“Or murder. My money is on the Yeoh Triad, the Enrico Cartel retaliating, or someone covering their tracks. Do you think Ruby’s death is most likely related to the Dankwaerts’ freeport theft?”
“I don’t investigate these things, my boy. You do. Find out what you can from Vlaming’s secretary. I’ll have Albert’s people run a check on her as well.” He looked to the left and set the blue folder aside as Mae appeared with a tray laden with a small pot, a plate of biscuits, and a beautiful blue and white Delft cup and saucer. “The tea, oh, splendid! Where’s the Major’s coffee?”
Mae set the tray on the coffee table, placing a cup and a plate of little spiced biscuits in front of Llewelyn. “The Major would not find the coffee suitable.”
Kitt arched an eyebrow. “Instant?”
“Pods, sir.”
“Good God, what is the world coming to?”
“Dear boy, you are a snob.” Llewelyn poured his own cup of chai.
Mae stepped back. “Will there be anything else, Brigadier?”
Llewelyn looked at the dog poking his long snout forward, cautiously sniffing at the biscuits shaped like windmills. Finding the aroma disagreeable, Felix backed off, plopped down, and gnawed one rear paw. “See to the Major’s hound.”
Mae ran hands down her hips, smoothing her apron. “Walkies, Felix,” she said and turned, the dog leaping up to scamper alongside.
“Take an umbrella, Mrs Valentine.” Llewelyn called out.
Kitt waited until she had crossed the large sitting room and disappeared into the smaller of the suite’s two bedrooms. “The second thing, sir?” he said.
“I think your butler is hiding something.”
“I’m guessing it’s her antipathy for you.”
“Don’t play with me, Major. You’re aware that she is too, but whatever she’s concealing, her previous contributions, what she ascertained and experienced in those particular activities make her ideal to join in this action, and despite your reservations and protests, you understand that. You know she is an asset and a liability.”
“It’s best to keep such people where you can see them.”
“Well, it pays to keep tabs on one’s best-valued employees.”
“As you kept tabs on me.”
“For which you are fortunate. You are valued, obviously. I may not say that often, or may not have ever said that at all, but this is, at times, an indecorous business, dear boy. We utilise the talent and resources at our disposal.”
The talent and resources at our disposal. God all bloody mighty, Llewelyn would find ways to keep Mae, to use her as an active asset when it suited him because, however much he valued them, that’s what he did, use people, and the hypocrisy of talent and resources at our disposal wasn’t lost on Kitt.
Using people is what he did too.
He looked across the sitting room to the door where the excited ginger dog pranced about after Mae hooked a lead to his harness. He watched the pair exit the suite. “I’ll do my best to discover what it is you think she’s hiding, sir, any way I can.”
“There’s a good lad.”
Kitt rose. Then he was in the hallway outside the suite, then at the lift where she stood waiting in her still-damp trench coat.
There came a bong, double doors parted, and the three of them stepped into a space scented with lemon and lavender. They rode in silence for a floor, then the dog yawned and Kitt sighed. “You have to stop looking at me the way you have been,” he said.
“How have I been looking at you?”
“Adoringly, your eyes aglow with warmth.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Aglow with warmth?”
A faint smile quirked the left corner of his mouth. “Yes. Llewelyn’s noticed. Those were his exact words.”
“I shall take care then and gaze at you indignantly, my eyes ablaze with contempt.”
“Is that what you feel?”
She paused before she answered. “I am trying very hard to be professional.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I think you’re mighty. What the ever lovin’ feck is he doing bringing my dog here?”
“Our dog, and Llewelyn has his reasons.”
“Which he’ll share with me if and when he sees fit.” She made a noisy, half-grunted pfft of irritation. “This business and its ridiculous ‘need to know’ shite. There aren’t dogs in spy stories!”
“He wants to see if he can set you off, disarm you, find out how far he can push you. It’s what he does, it’s how he sizes up people, but what you really need to know is that the paperwork on this is going to be astounding,” he said, exhaling his fractiousness.
She exhaled in a similar manner. “I have only just realised, this being our third go around with working together, that you…”
“We are not working together. You were forced into this, which…”
“…like to have something to complain about. If it’s not your access to scrambled eggs, then it’s bitching about paperwork—”
“…is an additional level of… I am not bitching.”
She half turned to look up at him. “The paperwork on this is going to be astounding.”
“That’s not how I sound. My voice is not high-pitched like that.”
“I’m mocking you with more sarcasm than usual because all this time I’ve been in awe of you how you’re able to remain maddeningly calm and see beyond the hell of whatever’s happened, but now I know you balance your composure by complaining about the paperwork.”
“You think you’re enjoying this, don’t you?”
“You know I relish mocking you.”
“I mean you think you like the, for want of a better word, action involved in this operation.”
“Maybe I do.”
He swore. “No. No, you do not.”
She looked down at the still damp sleeve of her trench coat, the green cloth made darker by moisture, the deepened colour reminding her of the tropical part of the Three-Climate Greenhouse at The Hortus, reminding her of what she’d overheard and what eavesdropping on a conversation carried out in a Sicilian dialect had led them to. “I’m not trying to be anything other than what I am, and I am afraid, Kitt. The action is better than being at home waiting for you to return, hopefully unscathed, better than being alone with my thoughts of a dying woman’s shattered face, better than wondering how the man in the Erotica met his end, and preferable to trying to convince my brother that he’s better when he may not actually be, or ever be, better. I don’t want to fixate on the fear or mayhem or trip over the edge of the madness of this. I can’t help that some of this is so preposterous that I find it absurdly entertaining and startlingly invigorating. But rather than wallow in fear or helplessness, or wrestle with the depravity and the contradictory emotions over the person I have become, or how the edges of whatever this is keeps changing, I’d rather focus on how to get on with it, how I can help, on how one of us, or both of us, can finish this as quickly as possible and move on, with some of my morals intact, which is, I have come to suspect, exactly what you do.”
“Well,” he said, softly, “I have to say that choice is more productive.”
She met his eyes. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know you are.” He gave her a faint smile. “Would you like some happy news?”
She shrugged noncommittally.
“Ruby Bleuville is dead.”
She winced. “That’s hardly news I ought to be happy to hear,” she exhaled, “but, God forgive me, it does lift my spirit. Did she succumb to her…injuries from drinking the denture cleaner I gave her?”
“It’s not yet clear how she died, only that she was found dead.”
“God forgive me,” she said again.
The dog yawned. The lift let out a bong and half a second later, the doors slid open. They walked through the lobby, across black and white tiles, and out to the front of the hotel to the footpath. They didn’t get far before the sniffing-at-everything dog cro
uched to do his business just off the edge of the low footpath. While she could not curb the dog’s predilection for humping, she’d managed to train him to ‘empty out’ off the footpath into the kerb. Mae pulled a dark, biodegradable bag from the pocket of her coat. Before she moved to pick up the little brown cigarillos, Kitt took her elbow and slid the plastic from her fingers, popping the thin bag open, inserting his hand in it. Then he bent and gathered the poo in a neat and tidy package.
She burst out with a hearty chuckle. “I do love how you can make me laugh.”
“I don’t like when you’re angry.”
“How odd. I love when you’re angry.”
The bag of poo swung in his hand. “I apologise. I may be in blind bully mode, but I am not angry with you. So close. You were so bloody close to being out of here and now… It was not and is not my intention to vent my anger toward you. I am…exasperated. Incredibly exasperated and I am not a very adept juggler when it comes to work and husbanding. I lack the experience. I am an experienced intelligence officer paid to do a job, which is what you damn well keep me from accomplishing since I have to pay attention to you, try to keep you and myself safe instead of focussing on finding the information I need to finish my damned job, and this is not at all coming out the way I’d like it to.”
“I believe you’re trying to tell me you were an utter prick.”
“A scared utter prick.”
“I’m no picnic either, Kitt. I could whinge less. I’ve been with you long enough to understand your demeanour is part of the SOP when you start a new operation. Or is it mission? Which is it? You said operation a moment ago.”
“Either. SOP? Did you get that from a spy novel or a film?” He glanced at the plastic bag as full of shit as the ideas she had about spycraft.
“Bryce told me.”
“Ah, Bryce, generator of paperwork.”
“You know, I’ve been told my paperwork has always been excellent. I’m concise, I paint a clear picture, yet do not waffle on with unnecessary descriptions. I get right to the point. Perhaps I can handle the paperwork on this mission, or whatever you call it, and you can deal with all the shit.”
He laughed and then shifted the moment of amusement to a topic that was foreign, that displayed his lack of experience, and was far, far more unpleasant than paperwork or picking up dog shit. “I’m going to beg for forgiveness in advance,” he said, “and then ask for permission.”
Less than fifty metres from the hotel, the Prins Heerlijk café sat on a three-way intersection of cobbled laneways. The tables out front were empty, the large umbrellas above them folded up in the rain. Kitt sat inside, in the corner. He had a clear view of the three laneways through the front and side window beside his table. Half an hour earlier, he’d gone into In’t Aepjen, the bar down the laneway, the place he’d agreed to meet Tanja Goedenacht for a drink. He’d had a look around, found an exit near the lavatory, noted that the bartender kept a large wooden baton behind the bar, and then went across to the little café with the umbrella seating. He waited.
Soon, Tanja Goedenacht hurried along Sint Olofspoort, a gorilla of a man walked alongside, a heavy line of dark chest hair poking out from the top of his zippered knit jacket, a mobile in his big, hairy hand. The pair paused near a wine merchant with red awnings. She glanced at her mobile. The burly man beside her said something and they went into the wine shop.
So, she had a minder or, potentially, a bodyguard. Whichever, Kitt would soon find out.
Having a gorilla with her was fitting, considering where they were meeting for a friendly drink. In’t Aepjen was one of the oldest in Amsterdam. During the golden age of seafaring, if one had been short of guilder, the bar accepted sailor’s monkeys as payment. A bustling, popular place since 1519, the wooden interior had dark ceiling beams, décor consisting of oil portraits, old posters and carved primates that reflected its past as a precursor to a monkey park that would lead to the establishment of the Artis, Amsterdam’s zoo. Kitt let five minutes pass, exited the café, and slowed for a moment to look at the green and brown bottles displayed in the window of the wine shop, making sure they saw him before he headed down Zeedjik, the laneway on the left, and went into the crowded, noisy old bar.
He ordered a lager, paid for it with euro instead of a capuchin or macaque monkey, and found a seat in a corner near a statue of a cigar-smoking chimpanzee. Well-hidden by the heavy decor and a group of boisterous backpackers, their pile of rucksacks, and table full of beer glasses, he had a clear view to the front windows and door, to patrons coming and going, to customers sitting upon red stools at the wooden bar.
When Tanja arrived, the gorilla sat by the door, and rather than wander about searching for the Englishman she’d invited for a drink, she gazed about the people at the bar, at the backpackers, at a group of older men roaring with laughter. She found vacant stools close to the entrance. She removed her black coat, placed it over the back of the stool. Then she straightened a fitted, salmon-pink dress and repositioned the large pendant on a black beaded chain, sitting the heart-shaped bit of sparkle at the vee of her breasts before she perched on the stool, and pretended to peruse the beer menu as she waited for his arrival.
Slouched and obscured by rucksacks, Kitt let another five minutes pass, watching her not order a drink. She sat, eyes on her mobile, occasionally glancing up at the windows. Her attention was on the phone’s screen when the glass front door opened and two young men came into the bar. One, in black denim, had a red umbrella that dripped across the floor as he crossed to the far end of the bar and ordered. The other shook rain from his orange tracksuit jacket. His damp, bedraggled appearance made him look younger than he had when he’d been waiting for the gardener in the building with the lips and phallus on Openhartsteeg.
Well, well, was this to be a reunion?
The kid’s wispy, pubescent moustache wet with rainwater, he looked about, saw the burly monkey-man, and found Tanja perched on a stool at the bar and made a beeline for her, pushing in between her and the seat to her left. Her head came up and he leaned close, saying something. Then her pretty face contorted, the rumple of her top lip remained as the boy went on talking, a little excitedly, Kitt thought. Agitated, Tanja stared at the kid, her jaw jutting forward as she shook her head and began to question him. It wasn’t hard to guess that the exchange had something to do with finding Gert bound and gagged and the dead gardener at Erotica.
Nervous, the boy made a stabbing motion and touched the back of his neck, indicating how the gardener had perished. By then, beer in hand, Kitt had reached the bar, stood to her right, and placed his lager on a coaster. “I’m afraid I started without you.”
Tanja’s attention shifted and the disturbed curl of her lip transformed into a quiver of bogus, exasperated helplessness, her large, imploring eyes glancing at the desperate kid who’d suddenly frozen.
Kitt looked at her, at the boy with the sorry little moustache that would never be anything more than a sorry little moustache, and back at Tanja.
She exhaled and half rolled her eyes.
Kitt settled his gaze on the boy again and jerked his head toward the door.
The kid licked his lips, his eyes flicking from the other end of the bar where his mate in denim stood with his dripping umbrella, to the dark, burly man at the table by the door.
Over the din of bar patrons, Kitt said, “Rot op,” the words translating literally to rot off, more or less, the Dutch equivalent of ‘fuck off’.
Still licking his bottom lip, the boy backed off and made his way to the friend who clapped him on the back, laughed, and shoved a beer into his hand. It was a good cover for a sloppy moment.
Kitt slid onto a seat beside Tanja. “I bet that happens to you often,” he said loudly.
“What gives you that idea?”
“You’re rather attractive.” He leaned in close so that he didn’t have to shout at her or into the heart-shaped faux jet or onyx pendant he knew was an inexpensive voice-activated recor
ding device anyone could buy off the internet. Who would be listening to the recording?
Tanja gave him a wry smile and moved a little nearer. “Is that your pick-up line?”
“Not at all. I’m here in a professional capacity and you’re the one who asked me for a drink, and you don’t have a drink. How disappointing.”
A whoop of raucous laughter burst the air. Tanja touched her ear, wincing. “I’m sorry I’m late and I’m sorry I thought it would be nice for you to experience something historic and very Dutch. I’d forgotten how noisy this place gets.”
“Would you like to go elsewhere?”
She nodded before another crack of ear-splitting laughter thundered. “Do you have the time?”
Kitt glanced at time on his battered Citizen watch. “Barely. There’s a quiet bar in my hotel.”
Tanja ran a lock of hair through her fingers. “And where’s your hotel?”
“Just around the corner.”
Her head tilted, brows arching. “You make my boss very nervous. Jan was upset he couldn’t accept your dinner invitation, and he didn’t want me to meet you for a drink.”
Kitt reached for her coat. “And why is that?”
“I know all about the theft of his…” she giggled… “family jewels.”
“Do you now?”
“Yes, but it’s also…” she rose and let him help her into her raincoat, “…it’s also very silly. Jan thinks you’ll try to sleep with me and use me to incriminate him.”
“I assure you I have no plans to incriminate Mr Vlaming. Let’s forget about the drinks. Join me for dinner?”
Chapter Thirteen
Two men, wait staff from the Michelin starred restaurant on the ground floor, arrived to move furniture. Mae showed them to the dining room. The shorter, browner-skinned man nodded at her, saying something in another language that might have been Malay or Indonesian to the taller, thinner man with pale brown eyes. The thin man shifted two dining chairs out of the way as Shorty manoeuvred the table apart. Together, they inserted a leaf hidden below into the space. Then they departed after returning the chairs to the table.
True to Your Service Page 16
