by PAUL BENNETT
‘How much?’ Roberto shouted, his face having gone past the white of shock into the red of anger. Purple veins throbbed visibly on his forehead. ‘How much did you say?’
‘Twenty million dollars,’ I said, looking at Roberto and avoiding eye contact with my mother. ‘We may salvage something if we can sell the copyright on the software to another developer.’
‘If we can find as big a fool as you,’ Roberto said. ‘So the London office has lost us a cool twenty million dollars?’
It was a rhetorical question, asked solely for the purposes of public humiliation.
‘Yes, but….’ I began.
‘Don’t bother with any buts,’ Roberto said. ‘There are no excuses worth twenty million dollars. The rest of us sweat blood to add every single dollar to the bank’s profits and you drop twenty million in one go. Not only that, you do it at the precise time when we have all worked hard to restore confidence in the bank functioning normally without Father.’
My mother buried her face in her hands.
I turned to Carlo.
Carlo turned his face to the table. Studied his glass of water. Made a slow but slight alteration to the geometric positioning of his pen on the pad of paper.
‘Let me explain,’ I said.
‘This isn’t the time for explanation,’ Roberto said. ‘It’s the time for resignation. Are you going to do the honourable thing? Or do you have as much honour as business acumen? And by that I mean zero.’
‘Look,’ I began.
‘I’ll look all right, Brother,’ Roberto said, spitting out the last word. ‘I’ll look at the balance sheet for the London office. And I’ll see red.’
‘Here’s the file,’ I said, passing the bulging folder across the table. ‘Read it before you pass judgement.’
Roberto picked up the file and tossed it into the bin.
‘I haven’t got time to read dead files,’ Roberto said. ‘Someone here has to concentrate on getting this bank back on track. Now, are you going to make us vote on it?’
I looked at the faces in the room. Roberto, the twisted smile of a gloating winner on his lips – to him, the twenty million was value for money; Carlo, sweet and innocent, and silent; my mother, biting her lower lip as if to stop herself saying, ‘You let me down, Gianni. I can’t save you now’.
‘Get out, Gianni,’ Roberto said with contempt. ‘Get out of this room. Get out of our bank while it’s still solvent. And get out of our lives, you bastard.’
I got up slowly from the table, waiting for Carlo or my mother to have a change of heart and call me back. No chance. I walked to the door. Shrugged my shoulders at my mother. And took one last look at Roberto and Carlo.
‘At least I’m a bastard by birth,’ I said to them. ‘And not by my own making.’
7
Amsterdam. The present.
Dutch customs welcomed us with open arms. The trouble was the hands had plastic gloves on.
The three of us made an unlikely trio and, as Gus had said, there was an air about Bull and I that said we were going to be trouble. We were yanked out of the line of people filtering through the nothing-to-declare channel as if we were wearing suits with little arrows on them. We filed up to a low counter. Behind it stood a large man in what looked like a brand-new dark-blue uniform. He had a round face and a short moustache which, along with his bulk, made him look like Oliver Hardy or an overweight Hitler. By the scowl on his face I guessed at the latter. He pointed a pudgy finger at the counter and indicated that we should open our bags.
He delved into Bull’s rucksack, removed items of clothing piece by piece with a thumb and forefinger as if handling toxic waste and dumped them in an untidy heap on the counter. Next he turned to mine and went through the same overdramatic pantomime so that there were now two untidy heaps on the counter. Dissatisfied that he had found no contraband, he turned to Gus’s finely tooled leather bag. As he was about to reach inside a man dressed in the same dark-blue uniform but with lots of gold braid on his arm and epaulettes came into the customs hall. He glanced at Gus, did a double-take and hurried over to us.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he said to Hitler.
‘Routine check, sir,’ was the tremulous reply.
‘And is this how you conduct all your searches?’ he asked. Hitler remained silent, anxious not to get in any more trouble.
‘Mr Gordini,’ the superior officer said to Gus. ‘Allow me to apologize for the treatment you have been subjected to. This man is new here and doesn’t know who you are, otherwise he would not have stopped you and your companions. Please let me make amends by offering you some coffee while your belongings are packed for you.’
Gus accepted and the man led us along a corridor. He walked ahead in a manner which suggested that every last move had been practised to perfection in front of a mirror. As we walked behind, I turned to Gus and whispered, ‘How do you know him?’
Gus just gave me a shrug and a wicked smile.
The office was large and equipped not only with a desk, but a table and chairs set out for a meeting. We were ushered to the table. He pressed an intercom button on his desk and asked for a jug of coffee to be brought in.
‘While we are waiting,’ he said, still trying to work out why two such unlikely characters should be accompanying Gus, ‘may I introduce myself? Peder van Eisen, head of Customs.’ He turned to Bull and me and said, ‘Now, may I have a look at your passports.’
We handed them over. He flicked through the pages and lingered over the stamps inside.
‘So you are a Gordini too,’ he said to me.
‘Rebecca’s son,’ I said.
‘And you seem to have travelled around a lot.’
‘Call it a sabbatical,’ I said.
‘Why were you in Israel?’
‘Going back to my Jewish roots.’
‘And Bosnia, Croatia, Serbia, Angola.’ He made a waving gesture with his hand to indicate that he couldn’t be bothered with all the other countries.’
‘Bull and I were in what you might call law enforcement.’
‘You were in the police?’ he said, sounding surprised.
‘More like the army,’ I said.
‘Ah,’ he said, as if it had all begun to make sense. ‘Would that be a private army?’
‘Very private,’ I said.
The coffee arrived, relieving me of the need to explain further, but he had got the picture.
He poured coffee and passed it around the table.
‘You know why you were stopped?’ he said.
‘Because we look like easy targets,’ I said.
‘Exactly. I would advise you in future to look – how can I put this – less conspicuous.’
‘Wouldn’t a professional drug smuggler take the trouble to blend in with the background?’
‘Oh, they take the trouble, all right.’ He got up from the table and went across to his desk. He picked up a folder and looked inside.
‘Look at this,’ he said, handing the file to me.
There was a picture inside that made no sense.
‘A baby,’ I said. ‘What has that got to do with smuggling dope?’
‘Look at the next picture,’ he said.
I turned over the first picture and studied the second. It was the same baby, but this time without all the swaddling clothes. Now it was clear. The pallor, the posture like a broken doll. The baby was dead. And on its chest was a pattern of stitches running in a T-shape. I felt the bile rise in my throat. I showed the picture to Bull, who took one look and averted his eyes.
‘This is the trouble they take. The baby’s dead – might be natural causes, might not, it doesn’t matter to them, it’s just a vehicle – and they cut into the body, remove the internal organs and fill the void with heroin. This is the sort of people we are dealing with. Nothing – no life – is sacred to them. They are the scum of the earth and we are forever playing catch up with their new and ingenious ways to get past us.’
‘W
hy not hit them at source rather than going for the couriers?’ I asked.
‘Because for that we need co-operation, and the governments in the source countries don’t give a damn. All they care about is their own economy and the payoffs in their own pockets. Getting rid of the drug barons would cost them dear, both as a nation and as individuals.’
‘There must be ways,’ I said.
‘If you think of one, let me know.’ He took out his wallet and slid a card across the table. ‘Here’s my number. Ring for me if you have any problems here in the future. And take my advice, try to look more’ – he searched for the right word that wouldn’t cause too much offence – ‘more normal.’ He took one last look at me and Bull, six foot six, shaved head, muscular body, black as night. ‘Forget it,’ he said.
Forgetting his advice was easy. But there could be no forgetting the sickening vision of the stitched-up baby.
8
Carlo’s apartment was pretty much the same as my last ill-fated visit. The only difference was that the paintings had gone and, judging by the clean rectangles where they had hung, had not been replaced with whatever was the latest fashion trend in the art world. Had he made the killing he’d expected, or simply sold them for what he could get?
Bull gazed around the room with a critical eye. Took in the brushed steel and white leather chairs, the sparkling glass coffee table, the harsh lighting, the whole minimal look.
‘Don’t reckon he spent much time here,’ he said. ‘Either that or he’s got even worse taste than you. Which would be difficult.’
‘My interior designer walked out on me,’ I said. ‘I wonder what Carlo’s excuse is.’
I went through to the kitchen to make some coffee. It was clean and tidy, nothing out of place. While the coffee was brewing, I checked out the two bedrooms. Both beds were made up with fresh, neatly ironed sheets. Carlo must have a cleaner. Would be good to talk to her. Find out if anything, apart from Carlo, was missing.
I poured brandy into the coffee and passed a cup to Bull, who was perched on one of the chairs as if it might break at any moment. He shivered. ‘Be good to get some warm clothes in the morning,’ he said.
‘And some food,’ I said. ‘Let’s drink our coffee and call it a day.’
Later we would argue over who heard the noise first, whose senses were the sharpest, whose reactions were quickest. I suspect both of us thought it was a draw but were too proud to admit that.
It was Bull’s coffee cup that did it. He’d placed it on the floor so as not to mark the table. We awoke to the sound of a curse as someone tripped over it. I opened the door of my bedroom a crack and peered through. The intruder was dressed all in black and was wearing a watch cap. The bureau door was open and the figure was rifling through the papers inside by the light of a torch.
I gestured to Bull, black as night right down to his boxer shorts, who was peering out of his bedroom, and signalled towards the intruder. As I came out of the bedroom into full view, the intruder turned and ran. Straight into the arms of Bull. He pinned his arms to his sides.
‘Let’s see what we’ve got,’ I said to Bull.
I grabbed the watch cap and pulled it off. A cascade of long blonde hair flowed to the intruder’s shoulders.
‘Get off me,’ she said, struggling against Bull’s hold.
Bull raised her arms above her head and said, ‘Frisk her, Johnny.’
She was clean. No gun. Just some car keys and a set of pick-locks.
‘Bull’s going to let you go. When he does, you move slowly and carefully to that chair. Any quick movements and you’ll realize how Bull got his name.’
Bull let go. She shook herself and walked slowly to the chair. As she turned I got my first real look at her. She was five ten, maybe eleven. Hundred pounds or so. Filled her black jeans and sweater in all the right places. Her face, framed by the blonde hair, was lightly made up, although it didn’t seem to me as if she needed any. Her eyes were deep blue and shone like beacons. Her lips were full and red. If you’re going to have intruders, then you’d pick this one.
‘I’m going to ask you some questions,’ I said. ‘If you duck any, I’ll call the police. Is that clear?’
She nodded.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘I might ask the same about you,’ she replied.
It’s hard to be taken seriously when you’re only wearing boxer shorts.
‘Let’s start again,’ I said, sighing. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Verkenner,’ she said. ‘In English that means Scout.’
‘Scout,’ Bull and I echoed simultaneously.
‘You got a problem with that? she said.
‘Why Scout?’ I asked.
‘It’s a name my dad gave me because I’m good at tracking down people.’
‘Useful talent to have,’ I said. ‘And what are you doing here, Scout? Who are you trying to track down?’
‘My father,’ she said. ‘He went missing three days ago.’
‘And what does that have to do with my brother Carlo, the guy who owns this place?’
‘My father is a private investigator. He was hired to find your brother. After just one day he went missing. No phone calls to tell me what he was doing. Not a word. Zero. Zilch. Nada. I’ve been to all his usual haunts when he’s on a case and drawn a blank. I thought I might find a clue here.’
‘And did you?’
‘Not yet,’ she said. She looked at me sternly. ‘You should be more careful where you put your coffee cups. I could have broken my ankle. Slapped a law suit on you for compensation. How about that, buster?’
‘My name’s not Buster. I’m Johnny and this is Bull.’
I pondered for a moment. I could turn her over to the police, but that seemed a bit harsh. I could let her go, but I had the feeling she would dog our feet and maybe mess something up. Did I want her inside the tent or outside? No contest. I liked her style.
‘We’re looking for my brother. It could be we share a common cause. Seems too much of a coincidence that your father goes missing as soon as he starts investigating Carlo’s disappearance. We need someone with local knowledge – mine is out of date. Maybe we can join forces. What do you say?’
‘As long as you don’t slow me down,’ she said grudgingly.
Scout made coffee while Bull and I put on some clothes. Then we all gathered round the bureau and examined its contents.
The neatness of the apartment didn’t extend to the bureau. It had every semblance of bills thrown on a heap without much attention to referring to them later. Some were still in unopened envelopes. This seemed to be the ostrich school of filing, or an example of the impulse control disorder that Carlo was prone to and which could lead him into rash decisions.
Scout and I scrutinized each bill and then passed them to Bull for putting into date order. A pattern rapidly emerged. Carlo was in deep trouble. Every credit card was up to its limit – and they were big – through a series of cash transactions, and his bank account was in the red, consisting of a succession of withdrawals way above his monthly salary. I started to get an ache in the pit of my stomach about what we might find at Silvers.
‘Get me the latest bill for his credit cards, his mobile phone and the last bank statement.’
‘What are you going to do?’ I said.
‘I’ve got contacts working in the credit-card companies, the phone company and the bank.’
‘You’ve got a contact in Silvers?’ I would have to address the security there when I paid my first visit.
‘I told you I was a good tracker. How do you think I do it?’
Bull got the bills in order.
‘Jeez,’ he said, looking at them one last time as he passed them to Scout. ‘I haven’t earned this much money in my whole life, let alone spent it.’
‘But what was he spending it on?’ I said. ‘That’s the key question.’
‘Drugs,’ said Scout. ‘It’s got all the hallmarks of drugs. A hab
it he can’t kick.’
That ache in my stomach got worse. I remembered back to the last time I was in this apartment. I pressed the catch on the secret compartment and watched as it slid open.
No drugs, thankfully. It was empty apart from one item. A golden gambling chip marked with the logo of a casino – El Dorado.
‘Where is this place?’ I asked.
‘Leidseplein,’ she said. ‘Where all the nightlife is. If you want to enjoy yourself in Amsterdam, you go to Leidseplein. Restaurants, bars, nightclubs, casinos. El Dorado isn’t the only one.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Meet you there at eight. We’ll go somewhere for dinner and, when the action has hotted up go on to the casino.’
She nodded, frowned and then shook her head.
‘Take a tip from someone who’s used to working undercover. You guys are going to have to smarten up if you don’t want to attract a heap of attention.’
‘We can do that,’ I said.
‘OK, then. See you there. And,’ she said, still not convinced, ‘don’t let me down.’
Who the hell was supposed to be running this show?
9
Amsterdam is a dangerous place. If the trams don’t get you the trucks will. If the trucks don’t get you the cars will. If the cars don’t get you the cyclists will. Even the pedestrians have sharp elbows. We’d had breakfast with Gus at his hotel, picked up some cash as an advance on expenses, a couple of mobile phones, got the name of the compliance officer and then diced with death by walking around the city getting a haircut, picking up new outfits and some food for the apartment. After dropping everything off at the apartment, Bull went to do a more thorough reconnaissance of the city and I changed into a new suit and headed off to Silvers.
Business must have been good. The bank was now housed on the top two floors of a brand new tower block overlooking the canals. Didn’t have much soul, but then banking never did. Nor a heart, come to think of it.
