“I think the key term here,” said Toner, “is ‘reasonable suspicion,’ and you’re so far from that, you couldn’t see it from the top of a mountain.”
Hamill glowered at her, and Toner glowered back. Entertaining though all of this was, Sellars decided to put an end to it.
“You can look at my phone,” he said.
Toner began to object, but Sellars raised a hand to silence her. She was so shocked at his temerity that it actually worked. Hamill, meanwhile, appeared to be trying to figure out the catch.
“I’ve nothing to hide,” Sellars continued, “but it’s got all my contact details on it, and a lot of numbers that I need for work.”
“You can back up everything before we take it,” said Mount.
“Do I get it back? It’s a new iPhone.”
“In a couple of days, I should imagine.”
“I’ve got an old one at home somewhere. I’ll just use that while I wait.”
One of the technical support geeks helped Sellars to back up the contents of his phone, Sellars claiming to be a bit of a Luddite when it came to anything more complicated than browsing the Internet. The police wrote out a receipt for the phone and went on their merry way, Hendricksen dragging his feet behind them, having clearly received fewer answers than he wanted, and fewer still that he believed. Once they were gone, Toner gave Sellars a flea in his ear for “overstepping the mark,” as she put it, before asking him if Visser’s allegations about extracurricular activities had any basis in fact.
“None,” said Sellars.
Most of the favors he did for Mors and Quayle coincided with Carenor business, either at Le Freeport or the Enclave itself. As for the two or three exceptions to this, he remained certain that Quayle’s business dealings with the Enclave were destined to remain as confidential as anyone else’s, if not more so. Let Toner go snooping, if the mood took her. She’d find nothing.
And if by chance she did, Mors could always take care of her as well.
* * *
EVENTUALLY, SELLARS’S PHONE WAS returned to him. Hamill and Mount came by with it, along with some more questions, although they were essentially the same as the previous ones, but couched in different terms. In the hours after his meeting with Visser, Sellars’s van—and his face—had been visible on motorway and other traffic cameras all the way from the services to the exit leading to his home. He could also account for his movements over the following forty-eight hours, by which time Visser had already been reported missing. He might have been the last person to talk to her before she vanished, but whatever had befallen her, it had not come to pass at his hands.
Visser had sent an e-mail to Hendricksen at 4:45 p.m. on the afternoon of her disappearance, probably from the side of the road, giving a short account of her meeting with Sellars. It was the last communication anyone ever received from her. When her car was found, parked on a residential street in Morden, South London, both her cell phone and laptop were missing. They, like their owner, were never found.
For the next six months Sellars was on his best behavior, conscious that the police might well be observing him, and aware that his bosses at Carenor certainly were. He noticed that he was not sent to Le Freeport, or the Enclave, during this time, and all his runs were limited to the United Kingdom. Finally, though, he was assigned a Luxembourg pickup—and by Dylan Lynskey in person, no less. This followed Karyn Toner’s resignation from Carenor, which in turn coincided with the discovery by Lynskey’s wife of her husband’s extramarital indiscretions.
“Sorry about restricting your runs,” Lynskey told Sellars. “It was Karyn’s doing, not mine. Legal flim-flam. Watching our backs. You understand.”
Sellars did, especially when his understanding was aided by a cash payment from Lynskey.
But his abiding memory of that period, and accompanying recognition of Mors’s true capacities, came from the days after his first interview by the police. He had taken care of a delivery of vintage wine to a property developer in Bromley, after which he made a detour to the Glades, the big shopping center nearby, where he parked next to a nondescript Toyota with tinted windows. Mors was waiting behind the wheel, and together they drove to a lock-up garage near Grove Park Cemetery. Inside was Yvette Visser: gagged, chained to a D-ring cemented into the floor, and looking very much the worse for wear. Mors had been feeding her, but not a lot. Mostly Mors had been narcotizing her to keep her subdued. Visser continued to look groggy even as Mors produced a small leather wallet filled with blades and other devices, and removed from it a scalpel, which she handed to Sellars.
“Finish her,” she said.
“Why me?”
“Because you were careless, and because we have to know that you’re capable of it. We might need you to do it again someday.”
But it wasn’t only that, Sellars knew. If he didn’t do as Mors asked, she’d kill him. He was certain of it. He had to prove his loyalty, or else he and Visser would share the same fate. Sellars brought to mind his conversation with Visser, how she had been prepared to ruin him, to deprive him of his job, and his family of support, all because some greedy Jews wanted to get their hands on paintings that had once belonged to their grandparents and great-grandparents so they could sell them at a premium and feather their nests with the proceeds. To hell with her. To hell with them all.
Mors stepped behind Visser and lifted her head by the hair, exposing her throat.
“Do it,” said Mors.
The scalpel felt very light in Sellars’s hand, but there was no denying its sharpness. It cut Visser’s throat with the minimum of effort. Afterward, he and Mors wrapped the body in black plastic garbage bags, and hosed away the blood, before burying her in the cemetery, Mors having already located a recently opened grave that would readily accommodate another body.
Sellars hadn’t greatly enjoyed killing Visser, but he’d done it, and without moaning about it later. Neither was he tormented by her murder, haunted by memories of the act, or any of that other nonsense one read about in books or saw in films. It had been necessary, that was all, and easier than he might have anticipated.
Plus, it made the ones that followed easier still.
But killing Visser had changed him, he couldn’t doubt that. Lauren—so perceptive once again—had noticed something different about him as soon as he returned home that night, and it wasn’t just the smell of the soap he’d used to wash away the blood from Visser’s body and the dirt from the digging of her grave. It was a fundamental alteration to his state of being.
“Did anything bad happen today?” Lauren asked him, as he lay beside her in the dark.
“Why would you say that?” he replied, and instantly recognized it as the wrong answer. You never answered a question with another question. It was as good as an admission: of the truth of an implication made by another, or of one’s own guilt.
“Because you seem distracted.”
“A woman got hurt,” he said, and he was surprised to hear himself speak. He had a momentary urge to clamp his hands over his mouth. “There was a lot of blood.”
“Where? On the motorway?”
“No. On a side street.”
“Is she—?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, love. Honest.”
And Lauren let it go, because that was her way, but it didn’t mean she stopped thinking about it, because that, too, was her way. She added his response to others he had given, or would offer her in the future: about cash found in a shoebox in the shed (remiss of him, that was); about journeys that appeared to take longer than they should have; about how often, or how seldom, they made love. The distance between them had grown, until it became so great as to be beyond bridging.
Visser had done this, because the worst of it had commenced with her death.
* * *
SELLARS TOOK THE EXIT for home, or what now passed for home. It wouldn’t be that way for much longer, because something would have to change between Lauren and him. He’d have to find h
is place in an altered world, but so would everyone else. He wondered if most people would even notice when the Atlas had finished its work. There would be no breaking of seals, no signs in the sky. This world, Quayle said, would continue almost exactly as before, except for those who understood where, and how, to look. They would see shadows where no shadows should be, and forms shifting at the periphery of their vision. As for the rest, they would watch the rise of intolerance, and the subjugation of the weak by the powerful. They would witness inequality, despotism, and environmental ruination. They would be told by the ignorant and self-interested that this was in the natural order of things.
But in their hearts they would know better, and feel afraid.
CHAPTER LIII
Parker, Angel, and Louis traveled together to Amsterdam with KLM, on the grounds—as Louis argued—that only the desperate flew internationally on an American airline. It might have been unpatriotic, but he had a point; Parker couldn’t recall having experienced a more comfortable flight, although it helped that the federal government was picking up the tab.
Two people were waiting for them, independent of each other, upon their arrival. The first was a driver, although the kind that looked like he might have learned his trade at the controls of a militarized vehicle, or possibly at the wheel of a getaway car. He was in his late fifties, of medium height and heavy build. He wasn’t holding a sign, but zeroed in on the three men as soon as they entered the arrivals hall. He ignored Parker and Angel, and spoke only to Louis.
“It’s been a while,” he said.
His expression gave no clue as to whether he regarded this as a good or bad thing.
“It has,” said Louis.
With that the driver turned his back on them and headed for the exit without bothering to check if they were following.
“Well,” said Parker, “that was a touching scene.”
“An old friend,” said Louis.
“Obviously. He seemed very emotional at being reunited with you.”
But before they could proceed, their path was blocked by a young woman with short red hair who barely came up to Parker’s shoulder, but with whom he wouldn’t have screwed for all the air miles in the world. She was lean the way hunting dogs were lean.
“Mr. Parker?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Armitage. I’m one of the legats here in the Netherlands. SAC Ross informed us you were on your way.”
Which was the downside of spending government money, Parker thought. He hadn’t shared their travel arrangements with Ross, but nonetheless wasn’t shocked to find a federal welcoming committee at Schiphol. They could have hidden their tracks better, but Parker had decided that Ross was already aware of their destination, and the false trail should be laid after their arrival. There was no point in alerting him by attempting misdirection from the outset.
Armitage took in Angel and Louis. She didn’t appear concerned at their presence, merely interested, probably as a result of whatever background information Ross had seen fit to share with her. Angel nodded a greeting, while Louis found something more interesting in the distance to engage his attention. The driver, meanwhile, was no longer anywhere to be seen.
“Agent Ross asked me to ensure that you got to your hotel safely,” said Armitage, “and offer any assistance you might require.”
“You mean he ordered you to keep an eye on us,” said Parker.
Armitage didn’t bother trying to deny it.
“He did tell me a great deal about you.”
“Anything good?” said Angel.
“We have excellent relations with the Dutch authorities,” said Armitage. “We wouldn’t want you to jeopardize them.”
“That would be a no,” Parker informed Angel.
“I figured,” said Angel, “once I managed to translate all that fancy diplomatic language.”
Parker returned his attention to Armitage.
“I think we have transportation already arranged, but we appreciate the offer.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you could tell me where you plan on staying while you’re in the country.”
“I’m sure you would,” said Parker.
Armitage waited. To her credit, she remained unperturbed. If she knew their arrival time, she must also have been aware of the hotel bookings made on the same credit card. It was her attempt to test the waters, and she’d found them to be cold.
“I see,” she said at last.
“I thought you might.”
Armitage proffered a business card, which Parker accepted.
“Feel free to get in touch,” she said, “day or night.”
“I’m sorry,” said Parker, “but I don’t have any cards of my own with me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I have your number. And I mean that in every sense.”
She didn’t bother saying goodbye, but vanished into the crowd. Once she was out of sight, Louis zoned back in.
“Those reservations we made with Ross’s money?” he said.
“Yes?”
“We’re not going to use them.”
“I guessed as much,” said Parker. “You have somewhere else in mind?”
“I did, from the start.”
“She’ll follow us.”
Louis picked up his bag and started walking.
“She’ll try.”
* * *
IT WAS, PARKER LATER decided, the most terrifying trip he’d ever taken in a motorized vehicle. He still hadn’t learned the driver’s name by the end of it, but he hoped with all his heart that he’d never again have to spend time in a car with him. They lost Armitage about five minutes out of the airport. She was in the front passenger seat of a silver Mercedes, being driven by a man slightly older than she was, and dressed more casually. Parker made him for a local, but he was no match for Louis’s buddy, who drove like a man with fire licking at his tires. But if the highway journey was bad, the city driving was worse, as trams, pedestrians, and any number of cyclists appeared only seconds from destruction. Parker looked to his right and saw that Angel’s eyes were firmly closed.
“You okay?” Parker asked.
“Just tell me when it’s over.”
“You’ll know when he stops.”
“That’s no guarantee. If he stops hard enough, I’ll just keep going. This belt won’t save me.”
But eventually they came to a halt outside a canal house on Herengracht. It bore no name, so clearly wasn’t a hotel. An elderly woman came to the door as the driver removed their bags from the trunk of the car. Angel and Parker watched as Louis approached her.
“You’ve changed,” she said.
“Older,” Louis replied.
“No, in other ways.”
Louis gestured toward Angel.
“Blame him,” he said, before reconsidering. “Actually, blame both of them.”
The woman gripped Louis’s right arm.
“He’ll be pleased to see you.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. He was always very fond of you. And you are the last of them, the last of the Reapers…”
* * *
THE BUILDING WAS DIVIDED into four self-contained apartments, the first-floor unit being occupied, at least temporarily, by the woman, with the other three seemingly vacant. The rooms were small but comfortable, and furnished with antiques that managed to impress without being oppressive. It had the feel of a safe house, a place of refuge. It contained no books, no magazines, no TV, and the only toiletries were travel-size containers of shampoo and shaving foam, disposable razors, and a single paper-wrapped bar of soap in each bathroom. A table on the first floor had been set for breakfast: fruit, bread, preserves, and cold meats. They had eaten on the plane, but Parker found room for some coffee and fruit.
The woman, whom Louis introduced as Anouk, drank her coffee while standing by the window, alternating her attention between her guests and the canal beyond. Music played low from a radio. Parker noticed
that Anouk wore no rings on her fingers, but two hung from a chain around her neck: a pair of gold wedding bands, one thicker than the other. She caught the direction of his gaze.
“Eczema,” she said. “I could never wear anything on my fingers, so I put my wedding ring on a chain instead. When my husband died, I added his to mine.”
Something in the way she mentioned her spouse, and the manner in which Louis paused ever so briefly while buttering his bread, led Parker to understand that this was difficult history. He did not pursue the subject. If Louis wanted to explain later, he would.
“How long will you stay?” Anouk asked.
“A few days,” said Louis.
She finished her coffee.
“Long enough,” she said. “Always with you, just long enough.”
She placed her cup in the sink, and left without saying anything more.
“What now?” said Parker.
“We rest. Later, I’ll go out. When I come back, I’ll know more.”
Angel turned to Parker.
“Is it me,” said Angel, “or did everyone just get more enigmatic since we landed?”
“It’s the foreign air.”
“Well, I’m sure I’ll be illuminated in good time.”
He shot Louis a meaningful look before heading upstairs. The flight had exhausted Angel; he could barely keep his eyes open, and his face was ashen.
“Anything you want to tell me?” said Parker, once Angel had gone.
“Back in the day,” said Louis, “I did some work here for a man named De Jaager.”
He didn’t elaborate on what that work might have entailed. He didn’t have to. After all, as Anouk had said, Louis was the last of the Reapers. He cut men down.
“The final contract, Timmerman, I did for free. It wasn’t his real name, just what people called him. It means ‘Carpenter,’ or ‘Timber Man.’ They all had nicknames back then. Probably still do. Makes them feel important. Timmerman was a Bosnian Serb from Belgrade, linked to the Zemun clan. The Serbs were running ecstasy and heroin from the Balkans through the Netherlands, then on to the rest of Europe. Timmerman did their wet work for them, and there was a lot of it. The Serbs and the Dutch have been involved in turf wars since the seventies, but it all got messier after the Balkans exploded. The Dutch were no longer just dealing with Serb gangsters; now they were facing down mass murderers.
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