Lost

by James Patterson

  I was about to say yes, but then I turned and saw who had asked me the question: Rostoff’s man Billy. Billy the Blade. His blue goatee seemed to make his teeth glow in the low light of the club. And standing at the bar right behind him, wearing a goofy smile, was Tibor, the tall Russian I’d smacked. Even in the dark, I saw the flowering tattoo running up to his face.

  Chapter 21

  I STARED AT the two Russians casually drinking Budweisers at the end of the bar. My right hand involuntarily moved toward the department-issued Glock that was stuck in my waistband with my shirt hanging over it.

  It was one of the few times I was at a complete loss for words. I wanted to just pull my pistol and put a bullet in the face of each of these lowlifes.

  Billy, as friendly as ever, said, “Lila was here just a minute ago. I’m sure she’ll be right back.”

  The other Russian, Tibor, winked at me.

  I don’t know what he thought would happen. I don’t know who they were used to dealing with. But it didn’t matter. I brought my hand up to his crotch and used the strength I’d been working on since the coach had told me I needed a better grip on the football twenty years ago. I felt Tibor’s testicles mash in the palm of my hand.

  He gasped and his eyes rolled back in his head as I maintained my hold and pushed him against the bar. No one saw what was going on except for his friend Billy.

  I turned to Billy and calmly said, “My next move will be to rip his balls right off him. I doubt he wants that to happen. What do you think?”

  Billy struggled to maintain his composure and said, “I think you just committed felony assault. I think you need to release him right now. We’re part owners of this club and there’s a Fort Lauderdale police officer working the front door.”

  “Why don’t you go get him? I’ve got a few questions to ask him myself. And if I don’t see my sister in the next thirty seconds, your buddy here isn’t going to have any kids and you’re going to have a pistol stuck halfway down your throat. Is that what you want to happen in your nice little club here?”

  Then I heard Lila from the other end of the bar. “Hey, Tommy, I see you met my friends.”

  I turned to see my little sister wobbling toward me with a stunning young woman whose arm was draped around her shoulder.

  I released Tibor’s balls. He stumbled back and plopped onto a barstool without a word.

  I turned to Billy and said, “This is not cool.”

  “What do you mean? Your sister making new friends? I thought it was very cool.”

  Lila came up to me, unaware of any potential violence, and said, “This is Nadia, Billy, and”—she looked at the man I had nearly castrated—“and their friend.”

  I took her by the arm and started to drag her out of the club.

  Lila tried to yank her arm away from me and said, “Hey, what the hell are you doing? I thought you were okay with me calling you for a ride now and then.”

  We burst out of the club into the warm night air of South Florida. No one paid any attention to us.

  This wasn’t the time to explain things to her. As soon as we were both in my Explorer, I pulled out of the spot and rolled past the club.

  Billy stood just outside the door and gave me a friendly smile and a wave.

  Chapter 22

  THE TALK WITH Lila went about like I’d expected it would. She said I was too suspicious; I told her she was too naive. In the end, she agreed not to go back to that club or any of the other ones Rostoff owned. She also promised she’d check in with Anthony Chilleo every couple of days while I was away.

  Chill told me that he’d keep an eye on things. When a guy like Anthony Chilleo tells you he’ll take care of something, you can be confident it will be taken care of.

  Two days later, the kids and I were all on a KLM flight from Miami International to Amsterdam. The two youngest girls were next to me, and the other four kids were across the aisle spread out over two rows in front of me. The man across from me asked if we were on some sort of school field trip. Some of the passengers looked relieved I wasn’t sitting beside them. No one wants to be stuck next to a big guy in economy for eleven hours.

  The kids were not excited about going back to Amsterdam. Annika from Finland had told me she lived there with her mother, but her mother’s drug problem had gotten so bad that she could no longer function. Once Annika’s mother had gotten into the social services network of Holland, Annika had lost touch with her completely. Two months ago, she’d learned her mother had died, and she’d decided to start fresh in the United States. She met a woman who promised to get her to America and said Annika could work off the debt once she got there. She had no other choice at that point.

  Joseph’s story affected me deeply, maybe because I was so close to my sister. He had left Gdańsk, Poland, with his sister, Magda. While traveling through Germany, they were caught up in a protest of the European Union’s refugee policy. They’d gotten separated in the crowd just as the police arrived. Joseph waited four days in Berlin, avoiding social services, hoping to find his sister. He hadn’t had any success. Now she was all he thought about.

  The younger girls, Olivia and Michele, had essentially been tricked into coming to the United States. I didn’t even want to think what someone had had in store for them.

  I noticed Jacques fidget in his seat, then lower his head. I went over and knelt down by the fifteen-year-old Belgian boy and said quietly, “You okay, Jacques?”

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  “More embarrassing than me admitting I was the worst football player on my college team?”

  That made him smile. Finally, he said, “I’m a little scared. This is only my second flight. This waiting is making me nervous. I wish we’d just take off.”

  I glanced around, then said to Jacques, “Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

  He did as I asked.

  I said, “Now think about the most exciting thing you can. Feel the excitement.”

  A smile slipped across the boy’s face.

  “What are you thinking of?”

  “A girl.”

  I laughed. “A pretty one, I assume.”

  “Beautiful. She’s nice too.”

  “Oh, is this a real person? Not some fantasy?”

  “She’s real.”

  “Who is it?”

  He didn’t answer. Then he blushed.

  “Jacques, you can tell me.”

  “You won’t tell anyone or get mad?”

  “Of course not. Who are you thinking about?”

  “Your sister.”

  “Lila? She’s ten years older than you.”

  “Nine.”

  “Are you crazy, telling me that?”

  “You said you wouldn’t get mad.”

  I smiled and snapped my fingers. “Foiled by a loophole.” That made Jacques giggle.

  The flight attendant announced we were about to take off.

  I said to Jacques, “You okay now?”

  He nodded.

  “By the way, my sister can be a handful. You might’ve dodged a bullet by leaving town.”

  He liked that.

  As I went back to my seat, I looked at the smiling Michele and Olivia and pulled a deck of cards out of my back pocket. “How would you guys like to learn a counting game? It’s going to be hard because of our language differences, but I think you’ll like it.”

  Olivia managed to say, “What game?”

  I smiled and said, “It’s called blackjack.”

  Chapter 23

  Amsterdam

  WE ARRIVED AT Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport about midmorning. The children had slept during most of the interminable flight, but I’d stayed awake. I felt like the kids were too vulnerable. I didn’t want to risk taking my eyes off them.

  This airport was either a lot less busy or a lot more organized than Miami International because walking through it seemed like taking a quiet stroll. The airport even had its own shopping mall. I held Olivia’s an
d Michele’s hands and let the boys fight over who would push the little cart with everyone’s luggage.

  A tall woman wearing a tailored blue dress approached us before we reached the police substation where I was supposed to contact my Dutch counterpart. She wasn’t walking so much as marching. A few feet in front of me, she stopped and said, “Detective Moon?”

  I gave her my best smile and said, “You must be psychic.”

  “I’m hardly psychic. I was told to look for an American over one hundred and ninety centimeters tall who looked like he played professional rugby and who was accompanied by six children.” She held out her hand and said, “My name is Marie Meijer. I’m your liaison with the Dutch national police.”

  She had an elegant accent, graceful movements, and a grip that could crack a walnut. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her.

  Marie leaned down and spoke French to little Michele, then greeted each of the kids by name.

  “Wow, you learned everyone’s names before we arrived. You’re quite thorough.”

  “I’ve been working on this ring of human traffickers for more than a year. I finally have someone to feed me information, so I’m hoping we make some serious arrests soon.”

  Olivia was either scared or bashful. She hid behind my right leg, peeking out like a puppy. The other kids had gravitated behind me too, and we now faced this woman as a single group.

  Marie smiled and said, “I’m happy to see the kids trust you. That must mean you’re trustworthy. Kids and dogs are rarely wrong about such things.” She focused her blue eyes on me and said, “Shall we get to work?”

  After being at the FBI for the last eight months, I liked that attitude.

  A few minutes later, we were in front of the airport looking at a long white Mercedes passenger van. A blue VW hatchback with an official police emblem on the dashboard was parked behind it. Marie directed the kids into the van, then turned to me and said, “You can say your goodbyes. I’ll drive you in my car.”

  I almost didn’t understand. I saw the stunned expressions on the kids’ faces. I said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ride with my posse. I want to see where they’re staying and what the conditions are like.”

  Marie didn’t miss a beat. “Of course.”

  I watched her walk toward her car. Jacques looked up at me and said, “I wouldn’t mind riding in her car.”

  I laughed as I playfully shoved the Belgian teenager toward the van.

  About twenty minutes later we arrived at an apartment building. I’d been relieved to see that the Dutch drove on the right side of the road. And so far, aside from about three thousand bicyclists, traffic didn’t look all that much different from what you’d see in a big city in the U.S.

  Marie showed great patience as I checked out the rooms, questioned the two social workers, and made sure the children were all settled with their bags next to their own beds. I’d friended them all on Facebook and gotten their e-mail addresses, and they all had my e-mail address and my cell phone number.

  I couldn’t believe how upset I was to say goodbye to them. I promised I’d see them again before I flew back to Miami. Everyone wanted a hug.

  I couldn’t meet Marie’s gaze as we walked out of the facility because I was trying to keep the tears out of my eyes. I hate that kind of shit.

  Chapter 24

  AFTER I’D HAD a sandwich accompanied by an eight-ounce Coca-Cola in a glass bottle that made me feel like a giant, Marie gave me a quick tour of Amsterdam. I didn’t want to explain that I’d been up all night on an airplane and that my circadian rhythms were all screwed up. I just tried to take in the sights and listen to what this sharp detective had to say.

  “I heard you had to chase the man bringing the kids into Miami. Do you have many foot chases?” Marie asked.

  I shrugged. “Some. I guess it depends on how badly you want to make the arrest.”

  “Do you get angry at runners?”

  “No. I learned early in my career to keep it in perspective.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was a rookie in uniform and saw a young man selling crack on Miami Avenue, right in the center of the city. When he ran, I chased. As I ran, I kept screaming, ‘Police, stop,’ like that might help.

  “Finally, near a highway underpass, I tackled him. I was mad and yelled, ‘Why’d you run from me?’

  “The crack dealer kept calm and said, ‘It’s my job to run. It’s your job to catch me.’ I had tackled a philosopher. He was right and I’ve kept it in mind for every chase I’ve ever been in.”

  I liked that Marie found the story funny. She had a beautiful smile and an engaging laugh. I noticed now that her left eyelid looked heavy, half closed over her dazzling blue eye. But her creamy skin was flawless. I was finding her more and more interesting.

  Marie said, “This is the De Wallen District of Amsterdam. It’s the largest of the red-light districts, although it’s almost nothing more than a tourist attraction now. No one wants to risk a tourist getting hurt, so everyone makes sure the streets are safe.”

  “Is this where most of the human trafficking occurs?”

  “The whole city is used as a hub to traffic people, mainly to the U.S. The Amsterdam police joke that we should be classified as an official rest stop for Russians in transit. The local Russian mob is constantly running people through Amsterdam.”

  I said, “I wondered if they were causing problems here like they do in the U.S. The northern part of Miami–Dade County has seen a huge influx of Russians over the past few years.”

  “Do the Russians in Miami organize in groups to commit crimes as much as they do in Europe? I know the criminal justice system is different in the States.”

  “No. They’re like any other immigrant group—they tend to keep to themselves. The problem is the criminals prey on other Russians, and the crimes are difficult to investigate. One crime lord in particular, Roman Rostoff, is engaged in some human trafficking as well as a long list of other crimes.”

  “I’m familiar with Rostoff, unfortunately. His brother, Emile, has a smaller operation here in Amsterdam.”

  “Is he as big an asshole as Roman?”

  Marie smiled and said, “I’m glad we both view the family the same way. But from what I hear, Roman is much more brutal. Emile is vicious, but he tries to keep things quiet. We don’t have the same level of violence as you do in the U.S.”

  “But somehow every country has organized crime and people like the Rostoffs who screw things up for everyone else.”

  Marie pulled over on a block with a lot of pedestrians. I had to unwedge myself from her VW. We walked down the street to a series of four-story apartment buildings that looked like they’d been there a long time. I stared at a line of people that stretched around the block. “Is this a place where you find a lot of human smuggling?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No, this is the building where Anne Frank lived in hiding. I thought you might like to see some of the history of the city.”

  I felt like a moron. I didn’t want to tell her I was too tired to see anything like this, so I just followed along.

  I had no idea the day would stretch into the evening. The detective took me through the Heineken factory and on a drive along the IJmeer coastline. She also showed me several dilapidated buildings where the police suspected human traffickers kept people on a regular basis.

  “For a party city, I don’t see anyone walking with a beer in their hands like they do in New Orleans,” I said.

  “No beer allowed on the street, just in pubs. Alcohol makes people aggressive.”

  “Let me get this straight. You can smoke a joint in the red-light district and no one will bother you, but you can’t drink a beer on the street?”

  She smiled. “When was the last time you saw a person high on pot punch someone?”

  She had a point.

  I noticed something on the glass of a decorative street lamp. I stopped to look closer at the image of a ma
n with a guitar. It was remarkably detailed and lifelike.

  Marie chuckled and said, “This is a rare treat. Usually when he puts those up, people steal them quickly. The artist is Max Zorn. He makes these incredible images using nothing but packing tape and a razor.”

  I studied the figure illuminated by the lamp. It was extraordinary. I murmured, “‘The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.’”

  She said, “Excuse me?”

  I turned to her. “Picasso said that.”

  She smiled. “You are not at all what I expected of an American police officer.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Just surprising.” She started to stroll down the street and added, “I like surprises.”

  As we continued on, I couldn’t stifle a yawn. Marie said, “Is a big, tough American police officer like you getting sleepy?”

  Her mocking tone made me smile. She sounded like Stephanie Hall or my sister. That meant she was okay. It also meant she was giving me some kind of a test. She might have wanted to see if I would take offense or show me how tough she could be by outlasting me. I didn’t need any convincing.

  When I saw the Hilton sign in the Noord District, I knew salvation was at hand.

  Chapter 25

  IT WAS LATE in Amsterdam, but it was a good time to call home. I wanted to check on my mother and Lila, though I knew my mom didn’t like that I worried so much about her; she always said I needed to get a life.

  Lila picked up the home phone on the second ring. The first thing I did was get Lila to talk a bit so I could listen to her speech and make sure she was sober. Then I ran through our regular checklist of concerns: Did Mom have any doctor appointments coming up? Was she getting exercise? Was she staying occupied? That was a big one; we’d learned that her dementia was worse when she wasn’t busy. When she focused on the piano or crochet, she tended to stay grounded. Even reading helped quite a bit.