by Chris Thrall
“Gooseneck barnacles. They’re a popular dish.”
Hans thoughts flicked to his time in the life raft, where eating these creatures prevented him starving to death.
“Er, I think I’ll give them a miss. The capucha rica sounds good.”
As their food arrived and Hans finished updating Penny on the morning’s events, his cell phone rang – Jonah in LA.
“Odysseus, what you got for me?”
“I’ve got a picture of our man Alvarez. It took some trawling, but I found an archive article in the Cape Verde Chronicle. The guy led some protest against the Fisheries Department a few years back. I’ll text it over – or do you want high-def?”
“No, low-res is fine, so long as I can get a positive ID.”
“So are you gonna put one right between his eyes?”
“Ha! That’s for me to know and for you not to.” Even considering Jonah’s Asperger’s syndrome, Hans never knew if the kid was joking or serious. “Say, what’s the time over there?” he asked.
“Seven in the morning. I’ve been on this all night.”
“And I bet you’ve been smoking the weed all night too.”
“I’ve been smoking it, Orion!”
- 27 -
In preparation for the evening, Hans laid his newly acquired equipment on the hotel bed. Penny watched as he disassembled and cleaned the Beretta, pulling the barrel through with a lightly oiled rag before putting it back together. Then he adjusted the shoulder holster for size, slid in the pistol and tried it on underneath a dark-blue sports coat. Satisfied with the weapon’s concealment, he loaded the four clips with rounds, having wiped each one first with a cloth to remove any grime and fingerprints. He put the rubber gloves, flashlight, jimmy and duct tape into Penny’s daypack, along with a contrasting change of clothes, and pocketed his diplomatic passport, gun license, wallet and keys. After switching his cell phone to vibrate, Hans took a cold shower, emptying his mind of all thought and focusing solely on his breathing – a mindfulness technique to purge his body of anxiety. Revitalized by the spray, he dressed in dark colors but dismissed the bulletproof vest.
Finally, Hans gave Penny a rundown on the walkie-talkies. Cell coverage was good on this part of the island, but he didn’t want to take any chances.
“Penny, if I’m on the radio, it’s fine to go ahead and speak because I’ll have the earpiece in, but I won’t be wearing it the rest of the time, since I don’t want to draw attention to myself. So if you need to get hold of me, use your cell. If I can’t answer, leave a voice mail or send a text.”
“How long’s this going to take?”
“Depends on how cooperative this guy’s gonna be.”
“Are you visiting the Fulani first?”
“I figure. She might have information that short-circuits the need to see this creep. If I’m out of contact for more than two hours, get ahold of Karen, and failing that, Muttley.”
Hans typed the Fulani’s address into the Daihatsu’s satnav and began following directions given by Mr. T – of A-Team notoriety. Hans smiled. Whoever rented this jeep last sure had a sense of humor.
Driving the coast road in the dark, he turned on the car radio and scrolled through endless channels of hyperexcited DJs, call-ins conducted in Portuguese and Creole, and anonymous pop music. Hitting the button again, Hans heard an English voice reading the news on an expat station. He listened to an interview with a professor from the local university, who explained in simplified terms the increased ferocity in ultraviolet rays, backing up the recent health service recommendation that locals and tourists should apply a minimum of factor 40 sun cream.
Hans was about to change channels when the newsreader announced, “Following the abduction of five-year-old Holly Davenport from Praia Beach, the mayor of Mindelo, Videl Gonzales, has offered a reward of ten thousand US dollars from his personal savings to anyone offering information leading to her safe return. The mayor, noted for his contributions to children’s charities, wants to reiterate this is a one-off occurrence that should not deter tourists from visiting the region.”
A one-off occurrence, Hans mused. And what about all the missing local kids that go unreported?
Hans had decided not to mention anything to Holly’s father at this stage in the investigation. Overcome with emotion, Mike would only see the smaller picture, and there would be no way of stopping him informing the authorities. With no firm evidence to make arrests, it would warn the traffickers Hans was onto them. He changed the channel and listened to a chat show in Creole – the eclectic mix of Iberian, West African languages and slang spoken by the islanders – and although Hans only understood the odd word, the laid-back patter soothed his nerves.
Taking the slip road to head into town, Hans felt sure a car was tailing him. He made a random series of turns to be certain, the headlights remaining in his rearview mirror until he got close to the Fulani’s home. He considered forcing his assailant to a stop and pulling out the M9 to extract some answers, but to keep the odds in his favor he came up with another plan.
Tapping the gas station icon on the satnav brought up two red nozzles on the digitalized map. Hans selected the one nearest to his location and heard, “Rerouting, you crazy fool!” followed by, “At the junction, go straight over. Destination is a hundred yards on the right, sucka!”
Hans laid the M9 on the passenger seat, unlocked his cell phone and set the video camera to record. Then, as the forecourt lights of the gas station came into view, he wound down the window and pulled up at the pump nearest the highway, using the Daihatsu’s door pillar to conceal the phone from view.
Taken by surprise, the driver of the other car, a silver Mercedes with tinted windows, braked at first and then sped off down the road.
“Amateur,” Hans muttered.
He’d figured his pursuer wouldn’t risk a confrontation in a public place, particularly one well lit with surveillance cameras installed, and now, unbeknown to the tail, he had the car and its license plate on film.
He gave Penny a quick update over the radio, then pulled back onto the road, spinning the jeep around and heading in the direction he came from. Sure that he’d lost the Mercedes, he rerouted the satnav.
After a command of “Turn right, sucka!” and “Destination is on the left, fool!,” Hans drove past the Fulani’s building and parked up in a side street. He placed the daypack out of sight in the Daihatsu’s trunk and hurried toward the property.
At this hour the streets were deserted, bar the odd scraggy feline on the hunt for a rodent dinner. Hans reached the front door unnoticed and, recognizing the name Djenabou scrawled in spidery handwriting, pressed the corresponding buzzer.
No answer. Hans left it a few seconds and tried again . . . to no avail. Remembering Djenabou worked until 8:00 p.m., he checked his Rolex – 7:45 p.m., which explained why no light shone from her second-floor room.
The occupant of the silver Mercedes watched him from a distance.
Rather than hang around, Hans returned to the jeep and headed for Alvarez’s place, not far away in the adjacent district.
Again he parked discreetly, taking the daypack with him. In this part of town, Porto Alta, the housing consisted of a maze of crumbling brick bungalows surrounded by sagging picket-wire fence, weathered and undulating like the decking of an antiquated roller coaster. Hans smelled the stench of sewage and heard soulful morna folk music blaring into the night, along with raucous laughter as adults smoked weed and got drunk and yelled at kids playing in the yards.
The fence around Alvarez’s humble abode had all but collapsed. Hans stepped over it and circled the ramshackle property, peering through windows, looking for any sign of life but seeing none. He found an open sash and paused to put his gloves on and cock the M9. After clicking the safety catch off, he cracked his wrists and ankle joints, a cat burglar’s trick to prevent any giveaway noise, and slipped inside.
Hans crouched on the bare wooden floor, letting his eyes adjust to the da
rk. He craned for the slightest sound, ignoring the miasma of cigarette smoke, body odor, stale urine and filth pervading his nostrils. His night vision kicked in to reveal a bedroom, though not one any self-respecting human would sleep in. He opened the door to find the bungalow empty, pulling the rough sackcloth drapes across all the windows before switching on the Maglite.
Starting with a chest of drawers in the bedroom, Hans began a systematic search, looking for anything linking Alvarez to his little girl’s disappearance or a connection to the traffickers. He lifted the filthy mattress on the floor to find an adult magazine, an empty wallet and a pewter necklace with a peace sign pendant, but nothing else.
He moved to the kitchen. Painted in hideous pink gloss, bubbling and peeling like a bad virus, it housed a grease-caked two-ring stove and blue gas canister, on which sat a blackened frying pan and a half-full pot of rice, both still warm. A rough-hewn set of shelves displayed tinned goods, a jar of instant coffee and a bag of white sugar, a chipped cup and a plate and a heavily stained Nescafé mug holding cheap and tarnished cutlery. Beer bottles piled up against a cut-down oil drum overflowing with trash in the corner.
Hans played the beam of his flashlight around the living room. A couch with patches of stuffing bursting out of it faced a small black-and-white television set. On an improvised coffee table, consisting of four plastic beer crates with a sheet of wood on top and a nautical flag for a tablecloth, sat an untouched plate of rice, fish and beans, and an unopened bottle of beer. Alvarez had abandoned this place in a hurry.
A two-foot-long crucifix hung on the wall above a shelf of bric-a-brac and a photograph of a demure young woman. Hans peered at it, wondering what part this innocent played in Alvarez’s past. For a moment he felt pity for the fisherman, understanding the utter poverty that had shaped his destiny, but the thought of the crime Alvarez had committed against his daughter sobered Hans’ mind, for even in such desperate circumstances human beings have the power of free will and are accountable for their actions.
In amongst the clutter on the shelf was a voucher to claim two-for-one drinks in a local bar. Hans slipped it into a jacket pocket, along with the beer bottle, and climbed back out of the window he’d entered.
A dilapidated shack the size of a home garage sat in the backyard, likely, Hans figured, where Alvarez kept equipment from his boat. He slid back the bolt on the door and stepped inside. There were no windows in the shack, so Hans could play the beam of the flashlight about without worry of drawing attention.
Strewn about the floor were piles of fishing nets, nylon fenders, a rotting wooden tender, engine parts, hauling machinery and electrical equipment. In the corner was a tall metal cabinet, the type used to stock stationery in offices. Hans opened the door to see the cabinet divided down the middle. The left side contained shelves of rusting tools and an assortment of bearings, nuts, bolts and other fixings, plus a pair of ripped flip-flops. The other side was empty, bar what looked like a pile of faded life jackets.
A glint of chrome caught Hans’ eye. He lifted a life jacket and froze, heart stopping dead in his chest.
There, slung in the bottom of the cabinet, was Jessica’s scuba gear.
- 28 -
Hans raced back to the jeep. He needed to speak to the Fulani, figuring the Mercedes tailing him and Alvarez’s impromptu disappearance had something to do with her inquiries, desperate to hear if she had information on Jessica’s whereabouts. He brought Djenabou’s address up on the satnav and drove toward her home, aided by B. A. Baracus’ dulcet tones.
As a precaution, Hans parked two streets from the woman’s building, changed into his lighter-colored clothes and shoved the Beretta into his waistband.
He keyed the radio: “Penny.”
“Hans, are you okay?”
“Fine, but Alvarez took off, and I had someone on my tail.”
“Oh God.”
“Listen, I’m going to see the Fulani. I want you to call down to the front desk and tell them under no circumstances to give out your room number or let anyone up to the suite. Tell them to say you’re out and to take a message. Don’t answer the door to anyone, and turn off the lights as a precaution. I should be back within the hour.”
Hans slid the jimmy inside his jeans, where it hung conveniently by its hook. Rather than approach the front entrance, he made his way down the back alley, knowing Djenabou lived in the fourth building from the end of the block.
A battered wooden fence ran either side of the alley. Hans took out the jimmy, prized off a couple of slats and squeezed through into the building’s backyard.
A dog barked a couple of doors down, setting chickens off in someone’s henhouse. Hans ignored the raucous birds, scooting across the dirt and climbing onto the roof of a shed to get to Djenabou’s window. Her drapes were drawn, but no light shone through them, giving Hans cause to worry. Djenabou would have long since finished her shift at the fish factory and knew Hans was coming to the apartment.
The sash lock was across, so Hans put on his gloves, inserted his knife through the gap and knocked the small brass lever off the locking plate. He held back the drapes and hopped inside.
The coppery smell of blood told him the Fulani was dead.
In the beam of the Maglite, Hans saw she lay on her front, with an arm stretching toward one of the room’s cracked plaster walls. He secured the drapes and stepped over her lifeless figure to flick the light switch.
Whoever committed the murder had clicked shut the padlock on the outside of the door. Hans rammed a chair under the interior handle for added security.
He rolled Djenabou over to find her throat cut and the front of her kaftan drenched in blood – the work of an amateur or a sadistic individual who enjoyed watching their victims suffer, as, judging by the hideous red sprays from floor to ceiling, her death had been a slow one. Yet the Fulani had refused to die in vain, for written on the wall in sticky dark blood was a name.
Logan? Hans pondered, then squinted at the squiggle-like mark. It looked like the letter w or an animal claw, or perhaps it represented something else altogether. He put his cell phone to use once again, taking several snaps of Djenabou’s desperate last message and capturing a slow sweep of the room on video.
On the table were two glasses and the bottle of bitter spirit Hans had shared with the African the previous night, giving him the impression she must have known her assailant or that his approach had been friendly. Holding the glasses up to the light, Hans was relieved to see both had fingerprints on them. He found a plastic carrier bag in the Fulani’s kitchen space and placed them inside and then, using a third, smaller glass, took an imprint of the woman’s bloody dabs for later comparison.
After a last check all around, Hans used a rag from Djenabou’s dishwashing bowl to wipe the lettering off the wall. He took the photograph of little Binda from the dresser and placed it in her mother’s hand. Then, after pausing to give a moment of respect for this courageous woman, Hans turned off the light and left the way he had entered.
- 29 -
Awaking on the cold stone floor, Jessica had a pounding headache, and her thirst raged. The last time she felt like this was when she drank mojito with Marcel, the kind Dutch sailor they had met on the yacht trip. Her papa did say it would make her sick as a pig, but she’d gone ahead and downed a glass anyway. She knew this feeling was something to do with the pill the Mouthwash Man gave her. She’d named him Mouthwash Man because his breath smelled like mouthwash, the same smell as the stuff that her papa defrosted the car windshield with in winter.
Jessica dipped the beaker into the bucket and gulped the water down, then refilled it and drank another. As she satiated her thirst, the little girl’s mouth filled with horrible metallic-tasting saliva, and she threw up. Knowing Mouthwash Man wouldn’t be happy, she began scooping up the sick and dumping it in the toilet bucket. After carefully rinsing her hands so as not to spoil the drinking water, she crawled back under the blanket and fell asleep.
She was right. When Mouthwash Man entered the cell, carrying a whiteboard and a bowl of food, he was far from pleased to see the mess in the bucket.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Jessica Kerry Larsson,” she said, scowling.
“What’s your name?”
“Maria,” she acquiesced, opting to play it safe until her papa arrived and beat this man to a pulp.
“Very good.” He nodded and then cleaned her face with a wet wipe. He placed the whiteboard against the cell wall, grabbed Jessica’s hair and dragged her in front of it. “Look happy,” he ordered, taking a camera from his pocket.
Jessica feigned a smile, and the man snapped several shots.
“When is your birthday?” he demanded.
“The eleventh of November,” she replied.
“Okay, say, ‘My name is Maria Dennis, and I was born on the eleventh of November.’”
Jessica did as told to prevent the man getting angry. He made her repeat it ten times, then scooped a beakerful of water, handed it to her and took out the bottle of tablets. She placed the opiate in her mouth and, as the man screwed the lid, maneuvered it under her tongue and pretended to wash it down.
Mouthwash Man grunted and left the cell.
- 30 -
Hans eased open the door of the hotel room to find Penny asleep on the couch. Careful not to disturb her, he grabbed a beer from the enormous refrigerator in the kitchen area and returned to the living room, content to sit there watching her sleep, feeling a sense of deep gratitude as a host of memories washed over him.
He recalled their chance meeting in the marina in Plymouth as he and Jessica prepared Future for the transatlantic crossing, how she’d hit it off immediately with his little girl and hadn’t hesitated to accept his offer to crew for them. He thought about the inner demons she suffered because of the abortion she’d had following the fling with the cheating millionaire – her trauma worsened when a fortune-teller she’d visited for a bit of fun on a friend’s bachelorette party “saw” the termination and declared the baby would have been a girl.
