chapter 18e 

(The Snapshot) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

18e 

The Snapshot 

Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois Senior and his bodyguard are quite surprised to hear someone knock at the door of their Fairmount Queen Elizabeth hotel suite. Gustave Amaury Quick is standing in the hallway with his luggage. The banker's leather raincoat and Borsalino hat are damped. He is visibly nervous. The octogenarian keeps looking around like a man evading a stalker. Grosbois firmly reprimands his longtime partner as soon as he opens.

“You are two hours late, Gus. What's wrong with you?” 
“Good evening Mr. Nji Mbonjo, good evening, Phil.” the Boston financier salutes. “I had to make a stop in Toronto.” 
“Mr. Quick,” the bodyguard greets the old man, bowing his head with respect. 
“Where is Suleyman?” Grosbois asks. 
“Well... Suleyman wasn't too comfortable with the idea of showing up at customs with all his equipment. Three of his computer hard drives contain classified information regarded as secret material by the NSA and Homeland Security. He will be more useful to us back in Boston and out of prison. My young protégé already broke into the server of that Canadian bank in the Cayman Islands. It's very promising, but we'll have to be more careful. Suleyman told me that everything we've said to each other over the phone since April has been recorded. We must go to another hotel and buy some new cell phones using aliases or borrow old ones that are already in service.” 
“We could also buy a couple of pigeons or learn how to use telepathic communication,” the New York lawyer proposes with a lot of sarcasm in his tone. “Why, Toronto, Gus, think fast and don't lie?”
“This headshot,” Amaury Quick replies, handing an envelope and a black and white portrait to Grosbois. “Ecce Homo, Phil, Moïse Berri himself,” the banker proudly adds. 
“I don't remember the face of this man, Gus.” 
“That's because he wants it that way. Moïse Berri likes the shadow so much that he covers his face or wears a mask every time he finds himself in a place with surveillance cameras, like a bank or an airport for example. We've searched the whole world to put our hands on a decent picture of him. Suleyman hacked the computers of all the friends and professional contacts of the mayor of Mizerikod. He also took control of the official site of Reconstruct Haiti Now, the company shooting the documentary on Moïse Berri and the rebuilding of the infrastructures of the commune. All the photographs showing Moïse Berri's face, even partially, have been recently erased. Every hyperlink bearing his name or his status in the project leads to an http 401 error with an authentication claim. That's the only snapshot we found of Moïse Berri in the archives of a casting agency of Queen City.” 
“That rabbit looks just like Joe Dassin, Gus. Do you remember Joe Dassin, the French singer?” 
“The photo is blurry, but yeah, there is a little resemblance. But I believe Joe Dassin was an American.” 
“Gin, Scotch, Whiskey?” 
“Water, Phil, I am not allowed to enjoy anything with my damn sugar problem.” 
“How much money did you bring from the States?” the lawyer asks.
“A big round zero, Phil. There's no way the Canadian Customs would have let me in with the amount you were hoping for. We will however get full control over our bank accounts and personal finances by Monday morning.” 
“That is one good news. That Suleyman of yours is a gifted magician.” 
“We have to thank Rogatien Gingras for that one. I thought he was with you.” 
“He is crashing at the Marriott by the airport, waiting for a call from me. I wanted to talk about him to you first, before I named him Auditor General of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation and signed the procuration form that will eventually make him the interim Chief Executive Officer of our corporation.” 
“We won't find a better man to accomplish this mission, Phil. Rogatien Gingras is more intelligent than he looks. That fellow is so brilliant that I know for a fact that he will someday become a menace. On one hand, we have to trust him and be open with him, or things just won't work; on the other hand, we must fear the man like Caesar should have feared Brutus when he is entrusted with the power to run our firm. We need to hire a spy to watch his every move and a neutralizer to terminate Mister Berri as soon as we lose our grip on him. I don't want to die in a jail cell if Rogatien Gingras fails, switch camp or try to play us.” 
“Engaging a secret agent is a simple, Gus, but hiring a professional assassin? I don't think it would be wise to make any business with the Montreal underworld during our brief stay in this town. They seem to be in a period of transformation. No one knows who the real boss of the city is. There's one violent death every day in the local papers.” 
“I already gave the contract to the Boston Lethal Irish branch. R.M. Carrigan found us a slick slayer, more efficient than poison and more subtle than Ebola.” 
“Don't you find it strange, Gus? Just last night, you didn't want any part of this. Today, same man, same problem, you dive head first in the eye of the hurricane by dealing with Redmond Murphy Carrigan. You do know he is a racist bastard? We're talking about a highly deranged individual who puts his victims in the concrete reservoirs of his mixer trucks, back in Boston, before erecting condominium complexes over their corpses. The FBI practically lives in his younger brother's garage. May I remind you that Dillon Carrigan is the star informer of the DEA in Illinois? Mr. Nji Mbonjo, please have the amiability to search our friend,” Hans-Orville Grosbois orders, suddenly cold and hostile. “Make sure that our guest is not hiding a microphone or a GPS on or inside his body.” 
“What are you talking about, Phil, have you lost your goddamn mind?” 
“Understand me, Gus. Since Deodas Demosthene betrayed us, after sixty one good years of friendship, I have become a bit more suspicious with my closest friends and a little less with my sworn enemies. I have two short questions for you, pal” the lawyer pursues on a sardonic tone. “One; how can you be that certain that we're going to regain control of our bank accounts exactly on Monday? And two; who gave you the room number of that executive suite? You see, I rented a junior suite one floor below under a fake name. You're not going to make an old fox like me swallow that you've guessed the maiden name of Mr. Nji Mbonjo's mother, just like that, out of the blue?” 

The African giant jumps on the money manager and immobilizes him using just one hand. He pats the frail man and spins him around like a feather pillow. The bodyguard then frisks the old man from head to toe. Gustave Amaury Quick starts coughing when Mr. Nji Mbonjo's massive palms press on his fragile sternum. The financial advisor aims for the Cameroonian's face on purpose. Mr. Nji Mbonjo is not familiar enough with medical science to understand the difference between a virus and a bacteria, but he knows for sure that they are airborne germs. The big fellow pulls out a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket to wipe his face and cover his mouth and nose. Gustave Amaury Quick makes his move when the Mr. Nji Mbonjo is least expecting it. The octogenarian pulls a stun gun from his waist and strikes his adversary with an electric shock. While the African mercenary is foaming and doing the boogaloo on the floor, Amaury Quick tries to shed some light on the situation. 

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Philbert? You don't need to use your baby rhino on me! I spoke to Mark Allister Stanson, the man who hired Rogatien Gingras. He advised me to make an alliance with the Quebecker. Stanson probably got your hotel room number because you called the reception, or maybe you showed some form of ID, even if you paid the room in cash. I don't know.” 
“I wanted some Bourbon, Gus, no other medication works for me.” 
“Mark Allister Stanson uses the same technological tools as Moïse Berri. He seems to be everywhere at once. I know that he has the power to fix most of our problems. Let's say that his promise to give me full access to my money on Monday made me very happy. I would not be surprised to learn that he got into the Grand Cayman Royal Bank server and that he now controls the institution. Who knows?” 
“Mark… Allister… Stanson,” Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois Senior slowly repeats. “Is it possible that you heard Maître Alistair Stetson instead? That is what lawyers call themselves in French; Maître.” 
“I told you about my hearing loss last week, Phil. You laughed at me. I'm taking pills for my arthritis, diabetes, high blood pressure, cholesterol and even something for a prostate I thought was gone years ago. I can't read the small numbers of the Stock Market Index anymore in the printed press and I am forgetting stuff.” 
“You might want to stop using that incapacitating weapon on Mr. Nji Mbonjo, Gus. The poor devil looks like a fish that's been out of water for too long. Allow me to apologize. Alistair Stetson is the eldest son of Ashley Stetson, the nightmare of the British Bankers Association, back in the eighties. He is on our side. I think he works for Ulysses Hercules Legitime now. I am calling the Quebecker with the ski sunglasses and the Neanderthal shave, right now. And I am dropping the investigation and the commands of the Heritage Legitime Funds in his hands. We'll do as you recommend, Gus.” 
“Don't worry, Phil, I'll get Rogatien Gingras killed and buried by the Irish as soon as he stumbles, becomes useless or try to get wise behind our back.” 
“You have my consent.” 
“Mr. Nji Mbonjo,” the Boston broker greets, offering his hand to help the African hulk get back on his feet. 
“Mr. Quick,” the bouncer answers politely, blinking his eyes and slowly coming out of shock.