by Jeff Abbott
“Yes, but I thought you were going to kill them, not take them hostage.”
“Let’s keep our options open. Let me have several sets.”
She showed me a thick banding of plastic wrist cuffs. “And this. A flash grenade,” she said. “Modified police issue. Do you know how to use it? Here is the activation button, here the timer.”
“Thanks. Where am I going to hide these?” I could hardly go downstairs loaded with gear in front of Piet. “My van is parked about a kilometer away. Can you get this stuff there?”
“Yes,” she said. “This man with you—he is not good.”
“He’s a cold-blooded murderer and a slaver. I have to ambush him and several others at a meeting.”
“Then we mustn’t make a mistake,” Eliane said. I liked her. I’d been judged by so many people lately, from Howell to August to Mila, and Eliane just seemed to want to help me. I could have kissed her.
I gave her the keys and the description of the van. “And I need a cell phone. Programmed with a number where I can reach Mila.” I took off my baseball cap and she gasped at the encrusted blood. She insisted on examining the wound.
“It’s superficial, but it needs tending,” Eliane said.
“No time, and it would make him suspicious. How much time do you need to get to the van, load it, and get back?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Give me cash. A thousand euros, if you have it. I need to impress him that I cut a deal with Mr. Cadet.”
She went to a safe in the wall, keyed in a combination, then fingered her way through a pile of bills and handed them to me.
It felt human again, to not be pretending to be someone I wasn’t, to not be with scum like Piet. I wanted to savor the moment. Eliane was like a cool mom for people on the run.
And just like a mom, Eliane looked at me as though my thoughts were written on my forehead. “We have jobs to do. Go.”
She was right. I hurried back down the stairs. Piet had found a corner table and was sitting in a sullen funk, wolfing his beer.
I sat down and slid him a hundred euros. He blinked at me.
“Cadet owed me some money,” I said. “And gave me an advance on the next job.”
“This wasn’t worth the stop.”
“It was to me, Piet.”
I gestured at the waitress. I had to give Eliane time to find the van, plant the goods where he wouldn’t see them.
Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” began to play on the speakers. Not louder than the talkers, but enough to impart the necessary funky vibe to the suit-infested pub. I saw Piet lean back slightly and let the feel, the groove, of Taverne Chevalier ease into him. It had been a long, hard day. The mind, the body, wanted to relax, let the adrenaline burn itself out.
We ordered the specialty, thick Ardennes ham sandwiches, but Piet downed another beer in four long gulps and said, “No, coffee, please,” when the waitress asked if we wanted another round. I agreed: coffee.
“Get the sandwiches and coffee for takeaway, please,” Piet said.
“No,” I said. “I am sitting here, like a human being, and having my dinner.” I leaned forward and made my voice a hiss. “I got grazed by a bullet and lost blood today, Piet. I jumped onto a truck. If I want to eat here, we’re eating here. We’re taking a short break.”
How much did he still need me? I could see him weighing the balance by the way he glared at me. He could get up, walk out, force this to a fight. Shoot me in the darkness of the parking lot where we’d left the truck and the van, leave the van behind. The stop had raised his suspicions.
Hurry, Eliane, I thought. I couldn’t risk a glance at my watch or the clock. He watched me, a hard, awful light in his eyes, so I took refuge in my beer.
Some of the suits—men speaking in hushed German—pushed past our table, making their way to their own. Piet scowled. “I hate these suits. Rule makers. They think they run the world. All they do is set up walls and rules and then argue amongst themselves about what those walls will be.”
“Men like you and me, we tear down the walls,” I said. I couldn’t help thinking of my first few months in London, Lucy and me sitting in a wine bar on the side of Paternoster Square in the soft light of the old city, happy to be together and excited to be doing good work.
Good work had been my family’s specialty and my family’s tragedy. I had killed now to stay alive, and I wasn’t worrying about it, but I wouldn’t have wanted to describe those moments to my father or mother. My own life had marked me with my own permanent stains, the damned blood that didn’t wash off the guilty hand.
“Eh, tear them down, they build them back up.” He fell silent as the waitress set coffee down in front of us. “We’ll take our food to go, miss,” he told her.
“But—”
“No, Sam.” His voice was like a knife. “I don’t like this bar. I don’t want to be here a moment longer after I’m done with my coffee.”
This wasn’t a fight I could win, and I knew now that the closer we were to delivering the shipment to Edward, the more Piet would seize command. This was his deal; I was a replacement player. Fine. Let him think I was cowed. “All right, Piet.” But I didn’t really hurry.
“You’ve got time to finish your coffee,” he said. “I need to make a call. Stay here.” And he stood up and left the table, stepped outside the Taverne Chevalier. Panic inched up my bones. If he was running, I would lose the only thread I had to Edward, and to Yasmin, and to whatever happened to Lucy. I couldn’t see him on the front window of the bar.
My gut said, He’s dumping you, follow him.
The waitress placed the bag with our order on the table. I slid her money and got up from the table.
I stepped out from Taverne Chevalier’s front door. Piet stood twenty feet away, closing the cell phone. Staring at me.
67
I RAISED THE BAG OF SANDWICHES. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” he said. “Come here, Sam.”
I did and he pushed me along the street. Then into the barely lit doorway of an art supply shop. “What, you’re going back to art school and need supplies?”
“Hands on the door.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
He ran probing hands along my legs, my arms. Searching to see if I had anything I shouldn’t have had. He pulled the wad of euros from my pocket.
“That’s enough. I don’t have a phone, I don’t have a weapon. You’re really getting our partnership off to a great start after I saved your ass. Give me my money.”
He pushed the wad back into my hand. “There. Sorry,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
I pretended to be angry. “I pulled your ass out of the fire, I found you the Lings’ shipment, I took the bigger risk today. If someone’s not going to trust someone, maybe it should be me not trusting you.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “I think you think I’m not as smart as you, as tough as you.” He was threatened by me; I’d jumped onto a moving truck and hijacked it. Stupid. This was about machismo. “Come on.”
“Let’s sit here and eat, if the bar’s making you nervous. I don’t like cold food.” I had to give Eliane time to return. Otherwise I’d have to pretend I’d lost the van key in the tavern and we’d have to come back and his suspicions would skyrocket.
He seemed to feel a bit guilty about his rant, so we sat on a bench on the road and ate our sandwiches. I saw a vaguely female form race around the corner on a scooter. I could tell it was Eliane and hoped that Piet couldn’t. He seemed engrossed in his food, though, hunger winning out over the desire to make time.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I said when the sandwich was done.
“Me, too,” he said.
I wanted to go back in alone; I needed that van key. Eliane was behind the bar, drawing a beer. She glanced up, caught sight of me, but gave no sign of recognition. Piet was close behind me.
We both went into the bathroom; I finished first and stepped back into the hallway
. Eliane was three feet away, and she brushed by me, calling out orders to the barkeep. She pressed the key into my hand and it was in my pocket a moment later.
Piet’s hand clapped me on the shoulder. “You’re right, a break helped. I got new life. Let’s get going.”
We walked out into the darkness, the laughter and music of Taverne Chevalier fading as we headed down the avenue.
He kept his hand on my shoulder. In my pocket, I worked the key back onto the ring.
“So. Back to Amsterdam?” His phone call had to have been to Edward, now that we had the cigarette shipment to camouflage his military gear.
“Yes. We’re meeting Edward and his people. We’ll get the shipment ready with their goods and on its way to Rotterdam and then we’ll get paid and you and I will go celebrate.”
“How long do we have until the meet?”
“Three hours.”
“All right,” I said.
The parking lot was in sight; I could see the truck, the van parked next to it. Nearly there. Within three hours, I would either be dead or I’d have killed Piet and the kidnappers and found Yasmin. And have Edward talking to me about where my wife and child were.
“You know, Sam,” he said, “you’re right. You have proved yourself, more than once. Here. You drive the truck.”
I stopped. No. Not what I wanted.
“No, that’s fine. You drive it,” I said.
“No. You drive the shipment. As a sign of trust in our partnership.”
I felt a chill settle into my bones. Either he was being sincere or he’d seen the key passed from Eliane to me.
Trust or suspicion. I still needed him; I didn’t know where the rendezvous was, and if I showed up without him I’d never get inside. “Fine, whatever, let me have the truck keys.”
He dug them out of his pocket, and traded them for the van keys.
“Just follow me,” he said.
“What if we get separated in traffic?”
“We won’t,” he said.
I got into the truck. Maybe that was all this was: he was tired of driving the truck. Maybe that was all it was. But the phone, and the weapons, were now out of my reach. And once we got to the rendezvous point, there was no need for me to go near the van.
I was still heading, defenseless and alone, into the snake pit.
68
AMSTERDAM, WELL PAST MIDNIGHT. The night was a mirror of the city, the lights of Amsterdam reflected in the sky by a sprinkling of stars peering through the tracery of clouds. It was not a city that ever slept deeply or soundly. Too much business in Amsterdam needed the night.
I followed Piet. There would be ten of them, including Edward, if the count in the group in the video held true. We’d have to meet at a place with privacy for the weapons to be repackaged with the cigarettes. Some of the gang would be dispatched to unload the cigs. Another group would probably be inside the facility, guarding whatever Edward’s prize was. That division of targets might make it easier for me, but not for long.
Yasmin would be held separately, I guessed. I should be able to make a sweep and not worry about her in the cross fire.
Don’t you need a gun? a little voice chimed in. That was, I told myself, only a temporary problem.
Piet drove to the southern edge of Amsterdam and stopped at what appeared to be an old brewery. An unweathered sign announced in Dutch that the brewery was closed for renovations. Another truck was there, unmarked. Next to it was an Audi sedan, and I felt my heart jump.
The silver Audi I’d chased through the streets of London, with Edward and Lucy inside. Different license plate, but I recognized the scuff on the back bumper where he’d scraped through the jammed street to get away.
He had taken my wife. And I was close to him now. I felt a primal rage rise in me, the raw anger we like to think was banished with cave fires and wall paintings. But I couldn’t be angry. I had to be cold.
Thin lights flickered in the windows. They were here. This was it.
Time to live or die.
Piet had already walked back to the truck as I got out. “Van keys, please,” I said.
“Why?”
“I left my smokes in there.”
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Well, I do,” I said.
“Well, hell, you got a whole truck of cigs right there.”
“I don’t feel like opening crates.”
“Fine. Go get them.” And he pressed the van keys into my hand.
I turned and went back to the van. He went around the back of the truck, presumably to open up so the unloading could start.
Go.
I could only guess where Eliane had hidden the gear. Under the driver’s seat.
They took your wife and your child. Be cold.
I made a show of searching the seat for the cigarettes in case Piet was watching.
Then I put my hand under the van’s seat.
Nothing. I leaned over, groped under the passenger seat. Nothing. No way Eliane would have hidden it under the back seats. I glanced into the emptiness of the van.
And felt the barrel of the gun press against the back of my head.
“You tried to fool the wrong guy,” Piet hissed. “Stupid move.”
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
“Your guns, your phone, your little devices. The phone went off, someone in Amsterdam trying to call you. Why do you have this stuff?”
I didn’t answer him and he pushed the barrel of the gun harder against my head. “To protect myself.”
“From me?”
“No. From them.”
“Them?”
I turned to look at him; he kept the barrel on my face, so that the gun slid along my cheek, settled below my eye. “Edward and his people. What do you think they’ll do to us the moment we’ve delivered the goods? They’ll kill us, man. They don’t need us anymore. We’re two and they’re, what, a dozen?”
“They won’t hurt us.”
“Edward’s not just a smuggler, Piet. I know who they are. The people who blew up the train station.”
His face went pale. “How the hell do you know? Who are you?”
“Peter Samson, just like I said. My friend at the bar got me the gear,” I said. I didn’t blink. I didn’t look concerned. Because old Piet had tipped too much of his hand, confronting me outside.
If you are heading toward a rendezvous with very bad criminals, and you think you have a spy on the inside coming with you, and you have brought said spy close to said very bad criminals, it might be a very bad idea to let the very bad criminals know that you have put them in grave danger of exposure. So I figured he hadn’t said a word in warning to Edward.
All this cut through my mind in seconds. Along with the realization that Edward’s team, having heard the low rumble of the truck’s arrival, should be stepping out of the old brewery within seconds.
I didn’t have time for Piet anymore.
“Aren’t you going to shoot me?” I said.
“I want to know who you work for,” he said. His life depended on information now. He’d brought the spy close, now he needed to know who I was. It was the only way to redeem himself with Edward and his people. “Tell me, God damn it, or I’ll kill you.”
I said nothing.
“Who are you?” he raged. And then he took the gun off me because he remembered he had a better way to hurt me.
He pulled out the wakizashi from under his jacket, lifted the blade.
He stepped back to launch his swing; he wanted to scare me, to have me know I couldn’t stop the sword from opening me up. So he stepped back too far, and he gave me room. He slashed the wakizashi toward me with a singing hiss. I pivoted and blocked it with a kick. The blade went halfway into the thick sole of my work boot. His melodramatic toy of a weapon stuck. For one sweet second he was so surprised he didn’t know what to do.
So I grabbed the handle of the van for leverage, and kicked him with the other foot. My work boot ca
ught him hard on the chin and he flew back, teeth flying, lip splitting.
I landed on the asphalt, awkwardly, one leg. I yanked the wakizashi loose from the thick, rugged sole and advanced on him. I pointed the tip at his groin.
His front teeth were gone. He tried to skitter backward on the pavement. “No, please.”
I yanked him to his feet, put the blade at his gut. He let out a broken-toothed mew of surprise; he thought I was going to eviscerate him.
Then I heard the brewery door open. The van was between us and the doors. I slammed a fist hard into his bloodied mouth and he crumpled.
69
I HURRIED INTO THE VAN, crawled to the back. The gear was there, where he’d tossed it. I pulled out the two Glocks, one mounted with a silencer, the explosive charge, the cell phone.
I heard footsteps skittering on the pavement. At least two people. I wished it were more.
“Piet?” a man’s voice called. Then in Dutch, “Hurry up. Edward’s pissed, we’re going to be behind schedule.”
They stepped into my range, in the intermittent light of the moon. One of them saw Piet lying on the black of the pavement. He rushed forward; the second man was smarter, stopping, then falling into a protective crouch, gun at the ready.
Through the barely open back door of the van, I shot the first one in the knee. I have always heard that the pain is excruciating. The silencer made a quiet hiss. He fell with a raging howl, clutching at his leg. I shot the other one, standing over Piet, in both knees. He dropped, his knees hit the pavement. I slammed a fist into his throat and he went silent. I kicked the first guy hard and he went quiet, too.
Two down.
I ducked out of the van and ran for the door. It had been propped open. Oddly—and I didn’t like anything that suggested oddity right now—the large bay doors to the brewery remained closed. With the truck here, I expected them to be opening in greeting. I didn’t want to be caught in the open.
I hung at the lip of the parking lot door. No sound, no voices—only a distant murmur.
I risked a glance. The old brewery’s entryway was empty, dimly lit by fluorescent lighting. Concrete floor, brick walls, high, grimy windows. I smelled the soft waft of sausage and pizza. I rushed the door. Beyond that was a brick hallway of old offices, most of the doors shut, one door open, faint light gleaming from inside.
