*
'Do you believe in the soul, Professor? That spark of life that makes me me and you you?' Papa Doc's voice drifted from the darkness.
A cowled figure walked around the glass-domed office, inspecting the chalk lines of a pentagram marked on the floor. He folded a sheet of paper in his hands as he walked.
Another figure knelt at a line of candles, lighting each with a taper. His wrists and hands covered in scars.
Anderson tried to rise up, but couldn't move. His body was paralysed, outstretched inside the pentagram so that each of his limbs pointed to four of the five points of the star. His head pointed to the fifth. The injected drug in his system numbed his body but not his senses. He could feel everything. The cold tile floor beneath him, the waft of ventilated air. And as he watched the figures move around him, he wanted to scream and shout. But he couldn't. He was helpless.
'I have the means to create a soul-bound servant on Earth.' Duvalier said. 'It was my stock in trade when I was in power. Haiti was the perfect place to practice my art. The Tonton Macoute were my army, dedicated to me.
'A mix of narcotic powders and spirit calling rituals and I could create a multitude of soulless, demon-possessed followers. The voodoo paraphernalia is all for show, of course. Well, mostly for show. But with their dying whisper I would have their power on this earth. I thought I was invulnerable - no-one could touch me.
'I was a powerful man, my power measured in the many enemies I made. But the enemies I had on Earth were nothing compared to the enemies waiting for me in the afterlife. Such things would not occur to a young man in the prime of his life.
'My eyes were opened during a failed coup and an attempt on my life. Although the traitorous rebels failed to kill me, they did murder my mistress and our son.
'I witnessed the torment and torture they underwent as they were dragged into the pits of Hell. And later communes, through trance dancing and sacrifice, told me of their suffering because of their connection to me. And of the fate that awaited me once my soul was delivered to them.
'No matter how powerful my Macoute were on Earth I would be spending an eternity in torment.
'This did not suit my purposes. I was not about to become a pauper in the hells after living the life of a prince on Earth. So what to do?
'I realised that I would be able to extend my life only so far. And my Macoute were of limited help in protecting me in the Umbra, or the Hells. So small in number, and tied as they are to the person they inhabit.
'I can add to my Army of Macoute, but the process is slow and I am wary of the constant danger of discovery. What I needed was an Army of Macoute to protect me in the afterlife. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Millions!
'The answer soon became obvious, but it would require huge backing. The measly embezzlement from Haiti would hardly be enough. So I took a position on the infamous Valentine Trust, and bided my time before corrupting a Trustee and manipulating the demise of the rest of the board.
'After the publication of the Genome project, and the scientific community's dismissal and utter ignorance over the so-called junk DNA, I set in place a number of contracts for research and development.
'The general interest in the DNA registration of the population and the ancestral tracking meant that you were the ideal candidate, Professor Anderson. And you were as blind to the potential and the consequences of junk DNA as the rest of the white coats.
'Within the junk DNA, amongst the strings of letters, reside a person's soul. Their petit bon ange, the ti bonanj, is used to create my Earth bound Macoute Tonton. But it is the gros bon ange that I am interested in. The gwo bonanj. That part that moves on.
'I have yours on the screen, Professor Anderson. Here it is - a string of letters - scrolling past my eyes quicker than I can read them. But it is all here. Your soul. And with those string of letters comes the translation in a language so old it would make you blush. This is the name of your gwo bonanj. The name of your soul.
'On your death I will have your gwo bonanj possessed and under my control. You will be the first of my Macoute army in Hell.
'And with the database of every living person on Earth, I have the power to ensure that each person who dies has their gwo bonanj possessed and corrupted and inducted into my army.
'Ah, at last I see understanding light behind those dull, empirical eyes. You learned scientists have worked so hard to register everybody living. Allowing me to posses them upon their death!'
Finn lifted the hood to his robes so that the dim moonlight caught only his nose and chin in stark relief. He motioned to the shadows and, one by one, Tonton Macoute walked forward, taking their place around the Pentagram.
Finn walked to the bank of computers on the far wall and stroked his hands along the plastic panels. He sat at the central PC and tapped at the keyboard. He mouse clicked the single icon on his own computer monitor and pressed run. The machine whirred into life and lights popped up around the bank of machines.
'Professor Anderson's profile is set,' said Finn.
'And now to call upon dark assistance to look favourably upon the venture.'
Anderson's eyes snapped up as Duvalier loomed into view. He took a dull bladed knife in one hand and, speaking quietly and in mixed languages, pulled up a black cockerel from behind him. He cut the cockerel's throat in one practiced swipe and dangled the flapping body over Professor Anderson. A bright red rain showered over him.
Papa Doc threw the cockerel to one side, gripped the knife in both hands and plunged it into Anderson's chest.
A powerful heat flared inside Anderson, bright like a collapsing sun, and then he died.
The body became a red fountain as blood pumped up through the hollow hilt of the knife, the last few beats of the heart spurting the blood high into the air. The room was filled with a fine mist as the blood rained down into the pentagram, the chanting rising higher and higher.
Duvalier stood next to Finn, watching the screens blur with backlit text. He glanced down at his palms. Normally dry and steady, they were now moist and shaking. This was the culmination of over thirty years of planning and murder. If this didn't work? Papa Doc wiped the thought from his mind and concentrated on the central screen.
The text stopped abruptly. A name floated on the screen.
'It's complete,' Finn said. 'And it worked. Your army begins.'
Papa Doc relaxed his grip on the chair. 'Good. I have a number of phone calls to make. You stay here and - -' Duvalier whipped round and stared at the empty doorway.
'Is somebody there?' he said.