Voodoo Politics

By Nik van den Bok

The lives of four unrelated people are caught up in changing events as Haiti is again racked by corruption and violence during a few days of a brutal struggle for power and regime change.

A fast-paced novel that covers the tragic impact on a poor Haitian boy and his family who fight to survive in a world of unbelievable violence. A visiting businessman is kidnapped for ransom whilst an indulgent Catholic Bishop has to face his own demons and a dedicated local priest pays a heavy price. These seemingly unrelated events are initiated by a sadistic Haitian security officer whose own world gradually falls apart.

Whilst all this unfolds Miami based drug cartels are determined to maintain their supply lines through Haiti from an unlikely alliance with the CIA. This is unknown to the US State Department and other well-meaning but conflicted international organisations during this period of confusion, chaos and violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035813438

Nik van den Bok

Nik van den Bok was born in Prague (CZ), educated in England and by his 21st birthday had driven overland to India, and on to Australia. Returning to London he became an Advertising Executive in Fleet Street, before relocating to the Caribbean, where he ran a successful publishing organisation based in the Cayman Islands, with operations throughout the Caribbean Basin and Florida. After selling the company to a Canadian multinational he spent several years sailing the Caribbean Islands before being tempted back to international publishing, running companies in India and the Middle East. He currently lives overlooking the Pacific Ocean on the Gold Coast of Australia.

Book preview

About the Author

Nik van den Bok was born in Prague (CZ), educated in England and by his 21st birthday had driven overland to India, and on to Australia. Returning to London he became an Advertising Executive in Fleet Street, before relocating to the Caribbean, where he ran a successful publishing organisation based in the Cayman Islands, with operations throughout the Caribbean Basin and Florida. After selling the company to a Canadian multinational he spent several years sailing the Caribbean Islands before being tempted back to international publishing, running companies in India and the Middle East. He currently lives overlooking the Pacific Ocean on the Gold Coast of Australia.

Dedication

To my wife, thank you for putting up with me. Without your encouragement and support, diligent proof reading and narrative improvements this story would not have been told.

Copyright Information ©

Nik van den Bok 2023

The right of Nik van den Bok to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035813421 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035813438 (ePub e-book)

ww.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Acknowledgements

To the many fascinating and sometimes confronting people I have been fortunate to meet around the world across a wide range of ethnic and religious differences – thank you all for what you have taught me. This book is somewhat influenced by events that happen too often in Haiti but fictionally ‘spiced up’ by what could so easily have happened in the interest of telling a good story. Any reference to actual individuals is not intended and purely coincidental being totally the work of the authors imagination.

Prologue

The island of Hispaniola lies to the east of Cuba, two and a half hours flying time south of Miami, Florida. A large and mountainous landmass, it rises dramatically out of the Caribbean Sea, stretching four hundred and twenty miles from east to west. It is shared by two countries, the Dominican Republic, which occupies two thirds, and Haiti, with a similar population, which has one third.

As a new day dawns from the east, the sun creeps above the horizon, at first a golden glow, and then in a blaze of light and warmth. Its fiery orb dominates and chases away the fading night. Climbing higher, the day gets warmer as it becomes sandwiched between the increasing blues of the sky and the sparkling hues of the sea.

Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic, is the first to see the new day. As the shadows of the night are chased across the country the sun illuminates the lush valleys of the interior, casting light on Mount Duarte’s flank, at 10,000 feet, the highest peak in the Caribbean.

Within half an hour, the Dominican Republic is bathed in sunlight. At this time of day all nature looks fresh, the varied greens of subtropical plants glisten with dew and sway lazily in the soft breeze. The country comes to life with the promise of a fresh start. Villagers walk to their fields to tend crops. Roads fill with commuters riding an assortment of bicycles, motorbikes, and cars all heading to the towns. Factories start to hum with the business of manufacturing and offices open to the pulse of commercial life. The city streets become crowded with pedestrians and traffic both vying for dominance. There is an ever present bustle of activity and the beat of merengue music starts to fill the air. The Dominican Republic is not a wealthy country but a colourful and passionate one.

Along the coastline, beaches cleansed by the night tides, are fringed with golden sand. The Caribbean Sea laps gently on the leeward shores, occasionally creating lazy white breakers on the offshore reefs. Hotels gradually empty of their guests, many to adjacent beaches where tall palms cast welcome shade. Happy tourists from Europe, The United States and Canada arrive in search of the wonderful warmth and light that eludes the more northern climes in winter. Sun bathing, swimming or just strolling aimlessly, they are all caressed by the ever present trade winds that first brought the early explorers to these beautiful shores back in 1492, the days of Christopher Columbus.

As the sun rises higher, it slowly crosses the clearly defined border between The Dominican Republic and its neighbour Haiti. Here shadows of night also fade away as the world turns and Haiti greets the same new dawn. But here the sun creeps across a very different countryside. The lush greens of forest and agriculture abruptly becomes a barren landscape, devoid of life, grey and brown. The mountains, stripped bare of vegetation are scarred by jagged gullies. Tropical storms, heavy rains, and the ever present trade winds have sculpted a very different place. The Spanish language becomes a French based patois reflecting a different colonial past.

The coastline of Haiti is largely devoid of beaches with the mountains plunging straight into the seas. No cleansing white waves break on these shores. Instead a broad brown fringe of muddy water, awash with top soil from the slopes above, flattens the seas natural swell. This brown run off extends several hundred yards out into the Caribbean before it is gradually diluted into the more normal indigo blue of the sea. No hotels grace these shores. No tourists visit. There is little to get excited about in a country where the daily business of scraping together enough food to survive is the name of the game for so many.

Few roads cross this land. Small and isolated villages huddle into the hillsides, and coastal fishing villages cling to the shore, equally poor and often unconnected by road. Activity is muted. Most areas in the countryside are devoid of electricity and struggle to survive. Roads that do wend their way through this landscape gradually come together in a wider plain that is littered with ramshackle hovels. Closer to the city, these become more tightly packed, often with thick black streams of effluent running through their gutters.

The same sun that stirred life on one side of the border is now greeted by people who have few fields to tend, few factories to go to, and little commerce to transact. Only as you approach the city do the roads begin to stir into life.

First on the road are the Tap Tap’s. These modified pickup trucks are the only available transport for most people. With makeshift benches in the back that become more numerous, and get more overloaded, as the city centre nears. Passengers perch squeezed together, hanging onto the sides where possible, breathing black exhaust fumes which belch from most engines. Old trucks and smoky motorbikes join the melee as the morning rush revs up, all fighting for space in the gradually narrowing and potholed streets. Horns blare, people shout, and the air becomes more polluted as they hustle along cracked and irregular pavements. This is daily life for those looking to survive another day by crowding into Port au Prince, the capital of Haiti.

In dramatic contrast to its surroundings, a large green park stands in the centre of this grey city. Facing the park, a glistening white palace, resplendent with pillars and a high domed central roof dominates this area. It stands in stark contrast to its grim surroundings. This is the Presidential Palace, the seat of all power in the land.

However, not even a new dawn will bring relief to the poorest country in the western hemisphere. For most, life is hard, and it shows. Its inhabitants accept today will be the same as yesterday, but deep down, hope tomorrow will be better. Most of life’s fun and passion has been sucked out of these people. For Haiti’s estimated ten million people, hunger, corruption and violence is a pervading cloud that hangs over their lives.

Hopelessness, poverty and fear stalk this land.

However, as this day dawns, a different atmosphere pervades the country. Both fearful and hopeful, a sense that change is about to happen. Few can imagine how dramatic that change will be.

Chapter 1

Dessalines Barracks – Port au Prince,

Republic of Haiti

Henri Pierre had been forced to sit stiffly upright, his arms bound painfully behind the battered chair’s back, knees bent at right angles and ankles bound tightly to the wooden legs. Despite the heat of the early summer evening he shivered involuntarily. One eye was swollen closed, it’s surround bruised and caked with dried blood. He was terrified beyond reason. Perspiration trickled down the side of his head mingling with a dribble of blood that seeped from the corner of his mouth and dripped into his lap. His threadbare shorts were already heavily stained. He had soiled himself.

Only two hours earlier on this sunny Thursday afternoon he had been carefree, enjoying a cold Prestige beer with colleagues after leaving work at The Port Authority Office, on the harbour side in downtown Port au Prince.

Three men, two dark-skinned led by a lighter skinned mulatto wearing sunglasses, had entered the bar with an obvious aura of menace. Their attire was infamous. The dark well-worn suits accompanied by white shirts with yellowing collars and much ironed shiny black ties announced they were State Security Officers. The old Tonton Macoutes, former President Baby Doc Duvalier’s much feared secret police, still lived on despite his exile to France.

Henri Pierre, his back to the door, turned as the men approached. Removing his sunglasses, the senior officer called out, his voice deep and authoritative, Henri Pierre, we need to speak with you.

All conversation and laughter faded away as the presence of the Officers was felt and the command filled the silence. Without waiting for a reply powerful hands pulled him from his stool and roughly bundled him outside and into an aging black Pontiac sedan. His angry cries of protest were met with silence from the others in the bar. Pedestrians in the street were rooted to the spot, all thankful it was not them being hauled away.

The car horn blared, parting the crowds that thronged the roads. Fearful eyes were cast back at the sound of the aggressive use of the horn from behind. People moved quickly out of the way. Everybody recognising the authority of the three occupants of the vehicle but nobody wanted to acknowledge their clearly terrified prisoner.

Henri Pierre knew instinctively where he was being taken. The drive was a short distance but still took fifteen minutes to break out of the bustling downtown boulevard. The car swept around the park in front of the Presidents imposing white palace. To his left the colourful national flag of Haiti flapped lazily in the late afternoon breeze from a flagpole that rose above the palace’s white domed roof.

Approaching the high wooden dark green gates of the Dessalines Barracks, Henri Pierre was so overwhelmed with fear he almost lost control and whimpered softly. His mouth was sticky and dry. A pair of heavily bloodshot brown eyes peered out of the sliding peephole to check credentials then the gates were opened, heralded by the scraping sound of heavy bars that held them locked. As the car with its occupants disappeared into the courtyard, the gates closed ominously behind them.

The Dessalines Barracks are situated to the left of the Presidential Palace. They stand in grim contrast to the palace, with no soaring windows, no glistening paintwork, no domed roofline. The low profile two story buildings are hidden by once whitewashed walls now discoloured by grime and weather. Inside the walls the buildings loom squat with small dark windows which overlook a central courtyard.

To the people of Haiti, this building represents all they fear. Passers-by are always captivated by the opulence of the palace and gaze in fascination that such a building could be the home of just one man. However, their eyes always turn away when falling on the barracks, as if not wishing to acknowledge this place really exists. Fearful that by acknowledging its presence, they somehow could be transported inside. Few civilians enter this place voluntarily, and those who have and were fortunate enough to tell the tale, only added to its awful reputation.

Inside the Barracks, Henri Pierre desperately hoped his arrest was an error and he would soon be released. Reluctant to leave the car, he had been dragged to a musty, sparsely furnished office through a door that opened off the courtyard. Don’t think I am stupid, Pierre. The interrogating officer, dressed in an olive green uniform, whose desk he now stood before, shouted. Pallets have been broken open on the wharf, packages are missing. You know it, I know it. Just tell me who took them.

Mon Dieu, I do not know. I have done nothing, I swear. Pierre’s mouth was so dry his voice was barely above a whisper. He did not see the slight nod that preceded a blow from behind. With no warning a metal rod slammed across his face from the right. The absolute shock of being hit from behind blinded his pain for an instant and then he felt as if his head had exploded. Sinking to his knees, his hands cradled the wound that seared the side of his face. He felt the warm sticky flow of blood between his fingers. He moaned aloud, more in desperation and hopelessness than from the terrible throbbing pain that now filled his world. The soldier who had swung the tire iron stepped back and looked at the interrogating officer again, waiting for instruction.

It would be better for you, Henri Pierre, if you told me now. If you don’t tell me, you will later and it will be Captain Toucant you will be talking to. Henri, still half stunned by the blow, sank to an even deeper level of despair at the mention of Captain Toucant. The reputation of this man was widespread throughout Haiti, his victims numerous, their suffering horrific.

Before he could respond, an old-fashioned black phone with a rotary dial and plaited cord jangled on the desk. The officer answered it swiftly answering No, then saying nothing other than Yes Captain, as you request, Captain before placing the handset gently back on its rest. A heavy silence hung in the air. Dust particles hovered in the sunlight that beamed in at a low angle through a dirty window pane high up the wall.

With blood seeping down his neck, Pierre was manhandled along a short corridor, down some uneven concrete steps and finally into a small brick walled room. Stripped to his underwear, he was tightly bound to a high-backed, scarred and stained wooden chair. Although concussed, the mention of Toucant had shocked him. His mind spun as he questioned his predicament. Why was he here and not back in the bar with his friends? How did this happen? He had never stolen anything. How did his life take such a terrifying turn so fast? His questions had no answers.

The burning pain at the side of his face and the sickness he felt in his stomach was quickly forgotten as he heard the door open and heavy footsteps strode into the room.

Captain Gaspard Toucant was a particularly unpleasant little man. Dark of complexion, with a squat frame and prominent belly, he perspired profusely. Sweat soaked through his open uniform jacket under his armpits. A ragged lumpy and badly healed scar, almost two inches long, ran from the edge of his forehead into his right eyelid. This gave him the appearance of having one eye partially closed, a droopy look that masked his vicious temper. He would have looked better if it had been hidden by an eye patch, but Toucant relished putting his unfortunate charges off balance, an art he practiced often.

At forty-three years old, he had risen through the ranks of the State Security Service, previously known as the Tonton Macoute, a career he had enjoyed for almost twenty three years. His grubby uniform, complete with frayed cuffs and tarnished buttons indicated he served in Caserne Dessalines, an autonomous branch of the recently remodelled Haitian Military Service.

He would rise no further despite his obvious enthusiasm for the job. His superiors were themselves often guilty of brutal tactics to maintain control within the country, but Captain Toucant’s style sickened even them. However, being extremely effective in his own creatively vicious way, he remained useful to them at this level. His ‘perks’ or side-lines were also known to his superiors and tolerated. After all, what good was power he rationalised, if it was not used to occasionally supplement the meagre wages paid by the military. He had few friends, was rarely invited to socialise with his fellow officers and had made many enemies who tried not to cross his path. Many people fervently wished for his demise.

Toucant dragged a chair in front of his prisoner, sat down and silently leant forward. Rivulets of sweat glistened in the folds of his neck as he moved. With his thick forefinger, he caressed, almost seductively, the prisoner’s knee, his broad and yellowing fingernail barely touching Pierre’s skin. He sighed as if bored. Raising his head, he studied the prisoner’s face and admired the bloody gash across his forehead. He relished the stark terror in the man’s one open eye, wide and darting like a startled animal. He moved closer and smiled almost languidly, his thick lips barely parted. His breath was stale with hints of cheap rum and the remains of lunch caught between stained and yellowing teeth.

Nodding his head slowly a bead of sweat dripped from his nose onto the concrete floor. Now why are you here, I wonder, he uttered. Why is it always so difficult to own up to the truth? Once we have the truth, all this can be finished, you can go home and I can get to more important matters.

Captain, stuttered the prisoner, I promise you I know nothing about the missing packages. If I did I would tell you, please… his words died away as he hyperventilated and gasped for breath again. Twisting his head from one side to the other as if sensing they were not alone in the room, he desperately looked around him. The rough brick walls of the room were stained and pitted. The concrete floor was mottled, some patches yellowish but with darker definable fringes, others a thick solid reddish brown. The air was damp and stagnant with a faintly sharp, almost rancid odour of urine.

Straining against the ropes that trapped him to the chair he felt despair once more overwhelm him. His mouth was dry and tongue thick as he simultaneously gasped for breath and gagged in fear.

Toucant raised his right hand towards the guard who stood behind Pierre, just out of his direct sight near the door. Stepping forward, the guard handed him a six-inch tapered iron spike, not unlike a railway spike, with a bulbous flattened head. Toucant transferred it to his left hand which was resting on Pierre’s right knee.

No, my friend, it is too difficult to believe you are blind to what goes on under your own nose, Pierre. After all, you hold a position of responsibility on the docks. If you did not take the packages then not knowing who did means you have failed that responsibility. He paused before continuing, I am also responsible to others for what goes on under my control, but unlike you I do not fail that responsibility. Toucant’s eyes stared deeply into the face of the sobbing figure in front of him. The familiar tingle of adrenalin entered his stomach as he bathed in his prisoner’s fear, relishing his own power, with an almost sexual anticipation.

He held his hand out again and this time the soldier handed him a 5lb. mallet with a dark and worn wooden handle. He placed the spike, almost casually, point down on his prisoner’s thigh, just above the kneecap, in the soft spot where the femur meets the knee joint. Holding the spike in his left hand and the mallet in his right, he gazed again into the face in front of him and very gently tapped the head of the spike twice. A tiny prick of blood appeared but the spike remained, point down, on Henri’s knee. So you’re sure you don’t know, Henri? Pity eh!

The silence was broken only by the metallic tap of metal on metal. The prisoner froze, then shuddered, emitting a high-pitched squeal. Paralysed by fear, Henri was unable to form words let alone speak. Toucant leant back a little and lifted the hammer slowly and level with his shoulder. Last chance, tell me about the packages, he growled.

Sobbing uncontrollably, Pierre’s voice was barely audible. Honest, I swear on my mother’s grave. I know nothing of any packages. Nothing. I never ever took anything.

Pausing only to lean a little further forward, Toucant had had enough. Recognising this man was probably innocent, he justified his next action as a warning to Pierre’s colleagues. Rising slightly from his chair, and with one powerful swing, he drove the mallet down onto the head of the spike which disappeared into the prisoner’s leg. Toucant, still smiling ruthlessly, never took his eyes off his subject’s face.

An agonising scream resonated around the grim walls and echoed down the dark corridors of the building. It burst from Pierre’s lungs and was heard two floors above the Barracks cellars. Even the most hardened of those hearing the scream shuddered. They knew what was happening. Toucant abruptly stood up from his chair and almost turned away before swiftly wheeling back around and again swung the hammer hard and fast but this time square onto the kneecap, shattering it back towards the imbedded railway spike. The accompanying crack and splintering sound was again followed by an unholy howl of pain that burst through his lungs and roared from his throat accompanied by a spray of blood before he collapsed into merciful unconsciousness.

Toucant turned swiftly sideways to avoid the blood and casually tossed the hammer onto his desk. Picking up a packet of cigarettes, he glanced towards the guard, Pull that pin out and dump him tonight outside the gates of the Port Authority. With those words hanging in the air, he looked down at the broken figure slumped forward but still bound to the chair. His hand almost lovingly lifted the chin, and for an unusually long moment, he gazed into the tortured face before letting it fall again. Shaking his left leg, he casually adjusted his crotch, smoothed his hands down his jacket, straightened what remained of the creases in his trousers and left the room.

Chapter 2

Petionville – Haiti

Darkness was falling as Captain Gaspard Toucant’s driver sprang to attention and opened the rear door of his car. Barking his destination, Toucant settled himself in the back as the driver headed out of Port au Prince towards the wealthy suburb of Petionville. Glancing at his watch, Toucant felt a pang of concern, aware he was going to be late for his meeting at the El Rancho Hotel. He always felt uncomfortable in the hotel’s lavish surroundings, the air of opulence it exuded made him feel out of place and unusually self-conscious. Despite changing jackets in the car he began to feel increasingly nervous and vulnerable, a total and unwelcome contrast of emotions to those of absolute power and control he enjoyed back in the prison.

For this unofficial meeting he had swapped his normal dark green military jacket for a plain black one that was one size too large. This was a ploy he felt disguised his growing paunch but, in reality, matched up with his olive green trousers, made him look unkempt and clumsy. This sense of unease was a frustration heal ways felt whenever he met Don Julio de Cordoba. The man intimidated him. Being summoned to a meeting always worried him. What had he done wrong, what did he want, why was he here? He cursed the early evening traffic on Avenue Jean Brown and tried to pull the cuffs of his jacket down in an attempt to disguise some of the creases.

Just outside the town of Petionville, down a tree lined driveway surrounded by green lawns, The El Rancho Hotel could not have stood out in greater contrast to the dirt and squalor that so pervaded Port au Prince. The magnificent main building, white and imposing, was still glowing in the fading evening light. Tall ornate Corinthian style pillars supported a similar Roman style portico that framed the heavily etched glass double doors. A wide marble foyer opened out onto a sweeping paved veranda with comfortable cream painted wicker chairs dotted around. Some had high backs, some had broader arms but all had sumptuous pastel cushions and were grouped around wicker and glass circular tables.

The view was captivating, sweeping down across manicured lawns that dropped away over a hillside, with the iridescent blue of the Caribbean Sea sparkling in the distance. Waiters in starched white jackets complete with black bow ties and matching trousers silently served the few customers who sat chatting discreetly at their tables. Captain Toucant looked anxiously around before spotting the man who had summoned him this evening.

Don Julio de Cordoba was the only son born into a Dominican family dynasty that stretched back to his country’s origins. Family folklore claimed his lineage could be traced back to the very first Spanish settlers, and that a Cordoba accompanied Christopher Columbus when he first discovered Hispaniola over five hundred years ago. Over the centuries the family fortune had grown considerably. At first it was amassed from vast land holdings cultivating sugar cane and copra. As times changed so did they, expanding into the importing and financing of equipment that a growing the country needed to develop. Labour was at first provided by slavery until abolition, then the considerable pool of poor Dominican workers with little education but big families provided the workforce. More recently an abundant supply of even cheaper labour was available from Haiti to undertake the backbreaking task of cutting the sugar cane and copra at harvest time. Haitians were cheaper by far, and would work longer hours for less money. This, coupled with the fact that they were not protected by the small but growing Dominican trade unions which frustrated the Dominican landowners, made them even more attractive.

Julio was thirty eight years old. He had grown up privileged and protected, particularly by his mother, who had spoilt him, her only son. Unfortunately his father had suffered a debilitating stroke ten years earlier and was rarely seen outside his house, which left Julio to manage the family’s affairs. His elder sister, recognising the future of her lavish lifestyle was in Julio’s hands, pandered to his wishes and demands. His two younger sisters, also spoilt as children, were now married but still treated him with deference as head of the family.

Unlike his father, Julio demonstrated little interest, or ability, in expanding the traditional businesses further. By ruthlessly cutting costs he squeezed his managers as hard as possible to maximise profits. His ambitions lay with more international horizons, opportunities that required little capital but had the potential for huge returns.

His family contacts within the powers that ran the Dominican economy and military establishment gave him considerable influence. Frequent trips overseas allowed him to indulge himself in a life that might have been frowned upon back home. He not only had an eye for pretty woman, but also a taste for young men and boys. His constant pursuit of physical satisfaction was beginning to show on his increasingly dissipated face. Tall, slim and fine boned, his once aristocratic features were now lined and reflected the ravages of a continual overindulgence in fine wines and cocaine. His once glossy black hair showed strands of grey and his eyes appeared dull and edgy.

Oh Don Julio, I am so sorry if I have kept you waiting Toucant said as he approached the olive skinned man leaning casually at the bar. Don Julio de Cordoba, dressed in a pristine open neck cream shirt and beige slacks, turned to acknowledge the fawning Captain’s greeting. He barely disguised his contempt for the man before a faint look of resignation passed across his unmistakably Latin features.

Toucant, you are here I see, he replied, raising his hand and clicking his fingers at the barman. With a glance of his eyes he indicated towards his usual table, on its own near the balcony, and flanked by a pair of high backed wicker chairs that he hoped would block the view of his meeting with the dishevelled Toucant.

Toucant bowed obsequiously, gesturing enthusiastically for Don Julio to take his choice of chair first, before nervously scurrying behind and sitting in the opposite chair. Don Julio sank lazily into the soft cushions reclining against the throne like back rising inches above his head. He crossed his long legs casually gazing at Toucant, What a disgustingly ugly man he was he thought. How could anybody be so inattentive when shaving and, as for bathing, just look at the man’s jacket. Appraising him with barely disguised distaste, he could not ignore the ever present damp patches under his armpits that scented the air with the unwelcome aroma of stale sweat. With a grimace he said, So Toucant how goes business in Haiti during these turbulent times?

With his short legs barely touching the floor Toucant perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair. He was indeed perspiring heavily and could feel moisture trickling down his back, and forming on his brow which glistened despite the cooler evening air. The wide square arms of his chair boxed him into an uncomfortable stance, trapping his arms by his sides and forcing him to shuffle them onto his knees. Oh Don Julio, such troubled times he muttered, I fear that the President’s line is not hard enough with all these dissidents, and now some in the church are raising their voice. Pausing he wondered why was it that Julio de Cordoba made him speak so out of character? He felt himself inferior, overwhelmed by the man’s stature, his wealth, his confident effortless supremacy.

Don Julio raised an eyebrow and frowned at his companion. Coming from a long Catholic background, despite his infrequent visits to mass, he held the church with considerable reverence, respected their influence over the poor.

Ahhh, Don Julio responded, it would be very unfortunate if the for the President to find himself in conflict with the Church. However I fear those meddling Americans are once again fuelling that debate. It is just another tactic to put pressure on President Bertrand to vacate the palace and step down to make way for free elections.

Yes, yes indeed. I also hear that President Bertrand has been having many visits from the American Ambassador recently. Can they really force our President out? Gaspard ventured and then shut up as if he had spoken out of turn.

Holding his palms apart as if to reveal some mystical wisdom Julio nodded towards Toucant and continued. How very stupid they are, he exclaimed, The gringos are so fixated on converting us all to democracy they fail to see that it is unsustainable in our part of the world. Julio spoke without any pronounced Spanish accent. Educated in The United States he had easily adopted their lifestyle and vocabulary. He also liked to talk, creating a sense of being more knowledgeable than he really was, and he liked an audience.

Take my country as an example. Only a few years ago, in the Dominican Republic, America supported President Rafael Trujillo, a man they saw as capable of holding the country together, even though others called him a dictator. However they failed to protect him and his plane crashed in what we all know were suspicious circumstances. Raising his hand as if to protest, Julio’s voice deepened. "They have sent their own troops into my country to fight the communist Cuban insurgents that their foreign policy created, and for what? We ended up with a succession of puppet Presidents, the most durable of whom was an ageing blind octogenarian, and all that in the name of democracy."

Toucant nodded as if in agreement but in reality had little understanding about the world outside of Haiti.

And what changed? No leader in my country can survive without the backing of the military, and the military in turn respects the support it receives from the establishment, traditional old Dominican families, like mine. We truly understand the people, so we run the country and nothing can ever change that. Pausing for a moment he then added, It is not dissimilar here in Haiti I think, but the Americans, they still think they can change the world with democracy. Instead they create unrest and mislead the people.

Toucant opened his mouth as if to answer but shut it quickly as Don Julio continued, Nevertheless Toucant, I am confident that you and your military colleagues will bring the situation under control again in your usual effective way.

Blushing beneath his dark complexion at the unexpected compliment Toucant could only mumble in response, Don Julio, you speak the truth, you understand it better than I do, but what can be done.

Cordoba carried on as if uninterrupted, I tell you Toucant the only possible winners in this charade called democracy are the damned union officials, scrambling around trying to snatch power for themselves. I tell you a strong hand is what is needed. Good guidance for the people, and then the people will be better off for it. We all have our place in society, it’s the natural order of life. Pausing to light a cigarette, without offering one to Toucant, he continued, however we shall not concern ourselves with such things. Better we play our part with what we can achieve and that brings me to a subject I have been asked to discuss with you.

Toucant sensed a trickle of sweat run from under his armpit. He was decidedly uneasy and replied warily, And what may that be Don Julio?

It’s the security issue on the wharfs Toucant.

What security issue Don Julio? If you mean in the port, I can assure you it is secure.

That’s not what I am told Toucant. Some friends of mine, important friends, have had some of their shipments tampered with. Packaging was cut open, petty stuff, but it would become a serious subject if anything were to go missing.

Don Julio, we do what we can but, as I am sure you will understand, it is impossible to stop all petty pilfering on the docks. People are always looking to take a little extra. Sweating more heavily now, Toucant felt a pang of apprehension in his stomach.

Toucant you are not listening, I said I have some very important friends who are not happy. They are not people you want to make unhappy. You understand me better now?

Oh oui monsieur, yes, yes, he almost gabbled in response. Only today we arrested a worker on the dock who had been involved in opening some pallets. I can assure you he won’t be doing that again, in fact I don’t think he will be working again, anywhere, for a long time.

Bien, Toucant, it is all very well to make an example of somebody but don’t let up on your vigilance. My friend’s shipments through the docks are very important. Haiti is a very important part of our business and for that my friends pay your government well. If you cannot guarantee them security then it won’t be just my friends you have to worry about, you understand me Toucant.

Rest assured Don Julio, I will make it my personal responsibility to keep all your shipments secure. Toucant fought down an increasing panic.

Good then I can report back that I have your word and my partners have nothing to worry about. Don’t let me down. They are very tough businessmen indeed, I repeat, you would not want to upset them.

Ah yes Don Julio, I understand completely. You have my word. Toucant did not need to be told anymore and sought to change the subject to something less threatening. But what about harvest time? I thought perhaps that was why you summoned me. I hope that nature has blessed your endeavours once more.

With vast sugarcane plantations in the Dominican Republic, Don Julio de Cordoba was indeed interested in both nature and his crops. Tracing the rim of his glass with a perfectly manicured finger, it was evident that the actual hard labour of harvesting was not part of his agenda. His only interest was in harvesting as cheaply as possible.

Oh the crops are so-so. He waved his hand casually back and forth as if to diminish their value. Prices on the market continue to drop and the union wants more. I tell you Toucant, sometimes I wonder why we bother at all. It is so much trouble and they’ll steal you blind if you don’t watch them.

Who they were was left unsaid, but Toucant, glad to have the conversation back on more comfortable track, understood that anyone challenging Cordoba’s lavish lifestyle was a potential enemy. This ritual conversation between them had been more or less the same for the past ten years now. A prelude to negotiation, a posturing for price, a two way trafficking in misery and poverty.

The business that brought these two very different men together each year was common greed. Don Julio, frustrated with union interference on his vast plantations, needed cheap labour. Despite the barely adequate wages paid on his side of the border, Haitian labour would work for a pittance. An added attraction was that the imported workers were desperate for any