by S L Shelton
“We know the drill people,” he said, winding down the meeting. “I want everyone in and out of that city with same-day ticket purchases to be flagged unless they are the family of the deceased or news crews.” Then he thought about it a moment. “Scratch that. Flag the news crews as well.”
“Get all analyst shifts in. I want backgrounds on them all, with non-family, non-news personnel sitting on top of the pile. John, I want you to manage the ground game,” he said, speaking to John Temple, his most senior office, on video from Germany. “Pull in all the help you need from the region. I want eyes on everyone until we know who’s responsible. Work out of the consulate in Amsterdam. The consul general is a friend; she’ll give you all the support you need.”
“Yes sir. I’ve already contacted CG Martin. She’s expecting us,” John replied.
“I want full and seamless liaison with Justice, NSA, State, and Homeland. No dick measuring on this one. Pardon me, ladies. This is team USA, not team CIA,” Burgess cautioned.
He paused, looking at all the faces. Satisfied he had gotten his message across, he stood, ending the meeting. “Alright folks. Get to work.”
As the room started to clear out, Burgess looked at the video screen and raised his finger, indicating John should stay on the line. Once the room was cleared, he closed the door.
“What’s it look like so far, John?” Burgess asked.
“It’s hard to judge. It’s spook central downtown already. I’ll be there in about two hours, and then I’ll be able to take a better reading.”
“Who’s missing from the party?” Burgess asked.
John shook his head. “So far, sir, it looks like the Serb Network is the only one not popping their heads up to sniff the air.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” Burgess said as he rubbed the side of his face and his tense neck. “Get with the station chief and see if we can smoke some of them out…lean on them.”
“Yes sir,” John replied. “Oh. And sir, CG Martin said she wants to be kept briefed on everything... She asked as a personal favor. Not through the agency.”
Burgess nodded. “Bev’s a good girl. Give her what she wants until it keeps us from getting what we want. I know that daylight is the best disinfectant, but when it’s this hot outside, a little shade can keep you alive.”
“Roger that, sir,” John said.
“And Captain... Try not to get yourself killed. Guys like you and me are too old to be running around in the field. Let the young fellas do the heavy lifting,” Burgess said, alluding to John’s dangerous proclivity to join the tactical operations.
John smiled. “Speak for yourself, sir. I’m just getting warmed up.”
Burgess laughed as he ended the connection. On his way back into his office through the connecting door, he shook his head. “Fucking Jovanovich.”
He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach like this was the beginning of something, not the end. He felt bad for all the families of the State Department people, but he had a nation to protect.
He couldn’t focus on the losses—he had to focus on preventing more.
six
Five Days Until Event
Tuesday, May 11th, 2010—Schipol Airport in Amsterdam, Netherlands
As soon as I was through customs in Amsterdam, I steered my way to the currency exchange booth, where I converted four thousand US dollars into euros. The next stop was the electronics kiosk, which was present in every modern airport. There I found a prepaid smart phone like mine and paid an exorbitant price for it in cash. I opened it and discarded the packaging before tucking the phone and the charger into my pack.
Outside the airport, I hopped in a cab and said, “Dam en Warmoestraat, alstublieft. In De Wallen,” with nearly perfect Dutch pronunciation, giving my driver the cross street closest to my hotel in the old, walled city.
To his credit, he took the highway exit closest to my destination. That was one of the reasons I always learned navigational key words in the language of the country where I was traveling. Up until now, that had mostly been Oktoberfest German.
The illusion of being a local is destroyed if the driver decides to carry on a conversation with me once we are underway. But that minor embarrassment can usually be avoided by placing my phone to my ear during the entire trip and muttering as if I were having a private conversation.
When we arrived, I looked at the meter, pulled out the appropriate fare plus a modest tip, and said, “Dank u wel,” the equivalent of “Thanks a lot.”
Stepping out of the cab, I hefted my pack and duffel onto my shoulder before walking the short distance to the alley my hotel was on.
I loved the smell of Amsterdam. The canals, the bakeries, the coffee houses, and the city itself all combined to form an exciting scent that left visitors hanging on the edge of thrilling expectation. Today, though, there was a scent of fear and anxiety lingering on the edge. I stopped and inhaled deeply before entering my hotel.
I walked inside to find a modern building, tastefully though not expensively appointed. I cleared my throat as I arrived at the desk and a young woman appeared from around the corner, smiling as she approached.
“Goedemorgen,” she said with an overly cheery tone—most likely very happy to see a new check-in when the rest of the city was clearing out.
“Reservation for Wolfe?” I said as I handed her my credit card.
“Good morning, Mr. Wolfe,” she said with a thick accent. “Yes. You are booked for four nights. I just have to make an imprint of your card.”
While she did that, I looked around the lobby noting the security system on the door as she continued her check-in speech.
“There is no room smoking except on the balcony,” she said. “If you have entry after midnight, you will need your room key to open the outside lock. You may have additional keys if required. Breakfast is served beginning at seven until ten.”
“Your website said you have Wi-Fi,” I said.
“Yes. Instructions for the logging in are here to the back of card,” she replied, handing me an instruction card. “Do you require assistance with your bags?”
“Nope. I’m good,” I replied. “Thanks.”
“Thank you for staying at the Old City Hotel,” she said as she handed me my room key card.
“Thanks,” I replied and then walked up the three narrow flights of stairs to my room.
It was a small room by US standards but average for a European hotel. I had a small alcove with a small sink and a microwave, unusual for European accommodations, and my own bathroom. I had stayed in Amsterdam before and had to share a bathroom with several other guests, but most hotel rooms had been updated to include their own in recent times.
I didn’t bother unpacking. I took my new phone from my pack and plugged it in to fully charge. Once that was underway, I checked my email.
There was a message from Bonbon:
Hi Scottmeister,
I hope your flight was good. I just wanted to let you know that Storc got a new car. He says you can take it for a spin whenever you like. Have a good time in Amsterdam. Don’t get into any trouble. :)
-Bonbon
This, of course, was code for “my other apps are ready to download at my leisure.” I proceeded to do just that. Upon logging into the secure website Bonbon had set up, I discovered the two new apps.
I started the install routine before activating them one at a time as they each finished loading.
The first was a fine piece of spyware courtesy of Storc. It was a modified Bluetooth wireless decoder and emulator which would detect Bluetooth devices, scan them for their linking codes, and then provide an interface to emulate them without disconnecting the original. It would allow me to listen in on Bluetooth headsets as well as mimic wireless keyboards and mice.
The second app was an instant messaging app that tied into the encrypted website Bonbon built. It would allow me to text with Storc and Bonbon over an encrypted channel. I was starting to feel like I was Ja
mes Bond after all.
I took a short shower to help clear my head and then walked back into the room feeling much better. After getting dressed, I checked the charge on the prepaid phone. Discovering it was fully charged, I disconnected it, tossed it and my iPad into my pack, and then slid my original smartphone into the pocket of my jeans.
After pulling a worn green hoodie on over my black t-shirt, I headed to the door, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes had dark circles under them and my face was covered with stubble. I didn’t mind the stubble; it would grow much heavier before I was done. But the bags under my eyes indicated that I was already exhausted, and I’d only just started.
“Pull it together, Scott,” I muttered. It’s only a challenge if your brain is working. Otherwise, it’s just idiocy.
While going down the stairs, I pulled a knit beanie over my head and pulled some strands of hair out in a couple of places. I needed to look like a disaffected European hipster student, not an affluent American tourist.
As I hit the second floor landing, I passed an older couple coming up from their breakfast. They moved to the side and gave me a not-so-subtle look of disgust. Perfect, I thought. My image is a success.
Once I was in the lobby, I pulled out my phone and then loaded the most current GPS coordinates for Barb’s phone. It had moved back into the city, only ten or eleven blocks from my current location. Still moving…do you still have your phone, Barb? God! Wouldn’t that be a break?
I walked out the front of the hotel and then paused on the sidewalk to get my bearings. I was about to head in the direction of the arrow on my map when a girl sitting on the stoop, smoking a cigarette, looked up and spoke to me.
“American?” she asked as my foot hovered over the cobblestone of the alley. I paused. Damn, I thought to myself.
“Yeah. American. What gave me away?” I needed to correct the tell immediately.
She pointed at my backpack. “Your bag. But don’t worry...you look more like a European who stole it than an American. It’s a nice bag,” she said, smiling a flirty smile and then winking at me.
She was an attractive girl. Maybe a little younger than me, though I couldn’t say for certain. She had long, curly blond hair and was wearing a pair of olive green army pants and a pair of unlaced combat boots. The freckles on her face seemed to be at odds with her nose ring and her large gauge ear piercings. Her accent seemed more German than Dutch, though I couldn’t be sure.
“Thanks,” I said in reply. “Is there a secondhand shop nearby?”
She shot me a quizzical look.
“Used clothing?” I elaborated.
“Ah. Ja. On the next canal. Over there. By the university,” she said, pointing over her shoulder back toward the entrance of the hotel and down the street in the opposite direction I wanted to go.
“Vielen Danke,” I said.
“Bitte,” she replied with a mildly surprised smile. “I’m Kathrin,” she said, extending her hand as I started to leave again. “I’m staying here mit some friends for holiday.”
“Coth-ran?” I asked, confirming the pronunciation and shaking her hand.
“Almost,” she said, cocking her head and squinting one eye. “In America, I would be pronounced ‘Catherine’. But we Germans like their harsh consonants, so it’s pronounced hard…Kot—ren.”
“Got it.” I said, nodding my understanding. “I’m Scott. Also here on holiday.”
“You picked a bad time to holiday…we all did. Police everywhere, shops closed. My friends are talking of leaving und going to France,” she said and then made a sour look, like she had just taken a bite of lemon.
I looked up and scanned my surroundings. I saw no police at that moment, but I knew she was correct.
“Yes. It’s the story of my life, wrong place, wrong time...” Wrong things said, I continued in my head as I returned my gaze to her.
I looked at her worn shoulder bag. It was the same olive drab color as her pants, but it was much older. The color was faded to nearly white where it had rubbed against her hip, and there were a couple of threadbare edges where it folded and where it snapped closed. I pointed at my pack with my thumb. “Do you like this pack?” I asked.
Her eyes lit up. “Yes. It is a very nice bag—very American.”
I pointed to her bag. “Trade?”
“Yah!” she said excitedly and pulled it from around her neck. She dumped its contents on the ground between her feet, pulled it open to make sure nothing had stayed concealed in its many interior pockets, and then handed it to me.
I emptied the contents of my pack directly into the new shoulder bag, checking my interior pockets as well before handing it to her.
“Dankeschoene!” she exclaimed giddily, rising to give me a hug and a kiss on my cheek. Then she proceeded to scoop her belongings into her new prize.
“Bitteschoene,” I replied.
I shouldered my new bag, donned my round-framed sunglasses, and was about to step off the curb a third time when she spoke again.
“Did you miss breakfast like I did? There is a pastry shop on the corner. We could get danish und a koffee,” she said hopefully.
I smiled. “Thanks for the offer. But I’ve got some things to do this morning. Maybe later.”
She looked disappointed but kept the smile on her face. “Okay, dude,” she said awkwardly. “Catch you later.”
I discovered long ago that Europeans my age like to practice their ‘American’ with Americans. And the last thing I wanted to do at the moment was to appear conspicuously American.
I walked down the alley to the corner. The smells from the pastry shop were making my stomach grumble. Fresh bread, sugar, frosting, and the smell of fresh, strong coffee were making my mouth water, and I wished I could stop. It was a mild blow to my ego that I was being tempted by something as frivolous as bread. But then again, no one is perfect.
It had been a while since I had eaten, but I was still within sight of the hotel—and Kathrin—so I pushed on. I needed to pick up the trail on Barb’s phone. It seemed unlikely to me that Barb would still be in the city, but I held out hope that she actually still had hold of her phone—long shot as that might be.
Once I was out on the streets, I started seeing the police presence that Kathrin had mentioned. Police boats were slowly cruising the canals, and the compactly styled police cars and emergency vehicles were driving by with fairly regular frequency. I couldn’t imagine keeping hostages in the city with all this activity. But until I found her phone, there was no way to be sure.
I pulled out my phone and checked Barb’s signal location again. It had not moved since I arrived in Amsterdam. I walked along the west side of the canal, Oudezijds Voorburgwal, as I made my way closer to the mark on my map. Around me, the city seemed so much quieter than it had been the last time I was there. The extra quiet hung like an oppressive weight over my head as I navigated the streets on foot.
When I was within a block of the location on my map, I crossed the canal and began walking down the east side. From there I could still see the street on the other side of the canal, where I planned on finding a spot to sit and watch for a while. I continued to walk north for another block and then spotted the building the GPS mark was resting on.
It was across the canal and on the corner facing Oude Kerk. I didn’t pause long looking at the building; instead I turned to my right and saw a Rasta coffee shop.
When I walked through the door, the first thing I noticed was the strong smell of pot. I ordered a coffee and two breakfast muffins out of the display case and then sat down at the window bar where I could see the building across the canal.
The shopkeeper was a very pleasant black man with dreads tucked into a black knit cap. He came to me often to refill my coffee.
The shop was empty except for the occasional customer who came in to buy some pot, but no one lingered long. The tone of the brief conversations seemed to carry the same sort of heavy weight that I had noticed in the a
ir during my walk here.
The streets were very busy, with people walking here and there, but most did not seem to be tourists, and there wasn’t much shopping going on. Of course it was still early in the day for the Red Light District, but it was clearly not business as usual.
It took me what seemed like an hour to figure out that most of the foot traffic was nothing more than locals and police who were walking, slowly, visually inspecting everything. The shopkeeper—Reggie, I heard a customer say—came up beside me.
“De shops was closed all day an’ all night, las’ night,” he said in a thick Jamaican accent. “Not a big deal on a Monday night, ’specially wit de police snooping around. But business is off today as well.”
I nodded my understanding of his predicament as I sipped my coffee.
“Well, you have a nice little shop here,” I replied after setting my cup down. “People don’t know what they’re missing.”
“Tank ya, mon,” he replied with a broad grin as a customer walked in, sending him back to the counter.
After another two hours of waiting, I suddenly began to get impatient. I checked the time on my phone.
What?!
Shock flooded my body; it had only been about thirty minutes since I’d sat down at the window. A sudden flash of panic hit me, and I spun around to look at the snack display.
“Dude!” I exclaimed to Reggie. “Did you sell me hash muffins?!”
His look of confusion quickly shifted as he leaned over the display case. “Oh, mon!” he said as he reached behind the counter and grabbed the display placard for the case and stuck it on the glass. “I’m so sorry! That was my bad.”
I also realized I was still famished. Embarrassed, I looked at Reggie. “You don’t by any chance have food that isn’t psychoactive, do you?” I asked.
“Sure, mon,” he replied as he quickly pulled out a stack of boxes. “Just got deez delivered.”
