“Okay! Okay!” Knox says in English.
The one patrolman has recovered. The other is ready to punish him again, the club held high, but his red-faced partner waves him off.
“You will come with us,” the patrolman croaks out. He spits into the grass and stares at his phlegm, looking for blood.
They’re standing too close together. Another few feet apart and it would make things much more difficult. Knox can take them out. Debates doing just that. But what are they doing here in the first place, and why the rough treatment? Why the surprise? They aren’t after an indigent, they’re after Knox in particular.
Knox jerks his head to the right: no one there. But he’s thinking: the guy on the bench; the cell phone; the arrival of two uniforms.
His mark has a meeting with the police. Knox is unwanted. They can’t hold him; they have no real charges against him. Though that won’t stop them if they want to. Advantage is a gift given in impulses. He lets this one pass.
He interweaves his fingers atop his head. “Okay, okay,” he says again.
—
THE INTERVIEW ROOM OWNS a predictable blandness. Vanilla cream walls, a no-smoking poster burned by a match on the lower corner, a single table, two chairs, one bolted to the floor. A compact fluorescent bulb fails to provide enough reading light, like a hotel bedside lamp. The sergeant adjusts a pair of supermarket reading glasses to read Knox’s exploding passport. It has gotten wet too many times, dried in the sun, stuffed into tight pockets. He has promised himself to renew it, not because of its condition but because there is barely space enough left on any page for a new stamp, a quality that catches the eye of customs officers. They study his passport like it’s a piece of archaeology. The sergeant does the same, flipping pages, adjusting the orientation in order to read a date or location. He looks over the top of his glasses at Knox. Suspicious? Impressed? Jealous? It’s hard to tell.
“You will please tell me what you were doing in Hendrikplantsoen,” the sergeant says.
“I told the constables—the two who abducted me.”
“Detained.”
“I also told them I will speak with Chief Inspector Joshua Brower. No one else.”
“You are hardly in a position to make such demands.”
“Not a demand, a condition.”
The sergeant puts down Knox’s passport deliberately.
“Import, export,” Knox says.
“Uh-huh.”
“As you can see, I often trade here in Amsterdam. As I have for several years.”
“You ‘trade’ in thirty or more cities and countries, Mr. Knox, many of which are not on the best terms with your government.”
“Do not make the mistake of jumping to conclusions, Sergeant. I am an importer. It’s what I do. Period. Chief Inspector Brower, please.” The sergeant thinks he’s a spy.
Knox has a dozen questions he would like to reciprocate with, all having to do with the rendezvous in the park. But he can’t go there. He and the sergeant bat the birdie over the net until Knox folds his arms and bites his tongue and challenges the sergeant to a staring contest that the sergeant cannot possibly win. Knox is the world champion.
The sergeant is too prideful to contact Brower. He returns Knox to a holding cell believing he can break him down this way, but the hours stretch out and it’s only then that Knox realizes Brower’s absence can be attributed to his having the night shift.
They’ve taken Knox’s possessions, including his watch, so he has no idea of the time when two officers lead him back to the same interrogation room and leave him.
Chief Inspector Brower is a freckled redhead with pale green eyes, a round face and thick bones, a man who might be ten years younger or older than the forty he looks. He wears chinos, a white shirt that was ironed at home and a Scottevest, a source of amusement for Knox, who wears the same coat.
He shuts the door.
“I’m sorry about this,” Brower says. “Not terribly hospitable of us.”
“I don’t think we ever met in Kuwait,” Knox says.
“David and I . . . we go back a little further than Kuwait.”
Knox puts that down as military service but he’s not going to push. Dulwich’s time before Kuwait remains foggy; despite the closeness and length of their friendship, Knox has heard little to nothing about it.
“Your sergeant didn’t like me.”
“We take a dim view of people following our superintendents.”
Knox takes note of the superior rank of the cop in the park. The mystery woman is well connected. He tries to measure how much capital the Dulwich connection gives him. He believes he misjudged it initially. Brower’s eyes suggest a stubbornness and a loyalty to his department that concern Knox. He waits him out.
“Do you want to tell me how you ended up on that bench?”
“I was following the woman.”
“We take an even dimmer view of stalking.”
“She’s of interest to us.” Knox strives to remind Brower of his connection to Dulwich.
“I can try to find out for you, but chances are it will only impede your efforts.”
“Poke the nest.”
“Just like that. Yes.”
Knox shrugs. “Her name would help.”
“I’m sure it would.”
“She had a colleague of ours under surveillance.” Knox can safely go this far, but not much farther. Brower knows more than he’s telling—how much more, Knox can’t tell.
“You received the police report,” Brower says. It might be a question.
“That was helpful,” Knox says. “Extremely helpful.”
“You and David must not make the mistake of interfering with an active investigation.”
“Of course not.”
“The young girl, Berna, is ours. The article caused a political firestorm. You get in the way—”
“Never our intention,” Knox lies. “Our interest is”—Knox vamps—“protecting the free speech of the people interviewed in the article.” He’s been told this is how Dulwich pitched it to Brower. Private concerns don’t shut down illegal sweatshops; that is reserved for authorities.
“Important, certainly. But should that work interfere—”
“It will not.”
“This woman you were following has nothing to do with those interviewed.”
“There you go,” Knox says. “That’s all I was trying to find out.”
“So there’s your answer.”
“So it would appear.” Knox hesitates, wondering how honest he dare be. “I can’t tell if we’re on the same side or not.”
“David is a good friend.”
Knox nods.
“You will be released. You must appear before a magistrate in the morning. I will vouch for you—it was mistaken identity. There will be no charges.”
“Thank you.” Knox is surprised it must go this far. “Who is she?”
“It is not my case.”
“Can you find out for us?”
“It is possible. I will let David know, if so.”
“What do you know about the community center on Speijkstraat?”
“In regards to . . . ?”
“There was an assault. Two teenage boys. On a woman.”
“Was this reported?” Brower’s concern is genuine.
“No. We didn’t want to make our efforts any more difficult. I’m sure you understand.”
“Teens?”
“Yes.”
“This is a good neighborhood. But these are difficult economic times for everyone.”
“Unusual?” Knox asks. “We need to determine if my colleague was the real target.”
“This woman . . . the one you were following. She sent your colleague there, to the stichting?”
Dulwich knew how to pick them.
“I can understand your interest in her,” Brower says.
“Nice to know who your enemies are. If the police are—”
“She is not ours.”
<
br /> Knox ticks this off his list. Brower looks confused. Knox says, “A CI for your superintendent?” He adds, “Confidential informant,” though it’s unnecessary, perhaps insulting, given Brower’s dismissive reaction.
“Doubtful,” Brower says.
Knox has to make a judgment call. He decides this is not a time for holding back. “A vendor at a street market put my colleague in that alley. This other woman—who later met with your superintendent—intervened during the assault.” He cuts off Brower before the man can interrupt. “There’s no question it was her. The question is whether or not the vendor created the assault to allow a partner to intervene and appear the hero, or if that’s overthinking it.”
“And you stayed with this woman all night?” Brower sounds dubious. “This is how you came to connect her with our super?”
Knox doesn’t answer, which to him is not technically lying to the police. “The next thing I know, she’s meeting some guy in a park. And here I am.”
Brower is warming up to Knox. He considers him carefully for the better part of a minute. It seems like much longer. “The city government is in the midst of a facelift that is politically charged and possibly economically suicidal, at least in the short run. There is a transformation under way from the Amsterdam of marijuana bars and open prostitution to a city with core family values. We are doing what your Las Vegas did over a decade ago. We’re a little late. This newspaper article, the idea of child slave labor and all that implies—child prostitution, sex slaves—this is exactly what the city can ill afford at the moment. It also hurts the Netherlands’ standing in the EU. Which is a long-winded way of saying your presence here is ill-advised and unwanted. This is not to say child labor is in any way condoned, or that we would turn a blind eye. Quite the opposite, I assure you. It’s more the outsider element, and of course the international publicity. The existence of a sweatshop is being investigated. It is an active investigation—any interference in an active investigation is itself a crime. You and David and this colleague of yours—I’m assuming it’s a woman because of the assault—should take note of this. How and if this woman you were following connects to our work as opposed to yours . . . as I have said, I will look into it and report back to David. In the meantime . . .”
“I appreciate both the explanation and your efforts. It will be taken under advisement. But to remind you: our concern is freedom of the press.”
“One other piece of unsolicited advice,” Brower says, his concentration fixed, his brow tight. “These black market operations are well organized and well defended. I suspect the bottoms of the canals carry the bodies of many who tried to cross them.” He pauses and lowers his voice. “I cannot vouch for all my colleagues. There is a great deal of money at play.”
Knox refuses to react. His only response is a slight nod. Brower is trying to save his life.
“Until tomorrow morning, then,” Brower says, leaning back.
Knox provides him the phone number of one of the SIM cards he carries. Brower will text the time and location of the hearing.
As Knox leaves the constabulary, he keeps an eye over his shoulder as he advised Sonia to do, Brower’s warning echoing in his mind.
—
GRACE’S DRIVER, DULWICH, catches her eye from across a crowded Starbucks where a good deal of English is spoken. She packs up and joins him. He holds open the rear door of the rented Mercedes for her and then climbs behind the wheel himself.
“So?” she asks.
“Your scarf lady had lunch with Pangarkar.”
Grace has been waiting impatiently for his return. It has been nearly an hour and the wait has been killing her.
“And?”
“I had the burger.”
“Please.”
“Knox may have lost her. It’s unclear. He played a hunch that didn’t work out. It happens.” He reviews for her what he and Knox discussed about the meeting between the two.
“They know each other, Pangarkar and this woman?”
“They do now,” he says. “What about Berna?”
“Her full name is Berna Ranatunga. She’s from Belgium.”
“Well done.”
She passes her laptop over the backseat. It shows the two photos of the girl. Dulwich drags it toward him at the next light.
“Wet legs.”
“She arrived there that way. I am working on it.”
“Working?”
“The canals are not knee deep. I’m looking for ponds and fountains . . . someplace a child might have waded through.” She hauls the laptop back over the seat. “Turn left in two blocks.”
“You have a nicer voice than the GPS,” he says. The device speaks female robot in Dutch. It’s hardly a compliment. Dulwich zooms out to try to see where she’s directing him.
Four blocks later as his eyes leave the mirror, he says, “Interesting.”
She knows better than to turn around to look. There isn’t enough tinting to hide her actions.
“A tail?” she says.
But Dulwich has his mobile out and is one-eyeing the street as he navigates the phone’s screen.
He speaks Dutch. “Inspector Brower, please.” He pauses intermittently. “Josh? It’s me, David . . . He’s not great with authority . . . I’ll tell him. Question for you . . . How quickly can you run a vehicle registration plate? . . . Please.” He consults the mirror and begins reciting the plate information when he’s cut off. He ends the call, placing the phone in the cup holder. He explains, “Our contact at the police. His guys grabbed up Knox. Our guy, Brower, smoothed the waters.”
She didn’t hear the groan of a motorcycle. “The car behind us.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No one followed me,” she says absolutely.
“No one’s accusing you of anything.”
“You’re assuming it was me,” she says. “You’re wrong.”
“We want you followed,” Dulwich says, reminding her. “This is a good thing.”
“But I wasn’t followed.”
“It’s a taxi. A private taxi.”
“I do not understand.”
“We’ve underestimated the reach of our adversaries, as well as your celebrity.” He pauses. “The same thing happened to Knox in Shanghai. Money gets spread around the taxi drivers, the tram operators, hotel doormen. A private network of informers who have their eyes everywhere.”
She experiences a chill. Doesn’t want to acknowledge she was spotted. “Four blocks, and then a right,” she says, directing him. “Let me out anywhere along the green. I will meet you on the opposite side, at the film museum, in ten minutes.”
“Too risky.”
“You are getting exactly what you want. We will see to what lengths they will go. I can handle him . . . them. You would not have chosen me otherwise.” She’s eager to make her points with Dulwich where she can. Her Army training and her performance in Shanghai are worth reminding him of.
Their eyes meet in the rearview mirror and she knows she has him exactly where she wants him. Men like Dulwich are so predictable. Knox, far less so. Dulwich is the drill sergeant type: he’ll push to the edge of sanity, but ultimately believes both in a person’s abilities—as he defines them—and the expendability of any one player to the greater cause. She’s glad it worked out for Dulwich to drive her; she knows how to play him.
He pulls to the curb. She’s out of the car and headed into the park. It is a beautiful setting of lawns and paths interlaced with a dozen ponds. The sudden change from brick and asphalt to grass and birdsong has a calming effect on her. The cabdriver has followed her, but he’s lagging behind and she can feel the tug of his parked vehicle drawing him. Whatever money he’s been offered doesn’t measure well against the hassle of a parking violation and abandoning his cab. She quickens her step and by the second intersection she’s lost him.
The pond she encounters has a three-flume fountain shooting water thirty feet into the air. There are couples on blankets despite the cold.
The lawn tapers into the water where a child could easily wade. There are bushes along the water’s edge behind which a child could hide.
She passes a gazebo where the water is behind a retaining wall, and offers an unlikely place to hide. The park is enormous and would take an hour or more to circumnavigate, but she puts it on her list of possible locations.
She is well trained at increasing her pace without the appearance of doing so. Much of her sudden increase in speed over ground is the product of flexing her ankles with each step. It results in an incremental burst of speed which is unseen to the eye—a sprinter’s trick—along with a slight increase in stride and standing up straighter, her posture implying a body more at rest than one leaning into her efforts. A person attempting to follow her will find himself losing ground, distance he can’t make up without revealing himself. Her Army Intelligence instructor, a woman in anatomy only, used video and timing drills that, at the time, seemed overly harsh and exhausting. Only now does Grace appreciate them.
Fifteen minutes later, she and Dulwich are driving the streets surrounding the park. The real estate doesn’t match her needs. It’s hard—impossible—to picture a knot shop in such a classy neighborhood where brand-name companies occupy converted mansions along the park’s perimeter. This isn’t an area to recruit hungry girls or to have them seen entering and exiting a building at all hours.
“We are going about this all wrong,” she says, blurting it out before she realizes she’s challenging Dulwich’s original plan.
“Are we?”
“That is, I may have an alternative plan to bring these people to us.”
“Are you going to share?”
“How committed is our client in terms of investment?”
“Less ambiguous, please.”
“I will need . . . That is: it will require substantial investment in infrastructure. Five figures easily.”
“If it means we can shut it down, I believe the client will bring the necessary resources to bear,” Dulwich says.
“Not all of the funds will be recouped.”
Choke Point Page 10
