Dream of a Falling Eagle

Chapter 4

I had green tea and cold sesame noodles for lunch at my desk, working my way through the reams of notes and data. Most of the "records" we had obtained from the Aristide government-everything from military and police payrolls to the sundry contents of government filing cabinets-were written in longhand, and it had taken the combined, full-time efforts of three translators just to decipher what we had. Next had come the not inconsiderable task of transcribing it all into computerese so that the information could be sorted and analyzed and finally called forth to form charts and graphs which we hoped, in the end, would paint a very damning portrait of an entire, brutalized country essentially owned and operated by the CIA, the poorest of nations serving as a mysterious conduit for billions of dollars which could not be accounted for in any CIA budget. This phase wasn't the most stimulating work, but it had to be done, for if the CIA was to be brought down, it had to be accomplished with numbers and the irrefutable testimony of witnesses, not the Frederickson brothers jumping up and down and screaming hysterically about the bloody deeds of a bunch of savage killers, many of whom seemed to be monumentally stupid, whose salaries were paid by the American people. The blade of the saber with which we hoped to decapitate the company had to be ice cold.

Garth entered the office in late afternoon. He was carrying a large manila envelope which he was in the process of opening. "Just arrived by messenger," he said, tearing open the envelope. "Figured we'd check it out together."

I watched as he spread the edges of the envelope and peered inside. "Well?"

His answer was to take out the contents and hand them to me. They were two enlarged copies of photographs. One was a duplicate of the head-and-shoulders shot of the triangular-faced man with the piercing eyes that had been displayed on the altar in the basement of General Vilair Michel's house, and the other was a wide-angle shot of the altar itself, as it had appeared when we'd first discovered it. A note clipped to one of the photos read:

Good hunting. Hope you nail the bastards.

Carl Beauvil

"Voila," I said, glancing back up at Garth.

"Yeah," Garth replied with a shrug. "Nice of Beauvil to come through for us like this, but we probably should have told him that our curiosity was a lot bigger than our capacity to try to do anything with this stuff. We've got no time to try to track down this guy. We've got all we can do to organize and tie together the information we've already got."

"You're right," I said, reluctantly tossing the photographs onto my desk.

"Let's go get something to eat."

"I figured I'd have Francisco call out for a pizza before he goes home."

Garth shook his head, then grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me up out of my chair. "Come on. I'll buy you a steak. We both need a break. There's nothing our company friends would like better than for one or the both of us to keel over from exhaustion and malnutrition before we can finish this thing."

"In that case, I'll take you up on your offer of a steak. But only for medicinal purposes."

Over drinks and dinner we discussed literary strategy, the actual form of our report, and the order of its contents. I wanted to start off with what I considered the good stuff, offering up front a lurid account of the voodoo-style ritual murders that had thwarted our interrogation of six key witnesses to CIA-sponsored atrocities in Haiti and elsewhere. Garth was against that approach, pointing out that we could prove no link whatsoever between the voodoo hit squad and the CIA, and arguing that such an approach would only give the CIA's allies an opportunity to start shouting "preposterous" and "sensationalism" at the outset, charging that we were not serious people if we were willing to make such unsubstantiated charges, and therefore nothing we had to say could be trusted. Calling the meeting to order with entrails, he argued, would only serve to undermine the scant and precious hard proof we did have.

My resistance was feeble, because I knew all along he was right. We agreed we would start with a brief and dry introduction, vaguely outlining what we hoped to show, then immediately offer up our hard data, progressively working our way through the anecdotal portions of our investigation results where the leads were tantalizing but the evidence as yet unsubstantiated, awaiting the attention of congressional committees with subpoena powers, and then give them a boffo ending, serving up the blood and gore in an appendix, nicely bracketed by financial charts and tables listing all the suspected dummy corporations that were bastard children of the CIA.

When we arrived back at the brownstone I was startled to see a very well-known figure sitting on our stoop, casually smoking a cigarette. Lucas Tremayne was the Academy Award-winning writer and director of one of the highest-grossing films of the past decade, and a very high-profile social activist. The lean, handsome man with the graying crew cut was anything but a Hollywood type. He was rarely seen in public, and when he was it was usually because he was lending his celebrity to promote one of his favorite causes, such as increased funding for AIDS research, or some charity event. In the news clips and photos I had seen of him, he was usually dressed as he was now, in faded jeans, soft leather boots, denim shirt, and Mets baseball cap.

Garth appeared slightly unsettled but not surprised at the film director's presence. "Hello, Lucas," my brother said as the man ground out his cigarette and stood up.

"Good to see you, Garth," Tremayne said, stepping down onto the sidewalk and shaking my brother's hand. "Now I know where you've been hiding out for the past few months."

"Lucas Tremayne, this is my brother, Mongo."

"A pleasure," the director said, extending his hand and removing his cap. In the glow from the streetlight I could see that his gray eyes almost perfectly matched his hair, and his smile was easy and friendly. "I've heard a great deal about you."

"Likewise, and likewise."

Garth said, "Lucas is a friend and neighbor."

Lucas Tremayne released my hand, then turned to my brother. When he spoke again, there was a slightly accusatory tone to his voice. "I haven't seen you around Cairn in a while."

Garth shrugged. "Yeah, well, Mary's been off on an extended tour promoting her new album, so I've been staying here at the brownstone to save myself the commute."

"I've been keeping an eye on your house."

"I appreciate that, Lucas."

"I also notice that the Cairn police have been patrolling past there pretty often. I guess they know the house is empty most of the time."

Garth merely shrugged again. He seemed increasingly uncomfortable, as if he knew Tremayne was leading up to something he didn't want to talk about.

"Garth, can I have a few words with you?"

"Of course," my brother said, motioning for Tremayne to precede us up the steps. "Come on up to my apartment and we'll have a drink."

I walked up the stairs after the two men, and when we reached the door to Garth's apartment on the third-floor landing I paused and held out my hand to the film director. "I'll say good night, folks. Lucas, keep up the good work."

"Mongo, I'd like to talk to you too."

"Sure," I said, and followed him in as Garth held the door open.

We went into the living room. Tremayne and I sat at opposite ends of the sofa while Garth made drinks at the bar and brought them to us. Tremayne set his aside untouched. "I was talking to Carl Beauvil this afternoon, Garth," he said quietly. The vaguely accusatory tone had returned to his voice. "We were together at a fund-raising event for Haitian refugees. He told me what happened in Spring Valley, and he told me what the two of you are up to."

Garth grunted. "That detective certainly is a talkative chap. The last thing he mentioned to us was that we shouldn't even admit to ever being in Spring Valley, much less discuss what happened while we were there."

"Carl is Haitian, you know," Tremayne said, turning to me and fixing me with his gray eyes. His expression was now somber.

"I'd assumed as much."

"He and I go back a ways, ever since I moved to Cairn with my family a few years ago. We've worked together closely on a number of projects. He trusts me, which is why he told me what he did. He knows what he said would be held in confidence. He didn't know your brother and I are friends. What you told him disturbed him a great deal."

Garth turned in his chair to look at me. "Lucas is extremely active in the Haitian community on behalf of refugees, Mongo. He lends his name and prestige to their cause. He's also a noted collector of Haitian art."

"I see," I said in a neutral tone. I was beginning to understand why the film director's sudden appearance on our stoop had made my brother uncomfortable.

Tremayne cleared his throat, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together. "Garth, Carl tells me you and Mongo have been working on this Haiti investigation for months. I can't believe you didn't mention it to me."

"There are a number of very good reasons, Lucas," my brother replied evenly.

"You know how I feel about Haiti and Haitians, and the oppression they've suffered for so long. You also know how hard I've worked on their behalf. I've always suspected the CIA was involved in things over there right up to their slimy eyeballs, all the way back to Papa Doc and his Ton-ton Macoutes. Christ, I never dreamed anybody would ever actually try to prove it and do something about it. I want to help."

"There's nothing for you to do, Lucas."

"No? I'll bet I know a hell of a lot more Haitians than you do."

"That's one of the reasons I didn't say anything to you. Mongo and I don't want what we're doing to be widely advertised."

"I can be discreet."

"It's dangerous business, Lucas."

"Do I come off as a coward to you?"

"Hardly. But that's not the point. No matter how discreet you may be, asking questions about the CIA and the former rulers of Haiti would be sure to attract the attention of the wrong people. You have more than yourself to worry about. Your wife and children live in Cairn, and you have a very busy career to attend to. These people we're after take no prisoners. The man who was murdered in Spring Valley was a potential informer. The CIA knew that, and their people got to him one step ahead of us. He was killed not only to silence him, but also to send out a message to other Haitians who might be willing to give us information. There's a kind of voodoo hit squad out there, and the Spring Valley man was their sixth victim. Part of the idea is to spread terror in the Haitian community. If you get into the act, these people would be delighted to kill you. Murdering a famous Hollywood director well known for his commitment to Haitian causes would be a perfect way to permanently scare off remaining potential witnesses who otherwise might be persuaded to testify before any congressional committees that may decide to hold hearings as a result of our report. If Detective Beauvil provided you with any details about this murder, then you know these people do bad things to the bodies of their victims, before and after death. It would haunt your wife and kids for the rest of their lives. I didn't say anything to you because I knew what your reaction would be, and there was-is-no reason to put you in harm's way."

Lucas Tremayne had gone slightly pale, but his voice was steady when he said, "You and Mongo don't look any the worse for wear, and you've been working on this for half a year."

"Mongo and I do this sort of thing for a living. We're armed to the teeth, and we're constantly surveying our surroundings and thinking about our safety, not scripts and camera angles. Also, we enjoy a kind of limited professional immunity. Kill you, and the publicity focus would be on your links to Haiti and how the generals or ex-Ton-ton Macoutes or Fraph finally gave you some payback. It would scare Haitians. Kill us, and the focus would be on what we were doing that got us killed-namely investigating the CIA's links to Haiti. We keep backup copies of all our files and records in a safe deposit box that we feed every night. Our murders would seriously piss off a lot of important people, and get lots of publicity that would result in a lot of investigative reporting. That scares the CIA; they want to head us off at the pass, not have the mountain fall on them. Publicity about them is precisely what they're trying to avoid. Besides, Lucas, the issue is moot. We're finished with our field work. Now it's just a matter of tying together what we've got and writing up our report."

"I hear what you're saying," Tremayne said quietly. "But there still must be some way I can be useful. You need somebody to answer your phone? Type up the report?"

Garth glanced at me and raised his eyebrows slightly, then set his drink down and got up from his chair. "Excuse me for a couple of minutes."

My brother left the room, and Lucas Tremayne and I stared at each other. Finally I said, "Making that last film of yours was a gutsy thing to do. Its subject isn't exactly a favorite topic of conversation. If it hadn't been the success it was, it could have seriously damaged your career."

The film director shrugged, smiled thinly. "I do what I can for people and causes I care about-just like you and Garth do. All I did was make a movie on a controversial subject nobody wants to talk about. I think what you're doing is incredibly gutsy, and I'm not sure I buy what Garth told me about your professional immunity. You've surely been in danger from the first day you started working on this project."

"Oh, I'm sure the company would be delighted if we fell off a cliff or got run over by a truck-just as long as it didn't point to them. But we're being well paid for the risk."

"I don't believe you're doing it for money."

He had that right. Diddling the CIA, or trying to, was a labor of love-but for reasons that had to remain secret. "Garth meant no disrespect by not mentioning this Haiti investigation to you."

"I understand, Mongo."

"I mean no disrespect either, but Beauvil really had no business discussing this with a civilian. Whatever his feelings or reasons, he could have put you at risk. Do you understand why you should keep all this to yourself? You shouldn't even discuss this with your family-especially not with your family."

Tremayne colored slightly, but he didn't protest. Finally he nodded at me and flashed a grin. "I've been following your exploits for some time-even before Garth and I became friends. You're quite a celebrity yourself."

"Yeah. You think the world is ready for a big-budget film about a dwarf private detective? I see Schwarzenegger in the lead, with maybe DeVito playing Garth."

He laughed. "I think it's a wonderful idea. I'm going to pitch it to Arnold and Danny the next time I see them."

Garth walked back into the room. He was carrying the photographs Carl Beauvil had sent us. He selected the head-and-shoulders shot of the man in the priest's collar, handed it to Tremayne. "Like you said, you know a hell of a lot of Haitians. Ever see this guy before?"

The man with the gray eyes and hair barely glanced at the photograph before looking back up at Garth. "I've not only seen him, but I know him personally."

Well, well, well. I drained off the rest of the Scotch in my glass, rose to get some more.

"Who is he?" Garth asked.

"Guy Fournier-Dr. Guy Fournier. He's Haitian, a defrocked Roman Catholic priest who was an antigovernment activist in Haiti long before Aristide arrived on the scene, and long before me. His life must certainly have been at risk, for years, and it was probably only his collar that saved him; the past Haitian governments and the Roman Catholic hierarchy in Haiti have always had what you might call a close working relationship."

"Not only the governments," Garth said dryly. "Not a few of those friendly neighborhood padres have turned up on lists of paid CIA informers."

"It doesn't surprise me. Fournier also happens to be a collector of Haitian art, which is how I know him. We go to a lot of the same galleries, shows, and auctions."

I took a long pull at my second drink, sat back down on the couch. "Why was he defrocked?"

"Ostensibly for preaching liberation theology, which was the same as heresy to the hierarchy. But the real reason they defrocked him was to remove a thorn in their side and make him a softer target for Fraph thugs. They considered him a real pain in the ass. Friends helped him get out of the country a few months before Aristide was restored to power. Otherwise, he would have ended up getting his arms and legs cut off in Fort Dimanche. He lives right here in New York. His Ph.D. is in comparative religion, and that's what he teaches now, downtown at Mongo's former place of employment."

Garth asked, "Why didn't Beauvil recognize him?"

"I can't be certain, but probably because Carl has never lived in Haiti. He was born here. Fournier wasn't that well known outside of Haiti. Also, Carl's a policeman, and that's not a profession most Haitians have a lot of use for. They're afraid of the police. Carl does an enormous amount of work for his people, but he's still essentially isolated within the community. He's probably never even heard of Fournier. Incidentally, this looks like it could be a surveillance photo taken by the army, Fraph, or the police over there. May I ask where you got it?"

I said, "It was on a voodoo altar in the basement of the murder victim's home in Spring Valley."

Lucas Tremayne frowned slightly. "That's odd."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I'm no expert on voodoo, but a voodoo altar just seems an odd place to find a picture of a Roman Catholic priest. Could it have been set down there by chance, by accident?"

"No," Garth replied, and handed his friend the second photograph. "This is a picture of the altar itself. You can see that this man's photograph is placed right in the middle, in the center of that circle of candles, carvings, and painted symbols, with the cross beneath it. Mean anything to you?"

Tremayne shook his head in disgust, then pursed his lips slightly. "I hate this voodoo shit. It's probably done more harm to the Haitian people than the generals, Fraph, and Ton-ton Macoutes, who've all used voodoo as a weapon against the people. It's a self-inflicted wound. I do recognize some of these things around the photograph as voodoo fetishes. They mean something."

I grunted. "The question is, what?"

"May I keep this photograph of the altar?"

"No," Garth said, reaching out to retrieve both photographs from the other man's hand.

"I may not be an expert on voodoo, but I'm certain I can find somebody who is."

"You flash that photograph around, and you're likely to conjure up some people you really don't want to meet. Among other bad habits they have, they cut out people's hearts."

"Garth, I'm not going to flash-"

"Say good night, Lucas," Garth said with a thin smile, gently but firmly grasping his friend's elbow and lifting him up off the sofa. "Mongo and I have to get our beauty rest."

"But I want to find out more about this for you!"

"Nope. Not a word to anyone. You've already been more than helpful in identifying this Guy Fournier for us. Mongo and I don't have time to track down any more leads even if you could produce them for us, and I'm sure the Spring Valley police and FBI are following up. Safe trip home."

"But I haven't finished my drink!"

"Not to worry; Mongo will finish it for you."

We walked with Tremayne to the parking garage in the next block where he had left his car. After he paid the attendant, he turned to shake hands, and said, "Look, I'm sorry for barging in on you guys like that. I tried calling you right after I left the reception where I talked to Carl, but your secretary had gone home, and I didn't know what message to leave. Then I got antsy, so I just drove in on the chance I'd catch up with you."

"Jesus, Lucas," Garth said, squeezing the other man's shoulder, "don't apologize. We might never have identified this Fournier. He could provide us with a few telling details we don't have now, and he might prove to be a valuable witness later on."

"You think so?"

"We'll see-you won't. Good night, my friend."

Lucas Tremayne waved to us as he got into his Range Rover when it was brought to him, then drove off. I turned to Garth. "Time pressure or no, we've got to go for it, right?"

"Sure. Like I told Lucas, Fournier might be able to connect some of the dots we're writing up right now."

"You go talk to him. I'm about ten times faster on the computer than you are."

"No, you go. Academe is your province, and he'll have heard your name bandied about more than once in those hallowed halls. He'll be more comfortable with you. Besides, I'm on the verge of a breakthrough; I think I'm about ready to begin using four fingers."