Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2)

by Ruth Francisco

  I will be familiar with these charts in case I get stopped—“I was just checking on Dhr. Visser's blood pressure to see if the Lopressor is working. We might have to change his medication.”

  I go on to the next bed. Then to the next room.

  I watch a doctor enter the prison wing, followed by two interns and a male nurse. When they come out a half hour later, one intern goes to the nurses' station and leans on the counter, eying a nurse taking inventory in the back. Even her shalwar kameez cannot disguise her shapely figure. She ignores him. I lean up beside him. “How are they?”

  “What? Oh, you mean the prisoners?” I nod. “Two need operations. We'll try to drag out the process as long as we can. Give them a chance to rest before the Landweer gets them. Fucking assholes.”

  He takes one last doleful look at his nurse, then hurries after the doctors.

  I spin on my heels and walk right up to the guards stationed outside of the prison ward. “They forgot to check one of the patient's blood sugar.” The guard swipes his card and lets me in.

  I spot Uncle Sander immediately. His right arm and opposite leg are handcuffed to the bed. He has been brutally beaten—no front teeth, swollen ears, his skin mottled blue, yellow, black, and red. A patch where they took out an eye. How he recognizes me, I have no idea, but when I enter the room, he rasps, “Nurse. I need your help.”

  “Relax,” I say, pushing down his shoulder. I use the stethoscope as an excuse to lean in close.

  “I didn't talk,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “You and Jana are safe.”

  “Don't worry about that now,” I say, patting his hand, then lower my voice to a whisper. “In two days we will come and take all four of you for more interrogations. Be prepared. I have to go.”

  He squeezes my hand, and I make the rounds to the other three beds—Gottfried and Voddenman, whom I recognize from when I used to set up the Friday meetings, and a man with his rump in the air, who must be Reynard. They are all asleep. I look at their charts, memorizing the names they gave the Landweer. We'll have to use the same names to get them out. Curious to see the famous Reynard, I try to get a look, but his face is buried in the pillow. The name he uses is Ruud van Gelder.

  When I leave, it is hard not to look back.

  Nasira and I reconnoiter at the hospital mosque, a room by the hospital gift shop on the first floor. No one is there. She draws a precise map of the hospital, showing guard stations and access to the prison section.

  “The doctors and nurses make most of their rounds in the morning,” I say. “I think an afternoon escape is best.”

  Nasira nods. “People are drowsy after lunch.”

  “Uncle Sander used to be in an amateur theater group. Do you think I should have told him not to overdo it?”

  “They give them so many drugs, you'll be lucky if he even remembers.”

  I recall the determined anguish in his eyes. “He'll remember, trust me.”

  #

  For the next two days, I go back, pretending I am a nurse, making the rounds, chatting up the prison guards. Only the hospital director, two doctors, and the head nurse for the wing have swipe cards to get into the prison ward, which needs a second swipe from one of the guards to work.

  Pim finds us two cars, the same black Volkswagen Tourans used by the Landweer. The license plates are faked. Bogus LW stickers are pasted on the windshields and the rear windows.

  Janz, Garret, and Hansen wear the blue uniforms of the Landweer. I am dressed as a nurse under a navy burka, the color worn by female Landweer, used when woman prisoners are involved. It is unlikely they would have need of a female colleague here, but they might bring one to deal with the nurses. If questioned, that's what we'll say. Janz looks the part more than the rest of us. He looks like military, which is difficult to fake, that mix of of arrogance and unquestioning decisiveness.

  “The hospital shifts are 7 AM to 3 PM, 3 PM to 11 PM, 11 PM to 7 AM,” I report. “The nurses have a half hour meeting between shifts, where they go over charts and update the fresh nurses on the patients. At the reception area, you have two ward clerks. The guards for the prison wing change out at 8, 4, and 12. You have a reception desk as you enter the side entrance, an elevator to the third floor, down a hallway to a security door. Two guards stand outside the security door. Inside is a nurses' station.”

  Janz hands Garret a pistol. “You stay in the hallway, near the office. Keep the ward clerks and nurses away from the phones. Lina, you run interference.”

  At three o'clock, I slip into the building and begin my normal nurse runs.

  Ten minutes later Janz, Garret, and Hansen come up the elevators to the receptionist, show their identification, and storm down the hallway. They look quite frightening, jaws clenched, swinging their arms, boots thwacking the linoleum in unison. They get to the prison ward, followed by a hospital director and a male nurse, who scamper after them. The guard swipes his card, and Janz and the others march in shouting, “Landweer! You must come for interrogation. Get dressed quickly.”

  Uncle Sander looks completely terrified. “I am entitled to see some identification.”

  Janz laughs, which he turns into a delicious sneer. “You don't get to ask for shit. Leave your tie. You're not going to need it where you're going.”

  The doctor, who is a big man, blocks them with his body, protesting. “These men are extremely ill, entrusted to the care of our hospital. They are in my charge. I cannot let you take them. The guards at the door will not let you take them.”

  “There are no guards,” says Hansen, smugly.

  I glance back at the door. It's true. As soon as “Landweer” was shouted, the two Amsterdam police guards disappeared. They are probably afraid of getting arrested themselves.

  While the “prisoners” get dressed, I lead the doctor by the elbow out of the prison ward. “It's best that you let them take them,” I say. “You don't want to endanger the rest of the staff, or the other patients. Don't give them reason to raid the entire hospital, accusing us all of collaboration. Think of your children.”

  “I hate the fuckers,” he hisses under his breath.

  As Janz, Hansen, and Garett march the four prisoners out, the doctor breaks from my side and chases them. “You must bring them back today. One is in critical condition.”

  I dip into the restroom, collect my blue burka, and follow them out.

  Hansen sits in front; I crawl into the back seat with Gottfried and Uncle Sander. The cars zip out of the parking lot, then separate. Janz and Garret and their two prisoners are headed south, before turning north.

  We drive several blocks in stony silence, too tense for any fist bumping. A woman in a burka stands next to a garage and opens it. The car drives in. We all get into another car and drive out.

  I check Gottfried first. He has a broken arm. We will stop in Zwolle, where Dr. Zaan will take care of him.

  Uncle Sander groans as we bounce over the rutted road. He lies with his head in my lap, whimpering, soaking my burka with his saliva and tears. I give him some pills I took from the nurses' station, and he falls asleep all the way to Zwolle.

  #

  We meet back at the Fredrika Maria. Janz, Garret, Hansen, Pim, and I. “Reynard is in there with Wilma, getting that bullet out of his rump,” Kaart reports, stepping out of Gerda's office. I had almost forgotten that Wilma used to be a veterinarian. “He'll be out shortly.”

  Kaart informs us Gottfried and Voddenman are on their way to Copenhagen. We left Uncle Sander with the Dr. Zaan in Zwolle. He needs a lot of rest, and a new set of teeth, once the swelling in his face goes down. He'll stay at a safe house. My mother will join him in a few days. I don't know if he'll be able to go back to running couriers out of his health food stores or not. It'll be up to Gerda. His eye patch will likely raise questions.

  We are all in a wild and festive mood, slapping each other's backs, telling each other how brilliant we were. “I was sure it was going to work!” says Kaart, half soused after a few s
ips of beer. “We're geniuses!” The barge nearly rocks in our joyousness. “Janz, you scared the piss out of me,” says Garret, upending a tankard. “I almost believed you were Landweer myself. Where'd you get that voice? It's like a bloody bullhorn.”

  “Used to coach soccer.”

  “There you go. Here's to past lives!”

  “Let's drink to our success!”

  Pim has brought cheese, wine, and prosciutto, and we dig in, starved. He won't tell anyone where he finds prosciutto. His big secret. He sits next to me, holding my hand. By now, everyone knows how we feel about each other. At times like these, we can't help but show our affection. No one judges us.

  “I feel sorry for the doctor,” Hansen says. “He tried so hard to defend his patients.”

  “He told me he hoped you'd rot in hell.” I pelt Hansen with a heel of bread.

  “Sander looked like he was going to have a cow. I was afraid he'd forgotten.”

  “Voddenman was so rattled he couldn't find his underwear.”

  “Maybe he doesn't wear any.”

  We all howl, holding our sides. The idea of our prim little financier not wearing underwear tickles us far beyond what it merits. We are giddy.

  “Maybe he sent it out to get ironed,” suggests Janz.

  “Maybe his drawers are silk and he traded them for food coupons.”

  “In the hospital?”

  “The black market is everywhere. Even in prison. I should know.” Garret rubs his face, chasing away bad memories.

  We come up with a dozen possibilities to where Voddenman's drawers disappeared. Trying to out do one another, until we are nearly dizzy with laughter.

  “Hey, keep it down out there!” Gerda opens the door, and steps out. “They can hear you all the way to Raqqa.” Raqqa, Syria is the capitol of the United Nations of Islam.

  Chuckles simmer to a low rumble, chastened. We yearn for carefree moments. But we know better. Gerda is right to admonish us. Any Landweer passing the barge could surely hear us.

  She leans against the doorway, taking weight off her left hip. I don't know how she can stand it.

  “I'd like you to meet Reynard. You've all heard stories about him. Even I have never met him until now, and didn't know his cover. He'd like to thank you for all you've done.”

  We clap wildly. A tall, dark-haired man limps out, with a wide white smile. And amber eyes.

  Fuck me! What in hell is HE doing here? I am utterly thrown by the sight of him. I realize in a flash I never got a good look at the forth patient, Rudd van Gelder, his butt perpetually wagging in the air. When we made the “arrest,” I was preoccupied with the doctor, then followed everyone out. He left in Kaart's car.

  He looks at me, his gaze unwavering and intense. A ghost of a smile forms on his lips, his eyes alight with humor, as if he’s enjoying some private joke.

  I jerk my hand out of Pim's. Sensing my alarm, Pim's back goes up, ready to defend me. A few silent breaths, glancing between us, then he figures it out. His face crumbles.

  Fury and confusion engulf me; I don't know if he's undercover Speciale Operaties, or a Resistant, as Gerda so proudly claims. All I want to do is run.

  “Reynard is Lina's husband, Kazan Basturk,” interjects Gerda.

  Gasps all around. Pim looks at me with blind fury, thinking, I'm sure, that I knew all along.

  Kazan holds up his hands. “I am very grateful to all of you for risking your lives to get me out of the hospital. If interrogated, someone in the Landweer would surely have recognized me. Unfortunately, I look a good deal like my father. They would've tortured every ounce of information out of me. It would've been a terrible blow to the Resistance.”

  Kazan turns to me. “I'm sorry, Lina . . . Salima. It speaks volumes to your dedication that I never suspected my own wife was a Resistant. I guess it is a warning—we get so involved in our work, we assume enemies are everywhere. Even where they are not.”

  Everyone looks flabbergasted, glancing back and forth between us. Pim is steaming. Gerda looks smug—she's never been comfortable with selling me off to the son of an Islamist, and now she looks like all's well that ends well.

  We'll see about that.

  “All of you must get out of Amsterdam for a bit,” says Gerda, leaning on the table. “Hospital security cameras may have gotten your faces. I asked our inside people to try to dump the video. We'll see if they manage it in time. The Landweer will not take this slap in the face very well.”

  “She's right,” Kazan says, showing his authority. “They will be outraged that anyone dared impersonate them. The Dutch civil police won't like it much either. You got by their guards, and the Landweer will be breathing down their necks. They'll be doing searches, making a big fuss. I wouldn't be surprised if the hospital gets a shake down.”

  “How long do we have to disappear?” Garret asks.

  “It'll blow over in two weeks,” Gerda answers. “There will be something else for them to get all worked up about.” She glances at me and Kazan. “You two should take a belated honeymoon. No one has seen your face Lina, but it is possible you were followed, and someone puts it together. They will be looking for Rudd van Gelder.”

  “Don't they have your pictures?” asks Janz.

  “Only our fake IDs,” Kazan answers.

  “What if they run them on television?”

  “They won't want to advertise that Resistants disguised themselves as Landweer and freed prisoners.”

  The meeting breaks up. Pim is no longer angry. He looks sad. I reach out to say I'm sorry, that I didn't know, but he jerks away, standing abruptly.

  “I didn't even know your real name,” he says. Bitterness grates in his voice.

  “It's not my real name,” I say lamely, but he is gone. He never really knew me, he means. That's not entirely true. He knows me better than anyone. What is true is none of us is who we say we are, and it's tearing us apart. We lie for survival. After it is all over, how will we live with ourselves?

  Guilt flattens me, and I feel like a wobbly piece of aluminum, the kind they use in amateur theater groups to sound like thunder. I feel just about as authentic. I've hurt my best friend. I wouldn't blame him if he never forgives me.

  I pull my burka over my head, glad to be hiding my face. Kazan holds the door for me. It feels strange to be leaving the barge with someone. Resistants always split up and go in different directions. But there is no reason for a husband and wife not to walk together, to take the tram together, to sit together.

  Kazan takes my arm and we walk in silence.

  Wedding Night #2

  Nothing has changed, yet everything is entirely different.

  We stand in the kitchen as on our wedding night, fidgeting, shy and deeply embarrassed. The relationship we had constructed, one of polite co-workers, has completely evaporated. My body trembles all over. I feel incredibly awkward. I don't know where to sit or stand. Or what to say. Or what to feel.

  Kazan finally breaks the silence. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “I think that would be a good idea.”

  He opens a drawer beside the dishwasher, takes out a false bottom, and pulls out a bottle of red wine. Another hidden drawer I should have found—my incompetence further revealed. I hadn't thought to look in the kitchen.

  Kazan touches the side of the bottle to his forearm. “It should be the right temperature.” He uncorks it, pours two glasses, and hands me one. “Here's to starting over.” He taps my glass with his, and sips.

  I laugh nervously. At this rate, we'll be standing and staring at each other for two or three days.

  He takes my hand and leads me to the enormous burnt-orange leather couch in the living room. We have sat on it maybe four times together. There's not the slightest crack in the new leather.

  “Does it hurt to sit?”

  “Not too much. Wilma gave me a shot of something. Feels like I have Novocaine in my butt.” His eyes squint in pain. He pulls up a chair and turns it backwards fac
ing me. He finds his glass again, and straddles the chair, his butt suspended over the edge. “Much better.” He laughs embarrassedly, then sips from his glass. “So where were we?”

  “I have a lot of questions,” I say.

  “I would think you might. You probably deserve some answers, under the circumstances.”

  “The circumstances being that we both turned out to be big fat liars.”

  He laughs, and takes my hand. It feels easier to talk when he's touching me. “More omissions than lies.”

  “The basis of every good relationship.”

  “There's that sarcasm again.”

  “Sorry.” I don't want to be angry, but it slipped out. I have no right. I'm equally guilty.

  He opens my hand and strokes my palm with his thumbs. His fingers are long and slender, so unlike Pim's squarish hands. I had loved watching them handle tools—building explosives.

  “I'll answer your questions, Salima. And I won't press you to tell me things you don't want to. But there's one thing I'd ask of you.”

  “What's that?”

  “Honesty.”

  “It'd be a first for us.”

  He rolls in his lower lip and bites it. “There are things I can't tell you for your own protection. That's probably true for you, too. But when you do tell me something, tell me the truth. I'll do the same. We respect each other . . . I think we have that. Let's always keep that. Secrets, if we have to, but no lies.”

  I nod my head. “I agree. Honesty and respect. No lies.”

  “So what is it you want to know? My work? I'll tell you what I can.”

  “I guess my biggest question is about us—why you never slept with me.” I feel myself blushing to my roots. “I am just the slightest bit curious.”