(17) Crucia

Small, like a lost white balloon held by its own predicament, the moon shone down on the olive grove.

The short and uniquely gnarled trees stood in a tight circle on a low flat-topped hill southeast of the high vineyard. Except for the occasional jetliner descending toward, or climbing from, the local airport, all was quiet but for the 'birp birp' of the nightbird, the Scops owl. Sanguineus listened to the lonely call that received no answer, none but the faint rustle of leaves.

He sat half reclining under the straggly branches of a wild hedge, his back supported by a shoulder pack from which he had extracted his weapons and accouterments. He put a drop of atropine in each eye to dilate his pupils. This would facilitate the use of his infrared goggles and night scope. The vision aids were needed. The full moon is ten times less bright than a half moon, and the clear sharp night made for impenetrable shadows in the target area, like an overflowing moat of ink.

He was just over thirty meters from the clearing, directly across from a broad opening in the circle of olive trees. His preference was this moderate range, applying the suppressed .223 AR-15 carbine. But if circumstances were not to be in favor of it, he was prepared to sally forth to the clearing with his 33-round Glock 18 machine pistol.

He was fortunate to have the weapons of his choice. For a man of his profession guns were always available in whatever locale he was to operate, thanks to the local 'snakes' (links between covert authorities, field agents, and contract operatives), the indispensable furtive ones in every society, the chameleons who blend in with the woodwork wherever they go. But often Sanguineus had to make do with guns he did not trust or was not as familiar with as those which he preferred to rely on. Tonight he had exactly what he would have chosen in a warehouse full of options.

It was nearing 10pm. Another hour and the dramae personae would be in place for the ritual.

He thought back to last night at the cafe where he had taken Ambrosia for dinner. He chose it for its Saturday night crowd and the noisy chaos of its table arrangements, the safest place for a conversation that one didn't want overheard.

There was foreplay in her eyes and in the symbolism of her hands and mouth as she sampled the fried chipotles appetizers. The cafe had been a favorite haunt of her father, Jorge Antonio, she exclaimed when he had pulled up to its colorful facade. A coincidence. And Sanguineus did not like coincidences.

Before the dishes came, when they were well into their drinks, he showed her a print-out of a man taken from a telephoto camera. It was a close-up, a slightly blurred image of a middle-aged gentleman with a pronounced scar on his right cheek that extended down to his neck.

"Who is this man?" he asked her.

Ambrosia smiled like a girl caught doing something naughty, but for which no punishment was expected.

"That's the cousin of Grigoris, the gangster who lives in Rome, my insistent admirer," she said. "Yes, he arrived in Corinthia this afternoon. I saw him in the Ammos Bar, quite by surprise! Who took the picture? Have you been spying on me?"

"What's his name and why is he here?"

"Carlos, and he's here because he comes here every month at the full moon. He's a romantic bastard, I'll give him that."

Sanguineus put the photo in his black corduroy sport coat and sat back relaxed. But his eyes were devoid of anything akin to foreplay. He stared meaningfully at Ambrosia until he saw her expression change to a defensive one.

"I'm going to do the tough guy thing," he said, "so bear with me. On assignment I can chop anyone's ass who gets in my way. I have zero tolerance for lies and attempts at manipulation. I'm here to pop the person I think was responsible for the death of Pella Markos, and I'm not too particular about who that turns out to be."

"Grigoris," said Ambrosia. "I wouldn't have believed it before. I still can hardly believe it. But I saw the other night that he has a vindictive, ugly, part of himself that he is good at hiding, and a lust for young women which I don't blame him for, except that it reveals a hypocritical side to him."

Sanguineus waited for her to settle her temper and to finish sipping her Sangria. Then he said: "My associates staked out the bar, before and after I was there. Sally Anne Bern took the picture of your dapper Carlos when she saw him looking in your direction, as you were walking to your car. Did you intend to meet with him tomorrow at his hotel?"

Ambrosia gave him a cool neutral smile. "You know the answer already. You had a man-to-man talk with Darren Smirnis and then killed him, or so I heard. And now, what? What's the newest news? Did you corner Carlos, pick his brains, and then kill him too?"

Sanguineus lifted his martini glass. "Didn't you want me to?"

Ambrosia looked surprised. Her stare was blank, her smile frozen. Then she took out a compact from her purse, squinted in its mirror, powdered her nose, closed it, and while putting it away said airily, "I should have known you were a fast worker."

"In my line of work fast responses are an imperative," Sanguineus said, seeing a waitress with a laden tray weaving her way toward them through the busy tables, "but sometimes speed overtakes the right decision. Here's our meal. Put this in your ear," he said, and setting his Nordic on her side of the table he handed her its ear bud. "Listen to my conversation with Carlos while we're savoring our repast."

He tapped the start icon on the phone's screen. There was no visual.

While attending to his Cuchifritos meat dish, and Ambrosia her shrimp Paella, Sanguineus relived his encounter with Carlos Markos in that tiny but immaculate house in the higher elevation above Corinth proper, in the adjoining town of Examilia.

Sanguineus had placed a magnatized tracker under the chassis of the Ford rental that stood in the parking stall reserved for the occupant of the hotel's prime suite. It guided his Silverado to an unexpectedly shabby neighborhood, to the house at the end of a crumbly street, a house veiled by palms whose masses of dead fronds had never been cut away.

Sanguineus parked around the corner, a short walk down a dirt road that, in the opposite direction, led to abandoned shanties.

Carlos had been in the house for about thirty minutes when Sanguineus, after a quick recon of the sparse and weedy backyard, jimmied open the back door and walked into a narrow kitchen with his Glock machine pistol nosing ahead of him.

He expected to surprise a woman and perhaps a child or two, but as he turned into the small boxy living-room he heard nothing, and saw nothing, that would suggest anyone but Carlos was there. There were no other vehicles but the Ford, no sign of pets, no toys, no framed photos, no food stuffs favored by children, no touch of cleanliness that might be evidence of a woman's presence. There was just the musty smell of a vacant house that had a visitor.

When he entered a cramped hall he smelled a strong aftershave lotion. A bathroom to his right, rust and stained porcelain, a torn shower curtain with a rainbow design. To his left a door with a padlock. Ahead, a door ajar, the sound of a clock that was more like a squeak than a tick. Then the scraping of chair legs on a wooden floor.

He went in.

The little girl was sitting under a bed set on tall posts. It was a bunkbed that had only the upper berth. Fabienne sat with her knees drawn up, hands flat on the sheet of plywood that was scrawled with crayon drawings. The floor was strewn with stuffed toy horses. She was staring at him.

But Sanguineus knew better than to meet her dark cold gaze. Besides, his attention was focused on Carlos Markos.

The man had scooted his chair away from a deal table on which was an open briefcase. In it were papers, a tablet, and assorted boxes with pharmaceutical insignia on them. He was looking over a shoulder at Sanguineus with a quizzical expression that became a frightened one when he saw the Glock.

"Grigoris sou esteila?" ('send you?') he asked in a raspy voice. He ran his rheumatic eyes over the denim shirt and jeans, and puzzlement vied with his fear. "Who are you?" he asked in English. "You understand?"

"A friend of Ambrosia Kastri. Why is Fabienne here?"

Carlos was visibly relieved, enough to relax a little and run a couple fingers through his crisp greying hair. His scar writhed as he grimaced in lieu of a smile. He was a potbellied man with sharp angular features, dressed in a beige suit and black tie. He held his head tilted and looked at Sanguineus sideways. This meant that he was a sly man who sought always to sneak an advantage in any social occasion, a man who trusted no one. His choice of living quarters bore that out, Sanguineus thought.

"Why is she here?" he repeated in a stern manner.

Carlos was now sitting back and looking at the girl. With a concerned expression he said, "For her own protection. There are those who want her dead. I hope you are not one of them." Then leaning forward, tilting his head, looking narrow-eyed at Sanguineus, he asked, "If you are friends with Ambrosia, why are YOU here?"

Sanguineus glanced at the girl. Her attitude had not changed. But then she did not know English, probably, or very little.

"Never mind that," he said. "Who wants her dead?"

He shifted his position beneath the hedge and looked up at the full moon. The Scops owl had ceased its calling. A distant jetliner was taking its howl away with it, a tiny string of red and white lights shining where the stars were faded out by the moonbeams. And reclining there he remembered the stunned look on Ambrosia's face as she listened to the recording, her Paella cooling beneath her fork.