IN THE LATE afternoon, Vincent Paul got into a jeep and left the slum. A truck and two more vehicles followed him out.
Max tailed them out of town, through dusty, arid flatlands and clumps of buildings that were either half-built or half-ruined. Then, as night fell, they headed up into the mountains, clinging to a steep, meager crust of dirt road, which was all that separated them from hundreds of feet of thin air.
The last stretch of the journey took them across a plateau. They made for a small bonfire, near where the convoy came to a halt. The vehicles then positioned themselves so that they were facing each other, and their headlights intersected and lit up a square of rough, rocky earth.
Max killed his lights, rolled a little closer to the place where they'd stopped, and got out of the car. He established his bearings so he could find his way back, then he approached the convoy.
The back of the truck was opened. There was fierce shouting both inside and out, and then a man was thrown out. He hit the ground with a thud, a scream, and the thick jingle of chains. One of Vincent's men picked him up and slammed him up against the truck.
Then more men were pushed out of the truck, all landing on top of one another. Max counted eight of them. They were marched into the lit-up space between the vehicles.
Max got a little closer. A group of a dozen or more civilians were watching what was happening.
Max walked off to the left, staying in the darkness. He had a clear view of the captives, who were lined up in a row. They were dressed in UN military uniforms and looked Indian.
Arms behind his back, Paul inspected them, glaring down at each and every one of them as he passed. He resembled a father angry with his unruly brood; the men, compared to him, were small and snappable.
"Do you any of you speak and understand English?" Paul asked.
"Yes," they answered as one.
"Who's the commanding officer here?"
A man stepped forward and stood at attention. He tried to meet Paul's eyes but his head traveled so far back he seemed to be staring up at the sky, seeking out some distant star.
"And you are?"
"Captain Ramesh Saggar."
"Are these your men?"
"Yes."
"Do you know why you've been brought here?"
"No. Who are you?" the captain asked in a heavy accent.
Paul glanced briefly over at the civilians, then back at the captain.
"Do you know why you're in this country?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What is the purpose of your presence here, in Haiti? What are you doing here? You, your men, the Bangladeshi division of the United Nations army?"
"I-I-I don't understand."
"You don't understand what? The question? Or what you're doing here?"
"Vye are you asking me dis?"
"Because I'm the one asking the questions and you're the one answering them. They're simple questions, captain. I'm not exactly asking you to divulge military secrets."
Paul was all business, his tone pointed but even, without emotion. If he was following the sort of interrogation procedure Max thought he was, his calm, no-nonsense manner was the prelude to an explosion. Joe had been brilliant at that-used his bulk to intimidate and terrify the suspect, and then confused them by coming over all reasonable and quiet and to the point-"Look, just tell me what I want to know and I'll see what kind of deal I can cut you with the DA"-and then, if it wasn't working or the scumbag was a particularly sick fuck, or Joe was just having a bad day-KA-FUCKING-BOOM!-he'd backhand them to the floor.
"Answer my question. Please."
"Ve are here to keep de peace."
Max heard the first tremor in the captain's voice.
"To 'keep the peace'?" Paul repeated. "Are you doing that?"
"Vat is dis about?"
"Answer my question. Are you doing your job? Are you keeping the peace?"
"Yes, I-I dink so."
"Why?"
"Dere is no civil var here. De people are not fighting."
"True. For now," Paul looked at the other seven soldiers, all standing at ease. "Would you say your job-this 'keeping the peace' you think you're doing so well-would you say an aspect of it would involve protecting the Haitian people?"
"Pro-protecting?"
"Yes, protecting. You know, preventing harm from coming to them. Do you understand?"
Now there was a hint of venom in Paul's voice.
"Yes."
"Well, then? Are you doing your job here?"
"I-I-I dink so."
"You think so? You think so?"
The captain nodded. Paul glared at him. The captain averted his eyes. His composure was cracking.
"So then, tell me, captain. Do you think 'protecting the Haitian people' does or does not include raping women-actually, no-let me be more specific. Do you think, Captain Saggar, that 'protecting the Haitian people' involves raping and beating up teenage girls?"
Saggar said nothing. His lips were trembling, his whole face quaking.
"Well?" Paul asked, leaning in close.
No reply.
"ANSWER MY DAMN QUESTION!" Paul roared and everyone, including Paul's own troops, jumped. Max felt the voice in his gut, like deep speaker bass.