An Artful Assassin in Amsterdam

by Michael Grant

  There was a drawer in my steel bedside table. I slid it open and to my astonishment found my personal effects – watch, phone, cigar torch, my original flask and my wallet. My wallet, which had held about two thousand euros, was now empty of cash, but they’d left my credit cards. And my phone.

  They’d found my wallet, had taken the cash, then what – just dropped it next to me as I lay there blowing red snot bubbles? Interesting. Cash is not traceable. Cards and phones are, which suggested my Blood and Soil boys were A) being cautious, and B) had resources and discipline enough to pass up the few euros they’d have made unloading said phone and cards. There was another possible explanation, that they’d been searching me for something specific, but I dismissed that.

  So much in my life at the moment was making so little sense, which is not the state of mind to be in when confronted by cops. And given that I now saw two serious-looking people being led my way by the nurse, it was clear I’d have to do it anyway.

  NINE

  ‘Hello, Mr Mitre, I am Lieutenant Martin Sarip, and this is Wachtmeester … sorry, Sergeant Olivia DeKuyper. We are from the Koninklijke Marechaussee.’ (Koning-click-uk Marsh-ka-say. Something close to that.)

  Not a cop, a pair of cops; one male, one female. The female was classic Dutch: tall, pale, thin, blond and blue-eyed. Olivia DeKuyper, possibly a long-lost relative, a possibility I would not be mentioning. She wore a pale blue uniform and a jaunty blue beret.

  Lieutenant Sarip was of Javanese ancestry, short, slightly built, with a dark goatee and mustache that made him look piratical. He was in plainclothes, but the kind of plainclothes you wear when you normally wear a uniform.

  I am not remotely superstitious, but did I lose a few heartbeats when I realized that between them the two cops had my actual birth name? Yes, I did.

  I’d done the necessary peek into Dutch police organizational structure upon arriving in the country, not something most tourists think to do. Turned out all their cops are basically federal outside of some glorified meter maids. I’d checked out the matter of rank and questions of specific units and subdivisions, many with fantastic Dutch names, like Dienst Koninklijke en Diplomatieke Beveiliging, which handles diplomats and was not my problem, and Koninklijke Marechaussee, which was the name I had not wanted to hear because they were, apparently, the serious cops, the gendarmerie, the military police, the guys who handled things like terrorism and organized crime.

  I extended my mouse paw to the two hungry cats and winced manfully as they shook it in turn.

  ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you, Lieutenant and Sergeant. I was riding a bike and out of nowhere some dudes jumped me. That is literally all I recall.’ Abashed smile, shrug, wide, innocent eyes. ‘But I’m told that a police officer rescued me, so I hope I get a chance to thank him. Or her.’

  The piratical lieutenant nodded understandingly. The sergeant did not. She was doing the dead-eyed stare, probably something she picked up binge-watching Law & Order.

  ‘We are very sorry that you have suffered this incident,’ Sarip said. ‘We know you are in some pain and will make this is brief as possible.’

  ‘I appreciate that. I am … well, there is some pain.’ I was suffering stoically and making sure they knew it.

  ‘The first matter we must clear up is what you were doing riding a bicycle in Bijlmermeer in the middle of the night.’

  I shook my head, embarrassed. ‘This is going to sound absurd, especially to a Dutch person, but I was testing my skill with a bicycle before I risked riding one around Amsterdam.’

  ‘I see. You are not a cyclist?’

  ‘No, I’m American. We have cars.’

  ‘But surely you have ridden bicycles before this?’

  ‘Well, yeah, thirty years ago. But let’s face it, riding a bike in Amsterdam is like driving a car in Rome: you need to bring your A game.’

  ‘Your …’

  ‘A game. Emphasize the “a”. Your best game, your highest level of skill.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. You are intimidated by cyclists.’

  I laughed which reminded me of every single muscle in my chest and stomach. ‘You’re lovely people, you Dutch, but you’re dangerous on two wheels.’

  ‘So you did a practice ride that took you half an hour away from your hotel. At one o’clock in the morning. And the bike?’

  I shrugged, yet another lesson in the details of the human muscular system. ‘It had two wheels, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Yes, but where did you get it?’

  I had a choice here. I could either lie and say I bought it, which they could disprove. Or, I could confess, but only to stupidity. Which would work so long as they had not come into contact with my well-manicured Jesus Hippie friend.

  I frowned, puzzled. ‘It was on the street.’

  ‘Yes, but it was not yours, yes?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, no, but everyone says if you see an unlocked bike it’s for anyone to use. That’s the law.’

  ‘What law?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘The law.’ I winced through another shrug. ‘It’s Dutch law.’ Allow a shadow of doubt to appear (frowns were pain-free) and … ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘It is not. If you took a bicycle, it is theft,’ said Olivia with my last name.

  ‘No fucking way! Seriously? I swear, like, three people told me that. This dude at the coffee shop …’ I let that trail off into deepening embarrassment.

  Were these two going to bust me for stealing a bike? No, of course not. But it had the appearance of what is called ‘an admission against interest’, an honest guy confessing to an honest mistake. And I was a recognizable ‘type’, the clueless tourist smoking weed and acting stupid.

  Sarip went into the protracted silence mode. Two kinds of people keep talking when a cop plays the quiet game: guilty newbies trying to fill the air with bullshit, and honest people protesting that innocence. Only one kind of person will sit there stolidly silent: a professional criminal who knows the game.

  So I babbled. ‘Oh, man, I am really sorry. Was the bike damaged? Because I’m happy to compensate the owner, I mean the bike can’t be worth more than what, a hundred euros? Tops? But that doesn’t matter, I apparently stole a bike and if there’s a fine or some kind of compensation …’

  Now I played silent. DeKuyper was perhaps not the sharpest knife in the Koninklijke Marechaussee’s kitchen drawer, because she only seemed to have the one look: disapproving. But Sarip was smart. I could see it in his twinkly brown eyes. I could practically read the doubt as if the word twijfel (Dutch for ‘doubt’, possibly) was lasered onto his eyeballs. He knew, in the immortal words of Madeline’s Miss Clavel, that something was not right.

  Ah, Lieutenant Sarip, you feel something’s off, don’t you? A disturbance in the Force? Well, too bad, pal, because cops aren’t allowed to beat confessions out of suspects let alone crime victims, at least not in the Netherlands. You need evidence, and you don’t have any, do you, hot shot? I said none of that, not being suicidal.

  What I did say was, ‘Do you mind if I summon the nurse? The pain is getting worse.’ I added an apologetic wince.

  ‘Of course, Mr Mitre. Of course. We will leave you now.’

  Sarip turned away and so did the brigadier. Then he pulled an actual, textbook Columbo.

  ‘I almost forgot,’ Sarip said.

  Sure you did, I did not say.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I just felt I should apologize on behalf of the city of Amsterdam. You’ve had very bad luck to be both accidentally dragged into a canal and set upon in this way.’

  ‘Hah!’ I said, shaking my head ruefully as my internal organs dissolved at the realization that they’d connected the two events. ‘I sure have.’

  Had I tried to explain it away he’d have been ready with a follow-up, but my blank Bambi innocence disconcerted him.

  ‘I also have one last question.’ This from the sergeant. Her ‘Columbo’ was clumsier. ‘You are an author?’


  ‘Yep. In fact, that’s why I’m in Amsterdam: I have a panel to do. At Waterstones. An author panel. You know, questions and answers? Kind of like what we’re doing now?’

  ‘Yes, I saw that you have written novels, but according to the Wikipedia, you did not publish before eight years ago. May I ask what you did before becoming a writer?’

  It was a perfectly innocent question on its face, but the timing was everything. She’d saved the question up to watch my reaction, hoping to throw me off-stride.

  Because I’m a fucking amateur who doesn’t know how to look an LEO right in the eye and lie like a Republican promising to fight for the middle class. ‘I owned a small office cleaning business in Tampa until the immigration crackdown made that unprofitable. But honestly that business failure pushed me to get serious about writing, so in the end it was a good thing.’

  Try finding records for a failed small business that was probably, given the mention of undocumented workers, a bit on the shady side to begin with and thus might not have a business license. Or a tax ID number. Yes, I was quite proud of that lie – it sounded like another admission against interest – and I had to remind myself not to reveal a look of triumph as I watched the light die in the sergeant’s eyes.

  Sarip left me his card. I thanked them.

  Had my body been fully functional I might well have fist-pumped as they disappeared from view. I contented myself with a raised middle finger salute held discreetly beneath my sheet.

  Mouse 1; Kitties 0. And fuck you both.

  I was at a crossroads. My general rule is to abandon any project that attracts police interest before the commission of said project. But in this case I couldn’t just walk away because of Delia, Madalena and the stupid panel.

  Bullshit, David. That’s not why you won’t walk away. You’ve fallen in love with your own plan. Your own … art.

  As I always say, though not out loud: lies are for others, you tell yourself the truth. But the other truth was that if I was to make opening day of the Vermeer, I had four days. Four. In which to move mountains.

  In the morning I was checked out of the hospital with a frankly disappointing haul of painkillers – in the US they’d have given me enough Fentanyl to hook a whole West Virginia mining town. Chante was out when I got home, so I did not have to chit-chat but got right down to business: examining my Personal Security (Persec) and my Operational Security (Opsec), terms I had learned from the internet but understood intuitively.

  Persec: avoid the Hangwoman; avoid another beating or worse from Milan Smit’s skinhead pals; and avoid getting in the path of the Ontario Crew in such a way that they noticed and I ended up dead. Also: try not to run into the jilted Tess or the cops. Or anyone who might recognize me. Time to turn the paranoia up another notch. Fugitive Vision to maximum.

  Opsec was Priority Number 2. Opsec had five major components:

  Identification of critical information

  Analysis of threats

  Analysis of vulnerabilities

  Assessment of risks

  Application of appropriate countermeasures

  The ‘critical information’ was that I was seriously considering – indeed, actively planning – the commission of a number of felonies. That was the info I needed to keep secure.

  Threats? Oh, that was a long list, but included every law enforcement agency in or near the city of Amsterdam, including Delia, also the Ontario Crew and Chip Isaac, Smit’s Blood and Soil guys and the lunatic Hangwoman.

  Vulnerabilities? Let’s see. I was already walking the fugitive tightrope. I had no real backup aside from Delia and possibly Ian if he showed up and stayed sober. And I’m not Jack Reacher, not very impressive in physical fights, as witness my less-than-Reacherish performance with the skinheads.

  Assessment of risks? Prison. Death. Prison plus death. Yeah, that covered it.

  Application of appropriate countermeasures? I’d gotten Delia to look into both Milan Smit and the Hangwoman. I doubted she’d accomplish much, but it was better than nothing. In a more reasonable country I might start spreading some cash around where it would do the most good, but the Netherlands is the eighth least corrupt nation on earth so there was a near-zero chance of me bribing anyone.

  I emerged after a while to find Chante unloading groceries and wine in the kitchen. She didn’t bother looking at me, just said over her shoulder, ‘Delia is coming for dinner.’

  ‘Is she?’ Said with a strong implication that I should have been consulted.

  ‘Yes.’ Said with a finality that denied the need for consultation.

  I spent the remainder of my day planning, both the beats of the caper, and the shopping and DIY that would make it work. I have a lawyer in the Caymans who I instructed in setting up some new shell corporations. When those were established I’d have a second lawyer – in Panama this time – have those shells subsumed into other shells. And once that paperwork was done I’d have lawyers separately set up bank accounts for the shell corporations. This was all fantastically expensive involving not just lawyer fees, but ‘gratuities’ would also have to be paid given my short time frame.

  Reluctantly I also traveled the Deep Web trolling for credit cards. It’s not easy, you can’t be sure that you’re not buying from some sting operation. But it wouldn’t matter too much, I’d pay in virtual currency and of course it was all done via VPNs and a burner phone.

  My intention was to make the money flow so hard to follow, it would take the law enforcement version of the moon shot to track it all down in the time I intended to allow.

  Next it was a deep dive into nerd country as I assembled a list of ways to stream video. The opposition would do its best to shut down any streaming venue I used, so I intended to use a different one for each ‘broadcast’.

  When I emerged, blinking owlishly after so much of what I still think of as paperwork even though no paper was involved, I was startled to discover Chante was done up. She was wearing an actual dress, a clingy black thing with an angled hem and a spider web open back, sort of haute goth. And make-up! I was so amazed I almost didn’t notice the tray in her hand or that our guest had already arrived.

  ‘Hello, David,’ Delia said, rising from the couch. ‘Chante has been cooking things that smell amazing.’ She offered Chante a dazzling smile to which Chante responded with a twitching grimace that might have been an attempt at a grin.

  Note to self: check Chante’s face for cracks.

  I sipped the cocktail that Chante had made: a rum drink, essentially a daiquiri I supposed, not my thing at all, but it was of course delicious. Then there came a tray of hors d’oeuvres, including a chevre crostini with figs, a tiny brioche bun topped with crab meat, and grilled oysters which – and I vowed never to say this to Chante – shifted my entire world view on oysters being anything other than raw and ice cold.

  The two women chatted about Amsterdam and world affairs, Chante with her bared back to me, Delia occasionally glancing my way with her knowing looks, mocking me as if she could read my inner monologue. An inner monologue, which at the moment ran, How am I going to get Chante to make these oysters again?

  The apartment came with a small, round, glass-topped wrought-iron table now set elegantly, and placed before the open French doors of the shallow balcony. Delia was invited to take one of just two matching chairs with the view of the city. Chante was to her right in the other matching chair. I was to Delia’s left in a low-slung living room chair, which left me a head shorter than either of them. Was this a subtle but deliberate insult? Of course it was. Was I going to say anything while one oyster remained? Of course I wasn’t.

  ‘This wine is wonderful,’ Delia commented.

  Chante blushed and dipped her head like an awkward teenager. ‘It is a humble Vin de pays from Gascony, where I was a child.’

  ‘You were never a child,’ I muttered, ignored. ‘If no one else wants that last oyster …’

  Chante excused herself to the kitchen to finish the star
ters – apparently the three hors d’oeuvres were mere amuses bouche.

  ‘So, Delia. Any progress on our Mr Smit and his skinhead friends?’ The question was somewhat garbled by the passage of the final mollusk.

  ‘Some,’ she said.

  ‘And?’

  Delia shrugged. ‘Milan Smit, aka Walter Werner, aka Piet Mueller, has a record. All three names. Low-end stuff: B&E, MDMA dealing, fraud, street hustles, little stuff.’

  ‘Violence?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not that shows up on a search.’

  I said, ‘Smit, Werner and Mueller? Isn’t that the equivalent of Smith, Jones and Anderson?’

  ‘You mean three very common surnames? Yes, I noticed that. It’s possible none of the three names is legal.’

  ‘Don’t you just hate people using aliases? Any pimping-related charges? Or hard drugs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘You expected something else?’

  ‘I try not to expect anything, Delia, it’s bad for analysis,’ I said rather pompously. ‘But yeah, I figured him for a real bad guy. Instead, he’s selling molly? Kicking a door in to steal the silverware? Fraud? Street hustling? Like what, three-card monte?’

  Delia’s face revealed wild surprise, as expressed in a slight movement of one eyebrow. ‘Exactly like three-card monte, actually. And he’s really good at it, if you believe the Hamburg police. They say he’s a pickpocket, too, but they never got the goods on him for that. So if this Smit character is a low-end hustler, why is your Portuguese friend so worried about him?’

  ‘Because he’s a protective father who doesn’t want his little girl hanging around with Nazis?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Delia allowed. ‘But I also ran a check on Madalena Azevedo.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she was on the game while her father was in prison.’

  I frowned and sipped wine. ‘Math isn’t my strong suit, but she’d have been, like, eight when her dad went down.’