The Zombie Game (5 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Beneath the National Palace
Port-au-Prince, Haiti

8:58 a.m.

A RAT MOVED AMONG
the rotting bodies, sampling bites of several corpses. It bit through the sock of one man’s leg. The leg shot up abruptly, throwing the rat hard against the wall. The momentarily stunned rodent scurried into a crevice in the wall.

From the stack of corpses, an arm emerged and then a leg. A head appeared. The body wiggled, and the man rose to his feet.

Jakjak stepped away from the pile of bodies. He looked down at the bullet holes in his chest and touched them. “Ow,” he said aloud. He slapped his face. That, too, was painful.
But zombies don’t feel pain.

He looked around.
Iwa
was not with him. He was alone, save for the bodies on the floor.

“
O wi
,
Bondye,
Great God of the Universe,” Jakjak prayed. “You have restored my life. What do you wish me to do?”

There was silence, but he felt a new energy in his body. He expected no reply, as he knew the Vodoun God didn’t communicate with individuals, as in other religions. His God communicated only through human priests (
houngans
) and priestesses (
mambos
) and through
Iwa
, the spirit of dead humans and animals. He looked at the two bullet holes over his heart. A miracle had occurred.

He took a couple steps. He seemed to walk like he’d always walked. He looked at his hands; they, too, seemed as they’d always been.

Jakjak looked upward. “You made me a zombie. Now I’m here to do your bidding.” He shook his head. “But I don’t want to kill nobody. Why am I a zombie?”

Still, he heard no voices.

He looked around for
Iwa
. The cat was not there. Nor was Julien Duran. He was alone. Zombies were always directed by
bokors
.
But who is my master?

Jakjak took a deep breath. The pain persisted in his chest. He coughed and spit old blood from his lungs.

Then, he felt pangs of hunger.
Zombies neither hunger nor thirst. And I feel both.

He looked around the cave he was in. Dim light shone from a low-wattage bulb hanging from an electrical wire. Several cabinets lay on their sides. He started opening them, and in one he found a small stock of canned goods. Rust covered them all. A calendar that was partly covered by the cabinet was for the year 1989. Jakjak lifted several cans and looked at the labels: tomato soup and chicken noodle soup. No matter how old it was, he was going to consume it.

There was no can opener. He took a sharp chunk of concrete and knocked a hole in one of the tops. Ignoring the dust and chips that fell into the can, he put it to his open mouth. He felt pain as the sharp edge cut his tongue. He wiped his mouth and saw bright red blood on his hand.

He laughed aloud. “Zombies don’t bleed!”

Disregarding the blood seeping from his tongue, he gulped down the entire can of tomato soup. He opened and downed two more cans and he wiped the food running down the corners of his mouth with his forearm.

He felt his stomach. “
Ki
begay bon
. That tastes good.” He flexed his muscles. He felt strong.

Mr. Duran must be in this cave somewhere
, he thought. Stuffing two more cans in his pockets, Jakjak started to explore the cave. But all possible openings for escape were covered by large chunks of cement and marble.

Beneath the National Palace

9:35 a.m.

Julien Duran feasted on rare Kansas City steak, Russian caviar, and French truffles, while drinking Dom Perignon Rosé, 2000. His hands were now free.

The wine was not from his own wine cellar. He had bought two bottles of this vintage a year earlier when President Longpre was his dinner guest, paying over $400 for each bottle, but Duran and the President had consumed every drop at the dinner party. This champagne must have been stolen.

Duran tried pretending he was again at that event for the President of Haiti, tried eating slowly and with dignity. The food was as fine as that served to President Longpre, but it was his first actual meal in three days. He was famished and weak from starvation. So he swallowed the meat without properly chewing, shoveled the caviar onto his tongue, stuffed his mouth with the truffles, and gulped the wine.

Even though Baccus had given him generous portions, he licked the plates clean and chug-a-lugged the whole bottle of wine. He belched, knowing belching was unbefitting the Minister of Finance of Haiti or any gentleman anywhere. So, too, was wiping his mouth with his dirty shirtsleeve, but he did that, too. And laughed aloud at his childish behavior.

His captors had left a wash basin filled with hot water, fresh soap, and a towel. They’d also brought him a clean white suit, shirt, and tie, all neatly pressed, as well as a pair of clean socks and shoes. Duran examined the clothing. They were his own, undoubtedly taken from his home. He removed the T-shirt and jeans and bathed the dirt and blood from his body. Then he dressed. The clothes, of course, fit him precisely. The only problem was the cuff links they’d provided him were the awful-looking pair his wife Ingrid had given him for their last anniversary. Holding his sore body erect, he finger-combed his hair.

For the first time since his captivity, he could think and plan his escape. Baccus would soon return with more papers. His signature on the papers would transfer more money from the Haiti Relief Aid Fund. He didn’t know how much money Baccus had already moved from the National Treasury. Baccus had concealed the numbers, and Duran’s mind was so tortured, he’d been unable to think rationally.

With his right hand, he cradled the still painful and badly bent left hand that Baccus had slammed with a hammer. Duran was left-handed—a fact unknown to Baccus and his first error. Duran had signed all papers with his right hand, which might alert those who knew him that he had been coerced into authorizing the money transfers. Nobody knew where Duran was, and few people knew of the jail under the National Palace. But he would tell them—with his signatures.

Baccus returned with the papers, and this time Duran was eager to sign. Duran glanced quickly at the document before Baccus placed his hand to block the account information. With his mind for numbers, Duran committed it to memory: Bank of Scotland, account #352698.

Duran took the pen in his right hand and carefully wrote each letter of his name: Julien R. Duran. To the N he added a tail that looked like crude versions of the letters W and H. Then, he underlined his name, pressing hard under the letters J, L, I, and A. Perhaps an astute observer, such as his son, would transpose the underlined letters and see J A I L and recognize that the squiggly-lined W H meant White House. It was the term he and Tomas had coined for the Haitian Presidential Palace, after they were guests of the President of the United States a year earlier during a trip to Washington, DC, to seek relief aid for Haiti.

Yes, Tomas would pick up on those clues.

As Duran handed the signed document to Baccus, he smiled for the first time since his incarceration.

Lake Ullswater

Glenridding, England

10:00 a.m.

Helen Hart sat in a fourteen-foot boat powered by an antique, five-horsepower Sea King outboard motor. She’d just spent two hours in an internet cafe browsing the web, looking for temporary administrative jobs requiring computers skills. Despite the fact that she’d sequestered fifty million dollars from a dead hospital administrator’s bank in the Cayman Islands, she liked to stay busy. She’d recently completed a two-week job using a computer in the same café in Howton, about five miles up Lake Ullswater from her rented house in Glenridding.

A London newspaper reporter had offered ten thousand euros to anyone who could hack into Prince Andrews’ personal computer and dig up dirt on the royal family. Instead, Helen had hacked into the reporter’s computer and uncovered that the reporter was having an illicit affair. She then anonymously released this data to the
Times
and walked away from the deal with no money but with a good deal of satisfaction from what she’d done.

Helen’s mobile phone vibrated in her pocket. There was a brief e-mail. She frowned for a moment and then smiled. Dr. Scott James had contacted her. He needed her. As much as she tried to suppress her feelings for the man, she was excited. After all, Dr. James had rescued her from terrorists only sixty days earlier.

More than that, he had awakened feelings in her that she’d never known before meeting him, feelings of respect like she’d never had for any other man, maybe even feelings of love. Tears had welled in her eyes when they’d said goodbye at Camp Peary, Virginia.

Helen held her cell phone to her heart for a moment and then called a friend she had not seen since her return from America. “Take me to Haiti.”

He laughed. “Haiti? You gotta be out of your fuckin’ mind.”

“You owe me,” she said in a sweet, sexy voice.

“Ha! You’re a helluva good friend, babe, but flying 4,000 miles to an impoverished disaster zone is not my idea of a good time.”

“Then, tell me, who has the balls to take me there? One way. Today.”

“That will cost you about
five thousand euros
.”

“I’ll pay
ten thousand euros
. Cash.”

“You? Where are you going to get that kind of dish?”

Helen’s face became red, and she clenched her fists. “Let’s just say our financial positions have reversed. I happen to know you’re undergoing an expensive divorce. And have liens on your house and farm. Not to mention the seven thousand you owe on that plane of yours.”

“Only my accountant knows that!” he yelled. “Are you fucking him now, too?”

“Ten thousand euros,” she repeated. She paused and took a deep breath. “Shall I call someone else?”

His swallow was audible. “I’ll need two hours to file flight plans and fuel up. Meet me at my plane at Carlisle Airport, four o’clock. If you show up with the money, I’ll take you.”

Helen quickly composed an e-mail:

I’ll be there at midnight, EDT. Watch your e-mail.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Astana, Kazakhstan

7:00 a.m.

FAROK HAD SLEPT IN
his 747 after leaving Aden, Yemen. The day before, his men had painted the plane white with blue stripes and painted the Kazak West logo on its tail. Farok was awakened as the plane prepared for landing in Kazakhstan. Kazakhstan was a large country, as large as the whole of Western Europe, and it was modernizing. As the plane circled the city, a tired Farok viewed the dome of the Ak Orda Presidential Palace and the gold sphere atop the Bayterek tower.

This was his third demanding trip in as many days. And it was his most important one. The success of his entire mission depended on what he accomplished that night.

A chauffeured limousine met him on the tarmac and transported him to his room at the Radisson Hotel. His guards helped him change into a freshly laundered suit and groomed his face and hands.

There was a knock at the door, and the bodyguards quickly moved to a second bedroom. Farok opened the door and greeted his guest, Sattar Aslanov, who was accompanied by a six-foot-three, muscular, square-faced man wearing a tan suit with a brown tie.

Without so much as a glance at his host, Aslanov brushed past Farok and went to stand behind the sofa. Nodding to his guard, he said, “This is my aid, Victor Petrivic. He always carries a pistol. I hope you have no objection to his presence. I know that two of your men are in the adjacent room. I assure you, if they cause any trouble, Victor will kill you.”

In the previous meetings over the last forty-eight hours, Farok was in control. Now, he began to sweat as he responded to Aslanov, the man who was clearly in authority today. “Understood.”

Aslanov was a cold-blooded extremist. His father and grandfather had joined Al Qaeda when the terrorist group was formed in 1988. His family money came not only from mining uranium and controlling the sale of the mineral but also from manufacturing atomic weapons over the past twenty years. They’d used their incredible wealth to build the modern skyscrapers that now formed the new skyline of Astana. They now served ISIS as donors.

Aslanov frowned as he glared at Farok. “Before we proceed, I need assurance that you have the necessary funds for this transaction. I’m aware that most of your wealthy supporters, like me, stopped contributing to ISIS after Hormand’s failure in America two months ago. It is well known that you directed that mission, so you must prove to me that you can afford my merchandise.”

Farok cleared his throat. His upper lip twitched as he spoke. “The money is present in the bank accounts shown in these documents.” Farok passed him twelve pages.

Aslanov looked carefully at the papers. He dwelt on one of the documents. “But funds in one of the accounts are still the property of Haiti.”

Farok handed him another paper. “As you see, the money has been pledged and will all be transferred in the morning.”

Aslanov nodded approval as he looked at the document signed by Julien Duran, Minister of Finance. “My next question is, are these funds readily transferable to my accounts?” He passed Farok five papers, each detailing an account in five different banks owned by Aslanov, all outside of Kazakhstan.

Farok studied the papers before saying, “Yes. I can make these transactions by wire from my bank in Ankara.”

“And where will the transfer of merchandise occur?”

“In my warehouse at the airport in Aden, Yemen, twenty-four hours after you receive your money.”

Aslanov responded in a deliberate, monotone voice. “Your ownership will be established the moment our people remove the merchandise from the aircraft. A small unit from the Army of Kazakhstan will be there. These people are mine. If your people refuse to take delivery of the merchandise, my soldiers will kill them.” He leaned toward Farok. “And I’ll have
you
killed if Haiti does not release the funds.”

Farok ran his finger under his collar. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Farok tried not to, but he stuttered for the first time in years. “Y-y-yes. Allah is great.”

Aslanov looked Farok in the eyes. “I know about your deal with Iran. I could have dealt directly with them at the same price you negotiated.”

Farok shifted his weight from one foot to the other as Aslanov continued. “But a man in my position can’t be greedy. My risks in this deal, as it stands, are minuscule. Yours are tremendous. Since I hold important positions in this country, my identity cannot be traceable to this project.”

Farok stopped fidgeting and responded. “I understand, and I guarantee your anonymity.
Allahu Akbar
.”

“Good. And I wish you luck.
Allahu Akbar
.”