Choke Point

by Ridley Pearson

  Wait for signal. Leave cafe. Take tram to Centraal. Take 13 to Westermarkt. Proceed south on Keizersgracht to the Dylan Hotel. Wait in the lobby.

  He hits SEND, his eyes straying over the balcony. Knox uses the camera to surreptitiously get a closer look, just as he used it a day earlier to capture her number as her phone rebooted. Her elegant fingers with their close-clipped black polished nails nudge her phone almost absentmindedly as the text comes through. She eventually drags the phone to a reading distance, and—if he had to guess—she reads the message twice.

  His camera is on his lap by the time her head snaps up and she scans the room. He can only wonder what she’s experiencing. He’s banking on a journalist’s curiosity; an investigative reporter’s paranoia; a woman’s intuition. Given the controversy of the topic she’s been covering, and the unfortunate outcome for at least two of her sources, she must give weight to the possibility that she herself is being watched. He won’t know until he tries.

  It’s everything he can do to keep himself in the chair. Time crawls. The overhead fans spin more slowly. He sees every twitch of character on every face, hears the scrape of chair legs on marble, the sputter of lips sipping steaming coffee. She’s on heightened alert, observing everything taking place in the café. She not only awaits the signal mentioned in the message, but wants to identify who’s responsible.

  Knox waits. He’s in the business of opportunity. He stands. Lets a girl screen him. Crosses to the man with the heavy eyebrows and expressionless face.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Knox says, reaching his target. He speaks English.

  He fires off a photograph. A volley of four flashes burst, blinding the man.

  “Thank you!” he says. He moves and takes another picture, placing himself between the man tailing Sonia and the door.

  He sees his plan has worked perfectly. Sonia is outside and moving across the street.

  Her tail realizes she’s gone.

  Too late.

  Knox uses the iPhone’s camera to take a photo of the Nikon’s small display. He texts the photo to Grace.

  Sonia boards a tram. Her tail is too late.

  —

  GRACE’S PHONE BUZZES in her right hand. Even though she expects the text, the sensation nonetheless startles her. Standing outside Centraal Station, she feigns studying the tram schedule display. Her jaw lifted, her eyes are nonetheless trained on the faces of all the passengers disembarking a Line 5 tram. She raises the phone to where she can see Knox’s photo of the man in the café, while studying the faces of those departing the tram.

  She slips her iPhone into her black leather bag.

  The area outside the station is jammed. Busier than she’d expected. She works to filter out the noise and confusion, to focus. She’s noticed three pairs of police on patrol. One is behind and heading away from her. Another to her left dealing with a vagrant. The third pair enters the station.

  And yet, despite the chaos, there is something reassuring that everyone has a place to be, a place to go, a schedule to keep. If only the world were more like a train station, she thinks. When had the comforting sense of order been replaced by randomness?

  Sonia appears from the door of the number 5 tram, as expected. She has a beautiful face: wide-set dark eyes, gorgeous Indian skin. She’s shorter than Grace expected, perhaps her same height, wearing a soft purple scarf over her head, designer blue jeans and a flowing top beneath a tailored brown leather coat. She doesn’t hurry, doesn’t look back. Grace has the sense she’s paying attention to her surroundings. Her body language is magnificent, that of a bored commuter, but a close look at her eyes tells the observer she is alert and busy-minded. Grace is immediately impressed.

  A half dozen outdoor platforms serve the station. Platform 4 is currently serving Line 13.

  Sonia is following Knox’s directions to the letter.

  Grace waits, sipping a coffee and swallowing her impatience. It is a deficiency her trainers have worked hard to remove. Not easily done. But she has learned to overcome it with small tricks, aware of its destructiveness.

  Sonia’s tail appears only minutes later on the next number 5. He’s a clever one, this bastard. He inspects the schedule display, turns around. Grace does as Knox asked. She moves toward him and they collide. Her coffee spills across him.

  “Shit,” he curses in Dutch-accented English.

  As Grace catches sight of Sonia climbing onto the number 13 tram, she rattles off an apology in Mandarin. She’s brushing his side now, feeling a lump under his coat that is the weapon, down his leg as she kneels. He swipes at her hands, not wanting the contact. The delay is effective. At least twenty seconds and counting. She is telling him in Mandarin that she wishes to pay for the stains she has created. She proffers euros he has no use for, making sure that he knocks them from her hands in the process of his refusal. Making a scene. Forty seconds. Fifty. Head held low in an act of contrition, when the real point is to keep him from getting a good look at her. There may be cause for them to meet later. Grace cannot afford to be recognized.

  It’s over quickly. He steps out of the puddle and makes physical contact with her as he pushes her aside in his disgust. A simple shove to the shoulder, but she goes over like a feather duster, impressed. He’s on the scent like a hound, pulled by the same string that aimed him at Platform 4. She could follow, but Knox has instructed her not to, and though it was difficult at first, she has learned to trust his areas of expertise. She has come to respect, even admire, his abilities—his street savvy, his people instinct, his understanding of crowds. He is capable of things most people don’t ever think of. But she does think of these things because she has been trained to, because it interests her. She enjoys the role of the predator, the voyeur, the phantom. She thrives in shadow. This man understands these worlds in ways others do not; there is much to learn from him, though she is loath to admit it. It comes to him naturally, a second nature; he’s like a natural-born musician who doesn’t understand his own talent. But she understands for him. She knows what he does not: that there are few like him, that he teaches without meaning to, that he can frighten with a look, calm with a word or two. For now, she is content to follow his lead in some areas while making sure he never thinks she is. So she lets the tail go. The minute delay was all that was asked of her and she has accomplished it. The rest is now on Knox’s meeting with Sonia. Grace can get back to what she does best—though what exactly that is, she’s still working out.

  Having received a text from Grace that her delay tactics went according to plan, that Sonia Pangarkar departed on the number 13 without her tail, Knox slows as he approaches the Dylan Hotel’s front doors.

  Three people occupy the far sidewalk—an older couple with a dog on a leash, and a woman crouched and petting the dog. Four other people on his sidewalk, a good distance away and moving.

  He carries the camera bag. The Dylan Amsterdam is four interconnected Keizersgracht canal houses. A courtyard at the entrance. It’s a European mix of contemporary and classical. Once into the hotel, the guest is enfolded in cream walls with white enamel trim; large windows flood the rooms with light. An eclectic collection of contemporary furniture coddles the weary. Knox enters the hotel lounge, a floor of reclaimed barn wood. He looks around.

  She isn’t here.

  According to Grace, Sonia had followed his instructions to the letter. So why not to their conclusion? Has he helped her lose her tail only to get nothing in return?

  Only now does he realize Sonia Pangarkar was the woman petting the dog. She’d checked him out—might’ve even snapped a photograph. The cautious and curious journalist.

  He’s an ass for making such a sophomoric mistake. He orders a beer and sits on the love seat with his back to a stone wall.

  He sends a text:

  cute dog. if you trust no one, you have no one. you have 15 minutes.

  The cold beer goes down smoothly. There’s a long hallway with windows that look out onto gardens and th
e canal beyond, and she comes down it like a runway model—all alone, arms swaying by her side, a boldness to her walk. Not a woman easily intimidated. She trusts the safety of the surroundings. If he’d chosen a city park, she never would’ve showed.

  His moment has arrived. He doesn’t consider himself much of an actor, but presenting himself to women is easy enough. Second nature. As smooth as the beer. He’s never been afraid of women. Appreciates the companionship. He’d rather see a movie with someone than alone, would rather share the Sunday paper, a meal, a drink.

  The coffee she describes to the waitress has so many adjectives and descriptive clauses that the two might as well be speaking a foreign language. The waitress apparently has no trouble with interpretation and is off.

  She stares at him. Not exactly sizing him up, but not letting him off the hook. If he were an artist he might consider painting her. He’d like to see her naked; it’s one of the first thoughts that pops into his head, and it surprises him. It’s her skin that is the elixir. He wants to see what that coloring does to all the various parts. His imagination is a little wild with it, and he blames it on the beer. He doesn’t consider himself the type to first undress a woman, and yet that’s exactly what he’s done. He can imagine she smells different—exotic, sweetly perfumed, but heavy with the musky scent from between her legs. It’s not a reaction he’s comfortable with. He’s aware it can give her an unfair advantage, a leverage that he has no intention of giving. He has only seen her at a distance. Sitting so close is disarming.

  She possesses a professional edge that allows several minutes to hang in the air between them, the pendulum swinging back and forth between their nearly unflinching eyes. Each is waiting for the other to say something. Both understand that in a hand of bridge the lead carries a great burden: it establishes hierarchy, it sets the suit to be played. Better to let the other lead, and then elect to match suit or trump.

  “John Steele,” he says. He has always gotten a kick out of the surname. Strong. Heavy. He pulls a business card out of his pocket knowing she isn’t the type to care about a business card, but he went to the bother—for her sake—and he has planned this out, and the business card is part of the plan. So he slides it across the table to her, and she flicks it by the corner in order to pick it up. Reads it. Flips it over. Looks back across to him. Maybe it has had more of an effect on her than he thought it might. Europe and Asia put much more stock in business cards than America. She’s a reporter. Maybe it’s enough evidence.

  “So?” she says.

  “The article on the sweatshop. Good writing. Bad photo.”

  “It was carried on the wire, that photo. Published all around the world.” Her English is very good, though her accent thick.

  “McDonald’s operates all around the world. I still don’t eat there.” He’d hoped for a smile, but she isn’t volunteering.

  “Canada? The U.S.?”

  “Once upon a time. And that time was a long time ago. Have you not seen my work?”

  She studies the business card for a second time. “What is it you want?”

  “I’ve been trying to get up my nerve to make you a business proposition. But you don’t make it easy. And I’m not exactly sure what’s going on with you. There are two of them. They take turns in the café.” He waits for that to sink in. “Watching you.”

  “You were able to text me.”

  “I sat above you in the café. Your Nokia shows its number when it boots up. You might want to change that.”

  She wants to scoff at this; appears about to do so. He assumes it’s the look he gives her that convinces her otherwise. Knox never shies from allowing his confidence to show.

  “Are you so resourceful? I don’t like this.”

  “If you’re going after the story of the people running the sweatshop,” Knox says, “and I believe you are, it needs photographs. A hidden camera? Video? You know it. I know it.”

  “The paper has photographers.” Dismissive. She scoots back her chair. “Besides, I filed that story. I’m on to other things.”

  “No, you’re not.” He waits just long enough for her anger to stir. “You’re on leave. You’re working freelance.”

  “And who are you working for, Mr. Steele?”

  “One of your sources is dead. Another, assaulted.”

  “And you’re my guardian angel.”

  He doesn’t answer. For a moment he is at a loss for words. She’s not what he’d expected.

  “What kind of photographer spots people watching other people? Or maybe you made it all up to impress me. Maybe you hired that man. It’s a lot of trouble to go to for some photo credits.”

  “It’s a tough economy.”

  Her laughter carries across the lounge. She covers her mouth, reminding him of Grace. Her eyes shine. A closer look tells him she’s exhausted.

  “I don’t trust you, Mr. Steele.”

  “Google my work. A picture’s worth a thousand words. You have my number.” Dulwich and Rutherford Risk have established both as part of his cover. He’s credited from Melbourne to Monterey.

  “If you follow me again, if I see you again, I will call the police.”

  “These people weren’t afraid to kill an EU bureaucrat. What chance do you think a reporter has?”

  She stands, a pillar of righteousness. “A photographer has a better chance?”

  “Do you trust them?” he says.

  “They’re killers,” she returns.

  “The police, I mean,” he says, surprising her. “Do you trust them?” She sits back down, weary now, fearful even.

  Her silence reaches across the small table like the smell of fear.

  “Can a sweatshop be run without police on the take?” he asks. “I’m asking. I don’t know Amsterdam well.”

  Her eyes burn with hatred and resignation. He knows which one is meant for him.

  “You intend to find the sweatshop.”

  “Knot shop,” she corrects. “The young girls are recruited because their fingers are so small. Faster knots. Women, too. But the girls are far cheaper—a few euros a day if they’re lucky.”

  “And then? Do you stop if you get the story?”

  “Would you stop there?”

  “I would not,” he says.

  “Neither shall I.”

  “And they will kill you. What is the point of that?”

  “Were you sent to warn me?”

  He laughs. “The man in the café should have been enough for that.”

  “Indeed.” She nods thoughtfully.

  “You’re out of your element.”

  “And you are not?”

  He doesn’t want to oversell. Doesn’t want the shrug mistaken as a promise. Doesn’t want to scare her off. There’s a connection between them, but it’s fragile at best.

  “Two is better than one. We proved that at the café.”

  “How do I know you didn’t set that up for my benefit?”

  “You don’t. Though to be honest, I’m not that smart.”

  She can’t fight the curl at the edge of her lips. “I doubt that,” she says. “All for a photo credit or two? I doubt that as well.”

  “And you? Strictly humanitarian? No whiff of prizes, of peer recognition?”

  “So crass.”

  “I know who you are,” he says. “Professionally speaking, of course. I know what this story would mean for me. I don’t deny it. Do you?”

  “I do. Absolutely.”

  “All right then, I’ll accept you at your word.”

  “We are at cross-purposes,” she says.

  “Not at all. You need a wing man. Clearly.”

  She considers this. She doesn’t like him, but there’s the promise of tolerance as she purses her lips and looks down at her hands.

  He senses she’s not the type to shave her legs or underarms regularly. European. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows contradict the stringiness of her hair. He wonders if her present circumstances are responsible or if this refl
ects her personal grooming.

  “Don’t follow me. Don’t text me.”

  “You will come to find out that you don’t have to tell me things twice.” She stands and heads to the door without looking back.

  He considers letting her go. Can’t stop himself. She’s gotten under his skin. He reaches her just before she opens the door to the street. Takes her by the arm, brings lips to her ear.

  “Let me tell you something,” he whispers. “You had better adopt a new attitude. Check your surroundings. Switch sides of the street. Reverse directions. Learn to follow no patterns—none. Assume—do you hear me?—you assume you are being watched or followed at all times and you do everything in your power to lose them, to make them work at it, to expose themselves to you. Remember faces. If not me, you let someone close to you know when you suspect something. Stay at hotels and switch often. Pay cash. Do not use your apartment. Avoid your regular crowd. Maybe you stay alive. You march out of the hotel without precautions, as you are about to do now, you won’t last a week.” He releases her. She has been pulling against his grip and he’s held her too tightly. Her perfume or deodorant—something—envelops her in a warm, earthy glow.

  Her arm is free. They meet eyes.

  “Thank you.” She leaves his head spinning as she now takes in the lobby’s clientele and slips out the hotel doors and onto the busy sidewalk. She pauses, studying the passing pedestrians and the vehicles along Keizersgracht.

  A quick learner.

  Following the address contained in the police report, Grace arrives at a nondescript brick apartment building, one of a line of identical structures on Kinkerstraat in Amsterdam’s Oud-West. The suburban neighborhood has all the elegance of a community college campus.

  Grace double-checks the house number against the photocopied report.