The Admiral's Mark (Short Story) Read Online Free PDF

things.”
    The boy pushed back from the table and rushed from the room.
    “They get excited,” Dubois said. “We not meet people like Scotty all the time.”
    Elise brought the meal to the table.
    Dubois squeezed his wife’s arm with affection. “She good teacher and good cook.”
    Alain returned with some papers, which he eagerly displayed.
    “Mr. Malone has no time for that,” the boy’s mother said. “Sit and eat your food.”
    Malone smiled. “He’s fine.”
    Alain pointed. “Can you read the messages?”
    The three pieces of paper were all blank.
    He shook his head. “Why don’t you read them for me.”
    “It’s easy.”
    The boy jumped up on his chair and held one of the blank sheets to the overhead light. Slowly, brown letters appeared on the paper.
    H ELLO A LAIN .
    Then he knew. Lemon juice. Reacting to the heat of the bulb. “That is an old spy trick. Scotty should not have revealed that to you.”
    “It’s a secret?” Violine asked.
    “You use it, too?” Alain said as he hopped down. “Scotty said secret agents use this all the time.”
    “He was right. We do. All the time. But you can’t tell anyone.”
    “Scotty was a good man,” Elise said. “He spent a lot of time with the children. We were so sad when he died.”
    He saw that she meant it. Obviously, Scott had forged an ally in Dubois and his family, cementing that with the right words, said at the right time, coupled, most likely, with a liberal sprinkling of money. The Magellan Billet? Interesting Scott had used that as his cover. What kind of con had his brother-in-law been working?
    He doubted these people knew.
    So he kept his mouth shut and allowed them to continue to think the best.

    Malone entered La Villa St-Louis, the hotel located outside Cap-Haïtien, on the coast, inside a stunning building with Spanish and French influences. More upscale than where he was staying, its lush grounds fenced and guarded. The auction was held in a paneled hall that could accommodate a few hundred comfortably. He estimated that fewer than seventy-five were there, many already seated and awaiting the first item. To his right and near the front sat Zachariah Simon. The other man, Rócha, was not in sight. Malone grabbed a chair to the left of the center podium, at the end of an aisle of eight seats.
    A copy of the day’s
International Herald Tribune
lay on the next chair. To make himself less conspicuous, he grabbed the paper and scanned the front page, noticing an article about a
Los Angeles Times
reporter whose name he knew. Tom Sagan. Caught falsifying a story from the Middle East. Interesting. After an internal investigation, the
Times
had fired Sagan and apologized for the scandal. Too bad. He’d never thought Sagan the type to lie.His eyes drifted from the newspaper, keeping a watch on what was happening.
    More people drifted in.
    The auction began and four items were sold, three paintings and a beautiful piece of mahogany furniture, all from the same estate being liquidated. According to the catalog the 16th-century book would be the fifth offering, and it was brought in by a white-gloved attendant, who laid it before the auctioneer.
    Bids were called for. Simon wasted no time.
    “Five thousand.”
    Malone waited to see if anyone else planned to make a bid. Seeing none, he offered his own.
    “Six thousand.”
    The auctioneer’s eyes raked the crowd and waited.
    “Seven thousand” came Simon’s reply.
    “Eight,” Malone quickly added.
    “Ten.”
    A new voice.
    From behind.
    He turned to see Matt Schwartz, standing, his arm raised to identify himself.
    Simon spotted the newcomer, too, then said, “Twelve.”
    Malone decided to see how bad the Austrian, and the Israelis, wanted the book. “Fifty thousand.”
    Auctioneers were usually noted for their poker faces, but he’d clearly caught this one off guard. The surprise showed, but was quickly suppressed before he asked, “Any more bids?”
    “Seventy-five thousand,”