A vehicle approaches, heading for the bridge. Its halogen headlights throw off a sterile bluish light, creating a sharp shadow that conceals Knox. His eyes stray to the sand and dirt and his heart catches. Dozens of shoe impressions, all of them child-sized. They point to, and disappear around, a corner ahead, past the last of the warehouses. He’s nauseated and viscerally moved by the sight. The footprints of small ghosts. Some are gone and will never be found. Others, like Maja and Berna, are in limbo, their status unknown. They are like dinosaur tracks fossilized in stone.
It is the Pied Piper following the children as Knox’s large shoes obliterate some of the tracks. It only makes sense the girls would not be allowed in through the front where they would be easily seen from the street.
An extremely narrow alley runs to a back parking area behind the buildings. This was once a complex of no fewer than ten interconnected buildings. Most are in decay, their windows broken and boarded over. Some carry realtor and leasing information on placards. A high brick wall with rusting wrought-iron fencing and gates surrounds nearly the entire compound—the equivalent of two city blocks. The impressions of small shoes and bare feet flow like water to a single door.
Knox flattens himself to the wall and works to steady his breathing. These are Tommy moments, where he considers what will happen to his brother if . . . He never goes there, never fully admits the possibility of his own demise; part of one’s success requires a superman attitude. But the raven sits on his left shoulder.
The pick gun unlocks the door, but Knox does not open it. He turns the device left, relocks the door and steps away. The door could be rigged to blow the building.
He steps back into darkness. All of the structures in the satellite image showed long sections of skylight. The abundance of glass roofing suggests the buildings were originally used for manufacturing. Fahiz would not want an electric bill tied to an abandoned structure.
In the alley, toward the front, Knox locates a shed roof over hardened bags of cement. He shimmies a supporting post and pulls himself up onto the slick metal, writhing like a snake to get across it without slipping off. Reaches the rain gutter and hauls himself onto the roof. A tile breaks free beneath his weight. He pounces to stop it before it cascades off. As he stands, his face flashes with blue.
Two police cars are parked, engines running, outside the Grandcafé. The white van containing the girls has been found. One of the girls has mentioned a large American. Brower has read the all-points and knows whom to question.
Cops are methodical and predictable. While workers in cubicles somewhere study CCTV footage, the two patrols will expand their search area. An entire block of abandoned buildings will not go unnoticed.
Knox stays low and counts the rooftops as he moves from one to the next. But he needn’t count: on the third, a string of six solar panels have been crudely installed. He doesn’t risk the flashlight; he’s found the knot shop. Frustration mounts as, searching the twenty meters of skylight, he discovers every pane is fixed or sealed shut. Short of breaking the glass, it offers no access.
The strobing blue light intensifies: one of the two cop cars has pulled to the curb on Bellamystraat. The thump of two car doors tells Knox he’s outnumbered. He can’t imagine them searching the roof; a perimeter inspection at best. But if the CCTV cameras picked him up climbing, these two may be holding the scene until backup arrives. Knox has no choice but to get down. Now, ahead of reinforcements. And not the way he came: he would drop into their laps.
He moves judiciously, step by step. The tile is no match for him. The first to crack splinters into several pieces. He squats and stops most of them. But one sizable piece slides, falls and shatters into the gutter. A starting pistol.
One cop calls to the other. A flashlight beam illumines like a searchlight. Knox moves away from it, tiptoeing at first, then running as the tiles dislodge. The faster he runs, the harder he lands on the fragile tiles. He slips and falls, saving himself by catching his fingertips on some flashing. A waterfall of broken tile cascades, setting off a cacophonous explosion.
A cop appears behind him shouting in Dutch. Knox hunches, reaches the end of the skylight and rolls over the peak, sliding down to the joined gutters of the abutted structures. He runs atop the flat of the gutters, hidden in the valley. Can hear his pursuer stumbling and sliding.
Knox arrives at the steep brick wall of a higher building that’s perpendicular to those along Bellamystraat. Climbs a downspout, throws a leg up over the gutter.
A nightstick catches his trailing leg. The second cop has materialized out of nowhere. The cop grabs Knox’s numb leg and pulls sharply. Knox falls, rotating to face the man as he drops. Takes him by the shoulders and thumps the man’s head off the tile. Releases him. There’s no way off the roof but up. Again he takes hold of the downspout. Again he climbs, throwing his knee up and over the gutter.
The cop in pursuit has Knox in his beam. He’s shouting at Knox while working his radio. Seeing his fallen partner, he’s scared. Cops and fear do not mix.
Knox scrambles up the steeper roof, like trying to climb a sand dune.
A gunshot slaps. The bullet misses Knox only because he slips. Shards of roof tile rain down onto the constable, who shields his eyes and moves into the wall to avoid the fallout. Knox reaches the apex and vaults to the other side. He slides on his ass, falls off the edge and sticks a dismount in a valley between two lower roofs. He follows this west, leaps down to a flat roof and can’t stop his momentum as he falls off, dropping fifteen feet to asphalt. Tries to loosen a turned ankle by running, but is hindered.
He’s in an L-shaped back courtyard that once held landscaping in what are now large planters topped with weed-infested dirt. He can’t find a way out. Is forced to reverse himself and run east. Hears another gunshot after it has already missed.
The courtyard is fully enclosed; he finds no door to the street.
“Canal side, A-SAP!” he tells Dulwich via his earbud wire.
He hears the constable land hard, just as he did. But close by. Knox kicks a door, forced to use his less powerful left leg because of his right ankle. The door holds. He kicks again, while glancing over his shoulder. The cop is getting to his feet, reaching for his holster. Again, he crushes the door. The door is holding fast, but the jamb has pulled free of the grout. He has no choice but to put his shoulder into it—a move likely to break a collarbone or dislocate a shoulder. He leads with his left. The entire door frame falls like a hatch; the door remains locked. Knox falls face first, rolls and, unable to see, is forced to reach for the flashlight. Makes himself an easy target as he dodges machinery, wooden pallets, buckets and patches of slick slime where the roof has leaked.
The cop does his best. Closes the gap by half as Knox launches himself through an interior door at the end of the building. He demolishes it. Somersaults into the next yawning space. Less equipment. Good for running. Bad for cover.
A gunshot sets his neck on fire, grazing it below his chin. The wound bleeds warmth down his neck.
He faces a final exterior door. Skids on the sandy floor as he fishes the semi-automatic out of his back. Stuffs the muzzle into the jamb at the door handle and fires three times.
The cop gets off a poor shot that lodges in the wood trim to Knox’s right.
The door swings open.
Knox runs on the bad ankle across an open courtyard filled with sand. Mountains of it rise from the northeast corner. He’s slow and an easy target. He dives, tucks, rolls and comes back to his feet like the beach volleyball player he sometimes is. The opening to the street is past a crane to his right. He uses the crane as a shield.
The Audi is already moving, passenger door open, as Knox reaches it. He stuffs himself inside as a gunshot rings out.
Dulwich is ducked low, peering through the steering wheel. He fishtails the vehicle left and crosses the Kinkerstraat bridge.
“Well?” Dulwich asks, steering nearly blindly.
“That’s the pla
ce,” Knox says. “Empty for now. But tomorrow morning the rest of the girls will be back.”
“And so will we.”
“They’d better have a quick sale. Tomorrow’s closing day.”
—
THE TWO MEN ARE COMFORTABLE together in a vehicle. Many hours have been shared like this, one behind the wheel, one as an IED spotter, on the sand-blown roads between Kuwait and Iraq. Dulwich drives twice the legal speed limit, passing cars and sliding through turns, without so much as a scratch to the rental. It’s a full-blown high-speed chase, but inside the Audi it’s two men driving to a ball game.
The Audi speeds down an extremely narrow street, a canal to the right. Dulwich lost the cop car two turns ago. He slows, though not by much.
“It’s an ideal setup,” Knox says conversationally, dabbing his neck wound. It’s going to need a butterfly bandage or several Band-Aids to hold it closed, but it’s manageable for now. “There’s a market street to the west, giving an excuse for the girls to be in the area. They disappear inside the abandoned complex. Reappear when the market is shutting down. No one’s going to see them or question them being around.”
Dulwich taps the brakes, slides through a changing traffic light and nearly collides with a tram. He times it perfectly, sticking the Audi on the far side of the tram where anyone following would no longer see them.
“There’s a coffee shop on the corner. And the market itself. I need to be there early.”
“You’re out of your mind. They made you.”
“We don’t know that. And it’s guaranteed they won’t be looking for me anywhere around there. I’d be crazy to go back there.”
“My point exactly.” Dulwich slows the Audi to the proper speed limit. “We’ll be all over the traffic cams. I need to return the car, pronto. I’ll use the key drop. Rent another in the morning.”
Checking his phone, Knox says, “Drop me with Grace, or someplace near.”
Seeing the phone in Knox’s hand, Dulwich says, “You didn’t really think that would work, did you?”
“It’s three in the morning,” Knox says. “Ain’t over ’til it’s over.”
“Kreiger’s the better play.”
“Grace is all over that.”
Glancing back at Knox’s phone, Dulwich takes his eyes off the road. “Give it up.”
“Not a chance,” Knox says.
“You poisoned it, same as every woman you’ve ever been with.”
“Says the man who can’t carry a relationship beyond a drink order.”
Dulwich chuckles, takes a right and an immediate left, narrowly missing an oncoming car. “Got that right.”
“It will have taken her a day or two to reach Fahiz. Maybe more. Based on the way he dealt with Grace, his curiosity won’t allow him to deny her.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“She’ll bait him. Sonia’s a pro. She’s not inviting him to tea.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“You get close to somebody, you get to know them. You ought to try it sometime.”
“He’ll stuff her into the back of a van and dump the body.”
“Not if we’re there to stop him.”
“You’re talking shit. When was the last time you slept?”
“What day is this?”
Dulwich can’t summon it. He starts laughing from the gut, a contagious laugh that Knox tries hard to escape, but can’t.
“I’m stopping at the next light. You’re out of here,” Dulwich says. “Wheels up at sixteen hundred. You want your paycheck, you’re on that plane.”
“I thought you’re coming back with a different car.”
“In case I don’t.”
“Screw that.” Knox knows it’s impossible, but he hears the dashboard’s digital clock ticking. He needs sleep. And food.
“You get Grace onto that plane.”
“Shut up.”
The car stops at the light. Knox climbs out with difficulty. His ankle’s frozen, every muscle tight or bruised. The Audi peels out. Dulwich never talks smack in an op. Embattled by the Turkish mob on one side and the Amsterdam police on the other, he’s dropped out of the Optimists’ Club. He comes from an operational mind-set, a pragmatism Knox can’t afford. He’s placed his bet: the three of them won’t make the plane. Someone, or more than someone, is going to be left in the jet’s backwash. He’s suggesting it will be him, but only out of politeness. He knows it’ll be Knox, or Knox and Sonia. His mention of Grace was a not-too-subtle statement that said she would be on the plane no matter what sacrifice it requires. Of the three of them, she’s the most valuable to Brian Primer and Rutherford Risk. She’s the mathematical savant who can change into the cape in the phone booth and double in the field. She’s Primer’s rising star, and it’s Dulwich’s job to protect her.
Primer has barracks full of John Knoxes. The Grace Chus come around rarely.
Knox keeps his head down for the sake of the CCTV cameras. It’s a long walk back to Grace. He starts humming Paul Simon’s “Graceland.” It helps his ankle, improves his mood.
Dawn is suggested as a pink dust against the gray clouds behind him, but Knox doesn’t see it. He’s focused on the traffic, the next street corner, and every shadow within fifty meters.
The service apartment on Goudsbloemstraat, northwest of the city center, is warmly furnished in a contemporary style. With a full working kitchen and washer/dryer, living room and bedroom, the suite’s opulence bothers Grace. For all her Westernization, she still feels uncomfortable when alone in such places. With the deposit, it cost Dulwich over fifteen hundred euros—a month’s rental for a suite of rooms they intend to occupy for less than a full day. But it’s in a quiet part of town on a narrow street where people apparently keep to themselves. She doubts there’s been more than two people at a time out on the sidewalks; she rarely hears a car drive past.
Stretched out in bed, having taken a long hot bath to clean her wound, and an oxycodone to wash away her pain, she navigates her laptop through the company’s VPN, a Web proxy server called Hide My Ass, and a second Australian proxy service she learned about from Kamat. Trying to find her now would be like searching for Nessie. She finds the meds calming. The lack of stress is so foreign to her that she briefly experiences a kind of mental vertigo, only to find herself giddy. Instead of foggy, she’s intensely focused and mentally nimble. Giggles at the sound of her fingers tapping arrhythmically on the keyboard.
A few minutes past four, Gerhardt Kreiger’s face appears in an open window on the laptop’s screen. Natuurhonig, his brothel, has closed for the night. When the ladies head home, Kreiger is seen counting a good deal of cash. Her screen-capture software reveals that he examines the electronic credit card charges as well. He matches amounts with girls, leaves nothing to chance. She envisions a business where shorting the house is commonplace. He removes the cash from the desk; there are noises—he’s still in the office. He returns to the desk empty-handed.
Another open window monitors Kreiger’s data console in a scroll of green numbers on a black screen. A long search string resides in a tiny box and the automated software routinely checks for a match. When a set of numbers goes, a bell tone sounds, drawing Grace’s attention.
She hears the door come open. Her right hand finds the weapon below the sheets. Her finger lays across the trigger.
“It’s me,” Knox calls out. He’s carrying a grocery bag; his neck is patched up with four flesh-colored Band-Aids.
She lets go of the gun.
“Good timing,” she says. “We may be onto something.” Her eyes dart among the half dozen open windows on her screen. For her this is like a game of Sudoku, establishing patterns by supplying missing pieces while trusting all along that those pieces fit. Computer traffic and data flow is no more random than vehicles in a city at rush hour. It appears chaotic, but every vehicle’s driver has a destination; there is a logic to the routes they take. So it is with each piece or packet of data: someone directed it, s
omeone else received it. For her to break every encryption used by Kreiger would take months, perhaps years. So she allows his machine to do this for her; she merely captures the incoming stream, and mirrors the resulting images on his screen, reading or viewing, or listening to it, just as Kreiger does.
Knox starts into the first of two liverwurst sandwiches he’s brought with him and chugs down a beer while sitting on the side of her bed.
Grace does not look up from her screen. “The hacker who dropped that kiddie porn on us? That happened after I was already drilling him . . . data mining him.”
“I love it when you talk sexy,” he says through a full mouth.
“I trapped the MAC address and have had it tagged since. It just surfaced again, five minutes ago.”
Knox stops chewing, cheeks like a squirrel.
“On Kreiger’s laptop,” she says.
“Simplify,” he says. “Spying for Dummies.”
“I had established a defense against a particular hacker. That hacker engaged Kreiger’s laptop, not mine.”
“Hacking Kreiger?” Knox places the sandwich down.
“No. It is not adversarial. A text message was sent via Skype. Today’s date. Eleven P.M. This was followed by the number three. Meaning unknown.”
“A meeting? Fahiz?”
“We can assume the computer in question is in some way related to the man we call Fahiz. As to the purpose of the message: a meeting, a conveyance? It could be something as benign as a television program on Channel Three.”
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