12 Drummers Drumming

by Diana Deverell

  I stood next to the port-side railing, looking out at an oil refinery fronted by an expanse of smooth asphalt. Despite the cloudy weather, lawn chairs were scattered along the water’s edge, occupied by bundled fishermen.

  Leather soles slithered across the deck behind me. I kept my eyes on the fishermen. A man’s voice said, “Not the water quality I would choose.” The accent was that of a middle-class Brit.

  I turned and noted how well the voice coordinated with the tweedy attire. But the mouth rounding those vowels was thick-lipped and surrounded by the fleshy features typical of a Slavic peasant. Sándor Biczó added, “I’m told the carp they catch are acceptable.”

  “Carp?” I repeated.

  He waved a hand toward the fishermen. “I hear some foreigners in Antwerp will pay any price for their New Year’s carp. Maybe you know someone like that.”

  Carp for New Year’s dinner was a Warsaw tradition. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “The only expatriate Pole I knew is dead now.”

  He leaned against the railing. From beneath us came the faint sound of yodeling, followed by the stamping of a hundred pairs of feet as the crowd joined in on the chorus of the song. When the thumping subsided, Biczó said, “Your note said you had something of value to offer my German partner. Naturally I assumed you meant Stefan Krajewski.”

  He trained his pale gray eyes on my face. His left eyelid was marked by a black mole so thick it kept the lid from opening fully. The drooping eyelid gave his expression an ominous asymmetry.

  I forced myself to stop staring at the marked eyelid and recalled the name by which the Hungarian knew Krüger. I said, “I’ve heard that Gunter Storch could assist me in resolving certain difficulties. I am willing to offer something in return for that assistance.”

  Biczó made a dismissive gesture. “If you need help, why don’t you turn to your friends in Denmark?”

  “I have,” I said. “But the priest no longer takes my calls. Doesn’t want to deal with an international fugitive.”

  “I doubt I can help you either,” Biczó said. “You say the Pole is dead. Then you are of no interest to Gunter Storch.”

  “You are mistaken. I have another valuable item I’m willing to sell to him.”

  “And what might that be?” he asked.

  “I can explain that only to him.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  “Set it up. Arrange for me to meet him.”

  “Why should I do you such a great favor?”

  “I’m sure your partner will show his appreciation.”

  “I see. I came, certain that you were going to offer me the Pole. Now you say he’s dead.”

  “Of course he’s dead—”

  “My partner wants proof of that. Let’s begin there, say as a gesture of your good will. Start by giving me some tangible evidence that Krajewski was on board Global Flight 500.”

  “Evidence? What sick . . .” I began. My voice broke. Then I let anger supplant grief. “Go to hell. You think I’ve got a piece of him in my pocket? Some body part I can show you, prove he was blown to pieces?” I let out a furious breath. “If I did, if I had a single square inch of him, it wouldn’t be for sale. Not to you. Not to anyone. Not for any price.”

  Sándor Biczó watched me, a faint hint of menace in his expression. Then his gaze went to something moving off to my right. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure in blue coveralls climbing the stairs from the deck below. I leaned on the railing and took in a deep breath of sea air, trying to regain my composure.

  The tour boat was angling to port, to take us north again along Kanaaldok B1. A Russian freighter blocked the waterway to the east, its port of origin scrawled across the stern in faded Cyrillic letters. Its off-loaded shipment of Lada cars lined the edge of Churchilldok.

  The blue-clad man came over to the railing to stand beside Biczó. The new arrival wasn’t a native Belgian. And it wasn’t likely he was part of the crew. Below his skullcap of close-cropped dark hair, his eyes were as shiny as anthracite in the smoky skin of his face.

  I couldn’t suppress my gasp.

  His was the face of a dead man. A face that haunted my dreams.

  I felt as though my heart had stopped beating.

  “Ah, my friend Fouad is familiar to you,” said Biczó. “He wants to invite you to visit his home. The al-Nemer family wishes to hear what you can tell them about his brother’s final moments on earth.”

  Not a dead man. But his little brother. I knew Nazer al-Nemer’s family tree. When Nazer died in 1986, Fouad was only eight years old. Now that he’d grown up, he’d come after me. I shuddered. I didn’t want to go anyplace with this vengeance-driven child of the Abu Nidal Organization. My back was against the railing. I heard the scrape of a window sliding open somewhere below me. Accordion music blared out. I caught a whiff of garlic, blended with the fishy odor of raw mussels. Then the window clicked shut, cutting off sound and scents from below. I tasted the coppery flavor of my fear.

  “I’ve nothing much to tell,” I said. “All I know is that Nazer al-Nemer disappeared in May 1986, during the ferry crossing from Warnemünde to Denmark.”

  Biczó blinked, the mole black against the white eyelid like the skull-and-crossbones label on a bottle of poison. “That’s all you know?”

  I said, “I’d like to be more helpful.”

  “And I’m sure you will be,” Biczó said, “when Fouad has an opportunity to assist you with your recollections.”

  “I appreciate his offer of hospitality,” I told Biczó, “but it would be more profitable for both of us if I first spoke with your German partner.”

  He laughed. “Perhaps you are right,” he said, “but I prefer the al-Nemers’ cash now. I have no faith in this vague future reward you speak of.”

  “Don’t let him trick you out of your money,” I said to Fouad. “I have nothing new to tell you about your brother.”

  “He speaks no English,” Biczó said.

  “Then how can he question me?”

  The Hungarian’s eyes glinted.

  Dread pulled my muscles tight. I glanced at the stairway, gauging how best to make my break.

  Biczó reached inside his jacket. When his hand came back out, he was holding a nine-millimeter Browning High Power pistol. “I don’t recommend declining the al-Nemers’ invitation.”

  Thirteen cartridges, I thought, staring at the shiny metal. An unlucky number for me. “You’re bluffing,” I said. “You won’t shoot me. This isn’t the Third World. This is Belgium. They’ve got cellular telephones and efficient police forces. People will hear the shot. The cops will be there to arrest you as soon as the boat docks.”

  “But we are docking right now,” Biczó said.

  We were only a few yards from the battered stern of the Russian freighter, nestled into the niche reserved for the intraport shuttle boat. Biczó gestured toward the stairway. “The pilot of our boat was happy to make this unscheduled stop.”

  Fouad leaped nimbly down the stairway to the lower deck. Biczó nudged me after him. I stumbled down, toward the party sounds below. Maybe I could attract attention from someone inside. Biczó jammed the pistol into the small of my back and laughed again. “My man is covering that exit. For the next five minutes, no one will be coming outside. So you see, you are leaving this boat with us. Dead or alive. That much of a choice is yours.” He shoved me toward the dock. It was three feet higher than the lower deck of our vessel, even with the top railing.

  My heart beat faster. Glucose pooled in my muscles, ready to provide instant energy there as more adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream. I heard buzzing.

  Fouad had climbed up onto the dock and now gripped a three-stranded hemp rope that was tied to the boat’s railing. He pulled on the rope, snugging the tour vessel tight against the rubber bumpers.

  Biczó jabbed me again with the gun. “Go on,” he said. “Climb!”

  I lifted my right foot onto the bottom rail. I took hold of the top r
ail with my left hand. The buzzing grew louder.

  A motor. Coming closer.

  I put my left foot onto the railing.

  “Hurry up,” Biczó said.

  Then I saw the Vespa racing toward us. The same pair of women I’d seen last night in front of The 21 Club, right before UNN had arrived. In front, the driver, no helmet, bleached-blond ducktail sharpened by the wind, mouth open in a shout, teeth bared. Fouad turned his head toward the noise.

  I kicked back hard with my right foot. My boot connected with Biczó’s chest. He cried out in pain. I grabbed the rope with both hands and yanked Fouad off-balance. I let my momentum carry me—and Fouad—back onto the deck. I landed feet-first on the Hungarian’s gut. The gun was in his right hand. I jammed my foot onto his wrist.

  Fouad sprawled nearby, dazed from the impact of falling headfirst onto the steel plates. But not dazed enough. He scrambled toward the gun.

  I bent over, trying to grab it first. Biczó bucked then, nearly tossing me off. Faintly, from the other side of the door, came the crashing sound of accordion chords. The deck vibrated as those inside stomped at the end of each phrase of the chorus.

  Fouad cackled. His hand was on the gun. Then he sighted on a point right between my eyes. The mechanism clicked as Fouad cocked it with his thumb. The first cartridge slid into the breech with a silvery sigh.

  I looked down into Fouad’s eyes, pools of darkest hate.

  His head snapped back. A black circle appeared on the bridge of his nose. The circle blossomed into a rose. The rose crumbled, shattered, and Fouad’s face was gone. I gagged, tasting the bile as it rose from my stomach. I stumbled off Biczó’s wrist.

  A woman’s voice spat out a command in Flemish.

  Biczó rolled over, facedown, and locked his fingers behind his neck.

  “You did need a little help,” said the woman in the oil-streaked mechanic’s coverall. “He thought you might.”

  He? Surely not van Hoof. Stefan?

  Mechanic jumped down to the boat deck, landing with a grunt. She straddled the prone Hungarian. Then she reversed her revolver and clubbed Biczó at the base of the skull. His body went limp.

  The driver revved the Vespa and grinned at me.

  I asked, “Who sent—”

  “A friend,” said Mechanic. “We enjoy this kind of thing.” She tucked the revolver into her pocket and jerked her chin toward the door to the restaurant. “There another scumbag inside?”

  “Blocking the door,” I said. “And this stop is supposed to last only five minutes.”

  As if on cue, the idling engine rumbled more loudly.

  “We got rid of the ugly fellow in the Mercedes,” Mechanic said. “You better leave before anyone else comes along.”

  I climbed up the railing and onto the dock. The vessel began easing away from its mooring and a gray-green ribbon of water appeared. I grabbed the rope to stop the boat from swinging farther out into the waterway. The coarse hemp scraped my palm. I looked down at the boat deck. Fouad al-Nemer sprawled near its edge, blood pooling beneath his cheek. My stomach cramped again. “What about him?” I asked Mechanic.

  She kicked the corpse twice to push it under the deck railing. The gap between the vessel and the rubber bumpers had widened enough to allow the body to drop over the vessel’s side and slip silently into the greenish water.

  “Bye-bye.” She hoisted herself to the top of the railing and stretched her arm toward me. I leaned out over the strip of water to take her hand and she leaped across to stand beside me.

  I released the rope. The band of gray-green expanded. The tour boat edged into the mainstream.

  “The other goon on board should be plenty busy,” she said, “trying to figure out where that blood came from and why his boss is asleep. I’ll wait here, handle anyone else who turns up in this neighborhood. You go with Danièle.”

  I took a step toward the Vespa. “Thanks,” I began.

  Mechanic made a brush-off motion with her hand.

  From the rear seat of the Vespa, I looked back over my shoulder at the tour boat. Faintly, I heard another blast of oompah music. Thankfully, not the last sound I’d hear on earth.

  The Vespa buzzed around the final Lada in the line of off-loaded cars and pulled onto the roadway. Danièle followed it south, twisting and turning her way out of the port district.

  “Where are we going?” I shouted into her ear.

  “No English,” she said over her shoulder.

  Never mind. Stefan had to be the “he” to whom her friend had referred. He’d sent these women to save me. I clutched Danièle tightly around her bony waist and pressed my body against her spine, willing my own trembling to stop. I’d come so close this time—so damn close to my own death. Then suddenly Fouad’s face dissolved in front of me. I wanted to curl up in a ball and shut my eyes.

  But first I had to get to Stefan. Had to tell him what had happened. Erika had sent me to Biczó in the first place. She must’ve sent the newspeople right after me. Maybe she’d only wanted to delay me, give Biczó time to sell me to Fouad. The result was a trail of disasters—a trail that led right back to Erika. I had to get word to Stefan. I had to warn him that Erika had set me up. And might be about to do the same to him.

  I huddled closer to Danièle, trying to absorb her warmth and halt my slide into physical shock. Her hair was cut ragged against the back of her neck, the bleached ends greenish above the mouse-brown roots. She smelled of kerosene and bacon grease, but I caught the faint scent of violets beneath.

  We stopped on a sidestreet at the eastern edge of Antwerp, near Schijnpoort. We were beside a dirty brown Jetta with a CH decal. The passenger door popped open. “Get in,” Erika said, leaning across from the driver’s side.

  I didn’t move off the scooter.

  She slapped her hand on the seat. “You must return to Bert’s at once.”

  I snorted. “Bert’s? You want to make it easy for the al-Nemers and their friends.”

  “We can’t have people searching for you.” Her voice held a note of impatience. “Get in. We must go.”

  I climbed slowly off the scooter. “Prove to me Stefan knows what’s going on.”

  “Who do you think recognized the danger to you when Fouad al-Nemer left Lebanon? Knew that Fouad wanted you dead—because you killed his brother.” She paused a second for that to sink in. “Come. Soon Stefan must approach his informant. He needs you to show up at Bert’s.”

  I couldn’t argue. I had to keep the gunmen occupied while Stefan made his move. Reluctantly, I dropped onto the seat and closed the door.

  Erika pulled forward out of the parking space. “Fouad al-Nemer was driven by his family’s vow of revenge. He was acting alone. But the others who’ve come are controlled by Krüger. His instruction to them is to keep you under surveillance. No violence.”

  “You’re so sure all of them will follow orders?”

  “Their discipline is infamous.” She slid around a truck double-parked for unloading. “But if there are any other lapses, we will take care of it.”

  “We? You mean you and Bert? Against a gang of terrorists? Good luck.”

  “Bert is more formidable than he appears.”

  “I’m not worried about Bert.”

  “Oh, it’s me you think unequal to the task.” Her laughter had a mocking undertone. “And after I sent Danièle and Hilly-Anne to save you. You don’t appreciate the fact that I risked two of my best people.”

  “Your best people? They said ‘he’ sent them.”

  “ ‘He’ told me you’d need help. I called them.”

  She cut back across the main artery and onto the web of streets bounded by blocks of water. She edged the car into a loading zone and pushed the engine into neutral.

  I said, “I wouldn’t have needed rescuing if you’d stuck with the plan.”

  “If I’d stuck with it? You changed the location for your meeting with the Hungarian.”

  “What choice did I have, after you tipped
off UNN?”

  “Me?” Erika was incredulous. “Hardly. But the coverage raised your profile. Sure to get Major Reinhardt Krüger’s attention. Perhaps worth the risk.”

  “Raised it too much,” I said. “I have to get out of Antwerp.”

  “So far only Krüger’s team seems to know where you’re hiding. But I have people on the lookout. We’ll move you from Bert’s before the police or the press can get to you.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I didn’t tell Bert I was going to The 21 Club. Only you knew that.”

  “I didn’t call UNN.”

  “If it wasn’t you—” I began.

  Sudden understanding lit Erika’s face. She had a good idea who’d called the television people. Before I could press her, she said, “I now have an excellent reason to contact Krüger myself. I’ll report what Biczó attempted.”

  “You have a line to Gunter Storch—to Krüger himself?” Surprise sharpened my voice. “Then why did I have to go through Biczó to get to him?”

  “It’s plausible that you might have heard of the Hungarian’s activities. Not so likely the State Department has any information about me. Far more logical, then, for you to try to contact Krüger via Biczó.” She leaned toward me. “It’s equally plausible that I would hear you’d turned up in Antwerp. Of course I passed on what I knew to people who’d be certain to inform Krüger. What better way to get his attention focused on you?”

  I sat silent for thirty seconds, letting Erika’s last words sink in. My cheeks got warm. I said, “I don’t like the way things are going.”

  “You are acting your part marvelously. Van Hoof wanted a dramatic flurry of activity. You gave it to him. Now you must keep their attention.”

  Her calmness irritated me. That and her total refusal to offer me any explanation for her behavior. I asked her, “Why are you in this?”