Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2)

by Ruth Francisco

  A second man stands, and hoists two canvas bags onto the dock. He lifts up the smaller girl beneath her arms, and I grab her around the waist. He helps up his wife and the older girl, then climbs out. They are all soaking wet, miserable as drowned rats, huddling. “The van is over there,” I say pointing. The man picks up the bags, but doesn't move, waiting for me.

  “I'm grateful you came,” I say to the fisherman, as I hand him an envelope. His grin shows crooked teeth with gaps. Not a particularly friendly grin. The people you end up trusting in this business. He pockets the money inside his rain slicker. The boat starts moving slowly, puttering away in the dark, invisible.

  I lift the smallest girl on my hip. It's no more than fifty feet to the van.

  Suddenly a black Volkswagen Touran turns onto the boardwalk. It slides down by the docks, its headlights landing on the delivery truck.

  “Get down!” I shout, herding the family behind a pile of crab traps.

  The car stops and two men get out, arms drawn. They walk up to the driver's side, ordering Pim out. Pim stays seated and rolls down the window. He hands them a newspaper and starts his normal banter, but it doesn't seem to be working. Shit. He's on his way to getting arrested.

  I quickly realize Pim is putting on a show to give us time to get away. I don't want to break us up. But a group is vulnerable. Ducks in a shooting gallery.

  “Take the girl,” I whisper to the man, handing him the five-year old, who is mewing in fear. I touch my finger to her lips, and she stops. I motion to a dumpster. “Go.”

  The man runs, carrying the girl over his shoulder.

  A car door slams. The sound of gunshots. Not at us. I don't know what's happened. Pim isn't in the van, the passenger side is open. He must've made a dive out the passenger door.

  The backseat door of the Touran opens. A man uses the door as a shield, gun on the window. He shoots, and I think I see Pim scrambling around a warehouse into an alley, leading the first two Landweer away from us.

  I expect people to run out of the buildings, but nobody appears. The shots muffled by the sound of rain. Behind the dumpster, my refugee waves that he's okay. The third Landweer stands up from behind the open car door and walks to the van, cautiously opening the back.

  “Walk quickly,” I whisper to the woman. The three of us dash behind the dumpster to join the other two.

  The officer finds nothing in the van. I hope he'll follow the other two men who disappeared after Pim, but he walks back to the Touran.

  I don't have a gun. I don't dare grab the van. I point down the boardwalk in the opposite direction. “Follow me. Stay close,” I order. We walk as fast as we can without running, hugging the edge of the buildings, around a corner, down a block.

  After a few blocks I think we're out of immediate danger. I pull the family into a recessed doorway.

  “Where are we going?” the man asks.

  There's no way to get to Enkhuizen tonight. We'll miss our connection to Creil. “I'm sorry. Things went sideways back there. I'm taking you to a safe house for the night. Tomorrow morning, we'll go by train.” The man nods. “It's just a few blocks. We're under curfew. Stay close.”

  We walk a few more blocks through what was once Amsterdam's Red Light District. The windows, tableaux vivants of sexual fantasy, are either boarded up or display religious texts. One abandoned whorehouse is a rug shop, another sells burkas, another is an Islamic “community center.” Rumor is that despite outward appearances, some of the old activities still take place in back rooms. Apparently many influential Islamists in government can be found there in the evenings. The prostitutes are slaves brought in from Africa, or arrested here on various religious crimes and given a choice of death or becoming sex slaves. Our group has helped several women escape, but it is highly dangerous and risks our other operations. Generally we only help women who manage to escape on their own and seek us out. We get them out of the country up the Varken Weg to Denmark.

  We slip into an alley behind what was once a theater. After it was shuttered, it was made over into a warehouse. But the old dressing rooms have been left intact, providing short term hiding for refugees. I pound on the door. Three slow knocks, a pause, five quick raps. An older bald man opens the door. I know him as Spook, as in Het Spook van de Oper, Phantom of the Opera. He was the theater manager before the ban on plays and musicals.

  Behind Spook stands Pim, eyes wide with relief.

  My body trembles with gratitude, but there's no time. I hustle the family in before me and shut the door.

  “I hoped you'd make it,” says Pim emotionally. This was our meeting place if something went wrong. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I'm fine. We need to get them out of their wet clothes.”

  “I'm sure we can find something,” Spook says, coming up behind after bolting the door.

  Backstage smells strongly of mothballs. There are probably trunks of old costumes hidden away. No wonder Spook is smiling. I can imagine what costumes he has in mind. I recall Dream Girls was the last show before the Islamists shut them down. Sequins for refugees?

  As Spook takes the family into the dressing room, I notice blood on Pim's sleeve. He sees my horror and smiles. “The other guy's. One of them took a shot at me from behind, and got his partner in the shoulder.”

  “Jesus!” I turn him around for a second look. The rain has made the blood seep down his entire back.

  “I have to go back,” says Pim. “The van is too valuable. I took the keys, so they'll have to tow it. They'll go into one of the tea houses to wait for a tow truck. When they're inside, I'll jump in the van.”

  “They have the plate number. They'll track it down.”

  “It's a fake plate. De Waarheid has sixty vans and four distribution sites. By the time they get to checking with the managers, the van will be back in the lot.”

  “It's too dangerous.”

  “If the van goes missing, our guys will get into trouble. I have to warn them. Their work area may get searched. They need time to set things right. And if I can't get the van, they'll have to come up with a story about it getting stolen.” He opens the door to leave. “I'm sorry, Lina. You have a backup plan?”

  “Always,” I say more confidently than I feel.

  “Good luck, then.” With that, he disappears down the alley.

  I walk back into the dressing room. Six cots line the wall opposite the makeup mirrors. The children, naked and wrapped in towels, dry their hair by the potbelly stove at the far end. The mother has already changed into black slacks and a black turtleneck. Not a costume. Probably worn by stagehands for darting on and off the proscenium. Her heavy abaya steams by the stove and smells like a wet horse blanket.

  “I have some beans and turnip bread,” Spook says. He is spry, with rounded shoulders and a rim of white tufts below a bald pate. I imagine him playing Richard III. “You're lucky I didn't have other guests tonight. You hungry?” He sets bowls around the table using old theater programs for place mats. A revival of Godspell. I'm guessing the play wasn't a sellout.

  I am starved, but I need to leave.

  I thank him and tell him I'll send someone around with extra food coupons and money, which makes him happy. I tug the father to one side. “Who knew about the pickup? Someone tipped off the Landweer. Your host in Spakenburg?”

  “No. Nobody. Only the milkman who told us when to meet the fisherman. Maybe someone on your end?”

  I know the “milkman,” a friend who goes by the name of Salie, which means sage. One of our best operatives. Not him. I run through the list of people who knew about the pick up. Me, Pim, Rosalie, Gerda. Rikhart made the ID documents, but didn't know the time or place. Someone might have followed our van from the De Waarheid, but Pim is a good driver. He would never allow us to be followed. I shake my head. “I don't think so.”

  “There's always the fisherman. The Landweer pay for tips.”

  I certainly hadn't liked the looks of the man in the boat, but it doesn't ma
ke sense. “He has a good gig with us. I don't think he'd risk it. The people of Spakenburg support the Resistance. He would lose business if anyone found out.”

  “You never know.”

  Precisely. You never know.

  I step out of the room for a moment to check a camera monitor of the back alley. Stage managers once used it to help stars avoid paparazzi. The alley is empty. Nobody has followed. I go back to the dressing room, and hand the father four sets of passports and internal identity papers. “La familia Caputi. You are Italian immigrants from Calabria. You live in Leiden. You are Dutch citizens. Burn your other IDs in the stove. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at seven.”

  Signor Caputi grabs my forearm, his eyes wretched, his hand trembling. “What if you don't show up? What then?”

  “I'll be here. Don't worry.”

  “What if you aren't? What do we do? Are you going to leave us here to rot?”

  I understand his truculence. He is frightened. No man likes to appear powerless in front of his family. I write down an address on a slip of paper and hand it to him. “If I don't show up in two days, go to this address.” He looks at the paper, grimacing as if in pain. I suddenly worry that he caught a stray bullet. Even a twisted ankle could prove fatal now, bringing attention to the family as they pass. Then I realize he's trying not to cry. “You must be strong,” I say. He nods and drops his chin. I put my palms on either side of his face and force him to look at me. “Eat some food. Get some sleep. Tomorrow I will get you and your family out of here. On the road to safety.” His face relaxes. It was only momentary panic.

  It is the least we can do—breathe courage over dying embers. It doesn't take much to make the fire roar again. His eyes darken with resolve.

  Before I leave, I pick up a towel and walk over to the girls by the potbelly stove. “Come here,” I say to the eight-year old, “and I'll dry your hair.” I pat my lap. She hesitates, then climbs on my knees. She has her father's mouth and eyes. Too much guilt for a child's face. She must know her family is running for her. I gently rub her hair with the towel. “Nobody knows you are here,” I say. “You are safe. Do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is a very old theater. It has seen hundreds of plays about kings and knights and wizards. When an actor hangs up his costume for the last time, the spirit of the character refuses to disappear and stays here in the theater.”

  “Like a ghost?”

  “Yes, like a ghost. The spirits protect anyone who enters the theater, and especially watch out for children. Right now they are standing by the doors and windows, guarding, making sure you are safe. King Lear, Henry IV, Joan of Arc, Willy Loman, Henry Higgins, Hedda Gabler—they're all watching out for you. This is the safest place in all of Amsterdam.”

  “Are you a ninja?”

  This isn't the first time my black shalwar kameez has been mistaken for a ninja outfit. “It's a character I'm playing. When I hang up my costume tonight, my ninja spirit will be watching over you.”

  She turns and looks me in the eye. Her eyes darken. She's old enough to disbelieve such stories, but young enough to wish they were true. “Okay,” she says, nodding. She slides off my lap, takes the towel, and begins drying the hair of her sister, whispering softy. Understanding the rituals of bedtime.

  Signora Caputi looks at me gratefully. I slip out of the dressing room, across the stage, and out the door.

  I run in the shadows toward my home.

  Indecent Proposal

  Sneaking into my house, I carefully take my shoes off in the hallway. I close the door soundlessly behind me and press my back against the wall, trying to stay upright. Exhaustion overtakes me and I can barely stand. As I unbutton my tunic, I hear voices from the dining room.

  “Do you really think it's necessary, Jana?” Rafik scrapes his chair away from the table. “I suppose you're right. Come here—” more chair scraping, a giggly gasp from my mother, a lap plop, a kiss “—I guess I'd hoped she could wait until the war was over.”

  I hear a quiet shifting of bodies gently embracing. Then I hear my mother slowly stand and begin clearing dishes off the table. My stomach clenches, guilty, hungry. They must've put off dinner, waiting for me, then gave up.

  “The war is not going to end any time soon,” Jana says. “It's the best way I can think of to protect her.”

  “The way I protected you?” Rafik laughs easily, and there is a warm ring to it. You can hear how much he adores my mother.

  “Yes.” I can tell she is smiling.

  “Well—” Rafik clears his voice, a lingering thickness “—I suppose you have someone in mind.”

  “Kazan Basturk,” she says.

  “You're joking. The son of Ahmed Basturk? I do nothing but butt heads with the mutaween every day.”

  “Ahmed Basturk is a moderate on the Islamic Council. He is not a mutawa. His son has lived in Switzerland, and has been to university. He's pleasant and smart. The women at the mosque think he is a good catch.”

  I am getting a bad feeling about this conversation.

  “You don't think it is . . . how do you say . . . sleeping with the enemy?” Rafik mumbles.

  “The arrangement will protect our family, and secure your position as police commissioner. Ahmed Basturk will approve of the marriage because linking the two families gives the religious police legitimacy. I have already discussed it with his wife at the mosque. She approves of the match.”

  Rafik chuckles. “I always wondered what you women are up to in your secret chamber.”

  In the new world order, mothers make the wedding arrangements, including the matchmaking. All which occur in the women's prayer room at the mosque, where most of their daily socializing and gossiping takes place. The men don't think wives are important enough to give it much thought—they let their mothers handle it.

  “You are Turkish,” mother points out. “The Basturks are Turkish. Ahmed will like that.”

  “A slight difference. My family came here as Ottoman traders in the 16th century.”

  “Which gives the Basturks the legitimacy they seek.”

  I don't want to hear any more. I tiptoe upstairs, slip inside my bedroom, and collapse on my bed. My head spins from exhaustion. And dread.

  The word marriage floats across my eyeballs, written on white linen, folding over me. Binding me like a mummy. I can't breathe. Just of thought of it makes me ill. Marriage is for other people. How in the world am I going to do my work if I'm married? To the son of an Islamist? I can't begin to imagine. What about sex? Do we have to do it through a sheet or something? I am horrified.

  No. The whole idea is outrageous, unthinkable, infuriating.

  I bolt up in bed and use the last of my energy to wad up my shalwar kameez and throw it in a heap in the corner. I can't deal with this right now. I'm too worried about Pim and the van. Wondering what we could have done differently. I'm frightened for my refugee family. For the rest of us in the group.

  I wonder who betrayed us to the Landweer.

  Overwhelmed with fatigue, I collapse back into my pillow and doze off for a few minutes. Then I hear Jana knock, asking to come in. She creaks open the door, walks across the room, and turns on the light beside my bed. I turn on my back, grim faced, arms across my chest, like a sarcophagus.

  My mother's grandparents immigrated from the Pulia region of Italy to Amsterdam in the 1930s to run a coffee import business. Her maiden name was Catanzaro. She is dark-haired, with large chatoyant eyes, that seem to take in everything all at once. Even at fifty, she is beautiful. Before American movies were banned, people would stop her in the street and say she looked like Sophia Loren. She has a great figure, too, but it is those limpid almond-shaped eyes that mesmerize. It is hard to stop looking at them. And almost impossible to lie to them. Formidable adversaries when it comes to motherly interrogations.

  “Liefje, did you get something to eat?” my mother asks warmly, sitting on the edge of my bed. When I don't react, she kn
ows I have eavesdropped. Her eyes flash in anger, then soften, a slight lift to the corner of her mouth.

  “Do I have to?” I say, with the crushed voice of a penitent.

  “Eat?” she asks, intentionally misunderstanding. My body radiates a chill. “No,” she amends, “you don't have to marry. Not if you don't want to.” She takes my hand, which resists her like the gnarled arthritic hand of an old woman. “But it may be your best option. You'll be twenty soon. You have three choices. That's the law.”

  “I'm too busy to get married,” I say sullenly. I suppose because of my work with the Resistance, I had somehow imagined I'd escape it. Marriage, military service, work camps. A choice between three death sentences.

  “Do you really think I don't know what you do, Salima?” Jana asks gently. “Sneaking around Amsterdam in your burka after curfew. Do you really think no one can see you?”

  A blast of heat swooshes over my body. I had suspected she knew what I did. Those eyes miss nothing. But we have never talked about it. Such things are not discussed even within families. “At least I'm doing something!” It comes out a whisper. I'm too tired to even whine effectively.

  “I know, liefje.” She leans down and gently kisses my forehead the way she did when I was a child. She sits back and opens my hand, and runs her fingertip down the inside of each of my fingers. “Which is why you should marry. You can't get a better cover than being the daughter-in-law of one of the most powerful men in Holland.”

  Slowly I sit up in bed and look at her, astonished. She's been thinking this out longer than I. “Does Rafik know?” I ask.

  “That you work with the Resistance? No, Rafik doesn't know.” She brushes a matted lock off my face. “Tomorrow he will meet Ahmed Basturk to arrange your marriage. If you are lucky, your new husband will be like many Muslim men, and care very little about how you spend your time.”

  “That's not true about Rafik.”

  “Rafik is special,” she says warmly.

  I groan, covering my face with my hands. “The son of an Islamist?”

  “He is a moderate,” she corrects.