He knew the tale.
On his first voyage Columbus anchored somewhere in these waters. But on Christmas Day, 1492, his flagship, the Santa María, lodged on a reef. With no way to free the keel, the ship was dismantled, its timbers and cargo hauled ashore and used to construct a settlement. Three weeks later Columbus sailed away in the Ni?a, leaving 39 of his crew behind in what he called La Navidad, the first settlement of Western Europeans in the New World. He charged those men with exploring the island and finding gold. But when he returned in November 1493 with 17 ships and 1,200 men on his second voyage, La Navidad lay in ashes. All 39 crew members were dead, slaughtered by the Tainos. What remained of the Santa María settled on the sea bottom and had been sought by archaeologists for decades.
And Scott had found it?
“He tell me it is there,” Dubois said. “In that rock. He dive several times. Always alone. Until last time.”
“You could have just told me this. You didn’t have to try to kill me.”
“You look like man who can handle things. Not like Scotty.”
He caught something in the man’s voice. “You don’t like what happened to him?”
Dubois shook his head. “He not deserve that. But there be nothing I can do. Police have the power here.”
He’d heard enough. “Take me back to shore.”
“You going after man in picture?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you need help. That man is here, in Cap-Ha?tien. I know where. I have car. You need to get around. I owe that man.” Dubois paused. “For Scotty.”
He found the Hotel Creole just off the Place d’Armes, near the Cathedral Notre-Dame, a striking Victorian building, its entrance separated from the street by a leafy courtyard, an iron gate manned by security. When he appeared, bag in hand, saying he was there to check in, he was welcomed inside. Dubois had driven him from the docks. This was the hotel the man at the airport had said Simon and Rócha were staying at, the same one noted on the envelope sent to Ginger by Scott, the same one Dubois had identified, too. He was still leery of his new ally, but he’d many times enlisted aid from locals. All part of the job. So were deceit and betrayal, so he stayed on guard. In his favor was the fact that Simon and Rócha had no idea he existed, and he planned to use that anonymity to his advantage.
The hotel’s lobby seemed straight out of the 18th century, with a vaulted ceiling and lots of stone and wood that opened to an inner courtyard. Behind the front desk he noticed numbered slots on a wall, one for each room. Not something one saw much anymore. So he decided to try an old trick. He approached and said he wanted to leave a message for Zachariah Simon. He pretended to scribble something on a pad, folded the page over several times, then handed it to the clerk, along with a $10 bill. The man smiled, thanked him, then turned and inserted the note in a slot marked 25.
“And I’d like a room.”
He tossed his bag on the bed.
His room was on the third floor, spacious, clean, the design minimalist with little furniture. Thankfully, the doors were also antiques, fitted with simple tumbler locks and no dead bolts. He left the room and descended to the second floor, finding the door marked 25.
He listened outside, heard nothing, then knocked.
Another try.
No answer.
He found the small diamond pick he kept in his wallet and tripped the tumblers in less than five seconds, a handy trick learned during his first few months on the job with the Justice Department.
The room inside was similar to his own. Two travel bags lay against one wall. He gave each a quick inspection and saw nothing that caught his attention. What did interest him were the papers on the desk. One was a report on Scott Brown, a background investigation that was surprisingly detailed. He scanned the paragraphs and learned things about his brother-in-law that he’d never known: where he’d been born and raised, the number of aliases he used, the multiple Social Security numbers associated with his several identities, and a bank account in the Cayman Islands with nearly $600,000 on deposit. From all he knew the Browns lived paycheck-to-paycheck—hers. Typical of Scott, though, to squirrel away money and never tell his wife. Most likely the stash was either seed money for the next con or living expenses between marriages.
One thing, though, became clear. The two men who occupied this room were intently interested in Scott.
Unfortunately, Herr Brown managed to get ahead of us. The answers are not here.
That’s what the older man, Simon, had said in Atlanta.
Something else caught his eye.
A printed catalog for a local auction to be held at another hotel, La Villa St-Louis, tonight. He thumbed through. Mostly antiques. Some jewelry. Furniture. All from an estate being liquidated. Contrary to popular misconception, there was wealth in Haiti.
He noticed blue ink on one of the pages.
Numbers. 5,000. 7,000. 10,000.
Above the writing was an item for sale.
Small volume (215 × 130mm), 62 leaves with hand printing in dark ink, another 12 blank. Fine original leather over wood binding. Significant soiling and browning, occasional spotting and staining. Dutch vellum, gilt edges, extremities rubbed. Provenance still in question, but verified to mid-to early-16th-century origin.
A color photo displayed the book. He’d seen many like it before. Books were a love of his. He collected them by the hundreds, all encased in plastic sheaths, lined on metal shelves in his basement back in Atlanta. Pam hated them, as they took up a lot of room, not to mention the money he spent on them. But he was a hopeless bibliophile. A dream that he allowed himself to sometimes enjoy was to one day own a rare-book shop.
He wondered what it was about this book that was so interesting.