The Devil on Chardonnay (33 page)

Boyd, in civilian clothes, walked beside Ferreira as they traversed a grassy field and then a cobblestone street to the center of town.

An old man sprawled asleep in a chair in the front yard of the first house they passed, a skinny black dog at his feet.  The dog awoke and gave them a perfunctory bark, and the old man stirred, but did not rise.  A few doors down, a woman was bringing in her laundry from the clothesline in her yard.  Ferreira stopped and talked with her.  She answered, but her eyes darted up the road toward town, and her answers were brief.  She was afraid.

“The boats left this morning,” Ferreira said, resuming their walk up the hill. 

The village was so small that after they went by a few more houses, they were on their way out of it. 

“Antonio Borges Da Silva is the constable here.  I think he lives over there,” Ferreira said, stopping to light a cigarette.  He nodded to a two-story house at the edge of town.

The multifamily dwelling had four front doors, each with flanking windows and two windows above.  Children were playing in the yard, but when Boyd and Ferreira approached, they were called inside.  Ferreira walked up to the closest door, which was open, and looked in

“Boa tarde, senhor,” he said with a jolly tilt Boyd knew he didn’t feel.

An older man descended the interior stairs, tucking in a shirt.  He was pretending to be happy to see Ferreira and invited them in.  The small room had some religious artifacts on the walls and some old photographs.  There were two wooden chairs and a couch covered by a faded red fabric.  Two children from across the street appeared in the yard and looked into the still open door.  Ferreira talked earnestly with the constable, and then turned to Boyd.

“It sounds like there’s been a mutiny,” Ferreira said. “Someone in the big house up there got sick last week, and died.  Antonio says they heard it was something terrible, and the fishermen were afraid, so as soon as the weather cleared, they left.  The phone system is disabled, and these people have been unable to call the other islands for more than a week.”

“He still here?”  Boyd asked, looking back toward the airfield.

Ferreira nodded as he took the satchel from Boyd and pulled out the other pistol and handed it to Boyd, then said something to the constable.  As they walked back across the front yard the building behind them came alive as the constable began instructing his neighbors to spread the word through town, then he set out toward the school, his ample belly juggling to and fro as he glanced anxiously down the hill.

“Constantine is at his warehouse on the waterfront.  Antonio said he’s been carrying stuff up the hill all morning.  He’s got one guy with him.”

“Even fight,” Boyd said, strapping the holster to his waist.  He pulled the pistol and removed the clip to be sure it contained bullets.

Ferreira looked at Boyd, brows furrowed, but said nothing.

The red truck appeared in front of them as it rounded the corner, wheels spinning.  For a moment they stopped, motionless in the middle of the road as the truck approached, picking up speed.  Boyd could see Constantine’s bulk in the driver’s seat, and the big pistol came out the driver’s side window and pointed his way.  He and Ferreira moved simultaneously, running to opposite sides of the road and leaping over the ever present stone fences that bordered the yards there.  A shot ricocheted off the fence as Boyd’s body dropped behind it.

Automatic fire from the passenger side raised dust in the yard of the house on Ferreira’s side of the street as he rolled back into the wall as close as he could.  The truck flashed past.

Boyd popped up his head, weapon at the ready.  A bullet smashed into the trunk of a stubby tree in the yard, and Boyd dived back into the dandelions.  Constantine fired blindly back at them two more times as the truck fishtailed up the steep hill toward the house.  Another burst from the passenger side, better aimed, kept Ferreira pressed against the wall.  In a few seconds, it was out of sight.

“He’ll get out the back way,” Boyd said, standing, holstering his weapon.

“The frigate will catch him,” Ferreira said, dusting himself off.

Boyd turned and looked into the open ocean toward the east and Faial, from which the frigate should be coming.  No sign of it yet.

“How fast is one of those tuna boats?”

“Twenty knots.”

“How fast is the frigate?”

“Twenty-five knots.”

“Can you get word to the frigate not to let anyone come aboard?  We don’t want Ebola off this island.  If it gets on your frigate, and back to San Miguel, we’ve got another outbreak to cope with.” 

Boyd vaulted over the fence and stood in the road, legs spread, hands on hips.

Ferreira, looking older, walked to the gate and opened it, pulling it shut behind him and taking care to close the latch.  His eyes flicked up at the house on the hill, then back to the road in front of him, but not toward Boyd.

“I can call Lajes only.”

“They could call the navy at San Miguel,” Boyd opened the satchel and handed the radio to Ferreira.

Boyd paced the street looking up at the house and down toward the waterfront while Ferreira made the call.

“Let’s go down to his warehouse,” Boyd said, trying to sound positive.  “If he’s been running guns ,we should be able to get some heavier firepower.”

“What for?”  Ferreira asked suspiciously.  “The navy will be here in two hours, he is finished.”

“What if he comes back down that hill?”  Boyd asked, nodding up toward the house.

“OK.”  Ferreira turned toward the waterfront, a crease of a smile on his face.  “Good idea.”

Armed with Kalashnikovs and plenty of ammunition, Ferreira seemed to feel better.  He laughed and joked as they walked to the corner where they’d first seen the truck and leaned against the side of the building, trapping Constantine from returning to the town.  They could see the house, and whoever was there could see them.  Ten minutes passed. 

Boyd heard distant sounds, so faint at first he thought it was coming from up the hill.  That sound made his hair stand; it was the drums again, warning.  Ferreira was calmly finishing his cigarette.  Boyd’s unease grew.

Ebola was up there, and the pattern was not true if capture was this easy.  How could Ferreira know how fast Constantine’s boat was?  How come they couldn’t see the frigate?  Why had Constantine been content to leave them armed in the town?

“We’ve got to go up that hill,” Boyd said, stepping out into the street.

  “Why?”

“This doesn’t add up.  Something’s not right.  Look, just back me up.  We’ll stay off the road, go around the side over there.” 

Boyd started walking up the street, parallel with the waterfront, shielded from the view above by buildings in town. 

To the east, the most direct route, they quickly were blocked by a cliff that could only be scaled by a technical climb.  They retreated through the town and around the airfield.  The gradual, grassy approach seemed easy, until an hour had passed, and they were still only half way up.  It grew steeper.

Ferreira stopped for a cigarette, winded.  Boyd retrieved the binoculars and scanned the horizon to the southeast.  The frigate was a tiny dot on the horizon.

“There’s your navy,” he handed the binoculars to Ferreira.

Boyd wondered why Constantine was waiting for the frigate.  An answer occurred to him that made him reach for the binoculars. 

“How much do you know about tuna boats?” Boyd asked.

“Not much.  I have never been on one.”

“His boat has two diesel engines.  What if he’s faster than your frigate?  It comes out here,he heads back to the rest of the islands.  If he can get to Pico 10 minutes ahead of the frigate, he’s gone.” 

They started climbing again, passing the carcass of a dead mule drawing flies on the side of the hill. 

The red pickup was still at the house when they dragged themselves up the last few yards of the hill at midafternoon and peeked over the top.  It was 10 degrees cooler at the top, and the wind was brisk.  The Atlantic was a 360-degree panorama that caused them to pause in appreciation of Constantine’s view.  They crouched and moved toward the house.  The compound was a fortress, the walls and outbuildings arranged to protect from any incursion along the road.  Two satellite dishes and some other antennas indicated a sophisticated communications link. 

Behind the house, the crater dropped steeply 300 feet to a bog at the bottom, the sides covered with brush.  They slid a few yards down into the crater, hanging on to the sides to traverse the open area around the pool, and came back up behind a small pool house.  The main house was built right on the rim of the volcano and was balanced on the only hundred feet of level ground before the hill dropped off at the front.  The water in the swimming pool was pristine, its surface ruffled by the wind. 

Ferreira covered the upstairs windows with his AK-47 as Boyd climbed onto the patio.  He covered as Ferreira followed.  They traversed a covered walkway and entered the open kitchen door.

Boyd stopped to take in the kitchen.  Though Constantine might be a pirate, snubbing his nose at the world and its rules, in his home he was a traditionalist.  There was a brick, built-in,  open hearth oven for baking bread, like Boyd had seen in the restaurants he’d visited with Ferreira, and a wood-burning as well as gas stove, with copper and clay pots in all sizes.  They walked into the dining room and passed a wrought iron gate, locked, leading to a wine cellar.  The dining room table seated 12, and the adjacent living room was huge, looking out at the village below and the Atlantic beyond through large windows.  A large stone fireplace with stone mantle carried the traditional motif from the ornate dining room.  Religious symbols adorned the walls. 

Radio static and the sound of someone talking could be heard up the stairs.  Boyd pointed out the front window. The frigate was in sight, a puff of black smoke behind it serving as an accent and indicating flank speed.  Moving into the room, Boyd could see two sentries manning the front of the house, watching the road from town.  They had Kalashnikovs at the ready.

 A door slammed in the back, and Boyd and Ferreira retreated into the dining room.  A Portuguese seaman walked in from the other side of the stairs and ascended in a hurry.  He began talking as he went up.  Moments later, he came back down, bearing the two metal suitcases.  He returned out the other side of the house in back. 

Boyd heard a faint metallic zing and turned towards Ferreira.  No longer hesitant, his eyes were alight, and he held a black commando knife from the sheath on his webbed pistol belt.  He moved quickly to the side of the stairs just as the back door slammed again. 

The seaman returned through the back door and turned the corner to climb the stairs.  Like a spider grabbing a fly, Ferreira was behind him.  One hand clamped across the seaman's  mouth and yanked the man’s head back, the other slashed the throat and caused a cascade of blood down his chest and onto the tile.  The second slash nearly severed the head, and a dying gurgle was muffled as the head dropped down onto the chest as Ferreira let him slump backward to drag him into the darkened dining room from which he had just sprung. 

Boyd gaped at the blood covered tile.  Even the walls were sprayed.  Ferreira reappeared, alone now, and looked up the stairs, then waved his arm upstairs while pointing his weapon at the front door. 

Taking care not to slip in the already congealing blood, Boyd gingerly walked up the tile stairs.  He was relieved when the smell of blood gave way to the smell of new masonry higher up.  The barrel of the Kalashnikov was right behind his nose as he crouched and looked around the corner at the top of the stairs. 

Mikki was chained to the wall in the master bedroom, nude, bruised, beautiful.

She saw him and stood; the chains rattled.  Boyd’s head reeled.  The iron collar and oversize chain attached to a large iron ring buried in the thick stone wall was right out of a dungeon scene, but the perfectly coiffed hair, thick hand-woven Portuguese rug and ornately carved king-size bed fit into a palatial estate.  In the moment they stood facing each other, her nipples puckered.  She took a breath, and seemed to grow taller.  Her eyes flashed.

That could only mean someone was about to die.  Boyd had begun to turn before he heard the swish and ducked instead.  The sword hit the masonry just above his head with a metallic clank.  Boyd rolled away from the stair, dropping his rifle.  Constantine’s bulk blocked the light from the other end of the hall, where he’d been sitting in a combination office and radio room.  He wore a Kevlar vest with the big pistol strapped to his thigh.

Boyd aimed a kick at the nearest knee and Constantine shifted weight to deflect it.  Boyd scooted toward the bedroom, regained his feet and fled headlong toward Mikki, who stood against the wall, lips curled back in an ecstatic grin.

Boyd fumbled with the snap on the holster of the 9 millimeter automatic.  Constantine entered the room and raised the sword above his head.  It was a curved Turkish sword, usually seen hanging over mantles for decoration, but this one was sharp, and the similarity to the dream he’d had caused Boyd to freeze in terror.  Two steps and the big man was upon him, and death was about to descend.

There was a burst of automatic weapon fire from the stairs below, and they were all distracted for a moment. Boyd regained some composure, realizing that at least Ferreira had his back.  He grabbed a wooden chair from  a make-up table to deflect the blow, and when it came the sword whacked out a great sliver from the leg, but the chair held it from Boyd.  Constantine dropped the sword and grabbed for Boyd.  He still had the pistol but apparently felt this killing should be done bare-handed.  They fell backward over a fainting couch into a corner of the bedroom.  Constantine was on top, meaty hands around Boyd’s throat.  His dark eyes bored into Boyd, his breath was hard and reeking of fish and garlic as his thumbs found Boyd’s windpipe.

“Ungghuh!”  Boyd grunted as he shifted his weight to free his right hand and draw his pistol.  Then he remembered that the safety was on and there was no round in the chamber.  With one hand, it was useless.  Constantine didn’t know that, though.