CONTENTS

Reprobate copyright page

Pitch

Dedication

rep·ro·bate

Also Available

GALLERY

NEW YORK CITY

ROUSTABOUT

EMBASSY

LUNCHEONETTE

SPEEDBALL

SCALDING

TJALK

MACAW

LOKI

SILHOUETTE

Note to the Reader

Glossary Reprobate

The Amsterdam Assassin Series

About the Author

Contact Martyn

Reviews

Special Thanks to

About the locations...

Disclaimer

AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES

Reprobate

[A Katla Novel]

By

Martyn V. Halm

FREE PREVIEW

Pushdagger Publishing Limited

Reprobate - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series)

ISBN: 978-94-91623-01-1 (ePub)
ASIN: B0094VD7JW (.mobi)

Copyright: Martyn V. Halm
Published: September 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 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.

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, Reprobate gives a rare glimpse into local Dutch culture, the narcotics trade, computer hacking, motorcycle gangs, mehndi bridal tattoos, 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.

rep·ro·bate

n.

A morally unprincipled person.

One who is predestined to damnation.

adj.

Morally unprincipled; shameless.

Rejected by God and without hope of salvation.

Also available from this author:

AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES:

Novels:

Reprobate

Peccadillo

Rogue

Ghosting

KillFiles:

Locked Room

Microchip Murder

Fundamental Error

Aconite Attack

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

GALLERY

If the contract had been just about the end result, Katla Sieltjes could’ve taken Klaas Dolfijn at home, but the client had been adamant about acquiring the target’s ledger as well. And the most likely place for Dolfijn to keep his ledger was at his gallery in the Jordaan quarter, one of the busiest areas of Amsterdam.

The bells of the Westertoren struck nine times as Katla puttered past the ancient tower and steered her dented silver Vespa south along the Prinsengracht. Still an hour to go before the arrival of her target, but she could use the time to steady her nerves.

Katla parked her motor scooter in the Konijnenstraat and strolled around the block before she sat across the canal on the shaded bench that provided a clear view of the target’s gallery, Asian Arts & Artefacts.

She did deep breathing exercises, willing herself to be calm and confident. Not an easy task when the yakuza deferred a job they couldn’t handle themselves. Although that had to do with ethnicity rather than skill.

The humdrum of mundane reality often lulls people into complacency, but Katla wondered why her target appeared so unaware of impending danger. His dealings with the yakuza placed Dolfijn in a precarious position, but the gallery proprietor seemed oblivious of the predictability of his movements. She’d observed him for five days now and Dolfijn unfailingly took the same train to Amsterdam to cycle down the same streets to the same luncheonette to eat the same breakfast before heading to his gallery. A routine that left him wide open for ambush. Maybe Dolfijn adhered to his routine to keep up appearances, desperate to pretend nothing was wrong.

No matter how deep his self-deception, the yakuza wouldn’t have hired her if everything was fine.

The Westertoren struck the half hour. Half past nine.

Right now, Dolfijn would be eating a hearty breakfast at the luncheonette at the corner of the Berenstraat.

Her own belly rumbled, but she hadn’t been able to eat more than a banana, and even that sat uneasily in her stomach. Her current anxiety had more to do with the client than the target. She couldn’t risk screwing up, not with possible future jobs for the yakuza on the line.

With her eyes hidden behind large sunglasses that obscured most of her face, Katla observed the gallery on the other side of the Lauriergracht. While the quay in front of Asian Arts & Artefacts baked in the morning sun, her side of the canal was cool and shady. She tried to relax, stretching her bare arms over the cool metal of the backrest. To allay any fears that might spark Dolfijn’s wariness, she wore a sleeveless summer dress, barely more than a silk camisole.

A smile played around her lips. Nothing up her sleeves.

She felt naked without the spike dagger sleeping snug and secure against the right forearm, but bare skin was associated with vulnerability and sex, rarely with violence and danger. Any sign of danger and Dolfijn might not let her come close enough to do what she had to do.

She patted the paisley messenger bag that completed her innocuous outfit. Leaving enough room for the ledger her client wanted her to recover, the bag held a leather pouch with her lock picks and a change of clothes, as well as a Parker Urban ballpoint that doubled as a tactical pen, a ruler that could be broken into a brittle serrated edge, and a sharp-tipped nail file. No weapons within easy reach, but at least she wasn’t totally unarmed.

Katla leaned her head back. After spending a month in New York City, seeing Amsterdam’s bright blue expanse over the tiny houses was a great comfort. The speck of an airplane, its drone rendered inaudible by the distance, drew a white vapour trail across the otherwise unmarred electric blue summer sky. She followed the airplane’s progress until the speck disappeared behind the rooftops.

The contract would’ve been easier if the yakuza had called her in before Dolfijn had reason to become wary of anyone remotely Japanese. On the other hand, Dolfijn’s wariness was their reason for granting her the contract, so she shouldn’t complain.

A Volkswagen convertible with a blaring radio halted behind her as a delivery van blocked the narrow cobblestone road. Katla listened with half an ear to the newscaster reporting on the fourth week of the ‘heat wave’. Hospitals still flooded with sunstroke victims, despite the warnings to stay out of the sun during the hottest hours of the day.

Halfway through the news bulletin, the clock of the Westertoren chimed ten times—late as usual. Two minutes late according to the dive computer on her wrist.

Dolfijn was also late. Asian Arts & Artefacts was supposed to open at ten. Katla didn’t mind his lack of punctuality. Patience was a hunter’s virtue. He might waste another few minutes of her time, but she was about to wreck his life, which evened out things considerably.

Leaving a cloud of diesel exhaust, the delivery van started up and trundled around the corner. The Volkswagen pulled away as well, the noise of the blaring radio receding in the distance.

From her position on the bench, Katla could see straight into the Ziekentroostersgang, a dead-end alley perpendicular to the block, leading to the yards behind the houses. A green metal gate blocked the entrance of the alley. Three nights ago she had opened the gate with her lock picks and walked down the narrow path between the houses, edging past bicycles and trashcans. Halfway down the alley was another path that went parallel to the Lauriergracht, just wide enough for two pedestrians to pass. Near the end of the narrow path, a sturdy wooden door guarded the entrance to a paved yard behind the gallery. Dolfijn habitually parked his bicycle under an awning that not only sheltered him from bad weather, but also from any prying eyes. At the top of the wall, wicked shards of glass stabbed up at the sky from their bed of cement. Primitive protection against amateur burglars.

Her plan was to follow Dolfijn through the gate once the gallery owner had turned into the path. She’d have ample time to close the distance, wait for him to enter his yard and unlock the wooden door while he parked his bicycle. Cross the paved yard and brace him under the awning before he could enter his gallery through the rear entrance. Subdue him, take him inside the dark gallery and interview him at leisure.

She sat up straight as Dolfijn wheeled around the corner on a tiny collapsible Dahon bicycle. The Dahon’s diminutive size exaggerated Dolfijn’s corpulence. The daily exercise didn’t do much for his girth. Or his stamina, judging by his red face.

Taking deep breaths, Katla got up from the bench and crossed the bridge spanning the canal. Behind the oversized sunglasses, her cold gaze measured distance and velocity, to make sure she wouldn’t reach the alley before the target had passed well beyond the gate.

Dolfijn halted at the gate, glanced into the alley and turned away, walking his bicycle towards the front door of the gallery.

Too exposed for contact.

She strolled past him and checked the alley to see what spooked him. At the far end, two teenage boys loitered in the shade. They didn’t look like a threat, but apparently Dolfijn didn’t share her opinion.

Katla waited until Dolfijn disappeared inside before she sauntered back to the gallery and used the reflection in the window to study her surroundings.

A dove paraded up and down the bench she vacated. A pack of tourists on red MacBikes pedalled along the cobblestone road on the other side of the canal. A swan struggled through algae-choked water coated by dusty rainbow patches of oil. An old man strolled down the sun-baked quay with a poodle on a leash. A slovenly man wrestled a carrier tricycle over the hump of the bridge. Even the ducks floating in the shade of the colourful houseboats lining the quay seemed overcome by the morning heat.

Abort or improvise?

Stretching her spine, Katla drew a breath deep down into her abdomen. Dark frost spread through her bones and replaced her apprehension with the cool detachment of an observer.

Moving closer to the window, she peered through her shadow into the gallery. Artificial light shone through the horizontal blinds of the cubicle in the rear. The blinds hindered a view of the interior of the office. The rest of the gallery was mostly in shadows, which suited her purpose.

In the middle of the window display stood an ornate wooden rack with a set of Japanese swords with garish mountings. A brass plaque urged interested parties to inquire inside for information.

A soft bell jangled overhead as Katla entered the gallery and she glanced up, straight into the lens of a security camera pointed at the entrance. She turned to the door closing behind her. The door needed a key to be locked from the inside. She cursed under her breath.

Perhaps flipping the sign would be enough to customers from wandering in…

Dolfijn stepped from his cubicle and approached her with the fluid grace of someone long used to his own obesity. His prissy mouth turned into a smile that revealed expensive bridgework, but failed to reach his pale grey eyes.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” Katla pointed over her shoulder. “You have more swords than the ones on display?”

“Looking for anything special?”

“A wakizashi.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re a connoisseur?”

“No. I like samurai films.”

Dolfijn pursed his lips as if contemplating whether a fondness for Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai could be an acceptable justification to buy a sword. He turned his back and waved her along. Katla flipped the sign on the door to ‘CLOSED’, before she followed his bobbing shape deeper into the gallery. She halted next to Dolfijn as he unlocked a cabinet and touched a switch on the wall. A spotlight overhead illuminated a velvet-covered shelf folded down from the inside of the door. He took a pair of cotton gloves from a box and slipped them on before he arranged three short swords on the shelf.

“Gloves prevent acid residue from tainting the blade.” Dolfijn fussed until the swords lay at an exact distance from each other. “You’ll have to don a pair if you want to handle the swords.”

That was more accommodating than she’d expected. With a smile, Katla slipped on a pair of gloves and reached for the short sword in the middle of the velvet-covered shelf.

Dolfijn stayed her hand. “Allow me. The scabbards are easily damaged.”

Instead of drawing the sword from the scabbard, Dolfijn held the hilt firmly and slipped the saya from the blade, before he presented the wakizashi to her. “The hamon on this sword is exquisite.”

Pretending to examine the temper line along the steel edge, Katla held the sword near the spotlight while she reached for the light switch with her other hand.

The spotlight went dark. She turned swiftly and held the blade against his throat.

Dolfijn gasped at the touch of cold steel, the whites of his eyes visible in the gloom.

“This is not your lucky day,” Katla whispered. The pungent odour of a fart mingled with the cloying scent of his after-shave lotion. She withdrew the blade. “Let’s go to your office.”

With trembling fingers, Dolfijn touched his throat. Droplets of blood stuck to his fingertips. “You cut—”

“I merely nicked the skin. Move.”

All former grace and confidence gone, Dolfijn hobbled to the other side of the gallery, pushed open the door and stepped into the cubicle. Before he could turn around, Katla rested the sword on his shoulder with the edge against his neck. “Don’t move.”

Except for an unlit cigar in a crystal ashtray and an ebony cigar box on the desk, nothing in the tiny office could be used as a weapon.

She lifted the blade from his shoulder. “Turn around.”

Dolfijn glanced over his shoulder and turned around. He removed his gloves and tossed them on the desk, then pointed at a safe half-hidden behind the couch.

“Want me to open it?”

He was nervous, but the fear had left his eyes.

Not a good sign.

“Later.” Katla rested the blunt side of the wakizashi on her shoulder. “Open your jacket.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Sweat popped out on his forehead. He unbuttoned his jacket and showed her the lining. Attached to his inside pocket with a steel clip was an elegant little holster with the grip of a small pistol visible.

Without warning, Katla slashed the lining with the tip of the wakizashi.

Dolfijn went rigid. Blood drained from his face as the holstered gun slipped through the torn silk lining and thumped on the rug. Katla forced him back by prodding his belly with the tip of the sword. She stepped forward and kicked the holstered gun under the couch.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Dolfijn spoke with a tremor in his voice as he studied the damage to his suit. “I could’ve taken it out.”

“To hone skills, it is necessary to exercise them.”

He glared at her. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not a comedian. Open the safe.”

He squatted, rested his left hand on top of the safe and worked the keypad with his right index finger. The safe issued a long beep and the door clicked open.

As he reached for the handle, Katla rested the wakizashi’s keen edge on his collar. “I’ll handle that part myself. Get up.”

He pushed himself up to his feet and she directed him to the swivel chair behind the desk, commanded him to sit and cross his ankles. The leather creaked under his weight and with his crossed legs he wouldn’t be able to jump up. Not that the fat man looked that agile, but desperation might give him a rush of adrenaline.

“You have what you want.” Dolfijn closed his jacket as if hiding the ruined lining would give him back his dignity. “Take the money and get out.”

“I’m not after your money, Dolfijn. I need some information.”

He grew still at the mentioning of his name. Wariness replaced his bravado. “About?”

“Your dealings with the police.”

“Takeshi sent you?” Dolfijn reached for the unlit cigar in the ashtray. “Didn’t know the yakuza employed female enforcers.”

His podgy hand halted in the air as Katla speared the cigar on the tip of the sword. She flicked the cigar from the ashtray onto the floor and ground it into the rug.

“Smoking irritates me.”

His bravado returned. “Needless vandalism irritates me.”

“Vandalism is always needless. Put your right hand flat on the desk.” He rested his trembling hand on the desktop and Katla placed the sharp edge of the sword on the first joints of his fingers. “I take it you’re familiar with yubitsume, severing fingers as atonement for failure.”

“I’m—”

Katla held up her free hand. “Fail to answer and I help you atone. Understand?”

Dolfijn paled. “You are mistaken. I’m—”

“I don’t make mistakes.”

“Listen.” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. “I’m not an informant. Takeshi must be paranoid to think I…”

“To be paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.” She put light pressure on the sword, enough to dent the skin. “Which shipment will Customs intercept?”

His eyes went flat in an effort not to betray himself, but he didn’t reply.

“You’ll open up.” Katla drew the blade a fraction across his skin. “One way or another...”

Blood welled up along the shiny edge of the wakizashi.

Dolfijn blinked and licked his lips. “I—I’m sure Takeshi and I can solve this misunderstanding without—”

“Last chance, Dolfijn.” She pushed down on the sword until the edge touched the phalanges, ready to sever the fingers if he showed more hesitation. “Which shipment?”

His voice cracked. “Next Tuesday’s.”

“The twentieth?”

“The twentieth, yes. Please...”

She lifted the blade. Cradling his bleeding hand against his heaving chest, Dolfijn slumped in the swivel chair like a deflated balloon. “This wasn’t necessary—”

“Where is your ledger?”

“Ledger?” His pale face shone with perspiration. “What do you want with—”

She put the tip of the sword under his chin. “I ask the questions.”

Dolfijn didn’t move his head for fear of getting skewered. “Desk. Locked drawer. Keys in my pocket.”

Katla lowered the sword and his head sank down.

“One more thing, Dolfijn.”

“What else?” Dolfijn raised his head. “Sumimasen?”

“Apologies won’t do.” In one smooth motion Katla drove the sword through his throat and pinned Dolfijn to the back of his chair. “But your death will satisfy him.”

His eyes bulged and his hands went up—as if to fend off what had already happened—before dropping in his urine-stained lap, where they twitched as the life seeped out of him. Muscle spasms traveled through the steel and made the hilt tremble in her hand. Wary of gushing arteries, Katla released the sword and stepped aside, but only a drop of blood welled up from the gash to stain the collar of his shirt. His last breath whistled through the ragged slit clogged with blood and phlegm. Then—as if someone cut the string that held it up—his head sank forward until his chin rested at an angle on the blunt side of the sword.

Katla let the messenger bag slip from her shoulder and turned to the desk, where a monitor on the wall showed a wide-angle view of the entrance.

First things first. Killing isn’t difficult, getting away clean is the real challenge.

She pressed the eject button of the time-lapse recorder hidden under the desk, put the cassette in her bag, and squatted by the safe. Inside she found a money tray with cash in various denominations and a grey-black semi-automatic pistol hidden under a stack of papers. Carefully removing the pistol and the money tray, she checked the papers. Nothing of interest. Katla put everything back, closed the safe and locked it again before she turned to the desk.

Dolfijn’s death had to appear like the work of a frustrated robber, someone who didn’t manage to get him to open the safe, settling for whatever was in the desk. She pulled the drawers from the desk and emptied them on the rug, strewing papers all over the cubicle. The top drawer containing the ledger was locked.

Ignoring the key ring in Dolfijn’s pocket, Katla yanked the sword from the dead man’s throat swiftly enough to leave his body upright. She inserted the bloodstained tip in the gap over the lock and wrenched the sword sideways and up. The lock didn’t resist and the drawer slid open to reveal a leather-bound notebook. She tossed the damaged sword on the couch behind her and pulled out the drawer.

A bell jangled in the distance as someone entered the gallery.

Katla crept to the blinds and lifted one of the rosewood slats. The bright morning sun turned the intruder into a slender silhouette. She glanced at the monitor, but the intruder didn’t look up. Long dark hair. No clue to race or gender. Not that those particulars mattered—someone was about to learn the hard way that some ‘CLOSED’ signs were not to be ignored.

The intruder didn’t move deeper into the gallery, but called out Dolfijn’s first name in a clear baritone, which solved the gender question. And he had to be a regular customer—the proprietor’s name was not painted on the window. She lowered the rosewood slat, lifted the dead man’s key ring from his pocket and stepped from the cubicle.

The voice rang out again, the intonation curious but not yet alarmed. “Klaas, you here?”

Katla closed the cubicle door behind her and strolled towards the intruder.

“We’re closed, sir. Didn’t you notice the sign?”

“Closed?”

“Mr. Dolfijn had to leave urgently…” The words dried up in her throat. The intruder’s closed eyelids were riddled with white scars. His slender hands were wrapped around the wooden grip of a long white cane with red bands, the worn leather strap curled around the long fingers of his right hand.

“What was the emergency?”

“I don’t know,” Katla said. “Some family matter.”

The blind man tilted his head and opened his mouth to speak, but she regained her poise. “You better leave.”

“My name is Merleyn.” The blind man pressed a stud on the handle, folded the cane and moved the strap to his wrist. “Klaas reserved a tsuba for me.”

Outside, the elderly dog walker halted by the window and gazed out over the canal while his poodle urinated against the gallery’s façade.

“It’s a sword guard.” Merleyn formed a circle between his thumbs and index fingers. “A flat disk, about this size.”

“I really can’t help you, sir. I’m just cleaning up in here.”

“Will Klaas be back later today?”

“I don’t expect him to.”

The blind man’s face twisted in dismay. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Katla said. “Perhaps you better call him tomorrow.”

His face changed into a mask, all emotion fading away. His blank expression lasted a couple of seconds before animation came back to his face. “If I describe the tsuba to you…”

“Sorry, but I can’t—”

“It’s eight centimeters in diameter, iron with gold inlays.” He rubbed his temple. “Pierced wheel design, Momoyama period.”

“You don’t understand.” She stepped closer to the blind man. “Even if I could find it, I couldn’t sell it to you.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Merleyn backed to the door and leaned against the frame. “I paid for it already.”

“Not my problem, is it?”

He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Can’t you just look?”

The dark frost filled her heart. Katla flexed her fingers. “I really don’t have time for this.”

“Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

The frost spread throughout her body. One blow and he would never ask anything anymore. In her mind she crushed his throat. Pink bubbles on his lips as he died without even comprehending the reason.

Katla shuddered with the desire to kill him, but there was no reason for killing him. No reason, except sheer annoyance. And she wouldn’t kill for that reason alone. She blinked and the frost retreated grudgingly.

“Please?” he said. “It should be easy to find.”

Katla relaxed her fist. “If I can’t find, I want you to go without further discussion.”

“I’ll go. I promise.”

She rattled Dolfijn’s keys. “Step aside.”

Merleyn moved out of her way and she locked the door.

He cocked his head. “You’re locking us in?”

“No, I’m locking everyone else out. Wait here.”

She stalked away to the back of the store, her soft-soled running shoes inaudible in the silent gallery.

Guards would be stored in the sword cabinet. She would just pull out some drawers to make it sound like she was looking, then tell him she couldn’t find it. She switched the spotlight back on, squatted near the two drawers at the lower half of the cabinet and opened the bottom drawer first to save time. The bottom drawer contained various sword fittings; sageo, cords to secure the scabbard to the belt; kogai, ornamental pins worn on the outside of the scabbard; kozuka, ornate handles for the kogatana utility knives; and cleaning kits.

Leaving the bottom drawer open, she pulled out the top drawer, filled with rows of sword guards. Maybe she could just hand him one. She riffled through them. None of them had wheel designs.

Katla sighed and someone sighed in unison. Her head swivelled around so fast her neck creaked. The blind man hovered behind her like a gangly vulture, his scarred face an arm’s length away.

She whirled to her feet, her right hand raised high and open to distract while her left curled into a loose fist at her hip, poised to strike. To her surprise, the blind man stepped back in an unmistakable defence posture—left leg in front, bent at the knee and bearing his weight, the right leg stretched behind him for balance. His left hand hovered near his heart, palm out, and his right hand protected his crotch with the folded cane swinging from his wrist. Not a pose. There was no tension in his shoulders and he remained perfectly still, waiting for her move.

“Can’t find it?” Merleyn’s voice was incongruously pleasant.

“I told you to stay put.” Adrenaline soared through her system, constricting her throat.

“No, you told me to wait.” The corner of his mouth twitched as if he was suppressing a smile. “You didn’t specify the location.”

“I told you.” Her hands shook with the desire to clench into fists and punch his smug face, but she managed to control herself. “By the door.”

“I scared you,” Merleyn said. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention.”

“You didn’t scare me.”

“Fine, I didn’t scare you.” The blind man shrugged without changing the position of his hands. “I just came over to tell you Klaas wouldn’t put a reserved item in his storage cabinet. My tsuba is probably in his office.”

She groaned at her own stupidity—the tsuba had to be in the ebony cigar box on Dolfijn’s desk.

He tilted his head. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she bit back and the corner of his mouth twitched up again.

Smug bastard.

Katla brushed past him and headed for the cubicle. Merleyn followed in her footsteps.

She turned around. “I think I can find it without your assistance.”

“All right.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll wait by the door.”

The blind man crossed the gallery like a hooded falcon, skirting unseen objects with the ease of someone used to eternal darkness. Katla waited until he reached the door, stepped into the office cubicle and picked up the ebony box.

The clasp securing the lid was difficult to open with gloves, but she didn’t want to leave prints. On a bed of velvet lay a tsuba with lateral apertures fanned out like the spokes of a wheel from the central slit, the iron burnished silver with age. She held the sword guard under the desk lamp. Gold flashed around the rim.

Well, you found it. Now, get him out of the gallery.

She closed the box, left the cubicle, and padded softly towards the blind man. Before she came within reach, Merleyn turned around with an expectant smile on his face. “And?”

“You were right, it was in the office.”

His smile turned smug again and he held out his left hand. Katla placed the box on his palm and studied the blind man as he opened the lid and examined the tsuba with his fingertips. The smile lingered like an afterthought in the stillness of his scarred face. Apart from the white slashes covering his eyelids, faded traces of tiny cuts peppered his face. His facial bone structure seemed intact, so force and penetration must have been negligible.

She glanced at her dive computer. Twenty minutes had passed since she entered the gallery, a third of the time wasted on getting rid of the blind man. Maybe she should urge him to hurry up.

Merleyn seemed to sense her anxiety, closed the lid, secured the clasp, and lifted his head. “How much is it?”

“What?” Katla blurted out. “You said you paid for it!”

“A down payment.” Merleyn unzipped the breast pocket of his faded corduroy jacket, took out a slip of paper and held it out to her. “Here, my receipt.”

She didn’t have to dig deep to put anger and anxiety in her voice. “I can’t sell you anything. I don’t know what that thing is worth.”

“Can you contact Klaas?”

“Not today.”

“Can you give him a message?” His long fingers ironed the slip of paper. “Ask him to call me at The Roustabout. Leave a message at the bar.”

She let doubt creep into her voice. “I don’t know…”

“I couldn’t have described this tsuba if it wasn’t meant for me.” He put the receipt and the ebony box with the sword guard in his breast pocket. “Trust me, Klaas won’t mind.”

Katla paused as if contemplating his proposal, reached over his shoulder and unlocked the door. The bell jangled as she pulled it open. “I’ll tell him.”

Merleyn slipped out and flicked his wrist, the cane elongating until the telescopic parts clicked in place. Deep creases bracketed his mouth like parentheses. “Thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome.” Katla stayed in the shadows. “Have a nice day.”

“You too.”

Still smiling, the blind man walked away, his cane tapping the bricks. Katla locked the door and hurried back to the cubicle to finish the job.

The ledger—filled with coded entries written in the same backwards slanting script—went into her messenger bag before she patted down the corpse. His right inside pocket contained a leather organiser she put with the ledger. When she was finished, she inspected her dress for stains. Two small droplets of blood near her left breast were probably exhaled by Dolfijn. She quick-changed into a longer blue silk sheath and stuffed her stained dress in her bag.

With the messenger bag hanging from her shoulder Katla left the cubicle and crossed the gallery to the backdoor. Head down—in case anyone watched from the windows of the surrounding buildings—she stepped out into the backyard. She skirted Dolfijn’s collapsible bicycle and unlocked the door leading to the narrow path.

Not a soul in sight.

She locked the door behind her and tossed the key ring over the wall into the yard.

After stepping through the green metal gate onto the sunbaked quay, Katla stripped off the gloves, stuffed them in her bag for future disposal and walked back to her old dented Vespa. She put a battery in her prepaid cell phone, called the number she had for her client, and scraped her throat to lower her voice.

A Japanese voice barked, “Nani?”

“Loki calling.”

“Chotto matte kudasai,” the Japanese voice replied.

Didn’t sound like a request.

Katla stretched to ease the tension from her body.

Overhead, a small white cloud drifted across the blue expanse. Too small to be a harbinger of the end of the heat wave.

After a moment, her client came on. “Good news?”

Katla could hear a faint echo. “Blue expects the goods on the twentieth.”

“That will be fine. All went well?”

She chuckled. “Our friend regretted his mistake.”

“You corrected him?”

“Yes.” As she paused, Katla heard the echo again. “He won’t make any more mistakes.”

“The ledger?”

“You’ll receive it shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Her client rang off.

That echo. Bad reception or somebody listening in?

Didn’t matter. She never used her own voice or name, spoke only in code. This conversation wouldn’t make sense to an outsider.

Katla erased the call history, removed the battery from the cell phone, and returned both to her messenger bag.

Time for breakfast.

She rode her Vespa slowly to the luncheonette Dolfijn used to frequent. As she looked inside, Katla spotted Merleyn, sitting in a booth and chatting with the counter girl. Hoping she hadn’t made a mistake sparing the blind man’s life, Katla rode past the luncheonette to find another place to eat.

NEW YORK CITY

Deborah Stern sat on the second story fire escape, reading with her bare feet propped up on the warm metal railing. At ground level a door opened. Deborah put down Arnon Grunberg’s Blauwe Maandagen and sniffed the air. Her mother’s Carmine Street apartment had seemed like a good place to recuperate from the shooting and in many aspects it was—she could read up on Dutch newspapers and practice her language skills—but inwardly she cursed her mother for living above an Italian pastry shop. Every time Rocco’s door opened downstairs the sweet smell of pastries and chocolate wafted up in a mouthwatering cloud swirling up around the green painted fire escape and she succumbed to the siren call on a daily basis, now that she was on the wagon.

The warm sweet cloud dissipated and she combed her fingers through her long red hair. If this heat and humidity continued much longer, maybe she had to visit a hairdresser, even if she was loath to leave the house.

Squinting against the morning sunlight, Deborah looked at the intersection with Bedford Street. On the sidewalk in front of Marinella’s, two men were engaged in a game of chess. A toddler played at their feet under the rickety table. Her gaze was drawn to the Sambuca glasses next to the chessboard, three coffee beans floating in each glass for good luck.

There was a knock on the door. Probably a neighbour with the latest gossip for her mother. Only her employer knew she was living here and the DEA wasn’t known for surprise visits to sick employees. Deborah rubbed the scar on her left shoulder and picked up the book again.

The knocking came again, more persistent now.

With a sigh, Deborah slipped inside through the open window, crossed the apartment, and yanked the door open. The man on her doorstep looked like a salesman.

“My mother is out,” Deborah said. “Please come back another time.”

Deborah was about to close the door in his face, when the salesman flipped open his wallet and showed his ID. She skimmed the bold DEA and fixed on his name. Bishop, J. She remembered the name. Bishop was a section chief, abroad somewhere.

“Can I come in, Ms. Stern?”

“That depends on why you’re here.”

He gave her a warm smile. “I’d like you to return to us.”

“I haven’t resigned.” Yet, she thought. “I’m on sick leave.”

“I know about your plans to resign.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How—”

“Could we continue inside?” Bishop held up a paper bag with a familiar logo. “I brought pastries from the shop downstairs.”

Tucking an obstinate strand of red hair behind her ear, Deborah stepped back and allowed him to enter. As he passed her, Deborah noted Bishop was two inches shorter than she was, which put him at five foot five inches.

“Your mother is at work?”

“Diaconal duties.” Deborah closed the door behind him. “Would you care for some ice coffee?”

“I’d love some.”

She took a clean glass from the kitchen and walked across the apartment. As she stepped onto the fire escape, Bishop followed and picked the book from her chair.

“Is it any good?” Bishop held up the book and read the Dutch title aloud. He had a funny accent, but his pronunciation wasn’t bad.

“Puerile, but it’s his debut.” She poured the ice coffee. “I’m sure you’re not here to talk about Grunberg though.”

From his briefcase, Bishop took a slender folder with her name stencilled in the upper right corner. Deborah spotted a form with her picture tacked to the top.

“Have you been to the Netherlands, Ms. Stern?”

“No.”

“You’re not curious about your ancestral country?”

“Couldn’t afford to. I’m saving for my own place.”

“Your Dutch is supposedly excellent.”

Deborah shrugged again.

“How’s the shoulder?”

“Operational.”

“The sleeping pills? You have trouble sleeping?”

“Yes.”

Bishop tilted his head. “Are you always this defensive or just naturally reticent?”

The kindness in his gaze took her by surprise.

“We have two ears and one mouth,” Deborah said. “To show listening is twice as important as speaking.”

One of her mother’s favourite sayings, although her mother always injected God into that statement.

Bishop pursed his lips. “I never looked at it that way, but it makes sense.”

Bishop observed indirectly, but she could feel him study her all the same. She wondered what he saw. She wasn’t the person in his file. Not anymore. And to be truthful, she didn’t want to be. Problem was, she didn’t know what she wanted. Except that she was tired of lying in bed surrounded by magazines and dirty plates, watching America expose itself on talk shows all day long, and hankering after a tumbler of golden whisky to ease the turmoil in her mind.

Tears pricked behind her eyes. She turned away from him and took a sip from her ice coffee to avoid wiping her face. It would be a mistake to appear fragile or unstable to this man, despite his kind demeanour.

Bishop held up a Dutch newspaper. “I would ask you to translate, but since you read Dutch books—”

Her gaze slipped to the circled item. “Package in front of law office was bomb,” she translated. “A suspicious package found Monday evening on the threshold of a law office contained explosives. The Bomb Squad has...”

He put the newspaper away. “How well do you understand spoken Dutch?”

“Understand or translate? I’m not fast enough to be an interpreter.”

Bishop took a tape recorder from his briefcase and switched it on. From the tiny speaker came an argument between a man with a dark soothing voice and a woman who spoke in clipped sentences. After a few minutes, he stopped the tape and took a transcript from the folder. “Tell me.”

“One is male, the other female. Their quarrel is interspersed with slang. The woman says the man ogled the salesgirl in a store they just visited, when he should’ve appraised her choice of clothes. Man soothes her, says he wouldn’t be interested in the salesgirl, she’s too skinny. The woman accuses him of devouring the girl with his eyes, or he wouldn’t have known she was skinny. Before you stopped the tape, she tells him, next time she won’t take him, just his credit card.”

“That’s right on the money.”

She folded her arms. “So, what is this about?”

“My team needs a member who can speak, write and understand Dutch like a native. I’d like to offer you the position, but I understand you’re considering leaving the DEA.”

“I don’t think I’m the same person I was.”

“Compared to before the shooting?”

Deborah nodded.

“I wouldn’t believe you if you said you were.” Bishop put the tape recorder and the folder back in his briefcase. “Everyone reacts differently to trauma. Often there is a deeper understanding of your own mortality.” He toyed with his pencil. “I’ve been shot three times. Each time I became both stronger and weaker, shedding unrealistic ideas about myself.” He smiled at her. “Does that make sense to you?”

She could feel the tears again. “It does.”

“You’re going through the same process, but you’re not handling it properly. Moping doesn’t help. Your mind turns on itself. You become self-absorbed.” He sipped his ice coffee. “You need a change of scenery. Other duties. Doesn’t mean you’d have to leave the DEA.”

“What are you offering?”

“A two-year appointment as a liaison officer with my office.”

He handed her his business card. Jerome Bishop, Chief Liaison Officer, Drug Enforcement Administration. With an address in ’s-Gravenhage, Nederland.

“Your office is in The Hague.”

“That’s right. You’d have to relocate to the Netherlands. The team is small, but I think you’ll fit in.”

“How small exactly?”

“Me, my police liaison officer and my intelligence officer. You’d assist the three of us. With the promotion to GS-14, you’ll get a raise in pay and working abroad has other benefits.” He finished his ice coffee. “I need an answer in twenty-four hours, after that I’ll have to do with my second choice.”

She wondered if he had a second choice. Far as she knew there weren’t many agents proficient in Dutch. Deborah put down the business card. “Two years. Sounds like a long time.”

“That period is based on the costs of relocation. I’d be satisfied if you can hold out for at least one year. And you’ll have Dutch holidays—25 days of furlough per year.”

“I’ll think it over.”

“I can be reached at the local number on the back of the card.”

Bishop put his briefcase under his arm and stepped back into the living room. She let him out of the apartment and went back out on the fire escape. From her perch, Deborah watched Bishop cross to Bedford and disappear around the corner, then picked up her book again.

And sat for a long time, the book unread in her lap.

ROUSTABOUT

Her inline skates whirring over the smooth asphalt, Katla raced along the Weteringschans. With still an hour to go until rush-hour, the boulevard was deserted, except for taxicabs speeding along the public transport lane towards the Leidseplein.

Opposite the Barlaeus Gymnasium, Katla skipped the tram rails to the other side of the street, followed the bicycle path across Max Euweplein, sailed across the pedestrian crossing, and plunged into the Vondelpark.

Unlike most Amsterdam parks, the Vondelpark featured a wide asphalt bicycle path circling the perimeter that attracted both hard-core and recreational inline skaters. The two groups rarely mingled. Recreational skaters used the whole park, but the hard-core skaters formed a cohesive group that occupied the west side of the park, where the asphalt was smoothest and the path wide enough to accommodate self-made ramps and slalom courses fashioned out of empty plastic bottles.

Despite the early hour, the sun was already warm enough to disperse the dew from the grass and the vagrants sleeping on the benches. Katla found an unoccupied bench, loosened the fastenings of her skates and took a thermos with cold orange juice from her backpack. While she drank, she checked out the skaters practicing their moves.

In the distance, an odd pair of joggers approached, wearing bright orange sweaters with bold black letters on the front. Except for the matching shirts the joggers were different in every aspect. One was short and broad across the chest, his glistening dark face crowned with a mane of bobbing dreadlocks; the other was two heads taller, pale, and slender. The Rastafarian’s sweater boasted ‘GUIDE’, but the tall jogger’s right arm obscured the text on his shirt. His arm fell away and she read ‘BLIND’.

She looked up at his face again as the blind man from the gallery jogged past her bench, close enough to touch. His long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, but the scars on his face and infectious grin were unmistakable. Merleyn’s left hand rested on the Rastafarian’s right shoulder as they jogged away, the backs of the orange sweaters featuring the same logos as the front.

Katla put away the juice and refastened her skates, got up from the bench and weaved expertly through the slower pedestrian traffic, cold juice sloshing in her stomach. For a minute she thought Merleyn and the Rastafarian had left the park, but after another bend in the path the two orange spots bobbed up and down ahead. With powerful strokes she closed the remaining distance to ten meters and slowed to match their speed.

Lithe on his feet, the blind man ran at a fluid pace, but the Rastafarian puffed like an asthmatic bulldog trying to keep up with a greyhound. Katla dropped back and followed at leisure until they slowed and walked to the P.C. Hooftstraat exit. She passed them, followed the street to the intersection and waited at the corner.

A few minutes later, the Rastafarian pedalled by on a transport bicycle, the blind man on the rear carrier, seated sideways to keep his long legs off the ground.

She watched them until they disappeared from view, then skated home slowly, lost in thought.

-o-

Katla pushed her sunglasses into her hair like a tiara and entered the dark tunnel under the converted warehouses. Halfway down, she climbed the stairs to the courtyard on the first level. A few children were drawing on the flagstones with coloured chalk, barely paying her attention as she mounted the stairs to her apartment on the fourth floor.

No matter how silently Katla inserted her key in the front door lock, her macaw Kourou immediately imitated a ferocious dog. After parking her skates and sneakers in the corner of the hallway, she peeled off her damp socks and walked barefoot to the bathroom where she turned on the taps to fill her bath.

She entered the living room. Her macaw stopped barking and flapped his huge blue wings in excitement. Kourou gazed at her with his pale eyes and croaked, “Happy?”

“Happy,” she assured him.

Katla walked up to his stand and offered her wrist. The macaw stepped from his perch one claw at a time, his sharp talons clutching her arm carefully. She opened the balcony doors and raised her arm. Kourou took a good look around, dropped to the quay, spread his wings, and soared across the canal to the zoo. Through her binoculars, Katla followed his descent to the Artis entrance, where Kourou would probably annoy the less colourful birds.

After hanging the binoculars back on their peg, Katla strolled to the kitchen counter and the spoils from the gallery. The ledger had been forwarded to the client, but a decryption program was analysing a digital scan of the coded entries. Although she doubted if it would yield anything useful. She flicked through Dolfijn’s Filofax for Merleyn’s contact information, but all she could find was the number for The Roustabout on the Nieuwmarkt.

With Paul Weller playing on the stereo, she undressed, strolled into the bathroom, turned off the taps and sank into the warm water. She folded a towel under her head and closed her eyes.

What kind of club would a blind man frequent?

-o-

Jazz club The Roustabout was on the west side of the Nieuwmarkt. A huge black bouncer filled the doorway, his bald head and shoulders brushing the frame, dark skin glowing in the blue neon lights flanking the entrance.

Katla halted in front of him and gazed up. “What’s the fee?”

“You’re late.” His voice rumbled up from somewhere deep down inside. “The last set is nearly over.”

“I’m not here for the music.”

The bouncer frowned and stepped aside. She brushed past him and entered the small hallway. Behind her, the bouncer turned and blocked the entrance again—as if he held back a frenzied crowd instead of facing an almost deserted square.

Katla crossed the hallway, put her palms together and split the blue drape with a darker blue leather circle, greasy from use. As she stepped through, she was enveloped instantly by a warm noisy blanket of air perfumed with beer, reefer, and sweat. Taking shallow breaths, she slunk through the crowd to the bar. Nobody offered her his stool, so she remained standing and ordered vodka.

She studied the crowd to see if she could spot Merleyn anywhere.

Fake gaslights hung on the perspiring walls, dimmed in favour of the electric spotlights centered on the stage against the far wall, where a jazz combo tried to drown out all other noises. In the spotlight, a willowy doe-eyed girl lamented some lost lover, hands wrapped around the microphone stand while her mournful gaze searched the smoky air stubbornly resisting dispersion by the whirling ceiling fans. The band remained outside the bright lights. The frail singer closed her eyes and ended her song.

A smattering of applause accompanied her retreat from the spotlight.

With feline grace, the blind man strode into the circle of light, halted near the edge of the stage, and lifted a saxophone to his lips. An intricate flurry of notes streamed from the gleaming instrument and filled the room, halting conversations.

From the corner of her eye, Katla spotted the bartender as he placed her drink on the bar. She tossed him the money and carried her drink closer to the stage.

Merleyn appeared taller than before, his shiny blue-black hair tied back in a severe ponytail, his angular features more prominent. Although his eyelids still weren’t covered, the horrific scars seemed less conspicuous.

His scintillating solo whirled around the room until the spotlights dimmed and the stage turned dark, the only sound in the gloom a drawn-out note from his saxophone. The note went on for another thirty seconds, dipped, and ended in a soft sob.

People applauded and the fake gaslights began to burn brighter, while the musicians left the stage. Taped jazz music started to play over the speakers to signal that the performance was over. Merleyn waited by the stage for the Rastafarian from the park, who leaned his double-bass against the piano. Together, the blind man and the Rastafarian followed the other musicians to a room in the back.

Katla remembered the drink in her hand and sipped her vodka. She studied the crowd. Without Merleyn the place wasn’t all that interesting. Two men tried to catch her eye, but she finished her drink and left the empty glass on a table. With the vodka blazing in her belly, she crossed the bar to the exit and glanced over her shoulder, just in time to spot Merleyn stepping from the back room, his narrow black tie askew and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows.

She turned and watched him move in the direction of the bar. The customers made room for him; some briefly touched his elbows and spoke to him. The blind man didn’t pay them much attention, his face composed but strained. With visible relief, Merleyn settled at the end of the bar and rested his head in his hands. The bartender walked up to him and placed a glass and a bottle of ginger ale in front of him.

Katla worked her way back through the crowd, straddled the empty stool next to the blind man, and ordered another glass of vodka. Merleyn removed yellow tubes from his ears and dropped them on the beer-splattered bar where the waxed foam earplugs expanded. He poured his ginger ale, drank half in a single gulp, and leaned his elbows on the bar, a blank expression on his face. The bartender placed a glass of vodka in front of her and she sipped it slowly.

The back room door opened and the Rastafarian came out, eyes roving the crowd until they found the blind man. Katla turned her face the other way as the Rastafarian approached.

Standing behind her, the Rastafarian put his hand on Merleyn’s shoulder. “Why you do that, bredda?”

“I didn’t want to be fondled.” Merleyn finished his ginger ale and swivelled on his stool. “I removed her hand, nothing more.”

Flanked by the piano player and the drummer, a slender auburn-haired girl left the back room, holding her right wrist and glaring at Merleyn. She attempted to head in his direction, but the musicians held her back. The bouncer entered, put his arm around the girl, and escorted her to the exit.

As the drape closed behind them, the Rastafarian squeezed the blind man’s shoulder. “She gone now. You come?”

Merleyn shrugged, slipped from his stool and followed him. She waited until they disappeared into the back room, and headed for the exit. She passed the bouncer and stepped outside, taking deep gulps from the cool night air. To her left, the auburn-haired girl slumped against the wall, still holding her wrist.

Katla walked over and tilted her head. “Are you all right?”

“Of course not,” the girl moaned. “The prick assaults me and I’m thrown out.”

“What happened?”

“He was blue about his performance. I console him and he flips. Grabbed my hand. Twisted it.” She rubbed her wrist. “You’re supposed to use that martial shit only in self-defence.”

Katla shrugged. “Technically, if you fondled him…”

The girl narrowed her eyes. “That what you came for? I’m still pressing charges!”

A taxicab came to a stop in front of the club and the girl walked up to it, opened the door and turned around. “Just because he’s blind doesn’t mean he can fuck up my wrist without repercussions.”

She got in and slammed the door behind her. The taxicab circled the Nieuwmarkt while Katla sauntered to the Waag in the middle of the square. She sat sideways on her Vespa parked in the shadows of the ancient building, her gaze on the blue neon signs flanking the entrance of the Roustabout.

She wondered if Merleyn was any good at martial arts—twisting the wrist of some hapless girl was not exactly a measure of skill.

People trickled out in groups of two or three.

A scruffy dealer ambled past and recited a mantra of drugs for sale, but Katla stared right through him until he got the message and moved away to pester someone else.

The Roustabout’s neon signs winked out and more people streamed out of the club.

Some twenty-odd minutes later, a small group left the club and lingered on the sidewalk, talking. Merleyn stood with them, his white cane reflecting the light of a street lamp. After five minutes the group split up.

Merleyn and the Rastafarian strolled south towards the Kloveniersburgwal.

Katla left her scooter and followed them on foot. The sidewalks teemed with tourists, but they were easy enough to follow.

Just past the Compagnietheater, they turned away from the canal and disappeared into the Spinhuissteeg. She quickened her pace to close the distance and stopped at the corner. The Rastafarian stood motionless halfway down the alley, while only the blind man’s upper body was visible above ground. He seemed to be unlocking the doors to a basement. When Merleyn ducked inside, the Rastafarian followed him down the steps.

Katla sneaked into the alley and halted in front of the building. A brass sign mounted near the front door featured a row of Japanese kanji characters, but no translation. Light shone from the windows and a small gap between in the basement doors, but she couldn’t see inside through the wire-glass.

She moved closer to the doors.

“…last thing I need,” Merleyn snarled. “I’m not a TV set with a burned-out tube.”

“You finish?” There was a silence, and the Rastafarian continued, “Sista rub you wrong way, tell her bother someone else, sight? You nearly break her wrist.”

“It was a long way from breaking.”

“Rass!”

“It wasn’t. Really.”

“You upset Christine.”

“You must be kidding me. She wasn’t fondled. I was.”

The Rastafarian spoke softly and Merleyn said, “Let’s do this some other time, okay? I’m tired.”

Katla walked away and waited in the shadows. A moment later, the basement doors opened and light flooded the alley. The Rastafarian climbed the steps, unlocked his transport bicycle, and pedalled away.

She took out her flashlight and drifted back to the basement.

The lights behind the wire-glass windows went out, but she could hear movement inside. The right basement door clicked open, a safety chain gleaming in the gap, and the floor creaked as Merleyn walked away. She played the flashlight’s beam over the safety chain.

Flaked chrome links. Wouldn’t stop a bolt cutter.

Katla unzipped her pocket to put away her flashlight. The gap between the doors closed with a bang. The chain rattled and the door flew open.

Merleyn appeared in the dark opening—shirtless, a snarl on his face. “Go piss somewhere else, fuckwad!”

Katla stifled a giggle and remained motionless. The blind man’s face became expressionless and he cocked his head to the side, listening. The fingers of his left hand moved as if stirred by a breeze. She matched his respiration until they breathed in unison. Close enough to smell his sweat, she played the beam of her flashlight over his pale chest. He was a whippet, all ribs and sharp angles.

The silver dog-tags around his neck jingled as Merleyn planted his right foot on the threshold, shifted his weight and leaned forward until his upper body was outside the basement.

When he was within kissing distance, Katla reached out and brushed her fingernails over his throat.

Merleyn recoiled instantly, stumbled back into his basement and slammed the door.

The lock clicked.

Once.

Twice.

Katla straightened noiselessly and grinned.

Without a sound, she moved away from the doors and left the alley.

EMBASSY

With her documents in hand and her weekend bag containing her belongings, Deborah Stern waited in the queue at Schiphol Airport Customs. She studied the sea of faces beyond passport control, although she didn’t expect a welcome party. The smartphone in her inside pocket contained all the information she required, and she didn’t have to report before tomorrow morning at ten. And maybe she could contact her new AA sponsor for the closed meetings. Three of the five meetings in The Hague were open to non-alcoholics, but Amsterdam had thirteen meetings, most of them closed to non-alcoholics. The woman in front of her shuffled forward and Deborah closed the gap.

A trim black man with lazy eyes sauntered up to her and showed her his ID. “Creaux, DEA. Hand me your bag.”

A businessman next in line backed away from her.

Creaux switched his gaze to him, studied him like he was some nasty bug.

The businessman shuffled his feet. “I’m not with her.”

“I should hope not.” Creaux turned back to Deborah. “Come with me, Stern.”

Deborah stepped out of the queue and handed Creaux her weekend bag. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely.” He motioned for her to lead the way. They walked down the corridor and turned the corner.

Creaux smiled gleefully. “Did you see him sweat?”

“Why didn’t you take him in? Give him something to talk about?”

“Jerome wants us to keep a low profile.” He looked at her hair. “Makes me wonder why he selected you.”

“They don’t have redheads in Holland?”

“They do. You notice redheads are either ugly or good-looking? Never plain?” He held up his free hand to fend off an imaginary blow. “Don’t worry, you’re in the last category.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Creaux.”

A mischievous grin lit up his face and Deborah felt a flutter of lust that confused her. Her libido had been put to sleep by the copious amounts of alcohol, but now that she was sober, the last thing she needed was lusting after a colleague. Quelling the flutter, she followed Creaux to the platforms where he walked to an old BMW 3-series, parked in a lot reserved for airport security vehicles. While she walked around to the passenger side and fished in her bag for the sunglasses she hadn’t expected to need, Creaux tossed her weekend bag in the back seat, and got into the car.

“You travel light.” He backed out of the parking spot. “Or is the rest of your luggage still in transit?”

“It was time for a new wardrobe.”

She didn’t add that she wanted to make a clean break. And that buying locally might help her blend in.

Creaux drove to a check-out point near the KLM Catering building. The guard waved them through and he merged with the traffic leaving Schiphol Airport.

“This isn’t a rental.” Deborah patted the seat. “You’ve been here a while.”

“Five years. And my Dutch is still crap.”

“You take courses?”

“I don’t get much practice. Everyone speaks English when they hear your accent.”

She stifled a yawn, but he noticed anyway. “Jet lag?”

“Long flight. Boring, but noisy.”

“Take a nap. We still have plenty of time to talk tomorrow.”

Deborah closed her eyes behind the sunglasses and listened to the soothing sound of tires on tarmac. A click sounded and soft classical music filled the car, but Creaux himself remained silent, concentrated on piloting the BMW.

She peeked at him through her lashes.

His hands held the wheel with a minimum of contact and his head swayed in time with the music, the ghost of a smile around his lips replacing the frivolous mischief. Calmness radiated from him as if he traveled in his own private pocket of tranquility.

The brief flutter of lust reappeared. She tried to look at him with dispassionate eyes, but she couldn’t escape her feelings. The attraction was not just in the mischief in his eyes, but also the nonchalant way his suit covered his lean body and the obvious strength in the hands curled loosely around the leather rim of the steering wheel. Like a coiled viper, his whole attitude hinted at a subdued power.

Deborah closed her eyes again, not opening them until they left the highway and entered The Hague.

Creaux guided the BMW through the city streets and pulled up in front of a Greek deli in the Zoutmanstraat. The car had been cool and dry, but the air outside was warm and moist.

“Heat wave,” he said. “In a few days it will rain and it won’t be so humid anymore. Just muggy.”

With her weekend bag hanging from her shoulder, Deborah joined Creaux and crossed the street to a shop in office supplies. He unlocked an anonymous blue door with a small oval looking glass. “Best we could do on such short notice,” he said. “We rented you the studio top floor, so you’ll get your exercise.”

Seemingly unencumbered by the weight of her luggage Creaux almost ran up the winding staircase while she followed more sedately. By the time she reached the top floor he had already opened the door to the tiny studio. Deborah put her weekend bag next to the luggage Creaux had dropped by the door and allowed him to give her a quick tour of the studio apartment, about thirty square meters in white and burgundy with hardwood floors and a sumptuous double bed.

He took her to the window. “You can take the tram, but Jerome told me you were part Dutch, so I got you a bicycle.” He pointed at a granny bike with high handlebars parked across the street on the sidewalk near a tailor. “The key to the bicycle lock is on the same ring as the apartment keys.”

“It’s been a while, but I think I’ll manage.”

“You can lease a car on our costs, but parking is horrible here.” He walked over to the dinner table and pointed at the various objects. “Five hundred euro in cash, so you won’t have to hunt around for an ATM. Here’s a map of The Hague. I circled the location of the Embassy and this apartment. Take note that the address says Lange Voorhout, but the entrance is at Smidsplein, opposite the French Embassy.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Here’s a list of telephone numbers. I stocked some coffee and tea and breakfast stuff in the kitchen, but you might want to do groceries later on.” He glanced at his watch. “Don’t wait too long, because the shops aren’t open 24/7 like in New York. And here’s a Dutch SIM for your phone, so you can call at local rates.”

“Pre-paid?”

“No, it’s charged to the Embassy. Five hundred minutes worth.”

Deborah smiled. “Should be sufficient.”

“See you tomorrow.” Creaux strolled to the door.

She cleared her throat. “James? Thanks for picking me up at the airport.”

“Don’t mention it. I mean it. Jerome thought we would wait for you to show up tomorrow.” He twirled his keys. “I’ve always been bad at delaying gratification. So I thought I’d pick you up. Satisfy my curiosity.”

“And? Is it satisfied?”

“Not yet.” He flashed her his mischievous grin again. “But there’s always tomorrow.”

He closed the door behind him. Deborah listened for his light-footed steps as he skipped down the stairs, then went to unpack her luggage.

-o-

After a long shower, Deborah hung her wrinkled suits in the steamed up stall. The high ceiling of the room kept the room cooler than outside, but not much. She missed the air-conditioning of her mother’s apartment. Even walking around nude she could feel fresh perspiration popping out all over her skin. The ceiling fan only mixed the warm air with the hot air from outside. She made herself an egg and tomato sandwich, sprawled on the couch and drank two bottles of mineral water while watching a documentary on forensic science, her favourite subject at the Academy. The documentary offered little new information, but the Dutch subtitles were educational. She opened her laptop, but couldn’t make a connection yet, although the brochure of the apartments claimed every room had wireless Internet.

Rubbing the bump on her left collarbone, Deborah made a grocery list, then studied the map of The Hague for the easiest route to the Embassy. She programmed her phone for a wake-up call at eight-thirty, and slipped between the cool sheets.

Tired as she was, sleep wouldn’t come. Deborah thought about the sleeping pills in her suitcase and the need to kick them. Now was as good a time to start as any. She stretched out under the covers and stared at a solitary fly in an erratic holding pattern around the extinguished ceiling lamp.

-o-

The shotgun slug came from nowhere, slammed into her left shoulder and spun her around like a rag doll.

Hit.

Deborah bounced against the pilothouse and left a red smear on the smooth white wall.

I’m hit.

Her own shotgun clattered on the deck, yanked from her hands by the slug’s violent intrusion. Holding the elbow of her numb left arm she staggered backwards and tried to locate the source, but her eyes had trouble focusing. A blur in front of her became one of DeLillo’s henchmen, aiming a pistol with laser sight, red light flooding her eyes as he drew a bead on her head. Like a rabbit caught in a poacher’s lamp, Deborah could only stare and wait for the bullet.

Then his face exploded in a cloud of blood.

-o-

Deborah awoke with the stink of fear in her nostrils and the sheets twisted around her body. She rubbed the scar on her collarbone and tried to control her breathing. Her mind made a silent plea for the soothing numbness of the sleeping pills.

Or a drink.

She shivered with the desire, the soothing burn that would warm her all the way to her fingertips.

“To thine own self be true,” she murmured. “One day at a time.”

Staring at the dark ceiling, Deborah remembered the aftermath of the DeLillo bust. The white cranes against the orange sky, the deck vibrating under the stomping boots, cries of surrender and shots echoing through the woods. Michael sitting next to her, smelling metallic from burnt gunpowder, holding her hand and urging her to stay awake. Vomiting on the floor of the swaying helicopter that lifted her out of the swamp. The acrid death smell of the hospital. The bland surgeon showing her x-rays and telling her how a few inches separated life and death...

She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep without dreams.

-o-

Deborah entered the cool marble lobby of the embassy at a quarter to ten, showed her ID at reception and was directed to a door to her left which buzzed briefly. The high ceiling gave the stairwell the slight chill of a mortuary despite the heat wave outside, but the thick runner in the middle of the staircase—fastened with gleaming brass rungs to the marble steps—softened the ambiance. Turning away from the elevator, she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and entered the left corridor, passed a door marked ‘FBI’ before she spotted one with ‘DEA’.

Below the DEA logo was a row of three transparent strips. The bottom strip was empty; the others were labeled ‘NICHOLSON/2S0C’ and ‘CREAUX/0S1C’.

The three-desk office was empty. The computer monitor on the left was dark, the other two featured screen savers; a spaceship cruising a dark universe with twinkling stars, and the Looney Tunes character Tasmanian Devil running around with his jaw scraping the ground, arms raised in attack.

She left the office and walked deeper into the corridor. Muffled laughter came from the end of the hall and she found a door marked ‘DEA/CHIEF LIAISON OFFICER’.

Behind the door, a mousy girl with lank sandy hair occupied the secretary station outside Bishop’s office, dwarfed by the computer screen reflected in her glasses.

“Ms. Stern?” Her voice was unexpectedly mellifluous, a husky purr belonging to a sultry vixen. Deborah nodded and the mousy girl pointed with her chin at a door to Deborah’s right. “Go right in.”

“Thank you…?”

“Marlies.”

“Thank you, Marlies. Please, call me Deborah.”

The girl nodded shyly and turned back to her work. Deborah opened the door to her right and entered the office. Three of the occupants were sniggering about something when she opened the door; the fourth—Creaux—smiled like a cat with cream on his whiskers.

Bishop sat behind the desk in shirtsleeves and waved her in. “Deborah, pull up a chair.”

Creaux rose to his feet. “Coffee?”

“Please. Lots of cream, no sugar.”

Creaux walked out of the office. Bishop pointed at the only man in full suit. “Richard Slough, FBI. Barry Nicholson, resident genius. Deborah Stern.”

Slough rose and shook her hand.

Deborah turned to Nicholson, who nodded in greeting, but kept his hand wrapped around the coffee mug balanced on his thigh. Nicholson looked like a typical nerd—slightly overweight, pale complexion and horn-rimmed glasses—except there was no tape holding his glasses together. And he wore a wedding band.

She pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

Creaux came back and handed her a mug of coffee and three packages of powdered cream, the corners torn off. “Here you are. I’m James Creaux.”

“Pleased to meet you.” She dumped the cream in the mug and stirred her coffee.

Creaux sat back down and picked up his mug. “To finish; Hickock didn’t believe him, so we sent the powder to a lab. Guy goes to the holding tank. About an hour later the lab calls us. Tells us the guy is telling the truth.”

Slough shook his head.

“Hickock goes, ‘Book him anyway’ and I say, ‘Can’t book him for carrying ashes, Ben.’ So Hickock goes, ‘Someone who walks around with the ashes of his cremated mother is more dangerous than a drug addict.’”

Slough and Bishop laughed, Nicholson peered into his mug and Creaux drank his coffee. Slough turned to her. “Don’t think that’s funny?”

“Don’t mind me,” Deborah replied. “I rarely show amusement on the outside. An old habit.”

“From the funeral home?”

“Excuse me?”

“You worked in a funeral home, didn’t you? Before you joined the DEA?”

Deborah shook her head. “Depository of unusual cargo. Corpses were only a small part of the cargo handled by our department.”

Creaux raised an eyebrow. “Handled?”

“We stored corpses in transit until they cleared customs.” Her eyes met Bishop’s, but the older agent’s gaze was unreadable. “But most of the unusual cargo was live animals, restricted chemicals, and pharmaceutical supplies.”

“What’s your opinion?” Slough asked. “Is someone who carries around his mother’s cremated remains more dangerous than a drug addict?”

“Depends on his motivation. And what he intends to do with them.”

Slough turned to Creaux. “James?”

“According to his statement he was just fond of his mother.”

“Not ‘just’,” Slough said. “Wouldn’t consider that normal affection.”

Bishop grinned. “You don’t love your mother, Richard?”

“Not enough to carry her remains around.” Slough grinned back at him. “Be difficult too. Mine was buried.”

Nicholson shook his head. “Tasteless, Richard.”

The FBI man ignored Nicholson and looked at Deborah. “Not showing your amusement again or not amused?”

“Intrigued.” She cocked her head. “I read an article on how cynical remarks often indicate awkward anxiety management. Conflicting emotions cause psychological discomfort palliated only by dark humour.”

Slough gave her a wry smile. “I assure you I’m not discomforted.”

“The article stated ‘often’, not ‘always’, Richard.” Deborah smiled back at him. “No need to become defensive.”

“Uh-huh.” He rose to his feet. “See you at four, Jerome.”

The FBI man left the office, closing the door behind him.

“Never seen Dick shut up so fast.” Bishop pointed at Nicholson and Creaux. “Barry handles Intelligence and James is our law enforcement liaison. You’ll assist both of them. And me, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I have one request. Don’t show any proficiency in Dutch outside our team.”

Creaux put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re our secret weapon.”

“Against what?”

“James will brief you,” Bishop said. “And show you your desk.”

Creaux motioned her along. Nicholson followed and they walked to the three-desk office next to Bishop’s. Creaux sat behind the computer with the Taz screen saver, which came as no surprise. Nicholson took the other desk, farthest from the door. The empty desk was obviously hers.

Creaux took a label machine from his drawer. “Let’s make it official.”

“What?”

Creaux ripped the strip from the adhesive, removed the transparent cover from the bottom tag on the door and pasted the label in place. He put back the cover. “Is that Dutch? Stern?”

“It’s a bird, related to the gull.” Deborah looked at the label. STERN/0S3C. “Zero sugar, three cream?”

“For the coffee rounds.”

“Your idea?”

He gave her a broad grin. “Yes.”

“Now you see why I handle Intel,” Nicholson spoke from behind his computer.

Creaux took her arm. “Let’s go sightseeing.”

“But the work?”

“You heard Jerome. You’re to assist us. Grumpy doesn’t need help. I do.”

Creaux walked out of the office, waving her along.

Nicholson flapped his hand. “Keep him away. That’ll be all the assistance I need.”

-o-

The BMW zoomed along the A4 highway in the direction of Amsterdam, Creaux tapping his hands on the steering wheel to the music on the radio.

“So, brief me,” Deborah said. “I read somewhere that sixty-eight percent of the drugs passing through Rotterdam and Amsterdam end up in the States.”

“That’s right. Apart from XTC and cannabis, the Dutch don’t manufacture drugs, but Rotterdam is the biggest harbour in Europe. And you don’t want to know the volume of drugs that flow through Schiphol Airport.” The highway grew congested as they neared the Amsterdam A10 Ring Road. “Trafficking in opiates aside, the Dutch broker ether from Germany to Colombia, handle logistics for Belgian sleeping pills to Togo, et cetera.”

Deborah tilted her head. “For African insomniacs?”

“Mixed with alcohol, barbiturates provide a cheap buzz. Of course, no-one gets excited if a few poor Africans overdose on that lethal concoction as long as they drag burning corpses through the streets.” He glanced at her. “When was the last time you were tested for drugs?”

“Three months ago. Blood sample.”

Creaux took his eyes from the road long enough for a quizzical look. “Blood?”

“A hair sample wouldn’t suffice,” Deborah said. “I’d been covered in a cloud of cocaine. Fired a shotgun in a key during a raid.”

“Accidental discharge or malfunction?”

“Righteous shooting. My aim was off. Do I have to take another test?”

“No.” Creaux braked as a Suzuki Swift cut in front of him. “No mandatory tests over here, but I assume you know we test GIs stationed in Germany.”

“At the NATO bases.”

“Yes. No exciting results. Traces of THC, but soldiers have to blow off steam.” He allowed a little space between his BMW and the Swift and a purple Smart car wiggled itself in the space. Creaux shook his head. “Ballsy move with such a small car.”

“Lots of small cars here.”

“Easier to park.” Creaux shrugged. “Anyway, last time two officers tested positive for morphine.”

“But received none for medical purposes.”

“Exactly.” Traffic slowed to a crawl. “Count the abstinence period and a faint trace indicates a major dose.”

“Heroin.”

“Nothing else makes sense. The MP and the BKA used a new recruit to get a heroin sample, but he struck out.”

She bit the ball of her thumb. “Personnel checked?”

“No aberrations.”

Since most drug traffickers lived beyond their means, no aberrations meant either ‘clean’ or ‘aware of surveillance’. Probably the latter.

“BKA thinks the heroin came from Holland,” Creaux said. “No needle marks, so they ‘chased the dragon’, which is only feasible with high quality heroin. The Dutch are the only ones with high quality for low prices.”

A rumbling motorcycle passed inches from the BMW and Deborah followed the motorcycle’s progress through the gridlock. “So this is a Dutch/German operation.”

“Dutch/German/American,” Creaux said. “And protected from on high.”

“How high?”

“Jerome suspects we’re being sabotaged. And hampered by miscommunication. Right now, all reports need translating before we can check for relevant info.” He glanced at her. “That’s where you come in.”

“So, how widespread is this sabotage supposed to be?”

Creaux flashed his cat-like smile. “Why do you think Richard believed you worked in a funeral home?”

“He misread my file?”

“You can’t access what you can’t find.”

She blinked at him. “Who misplaced it?”

“Barry ‘relocated’ your file. Jerome’s orders.”

She shook her head. “The FBI might be involved?”

Creaux gave her a sad smile. “At this point, anyone is suspect…”

Deborah leaned back in the seat. “Oh, boy.”

LUNCHEONETTE

Bram Merleyn listened to the whirling ceiling fan and the hum of the diner’s refrigerated counter while his sister Bianca leafed through Het Parool, cleared her throat and said, “Here it is. ‘Gallery Owner Killed With Own Sword’.”

Her voice echoed slightly in the deserted diner. The newspaper brushed the back of his hand and Bram pulled the plate with sandwiches onto his lap. “Don’t drag the paper through my food.”

“After you heard this, you probably won’t even want your food anymore.”

“Are you sure you want to read it to me?”

Bianca riffled the newspaper. “Are you saying you don’t want to hear it?”

“Not if it will spoil my appetite.”

“If you don’t want—”

“Just read it.” Bram took a bite from his sandwich.

She folded the paper. “Late last evening the police found the mutilated corpse of Klaas Dolfijn in the office of his gallery in the Amsterdam Jordaan quarter. The victim was stabbed with a Japanese sword from his own collection. The gallery owner seems to have been killed in the course of a robbery. The police have no clue yet as to the identity of the perpetrators, but are following several leads.”

Bram swallowed. “They follow leads without clues?”

“Newspaper jargon.” The paper crackled. “When you went to get that… ‘thing’. Was he still alive?”

“Of course. You think I pried it from his cold dead fingers?”

“His gallery is two hundred meters from here.”

“Two hundred and sixty-eight.” Bram shrugged. “And he was skewered for the contents of his safe. You don’t even have a safe.”

“How can you be so callous? Someone we knew got murdered in broad daylight!”

“I didn’t ‘know’ him. Neither did you. All you ‘knew’ was Klaas preferred ciabatta over rye.” He chewed his food. “And I don’t think there was much daylight in his gallery.”

“I made the poor man breakfast yesterday.”

“Well, at least he didn’t die on an empty stomach.”

“Jesus, Bram.” She scrunched up the paper. “Why do I still talk to you?”

“Because your boyfriends are too stupid for conversation. Did you kick Olaf out yet or do I have to help?”

“I gave him notice to get out by the end of next week.”

Bram put down his sandwich. “‘Notice’? Why not give him your wallet, so he won’t have to ransack your apartment?”

“I can’t kick him out, he has no place to go.”

“Tough. He should’ve kept his fingers from your money.”

“It was only fifty euro, and he promised…”

“Only fifty euro.” Bram took her hand. “We really have the same genes?”

“Yours are warped.” She pulled her hand from his grasp. “You don’t know what ‘compassion’ means.”

“Oh, but I do. Compassion: listening to a month’s worth of snivelling when you break up with yet another asshole.”

She scooted from the booth and stalked away, shoes clacking on the tiles.

Bram tossed the folded paper over his shoulder into the empty booth behind him, put his plate back on the table, and resumed his lunch. So Klaas had been killed with one of his own swords. Ten to one the woman who gave him the tsuba was responsible. Explained her volatile attitude. He finished his last sandwich, licked his fingers and wiped them on a napkin.

“Can I have another cup of tea?”

“I have to prepare for lunch hour.” A refrigerator slammed shut. “You better get going.”

Bram pulled out his cane, the parts clicking in place. As he walked to the door he felt her gaze on him.

“Kick Olaf in the nuts for me.”

“Violence never solves anything. You told me that.”

“There’s an exception to every rule.”

“Right. Have a nice weekend.”

“I’ll tell you all about it.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Unless a city bus runs me over.”

Bianca sighed audibly. “Why would a bus run you over?”

“Drowsy from your tasty sandwiches, I pay less attention to traffic, step from the curb and get turned into a grease spot.”

“You really shouldn’t make jokes about that.”

“It’s no joke. They paint them yellow, but I still can’t see them coming. And as those big wheels grind me into the pavement, my last thoughts will be of being kicked out of your luncheonette without so much as a good-bye kiss.”

Bianca approached him, put her arms around his neck. “Instead of telling me morbid fantasies you could just ask me for a kiss.”

“My way is more fun.”

Bram kissed her cheek and left the luncheonette.

He replayed the gallery incident in his head. Klaas had probably snuffed it before he entered the gallery. That’s why he didn’t feel his presence. Dead people have no vibe.

And the woman… He’d assumed the trepidation in her voice to be the uneasiness most people exhibit around the blind, but under the circumstances her composure had been remarkable. Apart from that tense moment at the sword cabinet she had given an immaculate performance.

A shiver of excitement raised goosebumps on his arms.

A true femme fatale.

And she’d also saved him some money. He wouldn’t have to dig in his savings to pay the fat man for his overpriced tsuba.

Bram grinned up at the sun. It was great to be alive.

SPEEDBALL

“My name is Josef,” the young Moroccan man said. “And I’m an alcoholic.”

Deborah Stern lifted her gaze at Josef’s distinctive Dutch accent. Most of the attendants of the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings were expats. Native Dutch went to Anonieme Alcoholisten meetings.

“I am ashamed of my alcoholism and fear repercussions from my community.” Josef’s mouth twitched. “I try to be a good Muslim, but I also feel a need to numb myself from reality. And I feel alone in my struggle, because I cannot tell my family. Even if alcohol wouldn’t be forbidden, my father is immune to the horrors of reality and he would never understand my need.”

Josef rambled on for a while about his father, who seemed to be a tyrant who cared more about Josef’s standing in society than whether the young man’s sensibilities could handle the negative sides of his work.

Deborah tuned him out. She missed Melody, her sponsor in New York. Rita, her new sponsor, was too strident, almost born-again Christian fanatical about AA. And way too interested in Deborah’s private life.

Everybody applauded as Josef walked back to his seat where he received friendly pats on the shoulder.

A woman at the front asked if anybody else wanted to come up front. When nobody volunteered, she declared the meeting to be over and everybody gathered around the coffee table in the corner.

Deborah checked her phone. Nine p.m. Three minutes to catch the bus back to Amsterdam Centraal Station. She nodded politely to the people who had been sitting next to her and unobtrusively left the AAOC, walking down the Nova Zemblastraat to the bus stop. While she waited for bus 22, Josef came running for the bus stop, but he halted at a distance, watching her. Keeping him in the periphery of her vision, Deborah ignored him. A minute later the 22 came to a wheezing halt at the bus stop and she entered, finding a seat near the driver and the rearview mirror showing the entire bus. Josef entered through one of the rear doors and slunk into a seat, studying her the whole eight minute ride to Centraal Station.

As she exited the bus she checked her six, but Josef remained on the bus as it left for the Indische Buurt. Deborah took out her phone and checked for messages as she strolled to the Centraal Station to take a train back to The Hague.

-o-

Only five of the ten seats were taken as an aide ushered Deborah and James Creaux into the conference room. Richard Slough was talking to a regal-looking woman, while Jerome Bishop looked up from papers he was perusing together with a tall balding man.

“My assistants, Deborah Stern and James Creaux,” Bishop spoke and pointed at the short weak-chinned man occupying the chair at the head of the table. “Procureur Generaal Roothaen.”

The Dutch Attorney General.

The tall balding man with the military bearing rose from his seat and introduced himself in guttural English as Rudolf Heckler, head of the German Bundeskriminalamt.

The regal-looking woman smiled warmly at Creaux before her friendly gaze rested on Deborah. “You must be the new liaison. Bea Focke, AIVD.”

The AIVD was the Algemene Inlichtingen- en Veiligheidsdienst under direct supervision of the Minister of the Interior. The Dutch Secret Service, which gathered and exchanged information on national and international criminal and pseudo-criminal activities in order to establish links and networks. And supervised foreign liaison officers.

Focke didn’t give her rank as if the AIVD didn’t bother with them.

Procureur Generaal Roothaen waited until they took their seats next to Bishop and nodded at Rudolf Heckler, who shuffled the papers in front of him.

“Three days ago a US Army Corporal, Ryan Mitchell, died of drug-induced cardiac arrest in the lavatory of dorm B at the NATO base at Nuremberg. MPs secured three grams of heroin mixed with high grade cocaine, commonly known as ‘speedball’. Drugs were sent to the DEA laboratory in Quantico. The origin was determined to be Amsterdam.”

“The State Department wants the supplier,” Richard Slough added. “The network. Before this reaches the Senate. The BKA works with the MPs to find the persons responsible for smuggling the narcotics onto the base. We are to find the supplier.”

“We have to decide on a strategy,” Roothaen said. “Ms. Focke promised availability of all her facilities. Mr. Slough?”

“Narcotics are the field of the DEA.” Slough gestured to the other side of the table. “It’s best if we use their expertise.”

“I don’t mind being called in,” Bishop spoke. “But who’ll be in charge?”

Roothaen turned to Focke, who ran the flame of a slim gold lighter along the length of a slender panatela cigar. Focke took her time, snipped the end of the panatela and fitted the cigar in an ebony holder. Her calm eyes studied her audience. “Let’s agree on a strategy before bickering about arrest credits.”

Deborah shot Bishop a glance. His question had been legitimate, but maybe the Dutch promoted their officers on other merits.

Bishop tilted his head. “What do you suggest?”

Disregarding the No Smoking sign on the table, Focke lit up and puffed on her panatela. “The strategy depends on the aim of the investigation. Mr. Slough is vague about his goals.”

“The State Department wants all traffic to the bases stopped.”

“Simple.” Focke studied the tip of her cigar. “Quarterly mandatory drug tests. Court-martial anyone with traces in their blood. Demand decreases and traffic stops.”

Richard Slough blinked.

“Except,” Focke continued. “That’s not what you want. You want a culprit.”

“It’s not what I want,” Slough replied. “The State—”

“And their attention span? How much time do we have to fill this demand?”

Everybody watched Slough squirm.

“I’m no expert, Ms. Focke. What’s your estimate?”

“To do a proper job? Six months to a year.”

Slough sucked in his cheeks. “How much could we do in, say, two months?”

Focke smirked and turned her attention back to her panatela.

Slough turned to Bishop. “Why don’t you say something?”

“I agree with Ms. Focke. Your time constraints are unrealistic. Unless you want to adjust the parameters of the investigation.”

“In what way?”

“State wants a culprit. If he fits the usual pattern, Mitchell himself is responsible.” Bishop leaned back in his seat. “Heroin has to be taken a few times before addiction sets in. Everyone knows the risk of uncontrolled substances. So, Mitchell is the culprit.”

Slough opened his mouth, but Bishop raised a hand. “Can’t show that to State, I understand. So, what’ve we got? A sample adulterated in Amsterdam. AIVD files on people suspected of heroin trafficking.”

“Suspected,” Focke interjected. “Not convicted.”

Her bluntness seemed to embarrass Roothaen, but Bishop nodded. “Smart rings operate like terrorist cells. To infiltrate is no great feat, but arresting a cell that’s replaced the next day is a waste of effort.”

“Plus you’ll notify them that their security is lax,” Focke added. “Anyone associated with the infiltration might end up dead.”

“How about using undercover agents?” Slough asked.

“To do what? Buy heroin? How much you want?”

“It was a suggestion.”

“Arresting street dealers won’t get us anywhere.” Bishop turned to Heckler. “How many arrests have you made?”

Heckler looked at the table. “None. So far.”

“Mitchell died three days ago,” Slough said. “And a NATO base is a restricted area.”

Heckler didn’t seem pleased with the veiled insult. He turned to Bishop. “What’s your suggestion?”

“I need to contact the base myself. Pool resources. Look for patterns. I suggest we meet a week from now to determine a strategy.”

An aide walked in with Roothaen’s organiser.

“A week?” Focke asked Bishop. “The seventeenth?”

Deborah checked her calendar. “Fine with us.”

The aide nodded. “I have a spot from two till half past three.”

Focke jotted it in her organiser and Deborah made a note.

Bishop turned to Heckler. “Join us, if you can.”

“What for?” Slough asked. “These are two separate operations.”

Bishop gazed at Slough until the FBI man looked away, and turned back to Heckler, who shook his hand. Bishop rose and left the room. Creaux and Deborah followed in his wake. An aide walked them to the reception and they stepped into the sunshine.

“Deft, Jerome,” Creaux said. “I think you went too hard on Slough.”

“Dick wants to shift responsibility, he loses the right to interfere.” Bishop pointed at a restaurant across the street. “Let’s have lunch.”

-o-

Opposite the Amsterdam Centraal Station, the four-star Park Plaza Victoria Hotel is located in a historical building that wraps around the corner of the Damrak. While not as well-known as the five-star InterContinental Amstel Hotel, the Victoria is just as exclusive and attracts a clientele that prefers relative anonymity to the Amstel Hotel’s opulence. Like the Amstel Hotel, the Victoria features among its amenities an exclusive health spa and fitness club, the Victoria Active Club. Although readily accessible through the hotel itself, the Victoria Active Club also has an entrance tucked away in the Hasselaersteeg.

Simon Ligtvoet swerved from the busy Prins Hendrikkade past the queue of tourist buses and bopped his BMW R100G/S motorcycle onto the sidewalk where he blipped the throttle to disperse the gawking tourists and inched his motorcycle past the red-and-white post that marked the alley ‘pedestrian-only’. He wasn’t the only one as the alley was crowded with mopeds and bicycles parked haphazardly against the walls. Simon parked the G/S and chained it securely. Amsterdam was known for its bike thieves and even an old motorcycle like his G/S was high on their wish list. He activated the alarm and fished his membership card from his wallet while he entered the Victoria Active Club.

The attendant finished his conversation with a sleek peroxide blonde, who murmured her thanks and walked away to the changing rooms. Her face was familiar, but it was the sway in her hips he recognised from a game show on television.

The attendant exchanged his card for a locker key. “You’re early. Your massage is scheduled for four-thirty.”

“I’ll be at the pool.” Simon removed his wristwatch. “Keep this for me. If I forget the time…”

“Marcel collects you there, don’t worry.”

Simon nodded his thanks, picked up his key and carried his bag to the changing room.

The only other occupant was a man in his early twenties, focused on folding his trousers before hanging them next to his jacket in his locker. Brogues gleamed on the bottom of the locker. Together with his white-collared blue-striped shirt, his profession couldn’t be clearer if he had ‘AEX’ tattooed on his forehead. Of course, with the Amsterdam Exchange situated at less than five minutes walking distance from the exclusive health club, an excess of stockbrokers among the clientele was to be expected.

Simon jammed his clothes into his locker, fished in his bag for his Speedos and his towel, tossed the empty bag inside, and draped the towel around his neck. With the key tied to his wrist he left the changing room before the stockbroker hung up his shirt.

Drifting in the cool water of the deserted indoor pool Simon gazed into the fitness area on the first floor where the game show hostess lifted her left leg until her nose touched her shin. He’d read she quit dancing after a knee injury, but she still appeared limber. Her agility reminded him of Violette before Carmel had transformed his lovely girlfriend from a party animal to a sullen housewife crushed by the responsibilities of motherhood.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

Sudden waves lapped against his temples. Trix descended into the pool along the steel ladder. As she turned around she looked older than her forty-odd years.

Simon waited until she treaded water beside him. “Trouble?”

“The NATO string has to be shut down.” She almost whipped a hand-blade across her throat, but modified the gesture into rubbing her throat. “A US Corporal at the Nuremberg base overdosed. Left half his portion for the MP to find. Enough to pinpoint the source. DEA works this end while the BKA investigates the base. No suspects yet, but that’s a matter of time.”

“I’ll call Joost. How long we need to avoid the bases?”

“I’ll know more in a week or two.”

“What are you worried about? This is not the first investigation.”

“This is not domestic.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Too many eyes.”

“So what will we do?”

“I’ll look into it. Take care of your side, I handle mine.”

Trix turned around and swam away, left the pool and walked to the sauna. Simon stretched out and floated in the water, thinking about ways to break the news to Joost until Marcel came to fetch him for his massage.

SCALDING

Katla watched Merleyn perform in the shade of the Munt, the jazz music from his tarnished saxophone penetrating the spooky beat of Massive Attack pounding through her headphones. The old Mint Tower loomed high over the tourists, businessmen, and shoppers passing idly by the blind busker. Only a few paused to listen briefly before they moved on in pursuit of their errands.

Merleyn didn’t wear dark glasses and his cane was stashed inside his scruffy jacket, the scars on his face sufficient testimony of his affliction. In his open flight case coins glistened in the morning sunlight. Ten euro, maybe less. Katla took out a twenty euro note, wrapped it around a coin to weigh it down, and tossed the money in the flight case.

The clock in the tower struck eleven.

The blind man squatted near the flight case and ran his fingers over the orange fur lining to gather his earnings. His face lit up as his fingers encountered the wrapped coin. He ironed the twenty with his fingers and put it in his breast pocket. The coins went into a leather drawstring bag. While he took apart his saxophone and stored the instrument in the flight case, Katla scrolled through the menu of her iPod to change playlists.

Merleyn strapped the flight case to his back, took out his cane, and flicked his wrist, the cane telescoping out. He walked away down the flower market, his cane cutting a swath in the crowd.

Katla followed at leisure, humming along with It Could Be Sweet by Portishead.

Halfway down the flower market Merleyn turned left for the Reguliersdwarsstraat. He’d follow his familiar route to the diner Dolfijn used to frequent.

She took a shortcut to arrive a few minutes ahead of the blind man.

-o-

The diner was empty at this time of day, although it would be busy around lunch time, still an hour away. The proprietor named the diner a ‘luncheonette’, to attract clients who’d pay twice the normal price for a sandwich. Behind the counter, with her back to the door, a dark-haired girl filled a glass with steaming water and glanced briefly in the mirror over the espresso machine as Katla entered.

“I’ll be with you in a sec.”

“No hurry,” Katla said and took a seat at the windows, opposite the booth frequented by Merleyn. She studied the menu while the girl finished preparing sandwiches. Katla spotted Merleyn approaching in the distance as the girl approached her table. She preferred not to speak in the blind man’s presence and ordered an omelet and a chilled orange juice before Merleyn reached the door.

The girl walked back to the counter as the blind man entered and walked to the side of the counter. The girl pecked his cheek with a chaste kiss.

Friends, not lovers.

The blind man moved down the aisle to his usual booth. Katla didn’t conceal her presence, but Merleyn didn’t pay her any attention. He folded his cane, placed his flight case under the table, and shrugged out of his jacket. Underneath he wore a short sleeved sweater, faded to grey. He slipped into his booth and turned his back against the wall, resting his left arm on the backrest while his right hand wandered across the tabletop. His eyelids were slitted and he appeared to look straight at her. His right hand found the sugar dispenser and his fingers caressed the smooth glass curves while he waited.

The girl came from behind the counter with a tray, placed a plate with sandwiches and a cup of tea in front of Merleyn, and crossed to her table with a tall glass of freshly pressed orange juice and an iced swizzle stick so the juice wouldn’t be diluted.

The girl moved back to the counter to tend to her omelet.

Merleyn sniffed the steam curling up from the glass, fished out the tea clamp and placed it with a soft tinkle on the saucer. After he added sugar to his tea, he ate a sandwich, slow and circumspect, left hand guiding the actions of the right. Between sandwiches he dabbed his lips with a napkin, more out of habit than necessity, since he didn’t spill anything. The blind man was on his third sandwich when the girl placed the omelet in front of Katla.

Instead of returning to the counter, the girl sat across from Merleyn and spoke with him in a low voice. The blind man sipped his tea, his face grave during her hushed monologue. Katla turned her attention on her food, but kept a peripheral view on their conversation. She was halfway through her omelet when the girl wrapped up her story.

The blind man tilted his head. “He did it again?”

She added something, but Merleyn held up his hands. “Why do you defend him?”

The girl rubbed her forehead. “He loves me.”

“Well, of course. You’re the only one stupid enough not to kick him out.”

Katla turned her face to the window to hide her smile and continued to watch them in the reflection of the glass. They seemed to be friends, but Merleyn didn’t seem concerned with her plight.

She finished her omelet and sipped her juice.

The blind man made a chopping motion with his right hand and picked up his sandwich again. The girl scooted from his booth and came over to Katla’s table to pick up the empty plate.

“Did you enjoy your omelet? Can I get you anything else?”

Katla smiled up at her red-rimmed eyes. “I’d like a double espresso.”

The girl returned to the counter, filled the portafilter of the espresso machine from the grinder, tamped down the ground coffee and screwed the handle in place. She put a cup under the spout, hit the switch, and walked to the other side of the counter.

An angry hiss filled the luncheonette and Katla knew something was wrong. So did the girl, who dropped her bread knife she was fetching, raced back to the espresso machine, and tried to grab the handle without switching off the machine. The portafilter escaped her grip and clattered to the floor while the machine vomited a jet of piping hot water over her bare arm.

Shrieking in pain, the girl backed away from the machine, slipped on the wet tiles, and disappeared behind the counter.

Merleyn dropped his sandwich and started to rise, but Katla was already moving. She bridged the distance to the counter in four large strides and whacked the switch to stop the machine from spouting the scalding water. With her feet planted firmly on dry tiles, she grabbed the girl under the armpits and tried to lift her upright, but she hung in her arms like a rag doll. Katla dragged her limp weight to the sink. Bracing her against the sink, she took the girl by the elbow and held her reddening arm under the cold tap.

“Bianca!” Merleyn collided with the counter.

“Stay back,” Katla barked at him over her shoulder. “Wet tiles.”

The blind man swayed from side to side in agitation. “What happened to her?”

As the cold water hit the red skin the girl showed the whites of her eyes and slumped against her, breathing rapidly. She needed medical assistance, but Katla couldn’t hold her up and phone at the same time.

“She hurt herself?” Merleyn’s voice tightened with tension. “Say something!”

“She burned her arm. Walk around the counter to this side.”

The girl moaned and tried to pull away from the cold spray, but Katla held her arm firmly by the elbow while Merleyn came up on her other side. He stopped by the phone hanging on the wall. “We need to call 112.”

“Leave that to me,” Katla said. “Take over from me.”

When Merleyn came within reach, she took him by the elbow and positioned him to keep the girl’s arm under the tap while she went to the phone.

With his arms around the girl, Merleyn said, “Call 112.”

“I’ll call a taxi.” Katla took a menu from the counter. “Much quicker.”

“Jesus Christ! Bianca needs a doctor. Call an ambulance!”

“Taxi Spui,” a voice spoke in her ear.

“I need a taxi to transport a burn victim to the hospital.” Katla gave the driver the address from the menu. “Please hurry.”

“I’ll be there in a minute. Taxi 376.”

“Thanks.”

She hung up the phone and went back to Merleyn supporting the girl. Although her eyes were closed the girl appeared to stand on her own legs.

“Why didn’t you call 112?” Merleyn demanded.

Katla ignored him and wiped a damp strand of hair from the girl’s drawn face.

“You’ll be all right, Bianca. I called a taxi to take you to the hospital.”

The blind man took one hand from the girl and put his hand on Katla’s shoulder. “I’m talking to you. Why didn’t you call the Emergency Hotline?”

“This doesn’t qualify.” Katla removed his hand and put it back on the girl. “A second-degree burn is not an emergency unless it covers more than thirty percent of the body. Or the face.”

“Oh.”

“Now just keep her arm under the tap until the taxi arrives.” Katla patted the girl’s cheek. “Bianca?”

The girl opened her eyes and blinked at her.

“Bianca, you have to close the shop. Where are your keys?”

The girl tried to turn around. “My purse.”

Katla followed her gaze to a closet tucked away in a niche. Inside, a purse stood on a shelf. She fished out the keys, tried them on the door to find the correct one, and left the key ring hanging from the lock. She walked back to her table, collected her backpack, the blind man’s jacket and his flight case.

A taxicab halted at the corner. Katla went up to the counter and soaked a clean tea cloth under the tap. She wrapped the wet cloth around the burned arm. “The taxi is here. You need help taking her outside?”

“I’ll manage.” Merleyn turned off the tap and supported the girl. “Can you fetch my case and jacket?”

“No problem,” Katla said. “I got your stuff.”

The blind man guided the girl outside with help from the taxi driver. Katla strolled to the counter and turned off the electric appliances. The taxi driver and Merleyn put the girl in the back of the taxicab. Katla locked the door and handed the purse and keys to the girl.

The driver got behind the wheel. “You coming with her?”

“I’ll manage.” The girl put her free hand on the blind man’s arm. “Stay here, Bram. Buy my saviour a double espresso.”

Merleyn kissed her forehead. “I’ll call you tonight.”

The taxicab pulled away.

Alone with the blind man, Katla handed him his jacket and his flight case. Wordlessly he put the case between his feet, shrugged into his jacket, and strapped the flight case to his back.

“Don’t worry. Your friend will be fine.”

“She’s my sister.” His fingers fondled the quick-release buckle on the shoulder strap. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“I understand. It was a tense situation.”

“Not for you, apparently. I admire your calm.” He inclined his head in a short bow. “I’m Bram.”

“Katla,” she replied before she could stop herself.

“I’d like to buy you a double espresso, to thank you for your help.”

He didn’t seem to recognise her voice. This was a perfect opportunity to get closer to him. Tempting, but still she hesitated.

“I already got a free lunch,” Katla said. “And anyone else would’ve done the same.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt if they’d show the same decisiveness.” He tilted his head. “Are you sure you don’t want to have coffee with me?”

Those last two words made it difficult to flat-out refuse his invitation. Not that she cared about hurting his feelings, but now a refusal would appear suspect. As if she had some problem with him. Or his blindness.

Merleyn tilted his head. “If my blindness unnerves you, feel free to say so.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Good.” He flashed her his easy grin again. “The espresso at Caffé Esprit is nearly as good as Bianca’s. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Or so you’ve heard?”

“I don’t drink coffee. Makes me hyper.”

A hyper blind man. She would like to see that.

“Caffé Esprit it is. You want me to guide you?”

“Let me hold your elbow.”

His grip was light, his warm fingertips resting on the inside of her elbow as she guided him through the alleys.

“Your name,” Merleyn spoke. “Is it Scandinavian?”

“It’s an abbreviation of my formal names.” Katla halted him to let a woman with a stroller pass. “That sax in your flight case, is that a hobby, or do you play professionally?”

The blind man adjusted his flight case. “I’m a busker. Jazz.”

“Where? Or do you change places all the time?”

“The Munt, mostly, but I move around to avoid complaints.”

“You get a lot of complaints?”

He grinned. “No, not a lot.”

They found an empty table on the Caffé Esprit terrace. He wrapped the shoulder strap around his leg before he pushed the flight case with the saxophone under his seat.

Katla ordered a double espresso and Merleyn a cup of tea. The tea came with a basket of tea bags sealed in plastic. He rummaged through the basket. “Can you find me a Lapsang Souchon?”

She put a Lipton Lapsang tea bag in his hand and watched Merleyn tear the plastic and dunk the tea bag in the hot water. Chewing his complimentary cookie the blind man sniffed the steam rising from the glass.

“Anything wrong with the tea?”

“This is the China variety,” Merleyn said. “Not as strong as the Formosa.”

“You could let it steep longer.”

“Weak tea won’t improve with longer brewing, it will grow bitter.”

“We could go to a place where they have the Formosa variety.”

Merleyn shook his head. “Only a handful of places make tea with loose leaves.”

“Like your sister’s.”

The blind man took a sip. “It’s not undrinkable.”

“You want my cookie?”

“If you’re not eating it.” He peeled the foil and sniffed the cookie before popping it into his mouth. “No almonds. Pity.”

“I see you’re not only fastidious about tea.” Her pager vibrated. The unknown number that filled the display started with zero-six. A mobile phone. “I have to make a quick call. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Katla crossed the street, switched on her pre-paid cell phone, prepared to record the conversation, called the number, and yawned to loosen her vocal cords while the phone made the connection.

A female voice answered. “Ja?“

“Loki Enterprises,” Katla spoke in husky English. “You require our services?”

“That’s quick,” the woman replied in English, her accent still audible.

“We aim to please. You didn’t answer the question.”

“Yes, I require your services.”

“Excellent. Consults go by PDF in an e-mail attachment. If your problem requires our solution, we set the price. Fees are non-negotiable, non-refundable, and paid in advance.”

“And how much is a consultation?”

“Five thousand.” Katla gave her the number of the Loki account. “Remit within forty-eight hours, or the consultation is canceled and you won’t be contacted.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

Katla broke the connection and walked back to the terrace. As she approached the table, Merleyn lifted his head as if he sensed her presence. He tilted his head back and said, “I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time?”

“Not at all.”

“What do you do for a living?”

Katla took her chair again and said, “I’m in the maritime cargo trade.”

“You work for a shipping firm?”

“I’m co-owner. My partner handles day-to-day business.”

“And what do you do?”

“I reap the profits. I’m a silent partner.”

He sipped his tea. “So you don’t work?”

“I try to be as silent as possible.”

“If I ask too many questions…”

“It’s not that,” Katla said, “but your job sounds more interesting than mine.”

Merleyn leaned closer, breathed deeply and his face went blank, like in the gallery. “Can I ask you something? Your scent, is that perfume or your own fragrance?”

“I don’t use perfume.”

He leaned closer and inhaled her scent. “Neither would I, if I smelled like you.”

“Are you coming on to me?”

An infectious grin blossomed in his face. “Would you mind if I did?”

She didn’t, but she knew she shouldn’t encourage him. “I might.”

“You might?” An earnest frown hovered over his scarred eyelids. “Either you do or you don’t.”

“Maybe I’m already involved with someone.”

“No, you’re not. At least, not seriously.”

“How would you know?”

“You waited too long to reply.”

“Maybe I was too stunned to speak.”

“My query wasn’t that unexpected.” He flashed the grin again. “Can I hold your hand?”

“You’re pretty forward. Already moving to the first stage of courtship?”

“I just want to feel your hand. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”

Getting hurt was the last thing she worried about. “Which hand?”

“The one you write with.”

She was sitting on his left side, so she gave him her right hand. “Going to read my palm?”

“In a way.” Merleyn skimmed her palm with his fingertips. “How did you get these calluses?”

“Tools,” she replied. “I like to fix things.”

“Things?”

“Whatever needs fixing.” She pulled his hand towards her. “My turn.”

His knuckles were flattened as if he boxed without gloves, and fine black hair covered the back of his hand and the first digits of his fingers. On the ball of his thumb was a fresh blister and she noticed more scars on his palm and fingers from burns and cuts. His nails were clipped short and filed blunt.

“You hurt your hands a lot, but you don’t look clumsy.”

“I’m not. Sometimes I pick up something that’s too hot to handle.”

“Objects or people?”

Merleyn only smiled.

“I guess you want to feel my face next.”

His smile vanished and he pulled back his hand. “Not here.”

“Why not?”

“I can feel their looks.” The blind man grimaced. “I don’t like being stared at.”

“People watch you when you play…”

“That’s watching, not staring.”

“I see,” Katla said.

“No, you don’t. Not everything is a performance to be observed by outsiders.”

The waiter circled around the terrace, spotted their empty cups, and headed in their direction. Katla turned to Merleyn. “I believe we’re obliged to consume again.”

“Than it’s time to get out of here. Will you walk me to the Rokin?”

“Sure.”

His hand held her elbow again, only this time his extended index finger rubbed her breast through her jacket with each step. Her nipple stiffened, but Katla pretended not to notice. She halted at the corner and tapped his hand.

Merleyn relinquished her arm. “I enjoyed your company.”

“So did I.”

“In that case, would you like to see me again?”

Tempting. Too tempting. “Let’s leave that to chance. If destiny wants us to meet again, it will happen.”

He smiled brightly. “You couldn’t leave me your number, in case I want to give destiny a hand?”

She stepped away from him. “That would be cheating, Merleyn.”

His smile faltered and he turned full-circle, trying to locate her, but with the noise of the traffic and the smell of exhaust fumes permeating the air she didn’t even have to walk away to disappear.

“Katla?”

She didn’t answer.

Merleyn listened attentively, standing motionless for a minute, then shook himself, like a dog coming in from the rain, and moved to the zebra crosswalk. After crossing the boulevard, Katla followed the blind man into the Lange Brugsteeg. Even in the congested alley, his cane worked like a magic charm. Nobody jostled him or barred his way. Maybe she should get one too.

Katla followed him to the Spinhuissteeg before she realised what she was doing. She knew where he lived already. This was absurd, she didn’t need to see him home.

From the mouth of the alley she watched him disappear into his basement. In her chest something drew taut, like an elastic band stretched to the limit. Before it could snap she turned and walked away, listening to Dissolved Girl on her headphones.

TJALK

The blinds of Bishop’s office turned the morning sunshine into bright bars that striped the occupants.

Deborah Stern lounged on the sofa and studied the others.

James Creaux sat astride his chair with his arms supported by the backrest, and rolled his empty coffee mug between his palms. Behind his desk Jerome Bishop reclined in his leather chair and gazed at the ceiling. Only Barry Nicholson sat in the usual fashion, feet planted on the carpet, his coffee mug balanced on his thigh.

“Infiltration is out,” Creaux said. “Maybe an ‘agent provocateur’? Provoke the competition?”

“Too dangerous,” Deborah said. “You don’t know what these people are capable of.”

Nicholson pursed his lips. “The possibility of retaliation can be nullified by a high probability of counter-retaliation.”

Deborah shook her head. “Nobody is beyond the threat of violence.”

Bishop steepled his fingers. “Like Barry says, a high probability on counter-retaliation would prevent any threats from being carried out.”

“Acquiring corroborative evidence will be difficult,” Nicholson said. “The choice in qualified undercover operatives is limited, if they have to break cover to testify in court.”

“If video is admissible…” Deborah finished her coffee. “This city is full of tourists. A second unit can follow with a camera…”

“Second unit?” Creaux rolled his eyes. “Where would you get the personnel?”

“We could put him in a permanent location prepped for observation,” Nicholson said. “A hotel, with a surveillance team in another room.”

“We don’t have enough manpower,” Creaux said. “That’s six agents for surveillance only.”

“Not with twelve-hour shifts. And you don’t need two agents per shift for surveillance. One should be enough, calling in every hour.”

“If we want his reputation to provide adequate security we need someone with layered cover.” Nicholson sucked in his lower lip, which made him look like a near-sighted hamster. “You think Roothaen has anyone like that, Jerome?”

“We could use one of our own,” Bishop said.

Creaux shook his head. “We don’t have the authority—”

“IPOL does. We provide the agent provocateur, Focke the surveillance equipment. And the personnel.”

“You have someone in mind?” Nicholson asked.

“I have to talk to Cutlass first.” Bishop glanced at his watch. “Too early to call Washington.”

“Not calling Paris first?”

Bishop sneered. “Zellweger would assume command, bring in his ‘experts’ and screw up the entire operation.”

Creaux grinned, but Nicholson shook his head. “Excluding Zellweger is a bad idea. If he comes in halfway during an operation he’ll do more damage than if you clue him in beforehand and demand to run the show.”

“Demand to run the show? Zellweger never shares the limelight, Barry. You know that. Besides, the person I want to use wouldn’t participate if this operation risks being turned into a media circus.”

“Zellweger has friends in Washington. You won’t be able to keep this a secret from him.”

“I’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

Nicholson rose to his feet. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I won’t. Deborah, contact Focke for an informal meeting.”

-o-

With one hand clamped on the railing Deborah stood on the tilting deck near the stern of the modern police patrol boat as it sped across the blue water of the IJsselmeer. The wind whipped her hair around her face. She considered stepping down to fasten her hair when the uniformed policeman standing next to her thrust a pair of binoculars in her direction and pointed at a dot near the horizon. She accepted the binoculars with her free hand and tried to focus on the dot, but the binoculars were too unwieldy.

The policeman, fair-haired with piercing blue eyes, braced her from behind. “Use both hands.”

Leaning against his broad chest, Deborah searched the horizon and found the sailing ship drifting in the placid waters of the immense lake. The wooden ship looked like a relic from an earlier age before noisy engines.

Without taking her eyes from the binoculars, Deborah yelled, “Doesn’t look like a fast ship.”

“It’s a ‘tjalk’.” His warm breath tickled her ear. “Designed for shallow waters.”

A tiny nude figure climbed a rope ladder and swung a leg over the railing, pulled on a bathrobe, and looked back with her own binoculars. Deborah handed back the binoculars, but kept leaning against his chest. The big policeman didn’t seem to mind her hair flapping in his face.

The patrol boat made a wide circle and drew up next to the tjalk. The powerful engines grumbled while the policemen swung a mobile gangway over the gap and lowered it with care on the tjalk’s wooden railing.

Deborah jumped onto the wooden deck. Bishop followed more sedately. Focke signalled for the gangway to be lifted, lit her panatela, and watched the patrol boat pull away. Even barefoot and dressed in a bathrobe she looked regal.

She directed them to a couple of deck chairs. “Take a seat. Drink?”

“Bourbon for me.” Bishop shed his jacket and lowered himself gingerly in a deck chair.

Deborah looked away from the rapidly vanishing patrol boat. “Mineral water, if you have it.”

Focke stepped into the saloon. “I don’t have bourbon. Is cognac all right?”

“Cognac is fine.”

“Beautiful ship,” Deborah said. “Is it old?”

“Over two centuries. Sailed these waters when the IJsselmeer was still known as the Zuiderzee.” She served them drinks and sank into a deck chair. “You wanted to meet.”

“We came up with a strategy.”

“You need my support?”

“And your input. I’d like to present this as a joint DEA/IPOL operation.”

“And the FBI, Jerome?”

“Too many cooks…”

Focke took a sip from her drink. “Let’s hear it.”

“We use an ‘agent provocateur’ to set up a rival ring to the bases. The person I have in mind is a Colombian DEA agent. Infiltrated Cali several years ago.” Bishop sipped his cognac. “With the cartel behind our agent these traffickers wouldn’t use violence against him. That leaves intimidation or negotiation.”

“You underestimate these traffickers. Heckler called. The BKA found the German link. Otto Lampe, forty-two years old, former junkie.”

“He’s in custody?”

“He’s in the morgue. Stuffed with downers and liquor.” Focke put her glass on the deck. “Someone threw him from his apartment building. Probably hoped the police write it off as a suicide.”

“The BKA are sure they have their man?”

“Lampe was a regular at a bar near the base, a popular spot for soldiers on furlough. The bartender recognised him from pictures.”

“That they kill their own is no indication they’d try on Cali,” Bishop said. “And our agent will be accompanied by his bodyguard.”

“Another agent?”

“A Cali henchman. Ex-guerrilla commander with combat experience. Suspected of killing several people, including two judges and six police officials.”

Focke blinked. “A cop killer?”

“In his line of work, that’s a boon.” Bishop drained his cognac. “Our agent cannot testify without breaking cover, so we want to put him in a hotel room with A/V surveillance.”

“Equipment wouldn’t be a problem, but my people are tied up in cases,” Focke said. “I’d have to borrow personnel from another section.”

“One man per shift would be enough,” Bishop said. “All they need to know is they’re monitoring a known criminal. They’re not to interfere under any circumstance. Just notify us if anything is about to happen.”

Focke smiled. “It will give Slough something to show the State Department.”

-o-

Procureur Generaal Roothaen wasn’t happy. “Your scheme comes perilously close to inciting criminal behaviour, Mr. Bishop.”

“We do not dictate behaviour, Mr. Roothaen.”

“It’s still provocation,” Slough said. “Their reaction might deviate from your assessment. What if they put your agent in a hospital? Or worse?”

“Our agent is aware of—,” Bishop said, but Focke held up her hand and fixed Slough with her stare. “You wanted a feasible strategy with quick results.”

“I did, but not at any price.”

“A Dutch group wouldn’t risk a feud with a cartel. His room will be under constant observation with the possibility of intervention.”

“The A/V surveillance also provides evidence,” Bishop put in. “The agent can’t testify.”

“The defendants might want to confront their accusers,” Roothaen suggested. “I think maybe a sworn statement…”

Bishop shook his head. “Any indication of involvement could jeopardise our agent’s position within the cartel.”

“We don’t need testimony,” Focke interjected. “We can always find corroborative evidence later.”

“Excellent.” Roothaen came to his feet. “Keep me posted of developments.”

Slough waited until Roothaen left the room and turned to Bishop. “What are you trying to pull?”

“What do you mean?”

“State gave this case to the FBI. You should have conferred with me before suggesting a strategy.”

“You threw your problem in my lap.” Bishop leaned back in his seat. “Don’t worry, you’ll get to bask in the praise. And if it doesn’t work out, you can always disavow knowledge of operation details.”

Slough glared at him, and stalked out of the meeting room. Deborah rose and closed the door behind him.

Focke ran the flame of her lighter along the length of her panatela and lit up. She puffed on her cigar, her gaze following the smoke circling up to the ceiling where the air conditioning ripped it apart. “I take it he doesn’t want progress reports.”

“A safe assumption,” Bishop replied. “You have a hotel in mind?”

-o-

Gerard Duyvesteyn looked like a hotel manager straight out of Central Casting—tall, suave, impeccably dressed, elegant glasses and coiffed hair with the right amount of grey interspersed with the black. He poured them coffee in delicate china cups and put the sweeteners and milk within easy reach before sitting down behind his gleaming empty desk.

“What worries me,” Duyvesteyn spoke languidly, “is danger to our guests or damage to the reputation of my hotel.” He took a small sip from his coffee and returned the cup to the saucer with a light tinkle. “You’re DEA, so narcotics are involved. Am I right?”

“Not all criminals are the same, Mr. Duyvesteyn.” Bishop mimicked him, taking a sip from the coffee before continuing. “The higher echelon avoids guns and drugs.”

“I still want a written declaration wherein you accept liability for any damages ensuing from your operation.”

“You’ll have it tomorrow. Signed by myself on behalf of the DEA, Ms. Focke for IPOL, and the Procureur Generaal, Doctor Roothaen, for the Ministry of Justice. Would that satisfy you?”

Duyvesteyn inclined his head. “That would be satisfactory.”

“Ms. Focke specify what we need?”

“Two adjacent suites to monitor and a suite on the floor above for the equipment, available from next week till the end of the month.” He showed them the floor map on his computer. “Our suites are reserved months in advance, but I managed to get you these suites on the second floor.” He pointed at the screen. “Available from next Tuesday on. The observation suite would have to be on the fourth floor, if possible. Third floor is booked solid.”

“Closer would be better,” Deborah said. “Less chance of structural interference.”

Focke nodded. “From a tactical point of view, the observation room should be close to the suites.”

“I have suites on the second and third floor, but they’re available for a few days, a week on the outside. I didn’t think that would be practical, moving your equipment around.”

“It’s not ideal, but we can work with it.”

Bishop finished his coffee. “Thank you for your co-operation, Mr. Duyvesteyn. I’ll make sure you’ll receive the declaration within twenty-four hours. Agent Stern will remain here to see about the details.”

He shook the hotel manager’s hand, nodded at Focke, and put a hand on Deborah’s shoulder. “Grab a taxi back to The Hague. Report to me tonight.”

“No problem.”

Bishop left. Focke turned to Duyvesteyn. “Could we see the suites?”

“The suites on the second floor are occupied, but you can see similar suites on the first floor.”

“Fine with us,” Focke said and Deborah nodded.

-o-

Deborah skirted past the big ornate bed and walked to the balcony doors. The room didn’t seem big enough to be a ‘suite’, but perhaps it was roomy for Dutch standards. The high ceiling and Art Deco furnishings were beautiful though, and, unlike her apartment, the room was air-conditioned. She turned the ornate brass handle of the espagnolette, opened the balcony doors, and allowed the humid evening air to enter the room. Leaning on the ancient cast-iron railing she gazed down at the fountain in front of the hotel. The foliage of the trees around the square hid traffic on the busy intersection, but not the neon of the Leidseplein lighting up the dusky sky.

“What do you think, Deborah?”

She turned around. “Enough places to hide mikes. How big are the cameras?”

“Size of a cigarette.” Focke stepped onto the balcony. “Wide-angle lenses. We hide one on top of the cabinet, but we would need a second one from the side to observe the whole suite.”

“Behind the curtain rail in the corner? Would be visible from this side only.”

Focke wrote in a notebook.

“The bodyguard might sweep the suites for the mikes.”

“They operate on frequencies requiring special scanners, but we will leave them inactive the first hours to prevent him from picking up the signal.” Focke turned to Duyvesteyn. “Could we get detailed plans of the suites?”

Duyvesteyn picked up the phone and called his secretary. Deborah walked to the door between the suites. The lock featured knobs on both sides of the door, allowing them to be locked from either side. She walked into the other suite and stepped into the bathroom. Marble and smoked glass, with a toilet and a bidet, and a shower over the bathtub. The tinted mirror bronzed her pale freckled skin and her eyes glowed bright green in the yellow strip light.

Focke appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. “We have water-resistant microphones. Have you seen enough?”

Deborah turned away from the mirror. “Yes.”

“Duyvesteyn went downstairs to get the floor plans.”

“How old is this hotel?”

“Hundred years, at least. Probably some decades more, but I don’t know exactly.”

Deborah whistled under her breath. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is. Where did they put you up? Bed and breakfast?”

“A furnished studio near the Embassy. I’m looking for something a bit bigger though. And maybe in Amsterdam.” She sighed. “I looked at apartments, but they’re expensive.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Two-room apartment. Or a large studio. I applied through an agency, but they’re swamped at the moment.”

Focke tilted her head. “Give me your number, I’ll see what I can do.”

“You dabble in real estate?”

“My real estate acquaintances are always looking for tenants trusted not to wreck the place, throw garbage from the balconies, sell the furniture, have loud parties that chase off other tenants, leave unpaid phone bills, sublet to terrorists, or die on the premises.” Focke smiled. “You’d do them a favour by renting one of their apartments.”

Deborah held out her business card. “In that case, I’d like a two-room apartment, unfurnished, somewhere in the centre.”

“Pack your bags.” Focke put the card in her pocket without a glance. “You’ll have one by the end of the week.”

MACAW

Slumped on the couch, Katla watched through half-lidded eyes as Kourou skated awkwardly across the living room, the rubber wheels of his miniature roller-skates squeaking on the polished parquet floor. The macaw lost his balance rounding the bend and flapped his wings, his sweeping tail scattering empty peanut shells. The squeaking of his skates grated on her nerves, but Katla knew the oppressive heat that made her irritable, not the macaw’s antics. The macaw stopped and looked at her, probably wondering where to go to next. Katla took another unshelled peanut from the glass bowl on the table and threw it across the room. The macaw pursued the peanut in the direction of the balcony doors.

Katla reached out to the laptop computer on her coffee table and tapped the keyboard. Still the same. Her consultation account was empty. Perhaps the client found a less radical or cheaper solution to her problems. She closed the laptop to put it to sleep.

Kourou bumped with his skates against her foot and rubbed his beak against her bare ankle. Katla combed his feathers with her fingers and his pale eyes blinked up at her with the innocent expression of an idiot child. “Happy?”

“Happy,” she assured him. The macaw bopped his head and skated away, content again.

She tossed another unshelled peanut across the floor. Kourou raced after the skidding peanut, escaped a collision with the wall and made a clumsy U-turn to scoop up the morsel. He released one of his skates, ate the peanut, nuzzled the empty shells for a moment and skated away in the direction of the kitchen, head near the ground to build up speed. He moved out of sight behind the bar and there was a muffled clang as he collided with the trash can.

With an exasperated sigh, Katla rose from the couch and walked around the bar.

Kourou sat on the kitchen floor, dazed from the shock. She lifted the macaw and carefully set him down on the kitchen counter. He stepped from the skates and took a mincing step, craning his neck to check if his legs still worked.

“Happy?” Katla inquired.

“Happy.”

Kourou shuffled to the espresso machine, but she nudged him away. For some reason the smell of coffee was attractive to him, but even a small dose of caffeine was toxic for most birds, parrots in particular. The macaw headed for the fruit bowl and made burping noises.

She stroked his head. “What would you like?”

“Grapes.”

Katla fed him grapes until he wiped his beak on her hand and walked away to his skates, whistling to himself.

She scooped up the skates and put them in the kitchen drawer.

The macaw screeched his displeasure. Katla picked him up and placed him on his perch, where the macaw went through his acrobatic repertoire to assure her that he had survived the collision in fine shape. She tickled his yellow breast with a willow twig. His sharp beak stripped the twig in seconds, scattering slivers of bark on the floor.

“You’re making a mess, Kourou.”

“Happy.”

He cracked the twig and tossed the pieces away from his stand. Finished with the twig he went through his repertoire again, pausing occasionally to watch her sweep the parquet floor.

After she dumped the slivers of bark and the peanut shells in the bin, Katla went out to the balcony and looked out at the zoo, the glass-topped buildings glittering in the afternoon sun. Through her telescope she studied the day-trippers, the reticle crosshairs flitting over a group of children wearing yellow T-shirts, three supervising adults sauntering after them. A school excursion; herded around from one sight to the other. The crosshairs reminded her of the Javelin night scope she hadn’t tested yet.

Katla glanced at her watch. Maybe prowling through a lush forest and shooting her crossbow would ease her irritability.

She dressed in her black gear, laced up her boots and carried the flight case with her crossbow and the aluminium Javelin case to the garage beneath the converted warehouses, where her pleasure machine lurked under a dirty tarpaulin near the rear wall.

Two minutes later the electric door clacked up on its tracks and she drove her Shelby Mustang up the incline onto the Entrepôtdok, the V8 bubbling under the maroon hood as eager to leave the city as she was.

LOKI

“New developments?” Simon Ligtvoet asked Trix as he sat down on the lounge bed next to hers. He spotted a digital voice recorder in full view on her towel. “I thought we agreed—”

“It’s not switched on. I have a recording to play for you, later.”

“Funny one, I hope. I could use a laugh.”

“My source spoke about an agent provocateur.” Trix looked out over the swimming pool. “An undercover operative. Our sole option is to take him out. The DEA doesn’t have a replacement and—”

“Hang on,” Simon interjected. “You want to kill a DEA agent?”

“Under normal circumstances, I’d opt for discouragement, but this fellow is too good. And officially he’s not DEA.”

“What is he?”

“A Cali cartel representative.”

“Oh, that’s even better, let’s start a war with a Colombian cartel.”

“Simon, you need to trust my judgement in these matters.”

“I do, but can’t we just leak his identity to Cali? Let them deal with him?”

“I considered every option,” Trix spoke frostily.

“Fine. And how do we avoid the wrath of Cali?”

“By having a rival faction kill him.”

He blinked. “Colombians?”

“No, a specialist who’ll make it appear like he was killed by Colombians.” She handed him a Post-It with a number. “This guy is an expert in disguising homicide.”

“This is not a telephone number.”

“It’s a pager.”

“Pager?” Simon smirked. “Wow, that’s like one step up from the rotary phone.”

Trix gave him a scathing look. “Are you done? If Loki prefers to use a low tech device over a modern device, I’m pretty sure there’s purpose behind his preference.”

“Like calling himself after a Norse god?”

“I think Loki actually stands for ‘low key’. This guy operates in the shadows, below the radar.”

“So how did he show up on your radar?”

“You have to forget all you think you know about people who kill for profit, Simon. Professional killers avoid the limelight. Loki is not in the business for kicks or recognition. No trademarks, no traces.”

“Do you even know who he is?”

“I have my suspicions, but the only tangible things I have are that pager number and a foreign bank account. Contact is by phone and mail. Consultancy fee is five thousand, non-refundable, payable in advance.”

Simon shook his head. “Sounds like a scam.”

“I’m pretty sure he isn’t a scam artist.” Trix levelled her gaze at him. “Four years ago, a Graves patient died from side-effects of her medication. Her lawyer husband tried to sue the physician. Physician claimed the patient neglected to inform him about her heart condition. The Medical Disciplinary Tribunal decided in his favour. Acquitted him of malpractice. A week later he drowned in his bathtub.”

He folded his hands behind his head. “Big deal.”

“Bigger deal than you think. Forensic specialists found nothing out of the ordinary. No internal or exterior trauma; no indication of a seizure; no traces of alcohol or drugs, legal or illegal. The doctor slipped under water and drowned, except he had no reason whatsoever to kill himself.”

“Remorse?”

Trix snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“So you’re sure this Loki killed him?”

“I’m sure he was murdered, but there was no evidence of anyone being with him in his apartment before, during, or after he died. He lived alone, penthouse of an exclusive apartment building. From the lobby you had to pass several locked doors. Camera surveillance. Front doors reinforced with every available anti-burglar gadget.” Trix shook her head. “A fortress, Simon. Police had to cut the safety chain to gain entrance. Only other access was the balcony on the street side, in plain view of ten or fifteen apartments, inaccessible except from the roof. Roof door was barred and padlocked on the inside, the drainpipes too light to support the weight of a human being. No traces of burglary. Even the door to the balcony was locked.”

Simon tilted his head. “From the inside?”

“From the inside, with the key in the lock. Forensics combed the apartment. Lifted fibres and fingerprints. All of them belonged to the doctor and his housekeeper, an elderly woman.” Trix spread her arms. “No-one saw or heard anything unusual. Since murder couldn’t be proved the case was marked ‘accidental drowning’ and filed.”

“How do you know Loki killed the doctor?”

“I talked to an expert. Off the record.” She finished her juice. “In England, before WWI, a murderer drowned three of his brides in their bathtubs for the insurance money. He grabbed their ankles while they bathed, and pulled them under water. Sudden flooding of the nasal cavity causes an acute loss of consciousness, so the victim drowns without a struggle. Leaves no visible marks, but modern forensics would reveal the speed of the drowning. This drowning, however, took the same time as a ‘regular’ drowning. My expert speculated the doctor might have been drowned in stages, alternately pulled under water and revived, until he grew too weak to be revived.”

“Is that difficult?”

“Extremely difficult. ‘The Brides In The Bath’ is a case study for pathologists, a landmark of forensic science. To adapt and use that method to disguise a murder shows boldness and ingenuity. Especially if you succeed in foiling the forensic specialists.”

“He didn’t fool you,” Simon said. “So he can’t be that clever.”

“I merely suspect his involvement.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I suspect Loki is connected to dozens of deaths and missing persons, but—unlike a serial killer—there’s no pattern or motivation.”

“So how do you even know he exists, if he’s so elusive?”

“I can connect the dots, even if they’re far apart.” She balanced a slender voice recorder on her knee. “The telephone conversation on this tape is meaningless without some background info. The person they’re talking about is an art dealer, Klaas Dolfijn, who specialised in ancient Japanese weapons. Since Japanese are not fond of their cultural heritage leaving the country, Dolfijn resorted to dealing with the yakuza to get his hands on the items he wanted. According to Dolfijn, the yakuza had more to sell than he could afford, but they gave him a line of credit.”

Simon snorted. “Old trick.”

“Dolfijn went to Japan on a regular basis where he’s entertained by Goro Takeshi. Takeshi’s an aide to Saito Yamamoto, oyabun of the Hayakawa-gumi. The yakuza fostered this relationship for fourteen months before a shipment, consigned to Dolfijn, went missing. Takeshi added the costs to his outstanding debts and offered Dolfijn a choice: smuggle narcotics or lose the gallery.”

“He chose the first.”

“Evidently. At first, everything went like clockwork. With the antiques, Dolfijn received packages he kept in his safe until the yakuza collected them. His commission was used to settle the debt. At a party thrown by Takeshi, Dolfijn was introduced to Yamamoto, who canceled the debt and increased his commission. Refusal being tantamount to suicide, Dolfijn continued working for the yakuza, but he was looking for a way out. One way was to become useless, so he made a deal with the Ministry of Justice.”

“Ratting on his business partners.”

“Not exactly.” She rubbed her nose. “Testifying against Takeshi would be too dangerous, but—in return for a suspended sentence—Dolfijn would reveal the next shipment coming in, wait for Customs to intercept the narcotics, and call Takeshi to establish the link between the drugs and the yakuza. His call had to appear like incompetence, not a deliberate attempt to finger Takeshi, so the police set up surveillance of Takeshi’s mobile phone a week before the shipment’s due. Dolfijn carried on as usual. They couldn’t put a surveillance team on him without alerting the yakuza, but Dolfijn assured the Ministry of Justice he was capable of ensuring his own safety. He was murdered before the shipment arrives.”

“By Loki?”

Trix nodded. “I have confirmation on tape Loki killed Dolfijn.”

She handed him the headphones and pushed the play-button.

After a hiss, there was a short ring of a mobile phone and a Japanese voice barked, “Nani?”

A hoarse voice, in English. “Loki calling.”

“Chotto matte kudasai,” the Japanese voice replied.

Simon looked at Trix. “I hope it’s not all in Japanese.”

She held a finger to her lips. “Listen to the tape.”

He listened to the conversation and removed the headphones. “I couldn’t pin down his accent.”

“Neither can I, but I don’t think English is his native tongue.”

“You think he’s Dutch?”

“His accent hovers somewhere between English and American.” Trix put away the tape recorder. “Which puts him in the Atlantic Ocean.”

“What happened to Dolfijn?”

“Killed with one of his swords in the course of a robbery. And the shipment was clean.”

“Listen, I appreciate your efforts, but if someone needs to be killed, I don’t see why we should subcontract. Vince could do this job. He was in the Korps Mariniers.”

“A stint in the Marines doesn’t make Vincent a professional killer, Simon.”

“Professional enough to kill this Colombian. He doesn’t have to make a career out of it.”

“If he tried it would be a short career. The room is under surveillance. And the DEA will be in a frenzy if this guy gets hit.” She gave him a wry smile. “Killing is one thing, getting away quite another.”

“At least, Vince will keep his mouth shut. The instant your Colombian gets hit, the DEA will suspect someone blew his cover. How many people know his true identity?”

Trix pinched the bridge of her nose. “Loki won’t be among them. You’ll tell him the Colombian is attempting a hostile take-over. Hostile enough to put him down. Even if the Colombian’s true identity would surface later, Loki would have no reason to suspect that he was hired to thwart an investigation.”

Simon sighed. “I need to discuss this with the Skunks.”

“You’ll have to do that anyway. Loki doesn’t come cheap. And you’ll need to have the money ready to transfer. He gets his fees in advance.”

“I like this less and less.”

“The devil and the deep blue sea, Simon. In your case, I’d choose the devil.”

SILHOUETTE

At ten minutes to midnight the Shelby Mustang zoomed north along in the left lane of the A1 motorway. Katla listened to the purring of the V8 as she overtook a Hyundai, her fingertips on the lower rim of the steering wheel. Crossbow hunting always relaxed her and the new Javelin night scope had performed beyond her expectations.

After the motorway merged with the Amsterdam Ring Road, signs advised against taking exit 14 because the Piet Hein tunnel was closed. Probably an accident, because the tunnel had been in use when she left. Still, the Zeeburg exit was closest to her house, so she took the Zeeburg exit and followed the curving Zuiderzeeweg that arched over the bay south of the peninsula.

Where the road straightened and crossed the Amsterdam-Rijnkanaal, Katla spotted a lone pedestrian strolling along the bicycle path on the other side of the guard rail. Tall and thin, with a white cane that reflected the sodium street lights. She decelerated to study the diminishing silhouette in her rear-view mirror, but the steel structure of the bridge hampered her view.

At the base of the bridge, she halted behind two cars waiting for the red light. When the light turned green, Katla hooked right and drove past Sporthal Zeeburg, came to a stop where the road passed under the Zuiderzeeweg and flicked on her high beams.

Fluorescent graffiti adorned the huge girders and the concrete stairs that led from the embankment to the bridge above, but there was no sign of the blind man.

She crossed under the bridge and followed the West bank of the Amsterdam-Rijnkanaal. A white-and-red sign reflected her high beams, pointing at the bicycle path that ran along the park to the Flevoparkbad.

Katla checked out the blind man through the Javelin scope, a thin silhouette heading for the tram stop opposite the public swimming pool. Even viewed from the rear, she recognised his walk. Small posts blocked the path and prevented her from following him. The road was too narrow for a U-turn.

She put the Mustang in reverse and backed up to the curve in the road where she could turn the car around.

-o-

A car with a loud engine pulled up in the distance, but Bram Merleyn didn’t pay attention until he heard the roar of the engine magnified by the concrete structure. Cars that crossed the overpass either came for the Flevoparkbad or the tram loop, but the swimming pool was closed and this car didn’t sound like it belonged to the tram company.

His mouth went dry and Bram wished he had taken Zeph’s offer to sleep over.

The car prowled onto the loop and the ominous rumble of the engine grew louder. Tyres squeaked against the curb. His nostrils filled with exhaust fumes and warm rubber. The engine shut down and the silence filled with the ticking of the cooling engine and the swish of a window rolling down.

Sweat itched between his shoulder blades.

Maybe the driver was lost. Except people who wanted directions rarely turned off their engines.

“Hi, Merleyn,” a familiar voice spoke. “Need a ride?”

A shiver chilled the sweat on his back. “Katla?”

“Spotted you on the bridge, so I… I’m sorry, did I frighten you?”

“No,” Bram replied. “No, I’m fine.”

“Get in. I’ll take you home.”

A shiver of anticipation ran through him as he walked around the front of the car, his fingers tracing the bonnet for guidance, when he came across four raised letters. L…L…E…H.

Bram halted. HELL?

“What is the make of this car?” He fingered the letters again.

“Shelby Mustang,” Katla spoke from behind the wheel.

“Why does the bonnet say ‘HELL’?”

“It’s hell on wheels.” She laughed. “Get in and find out.”

Bram moved around to the passenger side. The door popped open as he touched the handle, and he got in. The bucket seat snuggled up like the shell of an upended turtle. He closed the door and the engine rumbled to life.

He felt around for the safety belt. “Sounds like a powerful engine.”

“Four twenty-eight Cobra Jet Seven Liter Vee Eight,” Katla replied, which sounded impressive, but didn’t really tell him anything.

The Mustang reversed, bumped down the curb, came to a smooth stop, and surged forward, the motion pushing his buttocks even deeper into the bucket seat. He braced his feet against the floor and held on to the seat with his right hand, his left hand still unable to locate the belt.

“You can stop looking.” Katla rolled up her window and cut off the rushing wind. “Cars manufactured before 1972 don’t require belts.”

The car left the loop, crossed under the overpass, made a sharp turn to the left and accelerated so smoothly he couldn’t feel the gears changing. The pressure on his back faded and a curious floating feeling took hold of him as if he wasn’t moving at all. He relaxed, but kept his hand hooked under the seat in case she had to brake without warning.

“Where can I take you?”

“Spinhuissteeg. Close to—”

“I know where it is,” Katla said. “A long way from Zeeburg.”

“I visited my friend Zeph.” Bram listed sideways as the Mustang made a lazy turn. “Great suspension. Feels like I’m floating. You said this car was built before seventy-two?”

“Sixty-eight.”

“Doesn’t feel that old.”

“It was well-preserved when I bought it, four years ago. Stored in a barn for years, on wooden blocks. It is rare to find a Shelby Mustang in a near perfect state, but I’m not superstitious.”

“Superstitious?”

“This is a suicide car,” Katla said. “Previous owner stuck a hose into the car, connected it to the exhaust, started the engine, and suffocated on the fumes.”

“Doesn’t sound like a nice way to go.”

“A waste of petrol. Lucky for me he was found before he started to decompose. The stench from decomposition fluids is impossible to remove.”

“And the word on the bonnet?”

“It is supposed to read SHELBY, but the S, B and Y fell off.” The car accelerated, made a sharp turn to the left, passed through a dip in the road, and straightened out. “I tried to get the missing letters. After three months, all I got was another L. So I patched up the holes for the S and the Y, and put the L in the space for the B.”

Bram scratched his knee. “So, did you happen to be near Zeeburg by chance?”

“The Piet Hein tunnel was closed,” Katla said. “Apparently destiny didn’t need a hand after all.”

“Maybe not.”

Her hand touched his thigh. “I apologise for what I did, last time. I shouldn’t have vanished like that.”

Bram put his hand over the spot where she’d touched him. “I figured I came on too strong.”

Katla was silent for a moment. “How is your sister doing?”

“She won’t have any burn scars, thanks to your swift reaction.”

The seat vibrated as the tyres changed from asphalt to bricks. The car slowed down to a crawl and moved smoothly over the uneven bricks of the Geldersekade. He heard a gabble of voices. “Nieuwmarkt?”

“Yes.”

Nearly home. A few minutes and she would be gone again. That would make his life easier, but a lot less interesting. And he really needed to clear the air.

The car turned into an alley, the rumble of the engine magnified by the houses, and came to a stop. The hand brake clicked. “Still want my number?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give you my pager number. Leave a number or voicemail message and I’ll call you back. All right?”

“Recite it digit for digit.” He placed his fingers on his thigh. “I’ll memorise it.”

Katla gave him the number and his fingertips traced the pattern. She started to repeat it, but he held up his hand. “I’ve got it.”

“What is that tapping you do with your fingers?”

“My phone book,” Bram said. “I place my middle finger on the ‘five’-button and tap out the number.”

“So you remember phone numbers as patterns?” Cool fingers took his wrist, placed his hand on her warm thigh. “Show me mine.”

Bram tapped out her number and left his hand resting on her leg.

“Clever,” Katla said. “How many patterns have you memorised?”

“Yours made twenty-three. It’s added to your file.”

“I have a ‘file’?” Leather creaked as she shifted in her seat. “What’s in my file?”

“Specifics that set you apart.” He retracted his hand. “Your smell, your voice, your walk.”

“How do I walk?”

“Quick and precise, lithe like a dancer. What sets you apart is what you don’t do. You don’t favour one side of your body over the other.”

“Not anymore, but I was a lefty. And I have to say I still favour my left hand for… precision work.”

“Not your legs, though.”

“No, my legs are equal in every way. So, what else is in my file?”

“You’re clairvoyant.” Bram tilted his head. “Unless there is another explanation for you to know my last name.”

Her breathing became soft and deep, faded, and Katla disappeared. A chill raised the hairs on his arms and he wanted to rub the skin, but he sat quietly, straining to hear her respiration over the softly growling engine. The car felt empty, but Bram was sure she was still sitting next to him, behind the wheel. If her door had opened he would’ve heard the click and felt a change in the air, not to mention sounds from outside.

Bram leaned over, inhaled her fragrance.

“You didn’t give me your full name?” Katla asked, suddenly totally present again.

He sank back in his seat, strangely relieved. “Only my first. You must’ve picked up my last name at Dolfijn’s gallery.”

“Where?” Trepidation in her voice.

“The puzzlement in your voice is fake,” Bram spoke softly. “I’m not that easy to deceive.”

Katla heaved a deep sigh. The hand brake disengaged. With a slight tug, the Mustang backed out of the alley and surged forward.

If you enjoyed reading this preview, please visit my blog https://amsterdamassassin.wordpress.com to find the retail links for all the books in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

To the Reader,

Having readers eager for the next instalment of a series is the best motivation for a writer to create new stories. If you enjoy reading my work as much as I enjoy writing Katla’s adventures, there are ways for you to support me and help me gain more exposure for the Amsterdam Assassin Series:

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Kind regards,

Martyn V. Halm

For reasons of authenticity, many non-English locales, phrases, and names in the Amsterdam Assassin Series are written in their original language. Instead of breaking the words down into Dutch/Japanese/German/Arabic/Jamaican, I merely list these words alphabetically, adding explanations where warranted. If you spot other words that require translation or elaboration, please send an email to katlasieltjes@yahoo.com so I can include them in this glossary. For the full list that contains all the foreign words used in the entire series, check the blog.

Algemene Inlichtingen- en Veiligheidsdienst (AIVD) is the Dutch Secret Service, concerned with gathering information for law enforcement purposes, anti-terrorism coordination and liaising with foreign law enforcement. Similar to MI-5 or Homeland Security’s ICE division.

Alstublieft (Dutch) - shortened form of ‘Als het u belieft’ meaning, ‘If it pleases you’. Most often used as ‘please’. Informal, asjeblieft. Abbreviated, mostly on signs, AUB.

BKA - (German) The Bundeskriminalamt (Federal Criminal Police Office) is a national investigative police agency in Germany and falls directly under the Federal Ministry of the Interior. As law enforcement in Germany is vested in the states, the BKA only becomes involved in cases of international organised crime or when requested by the respective federal state authorities or the federal minister of the interior. The federal prosecutor can also direct it to investigate cases of special public interest.

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.

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.

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.

Nani? - (Japanese) Informal phrase meaning ‘What?’. Although it sounds rude, it’s the most common phrase people say when answering the phone or intercom, but also to express confusion ‘I beg your pardon?’.

Ohayo - (Japanese) Informal phrase meaning ‘hey’ or ‘hello’.

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.

Rass! - (Jamaican) Exclamation of surprise, but also disgust or disappointment

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.

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 Japanese 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, the many bèta readers for reading drafts and providing their helpful comments; The Thoughtcafe Writers Community, now sadly gone, Accentuate Writers, and the Inmates of ADVrider.com, for support and critique; Farah Evers for the beautiful cover; Doctor Lex van Hattum, clinical pathologist with the Academisch Ziekenhuis der Vrije Universiteit; Rob de Vries for an interesting tour of the pathology facilities; Doctor Gert van Ingen, forensic pathologist with the Nederlands Forensisch Instituut in Rijswijk; Chris, for information on musical instruments and their maintenance; Frank, for the shooting lessons; Mischa, for nights of verbal ping-pong; Hakima, for the Mehndi tattoo; Simeon, for the real tattoos; 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 other 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.