The Learjet 45XR glided through a thin wisp of moonlit clouds and lined up for its final approach. The small commercial airstrip was just north of Toussaint L’Ouverture International, on the far side of the industrial parks. Private aircraft and corporate jets were parked near the small terminal. Some were tied down and tarped in a futile attempt to stave off the tropical climate. Those who could pay a premium fee were housed in a series of aluminum hangars lined up along the concrete runway.
Port-au-Prince had been baking under a brilliant Caribbean sun the entire day, and her city lights were twinkling under a rising blanket of sultry air. Evening brought a balmy relief to the city, and the streets were clogged with traffic. Citizens and tourists alike were energized, as if the entire metropolis had gotten up from a nap and was ready to stay out late and party. They crowded the sidewalks, conducting their business and leisure in the open air, under thousands of naked light bulbs and neon signs.
The Learjet whined as it passed overhead and deployed its landing gear, but hardly anyone took notice. As far as the man on the street was concerned, the rich and powerful were so invisible that they may as well have been ghosts.
The 45XR taxied off the runway and rolled into a hangar as the twin fanjets flanking the tail spooled down to a whistling hush. The last bit of forward inertia was expended to precisely line up the jet with the guide stripe on the polished concrete floor, and then the brakes were applied and locked and the engines were silenced. It was a textbook finish to an uneventful flight, except for one odd detail. No one was in the cockpit.
The clamshell door gently whispered open and folded down, until the integrated staircase was pneumatically suspended just above the hangar floor. No cabin attendant appeared from within.
A moment later, Zamba Boukman emerged alone from the dimly lit interior and stood erect at the threshold, his nostrils flaring as he drew in the thick fragrance of the Haitian evening. Although it was tinged with the vapor of jet fuel, the island’s lush aroma was unmistakable. The warm tropical air enveloped him and every pore of his body immediately relaxed, inviting its humid embrace. It was good to be home.
Zamba descended the staircase as a ground crew entered the open hangar door behind the jet. The three men grabbed sets of hard rubber wheel chocks and fanned out to wedge the tripod landing gear front and back. The crewman who chocked the left wing wheels was the first one to spot Zamba as he was stepping off the staircase, just forward of the wing. All he could see of the voodoo master was his white balloon pants and sandals.
The man scooted out from under the wing and stood erect with a deferential smile for the big shot, whoever he was. It always behooved a ground crewman to be polite. You never knew who you were going to encounter stepping off a Learjet, but whoever they were they were guaranteed to be far more powerful than you or anyone you know, particularly if they weren’t wearing a suit.
The man paled and his jaw dropped open, staring up at the towering figure before him. Zamba said nothing, and simply waited for the man and his partners to give him his due. It wasn’t long in coming.
The man wanted to say something, but he simply couldn’t speak. Unaware of his plight, his two partners came strolling around the nose of the plane to join him, their company smiles propped up for the VIP. They could see their comrade standing frozen in place and staring up at the stranger, and they vaguely wondered what was up. His astonished expression told them it was either something wonderful or something awful, but they couldn’t determine which it was. But as Zamba’s face came into their view, they had much the same reaction as their hapless friend.
Standing together before Zamba, the three men simultaneously began to tremble. Their fear ricocheted off of each other, amplifying their anxiety. It was utterly impossible, but there he was, Zamba Boukman himself, alive and in the flesh.
They dropped to the concrete floor and prostrated themselves, not daring to gaze upon him any longer. They knew that in Haiti nothing was utterly impossible, and they didn’t want to take a chance that his appearance was just a vision, or some sort of black magic whipped up by an unknown enemy to throw a fright into them. Even if it was a hallucination, its solid, unwavering presence spoke of a power much greater than they themselves could muster, and it would be foolish to show disrespect.
While they were groveling facedown on the cool concrete, Devlin materialized beside Zamba and grinned at the pathetic cretins before them. The three men had no idea that he was there. Devlin had no business with them, so only Zamba was privileged to lay eyes on him.
“How sweet,” Devlin said in a voice that only Zamba could hear. “They remember you.”
“As well they should. They are, because of me.”
They walked around the trio and headed for the open hangar doors.
“Have you been enjoying my island?” Zamba asked him, and Devlin smiled, nodding.
The men behind them remained exactly as they were. As long as they could hear Zamba’s footsteps they didn’t dare make a move. They could also hear him speaking to someone, but they detected no replies. Perhaps he was conversing with his loas. Whatever was happening, they didn’t want to know the details. They just wanted him to go away and not be displeased with them.
Outside, five men were approaching the hangar from an armored Mercedes G550. They slowed to a cautious halt as they saw Zamba appear from behind the left wing, strolling towards them. Devlin was invisible to them as well, but Zamba was more than enough for them to confront.
Although the Minister of Tourism was surrounded by four officers of the Palace Nationale Police, Delatour felt no sense of security at all. For their part, neither did the PNP officers. Despite being well-armed and trained to kill without hesitation or compromise, the officers felt as helpless as he did. They had been hardened to face death, but tangling with the likes of Zamba Boukman wouldn’t end there. Death would be just the first round.
President Préval’s minister nervously extended his hand to shake. Zamba gripped it and smiled, enjoying the man’s fear. The handshake was brief, sweaty, and cold. The sweat was from the minister; the chill had come from Zamba.
“Where is the priest?” Zamba asked him.
Delatour hesitantly leaned in close and whispered in Zamba’s ear so his escort couldn’t hear. The four armed men were grateful for that; they didn’t want to know the minister’s business with Zamba, whatever it happened to be. That was Delatour’s bad luck, and they didn’t want any of it rubbing off on them.
“He is at the Citadel,” Delatour breathed in Zamba’s ear, and quickly drew back. A disturbing odor emanated from Zamba, and the minister felt his body instinctively recoil from it. It was a vaguely sour musk that made him feel as if all the oxygen had been leeched out of his blood.
He took another step backwards and bowed in respect to cover his reaction, though he sensed that he was hiding nothing. He was certain that Zamba could not only read his thoughts, but he could see past them into his soul, a place where Delatour himself had no power to look. Only God and the Devil knew what Zamba might find lurking there.
Delatour stepped further back, his head still bowed, and then he turned on his heel and withdrew as quickly as he dared, the four PNP officers accompanying him.
Devlin and Zamba watched them climb into their armored SUV. As it raced away, Devlin turned to him.
“Molinari knew that Eden wasn’t at that church.”
Zamba nodded.
“I want Molinari to suffer. Harshly.”
Zamba nodded once again, and Devlin’s features suddenly darkened. His true face was rumbling just beneath the surface, like a volcano that could erupt at any moment. Zamba hope that this would all be over soon.
“Eden...!” Devlin hissed.
Zamba waited breathlessly for an eruption, but to his relief Devlin held his fury in check. Instead, he reworked Zamba’s own phrase and tossed it back to him.
“And to think that I am not, because He is...”
Zamba exhaled, as Devlin cracked a wicked smile.
“Now the fun begins,” Devlin told him.