chapter 14a 

(The Warrant) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

14a 

The Warrant 

Captain José Camillo Pintado and Lieutenant Salvatore Paco Menendez are back in town at sundown. The two well-groomed Uruguayan officers kept their word. The police forces of the United Nations hold Mizerikod in a tight grip just like they promised to Pyram Malvenu. An impassable roadblock made of tree trunks and tire shredders blocks the access to Route Nationale #2; a coast guard task force on board of four patrol boats and a thousand ton corvette prevents anyone from leaving the city by sea. To deter further rebellion and discourage resistance, a highly menacing organic armored unit rides through the partially flooded streets of the commune. These military tanks are supported on each side by half a dozen jeeps equipped with loudspeakers and dual rocket launchers. On the outskirts of the city, a Bell Griffon helicopter, loaded with powerful searchlights and four air-to-surface missiles, flies over the hills. It's presence is clearly to dissuade the population from attempting to escape through the woods. 

Captain Pintado was hoping to get a hundred men under his command to cordon Mizerikod and take control of the region. It seems that an anonymous hawk, with lots of leverage inside the Minustah, decided to give him five hundred and forty men to reduce the risks of failure to zero. Putting an end to the reign of the city's thugs was not urgent for the Department of Peacekeeping Operations, but keeping the existence of that commune secret and liberating Moïse Berri from the Diabbakas was. Twelve battle tanks move at a very slow pace on Capois-la-Mort, heading in the direction of the Jacques-Roumain Bridge. The main boulevard of the town is completely deserted. The citizens of Mizerikod understood the urgency to find a shelter before the imminent start of the turmoil. 

On the other side of the bridge, the reaction of the people is completely opposite. Instead of hiding, the disaster victims of the neighborhood camp begin to form a loud and unruly crowd. Oblivious to the danger and the many threats lurking around, a bunch of carefree children see these shielded vehicles as giant toys; the sick and the afflicted hope that what they're seeing are pharmacies on wheels filled with medications and antibiotics; the hungry ones wish that the military cars will transform at the last minute into food delivery trucks from the USAID agency. The optimists want to believe that the war machines have something to do with the reconstruction projects. They tell themselves that they're like huge bulldozers, probably brought by the Minustah to get rid of the hazardous debris left by Hurricane Sandy. The hardcore pessimists slowly begin to gather their belongings. They mentally prepare themselves for a massive exodus; because fighting vehicles in urban areas are rarely associated with peace of mind and sedentary living. 

The police station on Lysius-Salomon Avenue is besieged by the UNPOL. It looks like Chief Malvenu completely forgot about the joint operation he planned with captain Pintado in the morning. In need of a quick nasal irrigation, because he sniffed too much coke and bled abundantly, the police commissioner sends his son Pyram to greet the Uruguayan officers. 

“Where are the dogs?” the sergeant asks bluntly. 
“Dogs, I am sorry, what dogs?” Lieutenant Menendez wonders. 
“You told me you'd bring a pack of molossers and mastiffs with you. What about the guns with laser pointers, did you forget them also?” 
“Can we speak to the commissioner,” Captain Pintado demands, well aware that he is in the presence of a lunatic. 
“I am the only one in command when my dad is not running things,” Pyram Malvenu declares with authority. “So, what's the plan; when, how and where do we launch the attack?” 
“Our warrant clearly stipulates that we must work with Chief Yves-Arnold Malvenu or take matters into our own hands, Sergeant.” 
“You think you're better than me, right, Moustache? Dad! Come on out! I need you to deal with Himmler and the Grand Dragon from the Klan in here.” 
“When was your last stretch of eight hour sleep?” Menendez asks Pyram, sincerely concerned. 
“Why do you give a damn? Is it my lazy eye that bugs you? Dad, hurry up! There is Sonia and his sister, Sandra, in their well ironed uniforms, here. They want to put us aside and do our job. Aryan supremacy, South-American style, am I right, you permanent tourists? Why don't we bring back colonization to civilize the Black man? Let's finish Cristoforo Colombo's great plan. Am I wrong, Menendez, am I wrong?” 
“You don't have to disrespect us, Sergeant. We're not racists and we're not here to boss you around.” 
“Why don't we switch roles? I go down in Uruguay to guide you in the risky barrios of Montevideo. My only qualification is my Spanish language certificate. How do you feel when I start to subjugate you like a young cadet?” 
“Some of us are not happy to be here, Sergeant, believe me.” 
“What do you dislike the most, Menendez, our male prostitutes, the five stars hotel you live in or your all included holidays with an additional paycheck ten times the amount you'd normally get, back in your village on the Rio Negro? Back home, you had to paddle like crazy to go get your mail. Here in Haiti, it's the Land Rover supplied by the state to do the peafowl dance downtown, the five service dishes in all the good restaurants, the free cocktails, the pictures for the photo album and all the promos. Who pays for the gas in your tank? We don't care. Why all those privileges? We don't know.” 
“Pyram!” 

Chief Police Malvenu comes out of his office at the right time. Lieutenant Menendez was a split second away from putting all protocols aside. His left fist was ready to punch the sergeant right between the eyes. The consequences of being reprimanded and demoted were totally accepted. 

“Captain Pintado, what a pleasant surprise. I was so eager to meet with you again,” Malvenu lies, acting all cheered up and welcoming. “Lieutenant Menendez, you look like a shiny gold bar. I wish my men were all spick-and-span like you. You have no idea how proud I am to be part of your team. It is a privilege, really. There, I've said it, but enough with the ass-kissing. Let me go straight to the point. I gave a lot of thought today on the different types of intervention we should use to put an end to that annoying masquerade. To tell you the truth, I even pictured us on the evening news and on the cover of Haïti Observateur. You and I, Captain, can you visualize it? Our chests thrown out with pride, wearing flashy clothes and why not a couple of civil decorations and military medals. Ha! ha! ha! Chuck Canada made us look bad and incompetent for way too long. The Diabbakas must be eradicated like a disease. Those rabid dogs must be imprisoned forever and be erased from our list of hassles for good. By the way, Captain, that will be part of my speech. I wrote it myself. I have a certificate in creative writing.” 
“How interesting,” Captain Pintado replies with a shaky and barely audible voice. “We definitely have to put a stop to the criminal activities of this man, you call the Shock.” 
“Chuck!” Sergeant Pyram Malvenu corrects. “You have to put more emphasis on the C, but you must pronounce it like a T. Like in Tchaikovsky, for instance... Chuck. Purse your lips together like a duck.” 
“Of course, Sergeant… we're not suggesting that the armed gangs and the fugitive prisoners are a less important problem in our eyes than the hostage they are holding captive. However, getting our hands on the man that was kidnapped from Senator Fleurant's villa last night is crucial. It is a priority for the State of Haiti; it is also one for the international community.” 
“Good, then, we'll be hitting two targets with one bullet,” Chief Police Malvenu says with gaiety. “And behind the curtains, Captain Pintado, hi! hi! hi! Under the carpet, you know, under the sheets, between you and I… I'm not talking about accepting a bribe or becoming extortionists, blackmailing people around, but we must remember that the victim is a real nabob. I'm talking rich enough to wipe his ass with genuine American money. One scenario, I had in mind… you tell me what you think, don't be shy. Here it is. We free this fucker like if we were the Marvel Avengers and then quickly ask him for a mandatory donation. While he is still grateful. We could encourage him to sign a check for a charity organization or directly to us, his liberators. You're following me?” 
“Are you trying to corrupt us, Commissioner Malvenu?” 
“Not at all, Captain. Where do you get such infamy, don't you understand English? I can switch to French if you are more comfortable with Molière. Let's get back and focus on the operation. Now, do you have a plan?” 
“Yes… Lieutenant?” Captain Pintado says, inviting Lieutenant Menendez to elaborate. 
“The man these bandits are holding is a human time bomb,” Salvatore Menendez reveals in a whisper. “He is a public menace and a threat to the stability of your humble and proud nation. You see, that disreputable individual knows some very disturbing stuff, a mix of truth, disinformation and plain lies that could really damage and even ruin the reputation of many occidental politicians and highly influential decision takers, including the President of the United States and the Secretary General of the United Nations. We're here to make sure that doesn't happen. You mentioned television and the media earlier. Well, we prefer to travel in the opposite direction. If you know what I mean? We must act and work in the shadows. Let's not forget that the city of Mizerikod doesn't officially exist, according to the CIA and the World Factbook. There is a reason for that. For the sake of your national security, it must remain that way by any means.” 
“Wait a minute, now. I have the funny impression that we are not talking about the same guy,” Chief Malvenu says, giggling, trying hard not to explode in laughter. “The bloke these illiterate savages abducted is a real legend around here, the most charming dude of the island. He comes only second to Jesus of Nazareth if we're talking about lunch time conversations. Have you noticed that all the children in the area are happy; despite the disasters and the catastrophes they've witnessed with their innocent eyes? It's all thanks to him. Because the man loves them silly kids like if they were his own. He finds new excuses all the time to spoil them. Nike, Reebok, 50 Cents, Bieber, Diddy and Gaga, iPad, iPod, my God, they have them all. There's even a tattoo place now. And don't you fall sick, young or old; this man will come and nurse you himself. And he is not even a doctor! Ha! ha! ha! But, hey… his detractors will certainly say that things could be done faster, concerning the reconstruction process, of course. Have you heard about the Haitian Space Program, he proposed? His enemies would like to see him step on the accelerator and put everything back into place with a magic stick. Those idealists will also condemn the fact that a lot of money seems to have gone in smoke since our man is commanding the ship. Now, take a good look around you. You can testify for yourself. There was nothing left here on January 11 of 2010. If we put aside the complete devastation caused by Hurricane Sandy this past week, it's not too bad. Who are we to oppose a river from overflowing?” 
“That's very far from the image we got of that man in our latest briefing. We were told that this gentleman is in fact a spy of Mossad, a rogue agent from the NATO or worse, maybe a Home Office saboteur. He started working for his own interest, according to many, for an enemy nation of the region we will take the precaution not to name.” 
“You don't need to go in the details, Lieutenant,” Captain Pintado intervenes. 
“Our Chief of Staff thinks otherwise, Captain.” 
“That dissident agent broke in our computer network and messed up our main server,” Captain Pintado reluctantly admits. “He deliberately destroyed a large amount of our local database. He then proceeded to attack a number of high ranking officers of the Minustah and Senior Officials of the UN, using degrading spams that were made public and accessible to many bloggers worldwide.” 
“What do you mean by degrading?” Commissioner Malvenu asks, very curious and also surprised. 
“Well… mostly senseless profanities, bad taste jokes and absurdities,” Lieutenant Menendez continues. “It's like if our suspected mole had regressed in age. We're talking about evidently altered pictures of our Commandant engaging in sexual activities with various farm animals, blurry videos showing people pretending to be members of the UNPOL, participating in orgies inside what many believers consider sacred sites and buildings. There are also tons of photocopies exposing false bank statements and made up contracts. And finally, a dozen of short filmed interviews in which the dialogues were modified and dubbed in Creole, in order to make devoted workers pass for immoral thieves and barbarians with no values.” 
“I find all this quite strange and hard to understand. You're probably mistaking,” Chief Malvenu estimates. “The man I know is a lighthearted and cheerful lad, always ready for a bottle or two. And horny like a rabbit, I tell you. He does play chess like a Grand Master and poker like Stu Ungar, but he is no digital genius. But what a dancer, women adore him. I just can't picture him as an intelligent cyber spy with knowledge of computers and political powers. Not too long ago, he needed help to find the alarm on his own phone. Now, let's get back to the plan, time is running. You said that you wanted to act unseen, away from the media, far from the spotlight. I am listening.” 
“That's why we insisted on bringing so many men,” Captain Pintado points out. “We wanted to make sure we outnumbered them. We wanted to show we mean business, rule number one if you want to have a dissuasive effect on the enemy. We hope to accomplish our mission without a blood spill.” 
“May I ask who is officially in charge of the operation?” 
“You and I, Commissioner.” 
“Let me stop you right there, Captain. This is first and foremost a local situation. I am not saying that you come here as a colonizer, like my stupid son said earlier, but I find it important to show, to the entire population of Mizerikod, that the Haitian National Police is leading the way and conducting the orchestra. You get what I'm saying? So, on paper, it is you and I, but in front of the future voters, you must treat me at all time like your superior. There, I've said it; I am running for Mayor on the next elections. The image I want to maintain and project is the one of a stalwart leader. You dig me, Captain?” 
“Anything you want, Commissioner. I can also add Imperator-Pontifex-Maximus in front of your name, if that makes you feel good, as long as the intervention is a complete success.” 
“Tell him that we're already working in close collaboration with Interpol,” Pyram Malvenu suddenly throws from nowhere. “We're far from being second class police.” 
“Interpol?” 
“Don't listen to my son, Captain, he fell on his head several times when he was a toddler. Our thing with Interpol has no link with the highly tactical job we're planning here. I'll take care of that other thing tomorrow. Let's proceed.” 
“There's not enough space between us to stack secrets, Commissioner. The sharing and transfer of information has to be mutual. That's an order from above.” 
“It's about a pedophile ring. What does it have to do with us and our future fame? It's the kind of international scandal that will feed journalists for weeks, not hero material. That's why I was talking about television and newspapers. That guy, a friend of mine, Victor Gourdet, that's is name, the editor of the Mizerikod Daily; he knows enough of that explosive story to write a complete article about it. If you don't like being under the spotlight, I advise you to stay away from all this. To name just a few: CNN, the BBC, Al Jazeera and France 2 are all on their way down here. Someone has made Mizerikod's geographical coordinates public and available on the Web.” 
“We won't let them in, that's all. We have tanks and missiles, for Christ's sake! Have you made any arrests in that case yet?” 
“Actually, yes, the leader of the pedophile ring is languishing in a cell of the municipal jail as we speak. The problem is that nobody read him his rights before the incarceration. The nitwits who booked him are not real officers. I beg you not to judge me or throw the book at me. I'm keeping that beast in his cage anyway. I am not letting that monster go free because of bad procedures; it's out of the question. Do you have kids, Captain?” 
“Six.” 
“I have nine,” Lieutenant Menendez says with a defying glare directed at Sergeant Pyram Malvenu. “Four with my ex-wife, three with my current girlfriend, a boy out of wedlock... I used to play drums in a band; and recently, an adorable little Haitian girl that lost her parents in the quake and that we intend to adopt soon.” 
“So you do understand my anger, gentlemen. I admit that it's against police ethics, but tomorrow, I'll make sure that this ogre escapes from his jail cell. I'll arrest him afterwards, following the normal rules of law. I'll read him his rights, all right. Maybe I'll slap the thick book on his head a couple of times to make things clearer to him. I won't forget to cease the fake passport of that slimy toad, this time. The guys from Interpol have no problems with that. They do have kids too. The voters will label me a champion. With the help of a good printed article with a picture of me lifting something heavy and looking at the horizon, things should work fine. My political image will certainly get a boost and the world will be freed from an abominable creature that should not have been born.” 
“How do you know for sure that the passport of your prisoner is a fraudulent one?” the captain asks. 
“Pretty simple, it says Moïse Berri on it, but with the picture of that pig. That dirty swine has been running around town pretending to be the king of Mizerikod on many occasions. Nobody knows how often he did it; nobody knows how long he has been doing it.” 
“Did you just say, Moïse Berri? That's the name of the spy that we came to liberate from the Diabbakas! Ho-ho-how is that possible?” Pintado stutters. 
“Let me explain. That deranged freak looks like a lost twin of Billionaire, aka Moïse Berri, our beloved benefactor; the man in charge of the reconstruction, the guy you say is a renegade spy. We did a background check. That laughing dude in cell number seven is some kind of country singer with a honey business on the side in Quebec. Believe me, he is not a secret agent. We even have copies of his fiscal declaration.” 
“There is no way that can be a coincidence, Captain,” says the completely stunned lieutenant. “Two John Smith, I say yes. Two Hussain, I can live with that. A duo of Chang and Nguyen in the same area, that's mathematically possible; but two men claiming the identity of Moïse Berri in Haiti at the same time and in the same commune? I say no, no and no. There is something wrong here.” 
“I'd like to have a talk with that prisoner as soon as possible, if you don't mind,” Captain Pintado mumbles, suddenly a little uptight. 
“Whenever you want, Captain. I even give you the permission to thrash him a bit. You know? Tenderize his meat, squeeze the juice out of his main joints and bones before I start cooking him at the right temperature. Don't you leave any marks, though: Amnesty International refuses to remove my name from their shitty report. That oddball is a Canadian citizen and under the protection of Senator Fleurant. So just make sure no one is around if you decide to give him a Rodney King special. But seriously, gentlemen, time is really flying fast, we should focus on tonight's raid. Hand me the list with the arrest warrants.” 
“Lieutenant?” 
“There you go, Commissioner.” 
“You managed to get Judge Campbell's real signature,” Chief Malvenu notes, running his reading glasses over the document. “That's a good start. So... by the power invested in me... I, Zilerion Mathias Servile Campbell, blah, blah, blah, bullshit and rubbish... as a representative of the Supreme Court and whatnot... We really don't care, greasy hair dumbbell Campbell; let's jump to the next page... There it is. Voilà. Il Sacro Graal. Complete list of escaped prisoners and known fugitives, following the passage of Cyclone Sandy on Thursday, November First, 2012... Come to me, Baby. Wanted for being the leader of a known criminal organization and also for kidnapping in Grande-Rivière, Port-au-Prince and Miragoâne; for sequestration in Marmelade and Dondon, armed robbery in Ennery and Plaisance, identity theft in Anse-à-Galets, fraud in Île-à-Vache and racketeering in and around Lake Azuei; also wanted for manslaughter against several law officers of Pétionville, Limonade, Croix-des-Bouquets, Jérémie, Cayes, Chantal, Camp-Perrin and Tiburon. Good, good, this is what I'm looking for... Charles Henri Veriquin, also known as Chuck Three-Brothers, Chuck Canada, Chuck Rasta and various aliases beginning with the first name, Chuck. That's even better than a good start, we're talking hole-in-one, Captain, and that thing is so rich in details. I love it. All right. Yvon Baudouin-Lacroix, aka Cherokee, called Titon in his father's family, respectable members of the Petit-Gôave commune; Yves Baudouin-Lacroix, aka, Loverboy, called Vévé in his mother's family, respectable members of the Grand-Gôave community; Wilner Frantz Maillebranchon, aka, Tit-Will, known by many under the name of Will Smith Superstar, Hollywood and Fanfan in the commune of Saint-Marc; Vernon Benoît Badellin, aka, BMW Ben, known as 735 and Six Speed in Gonaïves and l'Arcahaie; Jean Louis Portal, aka Tête Fè or Iron Skull, identified by countless people as the brain behind the straight-six engine car thieves currently operating in Petite-Rivière-de-Nippes; Virgile Cléophas Jean-Pierre, aka Grimaud, possibly the same convict known as Saint-Juste Jean-Pierre by the Miami-Dade police, but referred to, as The American, in Plaine-du-Nord; please note that the respondent regularly uses whitening creams from Taiwan on his skin; François Marc Thiercelin, aka Le Boucanier or Barbecue, a registered pyromaniac and sex offender, wanted for questioning in the pending case of the uninsured boats belonging to Involean Industries in Môle Saint-Nicolas. Thiercelin is also wanted for the recent water scooter affair in Tortuga and several episodes of vandalism in the seaside resort of Labadie. Paul Sylla Marie Roger Row, aka Jason, like the movie character, denounced by his accomplices as the masked chainsaw burglar; Row is wanted all over the north coast between Fort-Liberté and Port-de-Paix; be warned that Row tends to bite anyone who tries to arrest him; the results of his blood tests are incomplete and unavailable; Pierre Ferdinand Henri Gireaud, aka Djolè, meaning Blabbermouth in Creole, a former plumber turned journalist, fired from Le Nouvelliste for substance abuse, extortion attempts, equipment theft and false testimony in a rare case of human kidney heist on a living person at the municipal court of Marigot ; Jean Hubert Rodriguez Champignon, aka Banban White Powder, nicknamed Tit-Buzz in Carrefour, Coca and Bogota Branded in the capital, Border Crosser and Powda G. in Ouanaminthe, El Comerciante Haitiano in Dajabón and in the Baoruco Mountain Range; Armand Baptiste-Derode, aka Calgary, possibly a Canadian national wanted by the RCMP for human trafficking between Shanghai and Vancouver under the stolen name of Chief Officer Floyd Bram Anderson; Kenneth Cerisier, aka Mandela in Mirebalais, called Elevenpercentordeath in one word by the law abiding people of Hinche; finally, George William Osmond-Ferraille, aka Jòj Doubleyou or 43; the fugitive escaped from the psychiatric hospital Défilée of Beudet; he is the prime suspect in many strange cases of corpse desecration in Torbech and Aquin. Before he vanished, Osmond-Feraille was awaiting trial for witchcraft and evidence forgery in Cavaillon and in Port-Salut.” 

“Is that all?” Sergeant Pyram Malvenu asks his father. 
“Well, it seems so.” 
“Are you sure there is not a second list at the back or at the end of the document?” Pyram insists. 
“Is there another inventory of contemptible sleazebags we should be aware of, Captain Pintado?” Chief Police Malvenu inquires. 
“Not that I know of.” 
“So where the hell is the real name of Jim Falafel!” Sergeant Malvenu yells, ripping off the pile of papers from his father's hands. 
“Ask that question to Judge Campbell,” Menendez says. “We don't know any of the men listed on that statement.” 
“Half of those filthy jerks are not mentioned on that document,” Pyram points out. What kind of shit is that? I was expecting to learn something from this, like finding out the legal names of Jim Falafel, Jeff Sprinter and Jones Brooklyn. Why did that old donkey judge forget to put those three outcasts on this declaration? There is zero mention of the police station incident, the damages done in my dad's office. I don't see Robin Monarque's name anywhere?” 
“The court order was signed this afternoon,” Captain Pintado explains. “The prosecutor's report was not ready yet.” 
“Add the missing names yourself in cursive.” 
“Are you serious, Sergeant? That would automatically invalidate the legal power of the entire document.” 
“All right then, I will add them in my head… that way no one can take them out and erase them.” 

Pyram rushes to his father's office and slams the door. He starts throwing chairs, printers and other hefty objects on the walls, yelling like a peppy soccer midfielder who just scored a winning goal. The Uruguayan officers cannot believe what they are witnessing. Chief Malvenu finally interposes himself between a desk and his very upset son when the noisy racket stops. 

“I feel your pain, my little Pyro. You're still haunted by her disappearance… Amelia was a good girl.” 
“I'm going to dismember that hog, father, ooh, yeah. I'm going to look him straight in the eyes, plunge my fist in his thoracic cage and pull his heart out. Maybe I'll take a bite out of it.” 
“Hisssh! Okay, son, you do all that and more, but not in front of our guests. They don't need to hear everything your brain is saying.” 
“Did you hear those sissies, dad? Oooh, Lord, la-di-da-di-da, hand me a fan, please, turn on the air conditioner and cover our eyes, we can't stand the sight of blood. What's the use of carrying weapons if we have to work with that kind of cops?” 
“I don't see why Judge Campbell would plot to protect Jim Falafel and his despicable clique. It smells like corruption and dirty money, my son. That nose on my face is experienced. Let's go sit back with the Hispanics on the other side. Get a hold of yourself. Wipe your tears. Don't show them your weaknesses. I want to keep a close eye on Pintado and Menendez. You team up with Cyril Lavache and young Evans. Is that all right with you?” 
“The cobbler is nowhere to be found. People saw him roaming around Elzear Michelet's garage this afternoon. He may have left with a car, a Black limousine, a Lincoln, I was told. Others saw him with Dorion, the florist, all dressed up à la British, smelling Fendi and speaking Standard French. Evans said he was discussing media, politics and war with Ludovic on Capois-la-Mort Boulevard. The shoemaker bought a dozen patties from the kid and put them in what looked like a gift box. I think Cyril Lavache is having a nervous breakdown. This morning's shoot out put him in a state of shock. I wouldn't be surprise to learn that he is planning to leave the country to go get some real mental treatment in Cuba or Canada.” 
“Your eyes are still red. Stay in here for a while. I'll send the little Black Quebecker to help you clean the mess in my office. It's important that the UNPOL officers don't see you like that. And wipe the corners of your mouth, you look dramatically insane.”