by Mark Hobson
He cut the call and sat for a moment, trying to think back to the first time he had noticed the hire car parked outside his home, and going over all of the phone calls and messages that would consequently have been intercepted.
His mood didn’t improve.
He decided to try something else.
Raising his mobile once again, he switched over to his home Wi-Fi network – the signal was quite strong sitting just feet from his front door – and then did the same on the laptop, remembering to keep his gloves on while he used the mouse and keyboard.
Using his home Wi-Fi like this ensured that whoever was intercepting his calls would have no knowledge of what he was about to try. Hopefully.
With the laptop logged into his home Wi-Fi, he opened up its terminal dialogue box and typed in IPCONFIG to reveal two IP addresses. One for the laptop/phone-catcher combo sitting here on his knees, and another for a second laptop together with the word SYNCED.
The IP address of the remote user logging in to the intercepted calls and messages.
Back on his mobile, Pieter opened up a secure app called FLASHFACE SCANNER 112 and entered his police password, and then ran this second IP address through the software.
Twenty seconds later and his phone chimed and he opened the file.
There, on the tiny screen of his smart-phone, was a postal address in central Amsterdam.
“Oops,” Johan Roost said to himself.
Lotte looked over. He was on the laptop again, using the IMSI software.
“What?” she asked.
“It looks like somebody briefly switched us over to a Wi-Fi network, and then straight back again.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means we’re about to get a visitor,” he told her.
He drove straight over. He couldn’t risk phoning HQ (for obvious reasons) and there was no time to head over to Elandsgracht for some backup as it wasn’t on the way, and the clock was ticking on this one.
Besides, it was time to take matters into his own hands, to be proactive.
The Begijnhof was one of the oldest courtyards in the city. Dating back to the 1340’s, it was built following The Miracle of the Host as a sanctuary for women to live lives of religious servitude, similar to a convent. It housed two churches, Pieter remembered from the few times he had visited, and consisted of a group of very old buildings clustered around a small green. There was a statue of Mary (or was it one of the Beguine nuns? – he couldn’t remember) and in recent decades was used as a women’s refuge.
There were two entrances, he recalled, and he chose the one leading off Spui Square.
By the time he pulled up the light was fading from the late-afternoon sky. Hopefully the place would be quiet, with the few tourists braving the snowy weather having drifted off back to their hotels.
Walking across the square towards the narrow arched entrance, which led down to a set of steps and into the enclosure, Pieter withdrew his service weapon and checked that the Walther P5 was loaded. The magazine contained eight rounds and he chambered the first bullet, the loud snap of the sliding barrel crisp and clear in the still air.
Moving to the side of the opening set in the high wall which surrounded the complex of buildings, Pieter edged nearer. He gripped the pistol’s butt in his right hand while he supported his wrist with his left hand, for although the weapon was small it still had a decent kick.
Passing around the edge of the wall and holding the gun out to his front he stepped smoothly into the entrance. There was a short, stone passage with six or seven steps leading down, and then another archway. Beyond this, he could see the snow-covered lawn in the dim evening light and no movement other than drifting snowflakes.
It occurred to him then that this was an ideal place for Lotte to have holed up in all of these months. The women who stayed here in their separate apartments preferred to remain anonymous, very seldom giving their real identities, for most of them were here to escape abusive relationships. The charity that ran the refuge asked very few questions. So it was a perfect location for her to hide away while the police had searched everywhere for her.
She was right under their very noses - if she were indeed here.
Pieter moved down into the courtyard, breathing rapidly.
To his left was a short cobbled path leading to a set of steps and a doorway. The windows to either side of the door were in blackness, so for the time being he dismissed this direction and instead turned to check out the area near the lawn.
The statue at the centre was almost obscured with snow. Only her face was visible, and her stone features stared back at him, sending a shiver down his spine. On the far side of the patch of white grass was the large edifice of one of the churches, and running along the length of the building was a narrow passage flagged with gravestones, again leading nowhere.
He remembered now. The majority of the courtyard, with the houses and apartments where the women lived, were beyond the large bulk of the church and not visible from this side. The entranceway he’d used was really the smaller side entrance. He cursed himself for coming this way.
Pieter looked around, taking in the quiet setting. There was a hushed beauty to the scene, he admitted, with the soft snow settling on the ground muffling all sound except for the crunching of his boots. A few lights were on in some of the apartment windows, and the old lanterns gave the courtyard a Dickensian feel, a picture-postcard Christmas ambience.
But there was also a tension in the air, a tautness to the descending night, and he felt icy and bony fingers caress his spine like an illicit lover.
Somewhere a cat called out loudly, and the sound broke through his musings, and so he stepped forward around the square lawn towards the church building.
Just before he reached the brick corner, a movement caught his attention, and his step faltered. Not a sound, more of a shifting of the air, and a half-second later the explosive report of a gunshot shattered the silence.
The bullet struck the stonework barely two feet in front of his face, sending a chip of masonry flying over his head, and Pieter ducked down and scurried over to the side of the church. He cursed and thanked God in equal measures.
The shot had come from beyond the church, confirming his fears that whoever was shooting at him – and it had to be Lotte or whoever else was working with her – were hiding out in that section.
He risked a quick peek around the corner, which drew a second gunshot, this one not as well-aimed; the round hit the statue behind him and then ricocheted away, taking half of the figure’s head with it.
Yet in that very brief moment, just before he whipped his face back out of sight again, he caught the bright muzzle-flash of the gun, coming from one of the windows near to the larger entrance tunnel on the opposite side of the small courtyard.
He noticed more lights coming on in several of the other apartments, their occupants no doubt drawn by the sudden noise, and he prayed they didn’t venture outside to see what was going on.
Taking several deep breaths, he quickly swung his arms around the wall, took a quick aim towards the window where the shots had come from, and fired twice. The Walther P5 bucked in his hands, nearly spraining his wrists, and there was the sound of breaking glass.
Hoping his return fire would keep the apartments’ occupants hunkered down, Pieter chose the moment to quickly backtrack across the cobbles and hurry down the narrow passageway leading down the side of the church, where the large building would shelter him from view and give him vital cover.
Reaching the end he slipped out and darted over to the far side of the lawn. There was a low wall surrounding the grass, as well as a set of steps running up to the front door of another apartment, and he crouched down low behind them. From here he had a direct view towards the shattered window but out of the line of fire. If he could quickly get around the steps he could use the shelter of the buildings to creep right up to the spot where the gunman was.
But even as he readied hi
mself for this last rush forward the door next to the broken window suddenly flew open, and the silhouette of a tall man came rushing out. He had what looked like a large canvas bag in one hand, and in the other he held a small handgun, and he blazed away like some bank robber in an old western movie, his shots fanning out over the courtyard.
Pieter dropped onto his knees.
He stared in amazement as the man continued to fire shot after shot. Then he saw a second figure emerge from the doorway, sliding silently behind the first, using him as a shield. This one was smaller, lithe, moving with almost feline grace, and he caught a quick flash of long blonde hair, and Pieter knew in an instant that it was Lotte.
He watched as she raced for the opening to the short tunnel leading out of the courtyard, with the man hot on her heels, and in the next moment they were gone, their footsteps crunching loudly on the snow.
Pieter ran across the square, slipping through the deep snow, and was just in time to see them disappear through the far exit and he charged down the covered passage after them.
There was a crossroads of narrow alleyways at the end. The ones branching left and right were poorly lit, the tall buildings on either side leaning out like drunken old men, but there was just enough illumination for him to see these were empty. Just ahead was a third twisting little lane lined with bars and cafes, a short-cut that led through to the busy pedestrianised Kalverstraat, and he caught sight of the fleeing pair running flat-out by the bewildered patrons sitting at the tables drinking their beer.
He followed them, shouting and waving for people to take cover, but they just stared open-mouthed at him.
Halfway along and he saw the gunman up ahead turn and fire again, the bullet striking the ground and sending up a flurry of powdery snow, and now the people sitting watching the scene dived for cover beneath their tables, one old man taking his drink with him. Luckily nobody seemed to have been hit.
The running figures turned left and disappeared from view, and Pieter bolted down the lane.
Kalverstraat was the busiest shopping street in Amsterdam, lined with expensive boutiques, fashion stores, bakeries and fast-food joints, and was always jam-packed with people, and this evening was no exception. It was filled with Christmas shoppers hurrying through the snow to grab a few seasonal presents, and when Pieter burst out of the exit from the narrow lane he found himself hemmed in by the crowds, hoping that the man wielding the gun didn’t open fire here.
For several seconds he thought he had lost them. He could not see them anywhere. Then he caught another glimpse of Lotte’s hair, and he picked them both out amidst the bobbing heads, and Pieter pushed his way through the shoppers.
They must have seen him coming for a moment later he watched as they ducked down another alleyway.
Turning the corner, and relieved to leave the congested street, he ran after them.
At the far end, cars and trams flashed past. They were making for Rokin, the main road feeding traffic in and out of Dam Square, and beyond that was the rabbit-warren of the Red Light District.
Lotte and the man with her were halfway along when suddenly, from up ahead, trundling towards them came a motorcycle courier, with round helmet and goggles over his head and his eyes glued to his mobile phone.
Lotte’s companion charged straight at him and swung the heavy canvas bag he was carrying straight at the unsuspecting rider.
The man didn’t know what hit him. The bag struck him square in the chest, lifting him up and out of the saddle, and he pitched into the alley wall. The motorcycle spun to the ground with a grating of metal and Pieter watched in dismay as the man grabbed the handlebars and twisted the bike upright in one fluid movement, letting the revving engine propel it back onto its wheels. It was now pointed back the way it had come, towards the far end of the alleyway, and the man climbed into the saddle and swung the bag onto his back.
“Get on!” Pieter heard him shout, and seconds later Lotte was on the bike behind him, and with a roar, they sped off towards the stream of traffic up ahead.
Pieter raised his gun just as she glanced back over her shoulder at him, and their eyes briefly locked together, and then he pulled the trigger in a split-second snapshot.
There was a tiny fountain of blood on her upper arm where the bullet hit, and then they were riding out into the flow of traffic.
Chapter 20
Red Snow
With blood streaming from her arm Lotte clung to her uncle’s back as they rode through the road tunnel beneath the River IJ. He weaved the motorcycle around the other cars and buses with confident ease, pushing the small bike hard, and rather than risk sliding off the saddle she clasped hold of the straps on the canvas gun bag, her cheek pressed against his shoulder.
Her arm stung where the bullet had hit her, and she’d lost quite a lot of blood, but thankfully she didn’t think the injury was dangerously bad. Lucky for her the shot had only grazed her arm, slicing a groove through the flesh which would probably, she thought, leave her with a permanent scar, but it could have been worse she decided.
It hurt like hell, and would need some stitches, but she could put up with the pain.
Overhead the lights along the tunnel roof flashed by, and the headlights from the vehicles around them swept around the curved concrete walls, lending the place a strange otherworldly feel. Moments later and they emerged from the northern exit and the traffic spread out as the road fed into the faster motorway, and they quickly cut through the suburbs of North Amsterdam.
There was a set of rail tracks in the central reservation between the northbound and southbound lanes, and a long, red GVB train carrying commuters home kept pace with them, and Lotte vaguely noticed the curious stares they attracted from the passengers looking out of the windows as they cut a snaking path through the cars. She turned her face away and closed her eyes.
She kept thinking back to the craziness they had just left behind, the violence of the firefight and their narrow escape, and she couldn’t rid her mind of her brief glimpse of Pieter Van Dijk as they had sped along the alleyway. The way their eyes had held each other’s gaze for those few fleeting seconds.
Something had passed between them. She was sure it was a shared experience, a touching of their minds or something, and she was surprised at the emotional impact it was having on her now. It should not be affecting her this way, she admonished herself, and she shook her head in annoyance.
Nevertheless it was.
Under any other circumstances, she would have found the feeling touching, maybe poignant even. But this was the last thing she needed, allowing their past closeness to stir something deep inside her.
She needed to get a grip, she told herself.
To focus on her goal, to correct her mistakes in the spring.
To keep to her path of destruction and revenge.
Lotte rubbed hard at her face and her hand came away wet with unshed tears.
A short time later and they crossed the ring road, and then a few miles further on she spotted a Shell service station, and she tapped her uncle on the shoulder and pointed, and he steered the bike down the exit ramp.
There was a small Albert Heijn mini-market and a pharmacy next to the forecourt, and after setting the bike on its stand, her Uncle Johan led her over. He took her weight a little, and before they entered they turned up their collars.
The young man behind the counter was too busy watching Ajax on the TV screen to pay them much attention, and he barely said hello and goodbye when they bought a bunch of bandages, pain killers and antiseptic cream.
Back outside, Lotte carefully removed her jacket and peeled up the sleeve of her sweater.
The whole of her forearm was covered in blood, but the nasty wound just above her elbow looked to have stopped bleeding for now. The icy cold wind as they rode north had no doubt helped to numb the injury somewhat, but the sharp pain was still there, so he made her take three or four painkillers, and then tried his best to clean the wound and smear it with
cream. Finally he wrapped a bandage tightly around her arm and then gingerly rolled her sleeve back down.
“It will do for now,” he told her. “We can stitch it up later. Let me know if you start to feel faint, we don’t want you falling off the back.”
He tried to make light of the situation, giving her his winning smile, but she cast her eyes down.
“Is everything okay? You seem quiet.”
“Yes, everything’s fine,” she snapped, and went back over to the motorcycle.
◆◆◆
For several minutes Pieter stood looking down at the droplets of blood on the snow, ignoring the traffic and pedestrians at either end of the alleyway. The sound of approaching sirens came to him then, and he turned and hurriedly retraced his footsteps back through the sloughing snowstorm, along the busy shopping street, and then down the lane where the beer drinkers were just retaking their seats, and through the covered passageway into the Begijnhof courtyard.
He felt compelled to take a quick look inside Lotte’s apartment before the armed response units arrived, who would then be followed by his colleagues from HQ, and then the forensic boffins. He didn’t know why, just that instinct was telling him to go in first.
Crunching over the broken glass he stepped through the open door.
Just beyond the entrance there was a short hallway and a coat on a rack. Down one side ran a wall of undressed brickwork with a shelf set back into it, containing several peculiar wooden carvings, each one with a small plaque and a spotlight. He read a few of the inscriptions: A pair of gnarled hands clasping a pentangle was called HOLD OF BAPHOMET. A half-man/half-goat was PAN THE GUARDIAN. A voluptuous woman with parted legs was SHIELA-Na-GIG. MEDUSA THE GORGON. THE RAVEN AND THE KEY. CADEUCUS OF MERCURY with her angel wings and a black asp coiled around her naked form. VENUS OF WILLENDORF. Pieter moved away.
