CONTENTS

Peccadillo copyright page

Pitch

Dedication

pec·ca·dil·lo

Also Available

AMSTERDAM WINTER

WTC

VANGUARD

ACCIDENT

VERMEER

TRAP

MEETING

SLAUGHTERHOUSE

ANOUK

TRACKING

CATADUPA

OFFICE

MISSING

GENERATOR

CLAIRVOYANT

VIRUS

LUNCH

SENTRY

IAI

Note to the Reader

Glossary Peccadillo

The Amsterdam Assassin Series

About the Author

Contact Martyn

Reviews

Special Thanks to

About the locations...

Disclaimer

AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES

Peccadillo

[A Katla Novel]

By

Martyn V. Halm

FREE PREVIEW

Pushdagger Publishing Limited

Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series)

ISBN: 978-94-91623-03-5 (ePub)
ASIN: B00AOR07BG (mobi)

Copyright: Martyn V. Halm
Published: December 1st, 2012
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 legitimate business is 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.

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, Peccadillo gives a rare glimpse into local Dutch culture, Chinese Triads, computer hacking, sniping, clairvoyance, circumventing car alarms, martial arts, 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.

pec·ca·dil·lo

noun. plural -loes, -los

a petty sin or trifling fault; a character flaw
[from Spanish peccadillo, from pecado sin, from Latin peccātum, from peccāre to transgress]

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.

AMSTERDAM WINTER

Pascal Vermeer cursed his need for an office in the centre of Amsterdam. Not just because of the exorbitant rent of office space or the endless quest for a suitable parking spot, but most of all because of the tourists. Even at this time of year, the buggers were everywhere. Gritting his teeth, Pascal braked for another idiot blithely stepping off the sidewalk, swinging a backpack with dangling sharp utensils that almost scratched the luscious coat of his new BMW X5. Didn’t these people have the least amount of self-preservation? Wandering about like blind sheep, straying into the road to take pictures of quaint gable houses.

The tourist took a picture, gave Pascal an apologetic wave, and shuffled back to the sidewalk. Pascal floored the gas pedal and his Bavarian luxury sports utility vehicle leaped forward, causing the tourist to stumble into his fellow sheeple waiting in the queue for the Anne Frank Huis.

An impotent gesture, since Pascal had to brake twenty meters further on to take the sharp curve onto the steep bridge that spanned the Prinsengracht canal. After the bridge he turned left again and found a parking spot not far from his office. He shut down the engine, but stayed in the comfort of his huge car for a little while longer.

Listening to the patter of rain on the roof, Pascal gazed out across the canal at the old church. Built in typical Amsterdam renaissance style by Hendrick de Keijzer, the view of the Westerkerk complemented the soft classical music pouring from his speakers. The rain on his window made the Westertoren ripple like the enormous church tower was shedding its skin of ancient masonry.

The BMW’s passenger door opened and a stocky Chinese man got into his car, closing the door behind him before Pascal could protest.

“Tasteful music.” The man studied him with obsidian eyes. “Händel?”

“Who are you?”

“Lau.” The man checked the display of his car stereo. “Ah, yes. Water Music. Appropriate, for this weather.”

“Mr. Lau, what do you want?”

“Me? Nothing. I came at the behest of Mr. Zhang.”

Pascal groaned inwardly, but gave him a confident smile. “Mr. Zhang? What can I do for him?”

“Your limit is ten thousand. You’re thirty down the hole.”

“Listen, I owe Mr. Zhang ten. What I owe others is not his concern, is it?”

“What others?” The flat black eyes gazed at him with the equanimity of a sunning lizard. “We have all your markers. You owe us thirty-two thousand eight hundred.”

“The debt is covered,” Pascal replied. “Although the money is not all available at—”

“If you think you’re talking to our Cho Hai,” Lau interrupted him. “You’re mistaken.”

Pascal tried to meet his gaze without twitching. If not a mediator, he could only be an enforcer, coming to collect.

Lau pulled out the BMW’s still pristine ashtray, reached in his inside pocket and withdrew a gold cigarette case. A slight click and the case opened in his palm. The enforcer calmly removed an unfiltered cigarette. Pascal wanted to tell him not to smoke in his new car, but Lau probably wasn’t the type to comply.

Studiously unhurried, the enforcer closed the case and tapped the cigarette twice on the gold surface, before placing it in the left corner of his mouth. A steady flame danced in his fingers, reflected in his dark eyes. Lau touched the flame to the cigarette and drew smoke into his lungs.

Pascal adjusted the air conditioner to suck the smoke from the car.

“Does the smoke bother you?” Lau aimed a plume of smoke in his direction. “You ought to be used to it, visiting our dens of iniquity.”

“I sit in the non-smoking section,” Pascal replied. “Or near an open window.”

“I had no idea we were so accommodating. But then, I don’t gamble.” Lau grinned, but his dark eyes showed no merriment. “Smoking is my only vice.”

“You’re an enforcer, aren’t you?”

The lizard eyes stared at him through the smoke. “That’s right.”

“Violence and death are not exactly virtues.”

“Violence and death are part of doing business. We avoid the latter. Dead people don’t pay their debts.” His grin widened to display polyester dentures, with an amber-coloured stain on the left side. “Although the living have difficulty with that also.”

“I—”

“I heard you the first time. You can lay your hands on the money in a few days. A week at the most.” Lau tapped his ashes in the general direction of the ashtray. “Except you can’t. Not in a few days. Not even in a few weeks. You’re indebted to so many people, I’m amazed there’s no queue outside your office.”

Pascal watched flecks of ash land on the upholstery around the ashtray and resisted the urge to brush the ash away. He looked at Lau frostily and said, “I can assure you I can get the money in less than a week.”

Lau held up his hand. “Maybe there’s another way. Beneficial for both of us.” The palm of his hand looked like tough old leather. “Mr. Zhang is interested in Sphinx Shipping.”

“Interested in what way?”

“He wants to meet Ms. Sieltjes.”

Pascal blinked. Sieltjes was majority shareholder of Sphinx, not involved in the day-to-day business. “You tried the office?”

“Mr. Zhang wants an informal meeting. We’d like her address.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have it.” Lau stared at him and Pascal added, “All correspondence goes through the office.”

“We don’t want to ‘correspond through the office’.”

“There’s not much I can do. I have a phone number…”

Lau took out a notebook, opened it and showed him a page. “This one?”

“Uh, yes.”

“This phone number is a pre-paid cellular phone. Untraceable.”

“Ms. Sieltjes is protective of her privacy. I doubt if she’d meet outside the office.”

“This business proposal is a delicate affair. If the office is the only place, Mr. Zhang would prefer the building to be empty. Arrange a meeting for tonight. Around ten.”

Pascal tilted his head. “I’d have to arrange this meeting?”

“Your mediation would make a favourable impression on Mr. Zhang.”

“Not on Ms. Sieltjes,” Pascal replied. He could just imagine her reaction and suppressed a shiver. “I don’t think she’d appreciate—”

“She doesn’t hold your markers, we do. And your fee will equal your debt.”

“My entire debt?”

Lau made a slicing movement with his hand. “Canceled on her arrival. Your fee won’t depend on the outcome of the meeting.” The enforcer pointed at the car phone. “If you manage to arrange it.”

Thirty-thousand euro to arrange a meeting…

Pascal noticed Lau was still pointing at the phone.

“You want me to call her now?”

Lau shrugged. “What’s wrong with now?”

“Nothing.” Pascal took the phone from the holder. “I’ll have to improvise.”

“On the speakers. I want to listen in on the conversation.”

Pascal returned the phone to the holder and called the number. The phone rang and they waited for the other side to be picked up.

By the fourth ring Pascal shook his head. “I don’t think she’s in. You want me to leave a message on her Voicemail?”

A robotic voice answered the call. The enforcer showed his cheap dentures and motioned for Pascal to speak.

He cleared his throat. “This is Pascal Vermeer. I’d like for Ms. Sieltjes to call me back at her earliest convenience.”

He broke the connection and turned to Lau. “Nothing more I can do.”

Lau blew smoke at the windscreen. “Contact her later. Arrange for a meeting at ten this evening. I’ll pick you up at your office at eight-thirty.”

“I have to be present?” Pascal felt a queasy churning in his stomach. Sieltjes was always pleasant, but something in her calculating gaze made his balls shrivel. Lau made him even more nervous, though, so refusal was not an option.

“I insist.” The enforcer seemed to relish his discomfort. “Don’t disappoint us.”

“What if she doesn’t want to come?”

Lau stepped out of the BMW, took a last drag from his cigarette and shot the butt into the car. The burning cigarette bounced against Pascal’s chest and dropped in his lap.

In a reflex Pascal opened his legs and the smouldering butt slipped between his thighs and rolled down under his buttocks. Cursing, he arched his back to lift his butt from the seat, but the safety belt restricted him and he had to sit down before he could click it loose. The hot tip burned against his buttocks as he pressed the release button, elbowed his door open and clambered from the BMW.

Disgusted Pascal pinched the cigarette between his fingers and threw the butt into the canal. He checked the seat. A dark spot marked the tan leather. He cursed again. His pants were probably ruined as well.

With the rain dripping into his collar Pascal straightened and looked around, but Lau was nowhere to be seen. He took a last look at the cigarette mark on the seat, cursed Lau again and crossed the cobblestone road to his office.

WTC

Katla Sieltjes sat at a window table in Café Nooon on the ground floor of World Trade Center Amsterdam, nursing her ginger ale and watching people through the immense glass façade while she waited for her target to arrive. Her disguise was simple—a smart suit to blend in with the financial crowd and a pair of non-prescription tortoise spectacles that altered perception of the bone structure of her face.

Dusk arrived early at Zuidplein, a rectangular square separating the old and new buildings of the WTC. Snowflakes danced in the yellow light of the street lamps and landed on the muddy tracks around a largely ignored temporary skating rink.

A man wearing sunglasses in the dusk attracted her attention momentarily, but he wasn’t blind like her boyfriend Bram—just another fashion victim. Besides, Bram never covered his damaged eyes.

Cyclists rode carefully over the snow toward the escalators leading down to the massive bicycle parking under the frozen square. Opposite from Nooon, on the other side of Zuidplein, was an Albert Heijn To Go supermarket, bustling with people grabbing something to eat before they hurried on toward train station Zuid/WTC.

Two businessmen came down the escalators from the second floor, strolled into Nooon and sat down at the bar, ordering Glenlivet. Katla studied them in the reflection of the window.

The short one was Bert Hamerling, her client. The tall one, Ronald Heiboer, was the target. Together Hamerling and Heiboer had started a business, H&H Unlimited, currently housed on the twelfth floor of Tower B. Katla didn’t know details, but she knew Hamerling was getting tired of Heiboer. Enough to hire the services of Loki Enterprises. Hamerling was a decent actor though, didn’t show his animosity at all. He showed amusement at something Heiboer told him and his smile looked genuine enough.

After two whiskeys each, Hamerling clapped Heiboer’s shoulder and told him to be careful out on the road with all the snow. Hamerling strode past the enormous Christmas tree, went through the revolving door and walked down the square to the metro station, while Heiboer ordered his third Glenlivet. Three was his habit, so he’d be leaving in another ten minutes.

Katla left a five euro bill under her empty glass and strode to the escalators opposite the revolving door. The first escalator went down to P1, the visitor parking deck. She took another escalator to the P2 parking deck, reserved for WTC tenants. Heiboer’s Porsche Cayenne was parked in a corner under the old section of the World Trade Center. The low ceiling featured fluorescent lights that illuminated the interior of the Cayenne. That wouldn’t do. Katla donned a pair of disposable nitrile gloves, unclipped the translucent cover of the light fixture and twisted the round starter fuse. Both fluorescent tube lights winked off. She reattached the cover and went to the second fluorescent light fixture, repeating the procedure. The Cayenne was still visible in the gloom, but the interior was no longer illuminated.

Heiboer was lazy—he didn’t lock his doors with the key, but with the button on the key fob, sending the alarm code over the airwaves. According to the security system, the code changed every time any particular key was used and would be secure that way. In a way, it was. To track down the code of a particular key was a time-consuming job that would be counterproductive for the average car thief or car burglar.

Since Katla was neither a thief nor a burglar, she’d put in the effort.

The code-hopping security system was difficult to crack—not only was there a particular manufacturer’s unique code, every manufacturer could give another unique code to each type of vehicle. Keys might appear similar, but worked with different key generator algorithms. Cloning Heiboer’s key required copying the code from a key at the Porsche dealership and making sure she was close enough to Heiboer to copy his code when he used his fob to disarm his alarm. With two key codes, separating master from identifier was easy enough to clone Heiboer’s key on a blank fob with an identical microprocessor. And presto, undetectable access.

Katla pressed the button on the cloned key fob. The Cayenne’s indicators flashed and with a whirring click the doors unlocked. She climbed into the back seat and checked the trunk space. Carpeted and empty, except for an umbrella, a fire extinguisher and a first aid kit, strapped securely to the upholstery. Katla removed the tortoiseshell glasses and climbed into the trunk, did a last check of her gear and pressed the key fob, arming the alarm.

She settled down to wait, breathing slow and shallow to avoid changing the stifled air in the car. Although she had waited in less comfortable spaces, she hoped Heiboer would arrive soon. The longer she waited in the car, the more she’d warm up the air with her body heat and the more obvious it could be for Heiboer to notice he wasn’t alone.

Six minutes after she crept into the trunk, footsteps approached the car and the doors unlocked with a beep. Heiboer didn’t unlock the trunk, Katla noted with approval—always nice to have a target who doesn’t stray from his habits.

-o-

Ronald Heiboer woke with a splitting headache and knew something was terribly wrong. His eyes seemed to be covered with sticky stuff and there were tubes in his nose and mouth. He tried to lift his hand to feel his face, but his arms and legs were spread out and immobile, as if he was stuck in deep mud from the neck down. He tried to move his head, but it was also stuck and covered by the same substance as his arms and legs. The tube in his mouth was hard and unyielding, forcing it open into an O-shape. In comparison the two tubes in his nose were soft and flexible, but they irritated the nasal mucosa in his nostrils and he felt like sneezing. He listened, but his ears were covered too and the noisy rushing of blood in his ears drowned out any sound of his surroundings.

The last thing he remembered was getting into his car at the underground parking of the World Trade Center Amsterdam. Before that he’d had a couple of single malts at Nooon with David as was their custom before David took the train home to his family. The few drinks he had couldn’t account for the headache, though. Single malt whisky rarely—

A hand suddenly touched his chest and Ronald flinched, but couldn’t pull away. With a feeling of weightlessness while being compressed all over his body at the same time, he felt his body change position from being horizontal to almost upright. When the motion ended he felt like he was lying on a slope under an avalanche of snow.

The voice came through his covered ears like through a thin wall. Warm and soothing, but he couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman.

“I know you’re awake, Ronald. You have to co-operate. I know you can’t speak, but grunt twice if you understand.”

He made two grunting noises through the mouth tube, aching to speak properly, to ask questions, to understand what was going on.

“Good,” the voice spoke. “I’m going to insert a tube down your throat to your stomach and I want you to relax your throat muscles.”

Ronald wondered if he’d had an accident. Even hampered by the tubes in his nose, the air he breathed smelled stilted and industrial—with traces of metallic dust and exhaust fumes—not the sanitized antiseptic air of a hospital. And latex. Like a fetish boutique in the Red Light District.

Something slipped through the tube in his mouth and touched the back of his throat. The urge to gag was involuntary and Ronald was afraid he would vomit and suffocate. Panic was rising within him, but then the tube was retracted and the soothing voice spoke, “We’ll try it again. Try to breathe through your nose, Ronald. Easy does it.”

He breathed through his nose. The tube came through his mouth again and angled down into his gullet. He swallowed and the tube felt like a lump in his throat as it traveled down into his stomach.

“Keep breathing through your nose, Ronald.”

Cold liquid gurgled down through the tube into his stomach and blazed like molten lava. He struggled, but he couldn’t move. The liquid kept gurgling down the tube, but the molten lava turned into a warm glow—a glow he recognized. Alcohol. He could smell it now, rising up from the bottle near his mouth.

“You’re already inebriated,” the voice spoke. “Too bad this single malt by-passes your palate, but I’m sure you can imagine what Glenlivet tastes like, seeing how you already had a few.”

Oh God. This was premeditated. Some twisted fuck was getting him drunk.

Ronald tried to struggle again, but it was no use. Whatever held him down was too strong and he grew weaker as the warm glow in his stomach spread to his limbs. Tears squeezed past his covered eyelids. Despite the soothing voice, he couldn’t imagine any positive scenario following being force-fed whisky while rendered immobile. The gurgling of the whisky trickled down to a stop.

And everything grew silent.

Drowsily he struggled to stay awake. He had to stay awake. More tears struggled past his eyelids and he wondered why this was happening to him.

There had to be a way out. There had to be.

VANGUARD

An angry voice yelled outside and Gene Zhang, Vanguard of the Kau Hong, took his gaze from the television and glanced out of his second story office window down at the busy street below.

One of the oldest and most infamous streets in Amsterdam, the Zeedijk—situated between the Red Light District and the Geldersekade—was the heart of Chinatown, always bustling with merchants, tourists and shoppers. Although it never ceased to amuse Gene to have an office on a street that was dubbed by the Chinese Sin Tak Kai—‘the place where charity and virtue meet’—the never abating noise was sometimes hard to bear.

Gene closed the window against the ruckus and turned his gaze back on the television, which showed Xia Yi Zhan, Xing Fu with the sound down low. Although Next Stop, Happiness was an acclaimed Taiwanese television drama, Gene didn’t dare turn up the volume to drown out the gabble of conversation and tinkling of cutlery on porcelain drifting up from the restaurant below.

A red light over the door flashed briefly.

Someone on the stairs. Probably Lau, but one never knew. He switched the television to a Chinese news channel and waited with his hand near the buzzer.

A staccato rap on the door.

Gene buzzed the door and rose from his chair to welcome his senior Red Pole. Although Vanguard, or operations officer, was a higher rank than commander of the enforcers, being cordial never hurt anyone. Lau bowed and closed the door behind him. Gene turned to the window that looked out into the Stormsteeg and motioned for Lau to stand beside him.

“The accountant,” he spoke, his voice barely over a whisper. “He’s on board?”

The Red Pole took his cigarette case from his pocket. “Fear and greed.”

Lau offered Gene a cigarette and they lit up.

“Sieltjes is confirmed?”

“Not yet.” Lau rolled the glowing tip of his cigarette in the ashtray. “Vermeer will make the arrangements, don’t worry. I’ll collect him around eight.”

From where he stood, Gene could look across the Geldersekade, to the Binnen Bantammerstraat or Bat Tah Ngoi Kai, ‘reaching to all cardinal points of the compass’, where Chinatown had originated in 1910, the second oldest in Europe, after London Chinatown.

“Sphinx is the only likely candidate, the only independent company.” Gene blew a plume of smoke against the glass. “We have to stay below the radar. I don’t want to lose more shipments to the 14K. Or the police.”

“I don’t foresee any obstacles. I’m sure Sieltjes won’t put up resistance.”

“Don’t underestimate Sieltjes because she’s a woman.” Gene extinguished his cigarette and turned away from the window. “The shipping world is male dominated—for a woman to get into an uncontested position of power is an accomplishment worthy of respect.”

Lau nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Who will you take?”

“Five Lanterns to guard the perimeter. Nicky will keep an eye on them and handle the outside. Chen and Wu will come with me. And Jian to drive the fork lift truck.”

Chen and Nicky were both Red Poles, but Nicky was Lau’s second in command and Chen’s senior. Chen was recently promoted, still on probation. Lau was wise to keep him close. The Blue Lanterns were all prospects, eager to be initiated and promoted to ’49’ or soldiers, like Jian and Wu.

“Good men.” Gene gazed out of the window again. “I’m sure everything will go well.”

Lau knew a dismissal when he heard one. He squashed his own cigarette in the ashtray and left the office. Gene waited until the light flashed over the door to show that Lau had descended the stairs and switched the television back to Next Stop, Happiness again.

-o-

Nicky Wang missed riding the hills around Kowloon, but the Galaxy enduro motorcycle he’d left behind in China was no comparison to his current ride. He raced down the Herengracht to the Brouwersgracht, and noticed at a glance that the pedestrian bridge across the canal was empty, so he pulled the KTM 690 in a controlled skid and rode up the steps. The bridge itself was wide enough, but the posts on the steps were little wider than his handlebars. Nicky popped a wheelie and braked slowly at the end of the Melkmeisjesbrug, keeping his front wheel aloft as he rode between the posts down the steps back to the road. The front wheel hit the road and he went full on the front brake, lifting the rear and tilting the KTM sideways. Compared to the Galaxy, the KTM was a heavy brute, but the motorcycle handled exquisitely. His rear wheel landed on the bricks again and he balanced for a moment, then rode off down the Brouwersgracht in the direction of the Haarlemmerdijk.

Nicky slowed down as he spotted a couple of motorcycle cops on BMW F motorcycles. Not that he was afraid that he couldn’t outrun them, but he couldn’t outrun their radios, so Nicky limited his urban enduro escapades to avoid attracting too much attention.

His dashboard clock told him he had ten minutes before he had to meet Lau at the restaurant. He rode the KTM in the direction of Centraal Station, unable to suppress his inner hooligan as he took the bicycle path across the Singel, turned left and sidled past the waiting cars, hooked a right onto the Prins Hendrikkade and raced between cars to get to the front of the queues at the traffic lights. A few minutes later Nicky parked his KTM in front of Prins Heerlijk Snacks, next to the Ducati Monster from the blonde behind the counter. He waved at the counter girl as he strode onto the Zeedijk, knowing she’d keep an eye on his prized possession until he returned. To make sure the police cameras didn’t get a straight shot of his face, Nicky pulled a ball cap down low over his eyes and moved like a shadow down the Zeedijk. He entered the restaurant and walked all the way to the back where a table was reserved for the Red Poles. As he sat down, a waitress asked him if he wanted tea. Nicky told her to bring tea when Lau joined him. From where he sat with his back against the wall next to the stairwell that led up to Zhang’s office, Nicky could survey the whole restaurant in a single glance.

Nicky disliked having to report in, running the risk of being filmed by the police cameras, when most of the times the orders he received could just as well be relayed through burner phones. Lau didn’t like to use cell phones, though, and being the senior Red Pole, he could pretty much do as he wanted.

Lau appeared in the stairwell, and Nicky rose from his seat to give his senior the corner seat. Before he sat back down the waitress came running and placed a pot of tea on the table. Nicky served Lau first before he poured himself a cup.

Lau was the first to break the silence. “You checked out the crane, Sai-Lo?”

In Triad hierarchy, even among equals in rank, there is always the Dai-Lo, Elder Brother, and Sai-Lo, Younger Brother, relationship.

“Yes, Elder Brother. The controls are in a different order, but that’s not a problem.”

“You will be responsible for the perimeter, Nicky. I’ll take Chen and Wu into the office with the accountant.”

“Can Chen help me arrange the funnel?”

Lau lit a cigarette, drawing some irritated glances from customers nearby, but they didn’t dare meet his gaze. “Chen has to be on the quay when Sieltjes arrives. I want him to escort her inside. Until then you can do as you see fit.”

Nicky rose from the table. “See you later, Elder Brother.”

He pulled his ball cap down low over his eyes and left the restaurant.

ACCIDENT

Katla checked to make sure Heiboer was unconscious, withdrew the tube from his throat and unzipped the side of the latex vacuum bed. Air rushed audibly between the latex sheets and she could smell urine. Nothing unusual—drunks often lost control over their bladder as they passed out. Katla removed the jaw clamp from his mouth, plucked the tubes from his nostrils and drew the latex sheet away from his face. The skin of his face was blotchy, probably from crying.

She dragged his slack body from the latex sheets onto a stretcher parked next to the circle bed and dressed him again—Heiboer hadn’t been undressed all the way, she had only removed his belt and shoes and put soft mittens around his hands so his nails couldn’t damage the latex vacuum bed. She looked at the circle bed and smiled to herself—one person’s dream, another person’s nightmare.

Latex vacuum beds were considered the pinnacle of restraints with the bondage and discipline crowd. No matter how harshly applied, normal restrains like chains, handcuffs, ty-raps, rope, and leather harnesses always allowed the bound person some room to wriggle, but the vacuum bed restricted all movement. And they were easy to use. A person was placed between two latex sheets, the top sheet featuring a tube in the facial area for breathing, and the sheets were zipped together. Then the air between the sheets was sucked out, often with an ordinary vacuum cleaner, until the latex sheets molded themselves against the body of the subject like a second skin. With the sheets attached to a sturdy frame the subject would find it impossible to move. Ideal for restraining without leaving marks on the body.

The frame of Katla’s latex vacuum bed was attached to a hospital circle bed formerly used in paraplegic wards to turn recuperating patients without touching them. Normally, the two vertical circles featured two mattresses in a V-shape, but now there was just the single frame with the latex vacuum bed, allowing her rotate the vacuum bed from horizontal to vertical and every position in between. Since technology had moved on and circle beds were no longer used in paraplegic care, she’d picked up the bed for next to nothing.

After she wheeled the stretcher to the Porsche Cayenne, Katla strapped Heiboer into the passenger seat. She opened the large sliding doors of her garage, backed the Cayenne into the muddy snow-covered track of the desolate industrial area, closed and locked the sliding doors carefully and climbed into the driver seat. Heiboer was slightly taller than she was, but the added room would be most welcome later. Besides, she didn’t have to drive that far.

-o-

Katla halted the Porsche Cayenne next to her primer-spotted Citroën van, still parked unmolested under the A2 motorway viaduct. Heiboer was unconscious, but she took the keys anyway as she went to her van to fetch her gear. She undressed to her long thermal underwear and slipped on her dry-suit. After she put in her ear filters, Katla pulled the hood of the dry suit over her head, donned a full-face rally helmet, grabbed her closed-circuit re-breather and cave-diving mask, and got back into the Cayenne. Heiboer was still out, as expected. He was in for a rude awakening. She put her gear behind the passenger seat within easy reach and started the car.

Her faint smile hidden behind the chin bar of the rally helmet, Katla crossed the bridge to the other side and drove the Cayenne faster along the slippery embankment road until she came to the sharp bend just beyond the bridge. Her speed was too high to take the bend under ordinary conditions, but with the snow on the road the bend would be impossible to take. Katla stomped on the gas and felt the Cayenne’s powerful four point eight liter engine roar as the wheels lost all contact with the road. The SUV ploughed through the soggy snow-covered marsh and crashed into the frozen river.

-o-

A loud bang woke Ronald Heiboer as a tremendous shock threw him forward against his seat belt and shook him out of his stupor. With ringing ears he tried to take stock, his bleary eyes seeing nothing but bright whiteness. It took him almost a minute to realise he was enveloped by an exploded airbag. Then the cold hit his ankles and Ronald looked down. Freezing water covered his shoes and lapped against his ankles, rising quickly. He pushed himself back and noticed he was pushing against the dashboard, not against the steering wheel. The door was to his right. The view through the window was odd. A diagonal white jagged stripe ran from the top left corner to the lower right corner. The view through the windshield in front of him was dark green and murky in the lights of the head lamps.

Ronald looked to his left. The person in the driver seat had an oddly shaped head. No, not a head, a helmet. The person removed the helmet. A woman with a tight balaclava-like hood around her head, smiling at him, wearing a matte-grey overall. She calmly unbuckled her seat belt and turned in her seat. The cold water reached his knees and started flooding his seat, soaking his crotch. He gasped and felt for the release button to undo his seat belt, but his fingers, numbed by the freezing water, scrabbled around without finding what he was looking for. Then he realised he was in the passenger seat and the seat belt release would be on his left hand side. As he reached for the release with his left hand the woman grabbed his elbow and pushed his arm across his body. He struggled, tried to put his weight behind it, but her hand seemed immovable. She reached behind his seat with her right hand. A moment later, she wore a diving mask and a blinding light shone in his eyes. The cold water rose to his chest. His left arm was numb with the cold, but the woman kept it firmly against his body.

He had to get away. Get away from her.

With cold numb fingers he scrabbled for the door handle with his free right hand. He pulled the lever and pushed with his shoulder against the door, but the door didn’t budge. He reached with his right hand across his chest to push away the woman’s hand so he could free himself, but she grabbed his right wrist with her free hand and pulled his arm towards her. She pushed his left arm up against his right arm, crossing them at the elbows and pulled down his right arm to lock his arms together.

The water reached his neck and he was cold, so cold. Ronald closed his eyes against the bright light from the woman’s diving mask. He had to get out, but every twitch of his body was subdued by the woman, who used the leverage on his crossed arms to keep him in the seat. The water reached his mouth and he bucked against the seat, his panic overcoming the numbness of his body.

Oh, please, God. I don’t want to die. Please, please, please.

Ronald tried to keep his nose above the foul-smelling water, straining against the seat belt and the merciless hands clamping his arms painfully crossed. He took a snort of stale air before the freezing water flooded his nose.

His ears were still ringing from the airbag, but now they were underwater as he arched his head back to clear his nose of the water and take a last desperate snort of air, but he timed it wrong and inhaled cold water. Ronald coughed out his last air. By reflex he inhaled more water into his lungs. The pain was unbelievable, his lungs burning in his chest.

Air! Air, please! Please! Oh God, oh God, please, please—

-o-

The struggling body grew slack in her grasp. Katla checked the luminous display of her dive computer in the light of the integrated lamp of her cave-diving mask. Her dive computer gave her a water temperature reading of barely three degrees Celsius. Without her dry suit to keep her body temperature stable, she’d be exhausted and maybe even unconsciousness from hypothermic in about ten to fifteen minutes. She waited three minutes to make sure Heiboer was dead before she released his arms.

The Cayenne was now fully submerged and pressure against the outside of the doors was the same as the pressure inside the car, so she could easily open the driver side door. She stepped out of the car onto the muddy bottom of the river. Grit swirled up and into the car as she stirred the mud. Leaving the door open, she reached inside and unlocked Heiboer’s seat belt. She had expected Heiboer to go into shock from being submerged in the cold water, but he had held out long enough to actually drown. Despite his obvious lack of fitness, his heart had not given out. Katla transferred his slack lifeless body to the driver seat and put the seat belt on, then swam back a few meters and played the beam of her lamp over the scene.

Didn’t look exactly right—he wouldn’t have had his belt on and the door open…

She undid the seat belt again and let the corpse float up and out of the car. The seat belt didn’t retract and Heiboer’s left shoe hooked in the belt. He would’ve panicked and kicked at the belt. Katla wrapped the belt once around the ankle of the corpse and checked the scene again.

Drunk driver crashes into frozen river, manages to undo his seat belt and open his door, only to snag his foot on the belt, panic and drown.

Katla hooked her rally helmet to her diving belt, took another minute to observe the scene in the beam from her helmet, then reached up and switched off her light. The nose of the Cayenne was buried in the muddy bottom, obscuring the still burning headlights, but the rear lights glowed red in the greenish water. The interior light hadn’t survived the crash, or it had shorted when submerged, and Heiboer’s floating corpse was almost invisible against the dark hulk of the car.

Katla switched her headlamp back on and swam away under the ice. She used the compass on her dive computer to swim to the bridge and angled to the shore where her van was parked. The ice was stronger where the water was shallow, but she could stand on the muddy bottom and push up until a large piece of the ice broke off. She turned off her head lamp and stuck only the top of her head through the hole in the ice, carefully scanning her surroundings. The area was remote, but you could never know.

Both embankments were deserted. She crawled out of the water. Under the bridge the embankment was paved, so she wouldn’t leave any footprints. And the ice under the bridge wasn’t covered with snow. She carefully replaced the broken piece of ice so it fit with the hole and looked to the other side of the river. The gently falling snow was already covering the tracks the Cayenne had ploughed in the frozen marsh bank. The jagged hole where the car had crashed into the river was dark against the snow-covered ice. In another couple of hours, the hole might not even be visible anymore.

Katla stepped into her Citroën van, where dry clothes and a thermos of hot coffee waited.

VERMEER

Up in Katla’s loft, the old Sony Discman played a homemade compact disc, a sober twelve bar blues piece—brushes moving over a snare drum, a syncopating floor tom weaving around a growling bass—while Bram Merleyn leant against the wall, his fingers leaping over the valves, a waterfall of sixteenth notes pouring from the flared bell of his saxophone. He liked the loft, converted by Katla into her gym. His blindness made the view unimportant, but his ears appreciated the acoustics and his nose enjoyed her scent, nowhere as evident as in the place where she exercised.

The blues loop stopped with a drum roll and the taped murmurs of the musicians were drowned by the patter of hail stones against the window.

Listening to the nasty weather outside, Bram felt ambivalent about playing in the warm loft. He used to play outside year round, his only criteria a spot out of the wind so his fingers wouldn’t get too cold. Deep winter he’d play under the awning stretching the old part of the Raadhuisstraat, wearing fingerless woollen gloves, flight case at his feet, open to receive. Suffering the blues for small change. Not this winter, though. Since he refused payment for helping her with her homicidal enterprise, Katla slipped money in his pockets to show her appreciation. Not enough to refuse, but enough to keep him off the streets in foul weather. He’d become a fair-weather busker, the kind he used to scorn for lack of dedication.

The next track started and Bram waited out the piano intro, which segued into a jazz tune borrowed from Hank Mobley’s Workout album, a melody consisting almost entirely of B Flat, D Flat and E Flat. The bass would hit two bars and leave two for Bram to fill. He was about midway into the piece when Katla’s macaw Kourou started barking downstairs. Used to the more raucous interruptions from the average drunken barroom crowd, Bram played on, repeating the theme before moving into another improvisation.

As if her presence downstairs permeated the air in the loft, his thoughts turned to Katla. Bram lowered his saxophone, while the recording played on. Although he had a fairly accurate picture furnished by Zeph’s descriptions, in his mind Katla appeared like an old Egyptian goddess, a creature with a human body and the head of a wolf. That image came most often when he’d lie in her arms and listen to her talk about her work, her cool detached voice so incongruous with her warm embrace, the hands caressing his skin capable of snapping the bones underneath.

He turned to the CD player and found the stop button.

“Are you finished?” her soft voice spoke from the stairwell.

“No.” Bram capped the mouthpiece to protect the reed, unhooked the saxophone and placed it on the stand near the wall. “But you’re home, so I might as well stop.”

The pungent smell of sewage assaulted his nose as Katla came near. “Did you crawl through a sewer?”

“No, a river.” Katla touched his nose. “Why don’t you make me an espresso while I jump in the shower.”

-o-

Moving carefully to prevent piping-hot coffee from spewing on his hands, Bram held the tiny cup under the twin spouts of the espresso machine. Due to the sound of the machine he couldn’t hear if the cup was almost full, so he measured by weight. Of course, he could count off the seconds the machine was gurgling, but the grind of the coffee influenced the speed at which the cup filled. He could hear the bathroom door and carefully carried the espresso to the coffee table in front of the couch.

Katla bounded into the living room. “Just what I needed. A shower and coffee.”

“You took the thermos with coffee I made you, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but nothing beats a fresh brew.”

Beeps sounded as she switched on her cell phones. Part of her professional paranoia—Katla rarely walked around with an active cell phone, claiming she could be triangulated. Just as she carried her bank cards in a special wallet that prevented scanners from reading the RFID chips. One of the cell phones gave the harsh beep of a missed call. Katla slurped her espresso and played the message on the speaker, some guy called Vermeer requesting to be called back.

When the message was over Bram tilted his head. “New assignment?”

“No, it’s my Sphinx phone.” Her voice was pensive. “I never get calls from Pascal.”

“He sounds arrogant. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly, no. Why do you ask?”

He hesitated, then said, “I don’t like his voice.”

“I didn’t hire him for his voice.”

“Who is he?”

“Sphinx’s accountant. Come to think of it, I didn’t hire him. Emil hired him.”

“I’d get rid of him,” Bram said. “His voice oozed deceit.”

“Oozed?” Katla sniggered. “You once told me you couldn’t give a character analysis based on a few minutes of conversation. This was a twenty-second Voicemail message.”

“Character analysis, no. But I can tell if someone is dishonest.”

“I check the books every month, Bram. Pascal isn’t stealing. At least not overtly.”

“He sounds like a sycophant.”

“He is a sycophant.” Buttons clicked softly as Katla dialled his number. “You want to listen in?”

“Sure.”

A recorded message came on, a husky female voice announcing, “You’ve reached Vermeer Financial Services. At the moment no-one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the beep.”

Katla waited for the beep. “Katherine Sieltjes returning your call, Pascal. I’m—”

Abruptly the receiver lifted at the other end. “Ms. Sieltjes? Hang on.”

A hollow thunk as Vermeer put the receiver on the desk. The hum and echo on the line disappeared as he switched off his answering machine. The receiver picked up again. “Thank you for returning my call, Ms. Sieltjes.”

“No trouble, Pascal. Is there a problem?”

“On the contrary, an unexpected windfall.” Vermeer paused for dramatic effect. Bram put his hand on Katla’s shoulder and held a finger to his lips. Her hand patted his in confirmation. Vermeer cleared his throat and resumed, “Cott and Sons are having an auction. You know, the shipbuilders in Scotland?” Katla gave an affirmative murmur and Vermeer continued, “Cott built two vessels for a company that went bankrupt. They’re auctioned off for bottom prices. One is a freighter not unlike the Gizeh. With a bit of luck we could buy it for two-thirds of the regular price. Maybe even half. With Sphinx’s current financial status and future prospects, that investment would turn profitable in less than two years. I’d like to meet this evening at Sphinx, so we can talk things through.”

Bram signalled ‘slow down’ with his hand.

“What’s the hurry?” Katla asked. “Can’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“The auction starts tomorrow at ten and bidders have to be there in person. Your signature has to be on the letter of authority or our representative cannot deal over there.”

Bram put his hand on her shoulder and drew his hand across his throat.

“I’ll call you back, Pascal.” Katla broke the connection. “What do you think, Bram?”

“What does Vermeer stand to gain in this deal? Does he have stock in Sphinx?”

“Five percent,” Katla replied. “Non-voting. Pascal might get a commission on this deal. Not from us, but from the seller.”

“How long would it take, this meeting?”

“An hour, maybe two. I’d take a taxi, I don’t feel like driving.”

“How is your leg?” Bram slipped his hand under her robe. The bullet that tore up her leg had been removed by one of his friends, but the removal had left a nasty scar. As soon as she’d been able, Katla had booked a flight to London, where a discreet surgeon repaired the damage as well as he could and glued the suture shut. According to Katla, the scar now resembled the silvery trail of a fat snail.

He stroked the scar softly. “Are you sure you didn’t exert yourself?”

“I may have. A little. But I couldn’t walk around with my cane. I’d be too easy to remember.”

“You still limp. That doesn’t attract attention?”

“I can walk straight for at least a hundred meters, before I have to rest. It hurts, but—”

“A hundred meters?” He shook his head. “Katla—”

She put her finger on his lips. “I know what I’m doing. I’m not overexerting myself.”

“You don’t think maybe it was a little too soon to start working again?”

Katla sighed. “Maybe you don’t want me to work again?”

“I’m just worried. Prescott told you it’d be months before you’d be able to—”

“It’s been months, Bram.”

“Fine.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Call the sycophant and tell him you’ll be at the meeting. I want to hear his reaction.”

“You think there’s something fishy?”

“Just call him.”

The speaker emitted a series of beeps as the phone redialled Vermeer’s number.

The sycophant picked up before his machine could kick in. “Vermeer Financial Services.”

“Sieltjes, Pascal. You wanted the meeting at the office?”

“Yes, please. At ten, if possible?”

“Who’ll be there? Emil?”

A slight hesitation. “Mr. Bootz will be there, and maybe his representative if he doesn’t attend the auction in person. It won’t take long, Ms. Sieltjes. I promise.”

Bram patted her shoulder and nodded.

“I’ll be there, Pascal.”

“Thank you very much, Ms. Sie—”

Katla broke the connection. “And?”

“For someone with five percent non-voting stock he sounds relieved and pretty grateful. His commission on this deal must be astronomical.”

“You think the deal is crooked somehow?”

“He hesitated before he confirmed Bootz’ attendance.”

She put her hand on his chest. “You don’t think Emil will be there?”

“I don’t know, Katla. Too many incongruities. I’d be wary, but you should trust your instincts.” He caressed the low curve of her back. “You can handle yourself.”

Katla snuggled up to him. “We have some time to kill.”

“I forgot. Killing makes you horny, doesn’t it?”

“Your concern makes me horny.” Katla pulled him to the bedroom by his belt buckle. “I need some of your loving before my dangerous meeting with my accountant.”

TRAP

The crane rolled along the quay, the empty twenty-foot container hanging from the hook looking like a morsel in the long beak of a heron.

Chen leant over Nicky’s shoulder. “Pity about the rain, Sai-Lo.”

Nicky glanced at his face. “What for, Younger Brother?”

“It’s a nice view.”

Even for an industrial landscape the Amsterdam harbour didn’t qualify as a nice view. Drab buildings on a drab quay with grey water darkened by oil sludge. Saturday evening and the harbour was deserted except for their crew, huddled in dark windbreakers, trying to shield from the stinging rain.

“Maybe for a Joy Division fan,” Nicky replied, halting the crane near the bow of the ocean freighter berthed at the quay. “On the verge of following the singer into suicidal bliss.”

“Joy Division?”

“Harbingers of New Wave. Stale music in factory halls.”

“I know what you mean,” Chen replied. “Didn’t know you were a fan.”

“I’m not. That’s why I don’t think much of this view.”

In the parking lot in front of the two-story office building the small crew watched the container swing over the warehouses. The opening rotated towards the quay and Nicky slowed the hook’s rotation to prevent the four chains from twisting together. When the container was suspended over the alley between the warehouses and the office building, he pushed the lever to turn the hook again. The container rotated slowly, but when he tried to lower the metal husk to the ground, it kept rotating and grazed the top of the warehouses. He drew the container up again, sticky sweat coating his armpits as it kept rotating, and he cursed silently.

Chen shook his head. “The opening has to be—”

Nicky held up his hand to motion him into silence, waited until the container stopped its rotation and drew another lever to turn the hook the other direction. As the container drew parallel with the small alley between the offices and the warehouses, Nicky lowered the big metal box a little too abruptly, the empty metal husk hitting the concrete with a dull clang.

“It should hug the wall.” Chen pointed down. “The open doors shouldn’t protrude past the warehouses.”

“This crane is not equipped for transporting containers, Chen. And I’m not a professional crane driver. I need some help to move the thing.”

“Can’t you drag it along the ground?”

“No, I can’t. I told you before, the best way to put that container there would be by forklift truck, not by crane. Except the space doesn’t allow for the forklift truck to back out, unless you move those stacks.”

“Okay. How do we work this?”

“Get four men to turn the container into position. Make sure no-one steps between the container and the wall, or it’ll crush him.”

Chen grabbed the two-way radio, but Nicky halted him. “Go down there and explain what needs to be done.”

Chen nodded and lifted the hatch in the floor of the cabin. Nicky watched him clamber down the iron rungs to the quay. He closed the hatch, lit up a cigarette, and gazed out over the harbour.

From this height, the forklift truck riding around the dark terrain between the warehouses looked like a tiny Huayi miniature, the bright lights illuminating its way. Stacks of timber blocked the terrain, except for a path down the middle. A funnel, straight to the container, where flashlight beams moved like fingers over the ground.

Through his binoculars Nicky watched a couple of men tie ropes through the four lower corners so they could rotate the container without getting too close.

The two-way radio crackled. “Lift.”

He drew back the middle handle and the container shuddered on the cable.

“Stop,” Chen spoke through the two-way radio. “Forward, slow.”

With four men hanging onto the ropes to keep the container in position, moving the metal husk next to the wall was a piece of cake. Holding the binoculars in his free hand Nicky watched them open the doors and check the distance. The forklift truck backed into a slot opposite the open container and turned off its lights, ready to shove Sieltjes’ car into the container.

Nicky opened a window, pitched his cigarette into the darkness and followed its descent to the quay. No sparks, the quay was too wet. He tilted the face of his watch to the moon shining into the cabin.

Eight forty-seven.

At least an hour to go, but Lau would want him to stay in the cabin. He poured himself a mug of coffee from his thermos and fingered the paperback novel. The moon illuminated the cabin well enough to allow him to see the controls, but not enough to read by. And turning on the cabin light would be like a beacon to the harbour patrol.

Digging deeper, Nicky fished out his PSP game console and checked the battery. Maybe it’d last long enough to pass the hour. With his feet up on the console and the coffee balanced in his crotch he played Mortal Kombat, waiting for the call from the quay.

MEETING

Dressed in jeans and a turtleneck, Katla carried a pair of black leather sneakers into the living room and halted at the kitchen counter to watch Bram make tea. A ritual at once deliberate and circumspect. The stainless steel clamp, filled with loose-leaf Lapsang Souchon tea, descended with a slight chink into the high thin glass. Like handling molten lava, Bram poured boiling water into the glass and returned the kettle to the range. He turned with the glass in his hand and halted, feeling her presence.

“You want something to drink?”

“An espresso would be nice.”

Bram nodded and turned to the Gaggia espresso machine. Katla limped into the living room, sat on the couch to put on her sneakers, bending her right leg with both hands to slip her foot into the sneaker. Bram might’ve been right about overexerting herself. She’d better take it slow for the next few days, give her leg plenty of rest. While she tied her laces, Bram strolled around the counter with his peculiar loping gait that made him appear to glide over the gleaming parquet floor. Katla envied him his grace, wished she was rid of her limp. He placed a fresh espresso on the coffee table in front of her and sat down next to her, stirring his tea with the clamp, his aquiline nose hovering in the steam rising from the glass.

She snuggled up to him. “I once dreamed of retiring to an atoll in the Pacific Ocean. House on the beach, walking around naked all day.”

“But?”

Katla leant back.”Somehow I don’t see you in my dream.”

“Maybe that’s because it’s your dream, not mine.”

“I know. I don’t like my dream anymore. I’d love to live like that, but I wouldn’t like to leave you behind.”

“I wouldn’t like that either,” Bram replied. “But I’d understand.”

“You’d understand if I left you behind to live on an island?”

“I love you.” He turned in her direction. “Your happiness is more important to me than my own.”

She leant her head against his shoulder. “Wouldn’t you be miserable without me?”

“Your happiness would probably ease my misery.”

“You wouldn’t prefer it if I’d stay here?”

“Not if it would make you unhappy. Don’t you have a meeting?”

She checked her watch. “Yes. You’ll be here when I come back?”

“Yes. But I have to get up at nine to make my aikido class.”

“I’ll be back around midnight.” Katla shrugged into her jacket. He opened his flight case and assembled his saxophone.

She halted him briefly to kiss him. “Don’t play too long.”

“Don’t worry.” He followed her into the hallway and climbed the stairs to the gym. “I’ll limit myself to ballads.”

As she opened the front door to go out, a flurry of notes came down from the gym. Katla limped back and stood at the bottom of the stairs. “That’s not a ballad.”

The music stopped. His voice floated down the stairs. “I wrote it for a girl with ADHD.”

Katla rolled her eyes and left the apartment, pulling out her cell phone as she limped down the stairs. The Taxi Centrale Amsterdam asked for an address to collect her, but she gave them the entrance of Artis. The fewer people knew where she lived, the better.

As Katla walked down the Nijlpaardenbrug, a late-model Mercedes turned the corner, the sign on the roof lit to show its availability. The taxi halted in front of the zoo. Katla waved with her cane and the taxi drove the extra fifty meters to the curve to the Plantage Doklaan.

His window whispered down. “You called for a taxi?”

“Yes,” Katla replied. “You mind if I sit up front?”

“Not at all.” The driver popped the door open. “Whereto, moppie?”

“Vlothaven.” She scooted into the passenger seat, closed the door, and put her cane between her legs.

The driver turned onto the Plantage Doklaan. “Isn’t the harbour closed on Saturday night?”

Katla shrugged. “If it is you can drive me back.”

“Easily offended, aren’t you?”

Katla studied him. Early-thirties, dark hair, black leather jacket, thin gold chain over a white shirt. Dark stubble on his chin, dark rings under his eyes.

“Not offended,” she replied. “I just don’t think it’s a good policy to question the mental capabilities of your passengers.”

He frowned. “I did that?”

“You questioned my request to be taken to the Vlothaven.”

“True, but I didn’t doubt your sanity.” He turned onto the De Ruyterkade. “If I suspect a passenger to be stoned, drunk, or otherwise under the influence, I ask them to repeat their request, to avoid misunderstandings.”

Katla checked herself in the mirror of the sun visor. “So now I’m drunk or stoned?”

“You look sober, but your request was odd.”

“Believe me, behind every request I make lies purpose and reason.”

“Then you’re an oddity yourself.” He grinned at her. “No offense.”

“I guess that could be construed as a compliment.”

The Mercedes purred smoothly through the chaotic traffic behind the Centraal Station and accelerated, speeding down the sweeping curves of Westerdoksdijk.

“I’m not in a hurry,” Katla said. “Keep to the speed limit.”

He slowed down and glanced in her direction. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You do? So why are you speeding?”

“What is this? Are you with the police? I wasn’t speeding.”

“Sixty-two in a fifty zone. I’m sure this Mercedes can brake faster than average, but I don’t want to be pulled over just because you’re eager to get rid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“So why are you speeding? To impress me with your driving skills?”

The driver took a deep breath and stared straight ahead through the windshield.

“The meter is coupled to your mileage, isn’t it?”

He grunted an affirmation.

“So speeding is to your disadvantage. You burn more fuel and risk a fine. Still think you know what you’re doing?”

“I can see why some people might be eager to get rid of you.”

Katla shrugged. “Common sense is only irritating in other people.”

They continued in silence. She knew why he was speeding, but he obviously couldn’t tell her that he was indeed eager to get rid of her. Not because she annoyed him, but because he wanted to take as many fares as possible. And driving her to the harbour wouldn’t get him a return fare.

They reached the Spaarndammerdijk. The driver turned to her and said, “I’m not too familiar with the harbour. Should I take a right here?”

“Up ahead, at the fork,” Katla replied. “Follow the Nieuwe Hemweg and take a right at the next intersection.”

The driver nodded, tapping his hands on the wheel as he slowed down at the traffic lights and turned right, driving parallel with the motorway.

Katla pointed at the neon sign to her right. “Take a right at the Gunco building.”

The Mercedes halted at the gate. The terrain between the low warehouses was dark and looked deserted, the beams of the Mercedes reflected by huge stacks of wet timber. Next to the rolling gate was a small gate for pedestrians.

The driver looked at her. “You walk from here?”

“Not a chance.” Katla handed him a keycard. “Hold this against the black box on the left pole.”

The driver turned down his window, held her keycard against the reader, and the gate rolled sideways. He handed her back the keycard and drove past the gate. The gate stopped in its tracks and rolled back to close again.

The driver stopped the car. “How do I get out again?”

“With my keycard,” Katla said. “After my meeting.”

“If I have to wait here I’ll have to leave the meter running.”

“I’ll probably be half an hour.”

“Fine by me,” he said and put the car in gear. “Straight ahead?”

Katla looked at the stacks of wet timber littering the terrain in haphazard stacks. Straight ahead the terrain was cleared for vehicles, just wide enough for a single car or truck to pass through. Which was odd, since lanes between the stacks were supposed to be wide enough for two trucks to pass each other. And there should’ve been more than one lane. She looked to the right, but there was no space cleared other than the narrow lane in front of them.

“Take a left,” she said. “Pass behind the warehouses.”

“Whatever you say.”

The terrain behind the warehouses was also strewn with rubble, except for the tracks of the cranes at the edge of the quay.

Katla pointed at the quay. “Drive between the tracks.”

The driver frowned. “You want me to pass under the cranes?”

“Trucks can do it, so can you.”

The Mercedes bumped over the tracks and turned right, occasional pebbles shooting out from under its tires. They passed under a crane, the axles of its wheels level with the taxicab’s door handle. Another crane hulked in the distance, silhouetted against the dark blue night sky.

Katla pointed ahead. “The office building is just behind those warehouses.”

The driver pointed with his chin at a slender silhouette between them and the crane. “And who’s that?”

The silhouette’s right arm appeared slightly longer than the left.

“Stop the car,” Katla replied. “Put on your high beams.”

The high beams of the Mercedes illuminated a slender Chinese man in a dark suit, his left arm shielding his eyes, his right hand out of sight behind his back. Next to Pascal’s BMW she noticed three black Lexus SUVs, but Emil’s Saab was nowhere in sight.

“Park in front of the building.” Katla fished her cell phone from her pocket. “What’s your name and the number on your roof?”

“Why?”

“Give it to me.”

“Laurens Thooft.” He pointed at the laminated card on the windshield. “234.”

Bram answered and Katla said, “It’s me. If I don’t call you in fifteen minutes, or call you by your last name, I want you to call the police. Location: Sphinx Shipping, Vlothaven. Taxi 234, driver Laurens Thooft. Got that?”

“Taxi 234, Laurens Thooft,” Bram repeated. “Sphinx Shipping, Vlothaven.”

“Fifteen minutes.” Katla broke the connection and glanced at her watch.

The driver halted in front of the building. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “Your tip went up to fifty euro. Stay in the car.”

Another Chinese man walked up to the Mercedes and opened the door. Katla smiled up at him and swung her legs out of the car, placing her cane between her feet before she rose from the seat. The Chinese man held her elbow to help her from the car, reached in his pocket, took out a twenty and held it out to the driver. “We’ll drive Ms. Sieltjes home.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Katla put her hand on his arm. “He’ll wait for me.”

The Chinese man looked at her, shrugged and put the money back in his pocket. He preceded her to the door and held it for her, then followed her inside, staying three paces behind her. Katla exaggerated the effort she needed to climb the stairs and limp slowly to the Sphinx office.

In the tiny office were three men; two Chinese and Pascal Vermeer, who approached her with his hand extended, a nervous smile around his lips.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Sieltjes.”

“No problem, Pascal,” she replied. “It’s good to see you.”

Gazing deep into his eyes, Katla clasped his clammy hand and jammed her thumb into the nerve behind the knuckle of his index finger. Vermeer blinked with the pain and his smile faltered, but he didn’t cry out. She released his nerve-deadened hand and turned to the two Chinese.

The younger man, in his late twenties like the one who followed her, wore a large gun under his armpit; large enough to cause his left arm to hang away from his body. He should’ve worn a broader tie; his suit was cut to hide the gun, but his shirt showed signs of a shoulder holster, the tips of his collar askew.

The older man appeared unarmed under his expensive silk suit. If his age and the quality of his clothes hadn’t revealed his seniority, his leadership would have been apparent in his demeanour; even in relaxation his straight shoulders and upright bearing betrayed a military background. His hair was shot with grey and shorter than that of his companions, and his dark eyes remained opaque as he gave her a boyish grin and extended his hand.

“Ms. Sieltjes, my name is Lau.” His callused palm felt like he had flat coins implanted under the skin. “I apologise for our ruse to get you to meet with us.”

“I’m sure you have an excellent reason for your subterfuge.”

Katla released his hand and moved to Emil’s desk.

“I do.” Lau opened a briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. “We want you to sign these documents, signing your Sphinx stock over to us.”

Katla rested her butt against the front of the desk, the cane ready to strike. “You mean you want me to sell my stock to you?”

“No, Ms. Sieltjes. We want you to give us your stock.”

Lau held out a ballpoint pen, but Katla made no move to take it.

“You think I will sign my stock over to you? Just like that?”

“I expected you’d need encouragement.” Lau took a Ruger pistol from the briefcase. “So I brought this.”

“Shooting me won’t get your documents signed.”

Lau screwed a silencer onto the barrel of the Ruger. “If you sign the documents, both of you will leave this office alive and unharmed.”

“And if I don’t sign?”

His companion seized Pascal Vermeer and pushed him down on a swivel chair. Lau walked over and put the muzzle of the silencer against the accountant’s head. Vermeer’s eyes bulged in panic and Katla noticed his crotch darkened.

“I have no love for Pascal, Mr. Lau, especially after this betrayal.” Katla raised her cane and rested it against her shoulder. “If you shoot him, however, I’ll assume my fate will be the same, whether I sign your documents or not.”

“This pistol is loaded with custom hollow-point bullets,” Lau spoke while he looked at her. “They expand and turn the brain to mush, but have not enough force to leave the skull. Keeps this from getting messy.”

He pulled the trigger.

The Ruger barked like a miffed Chihuahua. A spent casing flew from the ejection port, bounced against a framed picture of the Gizeh and dropped to the carpet, while Vermeer shook his head, his mouth falling open, and slipped sideways from the chair. His arms and legs worked spasmodically and Lau stepped over the dying accountant, pressed the Ruger against his forehead and fired again. His limbs stopped trashing and with a final shudder Vermeer became motionless.

While his companions picked up the spent casings, Lau turned to Katla. “Sign the documents, Ms. Sieltjes. Or you’ll share his fate.”

She picked up the documents. “I have to sign all of them?”

“All of them,” Lau replied. “The originals and the copies.”

Katla tore the documents in two and scattered them over her shoulders. “I hope you brought a second set.”

Lau’s opaque eyes hardened. The Ruger swung up and the muzzle centered between her eyes. “That was stupid, Ms. Sieltjes.”

Even in his anger the pistol didn’t waver in his hand.

Katla stared at him and came slowly to her feet. Lau kept the Ruger aimed at her face. Moving with exaggerated slowness, she planted her cane between her feet, and said, “My stock in Sphinx is worth one-point-four million euro, Lau. It’s for sale for one-point-nine.”

The Ruger wavered and Lau retracted his arm. “You think I’m going to pay half a million more than your stock is worth?”

“I don’t think you’re going to pay at all. You’re a lackey. Tell your boss, my price is non-negotiable. He should’ve come in person.”

Katla turned her back to him and limped to the door. One of the Chinese men from the hallway stepped in front of her to block the doorway and gazed over her shoulder.

Behind her, Lau said, “I didn’t say you could go, Ms. Sieltjes.”

“I don’t need your permission.” Katla kept her eyes on the face of the young Chinese in front of her. “Tell your underling to let me pass, or my price goes up to two-point-four.”

“She can pass,” Lau spoke. “I’ll get back to you, Ms. Sieltjes.”

“Let me know if you want me to bring you another accountant to shoot,” she replied without turning. “Or if you plan to supply your own.”

Katla limped through the doorway and went downstairs, followed by one of the Chinese men. The taxicab was still parked by the door and the driver opened the passenger door. The Chinese man held the door while she climbed inside and closed the door. The driver gave her a speculative look, but she motioned for him to drive.

As the taxicab bumped along the quay, Katla fished her cell phone from her pocket and looked at her watch. Two minutes to spare. She pressed the speed dial while the driver got out with her keycard to open the gate.

“Yes?” Bram asked. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll take the long way home. If I’m not home in thirty minutes, you know what to do.”

She rang off, rested her head against the headrest and closed her eyes.

Close call. Too close.

She took a deep breath, the adrenaline slowly fading.

The car rocked as the taxi driver got back in. “I take it the meeting didn’t go well?”

The driver had to be dealt with—the Chinese would find him and get him to divulge where he’d picked her up. She briefly entertained the idea of killing him—taxi driver is a dangerous occupation, and he wouldn’t be the first to end up getting killed by a passenger. On the other hand, she could try to use him to find the Chinese.

Katla opened her eyes. “Do you want to earn two hundred euro, Laurens?”

“Depends.” Thooft gave her a crafty look. “What do I have to do and how much are we talking about?”

“These Chinese are not on the level, I think you could see that for yourself.”

He gave a non-committal nod.

“They don’t know where I live. So they will find you and persuade you to divulge where you picked me up.”

“You don’t have to worry,” he said. “I have a ‘bad memory’.”

“That kite won’t fly with them.” Katla took two crisp hundred euro bills from her wallet. “I don’t want you to forget you picked me up just outside of the World Trade Center.”

“That’s right.” He stuffed her money in his inside pocket. “I won’t forget.”

“You might get a financial compensation for your information. Act eager to earn more and offer to keep an eye out for me. For a suitable fee, of course.”

“I’d have to have a way to contact them, though.”

“At their discretion,” Katla said. “Don’t ask for their number. They’re smart enough to see through any attempt to gain intelligence on them. Don’t underestimate them. If they think you’re trying to mess with them, they are liable to torture the information from you.”

He nodded. “You think they’re Triad?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were. Like I said, these are bad people. It’s important you don’t act the hero, or you’ll end up in a canal without your kneecaps.”

Thooft didn’t look impressed by that possibility. “So how will I reach you?”

“I’ll contact you. I want to you to make a stop at the Java Eiland first, then drop me off, then make a couple of stops before you return to your taxi rank. What is your taxi rank?”

“Stopera. You want me to drop you off at the zoo again?”

Katla nodded. “Just don’t mention that to them okay?”

Thooft grinned. “Why would anyone want to be dropped off at the zoo when it’s closed?”

SLAUGHTERHOUSE

The slaughterhouse was quiet except for the humming refrigerators. In the middle of the tiled room, illuminated by the harsh strip lights, the naked corpse of Pascal Vermeer hung from a hook suspended from the ceiling. Lau gazed at the faces of the four aspiring members, standing around him in a semi-circle, their hands folded in front of them. His gloved right hand came up, hefting a long tapered blade.

“In the sink behind you are four knives, one for each of you. Together you will remove the skin and flesh from the skeleton.”

With two slashes of the blade Lau cut an inverted T across the abdomen and stepped back as the stomach and intestines drooped over the edges of the cut and flopped on the tiled floor. Although the accountant wasn’t warm anymore he was still fresh enough to smell like a butchered pig. Lau’s gloved hand disappeared inside the cavity and pulled out the rest of the entrails. Not all four managed to keep their faces bland and Lau smiled at their discomfort.

“Twenty minutes. I don’t want any meat left on the bones.”

They turned for the sink and divided the knives.

Lau stepped back and joined Nicky, who offered the older man a cigarette and lit it for him. Together they watched the four knife-wielding aspiring members approach the disemboweled corpse. One of them started at the neck and cut down along the left arm, as if following an invisible seam.

Lau watched his smoke drift to the ventilation in the ceiling.

Strips of flesh and skin fell on the tiled floor.

The stench of urine filled the air, mingling with the sickly sweet smell of blood, and someone cursed. Another wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“If you think this smells bad, try disemboweling a week-old corpse.” Lau approached them, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “The stench will get into your hair, your clothes, your skin. What you eat and drink will taste of death. You will touch your woman and you’ll feel the bones under her skin. Her pliant flesh will feel like yellow fat and gristle.”

“You’re making me hungry,” murmured the one who cut the bladder and the others sniggered. Lau nodded and said, “I like people with a sense of humour. You can be in charge of grinding the meat.”

One of them gazed up at the starburst pattern on Vermeer’s forehead.

“You can take the whole face off,” Lau remarked and stepped up to the corpse. The others parted to give him room and Lau made a swift cut from the left jaw, over the crown of the head to the other side. He dug his fingers into the cut at the top of the head and pulled the skin forward. The features of the corpse folded like a rubber mask, only the eyes remained in the sockets. Lau flicked his knife, severed the skin at the throat and held Vermeer’s drooping face in front of his own.

Nicky’s cell phone jangled petulantly and he walked to the corridor while he fished it from his pocket. Behind him, someone laughed nervously.

“I expected you back,” Zhang spoke in Cantonese, in case anyone was eavesdropping on the GSM frequencies. “Where are you?”

“The tiled room, Vanguard. Getting rid of the evidence.”

“And the papers?”

“Apparently she didn’t sign them,” Nicky replied. “Lau let her go.”

“And you couldn’t prevent that?”

“I was in the crane, Vanguard. I’m sure Lau will explain what happened when we return.”

“Put him on. Now.”

Nicky walked back into the slaughterhouse, held out his cell phone to Lau. “The Vanguard.”

Lau looked with disgust at the phone in his hand. “I call him back from a normal phone.”

“I don’t think he wants to wait for that.”

“I won’t touch your phone. You mediate.”

Nicky put the phone back to his ear. “I’m sorry. Lau doesn’t want to touch my phone.”

“I’m not in the mood for his ngong ‘radiation causes leukemia’-theory.”

“What do you want to ask him, Vanguard?”

Zhang’s voice became tight with fury. “Why didn’t she sign?”

Nicky relayed the query. Lau shrugged. “She wasn’t intimidated by my threat.”

“He should’ve scared her more.” Zhang broke the connection.

Nicky put the phone away. “Zhang thinks you should’ve scared her more.”

“Next time,” Lau replied, “I’ll make her beg me to sign those papers.”

-o-

They were almost finished when Chen walked in, looking like an extra from CSI, wearing white Tyvek coveralls he’d donned to avoid leaving fibers in Vermeer’s BMW.

“Where did you leave it?” Lau asked. “Haarlem?”

“No, Spaarnwoude. People walk their dogs there at the strangest times, so it won’t be noticed anytime soon.”

Lau nodded. “You and Nicky go to the Vanguard. Explain what happened.”

Nicky nodded, but Chen looked unhappy as they walked to the car.

“He uses us as a lightning rod.”

“As is his prerogative,” Nicky replied. “What happened, why didn’t she sign?”

“Lau figured killing Vermeer before her eyes would rattle Sieltjes enough to break her resistance.” Chen gave him a gleeful smile. “She took the papers, asked if that was all she had to sign and tore them up.”

“You better not smile like that when we brief Zhang.”

“I know, but it was fun to watch. Lau was doing his best to impress her, but Sieltjes didn’t even blink when he shot Vermeer. He should’ve watched her eyes.”

Nicky fished out his car keys. “You’re saying Lau underestimated her?”

“Her eyes were shrewd, calculating. He’s always talking about looking for buttons to push if you want to manipulate someone. That was what she was doing, looking for buttons. And she didn’t give a shit about that accountant.”

They climbed into the Lexus.

“So what do we do now?” Chen lit a cigarette. “I don’t think Zhang will pay one-point-nine million for her stock.”

“That’s why I instructed Gerald to take her picture. He’s always lugging that camera around, might as well make use of it. We’ll circulate her picture, track her down.”

“That might take a while.”

“At least now we know what Sieltjes looks like.” Nicky smiled. “All we need to know is where to look for her. And I know where to get that information.”

ANOUK

Bram entered and sat on the rim of the bath, a glass of vodka dangling from his fingers. “What if he had a second set of documents?”

“I would’ve smudged my signature.” Katla plucked the glass from his fingers. “My move surprised him. I guess he expected me to be unnerved.”

Bram’s face became a mask, a sign he was too busy thinking to show outward emotion. Katla stretched her legs and drank the vodka, liquid fire burning deep in her throat. She put the glass on the rim and sank deeper in the bath, the hot water draining the tension from her legs.

His face became animated again. “You’re sure they’re Chinese?”

“Quite sure,” Katla replied. “They didn’t look Japanese, Vietnamese or Korean to me. And I’ve met enough Chinese on my trips to Hong Kong.”

“I have a Chinese friend,” Bram spoke slowly. “If Lau belongs to a triad or a gang, there’s a chance Tsui Pak Yun might know where to find them. Or at least who they are.”

“How well do you know this ‘friend’?”

Bram pointed at his eyes. “He belongs to the brotherhood.”

“Blindness is not an indication of reliability. You trust him?”

“I don’t know where his allegiance lies. He’s inscrutable that way.”

“How do you know he might be able to help?”

“One of my shiatsu patients is an influential yakuza. Yun knew this and approached me to mediate in a ‘troublesome situation’, since I was in a position to sound out my patient to his willingness to put an end to the situation. Things worked out, so Yun is indebted to me.”

“But his allegiance may lie with a triad that’s affiliated with Lau.”

“If Lau is triad-affiliated.”

“Lau didn’t just kill Pascal, he executed him.” Katla placed the glass on the rim of the bath. “He was in command, but seemed to follow a strategy that wasn’t his.”

“Because he didn’t foresee your move?”

“Anyone can fail to anticipate the improbable, but a strategist would be interested by an unexpected development, not angry. Lau’s anger rendered him incapable of improvisation, which allowed me to seize the initiative.”

“So he’s not the sharpest crayon in the box.”

Katla grinned. “No, he’s not. And they overplayed their hand, which puts me at an advantage.”

“They’ll try again.”

“They lost the element of surprise, Bram. I’ll be even more on guard, from now on.”

He picked up the empty glass and rose to his feet. She thought he would say something, but his face became mask-like again and he left the bathroom.

Katla floated in the bath, her gaze on the ceiling.

Bram reappeared. “Your Sphinx phone. Pascal knew your number. Can it be traced? Is it registered?”

“It’s a pre-paid, but if you have the number it can be triangulated if you have the equipment. They might not have tried that before, but they will probably try now. I switched it off, though. And removed the battery, to make sure.”

She watched Bram undress slowly and walk to the basin to brush his teeth. He disliked the buzzing sound of her electric brush, so he used a regular brush, even if that took longer. Katla studied his angular frame, the tips of his black hair brushing his bony shoulder blades, his muscular legs covered with fine dark hair.

She sat up in the bath. “Can you come over here?”

He halted at the rim and she caressed his legs with her soapy hands until his penis quivered. His stance widened as she slipped her hand between his legs and cupped his scrotum. With a wash cloth she cleaned his penis, stroked his erection until his breathing became ragged. She released him and rose to her feet. Bram took the brush from his mouth and she kissed some toothpaste from the corner of his mouth.

“Hand me a towel?”

He put the brush back and handed her a towel. She dried herself, kissed Bram and led him by his erection to the bedroom.

-o-

Bram’s cell phone rang. Katla opened one eye and focused on the floating green digits of the alarm clock.

03.15.

Bram snored beside her, oblivious to his ringing phone. She shook him by his shoulder. “Bram, wake up. Your phone is ringing.”

He picked up the phone just as it stopped ringing. “What time is it?”

“A quarter past three.” Katla took the phone from his hand and read the display. The number was in his contacts. “Anouk called.”

“Anouk? It’s not like her to call at this hour.”

Bram took the phone from her hand, called the Voicemail service, listened and pressed 1 for repeating the message as he handed the phone to her. Katla could hear a girl’s voice, sounding tearful and murmuring Bram’s name, then a crash and the message stopped.

“Maybe you should call her back.”

Rubbing his face Bram sat up and dialled. He listened for a while. “There’s no answer, goes straight to Voicemail.”

“Maybe she can’t reach the phone.”

Bram frowned. “I should go over.”

“You want me to take you?”

“Would you? She lives at Prinseneiland, close to the Galgenbrug.”

“I know the area,” Katla replied. “Get dressed.”

Bram wandered back to the bedroom. “We have to swing by my place. I don’t have her keys with me.”

“What are her locks like?” Katla asked. “Like yours or better?”

“About the same. Why?”

“I’ll bring my picks. Save us some time.”

-o-

The Vespa motor scooter puttered through deserted streets glistening with puddles. The rain had turned into a light drizzle that coated her helmet with fine droplets. Katla wiped her visor with the squeegee on her glove and turned right, taking the tunnel at Tussen De Bogen.

“Bickerseiland?” Bram asked over her shoulder.

“Yes,” Katla replied. “I’ll take the Kleine Bickerstraat to Galgenbrug.”

“It’s the second door on your right, after the bridge.”

Just after the Galgenbrug were two small two-story houses joined under one roof. Katla parked her Vespa next to the second door and read the small plaque under the doorbell. “What’s her last name?”

“Ravensdonk,” Bram replied. “Why?”

“Just checking. Wouldn’t want to open the wrong door.”

The tumbler lock provided about as much security as a Nepalese curtain. She opened her tool case, selected an electric pick gun, inserted the prongs and pulled the trigger. The prongs vibrated, depressing the tumblers, and she twisted the gun to open the lock.

“That’s quicker than a key,” Bram spoke. “Not much security.”

Katla pushed open the door and stepped back. “You go first.”

Bram moved without hesitation into the dark hallway. The tiny house smelled of the same incense Bram burned in his basement. Katla put the pick gun back in the case and followed him, her hand searching for the light switch. She found a round knob and twisted it. Spotlights bloomed to life, suspended from cables that ran the length of the hallway. The walls were plastered white and adorned with abstract paintings.

Bram called her name from somewhere in the back. Katla passed a closed door and entered the second room on her left. Two Siamese cats streaked past her legs and ran into the kitchen at the end of the hallway. The room was dark, except for a tiny halo of light around a reading lamp mounted over the headboard of the double bed.

On the bed lay a nude girl, curled in a foetal position, her pale skin translucent in the light except for the dark swirling pattern that covered her shoulder and upper arm. Her hair shone an unnatural shade of red and her ears and nose were pierced.

Bram crouched by the bed and whispered to her, his hand against the side of her face. The girl’s eyes flicked in her direction as Katla came around the bed and stood next to Bram.

“What’s wrong?” Katla asked. “Are you sick?”

“She has a subluxation of the L2.” He palpated the girl’s spine. “The second vertebra in her lower back has shifted.”

“Just like that?”

“An old injury.” Bram straightened. “I need a hard flat object to put under her.”

“Kitchen,” the girl whispered, as if talking out loud would hurt her. “Serving tray.”

“I’ll find it,” Katla said. “You stay with her.”

The Siamese cats observed Katla with their blue eyes as she found a tray near the sink and brought it from the kitchen to the bedroom.

Bram placed the tray upside-down on the bed, gently took the girl’s ankles and stretched her legs. Anouk grimaced and clutched the eiderdown. With his hand on her back he rolled her carefully onto the upended tray. A shiver ran across the girl’s shoulders as her bare belly touched the cold tray.

Bram moved his hands over her spine.

“Take a deep breath,” he spoke, while he put his thumbs together with the fingers fanned out to the side. “And sigh.”

Near the end of her exhalation, Bram shifted his body weight. With a dull crack her vertebrae slipped back in place.

Anouk groaned. “Christ, that hurts.”

“Raise your arms over your head, I’ll turn you over.”

“You need help?” Katla asked.

“No, thanks, I can handle it.” Bram rolled the girl from the tray onto the bed.

While he handed her the tray, Katla noticed more tattoos; Japanese katakana to the right of the girl’s navel.

Anouk gave her a strained smile. “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” Katla said. “I didn’t mind.”

Bram directed her to the other side of the bed. Together they pulled the eiderdown from under Anouk and covered her with it. He fluffed a pillow and put it under her head, then said, “What happened?”

“Zeph was here and we smoked some doobie. He left and I undressed to go to bed. I threw my clothes on the chair.” She pointed with her chin at a chair with clothes. “My blouse slipped from the backrest and I leant over to snatch it up, when my spine clicked. I sat down on the bed before I could fall.” Anouk looked at her. “I didn’t know Bram was at your place. I was leaving a message when I had another spasm and the phone slipped from my grasp.”

“I’ll get you some water,” Bram said. “So you won’t have to get up.”

He left the room.

Anouk gave Katla an apologetic smile. “I envisioned our first meeting to be different.”

“Less dramatic, you mean?”

“Uhm, yes. And I’m not looking my best.”

Katla shrugged. “You don’t have to impress me.”

“I might want to try.” Anouk grinned. “Although Zeph told me not to bother.”

“He did?”

“Well, if a bullet doesn’t impress you…”

Katla leant on her cane. “That bullet made a deep impression.”

Bram entered the room with a bottle of water, which he put on the bedside table. “For when you get thirsty.” He turned to Katla. “I have an aikido class in less than six hours, so we better leave now.”

Anouk nodded. “Thanks for everything.”

“No problem,” Bram replied. “Call me tomorrow if your spine still hurts.”

“Oh, my phone. It’s under the bed somewhere.”

Bram sank down on his knees and felt around, came back up with a phone, a battery and a battery lid.

Anouk put her phone back together and switched it on. “It still works. Again, I’m sorry.”

Katla flashed her a smile. “You’ll have to impress me some other day.”

“Maybe I will,” Anouk replied and turned off the light.

-o-

Bram went straight to bed, but Katla stood by the window in her dark living room and gazed out over the buildings of Artis. The Reptile House with its muted green glow, the silvery trails of the footpaths.

Her gaze shifted focus and she compared her dim reflection with the image in her mind. The tattooed nude on the bed, glistening doe-like eyes looking up at her, her gaze containing more than idle curiosity. She knew that look all too well. There was no denying the arousal in Anouk’s eyes.

Katla turned from the window and limped to the bedroom, where Bram snored gently. She slipped under the covers and pushed her buttocks against his warm belly. His breathing changed and his sleep-heavy arm curled around her waist. She snuggled closer, his warm breath moist against the back of her neck, and closed her eyes. Thinking of ways to turn this new information to her advantage, she drifted off to sleep.

TRACKING

With his hands flat on his desk, Gene Zhang listened to Nicky’s report, his gaze fixed on his fingernails. After he finished, Nicky stood before the Vanguard in an apologetic stance, hoping Chen, standing behind him, did the same. If Chen was stupid enough to show amusement, Nicky wouldn’t save him. Not this time.

Zhang put his hands together and lifted his head. “Sphinx should’ve been ours.”

Nicky didn’t reply, but looked calmly into Zhang’s eyes, drawn to pinpricks in cold fury.

“We have a shipment of perishable goods waiting in Macao, Nicholas. And the Gizeh will sail the day after tomorrow. Lau has forty hours to correct his mistake.”

“We’re close to locating Sieltjes, Elder Brother. We’re tracking the taxi driver, so we know where he dropped her off.”

“Forty hours,” Zhang repeated. “Lau better not fail again.”

Chen and Nicky bowed and left the office.

-o-

The small man in the big chair looked up from his laptop and smiled at Nicky. “I have the information you requested.”

“You have her address, Feng?”

“Sieltjes expected to be followed.” Feng pointed at the laptop showing the LoJack track. “I’m inclined to disregard the first stop.”

Nicky looked over his shoulder. “Why?”

“I put myself in her shoes. Java Eiland is a huge area, with many high rise buildings. And he stopped in the middle, so we’d have to consider her living anywhere within walking distance. However, after that stop, he took a roundabout route to Artis.”

Chen looked over Feng’s other shoulder. “The zoo?”

“Which is closed at that time of night. After Artis, he went to this place, opposite the Stopera, where he stayed for almost fifteen minutes. I guess that’s a taxi rank.”

“So she got out at the last spot? Artis?” Chen narrowed his eyes at the screen. “Or the Oostelijke Eilanden, right?”

“The taxi stopped in the middle, between KNSM Laan and the Java area. So she got out there, or Artis, or at the taxi rank.”

“And where is he now?” Nicky asked.

“At the 24-7 Texaco near the Sarphatistraat.” Feng smiled. “His lunch break, I guess. I think he’ll head back to the taxi rank near Stopera again.”

Chen nodded. “I’ll bring the car around.”

-o-

Taxi 234 came from Meester Visserplein and turned onto the taxi rank. Nicky had been sheltering against the rain under the canopy at the entrance of the Stopera. City Hall was closed, but the opera house part of the Stopera wasn’t, so it was still busy enough for the driver to feel safe. Even so, Nicky had opted to go alone. He crossed the bicycle path and walked up to the taxi. The driver was about his age, his dark hair slicked back, unshaven with dark smudges under his eyes.

Nicky opened the passenger door of the Mercedes and got in. “Hard night, pal?”

“Just tired,” the driver replied and started the car. “Where to?”

“Stopera,” Nicky replied. “So you might as well kill your engine.”

The driver turned the ignition key and the engine died. He looked Nicky up and down and said, “You’re looking for the woman I took to the harbour.”

“You know where she lives?”

“I picked her up at World Trade Center, where I dropped off another fare. After the meeting at the harbour, I dropped her off at Java Eiland.”

“Did you see where she went from there?”

“KNSM Laan.” The driver nodded to himself. “Pretty sure she went into the third building on the right.”

Nicky nodded with encouragement. “She paid cash?”

“Yes.” The driver smiled. “Good tipper, too.”

“So am I.” Nicky handed him a twenty. “So, after you dropped her off?”

“I came back here.”

That was not what the GPS tracker said. “You didn’t pick up another fare?”

“No, I came straight back here.”

So the woman left his taxi at Artis. Or he would’ve mentioned it.

Nicky smiled. “You’re a regular at this rank?”

“Yes, I am.”

“We’re still looking for the woman.” Nicky handed him an old business card. “If you see her again or manage to find out where she lives, give me a call.”

He got out and crossed the road to the car. Chen opened the passenger door and pulled away as soon as he got in. As they drove back to the restaurant, Chen looked sideways and said, “Did he object?”

“To being questioned?” Nicky shook his head. “He expected me. Or someone like me. I think Sieltjes warned him, he had his story down.”

“He didn’t know where he dropped her off?”

“He knew exactly where he dropped her off. Java Eiland.” Nicky smiled. “He saw her walk down the KNSM Laan and enter the third building on the right, then went straight back to this taxi rank.”

“Right. He waits and watches her walk to a building while he could’ve dropped her off at her front door?” Chen’s eyes twinkled. “Feng was right, that was a ruse.”

Nicky nodded. “He also lied about the location where he picked her up, and he failed to mention stopping at Artis.”

“Where did he pick her up?”

“WTC, where he just dropped off another fare.”

“WTC? Late in the evening, while she has no offices there?” Chen shook his head. “Highly improbable. You think he left her at Artis?”

“The zoo is closed at night. No reason to drop someone off at Artis unless they live in that neighbourhood.” Nicky shrugged. “I gave him incentive to call me if he had more info.”

“We can find him again,” Chen said. “And pressure him, if necessary.”

“Sieltjes lives in the Plantage area. I doubt if we’ll get much more out of him.”

“He might have seen where she went, after he dropped her off. What do we do now?”

“I gave him an old business card.” Nicky smiled. “If that information ends up with Sieltjes, we know Thooft is playing us. And we’ll come back to play with him.”

Chen tapped the console on the dashboard. “We can follow him with the GPS tracker.”

“We’ll put a car on him, follow him around, check out who he picks up and where he takes them. I have a feeling Sieltjes will make contact with him.”

CATADUPA

Katla circled the scuffed red leather punch bag, dressed in a slip and a halter top, hands covered to the wrists with protective bandages. Her punches rained down on the leather; quick underhand jabs followed by hard overhand hits that rocked the bag on the cable by which it hung from the ceiling. Breathing deep, she detected the fragrant smell of cannabis and moved to the trap door, looked down in a pair of amber eyes.

“Sista.” Zephaniah Catadupa smiled and climbed the rest of the stairs. “No possible sneaking up on you, sight?”

Katla tilted her chin to signal for him to sit on the Nautilus and drifted back to the punch bag. While the corpulent Rastafarian sat down on the padded bench of the weight machine, Katla continued her exercises. Zeph wasn’t smoking, but evidently the marihuana smell permeated his clothes. He was checking out her footwork. Her crippled leg still hampered her, but she knew her punches were quick and precise, connecting solidly.

Zeph nodded appreciatively. “Like your style. Sober.”

“Fancy moves don’t get the job done, Zeph.”

The punch bag rocked on the chain.

“Them cruel blows, sista. Cause damage, you punch a man.”

Katla smiled, kept on punching the bag.

“Where you learn box?”

“Amsterdam, Paris.” Katla punctuated every word with hard punches to the bag. “London, New York and Seoul.”

“Soul?”

Katla steadied the punch bag with her left hand and gave the bag a final vicious blow. “The capital of South Korea, Zeph.”

“Ah.”

“They have good fighters.” She peeled off the protective bandages and hung them out to dry on a rack in the corner. While she took a towel and dried her hair, Zeph rose from the padded bench, walked through the aura of sweat surrounding the punch bag and halted by the window.

“What them doing here?” Zeph pointed at the two guilders lying on the sill, gleaming in the early morning sunlight. “You dust them regularly.”

“No.” Katla draped the towel around her neck. “I use them frequently.”

“For what?”

“To test my speed and accuracy.”

She took one of the guilders, stretched out his arm with the palm down and placed the coin on the back of his hand. “Pull back your hand and catch the coin in the palm before it hits the ground.”

Zeph licked his lips and yanked his hand back, sank swiftly through his knees and caught the guilder in the palm of his hand. “Like that?”

“Swifter.”

He put the coin on the back of his hand and tried again, but Katla shook her head. “Too slow.”

“Okay,” he said, holding the coin out to her. “Show me.”

“Fetch the other one as well.”

Katla limped to the punch bag, turned around to face him and sank through her knees, leaving a slight gap between her body and the bag. She stretched her arms out in front of her, the hands held with the palms turned to the floor and Zeph walked up to her with the guilders.

She tilted her chin forward. “Place one coin on each hand.”

“Same place?”

“Just behind the knuckles, yes.”

Her hands were steady, the fingers straight out, the thumbs folded in. Zeph placed the guilders and stepped back.

“You catch them simultaneously?”

Katla didn’t answer, but closed her eyes. The bag hovered behind her. In the space between two heartbeats her elbows rammed backwards into the punch bag and her hands shot forward to catch the coins. She opened her eyes, turned her hands over and showed him the coins. Speechless, the Rastafarian rested his hand against the leather of the punch bag, still shivering from the double elbow blow. Katla smiled at him, limped to the window and placed the guilders back on the sill.

As she turned around, Zeph asked, “What happen if you do that to a person?”

“A person?” She looked at him aghast. “Why would I do that?”

“You train this for fun?”

“Not just fun. Testing my limitations gives me self-confidence.”

“You have that in abundance already.”

“You can never have enough.” She slung the towel back around her neck and shrugged into a hooded bathrobe. “And you never know if it might come in handy.”

“Confidence or combat skills?” he called after her as she limped down the stairs. She could hear him slap the punch bag before he followed her downstairs.

-o-

Katla switched on the grinder, listening to the coffee beans getting caught and chewed up between the grindstones. Over the noise she could hear Zeph climb on a barstool behind her.

“Cappuccino, Zeph?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Zeph was silent until she turned around with the two cups of coffee. “What you go to do now, sista?”

“Drink my coffee and have a shower,” she replied. “Why?”

He folded his arms. “About them people in the harbour, sista.”

“Bram told you about my adventures?”

“He tell me Chinese people threaten you, want you company.”

Katla met his grave eyes over the rim of her cup. He tried to meet her stare, succeeding for twenty seconds before looking away.

She drained her cup. “They’re my problem, Zeph.”

“I’m a friend, sista.” He spread his hands. “Friends help each other.”

She twirled the warm stainless steel cup around her finger. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Commendable,” Bram spoke from the doorway. “You two are at it early.”

Katla turned to the Gaggia to make herself a fresh espresso. “It’s not that early.”

Bram shrugged. “It’s always too early for altercations.”

“We’re conversing, not altercating.” She whacked the coffee grounds from the portafilter and wiped the basket dry. “You want tea, Bram?”

“Lapsang.” He sat at the bar. “It didn’t sound like a conversation.”

She filled the basket with freshly-ground coffee, tamped it down and screwed the portafilter back on the machine. While the machine filled her cup with fresh espresso, Katla lit the gas ring and placed the kettle on the stove. She switched off the espresso machine, reached into the cupboard for a glass, a tea clamp and his jar of Lapsang Souchon and placed it before him.

“So what’s it about?” Bram fingered his tea paraphernalia. “Your ‘conversation’?”

“Katla won’t let I-man help her.”

She placed the cup of espresso on its saucer. “I don’t need help.”

“You offered, bro.” Bram measured off the loose tea leaves and closed the clamp. “If she needs help, she’ll remember.”

“Can I get straight answer?” The Rastafarian leant forward, his amber eyes fixed on hers. “This about trust?”

“No.” She took a sip from her espresso. “Responsibility.”

“Responsibility?”

“I don’t want to be responsible for involving you in anything that might be dangerous. These people wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”

“You no think I know, sista?”

“My money’s tied up in this business. If I don’t do something, years of hard work are flushed down the drain. Those are my stakes. What is your stake?”

“Friendship.”

“You’d die for me? That’s not friendship. That’s dumb.”

“I have to hand it to you, Katla.” Bram walked around her to the stove. “You have this uncanny ability to make someone feel useful and appreciated.”

She ignored him. “I know why you want to come along, Zeph, but if you lack excitement in your life, go play laser games or take up bungee jumping.”

“Paintball,” Bram put in, taking the kettle from the stove. “Skydiving.”

“Skydiving is expensive.” Katla rinsed her cup. “Material, air fare, courses. Parasailing is cheaper, more like a cross between parachuting and hang gliding.”

“What’s the difference between parachuting and skydiving?”

“The time elapsing before opening your parachute,” Katla replied. “Skydivers delay opening as long as possible.”

The Rastafarian tapped his spoon against his cup to draw her attention. “I scare easy, that it?”

“You handle yourself well, Zeph, but I might have to do… illegal things.”

“You think I care about the law? I’m a hotsteppa too.”

“You grow weed. Real criminals don’t bother with misdemeanours.” She pointed at her leg. “You want to get shot, Zeph? I don’t recommend it. Even with the reconstructive surgery my leg might never regain its former strength and agility.”

“I could drive you. Stand watch. Things like that, sista.”

“Zeph is right,” Bram said. “You might want someone to watch your back.”

She pulled him close and whispered, “Don’t interfere.”

“You can trust him,” Bram whispered back. “Just don’t kill anyone.”

She turned back to the Rastafarian. “I can watch my own back, Zeph. Like Bram says, if I need help, I know where to find you.”

He shrugged and finished his coffee. “I go home, feed Shaitan.”

“Pat her for me,” Bram said, removing the strainer from his tea and adding sugar.

Katla waited until the door closed behind Zeph and put her arms around Bram’s neck, burying her nose in his hair and breathing his scent.

“You smell good. Didn’t take a shower yet, did you?”

“I wanted to take a bath and figured you might want to share it.”

“You figured right,” Katla replied and leant against him, listening to his heartbeat while he drank his tea.

-o-

Katla gazed out the rain-splattered windows at the dark sky over the zoo. Soft jazz music played on her stereo, the music only disturbed by the sound of the occasional peanut dancing over the floor and the squeaking of tiny rubber wheels.

Kourou bumped against her ankle and said, “Happy?”

“Yes, I’m happy,” Katla told the macaw and turned away from the window. The soft yellow lights gave the room a cozy feeling, although she also credited Bram’s presence. Kourou bopped his head, his bright eyes focused on Bram sitting cross-legged on the far side of the living room. Bram fished another unshelled peanut from the paper bag in his lap and tossed it across the wooden floor in the direction of the hallway. The macaw screeched and skittered around the coffee table on his roller skates, tiny wheels squeaking as he skated after the peanut.

Katla walked back to her laptop on the coffee table and completed the transaction. Pascal had files on his computer. Files pertaining to Sphinx Shipping. She needed them and she didn’t want anyone else to have access to the contents of Pascal’s computer. Although she was an adequate hacker and could circumvent most security measures, she wasn’t a creator. And you needed a creative mind to create a virus. Like the one she just bought.

Bram cocked his head and pointed at the ceiling. “I think you caught one.”

“You think, or you know?”

Katla rose from the couch and walked to the stairs leading up to the gym. Only directly under the trapdoor could she hear the hysterical chirping and the flutter of tiny wings. Smiling she ascended the stairs and went to the small roof terrace.

The tiny sparrow tried to fly away, its feet stuck to one of the glue sticks Katla left scattered around the bowl with pigeon food. She donned a pair of motorcycle gloves and opened the sliding door. The sparrow panicked, dragging the glue stick across the pebbled tiles, but before he could entangle himself in the other glue sticks Katla scooped him up and carried him down the stairs to the kitchen. Bram had already filled the sink with warm water. Katla held the sparrow’s feet in the water until the glue softened and the stick could be removed from the bird’s feet. She put the sparrow in a lunch box and closed the lid. Small holes in the lid would allow the bird to breathe.

Kourou flapped his wings and landed on the kitchen counter, eyeing the lunch box with avid curiosity, but Katla took the boxed-up sparrow away from the macaw.

She held the lunch box up to her eyes and looked at the hunkered down sparrow, smiling softly. “You’re going to assist me, little fellow.”

OFFICE

The dented Vespa swerved onto the tram rails just in front of a tram, rode past the line of cars waiting for the light to change and passed in front, hooking a right onto the Prinsengracht. With the rails now occupied by the tram, all Zeph could do was to try to pass the queue in front of the traffic lights at the other side with the borrowed Puch Maxi moped. The space between the waiting cars and the parked cars was filled with bicycles, so he had to wait at the rear of the queue. Either Katla had caught on to him or she didn’t like traffic lights, but he knew he had lost her. The idea had been foolhardy anyway, to follow a motor scooter with a moped. The tram pulled away and he glanced over his shoulder, wary for other trams, and swerved onto the tram rails to follow Katla, but just as he intended to cross in front of the queue the light turned green and the cars pulled up. He remained half on the tram rails, fervently hoping no tram would come before the light turned red again.

It seemed to take an eternity.

Zeph turned the corner onto the Prinsengracht, but the Vespa was nowhere to be seen. A gaggle of tourists aimlessly wandered in front of the Anne Frank Huis, strolling onto the road without looking.

Zeph halted to let them pass, his gaze drifting to the other side of the canal where he noticed Katla parking her scooter at the quayside. Behind him someone honked. The tourists had cleared the road and he turned the Puch’s throttle, pulling up again. A hysterical shriek sounded behind him and a moped courier passed on his right side at breakneck speed, his flapping jacket slapping Zeph’s elbow.

Zeph hunched his shoulders, his heart racing in his throat as the courier turned at full speed to flip him his middle finger, zoomed up the bridge and rode down the other side of the canal, against the traffic.

Behind him the car honked again. Zeph swallowed the bile in his mouth, shivering with the overwhelming urge to urinate, the rapid beating of his heart filling his ears. Hands clamped on the handlebars he rode on, the sweat turning cold on his back. As he turned left onto the bridge, Zeph wondered if cowardice was physiological. At the merest indication of danger his body went into full ‘fight or flight’ mode, except that the ‘flight’ mode seemed predominant. Despite Bram’s insistence that ‘flight’ was a better survival instinct than ‘fight’, he would gladly trade his cowardice for Katla’s courage. A smidgen would do, just enough he wouldn’t be shaken so easily.

Zeph rode along the canal and gazed at the beautifully embossed brass or stone plaques by the doors, wondering which house Katla had entered. Most of the meticulously renovated houses along the elegant Prinsengracht were no longer privately owned. Like the other grand canals—Keizersgracht, Singel and Herengracht—the exorbitant rents drove the original inhabitants out and attracted small prosperous businesses. Accounting and tax services, real estate agents, foreign banks, doctors, lawyers. And like most businesses, they were closed on weekends.

Slowing down the Puch in front of the house opposite Katla’s scooter, Zeph scanned the names listed on a brass plaque rendered almost illegible by the winter sun reflecting from its glossy surface.

Dove Inc. Zenith Publishing Ltd. Vermeer Financial Services. Phaedra Media Services.

Katla would probably resent him for following her, so he rode back to the bridge, parked the Puch Maxi, and lit up a spliff. Leaning on the railing, his gaze turned to Katla’s scooter, the dented body hardly reflecting the sunlight sparkling on the oily surface of the canal.

For someone with her apparent affluence Katla had modest tastes. She used her Vespa more than any other mode of transport, claiming the scooter was better suited to the dense city traffic, but Zeph suspected she preferred the scooter for its ability to blend in with the scenery, whether the scenery was the city centre, the suburbs or the financial district. A quality reflected in its owner, for Katla herself seemed to loathe attracting attention, concentrating so much on being inconspicuous it was always she who spotted him, never the other way around.

On the bridge with the Raadhuisstraat, a large black SUV with dark windows halted, the left indicator blinking. At the green light the SUV swooped onto the road along the canal, slowing down like Zeph had done opposite the Anne Frank Huis to avoid hitting tourists. The window on the driver side whispered down and Zeph noticed the driver was a Chinaman.

And the Chinaman was looking across the canal at Katla’s scooter.

Zeph felt a flutter in his bowels. He had to warn Katla.

He fished out his cell phone and called her number, but got her Voicemail straight away. Probably switched off.

Strolling down the bridge with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Zeph headed for the building, his eye on the SUV resuming its way, cruising along the other side of the canal like a shark in a fish pond. Before Zeph was halfway the SUV passed him like a cold shadow and came to a halt in front of the building. Both rear doors and the passenger door popped open and three Chinamen in business suits emerged from the car, slamming the doors behind them.

Zeph slowed down and stood undecided, watching the trio head for the steps leading to the front door.

Do something, a voice yelled in his head, but he could only stand with jelly in his legs, watching them halt at the foot of the steps and the SUV pull away again. While the SUV drove away, one of the Chinamen stayed on the sidewalk while the other two ascended the ancient stone steps, one of them producing keys.

The Chinaman watching the street studied him and Zeph strolled to the cars parked at the quay, his gaze scanning the cobblestones as if he had lost something. A tabby cat noticed his approach and jumped from the hood of a Peugeot, disappearing underneath. From the corner of his eye he noticed the two Chinamen step into the lobby of the house.

“Katla!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Katla! Come here, you stupid cat. Katla!”

The tabby ran from the Peugeot to another car and he followed, yelling her name and hoping Katla would hear the noise inside.

-o-

From previous visits to Vermeer’s office, Katla knew the front door of the building was not wired, but his office had two infrared motion detectors. No security cameras, which would involve time-lapse recorders. At the end of the hallway was an alcove with cleaning materials, which was where she set up her satellite laptop.

Returning to the solid oak door to his office she picked the lock in less than a minute and entered, ignoring the shrill beeping issuing from the control panel by the door. The response time for the security firm would be at least five minutes.

Heading straight for his desk, Katla switched on his computer and by-passed the password. Without selecting she sent all the files on his hard drive to an FTP server and typed some commands to allow the computer to be accessed remotely from her laptop in the hallway. Katla switched off the screen to avoid drawing attention to the softly humming computer and limped to the rear of the office where she opened one of the sash windows. While she walked back to the door, she fished the box with the dazed sparrow from her backpack, releasing the bird into the office before stepping into the hallway and locking the door with her picks.

Three minutes to spare.

She limped to the rear of the building when a key entered the lock of the front door. Cursing under her breath Katla hurried down the hallway and slipped into the cleaning closet. Judging by the footfalls more than one person entered the building, which was unusual for security firms. In most cases the response to an automatic burglar alarm was a car with a single security officer, but maybe the firm sent two cars to check out the alarm. With the door slightly ajar she tried to see who entered, but the gap was barely sufficient to see their shadows move over the marble floor.

Just before the front door closed behind them she heard her name called in an angry tone of voice. It sounded like Zeph. The beeping of the alarm became louder as they opened the door and one of them spoke a guttural sentence that didn’t sound Dutch. A moment later the beeping became softer as the door closed again. She turned her attention to the screen. The files had arrived at the FTP server. Katla accessed the computer and loaded the virus, following the progress. The download reached a hundred percent just before the computer went offline. Someone had pulled the plug. Hoping she’d been quick enough, Katla switched off her laptop and slipped the computer in her backpack.

-o-

The tabby came from underneath the cars to sniff his trousers and Zeph scooped the cat into his arms, stroking its fur while walking back past the vigilant Chinaman and sitting down on the steps of the next-door building.

A white Volkswagen Golf with the emblem of a security firm halted at the door and a uniformed security guard observed the situation, calling in on a two-way radio before leaving his car and approaching the Chinaman, who was speaking into his cellular phone. Behind him the door opened and the other two Chinamen reappeared, looking grim. Zeph placed the tabby on his lap and scratched the cat behind his ears, trying to listen in on the conversation, but he was too far away. The security guard didn’t seem worried, especially when the oldest of the Chinamen showed him the keys and invited him to step inside.

After a couple of minutes the security guard came out alone, nodded at the Chinamen on the steps and moved to his patrol car, talking into his two-way radio before driving off. When he was gone, the Chinamen on the steps were called inside. All was quiet, then the black SUV cruised back in view and halted in front of the building. The door opened and the three Chinamen came out, the youngest carrying a bag. The older man took out a gold case, stuck a cigarette in the left corner of his mouth and accepted a light from the junior man before moving down the steps and climbing into the back of the car. The Chinaman with the bag slipped into the passenger seat, the bag on his lap.

As the SUV drove off, Zeph memorised the license plate number and put down the cat. He climbed the steps and wondered whether to ring the bell, when the door opened and Katla appeared, smiling at him.

“Maybe I can use some help,” she said. “You followed me?”

Zeph nodded. “On moped.”

“Follow them and let me know their destination. Don’t show yourself.”

“Them bad people, I know.”

“Good. Call me later.”

She closed the door while Zeph skipped down the steps and ran to the Puch.

MISSING

Katla left Vermeer’s office, hoping she had been in time extracting the files and infecting his computer. No doubt the Chinese would try to access the computer and the virus would erase the hard drive and corrupt all the files. She wondered if they would think Pascal was smart enough to protect his computer like that. If they suspected anything, well—it might be time to get out of the shadows and go on the offensive anyway.

She rode her Vespa to Westerpark and sat down at Café De Bakkerswinkel, switched on the Sphinx phone to see if anyone had called the number and found a 020 number. She called back, prepared to hang up if it was answered by the Chinese, but the phone was answered by the police. Asking if she could come in to answer some questions concerning a certain Pascal Vermeer.

She made an appointment to come by in an hour and settled down with her laptop at one of the long wooden tables to check Pascal’s files.

-o-

The police station was housed in an old brick building that used to be a hospital and the wide hallways and doors used to accommodate wheeling around beds and wheelchairs still reminded of that previous function. A petite woman in a tight fitting police uniform guided her down the hall and ushered her into a small office. A young detective with short blond hair and piercing grey eyes got up from behind the scarred desk and extended his hand, while he took in her faded jeans and battered leather jacket.

“Bert Goedhart, thanks for coming.”

“Sieltjes.” Katla returned his firm handshake. “I guess I don’t look like you thought I would.”

“I didn’t know what to expect.” Goedhart pointed at a chair on the other side of his desk. “A maritime cargo trade firm is different from an accountant’s office, so I didn’t expect a three-piece suit, but you don’t look like management.”

“It’s my day off. You wanted to talk about Pascal?”

“Yes.” He pointed at a Nespresso machine in the corner of his office. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine.” Katla fished a water bottle from her backpack. “What about Pascal?”

“Pascal Vermeer was reported missing.” Goedhart put his hand on a stack of paper. “We pulled his phone records. Yours is among the last numbers he called.”

“Do you have any indication of foul play?”

“We found his car at Spaarnwoude. Locked, the alarm engaged.”

“But no sign of him?”

Goedhart shook his head. “We combed the area, but no-one fitting his description was seen or found.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to help, Bert. Pascal is just the accountant for Sphinx Shipping. I’m a major shareholder, my partner Emil Bootz does the day to day business.”

“We questioned Mr. Bootz, but he has no idea, hasn’t spoken Mr. Vermeer for at least a week before his disappearance.” The detective steepled his fingers and looked at her earnestly. “You had contact the last day anyone saw him alive.”

“That was three days ago.” Katla tilted her head. “You think he’s dead?”

“We don’t rule it out. His bank cards haven’t been used, his cell phone is unavailable, nobody has seen him, his car was parked at an isolated spot.”

Katla nodded. “How can I help?”

“Your last conversation, could you tell me what you spoke about?”

“Sure. Pascal inquired whether Sphinx should acquire more vessels. If so, he knew about an auction where vessels similar to our fleet were going on sale. A bargain, he claimed.”

“Claimed? You didn’t believe him?”

Goedhart gazed at her intently. Like he practiced before a mirror.

“In business matters, I don’t believe anyone without verifying the facts for myself, but that’s not what I meant. I asked him about recouping our investment and his forecast didn’t appeal to me, so I wasn’t interested.”

“And Mr. Bootz?”

Katla took a sip from her water bottle. “I didn’t consult with Emil.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have to. I’m the majority stockholder.”

“So Mr. Bootz has no say in the matter?”

“If the investment had been worthwhile, I would’ve asked for his opinion, but since that wasn’t the case, I saw no reason to ask him.”

“And Vermeer shared your opinion?”

“Pascal mentioned running the proposal by Emil. At that time I don’t know if he’d done that already or wanted to do that after speaking with me. If what you’re saying is correct and Emil hasn’t spoken to Pascal for a week, then I guess he didn’t.”

“What was your impression?”

“About?”

“His proposal. Was it on the level?”

Katla tilted her head. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, he’s an accountant. Finding you new vessels is not his business, is it?” The detective tilted his head. “Wasn’t it unusual for him to make this proposal?”

“His non-voting stock in the company is five percent. So I assume he’d get a separate commission for brokering the deal.”

Goedhart jotted something down. “The seller?”

“All I remember is that the auction would be abroad. I don’t recall going into details after I vetoed the deal.”

“Maybe Mr. Bootz has more information?”

Katla shrugged. “If Pascal ran the proposal by him, maybe.”

“But you don’t think he did.”

“Unless he ran the proposal by Emil a week ago, then waited five days before he ran the proposal by me. Does that make sense to you?”

The detective appeared to be at a loss of what to ask next.

Katla finished her bottle of water. “Is there anything else?”

“Can we contact you if we need more information?”

“Sure.” Katla rose from her chair. “And I’d appreciate it if you could keep me posted on any new developments.”

Goedhart shook her hand and walked her to the door. “I will, I promise.”

“I can find my way out,” Katla said and stepped out of his office. She walked back to the reception slowly, hoping the Chinese disposed of Pascal’s body properly. The police might focus more attention on Sphinx if his corpse was found with two bullets in the head.

GENERATOR

Zeph re-started the generator, but the grinding noise was still there. Cursing under his breath, he shut down the generator, wiped his hands on his trousers, took the handle of the hurricane lamp in his mouth, and climbed out of the engine room.

A whole morning wasted and he still needed a mechanic. Last time Obadiah helped him out, but only Jah knew where Obie hung out now. And he couldn’t let just anyone in to fix it, not when the mechanic had to pass through his hothouse. Maybe Bram would know someone. Or he would have to find an affordable new generator and ditch this one, but the main problem was getting the generator installed. He didn’t want prying eyes on the Mojo.

Zeph strolled through the dark hothouse. The air was moist enough, but the clones needed the UV lights. He turned down the wick until the flame extinguished itself, and hung the hurricane lamp from the hook on the third rung. He opened the hatch and climbed out of the cargo hold.

He gazed out over the bay and the Zuiderzeeweg angling down from the Amsterdamsebrug towards the motorway. In the distance he could hear the humming of car wheels on tarmac. The rain had gone and a watery sun was visible behind the clouds. He whistled for Shaitan, but the Rottweiler was standing at attention on the roof of the pilothouse, her gaze fixed on a big black motorcycle parked on the soft shoulder of the embankment, opposite from the gangway. The rider was nowhere in view.

Zeph walked to the gangway and spotted Katla, sitting on a bollard by the water’s edge, dressed in dark-grey motorcycle gear, a black full-face helmet by her side.

Although he didn’t make any noise walking up to the gangway, Katla turned her head, her eyes covered by darkers with matte silver lenses.

“Hi, Zeph.” Katla removed her darkers and gazed at him with twinkling eyes. “That’s a fierce looking animal you got there. I figured I’d better not step aboard.”

“You figure right, sista. Bram tell you how to find me?”

“I knew your boat was called the Mojo and where it was berthed. It’s not that difficult to find. Did you manage to follow those gangsters to their hide-out?”

“I followed them to the Zeedijk, sista.” He smiled. “You want come inside? I-man fridge is on the blink, but I can make java.”

“Your fridge broke down?”

“No, sista. Trouble with I-man generator.”

“Electric or diesel?”

“Diesel.”

Katla tilted her head. “Would you like me to take a look?”

“Can you fix generators, sista?”

“Maybe. I’d have to see it first.”

Katla came to her feet, picked up her helmet and her cane, and limped up the gangway. Zeph took her helmet and said, “What happen to the Vespa?”

“Nothing. I ride whatever serves my mood.”

Shaitan tried to circle behind Katla, who didn’t turn her back to the Rottweiler.

Zeph snapped his fingers. “Heel.”

Shaitan sat at his feet and he said, “You can pet her now.”

“I believe you.” Katla made no move in the Rottweiler’s direction. “You live here by yourself?”

“I live with Shaitan.” He patted the Rottweiler. “She have the deck and I have the rest.”

“Shaitan? That’s one of the Islamic names for Satan.”

“It is from a book. Dune by Frank Herbert.”

“Islam precedes Frank Herbert by some thousand years.” She grinned at him. “Where is the generator?”

He put her helmet inside the pilothouse, strolled to the front cargo hold and lifted the hatch door. “Down here.”

Katla stuck her cane in her belt, gazed into the hold and smelled the air. “Plants?”

“I-man hothouse.”

Katla climbed into the hold along the iron rungs. Zeph followed and halted next to her, while he lit the hurricane lamp.

“You have one generator for everything?”

“It is big enough.”

She smiled in the flickering light. “Maybe it had to work too hard.”

Zeph preceded her down the aisle between the shelved flower boxes. When the lamp illuminated the door to the engine room, Katla grabbed his shoulder. “What are you doing, Zeph?”

He turned around. “Show you the generator.”

“You want to enter a room filled with diesel fumes carrying a flame?”

He tapped the hurricane lamp. “Flame behind glass, sista.”

“As if fumes care about that.” Katla took a small flashlight from her inside pocket. “Put out that lamp before you blow us to Zion.”

She switched on the flashlight, waited for him to put out the lamp and pointed an incredibly bright beam at the door. “Go ahead.”

Zeph opened the door and descended the ladder to the silent generator in the middle of the forecastle. Katla followed him and limped around the generator. The bright beam of the flashlight played over the greasy machine and she asked, “Does it still run?”

“Yes, but it make a strange sound.”

“Start her up.”

The beam of the flashlight skittered across the floor and centered on his toolbox. Zeph started the generator and the grinding noise filled the forecastle. The machine room lights flickered to life. Katla squatted next to the machine, head tilted to the side. He squatted next to her and studied her while she played the beam of the flashlight over the generator. She turned to him and drew a finger across her throat. Zeph thought she meant the generator was irreparable, before he realised what she wanted and shut down the generator. Katla didn’t move as the lights dimmed and went out, not even to play her beam around, just listened as the engine slowed down and came to a full stop.

“Do you run this generator all the time?”

“Twenty-four-seven, yes.”

“When was the last time it was cleaned?”

“Cleaned?” He squatted beside her. “You think it dirty?”

“Maintained, serviced. How long ago?”

“Six month.”

“Really?” Katla straightened. “You’re lucky it still runs.”

“It don’t look that bad, sista.”

“Yes, it does. Do you have a user manual?”

“I buy it second-hand, sista. No manual.”

She studied the plaque fixed to the side of the generator, limped to the door, climbed out of the engine room and waited for him. He grabbed the extinguished lamp and followed her.

“Can you fix it?”

“I need a user manual and my tools.” Katla halted under the open hatch and looked at her watch. “I’ll be back in forty minutes.”

“Can I come?”

“Come?”

“I have a helmet.”

“I’m sure you do, but I’ll just be popping over to get my van from the garage.” She motioned for him to go first up the ladder to the hatch. Zeph climbed out of the hold and preceded her to the gangway. Shaitan watched them from the pilothouse as they went down to the hulking matt-black enduro motorcycle. Zeph studied the motorcycle up close, trying to figure out the brand. The tank was dull black, with the word CTHULHU in silver letters around the fuel cap.

He turned to Katla as she limped up to him. “This Russian motorcycle?”

“Rat bike,” Katla replied. “Built it myself.”

She disassembled the cane, put it inside her jacket, donned her helmet, started the motorcycle, and said, “Don’t start the generator up again, okay?”

Without waiting for an answer she roared off, the motorcycle accelerating as it disappeared around the bend.

-o-

When the ship’s bell rang, Zeph glanced at his watch. Thirty-five minutes. He went outside and spotted Katla unloading a primer-spotted Citroën van. As he went down the gangway she took out a small roll-up octagonal case and put it on top of a larger box-type toolbox with a handle on top. Zeph looked inside the van. In a net suspended from the ceiling hung a blue metal tank with a big round bulb near the top and a harmonica loop with a mouthpiece in the middle. It looked like scuba gear, but not like any he’d ever seen.

Throbbing voodoo music filled the van and vibrated the floorboards. A dark ominous voice growled menacing over the music, the words like an incantation.

“What music is this?” Zeph asked.

“Fields of the Nephilim,” Katla replied.

“Big sound system for this old van.”

“Don’t let the exterior fool you.” She pressed a button on a small remote and the music stopped. “This is a beast. It’s spotted and it growls if you tickle it.”

“I know this van, it not that fast.”

“This one is. I modified the standard Citroën engine. Gave it extra horsepower and changed the gear ratios.”

“You always tinker with machines?”

“Only to improve them.”

Zeph pointed at the scuba gear. “You modify them too?”

“No. That’s a closed-circuit re-breather.”

“Re-breather? You inhale what you exhale?”

“In a sense. What you exhale goes back into the unit, where carbon dioxide is filtered out and a helium or nitrogen-based gas is added until the air is breathable again.”

“Must be expensive equipment.”

“This one is, but commercial re-breathers are not expensive. About twice that of standard scuba gear. And the costs of additional training, of course.”

“Additional training?”

“A re-breather behaves differently and can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“If them equipment so dangerous, why use them?”

“Re-breathers increase bottom time. And you don’t startle the fishes with your air bubbles.”

Zeph dragged on his spliff. “You study sea creatures?”

“I explore shipwrecks.” Katla closed the Citroën’s sliding door and locked the van. “Diving is an expensive hobby, so I’m for hire for archeological or other scientific expeditions. I don’t do salvage or demolition jobs.”

“No treasure hunts?”

“I found seven gold coins in ten years. That doesn’t even cover the cost of my Nitrox. And archeological treasures are donated to museums to be studied or exhibited.” She pointed at the Mojo’s gangway. “You’ll have to do the carrying.”

“That I gathered, sista.”

Zeph took out the toolboxes and carried them up the gangway. Shaitan sniffed the toolboxes with interest as he placed them near the hatch door and went back for the rest. Katla donned her jacket and handed him a battered flashlight and a blocky spotlight encased in a fat bulb of yellow plastic.

“What’s this?”

“Underwater lamp. Works on dry land as well.”

He held up the battered flashlight. “You no think the Streamlight throw enough light?”

“Not for working on that generator.”

She pointed at the gangway with her cane and followed as he carried the lamps to the deck. Shaitan nuzzled the underwater lamp, while Zeph grabbed the rope with the hook and threaded it through the handle of the large toolbox to lower the gear into the cargo hold.

The underwater lamp threw bright white light against the walls and Katla positioned it at an angle where she didn’t look into the glare. She shrugged out of her jacket, hung it from the engine room door, and unrolled the small toolkit. She took a jar of dark jelly and rubbed it in her hands.

“What’s that?”

“Protective jelly. Makes it easier to clean my hands afterward.”

“What I can do, sista?”

She uncoupled the cables. “Throw the switches in the fuse box.”

“Anything else?”

“Watch what I’m doing. Next time you can try it yourself.”

Zeph sat on the floor and watched her dismantle the generator. She hummed under her breath and moved unhurried but steadfast, arranging the parts she removed in ordered rows on the engine room floor.

Katla straightened. “My pager is vibrating. On my belt.”

She turned her left side to him and Zeph slipped the pager from the clip on her belt, showing her the number on the screen. “Bram.”

“Can you call him from your cell?”

He called Bram, who answered on the first ring. “Ja?”

“Yo, bredda. You page Katla?”

“Is she with you?”

“She is fixing I-man generator,” Zeph said. “I put her on.”

He held the phone at her ear and Katla asked Bram in Dutch where he was. She listened with a grave expression on her face, told him to come to the Mojo and looked at Zeph. “You can switch it off.”

“Bram coming?”

“Yes.”

He pressed the red button on his phone. “Everything cool, sista?”

“No problem,” she replied and resumed her work on the generator, not humming under her breath anymore.

-o-

Finished with cleaning the generator, Katla leant back and rolled her head like a boxer, to ease the stiffness in her neck.

“Done?” Zeph asked. She turned to the Rastafarian and said, “Time to test it.”

She started the generator. The metal walls echoed the sound back to her, but she disregard the echo and listened to the main rhythm.

“Sound good,” Zeph spoke behind her. “No noise.”

Katla put a finger to her lips to silence him and adjusted a valve with her screwdriver. The basic design made tuning the generator far less difficult than the average car engine, but it was still a precision job. She took a voltmeter from her kit and measured the outlet under the light switch and nodded at Zeph. He threw the first switch in the fuse box. The fluctuation was probably a result of the ancient wiring. The lamps in the machine room bloomed to life when he flipped the second switch and she measured the outlet again.

Still the same. Good. Otherwise the whole ship might have to be rewired.

Zeph tapped the last switch. “Hothouse.”

“Flip it,” Katla said, her eyes on the voltmeter’s digital readout. Again a flicker, but the drain was constant, so there was no need to worry. From behind the door came a hum and a reddish glow.

Zeph grinned. “UV lights.”

Katla wiped her hands on a dirty cloth and packed her tools, still listening to the smooth thrumming of the generator. Zeph took her toolboxes and carried them out of the engine room. She followed him with the underwater lamp and halted by the door. The cargo hold in front of her held five long rows and three stories high of flower boxes. Zeph placed her toolboxes by the ladder, walked back and halted in the middle of the hold.

“You like I-man hothouse?”

Katla climbed out of the engine room. “Is that cannabis?”

“Ganja, sista. Tha Holy Herb.”

Each box was provided with an electric dripper to moisten the earth and adjustable ultraviolet lamps that hung from the shelf above, except for the boxes on the top shelf, whose lamps were attached to the iron dome of the cargo hold.

Zeph caressed a small plant in the middle story. “Clones I grow at eye level. Later I slide boxes from frame, put them up top.”

“So you don’t have to transplant them. Smart.”

“Thanks.”

He hoisted her gear out of the cargo hold and she followed. The setting sun turned the cement bridge arching high overhead a pale orange. Zeph preceded her to the pilothouse, where the Rottweiler rose from the deck and checked her out with muddy homicidal eyes. The Rastafarian gave the dog a hand signal and the Rottweiler disappeared around the corner.

Katla took the jar of garage soap from the small toolbox and followed him inside. The inside of the pilothouse was cold, but Zeph led her down a couple of steps to a large chaotic space with a hammock in the back, warmed by a Zibro Kamin. Around the corner was a tiny kitchen and she put the jar by the sink, scooped out a gob of the green jelly and massaged the garage soap into her skin.

Zeph took the jar, sniffed the contents and asked, “Special soap?”

“Garage soap,” she replied. “Can you turn on the tap?”

She rinsed her hands and dried them, limped back to his living quarters and asked, “Where do you want the flashlight?”

“Where?”

“I’m giving you this Streamlight, and you’re going to use that whenever you get near that generator. It has to hang down in the charger, Zeph. Where?”

He rubbed his temple. “Next to them door?”

“Get my big toolbox.”

He disappeared into the pilothouse and returned with the toolbox. She selected a spot next to the light switch, glad the electrical wires ran through tubes fastened to the walls. After she drilled the holes, she switched the drill for a magnetic bit holder, screwed the charger to the wall, and lowered the flashlight into the plastic ring. Two small red lights glowed to life.

“Take it out once a month and discharge the batteries.”

Zeph nodded. “You save I-man crop, sista.”

“Well, there’s something you can help me with.”

A draft made her turn to watch a familiar pair of sneakers enter the pilothouse. Bram drifted down the steps into the living quarters, silent as a ghost, not using his cane.

Katla put a finger to her lips and blocked his way.

He halted a pace away. “You’re asking Zeph for help now?”

“Sista fix I-man generator, bredda. True friend.”

“I want to check my office, in the harbour,” Katla said. “I’d like to borrow your Zodiac.”

Bram tilted his head. “Zeph, do you have something to drink?”

“Ginger ale. Not cold. Fridge just started up.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

While the Rastafarian descended the steps into the kitchen, Bram pulled her close and whispered, “Why don’t you let me borrow the dinghy. Now he’ll want to come along.”

“The harbour is not like the IJsselmeer,” she whispered back. “I need someone who can see.”

“You can pilot the dinghy through the harbour. I’ll stay in the dinghy to guard it while you’re out exploring.”

“You wanted me to involve Zeph if there wasn’t much risk,” Katla hissed. “This is easy, all he has to do is stay with the dinghy.”

“Just don’t impose on my friends,” he replied and drew back as Zeph came from the kitchen with an opened bottle of Schweppes Ginger Ale. “Thanks.”

“I&I take you to harbour,” Zeph said. “You want go tonight?”

“Maybe,” Katla said. “How much time do you need to prepare?”

“Dinghy is ready, always. I&I can take you tonight, ‘round eight?”

“I’ll let you know. If you’re not home, I can’t wait on your ship, can I?”

“Shaitan be a problem,” Zeph replied. “She no like strangers.”

Katla had figured that already. In her work guard dogs were no obstacle, but she couldn’t knock out Shaitan with her tranquilliser gun.

“I can always wait at the camping,” Katla said. “I think that’s the closest place.”

“And always open.”

The ship’s bell rang and Bram tilted his head. “Anouk?”

“She bought some new games,” Zeph said and climbed the steps to the pilothouse.

Bram waited until the Rastafarian stepped on deck, then turned to her and said, “Just promise me you’ll protect him.”

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to him, Bram. I need to approach by water, but he can stay with the dinghy.”

He drank the last of his ginger ale. “You want to go?”

“I’m not in a hurry,” Katla replied. “Can I stay at your place tonight?”

“Sure.”

Anouk entered in a whirl of cold air and moisture and came to a dead stop. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Katla said. “How is your back?”

“Fine.”

She came up to Katla, clearly unsure whether to shake her hand or kiss her cheek.

Katla smiled and put a hand on her shoulder, lightly kissing her cheeks. With the second kiss, Katla murmured, “You smell nice.”

“You smell like you’ve been working on a car,” Anouk replied and her cheeks flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Sista fix my generator,” Zeph said. “Save I-man crop.”

“How is the harvest coming along?” Anouk asked. “I might have a new client for you. Needs organically grown plants.”

“So you find clients for Zeph’s drugs?”

“Dawta in the arts.” Zeph put his arm around Anouk’s shoulders. “Lots of contacts that appreciate fine quality ganja.”

“The arts?”

Anouk shrugged. “You know, paintings and sculptures.”

Zeph steered her away toward the television. “I&I check out them games, dawta.”

“We’re leaving,” Katla said, pulling Bram along. “See you tonight.”

CLAIRVOYANT

The young woman would’ve been lovely if seen from the side. The left side, so the scar tissue covering the right side of her face remained invisible. Burn marks ran down her jaw to her throat and disappeared in the collar of her shimmering black turtleneck. Nicky watched her slender hands on top of Lau’s hands resting flat on the kitchen table, her right hand a withered claw from ligaments shortened by the heat of the same fire that disfigured her features.

Lau believed the goddess of fire and light had marked the young woman before handing her psychic powers. Nicky believed the young woman’s ‘clairvoyance’ was strictly limited to her own future. Her hideously deformed face limited her options. Most occupations demanded, if not beauty, at least a pleasing countenance, while as a psychic the horrific scarring gave her a twisted credibility.

After a few minutes of silent meditation the young woman shuddered, drew away from Lau and folded her arms across her chest, hunched over as if protecting her body. Despite the warmth of the kitchen she seemed to be shivering. She slowly raised her head, eyes closed.

Lau rubbed his hands and gazed at her expectantly.

“You challenged the dark,” she intoned solemnly, her eyes still closed. “And the dark accepts. The man in the mist is the first to fall. The dark will take his voice and his shield. Out of the shadows, aided by the blind, guided by signals from debris and spoils of the dead, the dark will circle ever closer, sealing all venues of escape. Surrounded by the dead and the dying, killer bees will fly by harmlessly, but a cold whisper will silence your voice and fill your ears with the sound of leaving.”

Leaning back in her seat she opened her eyes. Sadness filled her left eye, but not the glass eye in the right socket.

“Leaving?” Lau asked. “I’m going to die?”

“Leaving this life, yes.”

“Bummer,” Nicky murmured. Lau looked around sharply, then turned back to the young woman and asked, “Can I change my fate?”

“Your life evolved to this point in time. The future I see is connected to your life in the present. Cause and effect. Change your life, change your future.”

“I could do that.”

The eyebrow over her left eye rose slightly. “Could you?”

“I can change.”

“You’d have to sever all links with your current life.”

“All?”

She nodded. “Death is not thwarted easily.”

“That’s impossible. I can’t abandon everything just like that.”

“It would be difficult, but not impossible. The premonition is strong. Too many factors influence your fate.”

Lau rose and looked down at her. “How much time have I got?”

“Until the next new moon.”

He took out his money clip and peeled a couple of notes to put them in the bowl to his right, but she raised her good hand and said, “I do not receive payment for bad predictions.”

“You don’t want to get paid?”

“If you manage to change your life and live beyond the new moon, you can pay me. And if you can’t…” She closed her eyes. “May the next world be kinder to you than this one.”

Lau’s hand shook as he put the money clip back in his pocket. Nicky stepped aside and opened the door. Lau turned in the opening and said, “Good-bye.”

“Farewell,” she replied without opening her eyes.

Lau stepped out into the hallway and Nicky followed, closing the door behind him. They let themselves out of the apartment, not looking into the living room where other people were waiting to hear their fate.

VIRUS

Lau and Nicky stood in a corner of the room, watching Feng at work. Feng’s enormous desk featured an impressive amount of electronic machinery, rendering the small man behind the desk even more diminutive. Feng was in his element though, his child-sized hands connecting the hard drive taken from the former accountant’s computer to his own machines. Working on several screens at the same time, Feng ran a scan on Vermeer’s hard drive, but stopped before the scan was ready.

“Unusual,” Feng murmured, cocking his head sideways like a curious bird. “Not exactly standard protection.”

“What?”

“The hard drive has been infected.” Feng swivelled around. “If we had turned on Vermeer’s computer, the virus would’ve destroyed the hard drive. As it is, I can’t access the hard drive until I’ve determined the nature of the—”

“You can’t do your job?” Lau stroked an unlit cigarette. “You’re a computer wizard, aren’t you?”

Feng winced, as if the interruption caused him physical pain. Nicky, standing behind Lau, motioned for Feng to ignore the remark and continue. With a disparaging look at the senior Red Pole, Feng said, “As I said, the hard drive cannot be accessed without activating the virus. I have to find a way around the virus before I can access the files.”

Nicky nodded. “How long will that take, Feng?”

“Difficult to say, really. The virus is a professional—”

Lau leant on the table. “How many hours will we have to wait, Feng?”

“Unlike you, the virus is sophisticated.” Feng broke the last word down in separate syllables, as if talking to a retarded child instead of a Red Pole. “Which requires a delicate approach.”

“So, what are you saying? Hours? Days?”

“Thirty-six hours, at the minimum.”

“You have twenty-four.” Lau turned for the door.

Feng snorted. “You cannot intimidate me, Lau. If you’re in a hurry, bring this mou lei tau to someone else.”

“I thought you liked challenges,” Nicky said. “Are you saying you can’t do it?”

Feng turned to Nicky. “I will give this job top priority, but I won’t be pressed for time by bullies.”

Lau rolled his eyes, but Nicky put a hand on Feng’s thin shoulder. “Just do your best, that’s all we ask. Let us know as soon as you can access the folders.”

“Anything particular you’re looking for?” Feng asked, opening a notebook on his display. Nicky gave him particulars of Sieltjes and Sphinx and Feng noted them, put on his headphones and swivelled back to his work station.

-o-

“I’m not a bully,” Lau grumbled as the elevator descended. “Just trying to motivate him to pull harder.”

“Motivate him? Feng is motivated by challenges, not by threats.”

“I didn’t threaten him.”

“You were leaning on his table while you were making demands.”

Lau shrugged. “A little intimidation.”

“What were you going to do?” Nicky held out his pack of cigarettes. “Break his legs?”

Lau accepted a cigarette and brooded in silence.

“Infected files,” Nicky mused out loud. “Unorthodox security. Vermeer doesn’t strike me as the type to use that kind of protection.”

“Well, it’s too late to ask him now.”

“He also doesn’t strike me as the type of person to leave a window open.”

The elevator doors opened, but Lau didn’t move. “Someone else?”

Nicky nodded and left the elevator. “Clearly.”

“That’s why the security came so quickly.” Lau followed him into the lobby. “Someone opened the window and left the bird to mask a break-in.”

“There’s something seriously wrong, Elder Brother. I think there might be other people involved than just Bootz and Sieltjes.”

“Feng checked Sphinx from top to bottom, clean bill of health. No criminal activity whatsoever.”

“This should’ve been a breeze,” Nicky said. “Pascal was a push-over, Sieltjes should’ve signed, and Bootz should just comply.”

Lau shrugged. “Bootz is complying.”

“If he finds out that Sieltjes didn’t sign and just disappeared, he might stop complying. And we can’t take his family hostage. That village they live in is just too damn small.”

“His youngest isn’t four yet,” Lau said. “School isn’t mandatory yet, so if he goes on an extended vacation, no-one will notice.”

“You can’t just take a three-year old hostage, Lau.”

Lau just looked at him, shrugged again and said, “I’m hungry.”

-o-

Bram woke from a tapping on the basement doors. Zeph. He scrambled for his yukata robe and felt for Katla, but she was gone. Normally he woke when she tried to slip out, but she must’ve worn him out. Bram strolled over the old mended judo mats to the basement doors, unlatched the chain and opened the left door.

A gust of cold wind preceded Zeph as he slipped his bulk inside and closed the door behind him. “You was still in bed, bredda?”

Bram nodded. “What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty.” The wooden chest by the doors groaned under Zeph’s weight as he sat down to remove his shoes. “You no have a class?”

“I can skip aikido once in a while.” Bram walked back to his bed. “Coffee or tea?”

“Chai, please.” The glass beads in his dreadlocks clicked together as Zeph followed him. “Dem tar one.”

Bram filled his electric kettle and made Lapsang tea. He could hear the Rastafarian grab a pillow, sit down on the mats and rummage through his pockets for his reefer tin. The strong smell of ganja filled his nose as Zeph lit up.

“You interested inna gig, bredda?”

“Depends. Studio or tour?”

“Studio,” Zeph replied. “Tim Underwater cutting an album with Mobley tracks.”

“Like he did with that Pettiford record?”

“Exactly. Tim want talk to you. He’s seen you play, he like your sound.” Zeph’s voice dropped. “You hesitate, bredda. You a kept mahn now?”

Bram grinned. “A kept man?”

“Katla provide for you now?”

“She pays me when I help her, Zeph. And she doesn’t pay shabbily neither, but I’m not a ‘kept man’.”

“So you want in on dem gig?”

“Sure. I wouldn’t want to become a kept man.”

Bram fetched the tea, placing the glasses on the mats by the bed. “So when’s the recording?”

“Tim say, a month. He ask you meet him this week. Jam and see if it work out.”

“What’s his number?”

Zeph recited the number slowly and Bram tapped it out on his leg. “I’ll give him a call. Did he tell you what tracks he wanted? Soul Station? Earlier work?”

“I think different times. Some old, some not so old.”

“Well, there’s not much Mobley I can’t play.”

“Exactly, bredda. That what I tell him.”

“Any other guys in the running?”

“No think so.”

They sipped their tea in silence for a while. Bram put down his cup. “About Katla…”

“I want help, that all,” Zeph said. “She no need to pay me.”

“That’s up to her. I don’t think you should do it, though.”

“Help her?”

“You can help her, just don’t go with her on her expeditions.”

“She no put me in danger, bredda.”

“Not deliberately, no, but that doesn’t mean you won’t be in danger.” Bram shook his head. “You can take care of yourself, I know you can. But Katla…”

“You no think she can take care herself?”

“She might think so, but she got shot. And no matter what she says about how that was a mistake, I wouldn’t want to be around people who might be packing guns.”

Zeph was silent. Bram poured himself another cup of tea.

“You doubt her? You think she lie about getting shot be a mistake?”

“I know the shooter made a mistake. I know he regretted it. That doesn’t change the fact that Katla was hurt. Hurt bad. And she could’ve died, so she was lucky.”

“I think I can assess risk.”

“Funny, that’s exactly the same thing Katla said when I confronted her about getting shot. And if she has trouble assessing her own risks, I doubt if she’ll be able to assess the risks she lets you take.”

“I grow up in Tivoli Gardens, bredda. I think I can assess risk.”

“I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself. Just promise me you won’t try to impress her.”

“I&I stay with Zodiac, bredda, no worry. Where she now?”

“No idea, she was meeting someone for lunch.”

LUNCH

Still amazed that Katla had so readily accepted her lunch invitation, Anouk looked at the kitchen clock for the fourth time in five minutes. Katla didn’t strike her as the type of person to be late, but then, she didn’t know that much about her.

Anouk stepped back and studied the lunch spread, mentally checking her list. Ciabatta, warm from the oven. Vegetarian salad, with a separate plate of smoked salmon and smoked chicken. Another plate with cold cuts and slices of cheese. Tea pot rinsed and ready for boiling water. Percolator on the stove, filled with water and coffee…

Newk and Baaba sat outside on the kitchen window sill, disgruntled at being banned from the kitchen, but Anouk didn’t know how Katla would react to the cats. And their tendency to steal food at every opportunity. Better to leave them outside for the time being.

She sighed. Maybe she should’ve suggested lunch at a café instead. Too late now. The memory of Katla’s predatory gaze gliding over her skin brought back the goose bumps. Anouk rubbed her arms. Bram became reticent whenever Anouk breached the topic of his mysterious new girlfriend. And Zeph described Katla as ordinary-looking.

Ordinary…

Although Katla did her utmost to appear inconspicuous, only casual observers would overlook those vibrant eyes and that cruel mouth. Like one of those Gustav Klimt women—coolly observant, detached and slightly hostile. The thought sent shivers through her bruised spine.

Five minutes past one.

Well, either Katla wasn’t punctual, or she thought being on time was impolite.

She felt a bit queasy and looked out the kitchen window. Newk and Baaba pawed at the smooth glass and meowed, though the drizzling rain didn’t touch the window sill.

She needed to pee.

She looked at the clock. Six past one.

Anouk hurried down the hallway to the toilet, pulled up her dress and sat down.

The doorbell rang.

Fuckfuckfuck.

The urge to pee was unstoppable. She wadded up toilet paper while she urinated.

The bell rang again.

Fuuuuuuuck. Pleasepleaseplease. Don’t be impatient.

Quickly she wiped herself, flushed the toilet, and was about to storm to the front door when she realised that she had not washed her hands. The bell rang for a third time as she rinsed her hands and took the towel with her to the front door.

Katla combed her fingers through her tousled hair, probably from the motorcycle helmet in her hand. Behind her, a battered XT225 motorcycle was parked on the sidewalk. Her bright blue eyes glittered with amusement, as if she could guess why Anouk was late to the door.

“Hallo.”

“Let me take that.” Anouk took her helmet and stepped back into the hallway. “Please come in.”

Katla entered in an aura of cold damp air and wet leather, closed the door behind her with one hand and touched Anouk’s shoulder with her other hand as she kissed her softly on both cheeks. Flustered Anouk felt the blood rise to her face, but Katla didn’t notice and strolled down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Smells good. Did you bake bread?”

“Ciabatta,” Anouk replied, grateful the hallway was dimly lit. She returned the towel to the toilet and followed Katla to the kitchen, where she put her helmet down on a chair.

“What would you like to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee would be great.”

Katla shrugged out of her jacket and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair. Underneath she wore a maroon blouse from rough silk, with cut-outs that left her muscular shoulders bare.

Katla turned to the window and finger-waved at Newk and Baaba. “Your cats don’t look happy.”

Anouk busied herself at the stove, hoping the warmth of her oven would provide an alibi for her flushed cheeks.

“They’d eat our lunch if they have half a chance, so I opted to leave them outside. At least until you arrived. You mind if I let them in again?”

“Not at all.” Katla grinned. “I’m prepared to fight any cat for my lunch.”

Newk and Baaba stormed inside and wrapped themselves around her long leather-clad legs. While Katla reached down to stroke their fur, Anouk stole a glance into her blouse, which was showing just a hint of cleavage. Her small high breasts were cupped in a frilly Chantelle bra, not a Marlies Dekkers as she had expected. Katla straightened and Anouk turned back to the stove to grab the percolator. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black. Thanks.” Katla took a sip from the hot coffee. “Lovely cats. Siamese?”

“Yes. You have cats?”

“No cats. A macaw.”

“Ah, yes, Zeph told me.”

Katla’s striking blue eyes fixed on her. “Zeph told you?”

Shit.

“He takes care of my cats when I’m away.” Anouk smiled back uncertainly. “He told me he’d taken care of your macaw, when you were, you know, hurt.”

“What a wonderful euphemism.” Katla looked around the table. “This salad is vegetarian?”

“I put the salmon and the chicken separate, so you could choose.”

“That’s considerate.” She took one-third of the salad and added salmon. “I’m not vegetarian, though. In fact, I’m mostly carnivore. You made this dressing yourself?”

Anouk nodded.

“You’re not shy, are you?” Katla tilted her head. “Or are you afraid of making another faux pas?”

“You make me nervous.”

“Because I got ‘hurt’?”

If that’s what you’d like to think. Anouk shrugged. “Well, yes.”

“I rarely get hurt.” Katla rubbed her thigh. “Last time was a mistake.”

“What you might call ‘an occupational hazard’?”

“No. What you might call ‘a mistake’. And the matter was rectified.”

“Rectified?”

“The person who hurt me is no longer in a position to hurt anyone.” Katla gave her a predatory smile. “Retired, you might say.”

“But you walk with a limp.”

“Which is better than not walking at all.”

“Mistake or not, if you’d had another job, you wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“Wishful thinking is an exercise in futility.” Katla spooned some salad in her mouth and chewed enthusiastically. “You’re worried about Bram, aren’t you?”

“If you can get hurt, so can he. By association.”

“How close would this association have to be, to become perilous?”

“I don’t know. That’s what worries me.”

“Well, don’t worry. I don’t take Bram to work.”

Anouk tilted her head. “What is your work?”

“I’m a businesswoman.”

“You’re not an ordinary businesswoman. Ordinary businesswomen don’t tend to get… hurt.”

“You can say the word. Shot. I got shot.”

“Why did you get shot?”

“Because someone made a mistake. Like I said before, I rarely get injured on the job.”

Anouk chewed slowly. “So what is it that you do? Exactly?”

“I’m a corporate troubleshooter.”

“That’s not exactly specific.”

“That’s about as specific as I can be.” Katla made herself a sandwich. “The corporations I work for wouldn’t want me to go into detail to someone without the proper security clearances.”

Anouk heaped salad on her plate, adding smoked salmon and dressing.

“Say I’d want to hire you. Hypothetically.”

“If you want to discuss hypotheses, I can give you a theoretical answer.”

“Let’s say, I’m a corporation and I have problems with the competition.”

Katla chewed her sandwich. “You have to be more specific. Security problems? Or is their product commercially more viable?”

“What can you do in that case?”

“If the product is more viable? Shift the balance.”

Anouk tilted her head. “How?”

“By making the competitor’s product less viable.”

“I understand that, but how would you proceed?”

“Clients rarely ask specifics. Results are all that matter.”

“Seriously? Why? Because you do illegal things?”

Katla wiggled her hand. “Not necessarily illegal, but involvement might taint a corporation’s reputation. I rarely report what I do. Or even specify invoices.”

“So you have a free hand?”

“Nobody really wants to know what I do, as long as I get results.”

“How do you get a job like that?”

Katla shrugged. “How did you become a sculptor?”

“I always wanted to create, and that’s my medium.”

“You can be creative in more ways than one. I’m creative in finding solutions to other people’s problems.”

“Like opening my door?” Anouk asked. “Without keys?”

Katla gazed at her, her eyes inscrutable. “Bram has a key.”

“You opened the door, not Bram. And I overheard him say you did it quicker than with a key, so I know you didn’t use one.”

“I picked your lock.” Katla shrugged. “So?”

“That’s illegal.”

“Not for me.” Katla fished a wallet from her coat and showed her an ID card. “See?”

“Locksmith?” She studied the card. “I can’t tell if this is real or not.”

“It’ll stand up to official scrutiny.”

Anouk shook her head. “Lock-picking isn’t part of a locksmith’s curriculum.”

Amusement glittered in the cool blue eyes. “How would you know?”

“Because they drill out the lock if you lose your key…” Anouk held up her hand. “Wait, they replace the lock so they can charge more money?”

“Replacing the cylinder also reinforces the client’s false sense of security,” Katla replied. “Makes them think not even a locksmith can pass their locks without power tools.”

“But it’s not more difficult?”

“Depends on the lock.” Katla fished in her jacket again, took out a leather case and opened the flaps to reveal an array of delicate steel instruments that reminded Anouk of dentist equipment. From her bag she took an ordinary portable toolkit with a folding set of pliers and several screwdrivers and placed it next to the opened case with the picks. “These tools open seventy-five percent of all locks. Including yours.”

Anouk studied the picks. “These are only available to locksmiths, right?”

“Those are high grade picks, but starter sets are commercially available. If you have the money, you can buy all the equipment you need.”

“But, even if I bought these tools, I wouldn’t know how to use them.”

“I can teach you in an hour, but proficiency takes practice. And you have to train regularly to keep up your skill.”

Anouk poured a generous amount of sugar in her cappuccino and stirred until the foam disappeared. “You always carry this equipment with you?”

“Sure,” Katla replied. “Why not?”

“You have that card, but wouldn’t it be illegal to carry burglary equipment?”

“Burglars carry glass cutters, metal wire, and suction cups. Lock-picks are not illegal to carry. It’s illegal to use them without authorisation, but Bram authorised me to open your door.”

“You’re prepared for everything, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Katla stuck her tools away. “Does that surprise you?”

“Not really. You don’t strike me as someone who leaves a lot to chance.”

“Neither are you, judging by this wonderful spread.”

Anouk smiled and took some salad, while she watched her eat. Katla studied the sculpture in the garden, the metal beak dipping into the pond and rising, the huge bird slowly revolving with water dripping from the beak.

“I saw something similar to your sculpture in Boston, in a private Zen garden.”

“At Christopher Melling’s house? That’s one of mine, yes.”

“Melling. That’s it. Wow, that is impressive.”

Anouk smiled. “Thanks. I hope it’s still there.”

Katla turned around. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Melling died and his house was sold. I don’t know if the new owner is into Zen.”

Katla leant forward. “Melling died?”

“Yes, real tragic. Autoerotic asphyxiation gone awry.”

“Melling didn’t strike me as a kinky guy. But then, neither did that Australian singer.”

“From INXS?” Anouk took another sandwich. “I guess you never know. It’s a shame, Melling was so close to becoming the next Frank Gehry.”

“But you must be famous too, if you sold work abroad.”

“I sold about two pieces in America, one in Dubai, two in Europe, and eight in Asia.”

“Dubai?” Katla’s eyes widened. “You’re Nouk?”

“My agent advised me to shorten my name, so my brand would be more unique.”

“You made the Whirling Dervish.”

“Yes. I had to rebuild it three times, because the fine sand screwed up the works.”

“I love the Dervish. I watched it for over an hour.”

“Glad you liked it.” Anouk blushed. “What were you doing in Dubai?”

Katla held out her cup. “Do you have another coffee for me?”

“Sure.” Anouk poured her another cup from the percolator. “So why were you in Dubai?”

Katla looked at her sculpture in the garden. “The Dervish is more elaborate. This one is more like the one in Melling’s garden.”

“Melling bought a sculpture from my early collection. The Dervish had more input by the client.”

“You don’t sound happy about that.”

Anouk pursed her lips. “It was frustrating. I’m not a designer, I’m an artist.”

“Rich people expect things to be done their way.”

“I didn’t care for that. Clients can choose from what I’m making or have made, but I’m not allowing anyone input in my work anymore.”

Katla spooned some more salad on her plate. “So what are you working on now?”

“I can show you later.” Anouk looked at a drop of salad dressing in the corner of her mouth. A delicious ripple of pleasure and anticipation made her hands tremble and her mouth dry. “I’d love to hear what you think about it.”

Katla’s tongue snaked across her lips and removed the tantalising drop of salad dressing. “The pleasure is all mine.”

-o-

It was just a short distance to her studio, but Anouk savoured every step, sharing her umbrella with Katla as they strolled down the wet streets. Part of her wondered whether Katla was simply humouring her, strolling with linked arms down the street, dressed in her motorcycle leathers that protected her from the light drizzle anyway.

Katla squeezed her arm. “I still can’t get over the idea that you created the Dervish.”

Anouk wanted to skip like a schoolgirl around the puddles of rain. She received more than her share of compliments at galleries and exhibitions, but people often approached her as if her proximity would allow them to glean creativity. Katla’s admiration wasn’t fawning or self-serving, she truly enjoyed being in the company of a creative person.

Which was not at all what Anouk had expected.

Zeph had told her about Katla’s apartment, about the gym with the punching bag, the martial arts equipment, the pictures of young Katla wielding crossbows and hunting deer in the forest. The casual attitude towards getting shot and reticence towards any intrusion of her privacy gave Katla an intimidating presence of fierce independence that made her difficult to impress. And terribly attractive.

Although she was generally perceived to be a strong and independent artist, in her heart of hearts Anouk knew the difference between perception and truth. She craved validation too much to be truly independent, and her creativity was linked to the fickle emotional states that messed up her mind and governed her heart. Compared to the absolute control Katla radiated, her own strength was laughably inadequate. Being near her made her inadequacy all the more apparent, and part of Anouk, the mean and spiteful part, was envious of Katla’s easy confidence, the self-possessed equilibrium that bordered on arrogance.

Anouk halted before the double doors of the former shipyard and fished out her keys, then turned to Katla. “Could you open this padlock with your lockpicks?”

“You forgot your key?” Katla tilted her head. “Or do just want to see me at work?”

“The last.”

“Well, my tools are back at your house, and I don’t really feel like walking back for them.”

Anouk unlocked the padlock. “You’ll have to show me some other time.”

“Perhaps I will.”

Anouk opened the double doors. “The outer panels are hinged as well, so the whole front can be opened for large items.”

“I have a similar set-up at my garage.” Katla looked around. “This is your main workshop?”

“This machine shop is where I do most of my welding and where the sculptures are packaged. I assemble them on location, because the moving parts can get damaged in transport.”

“So you went to Dubai to put the Dervish together?”

“Of course. It was shipped in fifteen crates. I travel with the crates, so I can supervise the loading and unloading.” She opened her mobile machine shop, the dented metal covered with stickers. “This one travels all over the world, contains all the tools I need to assemble my sculptures.”

She took Katla up to her office and pointed at the white glass dome overhead.

“Watch this.” She picked up the remote and turned up the rheostat. The white glass became milky first, then turned fully transparent, rain splashing on the dome and running off to the side. “A gift from one of my Asian customers. The white reflects the heat in summer, but sometimes I need natural light.”

“It’s beautiful,” Katla said. “The transparent version would make me feel a bit exposed, but I can see the appeal.”

“There are not many people who can see inside,” Anouk said. “Unless they’re in a helicopter.”

Katla walked to the long shelf with the sculpture models.

“Transparency is only at full current.” Anouk turned down the rheostat. “I prefer the milky version.”

Katla halted before the tiny Dervish. Anouk flipped a switch and the ventilators behind the models started up, their velocity pre-programmed to create a swirling pattern of air that moved the models as if they were stirred by the wind.

“This office is part workspace, part showroom.” Anouk adjusted the ventilators so they moved in sequence from one model sculpture to the next. “I make the models first, then film them against a CGI background of the location so the buyer can see what the sculpture will look like before they pay full commission. Some request changes, that’s why there are three Dervish models.”

“I actually like this one best.” Katla pointed to the one on the left. “Less intricate, but the shape and the movement seem more in balance than the other versions.”

“The customer wanted a more convoluted design. I didn’t agree, but my manager convinced me to compromise.”

“Still, they’re all beautiful in their own way.” Katla gave her a soft smile. “You’re a great artist.”

The warmth in her eyes caused a flutter in Anouk’s belly. She felt her cheeks grow hot. To avoid staring at Katla like a lovelorn puppy, she turned away and rummaged through her papers. She felt the heat as Katla moved closer, halting right behind her.

“So, how did you meet Bram?”

Anouk turned, her eyes level with Katla’s mouth, the lips slightly parted to allow the tip of her tongue to slip out and moisten her full lips. Her mouth looked soft and inviting, not cruel like before. And so intoxicatingly near.

“In the street, when he caught a thief.”

Katla leant against her table, arms folded under her breasts, her head tilted.

Anouk shrugged. “I used to go by De Munt as often as I could, just to hear him play. He really plays well, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Anyway, I was heading for De Munt and noticed a crowd gathered around Bram. Not the usual few stragglers, but a huge crowd. I couldn’t even see him. I could just hear his saxophone. And it was howling and screeching. So I elbowed my way through the crowd to the front and there he was. Standing with one foot on his closed flight case, screeching with his saxophone in the ears of a guy with his hand caught in the flight case.” She smiled at the memory. “Someone tried to steal from his flight case. Bram had kicked the case shut on his hand and stomped down, breaking the guy’s fingers. And to add insult to injury, he was blowing this deafening noise in the guy’s ear. And this whole crowd was gathering, laughing their asses off while the thief tried to extract his hand.” Anouk shook her head. “I saw the neon-yellow vests of the police approaching down the Kalverstraat, so I broke through the crowd and pushed Bram from his flight case. He stopped screeching his horn and I told him the police was coming to arrest him. I took his flight case and his elbow and fled with him down the Singel, hiding in a store while he told me what had happened. He was really pissed off that someone tried to take advantage of his blindness to steal from him.”

“If the thief’s hand was really mangled, that would be assault with grievous bodily harm.”

“Maybe his blindness would’ve been considered extenuating circumstances, but I just wanted to protect him.”

“The thief must’ve been mad as hell.”

“He was, but I looked him up, gave him money for the hospital bill and told him not to go near my boyfriend ever again.”

“And he accepted that?”

“I told him I could make his life miserable.”

“Could you?”

“I would have to pull some strings, but yes, I could.”

“Did you tell Bram?”

Anouk shook her head. “I didn’t want him to think I was mixing myself in his affairs. He’s fiercely independent.”

“And pretty able to defend himself.”

“Up to a point, sure. But I didn’t want someone walking around with a grudge against Bram.” Anouk shrugged. “Anyway, that’s how we met. I had to court him for another month before we finally slept together.”

“How long did your relationship last?”

“Almost two years. Until I screwed it up.” Her mouth twisted. “It’s true what they say, you don’t know how much you’ll miss something until it’s really gone. For three years, every time he smiled at me, I felt this soaring hope that he might forgive me and come back to me. I knew my hope was in vain when he met you. Did you know he was celibate for two years?”

“He called it ‘in-between relationships’.”

Anouk shook her head. “He pulled down the shutters and hung up a closed sign. Made him all the more attractive, though. I could see his groupies flirting like crazy, but he ignored all of them. And then you appeared.”

“How did you screw it up?”

“I really don’t feel like talking about Bram anymore, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” Katla grinned. “I had a weird dream about you.”

“A weird dream?”

“Well, dreaming about your boyfriend’s ex is always a bit weird, I suppose.” Katla shrugged. “You were running through the woods, naked except for your tattoos.”

“And you?”

“I was following you.” Katla grinned. “Like I said, weird.”

“What do you think it means?”

“Means?” Katla shook her head. “I’m not into dream interpretation.”

“Maybe your dream reveals some hidden desire?”

“Doubtful,” Katla said. “I’ve seen you naked. And I don’t really want to kill you.”

“Kill me?”

“I wasn’t just following you.” Katla mimicked propping a rifle against her shoulder, her grin turning wicked. “I was hunting you with my crossbow.”

SENTRY

Katla was glad for the dark visor on her helmet as she puttered past a black Lexus SUV parked rather obtrusively at Kadijksplein. Behind the wheel a young Chinese man smoked a cigarette. Instead of heading down Laagte Kadijk to her home, Katla took the Hoogte Kadijk against traffic and followed it all the way to the Texaco at the Sarphatistraat. Next to the Albert Heijn supermarket on the other side of the intersection stood another black Lexus SUV, equally obtrusive.

Too obtrusive for surveillance. Probably intended to intimidate. Let her know they knew where she lived, although they wouldn’t be able to pinpoint her apartment.

For now, at least.

She had to do something. And quick. First thing to do is to go in full covert mode.

Katla parked her scooter in the Entrepôtdok underground parking where she kept several covert vehicles. She covered the Vespa with an old tarp and uncovered her ultra-reliable but boring dark-grey Suzuki Burgman 400 scooter. The Burgman was probably the most popular motor scooter in the Netherlands and while her Vespa was sometimes viewed with admiration, the Burgman drew merely disdainful looks from both motorcyclists and vintage scooter riders.

Katla opened the Burgman’s buddy seat and took the anonymous black Nolan N43 helmet from the storage space. The Burgman purred to life at the first touch of the starter button and glided out of the underground parking, Katla pulled onto the Hoogte Kadijk and rode past the Kadijksplein. She flipped down the Nolan’s integrated sunscreen to hide her face as she trundled past the SUV with the Kau Hong surveillance, mildly wondering how long they would be able to stand the boredom and find something else to do.

-o-

Zeph studied the fog hovering over the dark water of the IJ, his gaze slipping over Katla sitting in the bow of the Zodiac, legs outstretched and eyes closed.

Clad in black from head to toe, with a woollen cap pulled over her short brown hair and smudges on her face, Katla looked like a soldier taking a nap between battles, the knee brace around her right leg strengthening the illusion.

The thickening fog forced him to shave past the buoys to read the numbers. A bow light came up straight ahead and Zeph swerved to starboard as the angular bow of an old freighter loomed up from the mist and bore down on them. As the Zodiac tilted, Katla opened her eyes and gazed without moving at the dark hull gliding past at a distance of less than two meters, the freighter’s backwash throwing the dinghy to the side. Zeph steered the Zodiac into the freighter’s wake, the dinghy pitching violently before reaching calmer waters. Holding on the guide ropes, Katla pulled herself up into a sitting position and peered after the stern of the freighter being swallowed by the fog.

“No worry, sista.” Zeph removed the spliff from his lips and tapped the ashes over the side. “This Zodiac is practically unsinkable.”

“I wasn’t worried about the dinghy, Zeph.”

He shrugged, stuck the spliff back in his mouth, and consulted his handheld GPS, wishing he had radar to locate other ships in the area.

“Where are we?”

He showed her the screen. “Oude Houthaven.”

Katla sank back to the bottom and folded her arms across her chest, closing her eyes again.

“Sleepy, sista?”

“No. Meditating.”

Zeph smiled to himself, sitting easily on the port side of the Zodiac, his right hand wrapped around the Mercury’s handle, keeping her at half-throttle as they puttered past the Houthavens. He turned the throttle all the way back and they drifted through the dark fog as he checked his GPS again. He should be close to the next buoy.

Katla opened her eyes. “Trouble navigating?”

“Just making sure I&I are still on course. Fog make it difficult.”

“We’re not in a hurry.” Leaving her right leg with the knee brace stretched out, Katla pulled up her left leg and rested her chin on the raised knee. “The fog also swallows the sound of your outboard, making our approach even stealthier.”

Zeph found the buoy and twisted the throttle again. The Zodiac entered the Mercuriushaven and he kept close to the buoys on starboard, the invisible cranes on the quay creaking in the dark. Lights were visible on shore, but not clear enough to guide him. The damp rising from the water left chilled beads like cold sweat on his face as he piloted the Zodiac past the hulls of berthed freighters into the Vlothaven.

Katla pushed herself up until she sat on the bow, holding on to the guide ropes while she looked around. “Can you find a ladder? On that side?”

Zeph crossed the harbour to the other side, watching Katla adjust the straps of her knee brace and flex her leg. As he caught sight of the quay, he pushed the handle of the outboard away to make the Zodiac describe a semicircle and putter along the quay wall. He cut the engine and allowed the dinghy to drift slowly in the direction of a ladder, one of the many set at intervals into the quay wall. The Zodiac jarred to a halt as Katla grabbed one of the bottom rungs and braced herself. While Zeph lashed the Zodiac to the lowest rung, Katla started to climb the ladder, left foot first and dragging right leg after. He finished securing the rope and grabbed one of the rungs when she halted halfway up, looked down and shook her head.

“Stay here, Zeph. I won’t be long.”

“You no want my help?”

“Piloting the dinghy is all the help I need.”

He halted and watched as she climbed on, stepped onto the quay and disappeared. He sat down again, feeling used. Was this all he was to her? A means of transport?

It’s a test, a voice inside his head said. She has to learn to trust you to do what she says.

Yeah, right.

He gazed at the oil-slicked black water, hawked and spat a white gob over the side of the Zodiac, watching it drift past the bow. No wonder harbours were so unearthly quiet at night. What bird would want to float around in that? He shivered and hawked another gob of spit into the water. He could’ve been at the Roustabout right now, maybe sit in on a jam session, instead of freezing his ass in a fogged-up harbour. The fun of the ‘expedition’ was rapidly fading and silently he urged Katla to hurry up so they could go back to the Mojo.

From overhead came a scraping sound and he glanced up, expecting Katla to reappear, when an Asian man with a moonlike face stepped into view and pointed a big black gun at him.

“Good evening,” he spoke pleasantly. “You’re trespassing.”

“No shoot, mahn.” Zeph tapped the dark screen of his GPS, hoping the Asian wouldn’t regard it threatening and plug him. “I lost the way. This Houthaven?”

“No. Come here or I’ll sink your boat.”

It probably wouldn’t be smart to point out that a Zodiac couldn’t be sunk with a bullet. Anyway, he didn’t want any holes in his boat.

Trembling all over, Zeph climbed the ladder to the quay, fear buzzing his brain like a horde of angry bees. The Asian man stepped back from the edge of the quay, his gun poised at his midriff, unwavering. Almost as tall as Zeph, the Asian was slimmer, or maybe it was his black suit, the unbuttoned jacket exposing a white dress shirt without a tie.

A smile split his moonlike face in two. “Where’s your partner?”

Zeph blinked. “Partner?”

Sweat broke out in rivulets all over his body as the placid features of his captor shifted into mask of anger and the gun swung up, the barrel touching the skin between his eyebrows.

“The one I saw scurrying away from this spot.”

The acrid smell of metal and gun oil invaded his nostrils and turned his legs to jelly.

“I—I be alone, mahn.” Zeph swallowed thickly and added, “I swear.”

The Asian took the gun from his forehead, smiled and rammed the barrel of the gun hard in the pit of Zeph’s belly.

Gasping for breath, Zeph doubled over, the crack of his knees on the bricks no comparison to the blinding pain radiating from his stomach to his heart. The Asian fished a metal tube from his pocket and screwed it tot the barrel of his gun. “Last chance, pal. Where’s your partner?”

“No partner,” Zeph croaked. A dark shape appeared through the fog behind the Asian.

The Asian chuckled and twirled the gun around his finger. “I’ll shoot you in the kneecaps first and work my way up to your head.”

Katla appeared like a wraith out of the fog behind the Asian, her pale face calm and determined, her dark eyes narrowed. With gliding steps, she closed the distance, her limp gone, her hospital cane stuck in her belt like a sword. When she was two steps behind the Asian, Katla sank down to her haunches, her knees popping like firecrackers. The Asian whipped around, spiralling clockwise down to the ground, his right arm outstretched, the hand with the gun slicing the air. His gun arm connected with a dull crack against Katla’s right forearm. Her arm wrapped around his arm and her free hand crossed their linked arms in a blur as she hit him in the throat.

Everything froze for an instant, then the Asian crumpled like a marionette whose strings were cut. He toppled sideways and rolled on his back, his knees sticking up at an angle. Katla remained crouched low, her right foot forward and her left hip turned to the front, her left arm straight out with blood dripping from her clawed hand. Zeph shifted his gaze to the Asian staring glassily at the dark sky, a hole the size of a fist in his throat. Bile floating behind his teeth, Zeph watched Katla glide forward and push the bloody clump in her left hand back in the torn hole, as if that might somehow restore the Asian back to life.

Zeph groaned and bit the knuckle of his index finger to keep from throwing up.

Katla wiped the blood from her hand on the dead man’s jacket, her eyes dark pits in her pale face. She rose slowly to her feet, the Asian’s gun still clamped in her right armpit. Like a juggler, she let the gun drop from her armpit and caught it in her right hand.

“Are you all right?” she asked, moving in his direction. “Did he hurt you?”

Clutching his belly, Zeph shied away from her bloodstained fingers. His midriff felt crushed as he tried to get to his feet. Katla pulled him up, her arm around his waist as she steered him away from the corpse, guiding him to the edge of the quay. His wobbly legs almost gave way under him and she sat him down on the edge of the quay, his legs swinging over the side.

“Stay here, Zeph. Don’t fall into the harbour, I’ll be right back.”

Katla turned and was about to walk back to the body, when he reached out and grabbed her trouser leg.

“Katla… Sista, I&I have to go.”

She looked down at his hand, her eyes dark pits in her pale face, and he released the trouser leg. Her voice was eerily calm and detached. “I’m not finished. If you feel better, go on down and wait for me.”

“Him dead, sista.”

Without another word Katla limped back to the dead man and crouched by his side.

Zeph turned and climbed down a few rungs, then stopped and watched Katla as a small beam of light shone from her hand, playing over the dead man. Looking like a ghoul from a B-movie, Katla opened the dead Asian’s jacket, took his wallet from his inside pocket and slipped it in a side pocket of her bomber. Her fingers delved in the wound and lifted something from the pulped mess. A string connected the object in her hand to the body and she tugged sharply, the string parting with an audible snick. The second load of bile was queuing up to enter his mouth, but he was unable to look away. Katla tore a piece from the lining of the dead man’s jacket and wrapped the object into it before sticking it away in her pocket. As she rose to her feet and turned to the quay, Zeph descended the ladder and sat next to the outboard, closing his eyes and taking shallow breaths to keep from vomiting.

The Zodiac rocked and he opened his eyes.

Katla was standing in the bow, untying the nylon rope that held them to the quay. His midriff screaming in agony, Zeph turned to the Mercury and yanked the starter cord. He sat down beside the spluttering outboard engine, his left hand holding the nylon guide rope, while his right held the Mercury’s handle. Paying no attention to him, Katla stretched out in the bow, her legs on the side of the Zodiac, crossed at the ankles. Her bloodstained fingers loosened the straps of her knee brace and she leant back, closing her eyes as the Zodiac puttered away from the quay and was swallowed by the fog. He wondered if she was meditating again. She seemed way too calm for someone who just ripped out someone’s throat. The pain in his stomach got worse and he rubbed his belly softly while he piloted the Zodiac. Katla shuddered and opened her eyes, gazing numbly at her left hand. She looked up at him, a haunted look in her eyes.

“His skin tore under my fingers,” she whispered. “Just like that.”

“I know you no mean kill him, sista.”

“You’re wrong.” She swallowed thickly. “I think I did.”

“Why?”

“I could’ve stunned him with this.” Her bloodied hand floated up from her leg, wavering horizontally in the air, the web between the thumb and index finger stretched taut. “But I turned my hand and sank my fingers into his throat. I knew it would kill him.”

“You wanted him dead?”

She nodded and hung her head, unable to meet his eyes.

-o-

Katla followed Zeph up the gangway, noticing his slow progress. He was bearing up well, but the vicious blow of the sentry must have hurt him severely. When they reached the deck of the Mojo she said, “Maybe we should have you checked for internal injuries.”

“I’m all right, sista. A bit nauseated, that’s all.”

Shaitan padded around the corner, eyeing her suspiciously as she nudged Zeph’s leg with her blunt snout. The Rastafarian patted her head and sent the Rottweiler away, then shuffled into the pilothouse. Katla followed him inside and sat down beside him on the mattress. When she was sure she had his attention, she started to shake again, flexing her fingers while small crumbs of dried blood dropped on the carpet in front of the bed.

“I have to wash my hand,” she murmured. “My nails are caked with blood.”

“I have hot water in the kitchen.”

She limped to the kitchen and turned on the taps over the sink, rinsing the blood from her fingers. The strike had driven blood under her nails, too deep for the water to reach.

“You have a nail brush, Zeph?”

“Nail brush?”

Clearly the concept of a brush to clean nails was alien to him.

“Doesn’t matter,” she replied and turned off the taps. She could clean her nails with her knife, but she didn’t want to whip it out in front of Zeph. After she dried her hands, Katla flexed her fingers, staring into the blue.

“You want drink something, sista?”

She shook her head. “I’m tired, going home.”

With Zeph hovering behind her, Katla walked unsteadily to the steps leading to the pilothouse. He watched her from the pilothouse as she limped slowly down the gangway to her Burgman and removed her helmet from the storage space under the seat, slow and halting in her movements.

“Katla?”

She looked at him with a dreamy expression, noted concern in his eyes and blinked. “I’ll be all right, Zeph.”

“Take care, sista. No accident, sight?”

“I’ll take it slow,” she said and started the Burgman, pulling away with a slight jerk. Another small sign to show that she wasn’t herself.

In the rear-view mirror she studied Zeph standing next to the pilothouse, rubbing his belly while he watched her progress. Katla puttered around the bend and rode to the Zuiderzeeweg, accelerating smoothly once she was out of view.

IAI

The basement was dark, as usual, but she didn’t hear music playing and her rap on the window went unanswered. Katla fished out her picks and set to work on the lock, which yielded in less time than it would take Bram to find his keys. The security chain was on the door, so he was probably somewhere else in the house.

She climbed the steps to the front door and rang the bell. A stout Japanese woman in a dove grey kimono opened the door and smiled at her.

“Good evening, Katla-san.”

“Good evening, Mitsuko-san,” Katla said, returning her bow. “I was looking for Bram, but I think he’s not in the basement.”

“Please come in. He’s in the dojo upstairs.”

“Shiatsu?”

“No, training by himself, I believe.”

Katla stepped inside, feeling awkward as Mitsuko sank down and helped her out of her boots. On stockinged feet, Katla padded after the Japanese woman, who accompanied her to the second floor, then gestured for her to continue by herself to the top floor.

The changing room was dark, but Katla could hear muffled yells coming from behind the door to the dojo, so she flipped the light switch, shrugged out of her bomber jacket and hung it from a peg, then walked to the door leading to the dojo. The lights of the changing room reflected against the window set high in the door and all she could see was his dark shape moving like a ghost through the dojo.

Katla opened the door as quietly as she could, but Bram’s bat sense seemed heightened by the iai-jutsu practice.

“Don’t step on the mats.”

Standing at the threshold, she reached out and switched on the lights. Bram stood with his back to her in the middle of the dojo, dressed in a faded blue gi and darker blue hakama, the skirt-like garment hiding his feet. He turned around, sinking into a low crouched position, his left hand around the scabbard of a Japanese sword, the thumb resting on the ornate guard.

Bram didn’t train in iai-do, ‘the path of quick-drawing the sword’, but in iai-jutsu, ‘sword combat techniques’, with the emphasis on practical application, not mere appearance. While speed was essential, the timing was more important. And while iai-do practitioners often use mock practice swords called iaitō, Bram used a real sword, forged steel folded until the edge was sharp as a razor blade.

With a sharp yell, Bram drew the sword and flowed to his feet in one fluid movement, stabbing in her direction. Lifting the hilt sideways until it touched his temple, he spun clockwise and slashed the air behind him, turned to face her again with the sword raised two-handed overhead, the sharp blade slicing the air with a hiss as he yelled and sank on his left knee.

The whole kata had taken only a few seconds. Quick indeed.

Although Bram claimed to practice iai-jutsu to improve his posture, footwork, focus and awareness, Katla liked to watch him just for the grace in motion.

After a moment of attentive stillness, Bram yanked his right hand from the hilt to make the sword revolve once around its axle and tapped his fist on the hilt behind the guard. His left hand dropped to the scabbard as he grabbed the hilt and swung the sword on his shoulder with the edge up. Bringing the scabbard to the sword, he slowly turned his hip and stretched his right arm until the tip entered the scabbard, then turned his hip back and slid the sword soundlessly into the scabbard. His left thumb held the sword guard and his right hand came to rest on his right thigh as he sank back in the low crouch again and cocked his head.

Katla leant against the door frame. “I bet the mice are impressed.”

“Miser,” Bram replied with a sweet smile. “How did your expedition go?”

“Badly. Zeph got caught and I had to kill someone to get him out.”

His smile faltered. “Zeph witnessed the killing?”

“Yes.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I had to kill him too.”

Bram’s face grew pale and mask-like, his right hand still resting on his thigh, but the thumb of his left hand pushed against the tsuba as if he prepared to draw the sword.

“That was a joke, Bram.”

“A joke?” The sword clicked back in the scabbard. “The idea of you killing my best friend should amuse me?”

“No, but the irony of me killing your friend because he witnessed me killing someone who was about to kill him could be considered funny.”

“Not by me.”

“I got that.”

“I hope so,” Bram said, gracefully rising to his feet. He turned his back on her and walked to the dais in the back of the dojo, halting and squatting in the low crouched position again.

With his thumb Bram undid the sageo cord and pulled the sword from his belt, offering it horizontally in the direction of the altar on the dais and bowing his head. He held the position a couple of seconds, then pulled the sword diagonally against his chest and rose to his feet. After a standing bow he turned and walked towards her, while he wrapped the cord around the hilt and back around the scabbard. At the edge of the mats he kneeled in seiza, placed the sword on his left side, bowed twice, clapped his hands twice and bowed one more time, picked up the sword, rose to his feet and stepped backwards, making one last standing bow before turning and brushing past her, the scabbarded sword loosely in his left hand.

Katla followed him into the changing room, where Bram took a cleaning kit from a cabinet and unsheathed the sword. Using some kind of powder puff on a stick, he dabbed white powder along both sides of the blade, wiped it off and applied a thin layer of oil that smelled like cloves. He sheathed his sword, tied the sageo cord around the handle and hung his sword on a pair of pegs in a wooden cabinet. He closed the doors and turned to his locker.

“What?” Katla asked. “No bow?”

“Don’t be a dunce,” he said. “Why should I bow to a cabinet?”

He started to undo the short sashes of his hakama. Katla had seen him fold the garment, another useless ritual which would take him half an hour. She removed the knee brace, unbuckled her belt and asked, “Race for the shower?”

“Sure,” Bram said, stepping out of the hakama. He didn’t wear trousers under the garment, which meant she would have to hurry. Katla struggled out of her jeans, but Bram didn’t lose time folding his hakama, just twisted the straps of the garment around two pegs to air it out, took off his black belt and shrugged out of his jacket. With a smile he dropped his boxer shorts and strode naked to the showers while she pulled her sweater over her head. She removed her slip and limped to the shower area, where Bram was already standing in the spray, his arms folded across his chest.

“Not much of a race,” he remarked dryly and shook his head, spraying water on the tiles. Katla limped up to him and pinched his side. “You cheated.”

“Cheated?”

“You skipped the dress code.”

“What dress code?” Bram said. “Trousers are not obligatory under a hakama. Nor is folding one mandatory.”

She snorted and turned him her back, taking down a nail brush hanging from one of the taps to remove the dried blood from under her nails.

Bram rested his chin on top of her head, his arms around her waist, and rubbed her navel with his middle finger. “So the expedition was fruitless?”

“Not entirely.” She leant back against his chest. “There was too much fog to take photographs. I didn’t want the trip to be a total waste, so I went ashore to check out the office, but the lock to the building has been changed.”

“You didn’t have your picks on you?”

“They installed a lock that would’ve taken me fifteen minutes to open. And I passed a sentry before I made it to the building.”

“The sentry caught Zeph?”

“I told Zeph to stay in the dinghy, but he was ashore, being pistol-whipped by the sentry.” His hands stopped caressing her, but she hung back the nail brush and said, “Don’t worry, he wasn’t hurt too bad.”

“What is ‘not too bad’?”

She turned in his embrace. “He was hit once, in the belly, but the sentry was about to shoot his kneecaps when I came up behind him. I made some noise to distract him and when he turned around I tore out his throat.”

“You couldn’t just have stunned him?” he asked, his hands resting on her hips. “Maybe kill him after bringing Zeph to safety?”

“He had a gun. I couldn’t risk an involuntary muscle spasm.”

“Zeph must’ve been pretty upset.”

“He gagged, but that could’ve come from the blow to his stomach. We went back to the Mojo, where I went into shock.”

Bram blinked, his cataracts showing. “You went into shock?”

“So Zeph could comfort me. He did a good job, too. I feel much better now.”

“And how does Zeph feel?”

“I’ll ask him tomorrow.” She kissed his throat. “He’ll be fine.”

“If you say so.”

She stepped out of his embrace and limped out of the shower area, taking his towel from the peg inside the door. As she was rubbing her hair dry, Bram entered the changing room and felt the empty peg. “Where’s my towel?”

“I don’t know,” Katla said, drying her back. “There was only one towel and I was first.”

She sat down on the bench and dried her legs. Bram strolled to his locker and took out a fresh towel, turning his back as he began drying himself.

“Maybe you better leave Zeph to me.”

“You doubt my dissuasion skills?”

“Zeph might be conflicted about you. He’ll need time to adjust. And he might get suspicious at your quick recuperation.”

“Fine, you deal with him. As long as he doesn’t realise I killed before.”

He nodded and hung out his towel, wrapped his robe around him and waited by the door for her to dress. She padded after him down the stairs, the house silent except for the second floor where she could hear harsh clacking noises and someone laughing. Bram didn’t pay it any attention and continued his descent.

Katla waited until they were at the basement doors, then asked, “What was going on in there? Not ‘Go’, was it?”

“Private party. Bakuto.”

“Bakuto?”

“Gamblers. They rent a space for the evening and play oicho-kabu, a card game like blackjack, only the best hand is not twenty-one, but nineteen.”

He opened the door and stepped into the dark basement, leaving it to her to turn on the lights. Katla dimmed the flat orbs on the walls to a cozy glow and closed the door behind her. Bram sat down at the foot of his futon and she halted in front of him. His hands stroked her legs, his head craned back as if he was looking at her. She pushed him backwards and straddled him, leaning all her weight on him to keep him down. His arms encircled her and she took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth, feeling his lips open and his tentative tongue sneaking out. A delicious languor took hold of her limbs as she succumbed to his kiss, her body wrapped around his. They sat entwined until they got their breath back, then Bram stretched out his hand for the small brown intercom by the bed. “You want something to drink?”

“Saké.”

He pressed the call button and spoke something in Japanese. A guttural voice replied curtly and the intercom clicked off. Bram flopped back down and she lay down on top of him, closed her eyes and smelled him, the musky scent of his sweat untainted by deodorant or after shave lotion. His heartbeat was tranquil, a dull thudding in his chest. She was just relaxing, when the bell in the corner pinged.

Bram ran his fingers through her hair and murmured, “Slide to the side?”

She rolled off him and he sat up, scooted to the foot of the bed and rose to his feet. Pulling his bathrobe around him, Bram strode to the dumbwaiter in the corner and returned with a stainless steel tray, which he placed on the small lacquer table beside the bed. Two cups and a small porcelain flask with a napkin wrapped around it. Katla propped herself up on an elbow and accepted a cup of saké, took the flask from his hands and poured him a cup.

He sat down on the bed and raised his cup. “Kampai.”

“Banzai,” Katla replied and drank down the cup, the warm saké trickling down her throat and warming her stomach.

Bram drained his cup and asked, “You took something from the sentry?”

“I took his wallet, money clip and pendant.”

“A pendant?”

“Probably an amulet. I’ll show you, but I’d like some more saké first.”

He poured her another cup. “Why do you think it’s an amulet?”

“He wore it under his clothes.”

Bram filled his own cup and shook the flask. “Almost gone.”

“I’ve had enough,” she said and sipped her saké. He drained his cup and poured the last drops straight from the porcelain flask into his mouth, placed both cup and flask on the tray and lay down beside her, folding his hands under his head. Nursing her cup, Katla said, “If he had worn it on top of his clothes it could be considered ornamental, but amulets are private.”

She finished her saké and reached over Bram to place the cup on the tray, fished the bundle from her jacket and peeled the torn silk lining from the amulet. Both the stone and the silver chain were clotted with blood.

“I have to clean it first,” she said, removing the chain and taking the amulet to the washbasin in the corner. Under the hot tap the blood washed easily from the smooth surface, but remnants remained in the grooves and the silver rim circling the stone. She dislodged the dried blood with her nails, rinsed and dried the stone pendant, limped back to the bed and handed Bram the amulet.

His fingers trailed the horse’s head cut in relief on the front before he turned over the amulet and traced the small Chinese symbols cut in the back.

While he was busy with the amulet, Katla lay down beside him and opened the wallet. Inside she found a Dutch driver’s license and two credit cards, an American Express Gold Card and a MasterCard from the ING Bank. A separate slot contained business cards with ‘Eric Kwong, manager’ and more Chinese symbols. The address was on the Geldersekade, close to the Chinatown of Amsterdam, the area around the Zeedijk. The money clip—ordinary steel, no adornments or engravings—contained close to a thousand euro in small bills.

“What colour is this stone?”

She looked up from the wad of bills. “Dark green. Looks like jade.”

“Jade,” Bram mused. “Maybe a good luck charm.”

“I thought dragons were considered lucky. Not horses.”

He rubbed the stone. “Can I keep this for a while?”

“I’ve got no use for it, but be careful who you show it to, okay?”

“The wallet yield anything?”

“His name and business address,” Katla said. “Geldersekade, near the Nieuwmarkt.”

“You’re not thinking of going there, are you?”

“Not in the near future, no.”

She got up again, put the wallet and the money clip in the pocket of her bomber jacket and turned off the lights, carefully limping back to the futon. Bram was still sitting up and she pulled him down, plucked the amulet from his fingers and tossed it on the stainless steel tray, where it clanked against the empty porcelain flask. Turning her back to him, Katla reached behind her and pulled his arm over her. Bram spooned against her back, his soft breath in the nape of her neck as he curled up against her. When his breathing ran soft and deep, Katla turned around in his embrace, kissed the soft valley of his axilla and lay against his body, listening to the calming sound of his heartbeat while she stared in the tenebrous darkness.

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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Send me feedback. If you have a question about the Amsterdam Assassin Series, like to point out errors and typos, discuss issues raised in the book, want to know how to become one of my beta readers, or just embarrass me with totally undeserved adulation, I urge you to send me an email at katlasieltjes@yahoo.com. I love to hear from readers and try to answer every email.

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.

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.

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.

Diu! - (Cantonese) Vulgar expression of dissatisfaction or shock.

Diu nei! - (Cantonese) More vulgar expression of dissatisfaction or shock

Diu nei lou mou! - (Cantonese) Incredibly vulgar expression of dissatisfaction or shock.

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.

Ganja - (Jamaican) General term for cannabis. Also known as lambsbread or herb.

Gau! - (Cantonese) Vulgar expression of disappointment.

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.

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.

Katagi - (Japanese) Useful person, contributing to society. See ‘Yakuza’.

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.

Mou lei tau - (Cantonese) makes no sense, non-sensical, crap.

Ohayo - (Japanese) Informal phrase meaning ‘hey’ or ‘hello’.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yukata - (Japanese) unlined casual summer kimono.

Zōri - (Japanese) are 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, Keith, Najam, James, Carter, and Lewis, 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; 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.

- Jazzclub The Roustabout on the Nieuwmarkt. Plenty of nice bars and restaurants, though.

- The bay south of Zeeburgereiland has quite a few houseboats, but Zeph Catadupa’s Mojo isn’t one of them.

- Café De Bonte Hond. In its place, you’ll find Café De Zwarte Kat, which is not owned by a legless biker. They do have a lovely terrace looking out over the river Amstel.

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.