by Chris Thrall
Arriving at the Grande Verde, Penny fished in her daypack for her pocketbook, but the driver refused payment. After unloading the scuba kit, he shook their hands, offering condolences while bowing his head.
Penny sat down on the suite’s vast leather couch and put her arm around Hans. “What now, honey?”
“I don’t know. It feels wrong to go home.” Hans massaged his eye sockets, then turned to her, seeking direction.
“Then we don’t,” Penny said promptly. “Let’s take a trip. Anywhere, but let’s get off this island.”
“I know it’s crazy, but do you mind if we stay awhile? I just . . .” Hans couldn’t explain his feelings.
“Hans, take all the time you need. But let’s get out of the hotel tonight. I hear the seafood’s top-notch down at the front, and I’m paying.”
- 17 -
After a shower and a change of clothes, Hans and Penny drank a few beers in the room and then went down to the lobby, where Branca had one of the hotel’s cars ready to take them downtown. Their driver was Paulo, a young mestizo, who had driven Penny to the Grande Verde the night Future disappeared.
As Paulo drove out of the hotel’s grounds, he pushed a button on the satnav set into the Mercedes’ center console, and a Portuguese soap opera replaced the electronic map on the screen. The young man had no problem keeping half an eye on the TV show as he sped along the ocean road, weaving with ease around vehicles in their path. Hans and Penny looked at each other and smiled, so amused at Paulo’s relaxed driving style they failed to notice the taxicab that had tailed them from the hotel.
Paulo dropped them at Mindelo’s beachfront by a row of open-air restaurants lining the promenade. They opted for Casa Frutos do Mar and seated themselves at the only table not taken by locals and tourists indulging in the exotic food fare on offer.
“Wow, this is nice,” said Penny, taking in the view over the brightly painted fishing boats beached above the high-tide mark on the postcard-yellow sand. “Perfect place to watch the sun set.”
“And have a liddle drink.” Hans mimicked their dear departed Dutch friend Marcel, making Penny smile, then caught the waiter’s attention.
A bottle of red wine arrived, and Hans filled their glasses.
“What are you going to order?” Penny asked, scanning the menu.
“I’m not sure. You’d think after a month in a life raft I’d be sick of fish.”
“Oh, Hans! I’m so sorry.” Clutching a hand to her mouth, Penny looked mortified. “When I suggested seafood, I didn’t think. We can go somewhere else.”
“Don’t be silly. This is a slightly better setting than what I’m used to – the restaurant doesn’t bob up and down, and the food won’t try to escape.”
Penny smiled but fell silent, staring at her wine.
“You’re wondering what it was like being adrift,” Hans tendered.
“If you don’t want to talk about it—”
“No, it’s fine. I just don’t know where to start.”
Penny reached for his hand across the table.
Hans took a gulp of wine. “When Future went down, there was an almighty storm. I thought we – I mean, I – was done for. The waves kept pummeling the raft, and I had to bail like a maniac to stay afloat. I’ve never been so relieved to see the sunrise. When the emergency rations ran out, I managed to put together some fishing gear – even used some of your jewelry-making wire to make a trace.”
“You had my jewelry box?”
“It floated up when Future sank and pretty much saved my life. The fishing got real good after a couple of weeks, since an ecosystem grew beneath the raft – barnacles, seaweed, and then these minnows hatching outta nowhere. I started to catch a few dorados. Just eating them raw was better than any steak in a restaurant. Then the sharks came, bumping the raft all night. Big whitetips, and those guys don’t mess around. Hell, when you’re out there alone, it’s pretty terrifying.”
Penny shuddered.
“But sharks weren’t the biggest problem. I snagged a fishhook on one of the raft’s inflation tubes just below the waterline. Started sinking right away. Took two days swimming in shark-infested water to fix the damn leak and then get the raft pumped back up.”
“Did you see any ships?”
“I saw ’em all right – damn used up all the flares on the first one that passed. They just didn’t see me, though. Another ship ran us down in the middle of the night.”
Penny caught the word “us” but didn’t say anything.
“Making water was the toughest challenge. You know that hand-cranked desalinator I bought in Plymouth?”
“From Old Bill in the chandlery?”
“Yeah, but it was missing from the emergency ditch kit, along with the radio and rescue beacon. I think Jessie had been playing with them and didn’t put them back in the bag. All I had was this solar still that came with the raft – like a Second World War contraption that floated on the sea and produced about a cup a day. It wasn’t much, but enough.”
Now it was Hans’ turn to fall silent. After a time he let out a morose chuckle. “I can’t believe I thought she was there with me the whole time . . . and it was that goddamn bear.”
Penny squeezed his hand. “Dr. Preece talked to me about that in Boston. He said the trauma you went through brought on—”
“Reactive psychosis. I know. You just never think that kinda illness is gonna affect you.” Hans shook his head slowly and emptied his glass.
“Do you remember anything about the rescue?” Penny reached for the bottle.
“No. I was out of it by that stage. I only remember waking up in the hospital—”
A middle-aged white guy approached their table. He’d been walking through the crowded forecourt, handing out leaflets.
“Can I give you one of these, mate?” he asked in an English accent.
“Sure,” Hans replied, assuming it was a flyer for a nightclub or a music event – though the guy looked a little too respectable to be hustling for a buck. What Hans saw instead made him jump to his feet.
Headed “Missing,” the leaflet featured the face of a girl about Jessica’s age, the text in English and Portuguese explaining that Holly had gone missing from this beach a week ago.
“Oh, buddy. Please, please take a seat!” Hans pulled out a chair.
“Thanks,” said the Englishman, the black bags beneath his eyes speaking for him. “I’ve been passing these out all day. I’m Mike Davenport by the way.”
“I’m Hans, and this is Penny. You’re on holiday, Mike, I take it.”
“That was the plan. We flew into Praia and spent a couple of days exploring the city before taking the ferry up here to enjoy the beaches. But it all went so wrong. She was building a sandcastle no more than five meters away from where my wife and I were sunbathing. When I looked up, she was gone.”
“What have the police said?” asked Penny.
“They said several kids go missing from the island every year, but usually migrants whose parents arrive here illegally, so it doesn’t get reported.”
“Oh God!” Mike’s head dropped into his hands as he fought back tears.
In Hans’ work for the Concern he’d been involved in several such cases. Cape Verde was both a source country and a hub for human trafficking – known in law enforcement circles as “the Trade.” Ruthless criminal networks targeted economic migrants and impoverished locals, duping them into drug-smuggling operations, domestic and industrial servitude and the sex trade, trafficking them as far as the Americas, Europe and the Middle East.
The fate of some of the children was particularly depraved, kidnapped to supply sophisticated pedophile rings. Politicians, senators, prime ministers, the rich and famous, even royalty were allegedly involved, but with the power, money and connections to cover their tracks, the links were hard to prove.
As the sun lowered to the horizon, setting the sky ablaze with a sprawling palette of pinks, yellows, grays and silver blue, Hans ordered
Mike a beer and told him about Jessica.
“Oh, guys, I didn’t mean to add to your grief. I-I—”
“It’s not a problem, Mike.” Hans gripped the desperate man’s shoulder. “Listen. Go back to your wife and get some rest. Penny and I will hand out the rest of these leaflets.”
“Are you sure?” Mike’s mouth fell open.
Hans took a business card from his wallet and slid it across the table.
“More than sure,” said Penny, knowing it would do them both good to focus on something else for a while.
- 18 -
Postponing their meal, Hans and Penny began making their way along the beachfront restaurants, stopping to speak with diners and handing leaflets to passersby. Most were only too happy to listen, Hans explaining the situation to the English speakers, Penny the Portuguese, but an overweight German man with a puffy sunburnt face, busy tucking into plates piled with shellfish and guzzling wine, dismissed them with a patronizing wave – “No, we don’t buy anything!” – before turning to his friends and roaring with laughter.
The American’s blood boiled, and he clenched his fist. Penny slapped a leaflet down on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth and steered him sharply away.
Later they chatted with an amicable Swiss couple enjoying swordfish steak in the last eatery on the front, only Hans stopped midsentence, staring through the darkness to the nearby main road.
“Honey, are you—?” Penny began.
Hans held up his hand, for standing under a streetlamp on the far side of the road was the Fulani woman he had seen earlier in the day.
“Penny, wait here, or I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
Hans was off on his toes, much to Penny and the Swiss couple’s surprise, but by the time he’d crossed the street the woman had disappeared. He stood looking all around, knowing it couldn’t be coincidence and had something to do with Jessica. He was about to walk back to the restaurant when a taxicab glided by and he happened to glance through its rear-side window to see the woman was inside. She turned her face away, attempting to hide in her colorful shawl.
Hans watched as the car drove into the distance, then turned and flagged the next cab down.
“Hotel, sir?” the young islander asked.
“No. Just follow that car.” Hans realized how absurd this must have sounded.
“Okay, boss.” The driver screeched away as if he had been waiting for those words all his life.
“But keep your distance, hey?” Hans took out his cell phone to send Penny a brief text explaining his departure.
“Distance is my middle name, boss!” The driver grinned in the rearview mirror.
They drove out of the center and were soon in a maze of backstreets, the area shabbier, the buildings increasingly run-down.
“Where are we?” Hans asked.
“Lombo – the old town. You want girls, drugs?”
“I want you to follow that cab, but keep back, okay?”
“Okay, boss.” The young Cape Verdean kept a discreet distance, letting the other cab drift almost out of sight, before speeding up and jumping red lights to keep on its tail.
“Cab’s stopping, sir.”
“Okay, I’m getting out.” Hans shoved a bunch of notes into the guy’s hand, then ran along the sidewalk, keeping in the shadows, closing on the spot where the woman got out. He stood scanning the adjacent building up and down and saw a light come on in a second-floor room.
The front door was locked. Hans made up his mind to smash it down if necessary, but increasing pressure from his shoulder forced it open.
In the darkness Hans smelled the odor of garlic and chicken stock mingling with soiled diapers and cigarette smoke. He edged his way up a flight of creaking wooden stairs toward the spot where light shone beneath an apartment door.
There was no door handle, only a small brass padlock hanging open on a latch. Hans threw caution to the wind and pushed the door with his fingertips.
The Fulani stood in the center of the small room, as if expecting him. A mattress lay on the floor, the only other furnishings an open wardrobe, stuffed with brightly colored garments, a chest of drawers and a table and two chairs. Stacked neatly next to a camping cooker and a box of food were pots, pans, crockery and cutlery.
“Mr. Larsson,” the woman stated impassively, her dark eyes unblinking.
“Yes,” Hans replied, thinking, bizarrely, what a pride this woman took in her appearance considering the humble abode she lived in. “You were expecting me?”
The Fulani nodded at a chair and walked serenely to the still-ajar door, peeking into the corridor before wedging it shut with a length of wood. “I saw the news report saying you had returned to the island and Mr. Silvestre would be taking you out to your boat.”
“Is that why you were at the marina?”
“The marina, and I followed you from your hotel tonight. I wanted to speak to you earlier, but . . .” The Fulani looked away.
Hans noticed her hand trembling as it rested on the tabletop. For the briefest moment he admired the intricate henna artwork coiled in an ensemble of bangles and sprawling along her slender wrists to greet her immaculate, black-polished fingernails.
“Your daughter, she is alive,” the Fulani announced without ceremony.
Hans’ existence blurred.
He slumped onto the chair, stunned and unable to absorb the information. For a man known for his composure in adverse circumstances, he fought to regain it, managing to stammer, “H-h-how?”
“Wait.” The woman retrieved a small black bottle and two mismatched glasses from her kitchen goods, then joined him at the table.
Hans could tell she was stalling but let her, despite his frantic mind demanding that he cut to the chase.
“You must understand, if they find out they will kill me.” She poured a generous shot of dark-treacle-like spirit into a chipped glass and pushed it across the tabletop.
“Who?” Hans made an effort not to sound forceful.
“Os traficantes,” she muttered, and filled her own glass.
Even with his limited knowledge of Portuguese, Hans recognized the name of the people she alluded to, “the traffickers,” their vile commercial operation known to law enforcement agencies around the globe as “the Trade.”
Hans downed the drink, its foul herbal taste hardly registering in his adrenaline-fueled mind. “You must tell me.”
“I work shifts in a factory processing fish near to the port. Many of the women marry to the fishermen. There is much gossip. One night I hear a conversation – a worker telling a friend that her husband’s boat picked up a young girl floating far out to sea. She is wearing – how you say, mergulho?”
“Scuba gear?”
“Yes, this is the one.”
“Do you know the fisherman or the name of his boat?”
“The man will not help you. Like his wife, he is a greedy, ignorant fool who could never be trusted with the information you seek. But the boat is called Rosa Negra. The captain, Alvarez, is a very bad man.”
“Where have they taken her?”
“I don’t know.” The Fulani broke eye contact.
“Please.” Hans was about to place his hand on the woman’s arm but, remembering the cultural divide, thought better of it. “Can you find out?”
“I have a friend, an old Fulani. She has been on the island many years and knows such things. I will visit her tomorrow.”
“Listen, here’s my card. Do you have a phone?”
The Fulani shook her head.
“In that case, if you learn anything please use a pay phone or someone’s cell and make a reverse-charge call or try and get me at my hotel, the Grande Verde. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll meet you here tomorrow night. Is that okay?”
“I think to meet me is better. After 8:00 p.m., when I finish my shift.”
“Sure, and I can pay you for your trouble.” Hans reached into the pocket of his sport coat.
The Fulani stood up, walk
ed across the dimly lit room, took a photograph from the dressing table and handed it to him. Hans stared at the picture of a little girl, recognizing the eyes of her mother.
“Her name is Binda. No money can replace her, Mr. Larsson. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Hans nodded as the pieces of the puzzle fell into the place.
“But you must be careful. These are people with powerful connections.” She set the photograph back on the dresser, her fingers lingering on the fading image.
“What’s your name?” Hans got up to leave.
“Djenabou,” she replied as a tear rolled down her cheek.
- 19 -
“Incoming!”
Private First Class Duffy of the 405th Parachute Infantry Regiment, US 82nd Airborne Division, threw a grenade into the enemy bunker situated in a bombed-out post office on the outskirts of 1944 Berlin.
He didn’t know why he was shouting, since his entire platoon was dead.
Climbing out from behind a mound of rubble, Duffy ran toward the German position in stilted moves, firing his Thompson submachine gun from the hip, spraying lead in the general direction of the screams emanating from the fire and stinking smoke billowing from the sandbagged shopfront.
From experience he knew there would be at least one SS trooper to finish off with a burst of the tommy gun before completing the mission.
The screams reduced to agonized moans and whimpers as Duffy edged his way around the building seeking a firing point. His grenade had blown away a good few sandbags, and he crept into the gap, ready to bid good night to the remaining swine.
The convulsing body of an enemy combatant entered his field of vision.
Duffy leveled his submachine gun and – click.
Damn! Out of ammo!
He scanned his dead comrades’ webbing pouches, looking for more bullets, spotting a flashing orange box with an A on it hovering a foot above his late lieutenant’s lifeless form.
Move to the A! Resupply your ammo!
With three fresh clips, Duffy crawled back into position. He set his sights on a dying German, squeezed the trigger and—
