The auction would begin in three hours. In the meantime he’d decided to talk with Stephanie Nelle. Though this trip hadn’t started off as Magellan Billet business, things had changed. His boss had to know about the Israelis.
“I need to make a call,” he said. “I’ll step out over there where I can talk in private.”
“Take your time,” Dubois said. “Elise make the food. We eat.”
He nodded at the hospitality and found the phone in his pocket. It was state-of-the-art, Magellan Billet issue, satellite-rated. The smallest unit on the market, produced solely for U.S. intelligence. But he wondered how long it would be before everyone’s phone was similarly capable.
Stephanie was in her office and answered the call.
“I thought you were on vacation,” she said.
“So did I.”
He told her what had happened, omitting nothing.
“Schwartz is right,” she said. “Zachariah Simon is a fanatic who just recently crept onto our radar. We’re not sure what he’s after, but we passed what we had along to the Israelis and they became awfully interested.”
He knew his boss. “So you ran a full check?”
“Of course. Simon is wealthy, reclusive, a religious zealot. But he keeps his fingerprints off everything. He also openly stays out of politics and never talks to the press.”
“In other words he’s careful.”
“Too much so, in my opinion.”
“What’s he doing in Haiti?”
“An excellent question. I’m sorry about what happened to your brother-in-law, but he was in way over his head.”
“That much is obvious. What isn’t is why the Mossad wants us out of the way.”
“I’d like to know what they’re up to.”
He’d thought she might, and he had a way to find out. “I can do that, but I’ll need some help from your end. I want to go to the auction and buy that book. Simon wants it. My guess is the Israelis are interested, too. If nothing else, it’s our ante into the game.”
“I agree. Do it. I’ll set up a line of credit. But, Cotton, keep the price reasonable. Okay?”
“Don’t I always?”
He walked back toward the house and could hear people all around him, some within their own dwellings, others out in the bright afternoon. Inside, he discovered that Elise Dubois was making rice and beans, along with a soup of potatoes, tomatoes, and meat, all simmering on a small electric stove. The house contained four rooms, sparsely furnished, everything clean and orderly.
He sat at the table with Dubois and the two children.
“What do you do?” his host asked.
He decided again not to burst Scott’s bubble. “I work with the same people Scott does.”
“You’re a secret agent?” Violine said, the young girl’s face alight with anticipation.
“Not like Scotty. He was higher up than me. But I do work for the same people.”
“Scotty taught us things,” Alain said. “Secret-agent things.”
The boy pushed back from the table and rushed from the room.
“They get excited,” Dubois said. “We not meet people like Scotty all the time.”
Elise brought the meal to the table.
Dubois squeezed his wife’s arm with affection. “She good teacher and good cook.”
Alain returned with some papers, which he eagerly displayed.
“Mr. Malone has no time for that,” the boy’s mother said. “Sit and eat your food.”
Malone smiled. “He’s fine.”
Alain pointed. “Can you read the messages?”
The three pieces of paper were all blank.
He shook his head. “Why don’t you read them for me.”
“It’s easy.”
The boy jumped up on his chair and held one of the blank sheets to the overhead light. Slowly, brown letters appeared on the paper.
HELLO ALAIN.
Then he knew. Lemon juice. Reacting to the heat of the bulb. “That is an old spy trick. Scotty should not have revealed that to you.”
“It’s a secret?” Violine asked.
“You use it, too?” Alain said as he hopped down. “Scotty said secret agents use this all the time.”
“He was right. We do. All the time. But you can’t tell anyone.”
“Scotty was a good man,” Elise said. “He spent a lot of time with the children. We were so sad when he died.”
He saw that she meant it. Obviously, Scott had forged an ally in Dubois and his family, cementing that with the right words, said at the right time, coupled, most likely, with a liberal sprinkling of money. The Magellan Billet? Interesting Scott had used that as his cover. What kind of con had his brother-in-law been working?
He doubted these people knew.
So he kept his mouth shut and allowed them to continue to think the best.
Malone entered La Villa St-Louis, the hotel located outside Cap-Ha?tien, on the coast, inside a stunning building with Spanish and French influences. More upscale than where he was staying, its lush grounds fenced and guarded. The auction was held in a paneled hall that could accommodate a few hundred comfortably. He estimated that fewer than seventy-five were there, many already seated and awaiting the first item. To his right and near the front sat Zachariah Simon. The other man, Rócha, was not in sight. Malone grabbed a chair to the left of the center podium, at the end of an aisle of eight seats.
A copy of the day’s International Herald Tribune lay on the next chair. To make himself less conspicuous, he grabbed the paper and scanned the front page, noticing an article about a Los Angeles Times reporter whose name he knew. Tom Sagan. Caught falsifying a story from the Middle East. Interesting. After an internal investigation, the Times had fired Sagan and apologized for the scandal. Too bad. He’d never thought Sagan the type to lie. His eyes drifted from the newspaper, keeping a watch on what was happening.
More people drifted in.
The auction began and four items were sold, three paintings and a beautiful piece of mahogany furniture, all from the same estate being liquidated. According to the catalog the 16th-century book would be the fifth offering, and it was brought in by a white-gloved attendant, who laid it before the auctioneer.
Bids were called for. Simon wasted no time.
“Five thousand.”
Malone waited to see if anyone else planned to make a bid. Seeing none, he offered his own.