An Artful Assassin in Amsterdam

by Michael Grant

  I told myself that and almost believed it.

  ‘A family in Ireland.’ She frowned. ‘The man stabbed in the alley?’

  I didn’t answer directly. ‘That would leave just two million by my rough math,’ I said. ‘Isaac’s a bit poorer, some pols can buy a few more TV ads, neither the FBI nor the CIA have been publicly embarrassed …’

  ‘The Agency will figure out who you are,’ Delia said, and the thought worried her. Which was sweet. It made a little lump in my throat.

  ‘Oh, them,’ I said. I leaned down and fished my bag out from under the chaise. ‘I have something for you to give them, a quid pro quo.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll want your money.’

  ‘Nah, they have all the cash they need. But do they have a hard drive full of names of tangential Nazis eager to commit assassinations?’ I handed her the hard drive. ‘If I was you I’d download a copy for the Bureau, then give it to the Agency.’

  ‘Hangwoman?’

  ‘It was supposed to be Uber for murder.’

  ‘And I assume that gold statuette came from the same source?’

  ‘Mmm, more or less.’ Madalena and Milan were still out there somewhere, opening their account to find they were quarter millionaires. I hadn’t given them more, just my first offer, but I suspected they’d not complain. I might well have use for them at some point in the future, and it wouldn’t do for them to have too much money to spend.

  Chante appeared, shadowed as always by the dark cloud that follows her everywhere. Delia and I watched her weave her way through the lounges and tables.

  ‘Waiter? Another glass please.’ I don’t know why I was proposing to give her a glass of bubbly that’d probably cost fifty bucks all by itself. Just politeness. That plus, goddammit, she was a writer, part of my tribe now.

  ‘What do you think Sarip will do with der Führer?’

  ‘Evidence locker. There to gather dust.’

  Chante arrived as did the glass, which the waiter – excellent service, by the way – filled.

  I raised my glass. ‘I propose a toast. Death to Nazis, tangential or otherwise.’

  ‘Sic semper tyrannis,’ said my FBI pal, and we three clinked glasses.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ Chante said. ‘I shall order a bottle from room service.’

  I spit out a good twenty dollars’ worth of Champagne and said, ‘You’ll what? Do you know what this stuff costs?’

  ‘I see,’ Chante said, crestfallen. ‘I don’t deserve to enjoy, to savor, to appreciate art. I am, after all, a servant. I can only thank you for this small taste of that to which I have no right.’

  I am not weak, and I am not easily intimidated, so to her departing back, I defiantly yelled, ‘Wait … No, that’s not what I … I …’

  ‘You know she’s ordering herself a case, right?’ Delia said.

  ‘It’ll go well with the caviar,’ I said.

  ‘Well, David,’ Delia said, tapping her glass against mine, ‘you can afford it.’