CONTENTS

Ghosting copyright page

Pitch

Dedication

ghosting

Also Available

JAMAICA

AMSTERDAM

LETTER

JACOB

ANOUK

ADJUTANT

RANGE

COAST GUARD

SCHIPHOL

ELLIE

SAMARITAN

LUNCH

PUCCINI

HOMEWRECKER

YARDIES

MERCS

Note to the Reader

Glossary Ghosting

The Amsterdam Assassin Series

About the Author

Contact Martyn

Reviews

Special Thanks to

About the locations...

Disclaimer

AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES

Ghosting

[A Katla Novel]

By

Martyn V. Halm

FREE PREVIEW

Pushdagger Publishing Limited

Ghosting - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series)

ISBN: 9789491623080 (ePub)

ASIN: B016QVMPP4 (mobi)
Copyright: Martyn V. Halm
Published: December 1st, 2015
Publisher: Pushdagger Publishing Limited

Cover design: Farah Evers
The right to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by Martyn V. Halm in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

Please do not circulate this book in any format without express consent.

Assassin Katla's sabbatical year turns out to be her biggest challenge yet…

After her narrow escape from the intense investigations by combined intelligence forces, freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes takes a sabbatical to thwart the relentless scrutiny by the authorities.

But there's no rest for the wicked.

An unexpected pregnancy, a brother in peril, a secretive consultant, and an assiduous infiltrator conspire to force Katla to renege on her vows and once again do what she does best: solving problems in her own unparalleled way.

Ghosting is the fourth novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

With authentic details and brisk action against the backdrop of the notorious Dutch capital, featuring a devious heroine and a supporting cast of singular characters, Ghosting gives a rare glimpse into local Dutch culture, Jamaican gangs, computer hacking, forensic sciences, martial arts, foreign intelligence services, the psychology of social engineering, and the brutal efficacy of disciplined violence.

This e-book features a glossary.

For Maaike, the love and light of my life.

And to Tycho Thelonious and Nica Hilke, thankfully still too young to read my work.

Ghosting:

- A form of cheating in online games where ‘dead’ characters still impart information

- A form of identity theft, using the identity of a deceased person

- Repeatedly moving a prisoner through different institutions to avoid scrutiny

- Ending a (romantic) relationship by cutting off all contact and ignoring the former partner’s attempts to reach out

- A photography effect resulting in semi-transparent objects in a stitched panorama image. In most cases these are persons who or vehicles which were moving while the different single photos were being taken.

Also available from this author:

AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES:

Novels:

Reprobate

Peccadillo

Rogue

Ghosting

KillFiles:

Locked Room

Microchip Murder

Fundamental Error

Aconite Attack

Sign up for the Amsterdam Assassin Series mailing list!

Click this link and fill out your email address to stay up-to-date.

JAMAICA

Running flat-out gained Daniel Catadupa some distance on his pursuers as he ran down the dusty Negril forest road towards the coast. Just his rotten luck the car had broken down along West End Road. Still, Cain’s dive shop was not far. He might be able to make it on foot if only he could take a short break. The only living soul between West End and the coast was Mama Benga—an old witch living in a ramshackle old shed where she let her goats roam free. He burst from the forest at breakneck speed and ran around the house.

No place to hide, except—

Daniel dropped on the hard-packed dirt, flattened himself on his belly and slipped feet first under the cracked wooden porch. Pushing refuse out of his way with his shoes, he crawled backward into the darkness, the smell of rotting vegetation trying to invade his nose.

While he tried to get his panting under control, the running footsteps came closer, slip-sliding around the corner, and the three men came to a skidding stop. Daniel stopped crawling. He was still under the porch, not in the deep darkness under the house proper. If he was lucky, none of them would figure out where he was.

“Rass!” the leader exclaimed. “Bone, go there, Reggie, go there.”

The men sped off in different directions, but the leader stayed where he was. Lying motionless, Daniel looked at the mud-splattered tip of the gleaming ebony cane next to the gnarled feet, the soles thick with callouses from decades of walking barefoot.

He shivered.

Barefoot Duke didn’t carry the cane to support himself. He could run as fast as men half his age. No, that black cane was a symbol of his authority, and most people feared his cane more than the machetes of his henchmen. With Duke after him, Daniel knew he’d fucked up royally, although he was still clueless about what he was supposed to have done.

Overhead the wooden boards creaked and an old voice spoke. “Duke, is that you?”

“It is I, womahn. Go back inna dem house.”

“Who you be looking for?” The old woman coughed, hawked up phlegm and spat on the floor. “And what him done now?”

“No business of you, womahn. Go inna tha house now.”

Wetness moistened his cheek and Daniel glanced up at a glistening string of phlegm leaking through the warped floorboards. He gagged, but remained motionless.

The gnarled feet came closer and the cane rapped the floorboards. “You deaf, womahn? Inna tha house. Now.”

“You no catch him, Duke.” He could hear the sarcasm in her voice. “Him run like the devil be chasing.”

“You see him then,” Duke said. “Which way him run?”

“You think I help you catch dem poor boy?” The old woman spat again, the gob of phlegm hitting the dirt between Duke’s bare feet. “You play at mystic mahn all you wants, I know you when you was a raggamuffin boy scrounching for scraps.”

“Betta shut dem big mouth.”

“You betta respect elders, raggamuffin boy. You think you scary with your scowl?”

Duke’s feet moved closer and the floorboards sagged as he stepped onto the porch. “I respect elders, not scummy old scabs with potty mouths.”

“I no invite you on my porch, ragamu—”

A sharp crack was followed by a heavy thump right overhead and Duke whispered, “Told you, old hag.”

Daniel turned on his back, staring up through a crack in the floorboards. He could see the wrinkled greyish skin of Mama Benga’s arm. Above it floated the scowling face of Duke. His pinprick eyes seemed to look straight at Daniel and his face was contorted in rage. Mama Benga moaned and Daniel watched in mute horror as Duke lifted his cane over his head and whacked the old woman’s body, over and over again.

Blood seeped through the floorboards and splattered his face and something broke inside him. Like a frightened animal, Daniel scrambled away to the back of the house, no longer caring about being silent.

As he crawled out from under the house, Duke came running around the corner, screaming his name in fury. Without thinking, Daniel scooped up a handful of mud and threw it at the older man. The mud hit Duke right in the face and open mouth. Seizing the moment, Daniel charged, his body-check slamming Duke against the ramshackle shed. As the man fell, Daniel spun away, but not quick enough. Duke’s ebony cane whacked him in his side and Daniel felt something snap. Fear gave him an adrenaline rush and he leaped into the bushes, blindly crashing through the foliage.

“Catadupa!” Duke bellowed in rage. “You a dead mahn!”

Daniel ran through the forest, branches sweeping into his face and tugging his dreads. Duke and his henchmen ran behind him in hot pursuit, close enough to hear them cussing as they used their machetes to clear their way. He was still ahead, but they seemed to be closing in. Pain stitched his left side where Duke’s cane had whacked him.

Suddenly he was clear of the forest, but the situation had not improved. His blind panic had led him straight to the cliffs. He sprinted along the edge of the cliffs, not looking at the ocean slamming into the rocks below.

From the frying pan into the fire.

Something whistled past him, followed by the crack of a gunshot.

Fresh adrenaline flooded his body and he ran like the wind, ignoring the pain in his side. Running like the devil was chasing him, as Mama Benga had put it. She was an old woman and Duke had beaten her to death for insulting him. Daniel had no doubt that his fate would be worse if they caught up with him.

Something tugged at his clothes and sliced the skin of his hip, but he couldn’t stop. Another gunshot came from his left. Instinctively he swerved to the right, not realising his mistake until he ran out of land.

At the edge of the cliff, Daniel whirled around.

Fifty yards away, Duke strode towards him, his trademark scowl visible as he bridged the distance on his long legs. Like eager puppies, his henchmen flanked Duke, but a few steps in front of him. As if he wanted to prolong the moment, Duke’s stride seemed to slow to a leisurely stroll. Panic froze Daniel until Reggie pointed a gun at him. Duke whistled sharply and the henchman lowered his arm, his grin a white flash in his dark face, but the spell was broken.

Daniel looked behind him. The ocean crashed into man-sized rocks that looked like pebbles from this height. He took a few steps towards his pursuers, then turned and sprinted to the edge. Duke yelled and gunshots cracked as Daniel closed his eyes and whipped his arms forward into a dive.

For a moment, his body seemed suspended in flight, and he heard the voice of his old physics teacher. The problem is not that humans cannot fly, but that they cannot land.

Gravity returned and Daniel plunged down, his clothes flapping in the wind that tore the tears from his closed eyes.

Jah, be merciful.

Dark death embraced him in her cold arms and squeezed the breath from his body.

AMSTERDAM

The bells of the Westertoren struck eleven times as Katla Sieltjes rode her dented silver Vespa sedately over the damp, uneven cobblestone road along the Prinsengracht canal. She halted her motor scooter at the traffic lights with the Raadhuisstraat and took deep breaths of the cold winter air while she waited for the light to turn green. Above her, the overcast sky was festooned with bloated clouds gliding low over the ancient city.

After crossing the street, Katla continued along the canal to the Nine Streets. She halted on the bridge over the Lauriergracht and looked over her shoulder.

Asian Arts & Artefacts was gone, replaced by an Italian pastry shop.

On impulse she parked her Vespa, unfolded her cane, and limped to the shop. She didn’t really need her cane anymore, but running counter-surveillance would alert the DEA and Homeland Security that she was indeed who they thought she was.

Easier to keep up the pretense.

Katla gazed into the pastry shop. The formerly dark interior was now bright yellow with a mural depicting a Tuscan landscape. A slender man with hipster glasses stood behind an illuminated glass counter where Dolfijn’s cubicle used to be.

She entered the shop, which felt like stepping into summer after the grey weather outside. The warm air that embraced her like an old friend smelled deliciously of cookie dough, coffee beans, and chocolate.

The bell chiming overhead brought back memories. In her mind’s eye, she could see the obese gallery owner, pinned to his swivel chair by one of his own swords for his betrayal of the yakuza.

Hipster Glasses tilted his head. “Can I help you?”

Katla blinked and the image was gone. So many ghosts…

She smiled back at him. “Six dolci, please.”

“Would you like me to pick a variety or do you have any preferences?”

“You can pick them.”

While Hipster Glasses selected the small pastries, Katla walked to the back of the store and halted in front of a white cabinet with espresso beans in silver bags.

She remembered rooting through the sword cabinet that had been here, in the same spot where Bram had surprised her and shown her the first inkling of his martial arts abilities.

Their first meeting seemed longer than eighteen months ago. She wondered if those months would’ve been as turbulent if she hadn’t allowed Bram’s blindness to prevent her from doing what she usually did to witnesses. If she hadn’t been looking at the world through rose-coloured glasses, she probably wouldn’t have accepted the Menendez contract and a whole chain of events wouldn’t have happened. On the other hand, she might’ve taken the Schiphol contract, and without Bram she would’ve ended up behind bars.

Hipster Glasses finished wrapping up the box with the dolci, which she stored in her backpack. She limped outside, where the cobblestone quay had become slick from the rain.

Katla always looked forward to lunch at Bianca’s luncheonette, but her pleasant mood soured as she parked her Vespa on the Berensluis. Large plate glass windows allowed her to see right into the luncheonette, where Bram occupied his customary table. She’d hoped he was alone, as usual, but a trim woman with carefully coiffed red hair sat at his table, her left hand resting in the palm of his hand.

Deborah Stern, liaison officer for the Drug Enforcement Administration.

Katla’s appetite dwindled and she quelled the urge to stomp into the diner and drag the bitch out by her flaming mane. She took a deep breath to calm down. They looked intimate, but that was deceptive. Bram often held hands with people to read their responses. And he had assured her that he wasn’t attracted to Stern.

Seeing how his blindness prevented him from being impressed by the redhead’s appearance, Katla tended to believe him. So she swallowed her bile, unfolded her cane and limped casually to the diner.

The bell fixed to the top of the door tinkled above her head as she entered. Bianca checked her out in the mirror above her sink before she looked over her shoulder, shot her a quick smile and cast a hooded glance in the direction of the redhead. Katla nodded imperceptibly and limped over to Bram’s booth.

At her approach, Stern leaned against the high backrest, her green cat’s eyes checking her out as if Katla were a crumpled newspaper blown in by the wind. “Your girlfriend is here, Bram.”

“You look chummy.” Katla looked at the manicured fingers resting in Bram’s hand. “Putting the moves on my boyfriend, Stern?”

Stern looked at her hand and smiled. “As you can see, he’s holding my hand, not the other way around.”

Bram opened his hand and tilted his scarred face up at Katla. “Deborah, you are in Katla’s spot.”

The redhead smirked and got up from the bench, pushing herself up with her left hand. There was no cast around her right wrist anymore, but compound fractures didn't heal very fast.

“I see your wrist is still bothering you.”

“Not at all,” Stern said, keeping her wrist close to her body. “But thanks for asking. How’s your leg?”

“Stiff from inactivity. I could kick your ass, get the blood flowing.”

The redhead tilted her head. “If you’re looking for action, you could always resume your job.”

“Ladies,” Bram said. “I’d like to enjoy my lunch without bloodshed.”

Stern mimicked clawing at Katla like a cat while she carried her cappuccino to a table across the aisle, sitting close enough to Bram’s booth to overhear their conversation.

Two months ago, Stern and her DEA colleagues tried to pin a string of murders on her. They’d failed, but not for lack of trying. And they were determined to keep pestering her in the hope that she’d slip up.

Still, anyone who could connect her to the BKA killings was dead. And the sabbatical she’d promised Bram prevented her from taking any contracts for a whole year. Her extended inactivity would make it difficult for them to keep up their current level of scrutiny. Her absence would cost her a few clients, but that couldn’t be helped.

Katla sat down in the cloud of perfume Stern had left in her wake, and scooted across the bench until she sat against the wall, where she could keep a peripheral view of the DEA agent. Stern was half-Dutch—so they couldn’t assert their privacy by speaking in their native tongue—although Katla wasn’t prone to discuss important issues in public anyway. She looked at his empty plate, waved her hand in front of her face and said, “I wonder how you can eat in this chemical cloud.”

Stern only looked at her with scorn.

“I ate my lunch before Deborah entered,” Bram said. “I take it you won’t be having lunch?”

“No. I bought some dolci,” Katla said. “At the Lauriergracht. It’s a deli now.”

Bianca came over and put a hand on Katla’s shoulder. “Espresso doppio?”

“And a glass of water, please.”

“Coming right up. Anything to eat?”

“No thanks.” Katla smiled up at Bram’s sister. “Not your fault, Bianca, but it smells in here like someone skipped a shower and marinated in perfume instead.”

“I understand.” Bianca smiled back at her. “If you want, I can open the door and turn on the ceiling fans.”

“Ladies,” Bram said. “Can we please cease the hostilities?”

“What hostilities?” Katla looked at Stern, daring her to protest. “We’re just helping the olfactory-challenged.”

Stern ignored them and looked outside, but the colour riding high on her cheeks was evidence enough that she had heard every word. Bianca winked at her and walked away to the counter.

“Zeph is looking for you.” Bram finished his tea. “He got a letter from Jamaica and needs your input.”

“How did they know where to send it?”

Zeph lived illegally on a houseboat near the Zeeburg peninsula, where the Rastafarian supplemented his gigs as a session musician by growing organic cannabis.

“I thought nobody knew where he lives.”

“No, but the Dutch Rastafari community is tight-knit, so the letter was hand-delivered by one of his friends.”

Katla tilted her head. “Must be important.”

“Pretty important to Zeph, anyway.”

“But you’re not going to tell me.”

“It’s private.” Bram shrugged. “Zeph will tell you.”

“Fine. I’ll swing by the Mojo later.”

Bianca brought her double espresso and slipped into the booth next to her brother. “Did you tell Katla yet? About Anouk?”

Bram held up his hand. “Not yet.”

Bianca didn’t pay any attention to the hand and blurted, “Anouk is pregnant.”

Katla widened her eyes. “Pregnant?”

“Yes!” Bianca beamed at her. “Almost thirteen weeks.”

That made her next question moot, but Katla smiled back and said, “Who is the father?”

“Only Anouk knows.” Bianca leaned forward and whispered, “She’s not telling, though.”

Katla leaned forward too, mimicking her conspiratorial posture. “She’s not seeing anyone, is she?”

“I don’t think so. She’s still seems hopelessly in love with my brother.”

Bram gave her a jab with his elbow.

Bianca pushed him away. “It’s true, Bram. You don’t see how she looks at you.”

A customer entered the luncheonette and Bianca got up and hurried to the counter.

Katla put her hand on Bram’s wrist. “How long have you known? And when were you going to tell me?”

“I was going to,” Bram said. “Bianca beat me to the punch.”

Katla leaned over the table and whispered, “I knew you didn’t plan to stray, but you could’ve used a condom.”

He tilted his head. “Why are you so upset?”

“I’m not upset,” Katla said. “I’m exasperated.”

“All right. Why are you so exasperated?”

“Why?” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “What are you going to do, Bram? She’s not getting an abortion, is she?”

“She’s having the baby. Do we need to talk about this now?”

She glanced at the redhead. Stern still pretended to look outside, but clearly studied them in the reflection of the huge plate glass windows, a punchable little smile on her lips.

Katla ached to break her other wrist too. “I’ll come over tonight.”

“I have an aikido class at seven. You can come over any time after nine.”

“We’ll talk later.” She drained her cup of espresso. “And I hope you don’t have more surprises for me.”

“No, Bianca more or less spoiled the big one.”

Katla got up from the booth, kissed the top of his head and limped to the door.

“Leaving already?” Bianca came around the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “Sure you don’t want to torture her some more?”

“We call that ‘special coercion techniques’ now.” Katla gave her a friendly hug. “Too bad you can’t give her food poisoning without damaging your reputation.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Bianca whispered in her ear. “Take care.”

Katla gave Bianca a final friendly squeeze and walked out, not looking back as she made her way to her scooter. At least one positive thing had come out of Stern’s badgering; Bianca now loved her as a sister, their common enemy creating a bond.

Katla leaned over the bridge railing, looking at the dark water of the canal that formed a perfect mirror for her thoughts.

Pregnant. How fucking marvellous.

Katla donned her helmet, wiped the seat with her sleeve, and straddled her Vespa. With nothing better to do, she might as well go over to Zeph and check out the letter that caused him so much anxiety.

-o-

Deborah Stern watched Bram Merleyn as Sieltjes left the diner, but despite the obvious tension between the couple, he didn’t show agitation. As usual, Merleyn seemed unperturbed by whatever happened around him.

Still, Sieltjes seemed disturbed by her presence, as intended. Keeping the assassin off-balance—while trying to drive a wedge between her and Merleyn—was only a means to an end. Jerome still needed tangible proof that Sieltjes was indeed involved with Loki Enterprises, the organisation responsible for a whole slew of professional assassinations, both in the Netherlands and abroad. Sieltjes was a virtuoso at deception, though, which had allowed her to walk away from a blatant murder at Schiphol Airport.

The Dutch seemed to have ceased their investigation in her involvement, but Deborah and her colleagues were not fooled that easily. Their efforts at gathering information were thwarted by Sieltjes catching on to their attention and alerting Merleyn to their presence.

Ever since their return from Japan, the couple seemed to adhere strictly to their roles. Merleyn played his saxophone in the street whenever the weather allowed. Sieltjes visited the office of Sphinx Shipping occasionally, but spent most of her time with Merleyn, or visiting museums and libraries. They’d hacked her library account, but Sieltjes rarely checked out books. The ones she did check out were non-fiction books on such innocuous topics like marine flora and fauna, architecture, psychology, and art.

Diligently following Merleyn only narrowed down the location of Sieltjes’ possible domicile being somewhere in the Kadijken area, but the neighbourhood was a warren and her apartment was definitely not in her name. Despite his blindness, Merleyn managed to shake off pursuit like a lotus flower repels water.

More often, though, Sieltjes went to the Society of the Eternal Blossom, the Japanese club where Merleyn lived in the basement.

Another place where their actions couldn’t be observed.

Laure Cohn of Homeland Security had been inside and confirmed that Merleyn lived in the basement and trained in martial arts in the dojo on the top floor. Entry to the Society was restricted to Japanese ‘businessmen’ and dojo students.

Bishop had hinted about a Japanese undercover agent being groomed to infiltrate the Society of the Eternal Blossom, but he’d been reticent about the implementation.

Deborah got up after finishing her lunch and stopped by Merleyn’s booth. He tilted his face in her direction. She barely noticed the horrific facial scarring anymore. Instead, the scarring seemed to enhance the character in his face—his hawk-like nose, his patrician cheekbones, and his sensual lips with the soul patch underneath.

“Leaving already?” Merleyn said. “Back to the grindstone?”

“Yes. Think about what I said earlier,” Deborah said. “We don’t need reservations, so just give me a call and I’ll pick you up.”

“It sounds interesting. Shall I ask Katla to come along?”

“No,” Deborah said. “I figured you would enjoy it because of your martial arts background, but she probably wouldn’t be interested. And they’d frown if I came with more than one guest.”

Merleyn gave her a wicked smile. “You want me all to yourself.”

“Of course, Bram. You’re irresistible. You got my number, right?”

His fingers tapped out a pattern on the tabletop. “If you haven’t changed it.”

“Nope. I’ll see you around.”

Bianca skirted past her with a glass of tea that gave off a tangy smoke scent and placed it in front of Merleyn, who sniffed the air and smiled.

Deborah went to the counter, paid and tipped Bianca handsomely. The girl put the tip in the jar, but didn’t thank her. Despite her best efforts, she had failed to convince Bianca that she was not interested in seducing her brother.

After she left the luncheonette, Deborah glanced inside at Merleyn blowing the steam from his hot tea. She hoped he’d call soon. Spending some time with him without his sister or his girlfriend hovering around could be interesting.

-o-

Bram was seething, but he was careful not to show his emotions to his sister as Bianca sat down across from him. He should’ve told Katla about Anouk’s pregnancy right away, instead of biding his time and having Bianca break the news. Now it looked as if he’d been hiding the pregnancy, which he hadn’t. At least, not consciously.

“So,” Bianca said. “When will you and Katla try for a baby?”

“We haven’t talked about that.”

“I could tell she was really happy about Anouk’s pregnancy,” Bianca said. “But she looked a bit sad too. I think she’d love to have a baby of her own.”

He smiled softly in Bianca’s direction, while his hands ached to throttle his sister. In a sense, it was gratifying how some people’s blindness superseded his own, but sometimes Bram wondered if he and Bianca really had the same parents. Usually he didn’t mind her ignorance and impulsiveness, but this latest indiscretion went beyond annoying and into the realm of truly irritating.

Despite the debauchery commonly expected of musicians, Bram hadn’t indulged in casual sex in the years between breaking up with Anouk and his current relationship with Katla, so he rarely concerned himself with contraceptives. Katla used some kind of implant and with Anouk he had more or less relied on her common sense. Maybe, if he had known she had stopped taking contraceptives, he would’ve been more adamant in his protestations, but except for that one moment of weakness, he’d been faithful to Katla. Just his rotten luck that Anouk had been ovulating.

“It’s not because you’re blind, is it?” Bianca said. “Because I think you’d do great.”

He turned his face in her direction. “Eh?”

“What we’re talking about,” Bianca spoke with an irritating tone of patience, as if he was the one who was slow on the uptake. “I think you’d be a great dad. You’re great with kids.”

“Other people’s kids,” Bram said. “I’m also good with pets, but I don’t want a dog.”

“Are you comparing kids to dogs now?”

“No, little sister. I’m comparing temporary attention to permanent responsibility.”

“What do you mean? You don’t want children?”

Bram finished his tea, then said, “I’ll probably make an interesting uncle for your future children, but that doesn’t make me fit for parenthood.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short.”

Bram thought about changing nappies and wiping bottoms, stepping on their toys strewn around the room.

“I’m sorry about blurting out the good news to Katla,” Bianca said. “I didn’t think about you.”

“About me?”

“She’s your ex,” Bianca said. “Maybe you wanted to tell Katla yourself.”

“Doesn’t matter much to Katla, I think,” Bram said. “But it would’ve been better if Anouk had told Katla the news. Not you. Or me, for that matter.”

Bram grabbed his saxophone case from under the table.

Bianca waited until he’d slung the flight case on his back and gave him a hug. “I think it’s great that you’re all such good friends.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s great.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Probably.” Bram kissed her forehead. “Unless I’m busy.”

Bianca held on to his jacket. “You’re not going with her, are you?”

“Easy, sis.” He gently pulled her fingers from his jacket. “She just wants—”

“She’s not on the level,” Bianca said. “Music reporter, ha! If she’s a music reporter, I’m—”

“Relax. We’re just friends. Nothing more.”

“She’s a snake, Bram. And I’m not talking about Chinese astrology here.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

Bram gave her another kiss and left the luncheonette.

He wondered if he should alert Anouk that Katla knew about the pregnancy. Or maybe that would put Anouk on edge—she loved Katla almost as much as she loved him. Maybe it would be best to leave it be.

LETTER

Zeph’s houseboat was berthed in the bay south of the Zeeburg Peninsula. An old river barge, the hull painted the Rastafari colours, with the name Mojo in bold blue letters, the O’s changed into peace symbols. Next to the gangway was a pole with a ship’s bell. Anyone foolish enough to ignore the bell and walk up the gangway would be met by Shaitan, a guard dog that took her job seriously.

Katla rang the ship’s bell. Ding-ding pause ding-ding pause ding-ding. Shaitan appeared, looking at her as if the Rottweiler didn’t remember her from all the times Katla accompanied Bram when he was taking care of her. Or maybe Shaitan did remember, but just didn’t like her. Either way, Katla waited patiently for the Rastafarian to appear.

Zeph showed up huddled in a warm coat, a spliff hanging from the corner of his mouth as he waved her up, patting the Rottweiler’s broad head with his other hand.

“Zephaniah.” She moved through the cloud of cannabis to kiss his cheek. “How are you doing?”

“Irie,” he said. “Good of you to come, sista. Bram tell you?”

“He told me you got a letter you wanted to show me.”

He nodded. “I got a letter from Cain. I-man older half-sibling.”

“Sibling?” Katla followed Zeph to the pilot house, the Rottweiler trailing her and sniffing her calves. “He’s your blood, but not one of your brethren?”

“He is not Rastafari, no.” He shivered and looked with reproach at the weeping sky. “And him have the same mother, but different father.”

They went inside while Shaitan stayed on deck.

Zeph’s living quarters were small but neat. He’d clearly been expecting her. No dirty plates stacked in the sink, his bed made. The place even looked recently vacuumed.

Katla sat in one of his hammock chairs. “You don’t sound too thrilled to hear from him.”

“I have no heard from them in a while.” He looked thoughtful. “Ten years.”

“Them?”

“Cain and Daniel.” He gave her a hesitant smile. “I-man baby brother.”

“And now they wrote you a letter.”

“Cain write me a letter.” Zeph went into the kitchen and took two bottles of ginger ale from the refrigerator. “Cain and I never got on well. That one of the reasons I left.” He popped the caps. “The island is not big enough for the both of us.”

“What about Daniel?”

“He want to come.” He shook his head and Katla wished he would turn around so she could see his face. “I be seventeen when our mother die. Cain be twenty-two and Daniel nine. I work as a deckhand on a freighter going to Europe, but I could no take Daniel along.”

“So Daniel stayed in Jamaica and Cain took care of him?”

“Cain screwed up.” He turned around and handed her a bottle. “Maybe you better read the letter.”

“If it’s not too private.”

“It not that kind of letter.” He went through the pockets of his jacket. “Here it is.”

Katla smoothed the blue airmail paper. “Looks like it’s written by a girl.”

“I know.” Zeph took a gulp from his ginger ale. “Cain is dyslexic, so him dictate it. Probably to a girl at the post office. I think she coach him too.”

She looked the letter over. “Where?”

He jabbed the paper with his index finger. “Putting ‘Dear’ in front of I&I name is not his idea.”

“I see,” she said, and read, ‘Dear Zephaniah. I hope this letter finds you well. Daniel is in trouble. He doesn’t talk to me, but I hope he’ll talk to you. If this letter reaches you, please contact me as soon as possible. I don’t have a phone, but you can call Alice at the post office.’ Followed by an international phone number. The letter continued, ‘If you need money to get here, let me know and I’ll send it to you. Respect, Cain.’

“Money to get here?” She folded the letter. “Airfare to Jamaica?”

“I think so.”

“So, did you call the post office yet?”

Zeph shook his head, the beads in his dreads tinkling.

Katla handed him the letter. “You want to take him up on his offer?”

“It not be an offer, sista.” He took the folded letter and stuffed it in the pocket of his sweatpants. “Cain screw up. Now I have to bail him out.”

Katla got out of the hammock chair. “Let’s not assume, but verify.”

She assembled one of her prepaid cell phones. Zeph watched without commenting. She had explained to him how even switched off cell phones could be traced and he probably figured she was quirkily paranoid.

Katla dialled the number in the letter and put the phone on speaker while Zeph fidgeted by her side.

“Revival, Westmoreland Parish Post Office,” a girl answered. “How may I help you?”

“We’re calling from Amsterdam, trying to contact Cain Catadupa.”

“Dupree,” Zeph murmured. “Him last name is Dupree.”

“Sorry,” Katla said. “Cain Dupree.”

“Is that Zephaniah with you?”

Zeph took her wrist and pulled the phone closer to his mouth. “I is here, sista.”

“This is Alice. Cain needs you here, Zeph. Daniel has disappeared.”

“Do you think Daniel is in danger?” Katla asked. “What can we do?”

“Who are you?”

“A friend,” Katla said. “Alice, is Daniel in danger?”

“Cain thinks so,” Alice said. “Daniel has fallen in with a bad crowd. Cain can’t talk to him no more.”

“What bad crowd?” Katla asked. “Criminals?”

“Sista Someday,” Alice said. “Yardies. You have to come. Daniel talks about you, Zeph. You have influence.”

“Influence?” He snorted. “I been away more than ten year.”

“You stayed true to the path. Cain is deemed a collaborator. You know what I mean.”

“What do you mean?” Katla asked. “Collaborator?”

“Zeph knows. Daniel is your brother. Will you please come and help him?”

“It no that easy,” Zeph said. “I can no pack up and leave.”

“We can look after your dog,” Katla said. “He’s your little brother. I can give you airfare if that’s holding you back.”

He bit his cheeks. “Alice, tell Cain we come and sort this mess.”

He pressed the red button on her telephone.

“We?” Katla said. “You mean ‘you and me’?”

“I hope you come along.”

“As a lightning conductor?” She’d meant it as a joke, but Zeph nodded and looked down at his feet. “Cain like to live up to him name.”

“People change. You haven’t seen him for ten years.”

“Some things no get better with age.”

“I don’t want to get involved.” Katla disassembled the phone. “Take Bram. He’s good with people.”

“He not be the travelling type. Blind people travel in their minds.”

She shrugged. “He liked Yokohama.”

“Yokohama be a city. And you be with him constantly.”

“I still think we should ask him.” Katla drank her ginger ale. “And I have a business to run.”

Zeph tilted his head. “Bram say you on a sabbatical.”

“Not from everything,” Katla said. “Maybe you should ask one of your Rasta brothers to come with you.”

“Dem not like you. You a fighter.”

“Why would you need a fighter?” Katla tilted her head. “This is not just about Cain, is it?”

Zeph hugged himself. “Dem people are Yardies. Nothing to lose.”

“Yardies?”

“Government yard,” Zeph said. “Slums.”

“I’m not from the slums,” Katla said. “Why do you think I—”

Zeph held up his hands. “Dem are not peaceful Rastafari. Yardies are hotsteppa.”

“Criminals? That’s just great. Are they violent, too?”

Zeph cleared his throat. “Could be.”

“So you want me to protect you from your violent kinsmen.” Katla shook her head. “No way. I don’t want to get into a position where I might have to kill someone.”

“At least you can kill,” Zeph said. “They respect that.”

He had seen her tear out someone’s throat, but Katla had convinced him killing was not her habit.

“Just what I always craved.” Katla drained her bottle. “Respect from violent slum dwellers.”

“It not that bad. You be considered a tourist. Dem no kill tourists.”

“So tourists visit the government yards?”

Zeph scratched his head. “I guess not.”

“So what use would I be?” She put her empty bottle in the kitchen. “Tourists will most likely stay in the touristic areas, not visit the slums or any other place your brother might be hiding.”

He sat down on his bed, took a spliff from a dented tin and lit up.

Katla went to the shelf with his old-fashioned boom box and went through the compact discs. She found King Tubby’s Prophecy of Dub by Yabby U and put it on. Lazy rhythms filled the room while the cannabis smoke was ripped apart by the breeze and sucked out through the open portholes.

She went back to the hammock. “What’s this thing about Cain being a collaborator?”

Zeph took the spliff from his mouth. “Cain is loyal to the downpressor.”

“You mean ‘oppressor’?”

“Dem press down, sista. Not ‘up’.”

Swinging softly in the hammock, Katla said, “So, who is the downpressor? The people in charge?”

“Politricksters.” He offered her the spliff. “Powermongers.”

She shook her head. “What does Cain do? Work for the government?”

“No, him run a diving school. For tourists.” He curled his lip. “Cain pay taxes.”

“He works and he pays taxes?” Katla smirked. “That smacks of pure evil.”

“I think you and him would get on. You dive too.”

“Just because we’re both divers doesn’t make us buddies.”

“Least you have common ground. And Jamaica is beautiful.”

“It also has a higher murder rate than Colombia,” Katla said. “And it’s probably teeming with American tourists.”

“New York also teem with Americans,” Zeph said. “No hold you back to go there at least once a year.”

She didn’t feel like explaining how Americans are fine on their home turf, but often behaved with an irritating sense of entitlement outside the United States.

Or maybe it was just that bitch Stern.

JACOB

Daniel woke from a slap in the face and blearily opened his eyes, which felt like they were crusted in salt. His entire body hurt and he was lying on a hard bunk that moved unsteadily until he figured out that he was on a boat that was rocked by the sea.

A creased face looked down on him, straggly white hairs peeping from his nostrils and into his beard. The hand that was raised to slap his face again retracted and the man said, “Cain’s lil’ brutha, aren’t ya?”

Nausea replaced the wooziness and he closed his eyes.

“Aren’t ya?” the man said. “Wake up, son.”

“I am awake,” Daniel spoke, his throat hurting. “Where am I?”

“You think you can fly?” The man shook his wizened head. “You look like death, but I fish you out. You on me boat now.”

“Did them see you take me outta the water?”

“Who?”

“Du—” He swallowed the name. “Them people follow me.”

“You didn’t look like you been pushed,” the old fisherman said. “I was too busy pull you out to look about, son.”

“Thanks for saving me. I’m Daniel.”

The man shook his hand. “Jacob. I take you to Cain.”

He sat up. The small boat was obviously old, but spotlessly neat. “I can’t go back, Jacob. People wanna make me dead.”

“So where I take you?”

“I need to get off the island.”

Jacob studied him pensively. “Cain help me once, in Negril. If he cannot protect you, you in deep trouble.”

“I know.” Daniel closed his eyes. “I don’t want to put my burden on him.”

“So where you go?”

He sighed. “Europe.”

“That is far away. How you get there?”

“I don’t know. It’s my only hope. I cannot stay here.”

“You have papers?”

Daniel felt his breast pocket. His passport was soaked, but might not be ruined if he cleaned off the salt water and dried it.

“I need to clean them first.”

“I see what I can do,” Jacob said, taking his passport. “Rest now.”

He lay back on the bunk and listened to the engine catching, then the chugging as the small fishing vessel started ploughing through the waves.

A temporary respite, but his options were limited. He couldn’t go back to the island. Cain wouldn’t be able to protect him from Duke. As long as Duke was alive, he wouldn’t be able to return.

He closed his eyes.

In his mind he saw the sweet face of Simone as he made love to her, but it was quickly replaced with Duke’s scowling mug. Duke probably had his own designs on Simone and just wanted him out of the picture. He needed help. Both for himself and for Simone, so she could escape from Duke’s evil clutches and wouldn’t have to pose as the mystic Sista Someday anymore.

ANOUK

Anouk Ravensdonk looked at herself in the full-length mirror, gently caressing her belly. Her Siamese cats, Newk and Baaba, were circling her ankles, rubbing their heads against her calves. The first trimester was almost over and she felt a bit more energetic. And the excess saliva was also decreasing, which made her feel less like a drooling cow, chewing gum feverishly to keep from salivating.

The doorbell interrupted her ruminations. Her watch told her it was noon, so that was probably the mailman with a package from the online baby store. She quickly pulled on her bathrobe and skipped along the hallway, took down the burglar chain and opened the door.

Katla stood in the doorway, glaring at her and wagging her finger. For a moment her heart rate tripled and she stepped back into the hallway on rubber legs.

“What the hell are you doing?” Katla stalked inside and closed the door behind her. “How can you be so stupid?”

Oh God. She knew about the pregnancy.

She had never seen Katla angry, but the cold look in her eyes was more terrifying that she had imagined.

Anouk put up her hands. “Please, don’t be mad. I can explain.”

Katla glared at her. “You can?”

Anouk racked her brain, but the words didn’t come. Fact of the matter was, she couldn’t explain. When the first trimester began and she had dizzy spells and fatigue, she had blamed it on the effects of the beating and the operation to remove her wandering xiphisternum. Same with the absence of her period, which could also be blamed on the operation. But when she started spotting and her next period didn’t show, she took a pregnancy test. The positive outcome both delighted her and gave her nausea from the tension of having to break the news. Apart from the one night stand with Bram she hadn’t had sex, so paternity was easily established. She had no idea if Bram had mentioned their one-night stand to Katla, but since Katla hadn’t mentioned it or changed her behaviour, she had figured that he’d kept it silent.

Unsure what to do, she had kept her pregnancy a secret from everyone until she went to visit Bram at Bianca’s luncheonette ten days ago. Bianca had taken one look at her and congratulated her with her pregnancy, so she couldn’t deny it any longer. Bianca had asked her about the baby’s father, but one look at Bram’s mask-like face and Anouk had told his sister she’d prefer to keep that a secret, for now. Bianca had looked disappointed, but Bram seemed visibly relieved.

But this was what she had dreaded—having to explain to Katla that she had sex with Bram. And ended up pregnant.

“I didn’t intend—” Anouk felt the words dry up in her mouth. She tried again. “I wasn’t thinking about you. How you’d feel—”

God, that sounded so lame.

“I feel like you don’t appreciate all I’ve done for you,” Katla said. “I installed that chain for your safety.”

Anouk blinked. “What?”

“The chain.” Katla gave her an exasperated sigh and pointed at the door. “Opening the door without the chain totally defeats my efforts to secure your front door.”

She didn’t know.

Relief washed over her. “You’re absolutely right,” Anouk said. “I’m sorry. I will use it more diligently.”

Katla tilted her head, her cool blue eyes narrowing. “Why do you look so relieved?”

“I’m just glad you’re not angry with me.”

“But I am,” Katla said. “You shouldn’t take these risks. Not in your condition.”

Your condition? Goddammit, she did know.

“You’re barely healed.” Katla shrugged out of her jacket. “You don’t want to end up in the hospital again.”

Anouk carefully kept her relief inside and just nodded gravely. “I’m sure that won’t happen anytime soon. Coffee?”

“Sure.”

Katla followed her to the kitchen, hung her jacket on the back of a chair, and stood at the doors looking out at her garden while Anouk filled her Moka pot and lit the stove.

When she turned around, Katla twisted the key on the crémone and found the bolt locked. Purely by chance, because Anouk often left the garden doors unlocked when she was home. Katla nodded to herself, as if satisfied by her apparent discipline.

Newk padded softly into the kitchen. Katla scooped the Siamese into her arms and cradled the cat like a baby, scratching his chin while Newk massaged her hand with his paws.

“He missed you,” Anouk said. “You’re really good with cats.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t look you up sooner.” Katla looked up at her. “After Bram and I returned from Japan, I mean.”

“How did you like Japan? Your first visit, wasn’t it?”

“It was interesting, but I’m not that much into the whole Japanese culture bit. So having Bram there was a huge advantage.” Katla tilted her head. “There’s something different about you.”

“Yes?”

“Like you’re glowing.”

Anouk smiled. “I’m just glad to see you.”

“Funny,” Katla said. “Somehow, I don’t get that feeling.”

“No?”

“You used to hug me.”

Anouk walked up to her and Katla put down the cat. She was almost a head taller and Anouk buried her face against her neck, breathing her smell, which seemed even more intoxicating than usual. She’d read somewhere that pregnancy enhanced olfactory senses to help the mother bond with the father of her child. Maybe they were right.

She closed her eyes and almost purred with happiness as Katla’s hands moved under her bathrobe and cupped her buttocks.

“I missed you,” Anouk whispered, even before she realised how much she’d missed Katla’s touch. They hadn’t had a lot of contact after the beating and before Katla and Bram had left for Japan. And she’d been too worried about Katla being upset about her sleeping with Bram to initiate further contact.

She shivered with delight as her cool fingers moved to the front of her bathrobe and Katla undid her belt. As her bathrobe fell open, Anouk pressed herself against her muscular body, her hands slipping under her shirt, exploring her strong muscular back. Her fingers moved upward and touched the seamless elastic of Katla’s sports bra.

“Feels like you’re dressed for action.”

“I’ve been running in the Westerpark.” Katla removed her hands. “Sorry, I’m still a bit sticky from my workout.”

Behind her, the Moka pot started wheezing.

“Coffee’s ready.” Katla slapped her butt. “Better turn off the stove.”

Anouk rubbed her buttocks as she turned off the stove, the Moka pot’s wheezing changing into a content burbling.

“You can take a shower, if you want.”

“And change back into my sweaty clothes?” Katla shook her head and sat down on a kitchen chair. “No thanks.”

Anouk straddled her lap. “You smell wonderful.”

Sitting on her lap brought their faces at the same height and Anouk kissed her mouth, tentatively at first, then more passionately as her lips parted. Just the tips of their tongues touching caused an almost electric shock to pass through her body and she moaned deep in her throat. She had always been easily aroused, but her pregnancy seemed to make her ultra-sensitive.

Katla’s mouth closed as she drew back. Anouk opened her eyes, Katla’s studious gaze filling her vision.

“You feel different,” Katla murmured. “Like you’re curvier.”

“Curvier?”

Katla looked at her chest. “Your breasts seem bigger.”

“Really?” Her nipples stiffened in anticipation. “Maybe you should make sure.”

A mischievous glitter appeared in Katla’s eyes. “Measure them, you mean?”

“No,” Anouk said. “I think you should kiss them.”

“They’re probably quite sensitive now, aren’t they?”

Anouk tilted her head. “They’re always sensitive to the right touch.”

Her face was level with her breasts, but Katla didn’t kiss them. Instead, she moved her hands over her body with a spider’s touch, following her curves. Anouk closed her eyes, her hands on Katla’s shoulders as she leaned in, willing her to use her mouth. She could feel herself get wet just imagining those strong fingers exploring her belly slipping down between her legs.

“Is Bram the father?”

Her heart stopped and blocked her throat. She opened her eyes, but Katla was looking down at her hands framing Anouk’s belly. She couldn’t see her face to assess her mood, but her mouth was too dry to reply anyway. Her legs felt rubbery again as she got up from her lap and stepped backwards.

Katla dropped her hands on her knees and looked up at her, her calm gaze even more unnerving than anger or sadness. Anouk bit her lip and nodded, feeling like she was caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Katla just studied her, not giving any indication on how she felt about the situation. No disapproval, just objective scrutiny that made her even more uncertain how to respond. In her mind Anouk had pictured different scenarios, but in her imagination Katla was always upset or angry or sad. Not this curious indifference as if they were in a boardroom meeting discussing legal entanglements, but maybe Katla defaulted into corporate troubleshooting mode when a crisis presented itself.

Anouk swallowed thickly and said, “Are you angry?”

“Do I look angry?”

Anouk hugged herself. “No, but your calm is not very comforting.”

“I don’t intend to comfort you,” Katla said. “But I’m not angry. Disappointed, maybe.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Katla tilted her head. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are.”

“You have a weird way of showing your friendship.” Katla got up and walked to the garden doors, looking out over the wet garden. “Really weird.”

Anouk closed her bathrobe. “I just want you to know, it was not Bram’s fault.”

Katla kept looking out at the garden, her arms folded across her chest. “What part?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what part wasn’t Bram’s fault?” Katla turned around, her arms still folded. “What part of fucking you, impregnating you, and keep your pregnancy silent for me, wasn’t Bram’s fault?”

“It’s all my fault,” Anouk said. “I seduced him. And I forgot the pill, or it didn’t work.”

“When did you tell Bram?”

Ten days ago, she wanted to say, but she didn’t want to get Bram into trouble. Or rather, into more trouble.

She swallowed and said, “Recently.”

Bram’s visit that same evening had been awkward at first, but she had been glad he hadn’t tried to dissuade her from keeping the child. And he’d been sweet, holding her and resting his hand on her belly, although she herself had not yet felt a kick inside.

“Recently.” Katla studied her again. “How recent?”

“Just a few days ago.”

Although Bram hadn’t been happy about her pregnancy, he had defied her expectations and agreed to join her pregnancy yoga classes and accompany her to her gynaecological examinations. For support only. And on her promise not to introduce him as the father of the child. At least her greatest fear—Bram denying paternity and banishing her from his life—hadn’t occurred. Everything else was gravy, as far as Anouk was concerned.

“Did you tell him not to tell me?”

So he hadn’t told her. Maybe he had been hesitant about breaking the news to her. Anouk tried not to shuffle her feet. “I-I wanted to tell you myself.”

“Even Bianca knew about this before I did.”

Bianca the blabbermouth. No, that was unfair. Bram’s sister was just happy for her, and she couldn’t help her lack of discretion.

“I’m sorry.”

“So you say, yes.” Katla walked over to the kitchen table and drank her coffee, and shrugged into her jacket. “Well, thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re going?”

“You had several moments after I came in to tell me about your pregnancy, Anouk. It’s clear to me that you didn’t want to tell me.” Katla halted in the kitchen doorway. “I’ll give you some space, so you can re-assess our friendship. Because, right now, I don’t feel the love.”

Anouk moved to the doorway, but Katla had already crossed the hallway. The front door closed behind her. Not with an angry bang, but with a mute silence that locked up Anouk’s throat until the tears ran down her cheeks.

ADJUTANT

Brigadier Marijn Polak unzipped his wet bomber jacket, held his badge to the scanner, and rode his motorcycle through the gap as soon as the speed gates opened to give him access to the parking lot behind police headquarters. Marijn tucked his badge away as he slowly cruised the lot to the other side. He parked his XT500 under the awning, license plate towards the wall, but didn’t bother locking his motorcycle. Even if a motorcycle thief was bold enough to enter the fenced police parking lot, they wouldn’t be interested in his beater.

Two uniformed police officers came out, heading for a patrol car. The youngest eyed him curiously, but the oldest gave his colleague a jab with his elbow, knowing perfectly well that undercover cops didn’t want to be greeted by cops in public. Truth be told, Marijn didn’t really want to go anywhere near HQ, but Carel Basalt had asked him to come in. It had to be important, or Basalt wouldn’t ask him to jeopardise his undercover status.

Marijn knew how to remain unobtrusive, even in the huge police station. His slight frame and lank hair, coupled with the worn bomber jacket, faded jeans and worker boots, made him blend in with civilians. He avoided the elevator and used his badge to enter the staircase, not eager to spend time in a closed space with police officers who might ask him who he was. Plus, walking the stairs was good exercise.

The officers behind the reception would see his badge number on their monitors, but even they didn’t have access to who he really was. As it should be when you hung out with hardened criminals. If any of them found out who he really was, his body would end up floating facedown in one of the many lovely canals.

Marijn climbed the stairs and entered the fourth floor, where he walked the carpeted corridor to the chief inspector’s office. He walked in expecting to see only Basalt, but, to his surprise, Commissioner Koninck was standing by the windows looking out on the Elandsgracht.

Which explained Basalt’s request to come in. The commissioner was not the type to meet with undercover officers outside a police station. A good thing too, Marijn mused, because Koninck was well known in criminal circles, not in the least because his face appeared frequently on television.

Koninck turned away from the windows as Marijn entered. “Glad you could come in, adjutant.”

“My pleasure, Commissioner.” Did the commissioner just get his rank wrong?

Basalt smiled at him and pointed at a chair. “Please sit down, Marijn.”

The commissioner took the other seat for himself and said, “I wanted to congratulate you in person on your promotion.”

“Thank you, sir.”

So the ‘adjutant’ hadn’t been a mistake. Koninck was sly, though. Marijn didn’t think he’d done anything to deserve this sudden promotion.

“As you might well know, to become a liaison officer requires the rank of adjutant or higher.” Koninck steepled his fingers. “You showed excellent skills in that department when working with the Americans.”

“Skills, sir?”

“Discretion,” Koninck said. “Persuasion. The whole Schiphol case could’ve blown up in our faces, if it hadn’t been for you and Chief Inspector Basalt handling the Americans with discretion and having them do the heavy lifting. I just wanted to let you know that your efforts in that matter are appreciated. I’m confident you’ll show the same diligence and fortitude in your new job.”

Marijn smiled politely. “Thank you, sir.”

“You can handle the rest, Carel.” Koninck rose from his chair and held out his hand. “Congratulations, adjutant.”

Marijn came to his feet to shake the offered hand. Koninck left the office and Marijn waited until the commissioner had closed the door behind him, before he turned to Basalt.

“What’s going on, Carel?”

“Take a seat and don’t look so worried. We’re not going to make you a real liaison.” Basalt studied an unlit cigar. “Your name will be added to the roster, but you won’t have to do their work.”

“So why the promotion?”

“You’ll be liaising with only one person.” Basalt cleared his throat. “Deborah Stern.”

“Ah, crap.” Marijn leant back his head and closed his eyes. “I thought we were done with the Americans.”

“We will never be done with the Americans.”

He rubbed his temples. “Is this because she wants to get into my pants?”

“Stern is susceptible to your charms, Marijn. We need you to communicate with her, off the books.”

“Pillow talk, you mean.”

“Nobody says you have to bed her.” Basalt tossed a credit card on the desk. “We’re giving you an expense account. You can use that credit card to take her out for dinner, stuff like that.”

“So I won’t have to explain my expenses to my wife. Do you want me to remove my wedding band as well?”

“No,” Basalt said. “Stern likes married men.”

Marijn sighed. He knew all too well what Stern liked. She’d come on to him months ago, claiming she wasn’t interested in a relationship with him beyond the physical and that she’d respect his marriage. She even drew a comparison to snorting coke when undercover to convince a criminal. Except that in his dealings with Stern, he hadn’t been undercover. And now they wanted him to go under the covers with her.

Marijn looked down on the Elandsgracht. “I didn’t figure I’d have to turn tricks when I signed up for this job.”

“You don’t have to do anything. The adjutant’s pay would make it easier for you to move out of that crappy apartment and nobody will complain if you buy your wife dinner or flowers with that credit card.”

“You should’ve become a pimp, Carel. You make this all sound so reasonable. What’s next? Are you going to convince me all women expect their husbands to cheat, so I might as well cheat on my wife?”

“One of the reasons I know you’ll do a good job is because you have integrity. Not many detectives can do what you did without becoming corrupt. You never lost sight of the big picture.”

“Which in this case involves cheating on my wife without feeling like a whore. Is that it?”

Basalt grinned. “I don’t get why you’re complaining so much. I wouldn’t kick Stern out of my bed.”

“Of course not. Probably eight out of ten married men would give their left testicle to fuck Stern. And, oh lucky me, I even get money to wine and dine her.”

“Wine and dine her, yes. Nobody says you have to sleep with her.”

Marijn groaned. “Frustrating her won’t curry any favours.”

“Giving in and showing how crappy you are in the sack might get you off the hook.”

“Now you’re telling me my wife has low standards.” Marijn grinned. “Is there no limit to your depravity?”

Basalt took two cold beers from the refrigerator. “Let’s get up on the roof and celebrate your promotion.”

With the beers in one hand, he put an arm around Marijn’s shoulders and said, “And tonight, you will announce your promotion to your wife and take her out for a four-course dinner at a good restaurant and tell her that you’ll have to do that at least once a week as a liaison.”

“Prepare her for the cheating,” Marijn said. “Wonderful.”

He followed the chief inspector to the stairs, rolling a cigarette to smoke on the roof.

RANGE

Bram donned the ear mufflers and held on to Stern’s elbow as she guided him inside the echoing chamber with the ruckus going on. The mufflers did a good job of lessening the assault on his hearing, but he wished for nose plugs. The air smelled abrasively of metal and oil, scorched paper and the burned metallic smell he associated with death.

The sound came in waves, probably due to people having to reload before they could fire another volley at their paper targets. Nearby, people stopped firing and he felt their eyes.

He pulled Stern’s elbow to stop her and leaned close. “Are they staring at me?”

“Yes.” Her breath was redolent of breath mints. “Probably wondering what a blind man is doing at a shooting range.”

He wondered about that himself. When Stern invited him, he’d agreed because shared experiences would make it easier to penetrate her defences without having to get truly intimate. Still, even without the noise and the smell, he had no affinity for firearms. Bram could handle most weapons in the curriculum of the ancient samurai warriors, whether they were sharp like swords and halberds or blunt striking weapons like the staff, but projectile weapons were useless if you couldn’t see what you were aiming at.

Stern guided him to a counter. The change in acoustics suggested barriers on either side, like a stall. She took his right hand and placed a small boxy semi-automatic pistol in his palm.

“This is a Glock 26,” Stern spoke loudly near his right earmuff. “Also called the Baby Glock, because it’s so compact.”

She guided his fingers over the rough texture of the semi-automatic pistol, telling him the name of each part and how to operate the slide. He wasn’t totally ignorant of firearms, but she clearly relished instructing him, so he pretended to be less informed than he really was.

“This Glock is chambered in nine millimetre, the magazine holds ten rounds, and the safety is the tiny protrusion you feel in the trigger.”

On her advice, Bram stood with his left leg in front, the pistol in his right hand, the left hand supporting his gun hand from underneath. Guiding his hands, Stern helped him put the magazine into the grip of the pistol and rack the slide to put the first round in the chamber. She took up position behind him, her breasts and belly pressing against his back as she strained to reach around him and rest her hands on top of his lower arms.

Her chin rested on his right shoulder. “This pistol doesn’t have a lot of recoil, so don’t worry about that.”

Bram turned his head to the right and felt her lips touching his cheek as he said, “Did you get this gun because of your wrist?”

“No, but I do use ammunition with reduced loads. Relax your shoulders, breathe out and shoot.”

“I have no idea what I’m aiming at. I could be shooting at a human being.”

“Trust me,” Stern said, her lips close enough to kiss his mouth. “I won’t let you shoot anybody.”

Bram could feel her heartbeat through her body pressed against his own and knew she was aroused.

Good.

He held the pistol loosely when he pulled the trigger, so the Glock tried to shock out of his grip.

“Hold the grip tighter,” Stern said. “And don’t pull the trigger, but squeeze it slowly.”

He squeezed the trigger. The pistol bucked in his grip again, but this time he held it firmer, as if responding to her guidance. Stern’s hands pressed down on his lower arms to adjust his aim.

“Go ahead,” she breathed against his cheek. “Empty the mag.”

He fired eight more times until the slide stayed open.

“You’re a natural,” Stern breathed. “Do you want to know your score?”

“It’s your score,” Bram said. “You aim, I just shoot.”

He ejected the magazine and put it down on the counter, then held up his hand. Stern slapped a fresh magazine into the palm of his left hand. He pushed the mag into the grip, then released the slide and lifted the Glock. Her warm palms moved over his body to change the position of his hips and his shoulders. When her hands rested on top of his arms again, he emptied another magazine, smelling the burnt gunpowder wafting back towards him before it was sucked into fans whirling overhead.

Despite the lethal power of the gun bucking in his hand and a sense that somewhere in the distance a paper target was getting shredded by bullets, the experience was not as gratifying as Stern claimed it would be. Her arousal from hugging him close was much more interesting and he grinned.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Bram?”

“Yes,” he said. “This is interesting. Thank you for taking me.”

She squeezed him tightly for a moment, a hug that felt like a full body massage.

-o-

Deborah was glad Merleyn couldn’t see the flush on her cheeks. Her colleague’s suggestion to take Merleyn for a shooting lesson had sounded like a ludicrous idea, but James had been right about creating a situation where she could get physically close to Merleyn without overt intimacy.

In her heels, they were about the same height, and pressing herself against him in the privacy of the stall, the hard muscles of his back and buttocks pushing back against her blouse and skirt, brought her flashes of what it would be like to curl up against his naked body. His build wasn’t athletic, but his martial arts training evidently provided a good workout. His pecs and abs were rock-hard under her hands as she shifted his hips and pushed back his shoulders and it took every bit of her self-control to stop herself from caressing him. Merleyn seemed indifferent to their closeness and her hands itched to travel down to his crotch to check if he was truly unaffected.

-o-

With his hand firmly holding her elbow, Deborah guided Merleyn across the road to the restaurant to have lunch. A few smokers were huddled by a brazier, their collars turned up against the chilling wind while they sucked their cancer sticks.

Deborah held the door for Merleyn, slipped in behind him and put his hand back on her elbow. Guiding Merleyn past the tables, Deborah noticed people studying them while trying not to gawk. She stared straight ahead, ignoring their veiled glances. Part of her wished Merleyn would wear something to hide his facial scars, but another part cringed in shame at the thought. It was not as if he flaunted his scars, they were just part of his face, and people should show more restraint. Her shame was replaced by a fleeting anger that dissipated as she spotted an empty table in the back.

The bar gleamed in the diffused golden light and soft jazz played over the stereo in a non-obtrusive way, which was one of the reasons she had chosen it for lunch. Relaxed without being overtly intimate.

Deborah sat Merleyn down with his back to the door, so she could keep an unobstructed view of the entrance. Part of her was still worried that Katla might show up. The waitress came and Deborah ordered a cappuccino, then the waitress glanced at Merleyn and said, “And what does he want?”

Deborah was taken aback by her—probably involuntary—rudeness, but Merleyn smiled and said, “He wants to be addressed directly. Do you have loose leaf tea or tea bags?”

“Tea bags, sir,” the waitress said, who had the good grace to blush. “I’ll bring you the box.”

“That wouldn’t do much good. I doubt if you have Lapsang Souchon, so Earl Grey will do fine.”

“We have Earl Grey.”

“I’d certainly hope so,” Merleyn said. “Now, what sandwiches do you have?”

The waitress looked at the laminated menu on the table, but she wasn’t foolish enough to offer it to a blind man.

Deborah leaned back in her chair and bit her cheeks to keep from laughing. The waitress listed the sandwiches and Merleyn selected a sandwich with hummus, told her to hold the butter and turned in Deborah’s direction.

“Would you like something to eat?”

Her stomach was in knots and she didn’t feel like eating, but she ordered a small salad.

Merleyn turned his scarred face back in the direction of the waitress. “That will be all, thank you.”

“I’ll get you your drinks now.”

As the waitress scurried off, Deborah touched Merleyn’s wrist. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

“It was a little noisy,” Merleyn said. “But I’m glad you persuaded me to come.”

“I mean, dressing down that waitress.”

“Would you enjoy it, Deborah? Explaining to ignorant fools that you don’t want to be treated like a dunce just because your eyes don’t work?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Neither do I,” Merleyn said. “I don’t let it get to me anymore, but I don’t enjoy teaching people manners.”

“That’s too bad because you’re pretty good at it.”

An infectious grin lit up his face and his horrific facial scars seemed to disappear. For a brief moment Deborah could imagine how handsome Merleyn had been before he was blinded and scarred. Not the vacuous beauty of a male model, but undeniably attractive and charming.

The first time they met, he’d told her his scars were a litmus test, allowing only those who abandoned their preconceptions to see beyond the superficial damage.

She looked at his closed eyelids, riddled with tiny scars. “Why do you always keep your eyes closed?”

“I keep the shutters down—” Merleyn stopped talking as the waitress arrived with their drinks. When she walked away again, he cocked his head as if gauging the distance, while his fingers opened the foil package of the tea bag.

“She’s out of earshot,” Deborah said. “You were saying?”

He put the tea bag in the hot water. “It’s no use lifting the shutters when there’s nothing on display.”

“Nothing? They removed your eyes?”

Merleyn turned to her and opened his eyes. His eyes were totally white with discoloured spots in the center, which was only marginally better than yawning empty sockets.

“That’s what I thought.” He closed his eyelids. “Well, now you know why I keep my eyes closed. I’m disfigured enough as it is.”

“Disfigurement is an exaggeration.”

“I heard you gasp, Deborah. Don’t pretend—”

She put a finger on his lips.

“I wouldn’t call my sharp intake of breath a gasp.” Deborah brushed her fingers over his skin as she tilted his face in her direction. “Yes, your eyes don’t look pretty. I didn’t expect them to. Can you open them again?”

Merleyn opened his eyes. Both irises were covered with cataracts that were mostly white but had some yellowish starfish-shaped discolouration in the centre. Judging by the scars on his eyelids, the trauma was probably caused by penetrating objects.

“What caused this damage? Shrapnel?”

“Glass and metal. The eyes were already ruined, but they damaged them even further when they removed all the particles.” Merleyn closed his eyes again and turned his face away. “At least I won’t set off any metal detectors.”

The waitress approached with their food and Merleyn thanked her softly.

As he wolfed down his sandwich, his face turned up to the soft lights and she studied his scars. They covered his face from his forehead to his chin, mostly on the left side which also had a bigger star-shaped scar, but his neck and ears were curiously free of similar damage, as if he had been wearing a hood.

“The shrapnel peppered your face, but it’s grouped together.”

“I was too close to do more than close my eyes.” He sniffed his tea and removed the bag. “And that didn’t protect them at all.”

“I would be devastated if I lost my eyesight.” Deborah unpacked the cookie that came with her cappuccino. “You don’t seem unhappy.”

“I believe in kismet,” Merleyn said, gently lowering the tea bag on the saucer. “Fate.”

“Like destiny?” She picked at her salad. “Karma?”

Merleyn shook his head. “Karma is present-day retribution for misdeeds in past lives. Kismet is bad things happening for good reasons.”

“Have you found the reason for what happened to you?”

“Oh, yes.”

He picked up his tea and blew in the cup before he drank from the hot brew. Deborah waited for something more, but he didn’t elaborate. She stirred her cappuccino and said, “You don’t want to share.”

His infectious grin flashed across his face again. “No, I don’t.”

“Because it’s private or because I wouldn’t understand?”

“Both,” Merleyn said. “Shall we change the topic?”

“Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about your blindness?”

“I don’t think the topic is terribly interesting.”

“Maybe not to you,” Deborah said. “I never met a blind person before I met you.”

“I never met a gun-toting former alcoholic DEA agent before I met you.” Merleyn took a bite from his sandwich and wiped his mouth. “Or does it make you uncomfortable to talk about yourself?”

“I’m not a field agent.” Deborah sipped her cappuccino. “I liaise between the DEA and foreign agencies to smoothen communications.”

“Not just foreign agencies. You worked together with Cohn from Homeland Security.”

“You don’t like Laure, do you?”

“I don’t care for her, but that doesn’t mean I dislike her. I know Cohn thinks she’s just doing her job.”

“So am I,” Deborah said. “Although taking you to a shooting range doesn’t really count.”

“So this was not to get me alone, away from my habitual surroundings and see if that would make me more susceptible to coercion.”

“Not at all.”

Merleyn sipped his tea. “That’s good to hear.”

Deborah touched the lapel of his faded corduroy jacket. “Cohn mentioned the pin you wore, when you were in Japan.”

“When I mentioned that I was going to Japan, one of my regular customers gave me a lapel pin that he claimed would protect me. I thought the pin was a good luck charm, but the markings signified that I was under the protection of a powerful yakuza clan. I didn’t mind, because the pin did work like a charm. Opened a lot of doors that would be closed to foreigners.” Merleyn finished his tea. “Cohn was confused, thought I was a member of that clan.”

“And you’re not.”

“What would a powerful Japanese organisation want with a blind busker, Deborah? They might like my shiatsu skills, but you don’t enlist your chiropractor into the DEA, do you?”

“Depends on whether my chiropractor is in an intimate relationship with a contract killer.”

Merleyn pursed his lips. “Katla can be abrasive, but your dislike doesn’t validate your suspicions. You have to separate feelings and facts. And the fact is that she’s just a convenient suspect.”

“She behaved like a killer when she broke my wrist.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have threatened her. Just because she’s allergic to blood doesn’t make a pacifist. Or a coward.”

Deborah idly mixed her salad with her fork. “Didn’t she use an aikido technique? I thought you were not supposed to harm your opponent in aikido.”

“You need to be mentally above the selfish need to hurt someone, yes. That takes a lot of practice. It’s much harder to keep an attacker from harm than to harm them. Especially outside the dojo.”

“I imagine if you’d break someone’s wrist in the dojo, you would get in trouble.”

Merleyn shrugged. “Same trouble you’d get if you shoot someone at the shooting range, I imagine.”

“So have you harmed people?”

Something flashed across his features, too swift to read. Shame? Guilt?

“I guess you read my police record, didn’t you?”

“That incident with the panhandler?” Deborah chuckled. “I guess he deserved it.”

“Deserved.” Merleyn wiggled his hand. “Such a strange word. Do you deserve a broken nose if you act belligerent and aggressive? Does it matter if the person you confront is blind or sighted?”

For someone who was in a relationship with an assassin, Merleyn seemed repulsed by acts of violence. Either his attitude would make for interesting pillow talk, or Sieltjes kept him out of the loop.

On the other hand, he had shown acts of aggression. And there was something in his attitude that hinted at a violent past, like the ease with which he handled the Glock despite his admission of never having trained with guns. She’d delved in his past, but there was nothing on file that hinted at training. No army record, and the police record only mentioned the panhandler incident, which had been ruled self-defence.

“There is this study,” Deborah said, “with a hypothetical question. Five people are tied to railroad tracks with an out-of-control train about to run them over. You have—”

Merleyn held up his hand. “The Trolley Problem. Throw the switch and the train changes tracks and kills only one person instead of five. You’re supposed to make the most ethical decision.”

“Right.”

“Theoretical ethics are great for academics, but worthless in the real world.” He ran his fingers over the sandwich plate, picking up crumbs by stabbing them with his finger. “We’d all like to make the most ethical decision, but in real life we’d probably freeze and not act, then berate ourselves for not acting, thinking we could’ve saved the people tied to the tracks.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Of the three natural responses to impending danger—Freeze, Flight, or Fight—freezing happens far more often than the other two.” He licked crumbs from his finger. “A mouse in the shadow of a hawk, a deer in the headlights of a car, a rabbit in a poacher’s spotlight.”

“So what do you—”

Merleyn held up his hand, reached into his pocket, and took out his vibrating phone. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Most Dutch people answered their phone with their name, but Merleyn just said, ‘Ja’, and listened. Deborah couldn’t hear the conversation, so she watched his face for micro expressions. His face was a mask all through the conversation, then he spoke in Dutch, “I understand. Talk to you later.”

“Important call?” Deborah inquired as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Do you need to go somewhere?”

“Yes, I do. Are you finished?”

“Sure. Would you like me to drop you somewhere?”

“Weesperplein, if you can.”

“No problem.”

She paid for lunch, then walked him to her car in the private parking of the shooting range.

“So what is your natural reaction, Bram? After freezing to assess the danger? Somehow, if you have to choose between flight or fight, I don’t think you choose flight.”

“I’m trained to assess danger as swiftly as possible. I can’t outrun danger though, so flight is never an option. What I did with that panhandler was an impulsive overreaction, something I’m not proud of.”

“Like you said, he was belligerent and—”

“That’s no excuse,” Merleyn said. “If I’d kept a cool head, I would’ve defended myself without harming him. Instead, my emotions ran amok and ruled my actions.”

She opened the passenger door for him. “You’re pretty strict with yourself.”

“You think so?” He got into the passenger seat and buckled up. “I might not be indulging myself, but I’m not flagellating myself over my mistakes.”

She turned down his window and closed his door, then leant in the frame. “I’d like to see you in action.”

“I don’t give public demonstrations. I train for the same reason you go to the range. To improve or at least keep up my skills.”

“I could be training for shooting competitions. I read that aikido has no competitions, but suppose it did, would you compete?”

He shook his head. “I don’t need the validation.”

Deborah walked around her car and got behind the wheel. She knew Merleyn had just made a statement that didn’t need to be refuted, but she still felt defensive, maybe because he stated it so matter-of-factly.

She got behind the wheel and said, “Competitions are not just ego-fueled tournaments, but also a way to connect with your peers.”

“If you say so,” Merleyn replied, sounding bored.

Deborah felt anger twist in her guts, but she held her tongue. Most likely Merleyn was preoccupied with the call he’d received and she was taking his lack of interest way too personally. Maybe it was his mask-like face, which had lost all animation. The closed eyes exacerbated the illusion that he was half-asleep.

In a way it was funny, her desire to somehow impress him, but it made her aware of his unusual charm. For some reason, despite being abrasive and dismissive, most women—herself included—seemed to disregard his borderline cruelty.

Deborah wondered if Sieltjes ever felt as exasperated with him. Maybe she wasn’t as insecure. Maybe that was the power Sieltjes held over him.

COAST GUARD

Daniel was awakened by voices and the thumping of another vessel against Jacob’s little fishing boat. He tried to sit up, but the whole side of his body where Duke had whacked him with his cane felt like hamburger.

With one hand pressing against his fractured rib, Daniel braced his free hand and managed to pull himself up to a sitting position and swing his legs over the side of the bunk. He stayed like that for a minute to get his bearings, then lowered himself from the bunk to the cabin floor. The floor rocked under his feet as he made his way to the door.

Outside, the sky was rose-tinted from the setting sun.

As he peeked around the cabin doors, Daniel saw a grey hull looming over the small fishing boat.

A Coast Guard patrol boat.

“Daniel Catadupa,” a familiar voice spoke from above. “In trouble again, I see.”

Peter looked down at him and brushed some invisible lint from his immaculate uniform. Most Rastafarians considered him, like Cain, to be a lackey of the white establishment, but both Cain and Peter were doing better than the Yardies who condemned them for their disloyalty.

“Yes,” Daniel said. “Bad trouble, this time.”

“Sleep with dogs, wake up with fleas.”

Daniel glanced up at his face. Did he just call Simone a dog?

“Why you messing about with them folks, Daniel?” Peter shook his head at him. “I think you be smarter than that.”

“Them folks? Like I’m different?”

“Yardies have no choice but to live there. You can live with Cain, but you no want to work. That no make you a Yardie.”

Live with Cain. Cain the upstanding citizen. Daniel looked at the coastline in the distance, bathing in the red glow of the setting sun, then looked up at Peter again. “Can you help me?”

“Where will you go?”

“Europe. Amsterdam.”

“Amsterdam? You think Zeph can help you?”

Daniel shrugged. “Zeph is doing well, I hear. Still living the Ital way.”

“You don’t want to be dragging your problems to your brother’s door, Daniel. You better clean up your act. Straighten out. Get a job, forget this nonsense.”

Daniel nodded. This wasn’t the first sermon, but if he could get away from here, perhaps it would be the last.

“Climb on board,” Peter said. “I think it’s best if we don’t involve Cain. He’s too easy to isolate and he’s never armed with more than a speargun.”

Climbing the rope ladder hurt his side, but Daniel did his best not to grimace. “You think they’ll pick a fight with him?”

“Duke is like a rabid dog. He’ll be furious when he loses his toy.” Peter helped him aboard the cruiser. “Because that is all you is, boy. He toy with you until he’s tired of you, then he rip off your head and feed you to the fishes.”

“Hey, thanks for the warning.”

“You’re welcome.”

They waved at Jacob as the small fishing vessel chugged away towards the coast.

“Go inside,” Peter said. “Maybe we can find someone willing to take you to Puerto Rico.”

As he entered the cruiser’s pilot house, Peter’s colleague nodded at some emergency blankets. “We keep them for swimmers and surfers who stray too far from the coast. Get your kit off and take one of them blankets. We’ll hang your clothes where they can dry.”

“Thanks.”

Daniel took a blanket and went down the steep ladder to the bunks. The floor tilted as the powerful engines pushed the cruiser through the choppy waves. Holding on to a pole, he struggled to get his damp jeans from his ankles. Peter came downstairs.

“You dove from the cliffs? You lucky to live, boy.”

“I don’t remember what happened after I hit the water,” Daniel said. “Jacob saved me.”

“Duke is a scary fellow, but that is extreme.”

“I saw him beat—” Daniel stopped. If he told Peter that he witnessed Duke beating Mama Benga to death, Peter would want him to return to the island and testify against Duke. That he could never do. “Duke beat up people for less than I did.”

“He’s a volatile old fuck, yes. Still, he’s not as bad as that Obeah bitch he hangs out with.”

Daniel didn’t say anything. Simone might intimidate people on occasion when she was in her role as Sista Someday, but Duke was truly lethal. And now extremely pissed off at him. He just hoped Duke hadn’t noticed Jacob fishing him from the water.

SCHIPHOL

Bishop had just given her a flight number, told her to meet the person at Schiphol, so Deborah parked her car on the platform with airport security in a section for diplomatic vehicles. As she walked the short distance to the terminal, she took out her badge and hung it around her neck.

Upon entering, Deborah encountered an officer of the Koninklijke Marechaussee, the special royal police force who guarded the international airport. He looked her over, noticed her holstered Glock and put his hand on the butt of his own gun. She kept her hands in view as she walked up to him and let him check her credentials. He studied her gun permit and radioed her presence to the central security hub. After she got the nod, Deborah strolled down the pier to the main terminal and took up her position near the meeting point at Arrivals.

It annoyed her that Bishop hadn’t given her the name of the party she was supposed to meet, but he’d said the person would recognise her.

It probably wouldn’t be Zellweger, the European section chief, because this was a transatlantic flight. She just hoped it wasn’t Cutlass, the hard-nosed international chief stationed in Washington. She’d seen Cutlass only once, from a distance, when he was giving a lecture at the academy. From the grovelling and pandering by the other section chiefs, it was obvious that they were—

“Hello, honey,” a soft voice spoke from her left and Deborah turned on her heel.

Her mother looked her up and down. “You look well.”

“So do you, Mom.”

“You look positively startled.” Rieke Stern laughed and hugged her. “Your boss didn’t tell you, hmm?”

“No, he didn’t.” Deborah returned her embrace. “How long are you staying?”

“I just got here.” Rieke pulled back and studied her. “You’re not pleased I came over?”

“No. Yes. I mean, sure, I’m pleased.” She took her mother’s trolley. “This is a tremendous surprise. You’re here for my birthday?”

“Of course. Last time we could only talk over that computer phone, so this time your boss sent me the airfare.”

Her birthday wasn’t until next week. She mustered a smile and said, “I have my car parked in the diplomatic section.”

Rieke patted the bulge under her coat. “Is that a gun, honey? I thought you were done with those horrible things after that shooting incident.”

“That was almost two years ago.” Deborah pulled the trolley towards the pier. “I got over it. Are you coming?”

“Not so fast, honey. I’m an old woman.”

Fishing for compliments.

Deborah was tempted to say something about slowing down to account for her decrepitude. Instead she turned and said, “You’re not that old, Mom.”

Rieke flashed her a radiant smile. “Lead the way.”

Maybe it would be okay.

“Did they book you a room?” Deborah walked away. “Where are you staying?”

“Your boss told me you had an apartment in Amsterdam.”

Oh, crap.

Deborah was glad her mother couldn’t see her expression. Sure, Rieke had offered her shelter when she’d been on sick leave after the shooting, but her mother’s apartment was three times the size of her Amsterdam flat.

Then she remembered the state she’d left her apartment in this morning.

Lars, the bartender from Café Bloemers, had stayed over last night. He was probably still asleep in her bed.

Shit.

Last thing she wanted to do was introduce Lars to her mother. She took out her phone and texted Lars while they walked to her car, hoping he would clear out before she arrived.

“Are you busy?” Rieke inquired, watching her finger swipe the screen of her phone. “Your boss told me he’d given you a week off.”

Oh, that was just brilliant.

She suppressed a groan. “Well, I’ll be with you as much as possible, Mom. But there are always cases that will require my attention.”

“Let others handle them. Nobody is irreplaceable.” Rieke pursed her lips. “So, did you join a church?”

“I’ve visited several churches,” Deborah lied. “Haven’t found the right community yet.”

She unlocked her car and put her mother’s trolley in the boot. Rieke waited primly by the passenger door. Deborah walked around the car and opened the door for her. “There you go, Mom.”

“I hope you drive safely. Traffic has become horrific around here.”

“When was the last time you were here?”

“Does it matter? It’s undoubtedly worse now.” Rieke put on her safety belt. “I’ll help you pick a church.”

Deborah put on her safety belt and started the car.

This was going to be a long, long week.

-o-

The ride to Amsterdam was arduous. Not because of the congestion on the motorway, but her mother was incapable of trusting her ability to negotiate traffic, frequently interspersing her update on people Deborah was supposed to know with admonitions to slow down and keep more distance from other cars. Informing her mother that the top speed on Dutch motorways was higher than NYC highways, and that she couldn’t keep more distance on the congested road without inviting other drivers to cut in, didn’t make a spot of difference.

She was leaving the A10 ring road when Lars texted her. ‘Just got your message, was in the shower. Need twenty minutes to clear out.’

Her groan must’ve been audible, because Rieke paused her monologue and inquired if she was all right.

“Minor setback,” Deborah said. “We need to take a slight detour.”

-o-

Her mother inspected her apartment like she was a realtor trying to find hidden flaws. The look of incredulity on Rieke’s face was enough to tie Deborah’s bowels in a knot. She wheeled her mother’s trolley into her bedroom, the sheets tossed haphazardly aside. Rieke entered her bedroom before she had a chance to straighten up.

“Charming apartment, but not much bigger than a hotel suite.” Rieke sniffed the air, then pointed at a used condom in a corner of the room. “Had some gentlemen visitors lately?”

Lars. Dammit.

“I—”

“No, I’m sorry.” Rieke held up her hand. “I suppose I shouldn’t pry.”

That sounded almost like an apology. It wasn’t, but apologies weren’t her mother’s strong suit.

Deborah turned away from her prying eyes and stripped the bed.

“You’re a grown woman,” Rieke said. “If you want to fornicate, that’s between you and God.”

Biting back an acerbic reply, Deborah balled up the sheets, picked up the condom and stalked to the kitchen.

Rieke trailed behind her. “At least you’re using protection.”

“Mom!”

“That was a compliment,” Rieke said. “Of sorts. I’d love to have grandchildren someday, but not born out of wedlock.”

“Can we change the topic?”

“I won’t judge, honey.”

That would be a first.

Rieke shrugged. “Only the Lord sits in judgment.”

“I’m sure He has better things to do,” Deborah said. “Would you like some tea?”

“Tea would be nice. Where do you keep your clean sheets?”

“I’ll make the bed for you, Mom.”

She put the kettle on and hurried to the bedroom, tossing clean sheets on the stripped bed before her mother had an excuse to go through her drawers. Rieke moved away from the bedroom and wandered into the living room, where she stood at the window looking out on the bare trees guarding the wintery park like silent sentinels.

Deborah turned back to the bedroom, made the bed and finished making tea. She took out her phone and texted Lars to tell him how he’d screwed up, then carried the tray with the tea pot and her good china cups into the living room. Her mother was still in the same spot. Deborah put down the tray and walked up to her.

In the reflection of the window, Rieke’s cheeks seem to glisten. She seemed frailer than before Deborah had left NYC. Frailer than the seventeen months warranted.

Deborah hugged her mother from behind. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” A trembling hand went up to her glistening cheeks, wiping the tears away. “I’m just happy to see you. I didn’t realise how much I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Mom.”

For a moment, the lie felt like the truth.

ELLIE

“I could get used to this,” Ellie said as the waiter brought them dessert.

Marijn looked up at his wife. She smiled at him happily and dug into her green tea ice cream.

“I’ll be able to do something like this maybe once a month on this expense account,” Marijn said. “But I’ll also be dining out as a liaison at least once a week.”

Ellie smiled at him. “You talk about dining out like it’s drudgery.”

“It will become part of the job. Business lunches, business dinners, evenings that I won’t be home to tuck Liesje into bed.”

Ellie put her hand on his. “Since she was born, you have been dialling back on the undercover work. You’ve been home almost every night. This is good for you, good for your career, and it will be good for us. With the adjutant pay and my part-time work, we might be able to move out of the Indische Buurt.”

“I didn’t know you had a problem with our neighbourhood.”

Ellie looked at him gravely. “Marijn, we have Liesje to think of. Better neighbourhoods mean better schools.”

“Aren’t you a bit early to plan her school?”

“Preschool starts at two. And we need to find her a school about a year before she starts school at four.”

Marijn nodded. “I see.”

“You can leave that to me. You just concentrate on your job.” She tilted her head. “What if you don’t succeed as a police liaison? Will they demote you?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t apply for the job. Koninck wanted me in the position.”

Ellie’s eyes widened. “The commissioner himself?”

“Yes. He was impressed with how Carel and I handled the Americans. Carel has to concentrate on his own work, but I’m available to liaise with them on a more or less permanent basis.” Marijn grinned. “Could be just a default choice.”

“Don’t say that.” Ellie squeezed his hand. “Don’t put yourself down like that. You’re a great detective and Koninck acknowledges your potential.”

And my ability to charm female operatives, Marijn thought, but he put the notion from his mind. No need to spoil his wife’s night out.

After dessert, they walked along the canals, their arms linked. The water reflected the lights of the bridges, masquerading the dark city with a festive veneer.

Ellie leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’ve missed this. Missed us.”

Marijn turned and took her in his arms. “There’ll be more of these evenings,” he said and kissed her, feeling like a hypocrite. “I love you.”

Ellie melted against him and whispered, “I love you too.”

They strolled together to Noordermarkt, where Marijn flagged a taxi.

“We can take the tram,” Ellie said.

“This goes on the expense account,” Marijn said. “Don’t worry about it.”

In the backseat of the taxicab, Ellie curled against him and whispered, “I could get used to this.”

He pulled her close and tried not to think of having to do this with Stern.

SAMARITAN

While the outside of the house looked as ramshackle as the other houses in the Yard, the inside of Sista Someday’s house was kept scrupulously clean by her devotees.

Duke stood outside in the hallway, watching Simone from the shadows.

In his mind he compared the young woman with how she was first revealed to him as a favourite of the spirits at the tender age of nine. Now, a mere decade later, Simone had blossomed into a delicate flower, but her piercing eyes and cruel mouth were belying her age. Her mystic abilities were her own, but without him she would never have become Sista Someday, successor to the Barefoot Duke. Her devotees were his devotees, but she had a tendency to forget that. He had seen to it that she got chances at education and refinement in a way never granted to him. And now, while he was still feared, he’d been relegated to playing second fiddle. He didn’t mind, as long as she didn’t forget it was him who put her where she was now.

Simone looked up and noticed him, her eyes filling with disdain.

“You must be getting soft in your old age,” she said. “I wanted Daniel back here, not chased off a cliff after watching you beat someone to death.”

“I know why you want Pretty Boy here.” Duke smirked. “I think him still alive.”

“You think or you know?”

“A fisherman dragged his body from the water. Did not see him toss his corpse back, so I assume he—”

“Don’t assume. Bring me Daniel, or prove to me that he drowned.”

He looked at the girl ordering him about. “I bring you his corpse.”

“Duke.” Simone’s eyes shifted, became darker as the mystic took over. Sista Someday’s voice was low, but cracked like a whip. “Don’t defy me.”

Her power was tangible. Duke leaned on his cane to keep from shuffling his feet like a school boy. “I know not why you defile your body with the likes of him, but Catadupa be the kind of person to run to the authorities. Can’t have that now, can we?”

“It would be ‘we’ if I had ordered you to stomp the old woman to death. But I didn’t.” She shook her head. “Your temper grows ever more mercurial.”

Rubbing his face into his lack of education again. “Mercurial?”

“You have a hair trigger, Duke. I thought you would’ve grown out of that now, at your age.”

“She was not just any old woman. Benga had influence. Not your kind, but people listen to her. I could no have her badmouth you in public.”

“Defending my honour now?” A cruel sneer appeared on her flawless features. “How sweet.”

“She had a potty mouth. If Catadupa no talk, nobody be the wiser.”

“Better make sure, then.”

Duke tilted his head. “Sure you ain’t gonna cry over Pretty Boy?”

Sista Someday gazed at him, her dark eyes unblinking. Something deep in her opaque eyes chilled him and Duke looked away first.

Tossing his cane from one hand to the other, Duke stepped outside into the sunshine and walked up to the Jeep. Reggie got out of the passenger seat and vaulted into the back.

Bone flashed him a cadaverous smile. “Where to, boss?”

“The wharf, Bone. Find that fisherman.”

“Jacob,” Reggie spoke from the back. “That’s his name.”

“Let’s find this Good Samaritan.”

-o-

Jacob looked nervous. “I pick up nobody.”

“Nobody?” Reggie pushed Jacob against the wall of the shed and grabbed the fisherman’s long, serrated knife. “Is them ratchet sharp, Samaritan?”

“I—” His nervous glance skittered from Reggie to Bone to Duke. “Him dead. I no want no trouble. I put him back in the water.”

Reggie put the knife on the fisherman’s throat. “Threw the fishy back? That what you saying?”

Duke stepped in, pulled the blade away from the fisherman’s throat. “Where?”

“I have a GPS, but I no think him at that location. You want him bad?”

Duke needed proof, but if Catadupa’s body was set adrift that proof would be difficult to get. “Why you no turn him over to the Coast Guard?”

“The Coast Guard?” Jacob spit and curled his lip. “Them probably figure I kill him.”

“Show me where you drop his body.”

They followed him back to his boat. Bone and Reggie slipped down into the cabin while Duke followed Jacob into the pilot house. The fisherman gave him the GPS coordinates and said, “Is a few miles from the coast. Him be eaten now.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Bone came up from the cabin, sucking in his cheeks, making his face all the more skeletal. “Nothing, Duke.”

Leaving Jacob with his boat, they walked back down the pier to the wharf. Reggie whistled tunelessly, then said, “He was lying. The bunk was damp.”

“Don’t mean nothing. He put him there.”

Bone shook his head. “You no put a dead mahn on you bunk, Duke. And the bunk was damp in the middle. Catadupa was on them bunk. Sitting up.”

“So where is he?”

“Haiti?” Bone shrugged. “Dom Republic?”

Duke tossed his cane from one hand to the other. “You check out Port-au-Prince, Bone.” He looked over his shoulder at Reggie. “You can look around Santo Domingo.”

Reggie nodded. “You want I&I kill him?”

“If you find him, bring him back.” He climbed behind the wheel of the Jeep and said, “I kill him I-self.”

LUNCH

Marijn was talking to James Creaux, the official DEA police liaison, when Stern appeared in the corridor. She looked at him and made as if to walk on by, but Marijn tilted his head and said, “So you took a blind guy to a shooting range, did you?”

Stern halted in her tracks and looked at Creaux. “You had to tell him, James?”

Marijn held up his hand. “James told me it was his idea, and for the record, I think it’s quite original. Was it successful?”

“Merleyn enjoyed it,” Stern said. “I got a bit closer to him, so it was a success.”

Creaux clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.”

As he walked away, Stern looked away from him as if she wanted to leave too.

“So.” Marijn smiled at her. “You’re getting closer to Merleyn?”

“Not in the physical sense,” Stern said. “I feel that he’s trusting me more.”

Marijn stepped closer. “So is he confiding in you now?”

Her green cat’s eyes locked into his.

He put more warmth into his gaze. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Our last conversation was not exactly pleasant.” She paused, ran her fingers through her hair. “I was really angry—”

“Just so you know,” Marijn said. “It was never my intention to make you angry. I handled it badly. Can I make it up to you?”

“What do you propose?”

“Did you have lunch yet?”

“I planned to grab a salad at the cafeteria upstairs.”

Marijn put his arm around her. “Let’s go out for lunch. My treat.”

“Buying yourself back into my good graces again?”

“No.” Marijn grinned. “That probably takes a four-course dinner, not just lunch.”

Stern smiled back. “Lead the way.”

-o-

The lunchroom didn’t have a serving staff, so Marijn walked up to the counter to fetch their plates.

He placed the salad in front of Stern. “So you’re getting closer to Merleyn, but does that take you any closer to Sieltjes?”

“I don’t want to get too close to her.” Stern looked nervous. “I know you are not convinced yet, but she’s been openly hostile towards me. Bram’s sister is not too fond of me either.”

“Maybe they think you want to get him in the sack.”

“I only date married men. You know that.” She took a bite from the salad, then asked, “How is your family doing?”

An innocent question, but Marijn wondered how to answer. If he hinted that there were minor problems—like Ellie’s diminished libido—Stern might be emboldened to pursue him. On the other hand, Stern preferred men in happy marriages who were unlikely to claim her.

Marijn realised he’d paused too long and said, “We’re doing fine. Liesje is growing up really fast.”

“So you’re doing ‘fine’?”

“Yes,” Marijn said. “Everything is going smoothly. Why? Life should be riding high all the time?”

“Maybe not, but if your marriage is just ‘fine’, that sounds like trouble brewing.”

“If you’re planning to become a fortune teller, don’t give up your day job.”

Stern leaned her head in her hands and blinked at him like a lazy cat in the sunshine. “I missed you.”

“Oh really? What did you miss?”

“Just talking to you.”

Marijn leaned forward on his elbows. “You don’t need to miss me, as long as you respect my boundaries.”

“Haven’t I?” A slow smile stretched her mouth. “Is it considered improper to just offer?”

“That might be offensive to married men.”

“Not the married men I meet.”

Marijn smiled. “I just don’t want to be considered eligible for your offer.”

Stern leaned back. “Okay, I won’t consider you eligible anymore.”

“Thank you.”

She tilted her head and licked her lips. “Still, I don’t understand you.”

“Do you need to understand me to have dinner with me?”

“Dinner?”

“Like you said, you didn’t think a lunch would suffice to bring me back in your good graces.”

“You’re right. Dinner might make me more susceptible to contrition.” She smiled again. “If you are contrite, that is.”

“I think we both handled that situation badly, but I was indubitably worse.” He rose from his chair. “I’m busy the next couple of days, but what about Friday?”

“If I can pick the restaurant?”

“Sure. I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Seven is good.” She beamed at him. “Listen, we can go Dutch.”

“No, that’s all right.” Marijn went up to the bar to pay.

One of the locals, a slob of a man drinking from a beer bottle, checked out Stern’s backside and said, “That’s a fine-looking woman you got. You’re a lucky guy.”

“I got?” Marijn narrowed his eyes at the man. “Are you implying I’m banging my sister?”

“Sister?” The man held up his hands. “No, no. Your sister is lovely.”

“My sister is lovely?” Marijn handed the girl behind the counter his credit card and leaned over the man. “What does that mean? Do you want to fuck my sister?”

The man decided he didn’t want to antagonise Marijn and shook his head.

“You don’t want to fuck my sister?” Marijn stepped closer to the man and glared at him. “Something wrong with her?”

“Nothing wrong with her,” the man said. “I don’t mean to offend.”

“No, I get it. You meant to pay her a compliment. You just have a fucked-up way of expressing yourself.”

The man’s face flushed. “I just said—”

“I heard what you said. She’s a fine-looking woman. That would be a compliment, if it had come from a connoisseur of fine-looking women.”

The man looked at him without speaking.

“What?” Marijn said. “Are you a connoisseur? Scout for a modelling agency? Recruiter for thousand-dollar-an-hour escort services?”

“I know a fine-looking woman when I see one.”

“So what is your reference? A girly magazine?”

The girl behind the counter handed Marijn back his credit card and the receipt, which he signed. She stayed close to listen in as Marijn turned back to the man.

“Since you’re not a connoisseur, your opinion doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“If you put it that way.”

“I do. It’s not that women don’t like compliments, but your disrespectful appraisal diminishes a woman to a collection of components that exist only to gratify your perverted pleasure. So grow the fuck up.”

Marijn stuffed the credit card in his pocket as he walked back to the table. Stern rose and put her arms around his neck, then whispered in his ear, “I so enjoy you going all Alpha. It’s arousing.”

“Knock it off,” Marijn whispered back while he disengaged her arms. “I just told him you are my sister.”

“I heard every word. I got hot hearing how you defended my honour.”

Marijn frowned. “What honour?”

Stern laughed and sauntered out of the lunchroom. The slob watched her ass, but he didn’t say anything and turned his attention back to his beer as Marijn glanced in his direction before following Stern outside.

PUCCINI

After a visit to the Waterlooplein flea market, Deborah showed her mother the statue of Spinoza opposite the Stopera, then took her to the Puccini Espressobar on the corner of the Staalstraat to sample their artisanal chocolate creations.

They took a table from where they could look out on the Zwanenburgwal while they had coffee with cake.

“This used to be the Jewish Quarter,” Rieke said. “After the War, the whole area was empty. Most of the Jews had been deported and a lot of the houses were torn down for firewood. My parents moved here just after, when they started rebuilding the area.”

“Is this where you met Carlo?”

“Yes.” Rieke smiled and for a moment Deborah could see how she must’ve looked when she was a young girl. “My parents were mortified, which I think was part of the attraction. We ran off to NYC together.” Her eyes seemed far away. “Not one of my best decisions. Seems like defiance is a family trait.”

“I didn’t defy you.”

“Not on purpose, no. But I had a different future in mind for you.”

“I’m happy here, Mom.”

Rieke nodded. “And I’m happy for you, honey.”

Outside the window, a dented silver Vespa came to a halt and the rider pulled the scooter on its stand. With a chill, Deborah watched Sieltjes remove her helmet. The assassin combed her fingers through her flattened hair while she looked out over the cold water of the Zwanenburgwal, as dark as the void that posed as her soul.

Deborah pretended there was something interesting at the bar, purposely turning her back on the window. From the corner of her eye, she watched Sieltjes enter the Staalstraat, swinging her Italian tricolour helmet by its strap like a handbag.

Please, don’t come in.

Sieltjes walked past the entrance of Puccini and Deborah sighed with relief. They had to finish their coffee and cake and get out before the assassin returned.

Deborah turned back to the window and took a bite from her cake as the bell above the door rang. In the reflection of the window, she saw the tricolour helmet in her hand as Sieltjes entered Puccini and went up to the bar.

Wishing she could disappear through the cracks in the floor, Deborah tried to stay as still as she could, hoping the assassin wouldn’t notice her.

-o-

Katla had spotted Stern entering Puccini, arms linked with an older woman, as she herself exited the toy store halfway down the Staalstraat.

She had just bought Anouk a plush platypus and filled out an apology card, to be sent with the toy. Maybe Bram was right about kismet, because this opportunity for payback was too good to let it slip by.

A good buildup was important, though, so she started her Vespa and rode around the block, then parked right on the sidewalk in front of Puccini where Stern couldn’t help noticing her.

As she locked the Vespa, Katla looked into the chocolaterie from the corner of her eye and saw Stern sitting up in shock. The elderly woman with her didn’t seem to notice Stern turning her back to avoid getting spotted.

Like that would help.

Katla smiled inwardly at Stern’s attempts to make herself invisible. Her red hair made the DEA agent as unsuitable for covert action as a peacock trying to hide among pigeons.

Katla walked past the window, blithely swinging her helmet as she sauntered past the entrance of Puccini and waited out of view. Now Stern would think she dodged the bullet.

Katla turned on her heel and walked back to the entrance. As expected, Stern had turned back to the window again, but Katla could see her stiffen as she entered and walked to the bar. She looked frozen, perhaps hoping not to be spotted, like a petrified gerbil hiding for an approaching snake.

Grinning, Katla pretended not to notice Stern and ordered espresso at the bar, then weaved her way through the tables to the far side, where Stern’s whole posture showed the redhead was ready to bolt.

Katla halted behind her. “Fancy meeting you here, Deborah. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

The elderly woman turned first, looking her up and down.

“You must be Deborah’s mother.” Katla gave the elderly woman a radiant smile. “I see some family resemblance.”

Stern swiveled around. “Hi, uh, Katla.”

She placed her helmet on an empty chair. “Mind if I join you for a spell?”

The elderly woman returned her smile. “You’re a friend of my daughter?”

“We’re not that close.” Katla pulled an empty chair from a nearby table. “But I’m delighted to finally meet her mother.”

The older woman held out her hand. “Rieke Stern.”

“Katla Sieltjes.” She took care not to squeeze the frail-looking hand. “Didn’t you live in New York?”

Stern looked at her sharply, probably wondering how deep Katla had checked her background.

“Still do,” Rieke Stern said. “I just came over for a few days.”

“Whereabouts do you live?” Katla sipped her espresso. “Manhattan?”

The elderly woman nodded. “Carmine Street.”

“Carmine?” Katla tilted her head. “Near MacDougal or Bedford?”

“Bedford. You know the Village?”

“Not very well, but I like the area.”

Rieke nodded. “So, where do you know my daughter from?”

“Deborah and I crossed paths frequently these past few months.” Katla smiled at Stern. “My boyfriend’s sister has a lunch room not far from police headquarters.”

Stern nodded, obviously relieved. “Her boyfriend is a jazz musician.”

“And you?” Rieke said. “What do you do?”

“I’m in the maritime cargo trade.” Katla finished her espresso. “But your daughter seems to think I’m an assassin.”

Rieke Stern blinked and looked at her daughter. “An assassin?”

Katla held up her hands. “I was as surprised as you are. Bad enough to trip over a dying man, but even worse to be considered the cause of his demise.”

“Oh, dear Lord.”

“It was rather ironic to be considered instrumental in his demise, as I can’t stand the sight of blood,” Katla said. “Even being physically ill didn’t dissuade Deborah and her colleagues from detaining me on suspicion of murder.”

“How dreadful.”

“I mean, do I even look like an assassin?”

Rieke looked her up and down and shook her head.

Stern rolled her eyes. “Mom, assassins can look like anyone!”

“I know, darling.” Rieke looked up at Katla. “But I can also sense callousness a mile off, and this young woman doesn’t strike me as a cold-hearted killer.”

“That is exactly why she’s so effective, Mom.”

“See? Can’t argue your way out of that.” Katla shrugged. “If I didn’t have my faith, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Are you a Christian, dear?”

According to the background info she’d gathered, Stern’s mother had converted to the Roman Catholic faith before her marriage to Carlo Frusciante.

“My late father was a servant of the Lord,” Katla said. “He taught me how important it is to forgive those who trespass against me. Anger does more damage to the vessel it’s stored in, than to the vessel it’s poured in.”

“How true,” Rieke said. “A true Christian treats both the friendly and the hostile with compassion.”

Katla nodded piously. “Even when they are misguided by their desires.”

“It’s lovely to meet a kindred spirit. Maybe you could recommend my daughter a congregation in this sinful city.”

“I’d love to.” Katla smiled sweetly at Stern. “But I doubt she’d follow my recommendations.”

Rieke rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Misguided as her tenacity might be, your daughter’s intentions are still pure.” Katla reached out and gently squeezed Stern’s arm, which felt like it was carved from marble. “Although her energy could be used for better purposes, like finding the real assassin of that poor man.”

“I wish my daughter had more Christian friends,” Rieke said. “It’s so easy to stray from the path of righteousness.”

“Oh, absolutely. This city is filled with temptation. On the other hand, living in righteous solitude is not exactly a test of one’s faith.” Katla came to her feet. “I enjoyed our conversation, but I’m afraid I have to leave now. Prior engagements. It was so nice meeting you, Rieke. I hope you enjoy your stay in Amsterdam.”

“It was nice meeting you too, Katla.” Rieke dug in her purse and took out a business card. “Next time you’re in New York, please see if you can find the time to come and visit.”

“Mom,” Stern said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Are you sure?” Katla pretended to look hesitant. “I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“You wouldn’t impose.” Rieke held out the business card. “I’d love to show you around.”

Stern looked worried. “Mom?”

“I’d be delighted.” Katla took the business card and squeezed Stern’s rock-hard shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger, Deborah.”

She turned around and carried her empty espresso cup to the bar. Outside, after she unlocked her Vespa, she waved at Rieke, who waved back. Stern looked nauseated.

Smiling happily, Katla straddled her scooter and rode off.

-o-

As she watched the assassin straddle her Vespa, Deborah suppressed the urge to run outside and rip the business card from her hand. Balling her hands into fists, she turned to her mother. “What is the matter with you? Do you have a death wish?”

“Death wish? Aren’t you overreacting a bit?”

“That woman is an assassin, Mom. She murders people for profit.”

Rieke looked skeptical. “Obviously. I guess that’s why she’s walking around instead of pacing a jail cell.”

“Just because she can be charming doesn’t mean—”

“Why would she want to kill me?”

Deborah blinked. “Why?”

“Just assume I believe you’re right about her. Fine, that charming Christian girl is a cold-blooded assassin. She kills people for profit. Why would she want to kill me?”

“To get back at me,” Deborah said, immediately regretting what she said. The lameness of her reply was apparent in the derision flooding her mother’s gaze.

“To get back at you, Deborah? Pray tell me, what have you done that would merit someone murdering your mother?”

“We arrested her. ” God, that sounded even worse.

“So? If she’s really an assassin, getting arrested would be an acceptable risk, wouldn’t it?”

“She might not see it that way.”

“So, on the one hand you’re telling me she’s pure business, on the other hand you claim she’s emotionally unstable and holding a grudge against you. Which manifests itself in having delightfully intelligent conversations with your mother.”

“The reason we couldn’t lock her up is because she’s extremely devious. She managed to kill someone in plain view, but the evidence wasn’t conclusive, so we had to let her go.”

“Devious.” Rieke pursed her lips. “Next, you’re going to tell me she planned this whole encounter.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.”

Rieke rolled her eyes. “If you distrust and dislike her so much, why do you go to her sister’s lunchroom?”

“Her boyfriend’s sister’s lunchroom.”

“Whatever. Why would you do that if she’s such a horrible person?”

Deborah rubbed her forehead. “My boss wanted me to use her boyfriend to get to her.”

“Use her boyfriend? Use him how?”

“Mom, I’m not allowed to—”

“Do you sleep with him?”

She could feel the blood in her cheeks. “Mom!”

“Is that why you’re blushing?”

“I’m not sleeping with him! Jesus!”

“Do you need to curse?” Rieke rolled her eyes. “This is precisely why I advised you to find yourself a suitable church.”

“Mom, Katla Sieltjes is extremely dangerous.” Deborah rubbed her forehead. “For the love of God, don’t invite her into your house.”

“Does she know you’re, whatever, using her boyfriend?” Rieke shook her head. “Forget it. I thought I raised you differently.”

“I’m not doing anything dishonourable.”

“Right.”

“I’m just befriending him.”

“Right.”

“If you don’t believe me, why should I explain myself to you?”

“I’m not asking you to. It’s quite obvious to me that your boss is getting you to do all kinds of underhanded things. ”

“I’m not doing under—”

Her mother’s stern gaze made her swallow the rest of her reply.

“Using her boyfriend to get to her doesn’t exactly sound like the honourable way to do—” Rieke frowned. “Exactly what is it you want her to do?”

“Forget it.”

“No, you started this. You’re using her boyfriend to get to her. And she’s an assassin. So, what is the goal here?”

“Gathering evidence.”

“You’re using her boyfriend to gather evidence against her? To do what? Arrest her?”

“She killed a covert operative, Mom.”

“Right. So this is payback?”

“I’m done talking about this. You don’t believe a word I say anyway.”

“No, I believe you honestly think you’re doing the right thing. I just beg to differ. And based on my personal experience with people, I tend to keep an open mind.”

“So do I, Mom.”

“Oh, please. Has anyone at your office entertained the possibility that you’re wrong? That you missed the real assassin and focused on the wrong suspect?”

“We know she’s the right person.”

“Of course you do. You just don’t have any evidence. Because she’s devious. Just not devious enough not to get caught with blood on her clothes.” Rieke turned back to her chocolate cake. “I don’t know, honey. I’m more inclined to believe her side of the story. And if she’s aware that you’re manipulating her boyfriend, she’s being incredibly gracious.”

Deborah almost choked on her cake. “Gracious?”

“Yes. She obviously forgives you your trespasses, like a true Christian. I think, considering the circumstances, she shows grace and constraint. I don’t know if I would’ve handled being wrongfully accused of murder with the same aplomb.”

Deborah swallowed an acerbic response. “Fine, Mom.”

“And if I were you, I’d seriously reconsider your strategies. A Christian shouldn’t stoop to such underhanded behaviour.”

“Yes, Mom. Can we drop it now?”

“Of course.” Rieke finished her coffee. “Where do you want to go next?”

Home, Deborah thought. Preferably alone. “We can take a stroll through the neighbourhood. See how much it has changed?”

“Sure, honey. That would be lovely.”

HOMEWRECKER

Marijn halted at the threshold of their bedroom and looked at the shirts hanging near the ironing board. “You’ve been shopping?”

Ellie embraced him from behind. “I want my man to look his best when he’s liaising.”

“I don’t need to dress up, Ellie.”

“I didn’t buy you a tuxedo,” Ellie said. “Just a suit. And you don’t need to wear a tie.”

She gave him a squeeze and took him by the hand, smiling happily as she showed him a new suit, a half-dozen shirts, and a small plastic bag with a pharmacy label. He peeked inside, noticing small vials, some attached to colourful cardboard promos.

“Eau de Toilette samples,” Ellie said. “I know you didn’t like to wear scents when you were working undercover, but if you’re taking people out for dinner, you’ll want to smell nice.” She curled up against him. “Not that you don’t smell good, but you know what I mean.”

“You think I need a makeover.”

“You don’t have to look like a diplomat,” Ellie said. “But people take you more seriously if you dress better.”

Marijn wondered how Stern would react if he dressed up. She’d probably think he did it for her.

Ellie looked up at him. “You don’t like it.”

“I like it, Ellie. And you’re probably right. Dress to impress, right?”

“I kept it understated but elegant.” She kissed his neck and murmured, “Think of it as role-playing for an undercover operation.”

As a gigolo, Marijn thought. He sank down on the bed and pulled Ellie on top of him, kissed her face as he worked his way to her mouth. He gave her a lingering kiss, then pulled back and look deep into her eyes.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me, honey. You want me to try them on?”

“Not right now,” Ellie said hoarsely. “First I want you to get out of these clothes. We’ll see if you have time to dress up for me later. ”

-o-

As they basked in the afterglow, Ellie curled up against him, her fingers tracing patterns on his skin. “You don’t seem as ecstatic about your new job as I am.”

Marijn looked through the skylight at the darkening sky outside. He was used to keeping his police work from interfering too much with his home life, but sneaking out of bed to meet with criminals at the crack of dawn was different from missing dinner with his family to chat up a woman intent on having him cheat on his wife.

“This is better than being in mortal danger all the time,” Ellie said. “Isn’t it?”

“There are different kinds of dangers, Ellie.”

“What are you afraid of?”

He propped himself up against a pillow and rolled himself a cigarette. “One of the more difficult parts of this job is that you have to be able to schmooze with people you don’t particularly like. One of the reasons they wanted me for the job, is because I’m able to get people to divulge information they’d rather not tell.”

“Manipulate them, you mean? You manipulated in your undercover work, didn’t you?”

He lit up and blew the smoke at the skylight.

“When I’m undercover, I play a role. You want me to dress up and play another role, but this role is much closer to home. And while I might manipulate other people, those people might manipulate me right back. Or my loved ones.”

Ellie looked up at him. “Me?”

“One of the reasons I was promoted—” He paused, then said, “One of the other police liaisons resigned. His marriage is on the rocks. Guy was happily married, but the female DEA liaison started calling him at all hours. Even though nothing happened, his wife suspected he was cheating on her and, since he valued his marriage over his job, he resigned. They’re now in counselling, trying to repair the damage.”

“Wow.”

“Yes.” He took a last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out. “And his workload fell in my lap.”

“You mean, that DEA liaison is now your contact?”

“Deborah Stern,” Marijn said. “Yes. I will have to schmooze with the same woman who almost wrecked another liaison’s marriage.”

“I trust you, Marijn.”

“I know you do, honey. My colleague didn’t tell his wife that Stern was coming on to him, so she was surprised by the phone calls and the rumours. I mean, when you see a man and a woman at a restaurant having a good time, you’ll assume they’re intimate. His wife foolishly followed him, saw him ‘flirting’ with Stern, and it was hard for her to view that as work.”

“That won’t happen with us,” Ellie said. “Now that I know what’s going on.”

“I love you, Ellie, and I know you trust me, but this requires a higher level of trust. Unconditional trust. Stern enjoys breaking up happy marriages for sport.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I accepted the job when Koninck asked me, but I felt like turning it down as soon as I talked to the other liaison.”

“I don’t want you to turn down this job.”

“I know, but now you understand why I’m not that ecstatic.”

“What is she like?”

“Beautiful,” Marijn said. “And a complete basket case. Single, lives for her work, unable to hold on to any man, and envious of those who can combine work with a healthy relationship.”

“That’s messed up.”

“And she knows exactly how to manipulate people, both men and women. My colleague might be able to repair the damage to his marriage, but his wife will always wonder about his fidelity.” He put his hand on under her chin and tilted her head to look into her eyes. “You’re my beacon in the dark, Ellie. Without you, I might lose my way.”

“I love you.” She stroked his face. “And I trust you.”

“I’m glad I could tell you about this fucked up situation.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “Stern invited me to dinner and I can’t refuse, not without good reason. These new clothes— I just know she’ll think I dressed up for her.”

“She can look at you all she wants.” Ellie hugged him tight. “I know where your heart belongs.”

YARDIES

Katla balanced herself like a gymnast above the bath and lowered herself into the cold water. Shivering, she held her breath and scooted under water until she was totally submerged. With her eyes closed, she counted the seconds in her head, reaching one hundred and seventy-five before she had to come up for air.

Bram sat on the toilet seat beside the bath. Only he could sneak up on her like that.

Katla shook her head like a dog, spraying him with the water. He licked his lips and his grin screwed up his scarred eyelids. She splashed some more water in his direction. “Where did you come from?”

Bram tilted his head in the direction of the door. “The hallway.”

“And before that?”

“From Zeph.” He tossed his folded cane from his right to his left hand and back again. “He told me you didn’t want to go to Jamaica with him.”

“That’s right.” Katla rose from the bath and stood dripping in front of him, balancing on her right leg as she placed her left foot on the rim. “Did he tell you about the phone call we made?”

“Yes, he did.” Bram reached out and she guided his hand to her thigh. His fingers found the small strip of damp curly hair and he murmured, “How can you be so hot after such a cold bath?”

“Now I’m hot?” She buried her fingers in his hair and tilted his head back. “Last week you told me I could drink boiling water and piss ice cubes.”

He grinned up at her. “That was a compliment.”

She released his hair and stepped out of the bath, pulled the plug and wrapped herself in a fluffy towel. He rose from the toilet seat and took the towel, his strong masseur’s hands gently rubbing her dry. She draped the towel over the radiator, put on her yukata and left the bathroom, Bram following her to the kitchen.

She put the kettle on. “Would you like some tea?”

“Always,” Bram said as he found his way past the bar to the couch. “Why won’t you help Zeph?”

“I’m not so sure going to Jamaica would help Zeph. Or his brother, for that matter.”

“Why not?”

“If his brother disappeared, he’s either dead or in hiding.” She carried the tea to the couch and sat down between his legs. “I could use a massage.”

“Scalp or shoulders?” His strong fingers ran through her hair. “You’re tense.”

“Small wonder.”

“You need a vacation, Katla. Jamaica must be nice, this time of year.”

Katla rested her head against his crotch and looked up at his face. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.” He grinned. “You’re good at fixing dicey situations.”

“Forget it, Bram. I’m not going to insert myself into this situation.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t actively look for trouble.”

He bent over her and kissed her forehead before reaching out and picking up his glass of tea. “You can get someone out of trouble without getting yourself into trouble, can’t you?”

“This is not just a family feud. Daniel might be involved with Yardies.”

“Zeph was born a Yardie.” Bram sipped his tea. “Not all Yardies are destined to lead lives of violence.”

“He’s your friend, Bram. I sympathise with his plight, but—”

“You’re afraid of getting involved in a gang war, I understand. Especially after what happened last time.”

“Not afraid, just not eager to break my promise to you.”

“I wanted you to reflect on your tendency to see killing as just another option to solve a conflict,” Bram said. “You won’t learn anything by avoiding conflicts altogether. I think you should try helping Zeph without killing anyone.”

“That’s what bothering you, Bram? You think I’m not challenged enough by your friendship with that DEA bitch?”

“It’s not friendship. It’s a mutual attempt to manipulate each other to do each other’s bidding.”

“Wonderful.”

“Only the naive consider manipulation a dirty word, Katla.”

“And you don’t think she figured out that you’re trying to manipulate her?”

“No, she doesn’t. She’s not that sophisticated.”

As Bram sipped his tea, she wondered if his soul wasn’t even darker than hers. He had known she was a killer almost from the beginning, but his reaction had been avid curiosity, not the abject revulsion she had expected. His lack of criticism had made him twice as hard to resist and there was no denying the value of his contributions, but Bram also seemed to derive some sort of vicarious pleasure from participating in her homicidal enterprises.

“Why don’t you just discredit her and get rid of her?”

“Keeping her close is better. She will discredit herself if she cannot establish a link between you and Loki Enterprises.” Bram leaned back. “Stern is just doing her job, although her fascination with you isn’t exactly professional. I’m trying to understand what moves her, so I can derail her. And that works best if you don’t try to antagonise her into making any rash decisions.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll butt out. But I’m not going to Jamaica to help Zeph.”

Katla wondered if she should tell Bram about meeting Stern’s mother and how that clearly upset the DEA agent. She had just been needling Stern a bit, as payback for constantly hanging around her boyfriend, but perhaps Bram would consider that antagonising her. Stern would probably understand that she was just messing with her. If not, she should get herself a sense of humour.

Bram finished his tea and got up from the couch. “I have to go.”

“Already?”

“I’ll be back later, but Tetsuo wanted me to take the class tonight. He has new students coming in, and he wants to be free to observe.”

“I think he wants to see how they respond to getting taught by a blind Westerner.”

“Probably.” Bram wandered into the hallway. “By the way, Anouk asked if you’d like to accompany her to yoga class.”

Just like a man, to ask an important question in an offhand manner on the threshold of leaving.

Katla followed him and said, “I don’t do yoga.”

“It’s yoga for pregnant women. And their partners.” He held up his hand. “Don’t start on the partner thing.”

“I wasn’t going to, but she asked you first, didn’t she?”

He shrugged into his jacket. “Not really.”

“Bram, I bet she suggested that she needed a partner for her yoga class and since you didn’t want to do it, you suggested me. Am I right?”

“Wrong. She didn’t want me. She asked explicitly if I knew ‘anyone’ to go with her.”

“How can you be such a dolt? Of course she wants you to come with her.” Katla snorted. “How can you have Japanese friends and still not understand enough about indirect communication to know what she was hinting at?”

“Anouk knows I’m not comfortable around yoga people—”

“Oh, shut up.” She walked up to him and kissed his mouth. “You put that baby inside her. The least you can do is go with her to yoga class.”

“The least I can do?” He rubbed his eyes. “Yoga classes, visits to the gynaecologist…”

“Don’t be such an ass. You go with her to yoga. I’ll go with her to the gynaecologist, if that makes you less self-conscious.”

He pulled out his telescopic cane. “Sure you wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

“Thanks.” He kissed her forehead. “I owe you one.”

He slipped out the door, whistling as he walked down the stairs. Katla closed the door and leaned against it.

Damn.

She kept underestimating his strategic mindset. This was never about the yoga. True, he preferred being among martial artists, but this was about the ultrasound. No doubt he enjoyed killing two flies with one stroke—avoiding awkward situations at the gynaecologist, while at the same time getting her to care about Anouk’s child.

Katla only wondered if she was up for the confrontation.

MERCS

Deborah paced the office. “I looked into her eyes, Jerome. You should’ve seen her predatory smile when my mother gave her business card.”

“Can you sit down?” Bishop reclined behind his desk. “I don’t think Sieltjes is going to act against your mother.”

“I never should’ve agreed with your plan,” Deborah said. “My mother is right about your methods being underhanded.”

“Your mother is a fine Christian woman of high moral standing and obvious intelligence, but none of those qualities qualify her for our line of work. You gathered information by befriending someone close to the target. Did you promise him anything beyond the pleasure of your company?”

“I didn’t.”

“No hinting at future sexual favours or financial gain?”

“No. I don’t think Bram is susceptible to that kind of coercion.”

“So, where is the underhanded part? Your presence annoys Sieltjes, but you’re not doing anything that might be construed as inappropriate.”

Deborah folded her arms. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t want her hanging around my mother.”

“I get that,” Bishop spoke in an annoyingly calm voice. “But if Sieltjes is part of this Loki Enterprises group, I don’t think she’d hurt your mother.”

“Why not?”

Bishop steepled his fingers. “Because that would establish a direct link between Loki Enterprises and Sieltjes.”

“Loki is a specialist in disguising homicide.” She rubbed her temples. “Sieltjes could kill my mother in a variety of ways without ‘establishing a direct link’. And no one would look any further if my mother died of cardiac arrest or slipped on the stairs and broke her neck.”

Bishop studied her calmly. “You want to stop our investigation? Change our methods? Stop annoying Sieltjes?”

“At this moment, I just want her attention focused elsewhere.”

“So maybe you should stay out of her way. And away from Merleyn.” He checked his calendar. “Your mother is leaving in three days. Take those days off and stay with your mother until you put her safely on her plane.”

“Sieltjes said she’d visit my mom in New York.”

“We’ll keep her occupied here. Take her mind off your mother.”

Deborah got up from the couch. “We better find some other way to continue this investigation.”

“I’m looking into it,” Bishop said. “I may have something for you after the weekend.”

She nodded and walked out of his office.

As Deborah entered the staircase, Laure Cohn of Homeland Security was just ascending the stairs.

“You don’t look too happy,” Cohn said. “I thought you had the week off to be with your mother.”

Deborah didn’t ask where she got that information. “I’m not in the mood right now.”

“That’s too bad. I wanted to run a strategy by you, see if you were interested.”

“What kind of strategy?”

“Not here,” Cohn said. “Let’s go to Le Bistroquet.”

-o-

Le Bistroquet was a restaurant adjacent to the United States Embassy. The staff often joked that it was probably the best guarded restaurant in The Hague, due to the constant police presence around the United States Embassy. The restaurant was frequently visited by diplomats and foreign dignitaries, so the staff knew how to offer discretion and privacy.

After they settled on the circular red plush couch with their coffees, Cohn said, “My superiors are irritated by the lack of results.”

“Regarding Sieltjes?”

“Connecting Sieltjes to Loki, yes. I told them about Sieltjes breaking your wrist, but that isn’t convincing enough. So I want to put Sieltjes in real jeopardy. Get a team on her to work her over.”

“What will that prove?”

“She pretends to be only affecting a tough attitude. I want to punch through that pretence and prove that she’s a skilled combatant. Who knows, maybe she’ll even kill one of her assailants.”

“Your superiors actually agree to that? After what happened at Schiphol?”

“No. This is off the books.”

“So, it’s not a sanctioned team. You want to hire some thugs?”

Cohn leaned forward. “I found a group of mercenaries available for disavowable actions. Not murder, but everything else is negotiable.”

“Mercenaries,” Deborah said. “So we’d have to pay them.”

“I have that covered, but I’m wary of meeting them alone.”

“You want me to come along as your bodyguard?”

“I can defend myself,” Cohn said. “But not if they come armed. And since I’m not officially here, I can’t arm myself.”

“So you do need me as a bodyguard.”

“I don’t have anyone else here, and your colleagues wouldn’t be interested in helping me.” Cohn shrugged. “I know you’re not interested in helping me either, but at least you have the same dislike of Sieltjes I have.”

Deborah thought about Sieltjes getting her smirk stomped off her face, or killing a trained mercenary and providing proof that she was indeed an assassin. Either way, it was a win-win situation.

And she could participate with a clean conscience. She wasn’t putting up the money, she was just along for the ride to provide security if necessary.

“Sure,” Deborah said. “I’m in.”

“Fabulous,” Cohn said. “I’ll set up the meet.”

If you enjoyed reading this preview, please visit my blog https://amsterdamassassin.wordpress.com to find the retail links for all the books in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

To the Reader,

Having readers eager for the next instalment of a series is the best motivation for a writer to create new stories. If you enjoy reading my work as much as I enjoy writing Katla’s adventures, there are ways for you to support me and help me gain more exposure for the Amsterdam Assassin Series:

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Kind regards,

Martyn V. Halm

For reasons of authenticity, many non-English locales, phrases, and names in the Amsterdam Assassin Series are written in their original language. Instead of breaking the words down into Dutch/Japanese/German/Arabic/Jamaican, I merely list these words alphabetically, adding explanations where warranted. If you spot other words that require translation or elaboration, please send an email to katlasieltjes@yahoo.com so I can include them in this glossary. For the full list that contains all the foreign words used in the entire series, check the blog.

Algemene Inlichtingen- en Veiligheidsdienst (AIVD) is the Dutch Secret Service, concerned with gathering information for law enforcement purposes, anti-terrorism coordination and liaising with foreign law enforcement. Similar to MI-5 or Homeland Security’s ICE division.

Alstublieft (Dutch) - shortened form of ‘Als het u belieft’ meaning, ‘If it pleases you’. Most often used as ‘please’. Informal, asjeblieft. Abbreviated, mostly on signs, AUB.

BKA - (German) The Bundeskriminalamt (Federal Criminal Police Office) is a national investigative police agency in Germany and falls directly under the Federal Ministry of the Interior. As law enforcement in Germany is vested in the states, the BKA only becomes involved in cases of international organised crime or when requested by the respective federal state authorities or the federal minister of the interior. The federal prosecutor can also direct it to investigate cases of special public interest.

Bloodclot - (Jamaican) Sanitary napkin or panty liner (clot - rag/paper), a Rastafarian curse.

Bumbaclot - (Jamaican) Lit. ‘shit rag’, a rag to wipe the anal region, often used as a slow curse akin to ‘motherfucker’. Extremely offensive.

Bredda (pl. Bredren) - (Jamaican) Brother, a Rastafarian of equal stature. Female Rastafarians are equal stature are Sista.

Chotto matte kudasai – (Japanese) Please wait a second, also used as ‘hold the line for a moment’.

CQC - (martial term) Abbreviation of Close-Quarters Combat, or combat within touching distance.

Dank u wel - (Dutch) thank you very much. Often dankuwel, thankyouverymuch.

Dawta - (Jamaican) Daughter, Rastafarian girl

DEA - (US) Abbreviation of Drug Enforcement Administration, a federal body mostly specializing in the enforcement of drug laws and persecuting drug crime.

Downpressor - (Jamaican) Oppressor.

Dutty sketel - (Jamaican) A female who is sexually uninhibited and lacking in hygiene.

Eikel (Dutch slang) - Jerk. Literal translation ‘glans’, the tip of the penis that is shaped like an acorn, which is also called ‘eikel’ in Dutch.

Engelbewaarder (Dutch) - Guardian angel. Name of a jazz cafe on the Kloveniersburgwal.

FLIR - (technical term) Forward looking infrared (FLIR) cameras, typically used on military and civilian aircraft, use a thermographic camera that senses infrared radiation.

Ganja - (Jamaican) General term for cannabis. Also known as lambsbread or herb.

Geisha - (Japanese) Courtesan, a female companion who in exchange for money or influence bestows her favours on a select clientele.

Graag gedaan - (Dutch) literal ‘Happy to have done it’, similar to ‘You’re welcome’.

Gracht - (Dutch) originally a gracht is the moat around a castle or city, but it’s mostly translated as canal, which can cause confusion as Dutch also has the word ‘kanaal’ which means a (man-made) waterway that’s mainly straight as a ruler. Other waterways are ‘sloot’, a shallow waterway often used to separate meadows from the road and each other, ‘poel’, a natural pool, ‘meer’, a lake, and ‘rivier’, river. Grachten are flanked by ‘kades’ or quays, which are named after the waterway. So riding along the Prinsengracht would consist of riding down the quay flanking the Prince’s Canal. As the quays flanking the grachten are narrow, they’re mostly one-way, with the inner ring heading east to west, and the outer ring west to east. If you need to be at a certain address in the middle of a block, you might have to drive past it on the inner ring, cross the canal by the first bridge and drive back along the other quay to reach your destination. In some cases, the gracht has been filled to make a road, which process is called ‘dempen’, so a ‘gedempte gracht’ is a former canal, now filled up. A ‘burgwal’ is a moat that used to be part of the defense works of Amsterdam. The most famous ‘burgwallen’ are those of the Red Light District: Oudezijds Voorburgwal (Old Side Front Defense Quay), Oudezijds Achterburgwal (Old Side Rear Defense Quay), and the Kloveniersburgwal, which is pretty much untranslatable (the ‘kloveniers’ were part of the ‘schutterij’ (militia), who used a rifle called a ‘klovenier’).

Hotsteppa - (Jamaican) Criminal.

I&I - (Jamaican) (Depending on context:) We, Us, Our

Irie - (Jamaican) Good. Often used to confirm you’re feeling well or everything is doing fine.

Ital - (Jamaican) Ethical food, grown/raised/butchered with respect for the natural order.

Ji-biru - (Japanese) Artisanal beer from microbreweries.

Kanji – (Japanese) Japanese script, drawn with brush strokes. Katakana are symbols used to transcribe foreign sounds/names, for instance ma-ru-te-y-n for Martyn. Hiragana and Hentaigana are more intricate and used for Japanese sounds, names and concepts.

Katana - (Japanese) curved Japanese sword.

Kimono - (Japanese) Kimono (literary ‘thing to wear’) are T-shaped, straight-lined robes worn so that the hem falls to the ankle, with attached collars and long, wide sleeves. Kimono are wrapped around the body, always with the left side over the right (except when dressing the dead for burial), and secured by a sash called an obi, which is tied at the back. Kimono are generally worn with traditional footwear (zōri or okobo) and split-toe socks called tabi.

Kohai - (Japanese) Junior. See also Senpai.

Kuromaku - (Japanese) literally ‘dark curtain’, from the backdrop of kabuki theatre. A kuromaku is an advisor/mediator.

Maiko - (Japanese) Girl studying to become a Geisha.

Nani? - (Japanese) Informal phrase meaning ‘What?’. Although it sounds rude, it’s the most common phrase people say when answering the phone or intercom, but also to express confusion ‘I beg your pardon?’.

Ohayo - (Japanese) Informal phrase meaning ‘hey’ or ‘hello’.

Okobo - (Japanese) also referred to as pokkuri, bokkuri, or koppori geta from the sound made when walking, okobo are wooden sandals worn by maiko (apprentice geisha) during their apprenticeship. Okobo are very tall and usually made from a block of willow wood. Usually, the wood has either no finish or a natural finish, but during the summer months, maiko will wear black-lacquered okobo. They are held to the foot by simple thong-like straps in colors that represent their maiko status. Red straps are worn by new maiko, while yellow ones are worn by those who have nearly completed their apprenticeship. Okobo are worn to prevent the wearer's kimono from touching the ground.

Oshibori - (Japanese) a hot damp rolled-up towel to clean your hands prior to a meal.

Oyabun - (Japanese) Literally, ‘Father’, the Oyabun is the head of a Yakuza family, similar to a Mafia Don.

Peccadillo - (Latin) a minor sin or character flaw.

Politrickster - (Jamaican) Untrustworthy/manipulative politician, i.e. everyone of them.

Quintain - (archaic) Medieval jousting training equipment, consisting of a revolving cross figure on a stick, with a shield on one arm of the crosspiece and a bag of sand swinging from the other. The goal was to strike the shield accurately to avoid being hit by the heavy bag of sand when the quintain would revolve around the stick.

Rass! - (Jamaican) Exclamation of surprise, but also disgust or disappointment

Red Pole - (Triad rank) A Red Pole is chief enforcer, often the leader of the militant wing.

Senpai - (Japanese) roughly translated as senior. See also Kohai.

Sensei - (Japanese) teacher.

Shiatsu - (Japanese) Acupressure massage. A form of massage therapy where points on the body are pressed with the thumbs, fingers and elbows. In Japan many blind people become shiatsu therapists because touch is much more important than vision in the practice. Shiatsu is part of Anma, the art of healing.

Sista (pl. Sistren) - female Rastafarians of equal stature as Bredda or Bredren. Compare Dawta.

Steeg - (Dutch) an alley, often quite narrow. Other roads are ‘snelweg’, motorway or highway, ‘weg’, roads intended for vehicles, ‘straat’, streets intended for traffic to the houses flanking it, ‘dwarsstraat’ is a sidestreet often perpendicular on the main street, and ‘laan’ or lane, which are mostly straight and flanked by trees. Steeg, while already narrow, has a diminishing version, ‘steegje’, meaning small alley. Stegen and steegjes are found most often in the old city quarters built for pedestrian traffic.

Tabi - (Japanese) are traditional Japanese socks. Ankle-high and with a separation between the big toe and other toes, they are worn by both men and women with zori, geta, and other traditional thonged footwear The most common colour is white, and white tabi are worn in formal situations such as at tea ceremonies. Men sometimes wear blue or black tabi for travelling. Tabi are sewn from cloth cut to form. They are open at the back so they can be slipped on and have a row of fasteners along the opening so they can be closed.

Tanto - (Japanese) dagger shaped like a small katana, i.e. single edge with sword tip.

Uchi-deshi - (Japanese) A student who lives in the martial arts dojo and performs duties like a caretaker (cleaning, maintenance) in return for lessons.

Uwabaki - (Japanese) slippers worn indoors at home, school or certain companies and public buildings where street shoes are prohibited. Uwabaki are light, flexible shoes which are easy to slip on and off, designated for indoor use. As they are not generally worn outside, the soles are kept clean, and thus cleaning and maintenance of the building's floors are kept to a minimum.

Vanguard - (Triad rank) The vanguard is a de facto leader of a triad branch, higher in rank than a Red Pole.

Waribashi - (Japanese) wooden chopsticks, often for single use.

Yakuza - (Japanese) Japanese gangster. The name derives from ya-ku-za or 8-9-3, the losing hand in oicho-kabu, a Japanese game similar to blackjack. Yakuza consider themselves ‘useless’ and they prey on the katagi or ‘useful’ members of society.

Yardie - (Jamaican) Someone born in the Goverment Yards or slums of the bigger cities. Often poorly educated and prone to crime and violence.

Yukata - (Japanese) unlined casual summer kimono.

Zōri - (Japanese) flat and thonged sandals made of rice straw or other plant fibers, cloth, lacquered wood, leather, rubber, or—increasingly—synthetic materials. Zōri are quite similar to flip-flops, which first appeared in New Zealand and the United States sometime around World War II as rubber imitations of the wooden thong sandals long worn in Japan.

THE AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES

Novels

Reprobate

Assassin Katla breaks her own rules when confronted with an unusual witness...

Blessed with an almost non-existent conscience, freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes, expert in disguising homicide, regards murder for profit as an intricate and rewarding occupation. Her solitary existence seems more than satisfactory until a blind musician wanders in on her crime scene.

Katla only kills for profit or to protect her anonymity, and Bram Merleyn seems harmless and unable to identify her. By sparing his life, she breaks one of her most important rules—never leave a living witness. A decision Katla might not survive to regret...

Reprobate is the first novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

Peccadillo

Assassin Katla’s legitimate business becomes the target of a hostile takeover...

Still recuperating from injuries sustained in Reprobate, freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes, expert in disguising homicide, finds herself at war with the Kau Hong, a gang of ruthless criminals who will stop at nothing to get their hands on Sphinx Shipping.

The potentially lethal situation quickly becomes untenable, when victims fall on both sides, and a Hong Kong sniper arrives to team up with a mute enforcer from the competitive 14K Triad.

Amsterdam might prove too small for Katla to play hide and seek, when her enemies match her skills in search and destroy...

Peccadillo is the second novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

Rogue

Assassin Katla kills the wrong target and draws attention from combined intelligence communities…

Freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes runs her business of disguising homicide below the radar of law enforcement, but when her latest target is a judas goat intended to draw her out into the open, the hunter becomes the hunted.

Fooling local law enforcement can be challenging, but hiding from intelligence communities aiming to enlist Katla for their dirty work might prove impossible.

With Homeland Security, DEA, and the German BKA joining forces with Dutch Intelligence in an effort to track down Loki Enterprises, not only Katla’s future is threatened, but also the lives of her lover and his friends.

Rogue is the third novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

Ghosting

Assassin Katla's sabbatical year turns out to be her biggest challenge yet…

After her narrow escape from the intense investigations by combined intelligence forces, freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes takes a sabbatical to thwart the relentless scrutiny by the authorities.

But there's no rest for the wicked.

An unexpected pregnancy, a brother in peril, a secretive consultant, and an assiduous infiltrator conspire to force Katla to renege on her vows and once again do what she does best: solving problems in her own unparalleled way.

Ghosting is the fourth novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

KillFiles

The Katla KillFile short stories chronologically precede the novels in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

Each KillFile features freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes, expert in disguising homicide, executing one of her contracts. While not mandatory reading, each KillFile provides insight both in Katla’s work methods and skill, and additional background information in her character and personal history. The KillFiles can be read out of order, as the contracts are random samples from Katla’s past.

Locked Room

Assassin Katla reinvents a forensic landmark while creating a Locked Room mystery...

The Locked Room KillFile (7,800 words) follows freelance assassin Katla Sieltjes executing a contract on a physician responsible for the death of her client’s wife. Using an updated version of a lethal puzzle that astounded forensic scientists at the end of the twentieth century, Katla recreates a diabolical killing method that became a landmark in the forensic sciences. Thwarting forensic scientists is not her only hurdle in fulfilling her contract, as her target has to be killed in his home, an opulent penthouse in a fortress-like apartment building…

Microchip Murder

Assassin Katla has to kill an industrial spy and retrieve the stolen item...

The Microchip Murder KillFile (8,500 words) follows freelance assassin Katla Sieltjes executing a contract on an industrial spy, who is in the process of selling a stolen microchip with valuable software to the competition. Katla’s client wants the stolen microchip and research materials returned to him, but her target is wary and the unscrupulous buyers are prepared to kill for the stolen software.

Fundamental Error

Assassin Katla is hired by a client whose brother is planning a terrorist attack…

The Fundamental Error KillFile (9,800 words) follows freelance assassin Katla Sieltjes on her most dangerous assignment yet. When Peter Brandt watches his brother Roel convert to Islam and turn into a domestic terrorist, Katla needs to enter into the mind of a fanatic suicide bomber in order to thwart a mass-murder attack in the shopping mecca of Amsterdam.

Aconite Attack

Assassin Katla finds a devious way to get a target to poison himself…

The Aconite Attack KillFile (10,700 words) follows Katla Sieltjes on her first foray as a freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter, when she gets herself hired by the CEO of a modelling agency to permanently remove his playboy partner draining the firm’s resources on his downward spiral into self-destruction. Katla finds a way to administer poison to the target, but he has to be isolated for her plan to succeed. Every plan has a fluke factor though, and Katla soon finds herself in mortal danger, when the target reveals his darker side…

About the author:

Martyn V. Halm lives in Amsterdam with his wife Maaike, two children, two cats, and countless imaginary characters vying for attention.

Writing realistic crime fiction is hard work, especially when you're a stickler for verisimilitude. When your protagonist is a seasoned killer, research can take you right up to Nietzsche’s abyss. Luckily, things get easier after the first few killings...

Apart from being an accomplished prevaricator, Martyn already possessed an eclectic variety of skills that qualified him to write the Amsterdam Assassin Series. Skills he shares with his deadly fictional characters...

If you want to contact Martyn…

Email: katlasieltjes@yahoo.com

Mailing List: Click here for the form

Blog: http://amsterdamassassin.wordpress.com/

Website: www.tao-of-violence.weebly.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Tao_Of_Violence

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/katla.sieltjes

Publishers Weekly Review of Reprobate - A Katla Novel:

Fast-moving and intricately plotted, this manuscript of Dutch intrigue follows assassin Katla, who’s renowned for her ability to cover up a job. When the U.S. DEA’s base in the Netherlands catches wind of a heroin ring within the U.S. military, they set up an undercover operation. When the heads of the drug ring discover the plot, they arrange for Katla to assassinate the undercover agents, but the assassination doesn’t go as planned. As Katla recovers from injuries sustained in the botched job, DEA agent Deborah Stern and her colleagues investigate. Violence, drugs, and sex abound in this intense story, and the plot is less farcical than a lot of the thrillers clogging the shelves.

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Blog Reviews:

Sunday, 27 January 2013

http://hannah-thompson.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/blindness-in-fiction-4-reprobate-katla.html

Blindness in Fiction 4: Reprobate: A Katla Novel

It is notoriously difficult for non-blind writers to depict blind characters in fiction. Although anyone can close their eyes and imagine blindness for a few minutes, living in a world where sight has lost its meaning is incredibly hard to imagine. For this reason, blind characters in fiction are relatively rare. Where they do exist, they are either secondary and therefore always described from someone else’s point of view (as in Adrian Mole) or evil and not described sympathetically at all (as in Ratburger). Like Star Gazing which I blogged about last April, Reprobate is a novel of shared viewpoints, in which a blind character, Bram, plays a crucial role.

When the reader first encounters Bram, it is easy to mistakenly think that he is nothing but a fascinating plot device. We initially encounter him just after assassin Katla has finished a job. When he interrupts her as she is cleaning up the crime scene, her first instinct is to kill him, as she normally would an ‘additional’ who might later be able to place her at the scene. But when Katla realises Bram is blind she decides to spare him. Her reasoning is that he poses no threat to her because he will never be able to make a positive identification of her.

Katla, like most sighted people, imagines at first that a world without sight is a world of darkness and confusion. But Bram is not the kind of passive, low-functioning blind person who is frequently found in fictional representations. Unlike the blind man in Amelie, for example, he is always well aware of his environment. He picks up clues from the sounds, smells and atmospheric conditions he senses and is never described as having a lesser experience of life because of his blindness. This is wonderfully demonstrated in the scenes, such as the episode in the diner at the beginning of the ‘Luncheonette’ chapter, which are told through his perspective. In these scenes, the author focuses only on what Bram can hear, touch and sense. But the reader nonetheless gains a complete understanding of the scene. In fact until you look closely at the language of the scene, you probably won’t even notice the absence of visual clues. Bram’s presence in the novel, and the part he takes in its narration, brilliantly shows that sight is not essential to a full and happy existence. Bram is clever, funny, sexy and sporty. In fact very soon the story becomes so gripping that the fact of his blindness would easily be forgotten if it weren’t for the detail with which the narrator describes the practicalities of his life.

If you want to know what it is like to be a blind person living in a sighted world, then you should read this book, especially if you enjoy complex and multi-layered thrillers with unexpected twists and a truly triumphant ending.

Hannah Thompson is a Senior Lecturer in French at Royal Holloway, University of London. As a partially blind researcher, she is particularly interested in blindness and how the sighted and partially sighted and the blind and partially blind relate to each other.

For customer reviews, see the retail websites. Direct links to the books in the Amsterdam Assassin Series available here.

Special thanks to:

First and foremost, my bèta readers, for reading drafts and providing their helpful comments; The Thoughtcafe Writers Community, now sadly gone, Accentuate Writers, and the Inmates of ADVrider.com, for support and critique; Farah Evers for the beautiful cover; the Kindleboards and Goodreads community members for their support; Erick Qui for allowing me to check out room 5 and roam the corridors at hostel The Veteran; my cats Gris-gris (deceased), Mingus, and Jotta, for comic relief; and—last, but not least—the multitude of skeptics, for strengthening my resolve to prove them wrong.

While most locations in the Amsterdam Assassin Series exist as depicted, you will look in vain for:

- The Society of the Eternal Blossom, at the Spinhuissteeg. A lovely alley, for sure, but no Japanese club with a blind man living in the basement.

- Bianca’s luncheonette, at the corner of Prinsengracht and Berenstraat. The Nine Streets have lots of other nice lunchrooms, though.

- Sphinx Shipping on the Vlothavenweg.

- The bay south of Zeeburgereiland has quite a few houseboats, but Zeph Catadupa’s Mojo isn’t one of them.

- While the Kavallerie Kazerne is a real place, you will look in vain for Stuyvesant’s office.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, businesses, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any mistakes in this fictional work are made by the author and not the wonderful experts who generously provided their time to give me their information.

Katla’s work methods, while portrayed as accurately and realistically as possible, are not to be duplicated or imitated in real life. So, don’t try this at home!

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.