Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2)

by Ruth Francisco

  “My father has a plan, and whatever you want or think doesn't really figure into it.”

  “Does he care who wins?”

  Kazan laughs uncomfortably. “That's a good question. I think he's too much of a businessman to want a worldwide caliphate. Maybe he doesn't care as long as he makes money.”

  “What does he do with it all?”

  “My guess is his sights are on post war reconstruction. Maybe he'll set up his own financial institution. Or a construction company. If he is smart enough to see how to make money during war, I am certain he's figured out how to make money after the war, which will require a huge investment.”

  This discussion makes me depressed. The cynicism of it is appalling. Seeing the clash of civilizations as a business opportunity. It makes me sick to my stomach. I can't reconcile the man who doted on his grandchildren, who was kind and generous, who danced with such gleeful insouciance, with such calculated greed.

  The mud sucks at my ankles, and Kazan reaches out to pull me out. I think of the wadlopen, how much we are going to need to depend on each other to pull ourselves out of this.

  #

  Evi recruits me to can blackberry jam. I'm not really that much help in a kitchen, but I manage to sterilize jars while she stirs two enormous pots of bubbling vermilion. The kitchen is steamy and hot. I get the sense Evi wants female companionship. It must be lonely, with only her husband and all these soldiers. Two young girls help clean the rooms, but they are shy, and can hardly carry on a conversation.

  She notices I am uncharacteristically quiet, and nods, guessing why. “The real fun of marriage comes after the honeymoon,” she says. “In trying to make it work.”

  “You don't know his family,” I say.

  She thinks about that a moment. “Everyone always says family is the most important thing in the world. But the opposite is also true. Family is also the most important thing to break away from. Don't worry. You'll be okay.”

  Later I find Kazan sitting on an old wreck of a sailboat, its keel buried deep in the mud, abandoned long ago, stuck forever until the tides pound it into shards. It barely wobbles when I pull myself up beside him. I take his hand and lean my head on his shoulder. It feels like it belongs there.

  His jaw is set, looking very serious. “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  “You know that guy you were holding hands with on the barge?”

  “Oh . . . you mean Pim?” I lift my head, a hard lump in my throat.

  “Do you love him?”

  “I was a virgin before you. You know that.”

  “That's not what I asked. What is he to you?”

  I scoot away a few inches to look at him. I feel suddenly antagonistic and put upon—How dare he get jealous now?—but Kazan looks so beleaguered, that I take a moment. What is Pim to me?

  “He is the man I probably would have married if I hadn't married you,” I say flatly.

  Kazan's body seems to cool in a flash, fighting to control his face. It is white and strained, his lips bloodless. “I won't stand in your way, if you want to go back to him. I have no claim over you.”

  Anger rips over my body. No claim! But I know what he's doing and why.

  I sigh—I had promised to be honest—and take his hand again. “What Pim and I had was friendship, trust, and caring. He saved me from making terrible mistakes. He watched my back. I thought it was love. I still think it is love. But what I've found in the last two weeks with you is different. It's not just the sex—or maybe it is—but I have this feeling . . . it's so powerful. Like we've opened a portal to a new way of feeling and thinking and being. A portal we have fallen into together. Is that too Harry Potter for you?”

  “I think I understand.”

  I babble on, trying to explain what cannot be explained. “War twists emotions—I know that. Any connection at all feels like it's all that matters. If Pim and I had married, we would have found comfort in each other—a bit of security—and we'd probably be happy with that. But not this. Not even close. I think he knew it the moment he saw us together. In fact, I'm sure of it.”

  Kazan takes my hand and kisses it formally, then loops his arm around my waist.

  “Was it like this with other girls?” I ask.

  He laughs, a soft but infectious sound in the stillness, then falls quiet. “It never hurt before.”

  I know what he means. We sit in silence for several moments. “What now?” he asks.

  There it is—what we've both been wondering the last few days.

  “If we stay, one or both of us might die,” he says flatly, rubbing my knuckles with his thumb.

  “It's weird, but somehow, that doesn't seem to matter. We found each other.” I know I'm going to get all tangled up again if I try to explain. “It's as if we already have a foot in another existence, another dimension, and it doesn't really matter if we live or die or are separated.”

  “I think I know what you mean.”

  “Really?”

  “Actually, no.” Our laughs slowly fade until we are left holding hands and looking at each other. “Should we stay or should we go?” Kazan asks.

  A smile flicks over my lips. I don't know if Kazan has ever heard of the punk rock band The Clash, and their 1980s hit. Then I think of the Jimmy Durante routine—Did you ever have the feeling that you wanted to go, but still had the feeling that you wanted to stay. A sharp pain, almost like grief, stabs me. Our silly stupid culture—we'll do anything to claim our right to it.

  I sigh and pull my knees to my chest, resting my cheek on my kneecaps. “I think that with you, I could do more than I did alone. Be braver.”

  “You were pretty damn brave before.”

  “Sometimes I feel like I barely even tried. Do you think it's arrogance that makes us think we can do something?”

  “Maybe. Maybe we need more arrogance. A whole country full of biting, cursing, fighting arrogance.”

  “You certainly fit the bill.”

  Kazan laughs. “I'll leave the biting to you.” He lifts my chin and kisses me deeply. “Let's go back then. And see this to the end.”

  I have no idea what we're going to face when we get back. For us, the real war has yet to start, the part where bombs fall out of the sky and blow up the streets and homes and sewers, and everything smells of death and human waste. It is delusional to think that love will pull us through. It tempts us to risk too much. But I know whatever horrors we will be facing, and I know there will be plenty, we'll be facing them together. For now that is enough.

  Tears dampen my cheeks as we make love, there on the old sailboat, in the middle of a desolate mudflat that stretches to the horizon.

  Sealing our fates hurts . . . and not just my backside.

  The Long Way Home

  Evi packs us sandwiches for our trip back. Her eyes are all teared up, and I wonder why she has become so attached to us. Making more of us than we really are. Perhaps we all have to do that—see in people what we need to see, whether it is young love or great leaders. What we appear to others takes on a life of its own.

  The ferry ride down the Waddenzee is slow and more expensive—definitely the long way home—but neither one of us wants our vacation to end, delaying it as long as possible. The return to reality.

  Around midday, we disembark at Den Helder in North Holland. We don't seem to attract any interest from the IRH guards or the inspectors. We are not carrying any black market merchandise. We board the train, ride down through West Friesland, and change at Heerhugoward to Enkhuizen.

  Kazan has never seen the town, so we meander through the ancient cobblestone streets, down Westerstraat, past the 15th century Gothic Westerkerk, the orphanage, and the old town hall. I feel as if I'm showing Kazan my home town. A few IRH soldiers walk the streets, but otherwise it seems the same.

  We look over a brick wall into the Zuiderzeemuseum, the restored 1880s village. The gates are locked, the actors stumbling about in wooden clogs gone, the banging of the blacksmith silent. Curio
us IRH soldiers peek over the wall just as we do. I'm surprised the Islamic Council hasn't ordered it destroyed—a museum showcasing the life of infidels.

  We swing back around by the boatyard. Halyards slap against the masts. Seagulls screech hungrily. Many slips are empty, but I am surprised how many are occupied, the boats in good shape. I eagerly drag Kazan down a long dock.

  “Salima, wait. You can't just climb on someone's boat.”

  I leap softly from the dock onto the fiberglass deck and look around. It is surprisingly clean. The lines are carefully coiled. The sides free from mussels, algae, and grasses. It sits low in the water, which concerns me. Either water has breached the hull, or the boat is weighed down with something.

  The mainsail cover is slightly torn, a few spider cracks in the fiberglass. I walk on my toes, pressing the deck, checking for soft spots.

  Kazan starts to climb into the boat, but I raise my hand. I wait several long moments, then climb off the boat. Kazan follows me down the dock.

  “You're stealing boats now?”

  I laugh. “She's mine. Someone painted over the name, but you can still make out Allegro.”

  “Why didn't you go inside?”

  “The lock on the hasp was open.”

  “The hasp?”

  “On the cabin hatch there's a flange where you can put a lock.”

  “Somebody broke in?”

  “Maybe. I didn't want to surprise them.”

  We walk back down Westerstraat away from the water to a large brick house under a plane tree, through an iron gate to the kitchen door. I knock several times before a burka clad woman answers. I would recognize Marta's round figure anywhere.

  “Katrien!” she cries. She looks over her shoulder nervously. “I was just going out to do some shopping. Let me get my basket. I'll be right with you.” A moment later, she rolls out an aluminum wire cart, which she bumps over the threshold. We step aside, and let her lead us a few blocks away to a small park by a canal. “I need to rest,” she says patting the bench as she sits. Kazan and I sit beside her.

  “I'm sorry about that. IRH soldiers have taken over the house and all the guest rooms. Pah! I have to veil even inside my own home. At least no one sees my wrinkles. This must be your new husband?”

  I introduce Kazan. “Is Hans here?” Marta looks warily at me, her eyes darting to Kazan. “It's okay,” I say. “Kazan is one of us.”

  Marta nods, reassured. “Hans was arrested about a month ago.”

  I gasp. “Why?”

  “They charged him with dealing on the black market, which is why he is still in the local jail and hasn't been transferred to Amsterdam. I can visit him everyday.”

  “Jana didn't tell me anything.”

  “I haven't told anyone out of our small circle here. We have placed hundreds of people in secret nearby. If they heard he was arrested, they might feel they had to move, and the last thing we need is a bunch of people leaving secure safe houses. It's true Hans was dealing in the black market. We have so many people to take care of. We can't take them to doctors, obviously, so we have to get medicines on the black market. They stopped him and found vials of antibiotics on him. They want to know his supplier.”

  “You've hidden refugees on the Allegro?”

  “Yes. Eight. Six adults and two children. We were in such a rush when Hans was arrested. I knew they'd come to inspect the house. We had about a half hour to get everyone out. It was meant to be temporary. Hans used to take refugees to Creil, but I don't sail. I'm afraid to leave them there much longer. It's been difficult to try to find another safe house for them. They insist on staying together. One of our people goes by every few days with provisions, but how long can they stay cramped up on a boat?”

  “How are you surviving with soldiers in your house?”

  “It isn't too bad. I overhear a few things I can pass on. They've taken everything of value, of course. But we'd sold or hidden the good pieces. They've turned the salon into a mosque. If they only knew all the pagan music and erotic poems those walls have heard.” Marta lets out a muffled laugh. “I'm sorry I don't have any place for you to stay. I'd love to visit with you and get to know Kazan.”

  “That's okay,” I squeeze her hand. “We were just passing through. I wanted you to meet him, and see if there was anything we could do for you.”

  I look at Kazan, who holds my gaze for a moment. The corner of his mouth twitches up, and he nods.

  #

  We meet Marta at the boatyard soon after dark. She brings an enormous basket of food, and taps a code on the hatch of the Allegro. The hatch slowly opens. The smell of too many people stuck in small moist quarters. There isn't room for us to go below. A middle-aged man takes Marta's basket, hands it to someone behind him in the salon, and climbs on deck.

  Marta explains to him who we are. “They will be taking you from Enkhuizen to IJmiden. Another boat will take you to Scotland.”

  “When?” he asks.

  “Tonight,” I interject.

  Marta continues. “It is highly dangerous. If the boat is searched, you will all be arrested. Your children will be taken from you. Kazan here has special papers, so you should pass inspection points easily, but there is always the possibility they will demand to search the boat. For any of you who want to stay, I will try to find another safe house. I don't know how, but I will. Do you want to talk it over?”

  As the man disappears back into the boat, Marta turns to me. “Are you sure you can handle the Allegro alone?”

  “I'm not alone.”

  “Does Kazan have any sailing experience?”

  “He's a fast learner. I just have to run all the lines to the cockpit. Dad showed me. I'll be fine.”

  “Do you have enough gas for motoring?”

  “Hans said he filled it just before he was arrested.” I had visited Marta's husband in jail that afternoon. I told the guard I was his niece, bringing him a basket of food. A nice Gouda served as a bribe. Hans looked pretty good for someone who'd spent three weeks in jail. Apparently he'd been teaching the guards chess. After a few minutes of loud pleasantries, he whispered to me a new float plan. “They're cracking down. None of us dare sail to Creil anymore. It's safer to go through the canals.”

  The man comes out from the berth, and approached Marta. “We will take our chances together . . . with them.” His index finger, limply extended, doesn't indicate an overwhelming confidence in us.

  We arrange to meet again in two hours.

  Twenty, April 2021

  Staande Mast

  After we motor through the lock between the IJsslemeer south into Markermeer, we put up the sails. Hans has taken good care of the electronics and the sails go up easily.

  We open the hatch to give our family some fresh air. I hear them moving about impatiently, the children asking questions, the women mumbling assurances.

  Winds blow from the northeast around 15 knots, so we have a perfect broad reach sail to Amsterdam. When we are about six miles from the IJsslemeer lock, I pull in the main sail, back-wind the jib, and lock the wheel. Moonlight gleams brightly on the deck and on the sails. Waves slap gently against the hull.

  “What are you doing?” asks Kazan, more curious than worried. Bright-eyed and fizzing with vitality. I'm grateful to see no sighs of seasickness in his face.

  “I'm heaving to . . . stopping.”

  “You want help dropping the mainsail?”

  “No. This gives us more control. The sails work against each other, keeping us in one place. We'll just zigzag a bit. You didn't really think I knew how to sail, did you?”

  He looks abashed, a slight lift to one corner of his mouth. “Well . . . it's like someone saying they're an astronaut. Sure astronauts exist, but meeting one doesn't seem very likely. Why are we stopping?”

  “The Markermeer is about twenty miles across here. If we stay in the middle, we should be invisible from the land, even with a telescope.”

  “Are you sure?” asks my doting landlubbe
r.

  “Yes. Because of the curvature of the earth. If you're standing at sea level, you can only see about four miles. We're ten miles from land. Let's get out our captives.”

  Kazan helps them out, one at a time.

  “Hold on with one hand at all times,” I warn. “Don't worry about veiling. No one can see you.”

  I want to see what we have. Four men, two women, a boy and girl, about eight and ten. Allegro rocks a bit. All of them appear a little wobbly, vampire white in the moonlight. When they're all out, I ask, “Do any of you know anything about sailing?” One of the men says he does. “I will need your help once we get to the locks—throwing out the buoys, helping with lines. Are you up for that?”

  He nods. He looks worn out, enervated. Were I picking men for a mission, he'd be the last. We work with what we have. “When you're on deck, you may be under scrutiny by guards and IHR soldiers. You might think they suspect you when they don't. Can you be cool?”

  A flash of uncertainty in his eyes. Then a short percussive nod.

  “What is the name on your new passport?”

  “Jean-Luc,” he says.

  “Good. Get used to it. The VHF radio is just inside the cabin at the navigation station. Turn it to the Marine Weather Channel, and listen for tomorrow's forecast in the North Sea.”

  Jean-Luc ducks down into the cabin. The scratchy drone of the marine forecast crackles on.

  “Kazan, will you lift up the seat on the port side of the cockpit and get the life jackets?” I am so proud—he already knows port from starboard. There are only four life jackets, and one for a dog. Angus's old life vest. I get a sharp stab in my chest, remembering my slobbering buddy. No time for that. “Strap the vests on the children and anyone else who can't swim.”

  Kazan's eyes go big. Shit. He doesn't know how to swim.

  That makes me a little annoyed. Two weeks on the beach, and he never told me. I could easily have taught him. Surprises like this in the middle of a mission can be disastrous. He's always worked alone. He doesn't know.

  “Seas are four to six feet in the North Sea,” reports Jean-Luc, coming out from the cabin. “Possible afternoon thunderstorms. Where are we going?”