Wolf Angel

by Mark Hobson

  “Not just one ring, err, Sergeant. The order was for over thirty.”

  They were both quiet as that sunk in.

  Kohnstaam shuffled about in his chair, beaming at them. He removed the pince-nez spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, and then carefully put them away in a slim leather case.

  “I’m very sorry that I can’t be of much help officers. I really don’t have much to tell you. The client placed a commission and paid in cash, half in advance and the rest afterwards. When the work was complete I was instructed to leave the rings in a safety deposit box at DNK just down the road on Prinsengracht. At no stage did I see or speak to anybody. Like I told you, it was all very hush-hush.”

  “Do you still have the letter and envelope?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t keep my paperwork after a commission is complete. Client confidentiality and all that.”

  Pieter and Beumers rose to leave. At the door, Beumers turned back. “You’re Jewish right?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you live with yourself, knowing what those rings are? The kind of people who ordered them?”

  Kohnstaam laughed lightly. “Work is work Sergeant.”

  As they headed down the stairs, they heard the jeweller add, “and beggars can’t be chooses.”

  “Fucking creep,” Beumers declared once they were outside. “Did you see the way he was drooling when he was talking about teenage hippies having their belly buttons pierced?”

  “Now now Daan. Perks of the job.”

  Pieter strolled up the street to a nearby tobacconists stand. He bought a newspaper and re-joined his colleague.

  “You checking the soccer results?”

  “I’m not, but you are.” He shoved the newspaper into his hands, and nodded at a bench across the pavement. “Park yourself down there and keep an eye on our friend here. Follow him wherever he goes, make a note of anybody who calls around to see him. Report back if anything odd happens.”

  “What, you putting me on stakeout?”

  “Yes. I know it’s below your paygrade Daan, but at least you’ll be getting plenty of fresh air.”

  From his office window Levi Kohnstaam peered down at the figure sitting on the bench below, ostensibly reading a newspaper.

  Keeping well back out of view, but not taking his eyes off the police officer, he reached across and picked up the telephone receiver from his desk. He knew the number by heart, it was ingrained on his brain, and his chubby fingers quickly tapped at the buttons.

  Listening to the ringing sound at the other end of the line Kohnstaam’s throat went dry. He dreaded the times he spoke to the person he was now calling, for it filled him with a terrible stomach-churning fear, but he knew he had no choice. On the fifth ring, it was answered.

  “Is something wrong?” said the gravelly voice.

  “I uh… mmm, possibly,” he stuttered. “I’ve just had a visit from the police. They were uh… asking questions, about the rings.”

  Silence, except for the faint buzzing on the line.

  “I thought you should know. One of them is still outside, wa-watching my office. What should I do?”

  Again there was a long pause, but now with the sound of laboured breathing. Finally a response.

  “Come here. Let him see you. Make sure he follows.”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER 10

  A WALK ACROSS TOWN

  From where he was sitting Daan Beumers had a good view of Kohnstaam’s office. Beside the bakery was the narrow door that led to a short passage and the staircase leading up to the second-floor premises, and he could see the three windows above, lit up from the inside. He could not fail to see anybody coming or going.

  He waited for nearly an hour, with no movement. Sitting and holding his newspaper, legs crossed and hunched down on the bench, Beumers hoped he did a good impression of someone casually passing time. After a while, he laid the paper down and stretched one arm out on the back of the bench, looking all nonchalant, but with his eyes fixed on the building across the street.

  After a while, with nothing happening and his empty stomach starting to rumble, he contemplated dashing over to the nearby kiosk to quickly grab a sandwich and a coffee. He would still be able to watch the doorway, and he would only be gone for two minutes. Yet just as he was about to get to his feet the decision was made for him. The office light suddenly blinked off and the three windows went dark, and Beumers’ body stiffened in anticipation.

  Sure enough, about a minute later the narrow door opened and out stepped the distinctive form of Levi Kohnstaam.

  Now dressed in an overcoat over his ill-fitting suit, and with a black leather briefcase in his hand, the portly jeweller paused briefly as he locked the door, and then set off, waddling his way along the pavement in the direction of Rozengracht Bridge. Beumers waited until he was about fifty metres or so in front, and then rose and followed.

  Kohnstaam turned onto the bridge and crossed over, the large tower of Westerkerk looming overhead. He continued on down the busy thoroughfare of Raadhuisstraat, passing over several more canals as he headed in the direction of Dam Square.

  Raadhuisstraat and Westerkerk

  Beumers matched the jeweller's pace, keeping a steady distance behind but not wanting to let him get too far ahead and risk losing sight of him in the busy streets. He wondered whether to call Pieter Van Dijk, to let him know their man was on the move, but he decided to wait and see exactly where he was headed first, or whom he was planning to meet with.

  The large edifice of The Royal Palace came into view, marking the end of the road, and Kohnstaam veered across the pavement and skirted around the corner of the large grey building. Beumers lost sight of him temporarily and he hurried forward, hoping to catch up, and then to his relief caught a glimpse of him again as he cut a diagonal path across the cobbles of Dam Square.

  The jeweller was a fast walker for such a large man, his legs moving like pistons, and Beumers thought perhaps he was hungrily making for one of the hot-dog stands, but instead he bustled by them and then dashed across Damrak, weaving in and out between the trams and bicycles.

  Again Beumers lost sight of the waddling figure and he swore under his breath, thinking maybe he had been seen, but when he followed across the busy street he soon spotted him again, going by the large obelisk of the National Monument and turning left down the narrow pedestrianized Warmoesstraat.

  This was the edge of the red-light district and where most of the gay bars were located. At this time of the afternoon it was starting to get busy, and Beumers had to dodge around people just to maintain visual contact with his target. Once more, he was impressed with the fast pace Kohnstaam was setting. Perhaps he had a rendezvous with a boyfriend? Or was about to turn down Sint Annenstraat to enjoy an afternoon with one of the window girls? It wasn’t unusual to see men suddenly pick up speed as they neared their destination here.

  But Kohnstaam instead continued on straight down the street, head down and briefcase swinging. At the far end there was a sharp turn to the right, or alternatively there was a tiny little passageway that continued straight on, and the jeweller chose the latter. Somewhat hesitantly, Beumers followed him into the narrow passage.

  His nose wrinkled at the smell of stale urine, the cobbles here always in the shade and puddled from underground seepage from the sewers. Halfway down the alley had a slight turn, and then thankfully re-emerged back into daylight, and Beumers found himself stepping out by the side of St Nicolaaskerk Cathedral. He was just in time to see Kohnstaam slip around the far corner.

  Jogging along the pavement Beumers sneaked a look around the side of the wall. Kohnstaam was just disappearing down some steps alongside a familiar-looking building, which was perched over a canal.

  He finally relaxed, for there was nowhere else for the jeweller to go. He had reached his destination.

  Standing there and breathing hard after the quick walk across the city centre, Beumers studied the short,
circular squat building ahead of him. This was The Weeping Tower, or Schreierstoren to give it its proper name. Beumers knew a little about the place as it was a well-known landmark to locals if not the tourists. It was part of the old city defences, and the spot where in centuries past the womenfolk came to wave off their husbands as they set sail on riggers and whalers, crying quietly to themselves as they watched the sailing ships depart.

  A few years ago Beumers knew the place had been renovated and turned into a trendy bar, but more recently it had shut down and from what he understood was now empty again. There was one entrance on this side, a solid-looking, old door at the top of a short flight of stairs. Above this, and set at various intervals in the building’s round walls were a number of square windows. The roof was squared off, but atop this and looking like a witches pointy hat was a steep triangular slate turret.

  Looking back at the door Beumers noticed it was padlocked on the outside, and Kohnstaam hadn’t used this entrance anyway, instead he had descended the steps to the side. Down there, Beumers knew there was an old wooden deck down at the canal-level, and beside this was a small boathouse underneath the stone tower itself. There must be a way into the building down there.

  Leaning against the wall from his vantage point, he fished out his mobile and dialled a number. Pieter answered on the first ring.

  “I think we might have him Boss”

  He quickly told Pieter everything that had happened, the journey across the city, and where Kohnstaam had ended up.

  “Schreierstoren?” Pieter asked in confirmation.

  “Yes. He’s still inside now.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t spot you tailing him?”

  “He had no idea. He was in too much of a hurry to notice anything.”

  Still holding the phone to his ear, Beumers continued to stare at the building, thinking hard. He heard Pieter’s voice come through the phone again.

  “Wait there. Don’t go inside until I arrive with backup and-”

  But Beumers cut the call, and moved out from his hiding place.

  In his office at Police HQ on Elandsgracht, Pieter stared at his silent mobile phone in horror. He quickly pressed the call-back button and listened in dismay as it went straight to voicemail, which meant either Beumers had switched off or he was already inside the building and wouldn’t be able to get a signal.

  Jumping to his feet he snatched his Walter P5 from its secure metal box and slipped it into his waist-belt holster, and then rushed out of the office, bellowing for some backup.

  Beumers walked quickly down the narrow street, the slight incline passing the main entrance, and stepped through a small wooden gate. A narrow flight of wooden stairs led down the side of the building to the small deck below. Tied up there was a long motor launch with a wooden cabin. There was no sign of anybody, everything was still, but he nevertheless felt his heart starting to race as he withdrew his sidearm. Gripping it in both hands he kept the barrel pointed down, and with his left shoulder brushing the brickwork of the building he carefully descended the staircase.

  The weeping Tower

  Only twice previously during his fourteen years in the police had he been required to draw his gun while on active duty, and he’d never actually had to fire it. Preying that today would be no different he moved slowly down one step at a time, his mouth suddenly dry, his breath coming in quick rasps.

  At the bottom he moved along the deck and paused just this side of the entrance to the boathouse. Counting silently to three, he swung quickly around the corner, arms outstretched and pointing the gun dead ahead. Swinging from side to side to cover the interior, quickly establishing there was nobody here, and then casting his eyes over the small speedboat floating inside and seeing this too was empty. He breathed a sigh of relief and took a moment to get his bearings and scan the layout of the boathouse.

  The speedboat was in the centre with its bow pointing towards the building’s wide entrance. There was a walkway around the inside walls of the boathouse, going down the side, then across the back behind the boat, and then along the opposite wall where it led to an open doorway. Hung on the walls were a number of fishing rods and nets, plus a life-ring. In the far corner was an empty deckchair, and beside it a steaming mug of tea or coffee.

  Treading as quietly as he could, Beumers followed the walkway around, thinking perhaps coming in alone wasn’t the wisest of decisions but knowing it was too late to change his mind now. Drawing to a halt near the doorway he snatched a quick look before pulling his head back out of sight. Still nobody. Just another set of steps leading upwards.

  Once again, he moved as quietly and slowly as possible, but this time going up into the main building itself.

  At the top was a large and open room. There were several windows down both sides, letting in bright sunlight from outside, allowing him to take a good look.

  There wasn’t much to see as the room was mostly bare. He guessed this must have once been the main bar area but now all of the fixtures and fittings had been ripped out, the furniture all removed, the floorboards were all covered in a layer of dust and pieces of crumbling plaster from the walls. High on one wall was an old ship’s figurehead, a naked woman’s upper torso, leaning out and leering down at him. Apart from this and a couple of shallow alcoves beside the gutted fireplace, there was nothing.

  Except over in the far corner was an iron spiral staircase, twisting around and up before disappearing through the roof to the upper level. Which meant that Kohnstaam, together with whoever he had been in such a hurry to see, must be up there. There was nowhere else where they could be.

  Taking several deep breaths to fortify himself, Beumers started out across the room, his firearm once again pointing forward.

  Passing beneath the steady gaze of the figurehead, he didn’t notice the man standing upright in one of the alcoves, he only heard the scrape of footsteps after he had gone by, when it was too late.

  Something came down over his head, and a pair of huge hands held whatever it was in place, and when Beumers opened his mouth to yell in fright and realized he couldn’t draw in any air, or breathe at all, he knew it was a plastic bag. A terrifying panic gripped him, and he brought up the gun, but just as he was reaching backwards to fire at the person standing behind him, another person came into view, the face all distorted and pale-looking through the plastic bag. Then he was punched hard in the stomach and what little air he had in his lungs was expelled, the gun flew from his grasp, and something was being coiled around his neck, cinching the bag tight, either a rope or a belt. The inside of the bag misted up, and each time he tried to suck in, instead of oxygen he sucked in the plastic into his mouth.

  Thrashing and kicking, Daan Beumers felt consciousness slipping away.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE WEEPING TOWER

  Pieter slammed on his brakes and the car slewed to a stop by the corner of St Nicolaaskerk Cathedral. Seconds later a pair of patrol cars, each with two police officers on board, came to a halt on either side.

  Ahead of them was the huge bulk of Schreierstoren tower, all brooding and silent. There was no sign of Daan Beumers, and Pieter could only prey his colleague hadn’t been foolish enough to go in by himself. On the journey over, as he’d gunned the engine and drove straight through several stop lights, he had tried phoning once more. The result was the same: no answer. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach he stepped out of the car, his sidearm still in its holster on his hip, and waited while the other officers joined him.

  “Ok guys, let’s do this nice and quietly. Sgt Beumers might be in there, and hopefully he’s made an arrest and will be the big hero, but until we know for sure what’s happening we show extreme caution. But let’s not ignite the situation if we can help it.” He looked at them each in turn. “Understood?”

  When he was sure they were ready, Pieter led them down the gentle slope towards the main entrance.

  Something caught his eye then, a sudden movement above. Glancin
g up he caught a quick glimpse of a figure up on the flat roof of the squat building, moving behind the crenelated wall, before suddenly dropping out of sight again. Pieter paused, calling for the others to halt, but as they turned to look in his direction the figure popped up again, holding something in both hands.

  The air erupted with thunderous noise. There was a series of violent explosive sounds, the very sky seeming to shake with a horrible brrrrrrr! And then the roadway disintegrated in a cloud of sparks and dust, there was a horrendous scream and two of the police officers went down in a spray of blood.

  Pieter knew instantly what the sound was. A hail of bullets had just ripped into the small knot of men, bringing chaos and furious pain, and Pieter dropped to the ground in an instant. There was a moments pause, and then another burst of gunfire, longer this time, hitting the prostrate men again. The shots halted, and then a third burst shattered the air, this time coming from a different spot up on the roof. Pieter risked a quick look, seeing a second figure up there, both gunmen popping up and down to fire again and again.

  “Get back! Behind the cars!” he screeched, the order directed at himself as much as his colleagues, and he scrambled across the tarmac on his stomach. He reached his car and yanked open the driver’s door and crouched into the shelter it provided, drawing out his sidearm. Over to his left he saw two other officers doing likewise behind their own patrol car, one of whom had a red bloom of blood spreading across his blue shirt. Down the slope, the two who had been hit in that first violent burst lay in the roadway, perfectly still, and Pieter had little doubt that they were dead. Somewhere behind him, on the busy road and bridge that crossed the canal, there was total pandemonium, with pedestrians screaming and fleeing in terror, and cars and bicycles weaving this way and that.

  Pieter turned to wave them back, shouting at them to get away, to get down, but even as he did so he watched in sheer terror as the gunmen opened fire once more, this time aiming deliberately towards the bridge. There was a tram crossing, trundling along and unable to alter course, and then the sides of the vehicle were ripped apart as the bullets struck, with sparks and glass and metal flying in all directions. There were more screams, and the tram came to a shuddering halt, with smoke and flames starting to curl from beneath its chassis.