The Bonaparte Secret Page 2

  Diem’s thoughts scattered as an Uzi-carrying bodyguard entered the room, followed by a small black man in a uniform literally sagging with the weight of medals—duPaar.

  Diem turned from the window and bowed deeply. “Mr. President.”

  The president for life acknowledged him with a wave of the hand before sliding behind a mammoth, gilt-edged Boulle partners desk that made him look even smaller. “Good evening, Mr. Secretary.”

  Since duPaar spoke no Chinese and the Chinese diplomat certainly knew no Creole, the blend of mangled French and West African dialects that is the language of Haiti, the men would converse in English.

  Diem nodded toward the armed guard. “My understanding was that this meeting would include only us.”

  DuPaar shrugged. “My enemies will do anything to get at me, even a suicidal attempt. The man is deaf. He will hear nothing to repeat.”

  Chin Diem refrained from pointing out that even his casual appraisal of the presidential palace on arrival had revealed security befitting the leader of a country under siege. Nothing less than an armored or airborne division could penetrate the walls, gun emplacements and security cameras he had seen. He assumed there was a lot he had not seen, too. Instead, he indicated a French wing chair, one of a pair upholstered in blue silk that was showing both stains and its age. He raised an eyebrow in a question.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Please sit.”

  Chin did so, reaching into a pocket inside his black silk suit.

  Instantly, he was looking down the muzzle of the guard’s Uzi. Gingerly, he removed his hand, holding a pack of American Marlboros. “May I?”

  In reply, duPaar opened a desk drawer and produced an ashtray with the words Fontainebleau Hotel Miami Beach on two sides. He smiled slyly as he slid it across the desk’s inlay top. “As you can see, I, like you, have traveled widely.”

  Once again, Diem said nothing as he busied himself with lighting a cigarette.

  Then, nodding to a painting behind duPaar’s head, he asked, “That is a Bazile, is it not?”

  For the first time the president for life smiled, showing teeth the color of old ivory. “You know Bazile?”

  “I know of several of your country’s painters. Bazile reveals himself by his use of several shades of green, more green than all other colors combined.”

  DuPaar produced a cigar from somewhere, bit off the end and spit out the tip. He spoke between puffs as he applied a wooden match. “The green mirrors the lushness of the country.”

  Not if the pictures of Port-au-Prince’s neighboring countryside Chin had seen were accurate. The surrounding mountains were eroded dirt, the trees having been long ago stripped away to make charcoal. “I see.”

  DuPaar leaned back in his chair, his feet on the desk. Chin noticed his short legs barely reached. “Well? You did not come this distance to speak of artists.”

  Chin’s inhale nearly turned into a choke on the smoke of his cigarette. Most diplomatic conversations started with a compliment to the host or his country, meandered through the participants’ families and their comparative health, took a leisurely stroll along a simple outline of the problem to be addressed, all before the business at hand was even mentioned.

  DuPaar’s feet hit the floor as he snapped forward. “I am a busy man, Mr. Secretary. Please come to the point.”

  Chin Diem could not remember being addressed in such a manner, but he swallowed his indignation. His mission was to come away with what he wanted, not put this pennyante tyrant in his place.

  “My country has long wished to expand its business interests to this hemisphere. We would like to begin in Haiti . . .”

  DuPaar was leaning forward, feet firmly planted on the floor, his hands clasped on the desktop. He spoke around the cigar clamped between his teeth. “You have already begun. The company that operates the Panama Canal is owned by your government. Specifically, your army.”

  The man might be crazy but he was no fool.

  “True,” Chin conceded, “but the Canal Zone is quite small. Our international competitors, the Russians, for example, already are forming alliances with Venezuela, Nicaragua, even preparing to return to Cuba.”

  “Countries where the United States is disliked by those in power. Chavez in Venezuela, for instance, would do business with the devil to stick his thumb in the Americans’ eyes.”

  Chin shifted in his chair. “My country is more interested in economic expansion than sticking fingers in eyes. I am authorized to propose opening manufacturing plants in your country.”

  “Manufacturing what?”

  “Clothes, textiles, light manufacturing to begin with.”

  He definitely had duPaar’s attention. “And then?”

  “And then we will see.”

  DuPaar made a steeple of his fingers and rested his chin on it. “And what would I get?”

  “Get?” Chin pretended to be puzzled, knowing full well what the president for life meant. “You would have employment for a number of your people, money they lack today.”

  DuPaar made a guttural sound, a sound of dismissal. “Do not play me for an idiot, Mr. Secretary. You know precisely what I mean.”

  Chin took the opportunity to stub out his cigarette. “Well, for starters, as our American friends would say, I would anticipate five or six thousand Chinese soldiers would be stationed here to protect my country’s investment, prevent any further, er, abrupt changes in government.”

  DuPaar shook his head. “The Americans would never allow Chinese soldiers on their doorstep.”

  Chin smiled. “The Monroe Doctrine, the policy that the United States would tolerate no country out of this hemisphere to meddle in the affairs of a country in the Western Hemisphere, died in 1962 when Kennedy agreed not to invade Cuba again if the Russians would remove their missiles from the island. Their present president believes talk, not action, is the solution to all problems. In the end, the Americans will do nothing.”

  DuPaar’s eyes narrowed. “These troops, who would command them?”

  Now came the time for the vagueness that characterizes the accomplished diplomat.

  “They would, of course, serve under their own officers. But who commands the officers . . .” He trolled the idea implicit in the unfinished sentence like a baited hook.

  DuPaar leaned back in his chair again, puffed out his chest. “You will not be surprised to know I am well versed in military command. Not only did I serve as my country’s highest-ranking officer, I have read all the military works, the campaigns of Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, Frederick the Great, Stonewall Jackson, Rommel, Patton . . .” DuPaar inhaled deeply. “There are those who say I am the embodiment of those men. I believe I am their souls reincarnated in one body.”

  Either the president for life had been smoking something other than his cigar or he was farther down the road to insanity than Chin had been informed. But then, mental problems had historically been an issue here. François “Papa Doc” Duvalier had believed the dogs and cats in the streets informed on his enemies, and acted accordingly. Crazy or not, if this fool thought the People’s Republic of China was going to trust him to command Chinese troops . . . Well, he was thinking just what Diem had been instructed to make him think. By the time he found out to the contrary, China would have a foothold within a few hundred miles of the American coast, a base from which its aircraft and navy could reach any place in the Caribbean, a sea that the Americans regarded as their own lake.

  “Such a command would restore the glory of my country,” duPaar continued, “reminiscent of Toussaint L’Ouverture . . .”

  “The former slave who defeated Napoleon’s brother-in-law and chased the French out of Haiti forever.” Along with a hefty helping hand from yellow fever, to which the indigenous population had some degree of immunity.

  DuPaar smiled again. “You are acquainted with my country’s history. You see the similarity between me and the great Toussaint.”

  More like his successor, Henri Christophe, t
yrant and self-crowned emperor who ruled as Henri I. Believing he was too great a man to die a normal death, he shot himself with a silver bullet rather than be torn apart by a mob. It was he who started the practice that would ultimately make Haiti the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere: subdividing already-small parcels of arable land to distribute to his supporters. The predictable result was that few Haitians owned more than tiny plots, hardly enough to feed their families. He also bestowed empty titles, among which were the Duke of Marmalade and the Viscount of Beer.

  But Diem said, “My superiors are aware of the parallel.”

  Both men were silent for a moment, duPaar basking in imagined glory before he spoke. “I will agree to your proposal, but I need a sign of your country’s good faith first.”

  Diem had been prepared for this. His government had authorized a bribe of up to ten million dollars to be paid into the president for life’s Swiss bank account. “And that would be?”

  “I will need you to retrieve a very special object for me, one that will symbolize my might and grandeur, something that will proclaim my status to the world.”

  Diem swallowed hard. He dared not think what this madman had in his twisted mind. The Holy Grail?

  DuPaar was staring at him. “Did you know Haiti and the Dominican Republic were the same country in colonial days? It was known as Saint-Dominigue. It is my ambition to reunite us.”

  The sudden change of subject caught the Chinese diplomat off guard. It took him a second to realize the tourist and agricultural industries of Haiti’s neighbor were worth billions of dollars, a good part of it from investors in the United States. If anything could provoke the American president into military action, this would be it.

  “You have reason to believe the Dominicans wish such a reunion?”

  DuPaar snorted. “When they see Haiti’s might, when they see the great symbol of military prowess you are going to bring me, they will have no choice.”

  Military prowess. Diem relaxed a little. That would seem to exclude the Holy Grail. “What is this object you desire?”

  DuPaar told him.

  Shock stripped away the diplomat’s facade of calm. “But no one knows where such a thing is to be found. Or even if it still exists!”

  DuPaar stood, took two steps toward the door through which he had entered and stopped. “When you have it, come back and we will discuss the terms under which you may build your factories and where you may construct such military facilities as you desire.”

  He left the room without another word. The guard gave Diem a blank stare and followed. The Chinese diplomat sat for a full minute, sorting through the most unusual negotiations in which he had ever participated before getting up and heading for the waiting Mercedes.

  Venice

  18:20, February, the present year

  Lang Reilly was not fond of Venice. The city was like a movie star long past her prime. Faded stucco peeled from stone walls like a woman unable to replace her makeup. The acqua alta, high water from the Adriatic, relentlessly flooded most of the city in its persistent effort to reclaim what had been taken from the sea.

  It was a city of tourists, twenty-one million in 2007, as opposed to only sixty thousand residents remaining of the one hundred twenty thousand of twenty years ago. Many of the historic palazzos were now hotels, an increase in visitor accommodations of 600 percent in the last ten years. Claustrophobic byways, more alleys than streets, were far too tight for conventional vehicular traffic even if the city allowed it. They were so narrow they remained in shadow even during the day, perfect places for muggers or worse. Indeed, the city boasted a Street of the Assassins, reflecting a cottage industry of the city’s past. Many of the street signs, where there were any, were in the Venetian dialect, rendering a map useless. The numerous canals caused perpetual dampness and musty smells, adding to the reasons he and Gurt had chosen a hotel on the powdery sands of the Lido, a strip of beach-front a five-minute boat ride across the lagoon that it separated from the Gulf of Venice.

  The hotel’s boat, resembling a perfectly restored Chris-Craft from the 1950s, complete with teak decking, wallowed in its own wake as the driver reversed, then cut the twin engines a few feet from what would have been steps up to the Molo San Marco had they not been under water. As it was, the craft’s passengers had to balance their way on a makeshift gangplank.

  From dockside, Lang could see the winter rain was adding to the flooding of the Piazza San Marco, already several inches under water from the seasonal high tides. A clumsily raised platform, specially erected for Carnevale to host musicians, acrobats and other entertainers, was draped with a sagging banner proclaiming Coca-Cola the “cocktail ufficiale di Carnevale.” The banner across the Campanile also demonstrated commercialism was a prime theme of the festivities by advertising a popular Scotch whiskey. A network of raised boards gave access to the glass shops and restaurants lining the square. The emptiness of the tables and chairs outside the latter added a deserted moroseness where laughter and music belonged.

  The somberness seemed to have spread even to the square’s famous pigeons, whom tourists delighted in feeding. Instead of gathering around and on anyone crossing the square, their mournful cooing from under the eaves of buildings only added to the gloomy scene.

  The weather had done little to dampen the early-evening enthusiasm of the revelers of Venice’s famous twelve-day Carnevale, however. Elaborate costumes were everywhere, most rented with deposits in excess of ten thousand euro in case of a drunken dip in a canal or other disaster. Partygoers flocked through and across the square. All seemed oblivious to the drizzle that, under the streetlights, wrapped the city in a glowing gauze of moisture. The impression was of an anthill just kicked over, its inhabitants scurrying in all directions to balls where the admission price could exceed eight hundred euro. Lang wondered if the celebrants were aware that the hook-nosed masks so popular here mimicked the masks worn centuries ago by those charged with burying those dead of the plague.

  “You do not seem happy.” Gurt, in the costume of a seventeenth-century lady, was walking beside him as they dodged a puddle and turned right.

  They were following what resembled a fretwork of loggias and arcades below a pink Veronese marble building of vaguely Gothic style.

  “I’m smiling aren’t I?”

  “Your smile is painted on your face along with the red rubber nose.”

  “The clown outfit was your idea.”

  Before the conversation could continue, they arrived at the back of a line of elegantly costumed men and women closely huddled under an awning, which ended at a pair of massive wooden doors, the Porta della Carta, the original main entrance to the Palazzo Ducale, the Doge’s Palace.

  “You did remember the tickets?” Gurt asked.

  Lang fumbled in a pocket of his piebald outfit. “If the rain hasn’t melted them.”

  “I would hate to have come this distance and not get in.”

  “For what the foundation contributes to Save Venice every year, we could buy the place.”

  Only a slight exaggeration. The international charity, Save Venice, Inc., contributed millions each year to preserve and protect the city and its art and architectural treasures from being reclaimed by the Adriatic. The Italian government had spent even more on plans for a tidal gate, which had become a political football that no one thought would ever see more than lip service, inflated contracts and political patronage. In return for its efforts, the charity was permitted to hold an annual masquerade ball in the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, the huge third-floor council room from which the independent city-state had managed an empire that embraced northeastern Italy, the Ionian Islands and a good part of the Adriatic’s east coast.

  Although not a fan of Venice, Lang realized its historical value. As CEO of the Janet and Jeff Holt Foundation, he honored his sister’s memory with generosity to her favorite city. She and her adopted son, Lang’s best ten-year-old pal, had died several years ago in a fire caused
by one of the world’s wealthiest and least known organizations. It was Lang’s threat of exposure that had forced the very same group to fund the foundation that bore his sister’s name.

  He frowned, wishing it were Janet, rather than he, who had been coerced into standing in the cold dampness, waiting to arrive at a ball he didn’t really want to attend. The fact he had only himself to blame did little to improve his mood. Like an idiot, he had mentioned the invitation to Gurt, who had made it quite clear she was going with or without him.

  Inside, a canopy protected partygoers as they crossed a small piazza and climbed the Giants’ Staircase, carved from marble in the fifteenth century and crowned with statues of Mars and Neptune, symbolic of the city’s power on land and sea. At the top, an usher clad in seventeenth-century knee britches, complete with shoes with shiny silver buckles, directed them toward the sound of music. To Lang, it sounded like a replay of, perhaps, “String of Pearls” or “Pennsylvania 6 5000.” It was certain the band was unaccustomed to the swing music of the thirties and forties.

  Gurt took his arm. “It is Glenn Miller, no?”

  “About the right band for this group,” Lang muttered, an allusion to the fact the foundation’s membership was largely elderly. Young people had better things to spend money on.

  “You grousing again, Reilly?”

  Lang turned to see a white-haired, elfin man attired in hip-high leather boots, balloon sleeves and a cap with a feather. A sword hung at his side. Gorin, Gowen, something like that. The man spoke with the genteel twang of the American Northeast. He came from a family of such wealth that no one was quite sure where it all had come from to begin with. He had dabbled in politics, actually getting appointed to some cabinet post Lang had forgotten along with whoever had appointed him. Lang had served on the board of several charitable organizations with him.

  What the hell is his name?

  More interesting was the woman whose hand he held. She was young enough to be, but certainly was not, the man’s granddaughter. Lang suspected the diamond necklace draped across inviting décolletage was not costume jewelry, either.