Age of Voodoo Page 6

  “It’s a nice little sideline,” said Wilberforce. “They give her money, expensive gifts, free meals. Fleecing the gullible, I call it.”

  “Oh, yes?” Albertine said. “And the inflated prices you charge at your rum shack—what’s that if it isn’t fleecing?”

  “It’s a legitimate mark-up.”

  “But having a two-tier system, one set of prices for locals, another for tourists?”

  “That’s just simple economics.”

  “And what about when you flew your seaplane, before the airport was built? You used to charge outrageous prices for ferrying passengers and packages between islands. And sometimes you’d claim a parcel had got lost, but for twenty dollars you could ‘find’ it again.”

  “The price of aviation fuel—”

  “You’re as bad as the Garfish,” Albertine said hotly. “You and he deserve each other. What annoys me is that you wouldn’t even have to owe the man anything if you’d only sold that damn plane of yours.”

  “I’m not selling Puddle Jumper for anyone or anything,” Wilberforce shot back. “She’s my pride and joy. Besides, I don’t think I’d get that much for her.”

  “Not even as spare parts?”

  “Cruel. That’d be like selling your own children’s organs.”

  “So you’d rather borrow from a crook instead?” Albertine sucked her teeth so viciously it sounded like swearing.

  Lex was loath to intrude again, but neither could he take much more of it.

  “We’ve gone a bit off-topic,” he said diplomatically. “Albertine, I’m happy to accept that you’re a mambo. Each to their own. Whatever floats your boat. But you say I’m in danger. Do you mean from the Garfish? Because if so, not exactly a newsflash.”

  “Not just him. Not him at all, I don’t think.”

  “Then who?”

  “The loa were not able to specify. Here’s what happened. Last night, I was making an offering to my three husbands.”

  Lex raised an eyebrow.

  “My three loa husbands,” Albertine clarified. “Every mambo or houngan—that’s a vodou priest—is ‘married’ to at least one loa, more usually three. They are the ones who favour us the most and watch over us. Mine are Damballah, Loko and Erzulie Freda, who’s actually female and also Damballah’s wife, but don’t let that confuse you.”

  “Not confused at all,” Lex said wryly.

  “As I was serving Damballah a saucer of white flour with a white egg on top, all of a sudden he took control of me. I became his ‘horse,’ as we say. His chwal. An image of him appeared in my mind. Damballah has many forms, but most often he manifests as a serpent, a white python. He slithered inside me and I in turn fell to the floor and started slithering too, and as I did so he spoke. He told me that the balance of life is at risk of being upset. Cosmic equilibrium is threatened. He gave me your name, saying you were at the centre of it all somehow, and he informed me that you are a friend of my cousin’s, which I knew already as Wilberforce has talked about you now and then. He speaks highly of you, by the way.”

  “So I should hope.”

  “Damballah was very alarmed, and it is not comforting to see a spirit, an aspect of the godhead, alarmed. He said I must go to you and offer my aid, and must not take no for an answer.” She spread out her hands. Her nails were long, beautifully manicured, lacquered in the richest of reds. “And here I am.”

  “Ah,” said Lex. “Interesting.”

  Gable at the crossroads last night: Help’ll be offered you, and when it come, you don’ turn it away, you knowum sayin’? Whatever your finer feelin’s, you don’ say no.

  Lex felt an unaccountable shiver run through him. What the fuck was going on here? He felt as though he had been thrown into the middle of some bizarre conspiracy, tides of coincidence swirling heavily around him. This time yesterday morning he’d been contemplating nothing more arduous than going for a run before the sun got too hot, then heading down to the beach afterwards for a spot of snorkelling. Now: a job from Seraphina, a gun battle with gangsters, voodoo, or vodou if you preferred...

  “All right,” he said to Albertine. “I have no inkling what this danger you’re talking about could be, and you don’t either, so what we’re going to do is back-burner it for now. No point stressing over unknowns. When and if an adverse situation presents itself, then we’ll take action. In the meantime—”

  His phone bleeped. A text. From Seraphina.

  Rendezvous with Caribair flight CBC301 from Washington via Bermuda, arriving 12:20 local. Five friends disembarking. They will brief you further. xxx Seraphina

  He glanced at the phone’s clock. A couple of hours to go. But Nestor Philippe Airport was all the way over on the windward side of the island, and there were no decent roads between here and there save the six-mile stretch of the René Smithson Highway. Being late would not look good.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “If neither of you’s got anything else on, I could do with a hand on the transportation front. Got some people I’m meeting off a plane, and we’ll need two cars.”

  “Not a problem,” said Albertine. “I’m sticking with you until my skills are needed, whenever that is.”

  “And I’m sticking with her,” said Wilberforce. “Because if there’s going to be some sort of aggravation...”

  “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself,” Albertine protested.

  “But if Aunt Hélène found out I’d let you go off on your own, without some muscle to back you up, God knows what she’d do to me. Worse than giving me the droop, that’s for certain.”

  “Muscle? I’ll have Lex for that.”

  “Stringy streak of piss like him?” Wilberforce snorted.

  “Cheers, Wilb,” said Lex.

  “No offence.”

  “None taken, I’m sure.”

  “I mean, I’m not saying you’re not good in a pinch, but...”

  “No, I understand. Albertine is family.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Honestly, Wilberforce,” Albertine said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “No arguing, cuz.”

  “Please, no more arguing,” Lex implored. “Wilb can tag along if he wants. The more the merrier.”

  EIGHT

  TEAM THIRTEEN

  THE CONVOY OF two, Subaru and Suzuki, reached the airport with quarter of an hour to spare, despite being held up on the way by an achingly slow tractor and a broken-down farm truck with a flatbed full of anxiously bleating goats. Lex requested that Albertine and Wilberforce stay with the cars while he went inside.

  The terminal building was a draughty concrete structure, built more with diligence than panache. Bright, gaudy posters occupied the walls of the arrivals lounge, showing sun-seekers at play in the sand and surf and advertising day-trips to Manzanilla’s modest natural wonders: the waterfall at Cannon Rock and the caves in the King Alfonso Hills with their three-metre-tall stalagmites of bat guano.

  Flight CBC301 was on time, but the customs and immigration process was invariably slow, so Lex had leisure to peruse the racks at the news kiosk. A two-day-old copy of the Daily Mail, from back home, had a headline deploring the latest tax hike from Westminster, which the paper dubbed ‘fiscal lunacy’ and ‘an insult to the hard-working, hard-pressed middle classes.’ As a rule, Lex tried to avoid keeping up with events in the UK. It always filled him with a disquieting mixture of nostalgia and disdain. He wondered if anything would ever tempt him back to his homeland. Probably not. After seven years away it seemed a remote place, drab in his memory, and while he had been living there he had been something of a nomad anyway, seldom occupying his London flat for any significant length of time. Britain had been a base he returned to between forays abroad, a convenient foxhole, nothing more. He felt little affinity for the country, and whatever allegiance he owed it he had more than discharged.

  At last CaribAir passengers began filtering through from the luggage carousels. Lex had no idea who he had come to meet, but he was confident he wo
uld know them when he saw them.

  Sure enough, a group of five—four men, one woman—appeared through the doors, and one glance told Lex these were his people. They were dressed like tourists: shorts, sandals, eye-watering Hawaiian shirts, here and there an item of ostentatious jewellery such as a Rolex. Two of the men had stubbly chins and another sported collar-length hair.

  They didn’t move like tourists, though. They didn’t gaze around themselves wide-eyed, or fan themselves in the stifling, inadequately air-conditioned atmosphere of the terminal, or check their phones to see if they had network coverage yet. They didn’t grapple with overloaded baggage trolleys—they had travelled with personal carry-on only. They walked as a unit, calm but purposeful, subtly aware of their surroundings.

  US military, no question. Lex wasn’t fooled by the ‘relaxed grooming standards.’ Lean, efficient killers. Special forces.

  He drew away from the news kiosk, making himself obvious. He had decided he would downplay his own talents until he got to know these people better. It was preferable for them to underestimate him, not perceive him as an equal or a rival. It would give him something in reserve if he needed it.

  “Afternoon,” he said to the frontmost man in the group, a rangy, grizzled figure, mid-forties, athletic build, moustachioed like a porn actor. Instinct told him this was the leader.

  Grey eyes peered at him from beneath bushy brows. “You Dove?”

  “I am.”

  “Tom Buckler. Put her there, sport.” His grip was strong, and Lex resisted the temptation to match it, pound-pressure for pound-pressure. “These here are my associates. That’s Bob Tartaglione.”

  A glossy-haired Italian-American gave Lex a nod.

  “Corey Sampson.”

  A tall African-American touched finger to forehead. “Pleased to meetcha.”

  “Madison Morgenstern.”

  The woman’s short blonde bob offset a firm jawline. “Hi.”

  “And him back there’s Pearce.”

  This one looked like a farmhand or a cowboy, trim and permanently sunburned.

  “He doesn’t go in for first names,” said Buckler.

  Pearce grunted something barely audible.

  “Or talk much,” Buckler added.

  “Lex Dove,” said Lex, meeting everyone’s gaze in turn. “Welcome to Manzanilla. I’ll be your tour guide throughout your stay. Anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “What we need right now,” said Buckler, “is to go retrieve our gear. It’s come through under diplomatic seal and I guess it’s being held somewhere private off to the side. Maybe you can assist with that...?”

  IT WAS A test, of sorts. A way of establishing Lex’s bona fides and level of competence. He’d anticipated something like this, however, and had already identified a senior member of airport staff in the arrivals lounge. Within minutes he and the Americans were in a private room whose tinted windows afforded a good view of the runway and the mid-sized passenger jets parked in a row alongside the terminal building like piglets at the teat. Paperwork was checked and approved, dotted lines were signed on, and shortly each of the five Americans was in possession of a large canvas duffel bag whose contents clanked dully and heavily.

  “We’re booked in at the Cape Azure Hotel,” said Buckler to Lex. “Any good?”

  “Don’t expect Radisson standards and you’ll be fine.”

  “Website says it’s got five stars.”

  “Deduct one for exaggeration and another for this being Manzanilla.”

  Two of the Americans went in the Suzuki with Albertine and Wilberforce. The rest rode with Lex in the Subaru.

  “Guess I should introduce us properly,” said Buckler as Lex pulled out of the airport car park. “Lieutenant Buckler’s my full title, and they call us Team Thirteen. We’re a Navy SEAL platoon, only not quite.”

  “Not quite?”

  “Well, for one thing, there’s five of us in this boat crew. The average SEAL platoon’s sixteen strong—two officers, fourteen shooters. And for another thing...”

  “We do the jobs other SEAL teams don’t do,” Tartaglione chimed in.

  “Don’t or won’t?” said Lex.

  “Don’t, ’cause they wouldn’t know how to handle ’em.”

  “Right. Meaning dirty work.”

  “Hell, no. SEALs do dirty work all of the time. It’s what they’re there for.”

  “We do... stuff,” said Sampson. “It’s kinda hard to classify. ‘Grey ops’ is the official name for it.”

  Lex shrugged. “Still none the wiser. Is that black ops but a few shades paler?”

  “Put it this way, hoss,” said Buckler. “There’s shit out there in the world, and then there’s freaky shit. Me and my shooters get parachuted in to deal with the freaky shit.”

  “Oh. Okay,” said Lex.

  “More than that is need-to-know only. I’m told you have top-level clearance.”

  “I do.” Lex certainly used to, and it seemed it hadn’t yet been rescinded.

  “But unless or until you’re actually operational with us, you’re better off staying in the dark. Speaking of which. Those two civilians back there...” Buckler jerked a thumb in the direction of the Suzuki, behind them. “Pearce won’t say a word to ’em as a matter of course, and Hospitalman Morgenstern knows to keep her trap shut. But they can be relied upon to be discreet, yeah?”

  “I guarantee it.”

  “Good. Good for their sake, and for yours.”

  Lex was forming an impression of Lieutenant Buckler, and it was not a wholly positive one. He understood that the man had a job to do and wasn’t a Navy SEAL officer because of his impeccable social skills. Nonetheless, there was no excuse to go around treating people you’d only just met with a brusqueness bordering on contempt.

  Under normal circumstances Lex wouldn’t have stomached such an attitude from anyone. But two hundred grand bought a great deal of leeway. If Buckler wanted a dogsbody to boss around for a couple of days, at that price he could have one. Lex could swallow his pride.

  The René Smithson Highway, Manzanilla’s most impressive infrastructure project, petered out to become a narrow, badly asphalted road. Thirty bumpy, swerving minutes later, the two cars pulled in at the turning circle outside the Cape Azure. The hotel was a set of low buildings laid out haphazardly on a promontory—two-storey oblong blocks with seaward-facing balconies and picture windows.

  As the SEALs checked in at the reception desk, Wilberforce and Albertine kept shooting quizzical looks at Lex: Who are these people? What’s your connection to them? Lex responded with an expression which he hoped said, I’ll explain later.

  “My guys are going to grab some sack time,” Buckler told Lex once the formalities at reception were through. “We’ve been in transit for the best part of thirty-six hours and our body clocks barely know what time of day it is. You and me, though, we should have words. Somewhere private.”

  “Of course,” said Lex. “I’ll just tell my friends they’re free to go.”

  “As a matter of fact, sport,” said Buckler, drawing Lex aside, “your friends might want to hang around. Morgenstern got chatting with them on the way over, and she figures at least one of them could be useful to us, more likely both.”

  “What? No.”

  “Morgenstern has a way of getting people to open up. Seems like there’s some talent there we might tap into.”

  “They’re civilians; your word. Whatever you’re here to do, it surely can’t involve noncombatants.”

  “It surely can if I deem it necessary.”

  “I won’t allow it.” Lex was incensed. This was outrageous. Buckler was overstepping the mark. He couldn’t go dragooning Wilberforce and Albertine into service just because they happened to be present and available. “If there are people with specialist skills you need, I can find them for you on the island, no problem. But I’m not having you exploit these two simply because they fit the bill. I don’t even see what good they’ll be to you.
Wilberforce runs a bar. Albertine’s an IT expert. Unless you’re hankering for a cocktail or your laptop’s on the blink...”

  Buckler bent his head even closer to Lex’s, speaking quietly but with force. “Listen, Mr Dove. You are the hired help here. You know nothing. I have certain operational requirements which you cannot possibly understand, and I will employ any and all measures to ensure that they are met. You can either do what you’re being paid to do and comply with my wishes, or you can back off and get the fuck out of my way. Capiche?”

  “And you, Mr Buckler,” Lex replied, not the least bit cowed, “can get your face out of mine, or I will gladly rearrange your features, starting with that gleaming American dentistry of yours. Capiche?”

  Buckler didn’t blink. There was calculation in those snowy-grey eyes, a steady reassessment of the Englishman in front of him. Everyone else was looking on with curiosity and concern. The tension between Lex and Buckler crackled outwards, filling the space around them with an uneasy charge.

  “Let’s us take this outside,” Buckler said. “Discuss it where there’s no audience.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “You two.” This to Wilberforce and Albertine. “Mind waiting here a while?” Buckler thrust a fistful of Manzanillan dollars at them. “Have lunch on me. Mr Dove and I are heading out for a nice friendly stroll.”

  NINE

  A REASONED, GENTLEMANLY

  EXCHANGE OF VIEWS

  LEX WAS SIZING Buckler up physically as they exited the lobby, debating how easy—or not—it would be to take the American down. A Navy SEAL was the hardest of the hard in the US military, the soldier’s soldier. The training programme was second to none in its brutality and attrition rate. On average, four fifths of candidates flunked the initial eight gruelling weeks of instruction and exercise, which was designed to break a man down to the core and show him the true measure of himself. The rest were left with the belief that they were nigh on indestructible. Further training turned these graduates into killing machines with exceptional tactical and strategic sensibilities and an uncompromising, never-say-die ethic. Buckler would be a fearsome opponent in any form of combat, armed or hand-to-hand.