‘Who are you kidding?’ I asked myself. ‘You know you’re doing it.’
FIFTEEN
Chante got back to the apartment about the same time I did, not looking exactly traumatized by her literary rejection, but distracted, maybe a bit down.
‘Hey, Chante,’ I said.
‘Mitre.’
‘Have you seen Delia?’
‘No.’
‘So … were you out on a date?’
‘Is my personal life your concern?’
That was just about what I expected from Chante and it went some way to soothing my guilty feelings for having read her story. But then she sagged into an easy chair and shook her head. She looked sad. Not angry or contemptuous, her two default emotions, just sad. And a bit bereft.
‘Drink?’
She nodded. I poured us each a Scotch and handed her a glass. Her movement to take the glass was sloppy and I realized this would not be her first drink of the evening. Chante wasn’t tired, she was drunk. Good and drunk. I’d never seen her impaired, it seemed odd, unlikely, out of character for a control freak.
I sat opposite her, feeling awkward, feeling that anything I said or did would be wrong. Also, I’m wary of sad drunks, they tend to reveal things they later regret. I’d once had a guy named Sergei – a friend of a friend, actually – kick in my front door, raging drunk and try to beat me up. But in the act of kicking in the door his leg had gone all the way through and a bit of sharp metal had cut an artery.
Sergei had barely survived, and only did so because I applied pressure to the wound and called for an ambulance. Later, at the hospital, he had summoned me to what he believed was to be his deathbed. And he’d babbled on at length, weeping about how he was jealous of me because I was young and clever and had my whole future, and so on, me dreading every word because I was pretty sure when he sobered up, he’d be extra motivated to kill me.
I doubted Chante was up for murder, but I did not want her spilling her guts and then feeling a regretful need to spill mine. And yet … the fact that she wrote, the fact that she aspired, that she had some talent … I was curious about her in a way she had effectively discouraged before.
‘Bad day?’ I asked.
Silence. More silence. Then, as I was ready to give up, ‘It is not one day but the injustice of the world.’
It’s especially funny when drunk Frogs try to speak English. Eet eez nut ze day but l’anh-joo-STEECE du monde entier!
‘OK.’ It was the world’s fault she’d been rejected. Fair enough, I’d felt the same way many times with equal lack of logic. ‘Yeah, the world is unjust. But …’ I knew the instant I added that ‘but’ I’d made a mistake.
Chante’s eyes flashed, and as proof that she was drunk her gaze actually focused on me. ‘But? Do you have some great wisdom to tell me? Mr Thief?’ Just as I’d known I shouldn’t say, ‘but,’ she knew she shouldn’t have said that last bit. She waved an apologetic hand. She’s French, she could carry on a whole conversation with hand-waves and shrugs.
It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. It was true but no one likes having their entire life reduced to a previous career. Well, maybe some of the minor Star Wars actors selling their autographs for twenty-five bucks.
‘Yeah, this thief does have some advice, actually.’ I set my glass aside, a signal of seriousness. ‘Yes, the world is unjust. There are three ways to react to that. You can be a fucking victim and whine till death finally shuts you up.’ I probably should have softened that. But I didn’t and Chante didn’t spontaneously combust, so I pushed bravely ahead.
‘Or you can become a crusader who is going to make the unjust world just. Delia would be the obvious example. Or you can say, “Oh, so the system is rigged, is it? Unfair, is it?”’ I leaned forward and she did not recoil. She was actually listening. ‘And you can realize the injustice of the world justifies doing what you need to do to get what you want. The world cheats? Well, so do I. So you need to ask yourself which you are. You going to whine, fight back, or with a clear conscience milk that unjust bitch of a system for all you can?’
‘What I want cannot be stolen.’
‘Crime is not the only way to work the system. But it works as a metaphor. You see a wall, right? You go over or around or under it. You see a lock, you pick it or you kick it in. Use everything. Use everyone. That doesn’t mean hurt them, but yeah, you use people.’
For instance, despite being a person you despise, your employer knows one or two things about getting published. And better yet he knows a literary agent in London whose heiress wife doesn’t know about his mistresses. Plural. I didn’t say any of that, I couldn’t.
Also the speech I’d just delivered was cribbed from some dialog I wrote for a serial killer in my second book, but fortunately Chante didn’t read my stuff. Irony noted. But halfway through delivering it, I realized I was sincere. I was actually trying to help Chante.
Like I said: waiters, crooks and writers. Chante was a writer. One of my people, my tribe.
Tick-tock, no time to spend worrying about Chante’s literary future. I had a heist to pull off and I had not yet dealt with the Hangwoman and her Hangfriend with the computer.
I texted Ian.
Me: remember when I said we wouldn’t be appearing together? I lied. Tomorrow will be a long day.
SIXTEEN
The time I’d set was eight a.m. and Ian was no happier about the hour than I was, despite the fact that I had brought coffee.
‘I was barely asleep, Jimmy, and I’m not a hundred percent, I’ll be honest with you.’
‘You’re not here to be the mastermind, Ian, I just need muscle.’
‘And where are we exactly?’
‘See that window up there? A crazy woman who is trying to kill me, and her equally crazy boyfriend, are in that apartment. We are going to have a conversation. Did you bring something by way of a weapon?’
He was not dressed as a priest, thankfully, but looked exactly like an Irishman who’d stopped drinking just a few hours prior and had not had time to shower or shave.
Ian held his left arm out at an angle and a short crowbar slid from the sleeve of his jacket into his hand.
‘Nice. But you don’t use it unless I tell you to.’
‘Right.’
‘Ian? Look me in the eyes. Not unless I tell you to.’
He sighed, a bit disappointed. ‘It’s your caper, Jimmy.’
‘All right then. And your name is Frank. You have the balaclava I told you to get?’
He pulled the knitted object from his coat pocket.
‘Good.’
We waited a while on the street, me smoking a cigar, him with a cig, because loitering draws attention but loitering with tobacco is self-explanatory. My messenger bag was heavy and I shifted it from shoulder to shoulder. We waited twenty minutes before someone came out of the building and I was able to grab the door before it shut again.
Up the stairs we trotted, right to Hangpeople’s door.
‘Got that crowbar?’ I asked.
‘We’re not going to knock, then?’ This delighted him, the crazy bastard. He fitted the sharp edge of the crowbar in place, right beside the lock. When he was ready he nodded.
‘Now put on the balaclava, Frank.’
‘Frank? Oh, right!’
‘You take the guy and put him on the ground, hopefully still conscious. Can you do that?’
‘Pff.’
‘OK, and I take the woman.’
‘Aye aye, captain!’
I was honestly more afraid of Ian than of the two bargain-bin assassins in the apartment.
‘Go,’ I said.
Ian pulled back hard on the crowbar and the jamb splintered. A kick knocked the door all the way back and we were in like SWAT.
Hangwoman was at the breakfast table, dressed in a gown and eating muesli. She didn’t have time to scream before I was on her. She tried to fend me off with an awkward cross-body punch but I moved behind her, leaned the w
eight of my left forearm down hard on her shoulders and clamped my right hand over her mouth. She was pinned in her chair.
Her male companion could be heard singing in the shower. Ian raised a brow and I nodded.
In Ian went, smiling happily. There came the sound of water, the sound of a glass shower panel swung back too enthusiastically, a male yelp, and in seconds Ian dragged a very wet, very naked, shampoo-lathered man out into the main room.
Ian tossed the man on the floor and when he tried to scrabble to his feet gave him a tap of crowbar on his shoulder blade.
‘Stay down, boyo, stay down.’
To Hangwoman I said, ‘If you scream I’ll have my friend beat your boyfriend so badly he won’t walk again. Is that clear?’
‘He is not my boyfriend, fool, he is my brother.’
‘OK, then, I’ll have my partner beat your brother half to death. Better?’
She was a tough one, Hangwoman, I’ll say that for her. She was scared and she was furious, but she kept her cool and nodded. I let her go. She stood and cinched her robe tight.
‘What are you doing, you stupid man?’ Hangwoman demanded. ‘You cannot do this!’
‘And yet I just did.’ To the man I said, ‘Roll over. Let’s see the front of you.’
‘You want to see his penis?’ Hangwoman said with all the scorn she could manage.
‘Not especially, it’s ink I’m after.’
And there it was on his right pectoral: the Wolfsangel which was a Viking rune used by the SS during World War II, rendered in red and blue ink. He had other tats as well, a ‘T’ for Trump, with accompanying nude Valkyries, a triskelion, some random death’s heads … Definitely not a member of B’Nai B’rith.
‘Well, well, the circle is squared. You’re tangential Nazis.’
‘Fuck you!’ said Mr Naked.
‘Right. Anything else you’d like to say?’
I whipped out my handy zip ties and attached Hangwoman to the chair she was sitting in, ankles and wrists. Then I squatted beside Ian and zip-tied the tat-betrayed, shirtless brown shirt’s wrists together and one foot to the radiator, which I thoughtfully turned up to maximum.
Delia had once explained to me that torture was a moral evil, and I was sure she was right, but I was arguably just making sure the Nazi prick’s foot dried properly. Also, he was a Nazi and really, how much courtesy was he due?
I was protecting him against athlete’s foot, your honor.
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to talk?’ I asked Hangwoman.
She spat in my general direction, but even tough women get dry mouth when terrified. My second time to be spit at by this person.
‘Gag them both. I’m going to see what the expensive computer gear in the bedroom is all about.’
‘How do you ken what’s in the bedroom?’ Ian asked.
‘Psychic powers, Frank.’ I tapped my head and winked.
In the bedroom from which I’d fled only two days earlier, I found the desktop computer powered up but password protected. It had a standard keyboard so I tried the usual passwords, 1-1-1-1 and 0-0-0-0 and QWERTY and then another few before I hit on the obvious. No to ADOLF. No to ADOLFHITLER. Yes to 2041889 – Hitler’s birthday, twentieth of April, 1889.
Twenty minutes later I was back in the main room, the radiator was hot, and the Naked Nazi was squirming and turning red in the face. Also the foot.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I have to admit. It’s kind of a brilliant idea.’
‘What’s that, Jimmy?’ Ian asked.
‘You know what these assholes are doing? They’ve designed an app, a web app on Tor that puts up an encrypted kill list and offers a price, complete with helpful instructions on how to prove you’ve made your kill. It’s Uber for murder. You want a guy dead, so you post his details. So and so lives at this address, here’s a photo, and the price is ten thousand euros or whatever.’
‘Why the fuck?’
I knelt down and pulled the gag from Naked Nazi’s mouth. ‘You want to explain?’
‘Fuck you! Fuck you, Jew!’
I stuffed the kitchen towel back in his mouth. ‘I’m not even Jewish, moron. At least I don’t think I am.’
I stood up feeling quite pleased with myself. And impressed with the bizarre, unworkable in the long term, but otherwise interesting concept.
‘See,’ I explained for Ian’s benefit, ‘the big problem with getting away with murder is that most murders come with a motive. Pissed-off husband, jealous wife, greedy business partner, something. Something that ties the killer to the killed. Motive, means and opportunity, that’s the holy trinity of conviction. But this way there’s no motive. No connection. It’s Strangers on a Train, but updated to the twenty-first century.’
Naked Nazi was grunting furiously and trying to get his naked sole away from the radiator. I took the gag from Hangwoman.
‘Who put the hit on me?’
‘Stupid man, you are still stupid! No one knows who posts the job!’
‘Oh, fuck off with that.’ I had to laugh. ‘What’s that, in your terms of service? Here at Nazi Murder Uber we don’t misuse data? Facebook basically does a proctology exam on its users, but you, no, no, you would never abuse data. Right, Eva Braun? You wouldn’t keep a database of IP addresses and screen handles and bitcoin accounts, right? And you wouldn’t compare screen names with screen names on Stormfront or whatever Nazi cesspool you favor. It’s very inventive. Really. But it doesn’t address my main question: why me?’
Ian had an actual idea. ‘Maybe you’re the showpiece. You know what I mean? The first kill, so they can show some success. The shill.’
‘I’m the proof of concept?’ It was not a stupid notion. Not at all. ‘You know, Frank, I think you’ve put your finger on it. I’m just well-known enough that a bizarre murder involving me would make news. It’d be on the Google where anyone could see it. Proof of concept. But it doesn’t entirely answer the question, because if I’m the proof of concept that leaves me wondering who’s the beta tester who picked my name out of a hat?’
Nothing from either of my captives.
So far I didn’t think giving Naked Nazi a hot foot would qualify as torture, exactly, certainly not under a certain previous administration’s rules. I wondered whether the threat of real torture …
I pulled out my cigar torch. ‘You know, my little skinhead friends, I once became so frustrated by a fellow’s refusal to answer my questions that I was right on the edge,’ I fired up the lighter, three jets of butane reaching an inch and a half, ‘of burning his eyeballs out. I was only stopped – true story, by the way – by an FBI agent. And I don’t see any FBI agents here, do you?’
From the floor came, ‘We want der goldene Führer! Give us the goldene Führer and you will live. Or die!’
I felt the grin spread across my face. I was made happy by my own smile.
‘The gold Hitler.’
‘The gold Hitler?’ Ian echoed, understandably confused.
‘It’s getting a bit stuffy,’ I said to Ian. ‘Would you mind turning the radiator off?’
It was obvious, now that I thought about it. Well, not the part about these two headcases, but the motivation. Azevedo, my Portuguese buddy, had leaked to the wrong people that Madalena had the gold Hitler and I was after Madalena. I suspected Azevedo had been persuaded by means rather more compelling than the old radiator hot foot.
Had he tried to warn Madalena? How? She’d dumped her phone. Had he tried to contact me to let me know Madalena had been targeted? No. Probably figured if I knew there was gold involved I’d take the damned thing myself.
I’d been targeted for death almost by accident. The Nazis wanted the statuette, Madalena had it and Azevedo had told them he’d asked me to find Madalena. But he’d have also told them what I did for a living back in the day. They’d drawn the cynical conclusion that if I found Madalena I’d take the sacred object, melt it down and bank the proceeds.
So, kill me as proof-of-concept for the Murder
App, and ensure that I wouldn’t be grabbing Mr Thousand-Year, er, Twelve-Year Reich.
‘You do realize every intel agency on earth will be busy cracking the app, right? Half your customers will be law enforcement or spies.’ Naked Nazi did not seem concerned. So I added, ‘You won’t keep that thing up and running more than six months.’
He looked smug, thinking I’d missed the real point.
‘Uh-huh, thought so. You two assholes really are as bad as Facebook. See, Frank, it’s the data they’re after, that was the point from the start. They reveal the app on skinhead sites and right away some eager beavers sign up as wannabe killers. You increase your registrations by pulling off a moderately high-profile hit that goes unsolved. That’d be me. More people sign up. We get a few more actual murders then, a few months later the NSA or GCHQ take the whole thing down, the skinheads blame Jews or black people or whoever, but they keep a database of right-wing nut jobs ready to commit murder. I admit it: that is clever. They recruit an army of potential agents-in-place for whatever batshit plan they have in mind.’
‘You don’t say,’ Ian did say, having nothing better to offer.
‘Do me a favor, Frank. Hop on into the bedroom, and using your crowbar see if you can improve this asshole’s computer. Once you’ve improved it enough you should be able to grab the hard drive. Bring that to me.’
As Ian gleefully smashed electronics in the other room, I took photographs of Naked Nazi and his sister, the Hangwoman. I took a selfie with her and surprised her with a kiss on the cheek. She spat, but too late. Then I fanned out a nice stack of euros on the table and played with the angle till I could get a shot of the woman and the money.
Ian returned with the hard drive. I slipped it in my pocket. ‘Untie her, not him. If she moves give her a love tap.’
Then I set my bag down and drew out the object that had made it heavy and set it on the table.
An Artful Assassin in Amsterdam Page 15
