The Devil on Chardonnay

by Ed Baldwin

  Faial’s port city, Horta, boasts a spacious leeward harbor tucked under a daunting cliff. Pico, the volcano, dominates the island of Pico, located across a protected 4-mile-wide channel from Faial.

  Five hours after Donn first sighted Pico, they pulled into the harbor at Horta. The yacht basin sports docking facilities for scores of cruising yachts in the 30- to 40-foot range, and dozens in the 60-foot range, but they were mostly vacant. Smart yachtsmen had called the season over and headed to the mainland. The experience of the past week was a lesson the crew of Chardonnay would never forget about September on the North Atlantic.

  Chardonnay, at 119 feet, was regal as she furled her sails and passed under the cliff at the entrance to the harbor. The crew felt the eyes of the entire port on them as their ship, a one of a kind, a queen of the high seas, had taken the challenge of the North Atlantic and succeeded.

  Mikki emerged from her stateroom transformed. She wore a neatly pressed khaki safari jacket and slacks with calfskin leather boots. Her makeup was in place, and Boyd could smell the fragrance he hadn’t noticed since that first night in Charleston.

  “Boyd, would you go with me into Horta? I have some business,” Mikki said, pleasantly. “We can take Candido and Manuel with us. When we return this afternoon, the rest of you can go ashore.”

  A short, well-fed Portuguese Harbor Master reviewed their papers and took a modest anchorage fee. Their business was conducted in Portuguese, in which Mikki was fluent. Boyd wondered how. Within five minutes they were back out into the bright sun.

  “Peter’s Bar is right over there. I need to go there before we return to Chardonnay.”

  Mikki was cool.

  Odd, Boyd thought. Their night of passion was just that, a one-nighter.

  The sidewalk was a mosaic of small black and white paving stones. They crossed a small park, climbed steps to the main street along the harbor, and made for a bar in the center of the block. “Café Sport” was carved into a wooden scroll hung across the front of the building, and wooden whales hung over each of the two doors. The bottom floor of the three-story building was painted blue, the only nonwhite building on the block, and the wooden shutters on all the windows gave it a Cape Cod look.

  Boyd and Mikki ducked as they stepped down into the darker interior.

  “Mikki!” The bartender called out.

  “Jose! Como vai?”

  The small man came around the bar and hugged her, then called into the kitchen.

  “This is Jose Enrique Azevedo,” Mikki said, waiting with Boyd. “And his father, also Jose Enrique.”

  An older man, also small, came from the kitchen and hugged her.

  “Jose the elder was a boy when my grandfather sailed Chardonnay through here in the '40s. My father caught a world’s record swordfish off the Princess Alice Banks in 1970, the year I was born.”

  Boyd shook hands with the two men, who were beaming at Mikki’s arrival. The small bar seemed dark because of the rich, wood-paneled walls, festooned with the flags from dozens of yachts. A large carved eagle with outstretched wings and flags in its talons hung over the bar. The half-dozen customers seemed to be locals, and they ignored the visitors. Aromas, both garlicky and greasy, wafted from the kitchen.

  Boyd listened with interest to Mikki’s tales of her childhood on Chardonnay and at Horta. As she laughed and talked with the Azevedos, the years seemed to drop away. They lapsed back into Portuguese, and Boyd walked over to the bar to get a beer.

  Another bartender had taken Jose’s place and he smiled as he filled a glass with Especial beer, then he tensed. Mikki had asked a question, and mentioned a name. Was it Constantine? Boyd had never heard the last name before. He glanced in the mirror and saw shadows cross the faces of father and son. The bartender moved away.

  “You’ll want a prego. It’s their specialty here – marinated thin slices of beef, fried, served on a poppaseca, the local bread,” Mikki said, returning to his side after the Azevedos had gone back to the kitchen.

  “I’ll need another beer. How do you say that in Portuguese?” Boyd asked.

  “Dos giraffe, por favor,” she said, still standing behind Boyd, looking at the menu, then added, “Un prego, uh, sardinhos, grelhado.”

  The two draft beers arrived in gigantic frosted mugs, at least 30 ounces of beer each. They dwarfed the smaller 8-ounce draft Boyd had gotten from the bartender. Mikki sat and hefted hers with both hands, smiling as they silently enjoyed the cold local brew.

  The shadow told Boyd someone had entered behind him. The furtive glance from the bartender told him it was the person Mikki had asked about. He turned to see a barrel-chested, fair-skinned man dressed in khaki shirt and pants standing there, glaring at him, then breaking into a faint grin when he saw Mikki.

  “Constantine! Senti tanto a sua falta!” She rose to meet him and threw her arms around his neck, but then stiffened ever so slightly.

  Constantine’s towering presence dwarfed the waiter and caused Boyd to stand. Constantine was taller by an inch.

  “Boyd, this is my old friend Constantine Coelho. Constantine, Boyd is a banker from America who has agreed to work in my bank. It is his first Atlantic crossing,” Mikki said gaily.

  Nothing that she said seemed to be welcome news to Constantine, who made a wooden attempt at a smile, ordered a giraffe, and sat across from Boyd at their table. He was soon engaged in conversation in Portuguese with Mikki. She seemed to be filling him in on events since their last meeting, not too long ago it seemed to Boyd.

  Though a small bar, Peter’s has two doors a dozen feet apart. As Constantine had entered one, two Portuguese came in the other. Their eyes on Boyd made him wary. Now another fair skinned man entered, staring at Boyd and Mikki, he took a seat alone.

  “Constantine is my business contact in the Portuguese colonies in Africa,” Mikki said.

  “Former Portuguese colonies,” Constantine added darkly in heavily accented English. “Angola and Mozambique have gone their own way.”

  Mikki took a sip of her beer, then leaned back into her chair. As she did so, her shoulder brushed against Boyd’s. A moment later there was another touch, and he felt the warmth of her closeness. Constantine was older than Wolf, and larger, though not as completely developed. His large hands made his arms appear smallish, though not in any sense weak. His voice was loud and grating. He finished the beer in half a dozen gulps and ordered another.

  Another shadow caused Boyd to turn to see another Portuguese enter and take a seat behind him. The man was small and swarthy like the fishermen having their lunch at a nearby table. Though he didn’t look at Boyd, just his presence behind him made Boyd uneasy.

  Jose the younger returned with a picture he’d taken years before of a huge wave hitting the barrier cliff at the mouth of the harbor and splashing 180 feet into the air. He pointed out that the splash made a perfect face of Neptune, god of the sea. Mikki stood next to Boyd, arm draped casually across his shoulders as they looked at the picture. Hair bristled on the back of his neck. He knew this game. When he sat, he moved a bit around the table, getting his back away from the Portuguese along the wall.

  “Boyd saved my life,” Mikki said to Jose as he gathered up his picture. “A wave nearly this big washed me into the sea. I don’t know how I can repay him.”

  She held Boyd’s arm, her breast against him. Her leg brushed the length of his.

  Constantine’s face grew red, he finished the second giraffe and ordered a third. He fidgeted in his chair.

  Boyd excused himself for the men’s room. He noted an exit through the kitchen. Returning, Mikki pulled away from a close conversation with Constantine and smiled at Boyd.

  “So, you will work for Mikki?” Constantine said to Boyd, leaning into the table as Mikki headed for the john.

  “We’ve talked about that. I don’t really know what she wants me to do.”

  “You are a bodyguard?”

  “No. I’m a banker from Oklahoma,” Boyd lied. It didn’t sound
convincing even to him.

  “Humph! You are no banker. With Carlos behind you,” he said, nodding to the Portuguese who came in later to sit behind Boyd, “you grew restless. You moved your back to see him. Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” Boyd asked, trying to be as belligerent as possible.

  Jealous lover was the only role here. He couldn’t be seen as a threat to whatever it was they were planning.

  “I am Mikki’s lover and business partner,” Constantine said, standing up.

  This move was designed to strut his stuff and probably had stopped innumerable disagreements on this island. He was a big, big, man.

  Jose Azevedo was scurrying out the rear, for the police Boyd hoped. Several locals made a hasty exit out the front. Constantine’s men were still seated.

  “Mikki has many lovers!” Boyd said loudly, glancing toward the rear. He wondered why Mikki had set this up and seemed to be riding it out in the pisser.

  Constantine picked up his beer mug just as Mikki opened the door. He stood there, eyes blazing, brandishing the mug.

  Boyd feinted with his left. Constantine made a clumsy blocking move with the right arm that held the giraffe, and beer spilled out over the now empty tables. Boyd came in with a full force right cross that hit Constantine square on the chin, and the big man went down backward across a table laden with lunch for the group of fishermen who had just exited out the front.

  Boyd paused over the dazed Portuguese, lying on the broken tabletop, surrounded by broken beer glasses and spilled plates of fried sardines. Boyd rubbed his newly broken right hand, adrenalin high just now kicking in. He swung around, grabbed his nearly full beer and hurled it at the two surprised Portuguese just rising from their seats. They ducked and Boyd turned and headed for the back door.

  Mikki’s eyes were wide and bright.

  “I’m not stayin’ to see the inside of a Portuguese jail. If you’re comin’, come on,” he said as he ran out the back into the alley, Mikki right behind.

  “Why did you do that?” She was yelling from behind, running as fast as she could in her calfskin boots, wobbling along a rough cobblestone alley.

  “He came for me,” Boyd said, already thinking of a way to explain it to the police.

  They were all out full speed as they turned the corner at the end of the alley and sprinted down the center of the street, paved with larger, flat stones. The harbor was a hundred yards away. Whoever Constantine was, he’d just learned, painfully, the first lesson in bar fighting: Never bluff.

  Someone was shouting up the street toward Peter’s Bar as they took the steps down to the Zodiac. Boyd could hear several people running in his direction. He fumbled with the lock on the line, looking up to see Constantine, very much awake at this moment, trailed by two of his Portuguese companions. He had a pistol.

  “Get in,” Boyd said, turning to see Mikki already in the back, as the engine sprang to life.

  “Chica do calle!” Constantine cried out as the Zodiac churned the bay and began to plane. He reached the bottom of the steps and ran along the bank, repeating his announcement, then stopped and brought up the gun.

  Boyd took that statement, made several times, to be a sign of general disrespect, and lowered his profile.

  The first shot was way high. The second hit beyond them in the water, throwing up a tall, thin splash. Chardonnay’s diesel started. Boyd looked up to see Constantine running along the walk parallel to their course, gaining on them. He stopped again and braced the pistol with both hands. Boyd flattened again in the bottom of the Zodiac.

  The burst of automatic weapon fire hit right in front of Constantine, and the half dozen pillars of spray caused him to drop to the ground, pistol forgotten. The second burst ricocheted off the rocks beneath the walkway he stood on, and he rolled back to be further from it. His companions jumped behind a dry-docked fishing boat.

  Boyd turned toward Chardonnay to see Wolf standing on the rear, an AK-47 resting in the crook of his casted right arm, a big smile on his face. Neville was throwing off the mooring line.

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  Pirates

  “Chardonnay! Return to Horta immediately or Portuguese authorities will board your ship on the high seas and detain the criminals you are harboring.”

  Mikki translated the message that had been repeated in Portuguese over their radio for the past half hour.

  Neville had persuaded her to leave her stateroom to listen to the message.

  She grabbed the microphone and answered with a question that included the name Ponta Delgada.

  There was a pause of more than a minute. No doubt her proposal was causing some discussion at the other end. During this time, Mikki glared alternately at Boyd and Wolf. They glared at each other. The radio came back to life with a long message that included Ponta Delgada several times.

  “They won’t send the navy after us if we stop at Ponta Delgada and drop these two off,” she said, looking at Neville. “When will we be there?”

  “By dawn.”

  Mikki turned back down the stairs and stalked toward her room. As she passed Donn and Pamela, she paused.

  “The American Consulate is on Ponta Delgada, at San Miguel. Wolf can go to the German Consulate. The consuls can make an apology and negotiate a fine. Constantine is well known in these islands, his reputation has been damaged. He fired the first shot, that will help. I will pay for Wolf to fly back to Geneva. You must leave, too. We will find another crew in Ponta Delgada.”

  Pam looked stunned. Donn was mute. Mikki waited for an answer and, receiving none, continued to her room and slammed the door.

  Disengagement was an important skill if you played games the way Mikki did, Boyd thought, listening from the top of the stairs near the radio. That’s what consuls are for, to sort out who did what to whom and to figure out what it was going to cost.

  This was perfect. Boyd was sure Ferguson would have notified the Portuguese by now, and their navy was his best chance to get this boat stopped and properly searched. What better place to get his hands on Ebola that in a Portuguese port? He could get the Portuguese to quarantine it there and get Joe Smith and his boys in to do the dirty work in their hazard suits. That’d be job done, then back to Shaw and the Poinsett range … and that waitress. He was tired of this chase. He walked back toward the wheel and Neville. Their eyes met, but nothing was said.

  ********

  Boyd awoke when the engine went to idle and forward motion stopped. Chardonnay rocked gently in a mild sea. In the pitch dark of the guest stateroom, his watch showed 0336 hours. Pamela, head at the other end of the same bed, was still asleep. He sat up, head clearing. He’d manned the helm from dark until after midnight so Neville, up since before dawn, could get some sleep. Now Neville was at the helm with Donn as crew.

  There was a shout from the deck, and he quickly pulled on his jeans and felt for the door. The saloon was well lighted, and his pulse quickened as he climbed the steps. There was another diesel alongside, bigger, also idle.

  A spotlight blinded Boyd as he stepped from the doghouse. He shaded his eyes and saw the fishing boat from which it came. It was large by Azorean standards, but no larger than a small tugboat, with the same high bow and deep draft. Though much shorter than Chardonnay, the fishing boat’s bridge was higher, and the deep gurgling of its engine at idle indicated substantially more power and speed. Shouts were coming from several crew members along its deck. Donn was forward, adjusting fenders between the two ships, which were rising and falling in unison with the swells.

  “Is this the Portuguese Navy?” Boyd asked Neville as he strode back to the wheel, curious that there was no flag or insignia.

  “No,” Neville said simply, then nodded back toward the fishing boat where a crewman stood with an automatic assault rifle pointed at them.

  Realizing the danger now, Boyd looked back along the deck to see the large figure of Constantine Coelho approaching with a boarding ramp. He wore a leather pistol belt with a lar
ge revolver covered by a leather flap. Crew from the fishing boat jumped across and attached lines to cleats on Chardonnay’s deck. The ramp spanned the space between the two vessels, and Constantine came aboard, eyes locked on Boyd.

  “So, you want to fight, but only for one blow? We can finish now.” He walked quickly up to Boyd as he spoke, and a roundhouse right caught Boyd on the chin.

  Boyd went down easily and sat on the deck, dazedly rubbing his jaw. Quickly he took in the scene, looking for an opening. There was none. One seaman stood forward of the doghouse with his weapon covering them all. Another was on the starboard side, his back to the fishing boat, right behind Constantine. A third manned the spotlight, keeping Chardonnay’s crew squinting and shading their eyes.

  “What is this?” Mikki demanded as she emerged from the doghouse, wearing jeans and a wool sweater. Her rapid strides aft slowed as she squinted, shading her eyes, trying to see the ship alongside. When she saw it wasn’t the Portuguese authorities, the pace slowed. She stopped when she saw Constantine.

  He stepped toward her, impatient to close the gap she left when she stopped. The blow was open palm but no less determined than the one that had floored Boyd. The slap hit her face, and the follow-through lifted her off her feet as it propelled her forward toward the doghouse hatchway. She landed flat and quickly rolled into a ball, whimpering, cowering. She crawled, not toward the hatch and momentary escape, but toward Constantine, supplicating.

  The tirade was in Portuguese, with Constantine pointing at Boyd and then himself. In seconds, she transformed from the arrogant mistress of the sea to a little girl trying to avoid another spanking. Constantine bent and grabbed her by the arm and jerked her to her feet. The scolding continued. She responded, beginning to regain composure and giving an explanation. She pointed to Boyd, Neville and then below.