by Hannah Howe
“Actions speak louder than words; I trust people who act on good intentions.”
“I trusted Karla,” Lia said.
I nodded then asked, “Would you trust her or someone like her again?”
“No.”
“Then you’ve made progress.”
We walked along the street, in the shadow of the Westerkerk. Snowflakes still drifted in the air, only to melt on the roads and pavements. The sky was grey, overcast, brooding. Maybe we needed a fall of snow for the atmosphere to clear, for the air temperature to warm again.
A few minutes into our walk, we paused near a bridge, outside a row of cafés. It was mid-morning, coffee hour, time to get my fix. However, duty called – first, we had to locate Karla.
“Where is Karla?” I asked, turning my head, grimacing as a heavy lorry trundled along the road. The lorry was blue, noisy and smelly, while the lorry driver was bald-headed and plastered with tattoos, most of them garish, grotesque. He glanced at Lia while idling at a pedestrian crossing. She ignored him, turning her back.
As Lia fumbled in her shoulder bag for gloves, she said, “I don’t know; I haven’t seen Karla.”
“She must have a favourite place,” I said, “a place of refuge, of sanctuary.”
Lia frowned. She pulled the woollen gloves over her fingers. Her fingernails contained no varnish. Indeed, they were slightly jagged, as though she nibbled on them.
After a moment’s thought, Lia said, “The old windmill, just south of Wormerveer. It belonged to one of Karla’s grandparents. Karla always goes there when she needs her own space.”
“Have you been there?” I asked.
Lia nodded, “A couple of times.”
“Care to join us, and lead the way?”
Lia flexed her fingers within her gloves. With her face set, etched with determination, she said, “Okay.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
With Lia in tow, I returned to the hotel. There, I caught up with Mac, Saskia and Velvet.
“Karla might be hiding out in a windmill, near Wormerveer; how do we get to Wormerveer?” I asked.
Saskia smiled. “The easiest way, as with much of Amsterdam, is by water.”
“A boat?”
Saskia nodded.
“Could we hire a boat?”
“No need,” she said; “I own one.”
Saskia was so helpful, so efficient. Possibly, I’d leave Amsterdam with the diamonds. Definitely, I’d depart with an inferiority complex.
From the hotel, we travelled north to the marina and Saskia’s boat. Her boat was a large, sleek, motorized vessel, white in colour, smart in appearance, which comfortably accommodated Saskia the skipper, Velvet, Mac, Lia and yours truly.
I’m not a sailor, so I selected a seat in the salon where I tried to shake the wobbly feeling from my jelly legs. Velvet and Lia sat opposite me while Saskia and Mac plotted our course.
Continuing north, we connected with the River Zaan. During the Dutch Golden Age of the seventeenth century, nine hundred windmills adorned the Zaan. Those windmills processed flour, wood, hemp, paint and paper; they transformed the region into one of the world’s first industrialized zones.
The landscape also contained beauty. Indeed, the impressionist painter Claude Monet dwelt in Zaandam during the summer of 1871 when he produced twenty-four paintings. Monet wrote to a friend stating that ‘there is enough in Zaandam to paint for an entire lifetime’.
As the river widened into De Poel, I noted buildings along the left bank with green fields to my right. Unlike home, where the landscape is hilly and covered in sheep, here the landscape was flat and dotted with cows.
In the distance, I spied a number of windmills. However, Lia captured my attention when she said to Velvet, “Listen...”
“Yes?” Velvet cocked her head to her left and frowned.
“I’m sorry,” Lia said. Lia mumbled her words while staring at her black and white trainers, while gazing down to the ground, to the plush panelling that lined the salon.
A heavy silence ensued, a void filled by the throb of the boat’s engines.
“I think we should forget what happened and still be friends,” Lia suggested. Quickly, she glanced up, only to offer a shy smile as she averted her gaze.
“How can I forget?” Velvet demanded. “How can we still be friends? You used me. You dumped me in Amsterdam, on my own. With no money.”
“You could have earned some money,” Lia said, “enough to fund your passage back home.”
“How?” Velvet scowled.
“Through de Woolf.”
“Through porn films?” Velvet shook her head in dismay, wagging her ponytail. “I thought you were a feminist?”
“I am,” Lia insisted.
“Then why sacrifice me to the likes of de Woolf?”
“I did it for you,” Lia said. “I thought you wanted to be in the movies.”
“I want to sing. I don’t want to be in the movies. Sometimes,” Velvet sighed, “I wonder if you know me at all. Sometimes, I wonder if you ever listened to a word I said.”
“I’m sorry,” Lia repeated.
“And if I did get some money together, how could I return home with Loudon waiting for me?”
“He’ll forgive you,” Lia said.
“He’ll shop me to the cops,” Velvet scowled. “You put me in all this trouble.”
“I’m sorry,” Lia said again.
“All my life, people have used me. But not anymore. I’m not going to trust anyone ever again, not until they’ve earned my trust. I’m not going to be taken for a fool anymore.”
From somewhere deep within, Velvet had discovered her assertive angel. Maybe she was overdoing the aggression, though her words were understandable, an expression of her hurt.
In a reversal of roles, Lia sat quiet, looking uncomfortable, no doubt aggrieved at Karla’s behaviour and her theft of the diamonds.
We were closing on the windmills, passing a row of brightly painted houses, when Lia said, “So, can we still be friends?”
“No,” Velvet said. She folded her arms across her chest then offered Lia her shoulder.
“I think you’re being selfish,” Lia said.
“I’m being selfish?” Velvet scowled. “Maybe you should look at yourself. Why did I listen to you? Why did I steal that briefcase?”
“You were blinded by stardust,” I said.
“I was a fool,” Velvet said. “But not anymore.”
With her eyes moist, Lia turned to gaze at the landscape. We were approaching a bend in the river, an isolated region. To our right, I spied a windmill and a large barn.
“That’s the one,” Lia said, gazing through the salon window, towards the windmill. “Karla’s family own that windmill and the barn.”
An octagonal fence surrounded the windmill, which hugged the water’s edge. Waterlogged fields stretched out to our right, as far as the eye could see. Further north, I spotted two more windmills and a boatyard.
Leaving the salon, I joined Saskia and Mac on the bridge of the boat. We’d travelled thirteen kilometres, northwest, out of Amsterdam. In the west, an apologetic sun winked through the clouds while a cold breeze ruffled my hair. All appeared tranquil, peaceful. The calm before the storm.
A line of vegetation crowded the riverbank, so Saskia had no alternative other than to guide her boat towards the windmill. She cut the engines. Then Mac and yours truly jumped from the boat, on to soggy ground.
Human beings have the capacity to endure a lot of pain and suffering. However, in my experience, a wet backside and wet feet tend to drag you down. Splashing through the marshland, I added a soggy bottom to my wet feet, a fact I soon dismissed as we pressed our bodies up against the barn wall.
I glanced at Mac. He peered around a corner, to the windmill. If Karla was in the windmill, we remained out of sight. However, Saskia’s boat stood out, in full view, its grace and elegance unmissable.
In a cove to the north of the windmill, I spied a second boat, ligh
t blue and slender, shabby in comparison. Maybe Karla had arrived in that boat. Someone had arrived in that boat, presumably to visit the windmill, because apart from the mill, there was nothing else around.
We inched our way along the barn wall, towards the windmill. The windmill reminded me of a pepper pot, albeit a pepper pot with a thatched roof. The reeds on the thatch looked new. Someone had renewed the canvas on the blades too. The barn showed no sign of recent storage so presumably Karla was refurbishing the windmill for personal use, a bolthole, a sanctuary, away from Amsterdam.
During its glory days, the windmill had ground wheat, barley and oats, feeding the community. A cracked millstone, propped against a barn wall, confirmed that fact.
We stepped past the millstone to within touching distance of the windmill’s blades. How would Karla react if she saw us? She struck me as unpredictable, so best to proceed with caution.
Then, a surprise as Mickey Anthony stepped forward; he emerged from the windmill with an idiotic grin on his face. Otto Visser, Karla and three men followed Mickey. I didn’t recognize the three men. All held guns, trained on Karla’s temple.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Mickey shrugged; “they forced me, made me do it.”
“Shit,” I swore. I could be so eloquent when under stress.
One of Visser’s heavies invited Saskia, Velvet and Lia to leave the boat and they duly joined us beside the windmill. Then the heavies pushed the women inside, away from prying eyes and passing boats.
Otto Visser extended his right arm. He invited me into the windmill. “Now it is time for some serious talk,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Inside the windmill, the interior was small, but homely. Karla had converted the building into a country retreat, with the basics of modern living adding a degree of comfort. We were standing inside her study, a room crammed with furniture and books, the furniture dark, the books musty. The octagonal walls revealed our location, but apart from them, we could have been in any old eccentric’s antiquated home.
“How did you get here, Mickey?” I asked.
Mickey glanced at Karla. “I followed her. I keep telling you, Sam, I’m good at this job.”
I stared at Mickey. Meanwhile, one of Otto Visser’s heavies held a gun to Mickey’s head, a head distinguished by two panda-like eyes courtesy of Mac and a broken nose.
“You’re good,” I said, “good at getting yourself into trouble.”
“It goes with the territory,” Mickey shrugged.
I nodded, “Yeah.”
“Shut up,” Visser said. He stepped forward, into the middle of the room. “Time is money, and you have already wasted enough of my time. First, the weapons; where are they?”
Visser glared at Karla, who calmly turned to stare at the wall.
“Why should I tell you?” Karla replied haughtily. “You are a man; you are nothing.”
In absent-minded fashion, Otto Visser polished his spectacles. He shrugged, “Maybe a bullet wound would loosen your tongue?”
On Visser’s instruction, a henchman stepped forward. He held his gun, a Walther P5, to Karla’s temple.
Like an ice cream in the sunshine, Karla’s composure melted. Clearly, she had no respect for men though, rightly, she pushed pride to one side when confronted with a weapon.
“The guns are still in the van,” Karla said.
“And where is the van?” Visser asked.
A heavy silence ensued.
“The van!” Otto Visser yelled, his face turning puce. He coughed. Then he reached into his trouser pocket where he searched for his inhaler. With his body shaking, Visser sucked on his inhaler, twice, before running a hand over his smooth, immaculate, grey hair. “The van,” he repeated.
Karla glanced to her right, to the henchman. Of the three henchmen, he was the youngest, a youth with a long scar on his thin chin and dark, intense eyes. This man struck me as unpredictable. The eldest henchman, a man with grey, tousled hair, appeared calm and in control, while thug number three was decidedly handsome, a man with jet-black hair and smouldering black eyes.
The youth jabbed his Walther P5 at Karla and she yelped. “In a small warehouse,” she said, “near the Eastern Docklands, opposite the Harbour Club; you’ll find the van in there. There’s a large red number ten painted on the metal door of the warehouse.”
“Piet,” Visser said to the eldest henchman, “get it sorted.”
Piet duly left the windmill, marginally improving our odds, slightly increasing our chances of escape.
“The diamonds,” Visser said, taking a step towards Karla.
“I gave you the diamonds,” she said, adopting a little girl lost, manipulative tone.
“You gave me paste,” Visser scowled.
“Someone must have switched them,” Karla said, her voice and expression still angelic. She smiled at Visser, “Maybe one of your men?”
“You switched them,” Visser said.
“I didn’t,” Karla insisted. Her little girl act was a trifle scary, schizophrenic in its execution.
Losing patience, Visser nodded towards the handsome henchman and the thug duly grabbed hold of Lia. “What does it take for you to tell the truth?” Visser asked. He coughed again. However, on this occasion he didn’t reach for his asthma pump.
Karla stared at Visser. She refused to answer. So the handsome henchman placed his gun to Lia’s temple.
“Tell him!” Lia screamed.
Dust motes danced in a corner of the room, highlighted by a sliver of sunlight. Karla stared at the dust motes. She smiled through the silence.
“Tell him!” Lia yelled. In her agitation, she might have jumped up to the ceiling, but for the henchman’s firm grip, holding her down.
Clearly, Lia was scared, petrified. It was time to step forward, time to offer her some relief. Approaching Karla, I said, “Your game is over; give Visser the diamonds.”
“The diamonds will further our cause,” Karla replied stubbornly.
“What cause?” I frowned. “You’ve abandoned your ideals for personal gain.”
Karla stared through me. She dismissed my words lightly, an imperious queen scoffing at a lowly peasant. “I was going to make a gift of the weapons to Lia and the Zusterschap,” she said.
“And the diamonds?” I asked.
“I would use the money to further our cause.”
I shook my head, sadly; talking with Karla was like talking with an automated machine – no matter what you said, you received an inconsequential reply.
“You’d use the money from your base on a tropical island?” I asked. “You’re fooling no one; you’re deluding yourself. The Zusterschap is not about improving the welfare of womankind, it’s about Karla, about power and its rewards.”
Tiring of our conversation, Otto Visser stepped forward. “The diamonds,” he said.
“I won’t tell you.” Karla thrust her chin into the air. She stared at the ceiling. “You can shoot me before I talk.”
“Wim,” Visser said, addressing the youth.
“All right!” Karla screamed when Wim placed his gun against her temple. “The diamonds are hidden. On my barge. In a pipe, connected to the washbasin.”
“And where is your barge?” Visser asked.
“It’s moored in De Poel, on the south bank.”
“Your barge has a name?”
Karla nodded, “Sirene Lied.”
“Go there,” Visser said to me. “Recover the diamonds. If you don’t return within the hour, Dirk will shoot these people, one by one.”
I glanced at Dirk, the handsome thug. For all his dark good looks, I sensed a sadistic streak. He would carry out Visser’s threat, and take pleasure from his task.
“I might need two hours,” I said. “The territory isn’t familiar to me.”
Visser paused. He tapped a highly polished shoe on the threadbare nylon carpet. “Take her with you.” He nodded towards Saskia.
Presumably, Visser had calculated the odds, the
chances of us betraying him. Without doubt, he held the aces, the lives of Mac, Mickey, Velvet, Lia and Karla, and he seemed secure with that fact.
“One hour,” Visser said, “or I will start with our dark-skinned friend.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Saskia and I jumped on to her boat and she piloted the vessel south, towards De Poel. The light was fading, though thankfully we only had a short distance to travel, a few kilometres.
At a bend in the river, Saskia navigated her boat into De Poel, a natural harbour. Around two hundred boats were moored in De Poel, most on the north bank. I counted thirty-three boats on the south bank, which made our task easier.
With Saskia’s boat secure, we jumped on to the south bank and ran along the paving stones, looking for the Sirene Lied, the Siren Song.
As we eyed the boats, Saskia said, “Maybe we should call the police?”
I thought about that, then replied, “And create a hostage situation? Better to find the diamonds and plot our escape from there.”
The Sirene Lied was boat number eighteen on our checklist. Karla had locked the cabin, so Saskia smashed the door open with a hammer – no time for subtlety. We skipped down a spiral staircase into the salon, nudged open a sliding door and entered the living quarters. The layout of the barge was similar to my makeshift office so we soon located the galley and the washbasin.
Saskia pulled open a cupboard door, which shielded the washbasin. Then, squatting on my haunches, I joined her as we examined the pipework.
The pipework was plastic, modern, while the joints were firm, unyielding. Taking the hammer from Saskia’s hand, I set about the pipework with gay abandon.
“The appliance of science,” I said. “Sam’s rule number forty-one – if something doesn’t work, beat the hell out of it.”
The pipework on the washbasin splintered, showering us with gunk and water. Using a towel, I wiped the gunk from my face then inserted a hand, blind, into the pipework. At a bend in the pipework, I encountered more gunk, along with something soft and inviting.
Turning to Saskia, I said, “Either a mouse has crawled into the system, or we’ve struck pay dirt.”
