suppressed weapon was on the ramparts above them.
Simon fled to the safety of a nearby building.
Malone smiled.
The Israelis.
Finally.
He’d assumed they were watching. No contact had come last night, but that had not meant they were gone. He knew they would not risk exposure, using him to achieve whatever they were after. Since they were here he assumed they knew Simon possessed the book. But they would also know that a page was missing, and they would have to wonder.
Did the Americans have it?
His gaze raked the deserted courtyard, but he saw neither Rócha nor Simon. Above him all was quiet, too. He needed to leave. But where was Dubois?
He dropped the arm with the gun to his side and shielded the weapon with his thigh as he hustled out of the sunlight, back into the fortress. He heard people chattering in different languages, their voices raised and excited, all of them surely headed for the exit.
He made his way there and saw people racing down the cobbled path toward the parking lot. A quick glance behind and he saw no one else. So he followed, keeping a watch on his back until he rounded the first bend. High above the gate, on the parapet, he caught sight of Matt Schwartz.
A wave from the Israeli said, You’re welcome.
He returned the gesture.
He knew the drill. The Israelis had flushed Simon out, but they would not risk anything more. Instead, they’d watch from their perch as everyone left. The lack of security or any law enforcement told him something else—the Haitian government had cooperated.
Diplomacy.
Ain’t it grand?
He found the parking lot and still saw nothing of Simon or Rócha. He had to go back and find Dubois. But in the distance, still on the parapet high above the citadelle, Schwartz was gesturing for him to leave.
Why?
Then it occurred to him.
He walked over, opened the driver’s door, and slipped behind the wheel of the car.
Dubois’ face appeared in the rearview mirror, up from his hiding place.
“I see my car and wait for you.”
“You okay?”
His friend nodded. “I good. Get going.”
He agreed.
Malone drove straight to where Elise Dubois taught school to let her know everything was okay. She was glad to see her husband unharmed and thanked Malone with a hug and kiss.
“I knew you would do it.”
He appreciated her confidence, since he hadn’t been so sure. The problem now was the Israelis, as they would want payback. But just as with Simon, he had no missing page to offer them. He decided to leave Haiti and report back to Pam, Ginger, and Stephanie Nelle. At least he knew how and why Scott had died. He also had the account number for the $600,000 on deposit in the Cayman Islands, which the Magellan Billet could easily obtain. Ginger deserved that money, and he’d make sure she received it.
They left the school and stopped by the Hotel Creole, where Malone learned that Simon had checked out earlier. Most likely, the Austrian was now headed to the airport, unsure of what had happened at the citadelle but glad to be away. He grabbed his bag from the room on the third floor and left, riding with Dubois to the docks and his boat. Along the way, he called and secured a seat on a flight out of Cap-Ha?tien to Miami that left in six hours. From there he’d shuttle home to Atlanta.
“Sorry about getting you into all that danger,” he told Dubois.
“I get myself into it. I want to help you.”
“Fortunately, it’s all over, and I appreciate what you did.”
He sat on the aft deck, beneath a canvas canopy, out of the sun. Most of the other boats were gone, out earning a day’s wage. He hadn’t really noticed much about the boat on the first trip, except for its struggling engine.
“You need a mechanic,” he said to Dubois.
“That be me. It makes a lot of noise and smoke, but works. Always has. Scotty help with that. He give me money for parts.”
And he would, too, when Dubois dropped him at the airport.
The least he could do.
“He buy me GPS.”
“Scott did?”
Dubois nodded. “He say we need it. He use it some, then leave it with me.”