CONTENTS

Rogue copyright page

Pitch

Dedication

rogue

Also Available

SCHIPHOL I

INTERLUDE: ONE MONTH EARLIER

SCHIPHOL II

MERLEYN

INTERROGATION

HOME

DEA I

KONINCK

INTERLUDE: THREE MONTHS EARLIER

YAKUZA

KERES

DEA II

MOJO

Note to the Reader

Glossary Rogue

The Amsterdam Assassin Series

About the Author

Contact Martyn

Reviews

Special Thanks to

About the locations...

Disclaimer

AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES

Rogue

[A Katla Novel]

By

Martyn V. Halm

FREE PREVIEW

Pushdagger Publishing Limited

Rogue - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series)

ISBN: 978-94-91623-05-9 (ePub)

ASIN: B00GO6VQ8O (mobi)
Copyright: Martyn V. Halm
Published: November 15th, 2013
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 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.

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, Rogue gives a rare glimpse into local Dutch culture, international terrorism, computer hacking, forensic sciences, martial arts, foreign intelligence services, the psychology of social engineering, and the brutal efficacy of disciplined violence.

This e-book features a glossary.

For Maaike, the love and light of my life.

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

rogue

noun.

1. An unprincipled, deceitful, and unreliable person; a scoundrel or rascal.

2. One who is playfully mischievous; a scamp.

3. A wandering beggar; a vagrant.

4. A vicious and solitary animal, especially an elephant that has separated itself from its herd.

5. An organism, especially a plant, that shows an undesirable variation from a standard.

adjective.

1. Vicious and solitary. Used of an animal, especially an elephant.

2. Large, destructive, and anomalous or unpredictable.

3. Operating outside normal or desirable controls.

Also available from this author:

AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES:

Novels:

Reprobate

Peccadillo

Rogue

Ghosting

KillFiles:

Locked Room

Microchip Murder

Fundamental Error

Aconite Attack

Sign up for the Amsterdam Assassin Series mailing list!

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

SCHIPHOL I

In the back seat of the taxicab, Katla Sieltjes sat with her eyes closed, her hands on the crossbar handle of the titanium cane between her knees and her ears tuned to the sounds of the tires whirring underneath. She was not often driven anywhere and this was a good occasion to find out how a blind person experienced riding in a car. Bram sat in the passenger seat—as was his preference—so she had the whole back seat to herself.

Even with the slight swaying, the most notable difference of riding blind seemed to be that the forward motion of the car disappeared. The only motion she perceived was sideways, when the car entered a curve in the road, or, when the car would go through a dip in the road, her body was carried upward like a buoy, which was not unpleasant.

A sickening lurch threw her forward unexpectedly and she slid sideways on the leather seat, crashing with her elbow against the back side of the front passenger seat. She opened her eyes and saw a Nissan Micra swerve to the right and merge back with the traffic in the other lane. The taxi driver glanced into the rear-view mirror and spoke apologetically, “Lane changer without indicating.”

Bram turned his head as if gazing over his shoulder with his ruined eyes. “Did that wake you up?”

“No, I wasn’t asleep. Not paying attention, that’s all.” She leaned forward and rested a gloved hand on Bram’s shoulder. “I understand now why you always wear your seat belt.”

“Even when you have a good driver.” Bram briefly took his hand from the purple metallic flight case between his legs to touch her hand. “But when you can’t see, traveling by car is like sitting on a disagreeable magic carpet. Don’t you have seat belts in the back seat?”

“Passengers don’t need to wear seat belts in taxis,” the taxi driver said. “The only ones who strap in are children.”

“And I’ll brace myself next time.”

Katla leaned back and ran a hand through her short hair, brown to match her passport, then rested her fingers on the cane in her lap, gazing at the flat country whizzing past. The cane was a gift from Anouk from when Katla had been recuperating from getting shot in her leg. The leg was fine now, but she took the cane along to project vulnerability and make any clumsiness appear natural.

A distant rumbling overhead sounded like the coming of thunder, then became the roar of huge engines. A Boeing took off just overhead, the thunderous noise vibrating the air inside the car. Katla watched its lights as the airplane disappeared in the distance.

Nearly there.

Her stomach tightened as if in the grip of an iron fist, but she knew how to quell the queasiness, taking deep breaths and running the information from the email attachments on the inside of her closed eyelids. Her eidetic memory provided her with the snapshot picture of her target. Slavic features, dark eyes close together, hairs divided over his upper lip like an imitation of a moustache, his dark blond hair slicked back. The client had given the target’s name as Pavocelic, but that probably wasn’t his real name. In her mind she superimposed an imaginary cross over the target’s face, the horizontal line across his eyes, the vertical from his brow to his lower lip. The target could disguise the rest, but even spectacles or a beard would be unable to hide the cross.

They entered the Schiphol tunnel, the music on the radio fading out as the tunnel blocked the signal.

Katla fingered the two passports in her inside pocket, Bram’s stiff and brand-new, her own frayed from use. In her other pocket was the envelope with their travel tickets. Two return tickets First Class Amsterdam-Tokyo, courtesy of Tetsuo, Bram’s martial arts instructor. If you had to spend eleven hours and thirty minutes cooped up in an airplane, you might as well enjoy the comforts. From Schiphol to Narita was a non‑stop night flight and they’d arrive in the afternoon. She hoped to sleep through the flight, although she knew from experience she’d be lucky if she’d sleep four or five hours. Bram had his magnetic Go board in his carry-on luggage, but she was not yet proficient enough to enjoy getting beaten by him.

The radio came back to life in the middle of an announcement. Katla opened her eyes and watched the Aviodome glide by.

Would Bram have problems with jet lag? Her biorhythm would be thoroughly fucked up, taking her at least a day to function normally, but his blindness caused Bram to be awake at odd hours and sleep when he was bored or tired. Maybe he’d sleep straight through the flight.

She fingered the homemade dagger in her sleeve. Based on the dart-like tri-edged dagger used by Delta Force commandos, the thin sliver was made from a compound of plastics that would let it pass through the metal detectors without a problem, but the material was both sharp and brittle like ceramics.

The Mercedes left the motorway and made a series of turns that brought them to the main terminal’s first floor, where departing travellers checked in. The driver brought the taxi to a smooth stop at the kerb. He glanced at her in the rear‑view mirror and said, “You need help getting inside?”

Katla handed him five euro over the amount shown on the meter. “I’d be grateful if you could fetch us a luggage cart.”

“No problem.” The driver unbuckled his belt, popped the trunk and opened his door. A hot breeze entered the cool car, then the door slammed shut behind him and the driver walked away.

Katla stuck her head between the front seats and kissed Bram’s cheek. “If everything goes well, we’ll be on our way to Japan in about an hour.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Bram replied softly.

Katla pretended she hadn’t heard him.

Getting out of the taxi, the hot air wafted up from the asphalt stung her face. Katla   didn’t know if she was being observed, so she leaned heavily on her cane as she limped to the rear of the Mercedes. The limp and the cane would make her appear more vulnerable, but despite a scar that would be visible with mini skirts, her right leg was ninety-nine percent functional again.

She opened the trunk as the driver returned with a cart.

Alerted by the sound, Bram stepped from the taxi, taking the tube with his cane from his inside pocket before buttoning his impeccable black Armani suit. He flicked his wrist, the folded telescopic cane clicking out. Katla wished Bram would allow her to dress him more often. With his scarred face and the white streaks in his long black hair, he looked like a cruel aristocrat, although the soft smile under his aquiline nose spoiled the image somewhat.

Bram hoisted his battered flight case higher on his shoulder and waited patiently, while the driver stacked their two suitcases and her weekend bag on the cart and closed the trunk. Katla affected a severe limp as she crossed from the taxi to the cart and rested her cane on top of the luggage.

As the taxi pulled away, Katla leaned on the handle and pushed the cart to the terminal, Bram walking alongside with his left hand on the cart’s handle for guidance. Inside the main terminal the air was a lot cooler. After they checked their luggage at the KLM desk, Katla took Bram to passport control. He needed to show the contents of his flight case because his saxophone set off the detectors and Katla’s cane was studied by the security staff, but they were cleared to pass to the restricted area. As expected the dagger in her sleeve went unnoticed.

Katla guided Bram to the waiting area, where she sat him down and handed him her weekend bag. He put her bag with the flight case between his feet and folded his cane, then took her hand and tugged softly. She sat in the chair beside him and held his hand, listening to a silky voice overhead announcing arrivals and departures of flights with corresponding gate numbers.

Bram leaned close and whispered, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“I’m going along with your strategy, Bram. I’ll abort if I notice anything suspicious.”

“I hope you do, because I have a bad feeling about this one. I think you should stick to the ones I lined up for you.”

“Don’t worry so much,” Katla said. “It will be all right.”

A grey‑haired black man took a seat on Bram’s other side and eyed the flight case. “Are you a musician, son?”

“Depends on who you’re talking to. And the music you like.”

“You strike me as a journeyman.” The black man gave a barking laugh and coughed, then said, “Your case looks like it travelled rough roads.”

“Yeah,” Bram said. “It’s been with me a while.”

“I used to play the trumpet, but my lungs gave out. You like blues?”

“I’m more into jazz. I like hard bop. Mobley, Coltrane, Lee Morgan.”

“Morgan, yes. I liked The Sidewinder, although the stuff he made after that was like he was repeating himself. But the man was definitely gifted.”

Katla rose to her feet and said, “I’m going to stretch my leg a bit.”

“Don’t forget to pick me up later,” Bram said, then turned to the black man. “Why did your lungs give out?”

“I was in a fire. Didn’t get burns, but I inhaled so much smoke my lungs nearly collapsed. Like drowning on dry land, you know what I mean?”

She limped away from them and strolled around the tax free shops, the rubber tip of her cane making squeaky noises on the stone floor. She located the lavatory, washed her hands and locked herself in a toilet stall. After thoroughly drying her hands with toilet paper, she donned her TurtleSkin gloves.

Designed specifically for law enforcement, the warm weather gloves had a mesh knit backing that allowed air to circulate while the leather palm and fingers protected against cuts and needles. Their most important feature was their ability to mask her fingerprints while still providing the extreme tactility needed to handle weapons. She slipped the dagger from the elastic band that held the weapon against her wrist. The elastic band was sliced in two and dropped on the cubicle floor. Katla smiled, put the weapon back up her sleeve again and fastened the dagger to her wrist with a fresh elastic band.

Prepped and ready, Katla left the lavatory. Past the entrance to the short C‑terminal, she gazed up at a monitor and checked the list of incoming flights. The Qantas flight was still on schedule, due to arrive any moment at the longest Schiphol terminal, reserved for the larger airplanes.

Katla limped down the D-terminal alongside the travelator. The moving walkway would carry her to her destination faster, but she wasn’t in a hurry. And the cameras needed to corroborate her story that she was at the D-terminal to exercise her leg.

In the distance, the red tail of the Qantas Boeing was already visible as the airplane taxied from the runway to the platforms. The terminal was getting busy and Katla scanned faces unobtrusively as she took up a strategic position at a break in the travelators, gazing out on the platforms.

Katla took out her smartphone and transmitted the location to the pack she’d challenged to a flashmob. The challenge was to create a flashmob in a supposedly secure location. The pack was supposed to assemble in less than two minutes.

The Qantas taxied down to the terminal and came to a halt. Katla watched as maintenance vehicles swarmed out and surrounded the plane, while a jet bridge telescoped out from the terminal and connected to the Boeing’s exit right before the huge wing.

A shaggy-haired young man in a petrol windbreaker with a bouquet of flowers drifted closer to the gate. Probably waiting for his girlfriend, although he must’ve pulled some strings to wait for his girl beyond the customs area. After a couple of minutes, the first passengers moved out onto the D-terminal and strolled to the travelators.

Katla dug a small vitamin bottle from her pocket and took the marked capsule. With her tongue she stuffed the capsule in her cheek, hoping Bram was right about the time saliva would take to dissolve the capsule. She didn’t want the concoction activating prematurely.

Her target was in the second batch, wearing an anthracite double‑breasted suit, a grey trench coat over his left arm and carrying a briefcase in his right hand. Without looking around, he stepped onto the travelators to the main terminal, studying documents in his left hand.

Katla moved away from the window and limped to the break between the travelators, then got on just in front of her target, taking an oblique stance to keep him in her peripheral view as they were carried to the terminal.

Like always there was a small crowd milling at the end of the travelators despite the various signs directing arrivals to customs or the various accommodations the airport featured, but now the flashmob was also there with their banners. As they neared the end of the travelator, the crowd erupted, waving banners with ‘Welcome to the Netherlands’ and ‘Enjoy Amsterdam’.

Katla stumbled and turned around to keep her balance as the fingers of her gloved hand slipped into her sleeve and drew her dagger. The target brushed against her but veered away at the last instant to avoid bumping into her. Katla dropped her cane and grabbed his right arm so he couldn’t block her next move with his briefcase.

Without hesitation, Katla plunged the dagger in his crotch and severed the femoral artery. The target dropped his briefcase, looked down and gasped, his left hand opening and spilling his papers on the floor. In one smooth motion, Katla ripped the dagger free, holding the tip down and away from her to keep from smearing blood on her skirt. The target raised his head and locked eyes with her, his face white with shock and disbelief.

Holding his dying gaze, Katla shifted her free hand to the crook of his elbow and pushed down, yanking him off‑balance. The mob pressed against her back as the target slipped and fell against her, his dark blond hair brushing against her jacket. Before his knees touched the floor, Katla moved her dagger hand under his chin, holding the sharp tip straight up in the air. Without effort, the hard plastic sliver plunged vertically into the soft skin of his chin and penetrated the roof of his mouth and the nasal cavity. There was a slight resistance as the sharp tip punctured the thin bone protecting the brain before the thin dagger sliced through the soft tissue. The tip bumped against the inside of his cranium and Katla released the dagger. The target fell to his knees, wobbled like a drunken man and crashed down on his face.

Sinking to a knee, Katla picked up her cane and obliquely studied the reactions of the crowd. A dark‑haired man hunkered down beside the prostrate Pavocelic and she did the same. Together they turned him over on his back and her right glove touched the dark patch of blood on the target’s crotch. Another man looked over the crouching man’s shoulder and gagged, spotting the dagger sticking out of the dead man’s throat.

Katla lifted the back of her left hand to her mouth as if disgusted by the sight and bit down on the capsule in her cheek. A bilious liquid flowed from the capsule into her throat and she didn’t need to pretend to be sick anymore.

Rising to her feet, Katla stumbled back against the wall of bodies behind her. A hand caught her shoulder and she glanced up gratefully, but the man who caught her looked at the body, his hand dropping away from her shoulder. She took another step back, allowing others to move in front of her. A woman standing next to her asked her what happened and she shook her head, not looking at her. The woman moved forward, craning her head to look over the crowd.

With the back of her hand against her mouth, Katla looked around and spotted a small sign to the lavatories. Bile was rising in her throat as she moved away from the crowd.

The shaggy-haired young man in the petrol windbreaker she’d seen earlier handed his bouquet to a girl, looked over Katla’s shoulder at the crowd gathered around the dead man. He nodded and stepped in front of her. Katla halted at the sight of the small semi-automatic pistol in his right hand and noticed his hair had obscured the wire running from his ear into his collar.

“Police.” His wary eyes remained on her face as he briefly showed her a laminated card embossed with the Amsterdam arms. “Please don’t move.”

Katla silently thanked Bram, bent from the waist and vomited on the police detective’s grubby sneakers.

INTERLUDE: ONE MONTH EARLIER

Special Agent Laure Cohn stuffed her laptop back in her briefcase as ‘Fasten Seat Belts’ came on. She locked the briefcase and thumbed the safety switch. Powerful magnets would destroy all the digital information if anyone would try to open her case unauthorised.

She placed her briefcase under her First Class seat, having used her Frequent Flyer Miles to upgrade from Business Class. Not just for the extra room or additional privacy, but flying First Class also made the flight less of an ordeal. She fastened her seat belt and looked out the window at the green meadows as the plane circled Schiphol Airport.

Laure remembered the first time she had been stationed at Amsterdam, over a decade ago, when she’d looked out of the plane expecting to see the city, when Schiphol Airport was a few kilometers from the outskirts of Amsterdam.

After Washington’s sprawling cityscape, Amsterdam had seemed like a toy city. Like Washington, the inner city didn’t have skyscrapers, but even the normal houses seemed ridiculously small compared to Washington’s brownstones. She’d been shocked at her temporary dwelling, a cramped apartment in the Indische Buurt, the staircase smelling of cauliflower and couscous, the thin walls providing far more private details of her neighbours than she could appreciate. Even for a junior agent hearing the neighbours butcher a lamb in their bathroom was too much intel, although it wouldn’t do to complain. For all she knew, that was the way the Dutch lived.

Through her stockinged feet Laure could feel the machinery in the undercarriage opening to set the landing gear free. The Boeing banked sharply and she remembered reading that Schiphol runways were difficult on the approach. Still, their traffic control was one of the best in the world and despite the heavy air traffic at the Amsterdam Airport there weren’t many accidents.

Laure knew she’d been selected for this operation because of her familiarity with Dutch culture, as she had put it in her resumé, but she hoped her exaggeration wouldn’t bite her in the ass. Living among the Dutch for nine months hardly constituted immersion in the culture, especially since the Dutch are not overly hospitable. Not that they weren’t great hosts—hell, they spoke better English than many native speakers—but despite their thin-walled apartments they seemed guarded about inviting strangers into their homes.

The Boeing touched down on the Schiphol runway, the wheels settling down softly on the tarmac before the huge jet airliner taxied to the terminal.

Laure fingered the Dutch phrase book in her inside pocket.

On her first visit to the Netherlands she had made an effort to learn Dutch, but not only had the language been hard on her larynx, none of the Dutch she addressed would reply in Dutch. As soon as they heard her accent they’d reply in fluent English, as if they longed to show off their language skills. After a while, she’d just given up.

Last week, when Cutlass inquired whether she’d kept up her proficiency, she’d told him her Dutch was rusty, but apart from ‘goedemorgen’ and ‘patatje mét’, the language had disappeared into the deep recesses of her subconscious.

The flight attendant allowed the First Class passengers to disembark first. Another boon.

Laure put her Louboutin slingback pumps back on and sauntered down the jet bridge to the terminal, looking like the average American businesswoman, and feeling naked without her gun. Too bad the Dutch had stringent gun laws. Her covert status didn’t allow for a license to carry a firearm, not even temporarily. Of course, she wasn’t totally unarmed, but she’d feel way more comfortable with her Glock riding her hip.

Used to travelling light, Laure wheeled her single suitcase through customs and took the escalators down to the railway station. A double-decker train arrived in less that eight minutes. An absolute advantage to the Netherlands: well-organised public transport. Everything ran like clockwork.

Over the door, an electronic bulletin board announced the arrival times at all the stations. From Schiphol to Amsterdam CS would take twenty-one minutes. Laure took out her laptop and went over the documents again, especially the PDFs Cutlass had sent her. He’d been adamant that she was careful not to show them to anyone. Cutlass had received them from Jerome Bishop, the section chief in The Hague, who had sent an affidavit with the PDFs, not only attesting their authenticity, but also contesting the notion put forth by Zellweger in Paris that the author had written for the posted reward.

If Bishop was right about his claims, the author of the PDFs was still unaccounted for. Officially, the DEA had closed the case, not wanting to be a puppet for the Dutch and root out their problems. Unofficially, two liaisons officers had gathered as much intel on the killers as they could get. While the DEA figured the killers were a small band of mercenaries working under the name of Loki Enterprises, the PDFs hinted at a single killer, possibly a false trail in case of an arrest.

And the Dutch either lacked the resources to apprehend the people behind Loki Enterprises, or were simply unconcerned about having freelance assassins running around killing people and mucking up police investigations. Which could point to two things: either the Dutch government was involved and used Loki Enterprises for their own nefarious activities or they had no idea of the value of assets that could be disavowed at any time.

Despite what the general public might think, assassins were rarely freelance. And even then, most freelancers had a history. Soldiers becoming mercenaries becoming killers for hire. Even Colombian sicarios still showed ties to certain cartels.

Loki Enterprises appeared to be a freelance outfit, available to anyone who could afford their fees, but the terrifying aspect, apart from their free agent status, was their focus.

Most mercenary outfits had affiliations nowadays, and many worked only in war zones or potential conflict zones, their main targets enemy combatants. And they were considered legal, with websites advertising their services, because they tended to focus on bringing ‘peace’ to conflict areas, which sounds more honourable than wading into backward countries and killing the opposition of anyone who had the money to hire them.

From the information gathered by Bishop and his team, Loki Enterprises focused on providing permanent solutions to business disputes under the heading of ‘corporate troubleshooting’. The extent of their ‘solutions’ seemed to run the gamut from manipulation to outright murder. Seemed, because there was no website listing their services. Just the name and an untraceable pager number. And a bunch of dead-end bank accounts used to receive the initial fee. Beyond that, not much was known.

Laure was going to change all that.

Cutlass and Bishop had tried to piece together a profile from all available information, but the problem was that there was not much information available. Even if they suspected that Loki was involved in a particular situation, it was months or even years after the fact. And Loki proved adept in protecting their anonymity. Forensic evidence was often muddled or unavailable or pointing in the direction of the victims themselves.

The Menendez hit showed that whoever operated under the Loki Enterprises flag weren’t novices, but where they’d received their training remained unclear. Virtually everyone who ever received military training in some form—even the drop-outs—were tracked by the US government, so all mercenaries were accounted for. Even if they didn’t know it themselves, Uncle Sam had a record. And not just Americans, but worldwide. Same went for federal agents and law enforcement personnel.

Loki’s few known killing methods were compared to the database and drew either a blank or too many data. Loki eschewed firearms, but the combat techniques and use of sharp implements didn’t point at anything specific. Loki seemed to use any proven combat technique and anything that could serve as a weapon. The Menendez case showed a predilection for the throat, a well-known vulnerability. With the difficulty to protect adequately, the trachea was a logical target for close-quarters assassination.

Stealth was a factor, with most victims appearing surprised by the attack, but that meant that the killers could move around without attracting attention and were skilled at hiding their nature. In the wild, many predators could radiate a vibe of danger, but they often kept their violent nature hidden from their prey while stalking them, in order not to spook them into a panicked frenzy. Loki reminded Laure of that particular quality, anonymous killers who were virtually undetectable until they pounced on their victims.

The only way to discover Loki’s identity was to catch one of their killers red-handed. And to do that, Laure needed a Judas goat. Or rather, a Judas wolf. Someone who could exude all the qualities of a target, but with the training to withstand any attack, especially the close-quarters kind. A trained field operative who could survive a Loki attack and ID his assassin.

Of course, that meant Loki had to be hired, and the fee would be exorbitant. If the assassin was caught, they could force Loki to reimburse the fee and work for a much lower fee on future assignments.

She just hoped Loki had not fitted their assassins with cyanide capsules to kill themselves upon capture. If that happened, the fee would be lost and she’d have to explain herself to Cutlass, who was only interested in results, not in excuses.

Laure just had to make sure she wouldn’t fail...

SCHIPHOL II

The surveillance room of the Koninklijke Marechaussee, also known as the KMAR, was spacious and the air fresh, but Laure Cohn still felt suffocated as she watched Pavel Kosinski go down in the middle of the throng. Chief Inspector Carel Basalt of the Amsterdam Municipal Police spoke in the microphone of his headset as he directed the sealing of the doors together with the KMAR. He switched channels and spoke rapidly to his young assistant, Brigadier Marijn Polak, who was the only police officer in the vicinity of Kosinski. Basalt turned away from the bank of monitors showing the commotion near the travelator. “Too bad your colleague doesn’t share your instincts, Ms. Cohn.”

“I thought the terminal would be restricted access. What are all those people doing down there?”

“We’ll find out shortly.” Basalt pressed his hand to his ear. “Marijn detained a possible suspect, the crippled woman.”

“Kosinski is still down.” Laure Cohn watched the monitor. “I hope he’s all right.”

“I hope so too.” Basalt turned to the uniformed police officer. “Can you make a copy of that recording?”

“Of course, Chief Inspector. I’ll see to it immediately.”

“Thank you.” Basalt motioned with his head for her to follow him and walked out of the KMAR surveillance room into the corridor. Laure closed the door behind her and stalked down the corridor after the older man. As she drew abreast, the walkie‑talkie in Basalt’s hand sputtered to life and the Chief Inspector slowed down and acknowledged it. Laure made no effort to listen in, the Dutch police jargon indecipherable to her. Instead she noticed Basalt’s face sag and knew Kosinski had not survived the attack.

The Chief Inspector lowered the walkie‑talkie. “Your colleague is dead.”

Laure sighed. “So much for ballistic vests.”

Basalt glanced sideways at the bitterness in her voice, but Laure kept on looking straight ahead, feeling depressed. First Jésus Menendez got his throat slit in his hotel room, now Pavel Kosinski got himself killed in the middle of a crowd. A harsh price for capturing a killer.

A couple of uniformed police officers were already on the scene, forming a cordon around the body and redirecting passengers. Two of them held a dark‑haired man aside, who was bellowing loudly. Basalt stepped around him and crouched beside the body, face covered by a suit jacket. The Chief Inspector looked up and barked something at the uniformed police officers, who took the dark‑haired man by his elbows and escorted him down the corridor. Laure crouched on the other side of the corpse as Basalt donned a pair of nitrile gloves and pulled the suit jacket away from Kosinski’s face. His eyes were still open and he looked startled, as if death had surprised him in its swiftness. The Chief Inspector’s gloved fingers closed the startled eyes and slipped a hand under his neck. As he lifted Kosinski’s head slightly Laure could see a dark shape protruding from under his chin.

“A dagger,” Basalt commented and lowered the head gently back on the floor. “I’ll leave it up to the pathologist to remove it.”

Laure looked away from Kosinski’s face and noticed the dark patches on his crotch, nearly invisible against the ripped anthracite cloth. “Did he wet himself or is that another stab wound?”

Basalt followed her gaze and touched a gloved finger to the patch on the dead man’s left thigh. It came away pink. “Both.”

“I expected a gun,” Laure spoke softly. “Not a knife, although he wore anti-stab sleeves to defend himself.”

“Your colleague Menendez was killed with a knife,” Basalt remarked.

“Menendez had been tied to a chair.”

The Chief Inspector looked her in the eye and pointed at Kosinski. “He wasn’t. Your trap swallowed the bait, not the game.”

“We have a suspect in custody, right?”

“Hurrah,” Basalt muttered.

“Your superiors approved my plan, Basalt.”

Basalt looked at her with barely veiled disapproval. “My superiors are politicians. Not seasoned police officers. If it had been up to me—”

A pair of scuffed sneakers caked with remnants of dried vomit came to a halt beside Basalt and they both looked up at Brigadier Marijn Polak, who started speaking in Dutch, then switched to English so she could follow their conversation. “The suspect wants us to warn her boyfriend about being detained.”

“She’s not to call anyone, Marijn.”

“Her boyfriend is already here, Carel. Waiting with her carry-on luggage.” The young detective hunkered down and fished two passports from the pocket of his petrol windbreaker, holding up the one that was frayed around the edges. “Her name is Katherine Laetitia Sieltjes. Businesswoman, on her way to Yokohama with her boyfriend, Bram Merleyn.”

Polak flipped open the newest of the passports and showed it to the Chief Inspector. Basalt stripped off his surgical gloves, rolled them up to a ball and put them away, then took the passport and studied it. Laure tried to see the picture and asked, “Her accomplice?”

“I doubt it.” Basalt showed her Merleyn’s picture. “This guy is blind.”

He rose to his feet and turned to one of the uniformed police officers. “Keep everyone away until the body is collected.”

“Yes, Chief Inspector.”

Basalt studied the Merleyn passport. “Where is he waiting, Marijn?”

“The lounge, near the B‑terminal.”

Polak led the way in the direction of the main terminal. Basalt held the passport loosely in his hand as the three of them made their way to the waiting area. Laure tapped the young Brigadier’s elbow. “Did she say anything else?”

“She asked for a glass of water and wanted to know what she was arrested for. I told her she was only detained, not arrested. Then she asked me to find her boyfriend.” Polak turned to Basalt. “Is the killing recorded?”

“They’re making a copy right now. We’ll pick it up later.”

“Is it any good?”

The Chief Inspector was silent for a moment, then shook his head.

“Hey,” Laure protested. “It looked crystal clear to me.”

Both detectives looked at her and Basalt spoke, “The angle was wrong and the murder weapon isn’t visible. All we can see is two people bumping together in a crowd, one slipping and the other falling. She was in front of him, but he could be stabbed while he was down.”

Laure looked at the Brigadier. “Any blood on her?”

“Yes,” Polak replied. “On her right glove. From turning over the body.”

“Jesus Christ,” Laure muttered, ignoring their looks.

They reached the lounge and Basalt scanned the waiting area, then spotted the blind man, sitting beside a grey‑haired black man, chatting amiably. Basalt took the lead as they made their way over and halted beside them.

“Goedemiddag. Carel Basalt, politie. Bram Merleyn?”

Merleyn swivelled in their direction and tilted up his head. His closed eyelids were covered with tiny white scars and he had a star‑shaped scar on his left cheekbone. “Politie?”

Basalt spoke to him in Dutch and Merleyn nodded, then looked dismayed and asked the Chief Inspector something. Laure moved next to Polak and whispered, “What is he saying?”

“He said he worried something had happened to his lover,” Polak translated. “He was waiting for her to come back. Their plane leaves in less than an hour.”

Basalt spoke soothingly and Merleyn rose to his feet, towering over the Chief Inspector and looking even taller in his dramatic black suit. Merleyn took a small tube from his pocket and Laure moved back warily, but Polak watched with interest as the blind man pushed a button on the tube and pulled out a white cane, the segments clicking in place. Merleyn took a purple metallic flight case from beside his seat. Basalt spoke over his shoulder at the Brigadier, who picked up the weekend bags. With the flight case slung on his back, Merleyn reached out with his left hand, asking something, and Polak translated, “He doesn’t know his way around, so he asks the Chief Inspector to guide him.”

“I got that part,” Laure replied, chagrined.

Polak hitched Merleyn’s luggage higher on his shoulder and gave her a speculative look, then followed Basalt, walking slowly with the blind man lightly holding the Chief Inspector’s elbow.

The three of them escorted Merleyn downstairs and parked him in one of the VIP waiting rooms, then went on down the hall to the room guarded by another uniformed officer of the Koninklijke Marechaussee.

Polak nodded at the officer and said, “Clarissa still with her?”

“Yes, sir.”

Polak opened the door and allowed Basalt and Laure to precede him, then followed them inside and closed the door behind him. The brunette was sitting on a plastic chair, facing an empty chair, a plastic cup with water between her fingers. She looked up at them with wary blue eyes. Basalt took the empty chair opposite the woman. The female KMAR officer stayed behind Sieltjes. Laure stood to the side, so she could observe both their faces and Polak switched on the camera, then stood close to translate the interview.

The Chief Inspector smiled at the woman and said, “Ms. Sieltjes, my name is Chief Inspector Basalt. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Where’s Bram?” Sieltjes said. “Did you tell him I was arrested?”

“Mr. Merleyn is waiting in a comfortable room nearby. And you’re being detained, you’re not under arrest. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I already told him,” Sieltjes said, pointing at Polak. “I don’t have time for this. I have a plane to catch,” she glanced at her watch, “in thirty minutes.”

“I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, Ms. Sieltjes. You are voluntarily co-operating with the police in this matter.”

“Voluntarily?” Sieltjes sneered. “I was brought here at gunpoint.”

“A man has been murdered, miss. You were close to him and you walked away.”

“I felt sick.”

“There was blood on your glove.”

The woman looked at her bare hands and glanced sideways at her possessions lying on a table on the other side of the room, her leather gloves with the bloodstained fingers separated from the rest of her possessions.

“It’s a hot day,” Basalt said. “And you’re wearing gloves?”

“They’re vented.” Sieltjes turned her gaze back on her hands and shivered. “And I have an aversion to grime.”

“You touched the dead man.”

Sieltjes turned her gaze back on the Chief Inspector and spoke softly, “I touched him when I turned him over. I was close, like you said. I thought he had a seizure. That’s when I noticed all the blood—”

The woman closed her eyes and swallowed thickly, the plastic cup of water falling from her slack fingers. Basalt scooted back with his chair as it bounced on the floor, splattering water around.

Sieltjes leaned sideways in her chair to snatch the cup from the floor, but Polak darted  forward and picked it up. While Sieltjes sat up straight again, Polak threw the cup in the waste bin in the corner, went up to the container on the other side of the room and tapped her a fresh cup. She gave him a strained smile as she accepted the cup. Polak nodded at her and took his place beside Laure again.

For a moment the killer’s blue eyes looked right into her own, then Sieltjes shifted her gaze back to the calm grey eyes of the Chief Inspector and said, “I’m sorry, but I had nothing to do with his death. He bumped into me and I stepped aside, the next moment he’s down on the floor.”

“What do you do for a living, Ms. Sieltjes?”

“Maritime cargo trade.” Sieltjes reached automatically in her inside pocket, then gave an embarrassed smile and pointed at the table with her possessions. “My business cards.”

“Marijn?” the Chief Inspector spoke without taking his eyes from her. Polak strode to the table, picked up the wallet and handed it to the Chief Inspector, who opened her wallet and said, “You can tell a lot about people from their wallets.”

“Is that right?” Sieltjes gave him a look of thinly veiled boredom. “What does mine tell you?”

Basalt pursed his lips. “You prefer plastic to cash, judging by your row of credit cards.”

“Or I might simply have left my cash at home, since Euro banknotes wouldn’t be useful in Japan.”

Laure noticed Polak’s mouth curl slightly at the corners, but the Chief Inspector didn’t appear flustered, just took out one of her business cards and read out loud, “Sphinx Shipping, K.L. Sieltjes, director.”

“Majority shareholder actually, but in Asia ‘director’ has more impact.”

The Chief Inspector flipped the card over and looked at the Chinese and Japanese characters.

Before he could ask Sieltjes said, “Same text as the front. It’s standard in Asia to have multilingual business cards.”

“Can I keep this?”

“Sure.” Sieltjes looked at her watch. “Can I use the phone please?”

“Why?”

“I missed my flight. Our luggage is on a plane to Japan and I have to arrange for a flight tomorrow morning.”

“That can wait. Please tell me what happened, starting from when you arrived at Schiphol.”

She leaned forward in her chair. “You said I was not under arrest.”

“You’re asked to co-operate with an ongoing investigation. What time did you arrive at Schiphol?”

“If I’m not under arrest I’d like to go now.”

“That won’t be possible, Ms. Sieltjes. We need more information and we need to take your statement. Anyway, I don’t think you’ll be allowed to leave the country anytime soon.”

“You don’t think so?” Sieltjes spoke acidly. “You want to bet on that?”

“I’m not a gambler, Ms. Sieltjes.”

“If I’m not free to go now, I’ll wait for my legal counsel.”

“You don’t wish to make a statement?”

Sieltjes leaned back and closed her eyes. “You have the wrong person.”

“I doubt it.” The Chief Inspector got up from his chair. “I’ll see what your boyfriend has to say.”

He turned and motioned for them to leave and Sieltjes barked something at him.

Outside the room Laure said, “What was that last bit?”

“She said, ‘You’re wasting my time, Basalt. And my time is expensive’.” Polak grinned at her, the tripod with the camera on his shoulder. “I wonder how much she would cost.”

Laure didn’t smile back. She knew exactly how much Sieltjes cost.

MERLEYN

Unlike his girlfriend, Bram Merleyn seemed unperturbed by the situation. Or maybe it was the VIP lounge instead of an interrogation room. He had taken off his shoes, and sat cross-legged on a leather sofa, hands resting on his knees. Together with the half-smile on his face, the blind man exuded a Zen-like calm, as if he was detained by the police on a regular basis. Polak planted the tripod and switched on the camera while the Chief Inspector sighed and took a seat opposite Merleyn.

“I’m sorry,” Basalt said. “This must be quite a blow for you.”

“This?” Merleyn tilted his head. “You have to be more specific.”

“Your girlfriend being questioned for killing someone.” The Chief Inspector paused, then said, “How long have you known her?”

“Long enough.” Merleyn rolled his head like a boxer. “Long enough to know you’re wrong.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Business is war, but she’s only shrewd and ruthless within the confines of a boardroom.”

“Strange. I look at your girlfriend and I see a headstrong young woman. Not the type to cuddle babies or pet puppies, but the cool executive type.”

“With the emphasis on executive, right?” Merleyn gave him a smug smile. “She works in a male-dominated environment, where femininity equals subservience. To command respect she projects a tough image. Apparently convincing enough to fool you.”

“You’re saying her attitude is an affectation? I’m sorry, but I don’t buy that. I saw her stab a man to death.”

“Stab?” Merleyn leaned forward. “With a knife?”

“Yes.”

Merleyn flashed the Chief Inspector a wry smile. “Quite an achievement for someone who cannot stand the sight of blood.”

“What do you mean?”

“She can’t even look at a rare steak without going woozy.”

“We recorded her every move.” The Chief Inspector’s soft voice grew apologetic. “She killed someone in front of a security camera.”

Merleyn sat up straight again. “Seeing is believing.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“If you have her on tape, what are you talking to me for?”

“Background information.”

“Meaning, she wouldn’t tell you anything.” Merleyn snorted. “Maybe she made the correct assessment and I should follow her lead.”

“You paint a different picture than what I’ve seen so far,” Basalt said. “You sound convincing, but can you prove she’s like you say she is?”

“Prove?” Merleyn titled his head. “You’ve seen her limp?”

“Yes.”

“Did she tell you how she got it?”

Basalt shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

“Last summer she spent a week in England for business meetings. I wasn’t able to accompany her, I had other commitments.”

“What is it you do?”

“I’m a musician. Anyway, she rented a motorcycle to ride around the countryside. Her way of unwinding. Despite her considerable experience riding motorcycles she ran off the road into a fence and skewered her thigh.” Merleyn paused to let it sink in. “You know what caused that accident? She nearly killed herself swerving to avoid running over a hedgehog. She might not look the type to pet puppies, but appearances might be deceiving.”

The Chief Inspector fell silent. Polak was still translating the last words and the blind man cocked his head. His English was impeccable. “Do I have an audience?”

“A small one,” Polak said. “I’m also with Amsterdam Municipal Police, and translating for a colleague from the United States, Ms. Cohn.”

Laure automatically inclined her head, sighed at her own stupidity, and said, “Hello.”

“What agency are you from, Ms. Cohn?”

“What makes you think I’m from an agency, Mr. Merlin?”

“It’s Merleyn. You’re too far from home for local or state police. What are you? FBI? CIA?”

“Mr. Merleyn,” Basalt interrupted. “You implied that your girlfriend affected a tough attitude.”

“I didn’t imply anything.” Merleyn turned back slowly to the Chief Inspector and spoke in measured tones. “I know she affects a tough attitude and I told you the reasons why to save you confusion on the issue.”

“Could you be wrong about this?”

Merleyn didn’t hesitate. “No.”

“Are you telling me you’re infallible?”

“Can I have some water?” Merleyn held out his hand with the commanding presence of someone used to having his wishes fulfilled. Basalt nodded at Polak, who went to the water fountain in the corner and filled a plastic cup. His free hand touched Merleyn’s wrist before he lowered the cup in the blind man’s grip. Merleyn drank the water and licked his lips. “Thanks.”

“So,” Basalt said. “How do you—”

“How long have we known each other?” Merleyn smiled in the Chief Inspector’s direction with an easy familiarity. “You and me?”

Basalt steepled his fingers. “I don’t think we met before today.”

“Right.” Merleyn put his hands together, as if unconsciously mirroring the Chief Inspector, then pointed at Basalt with his fingertips. “How do I know you are fifty‑plus years old, smoke cigars, don’t pay much attention to trends or fashion, are overweight, Protestant, and recently divorced?”

Basalt moved back imperceptibly, as if Merleyn had pushed him back in his chair.

Merleyn placed his hands on his knees again. “Am I right?”

“Yes. Yes, you are. How did you guess?”

“I didn’t ‘guess’, Chief Inspector. I pay attention.”

“Neat trick.”

“Don’t try to reduce my deduction to a parlour trick. You’re easy to read. You refer to my girlfriend as a ‘young woman’, so you’re obviously twenty or more years older. The cigars wasn’t difficult, nor the trends and fashion bit. The atrocious scent you doused yourself in to mask the smell of your unwashed body can’t have set you back more than a few euro. The floor vibrated as you entered the lounge, you wheezed when you sat and the chair complained under your weight. And like most married Protestants, you used to wear a wedding band on your right hand, long enough to form the indentation I noticed when I shook your hand.”

Basalt folded his arms. “I could’ve been a widower.”

“Doubtful,” Merleyn said. “If your wife had died, you would’ve worn both your wedding bands to honour her.”

“Not my wife,” Basalt said, drawing a chuckle from Polak.

Merleyn didn’t crack a smile. “You’re too bitter to have lost your wife. So she left you.”

“Listen, we’re not here to—”

“You missed the point, Basalt. I don’t care about you. Now, if I know this much about you after,” Merleyn ran his finger over his watch, “seventeen minutes, imagine how much I know about the woman I live with and actually care about. You arrested the wrong person. I’d know if my lover has homicidal tendencies.”

The Chief Inspector held up his hands. “Ms. Sieltjes is being questioned, not arrested.”

“You saw her kill someone and you didn’t arrest her?” Merleyn wrinkled his nose. “You ought to be ashamed, lying to the blind. Your evidence is virtually non‑existent, isn’t it?”

“We have a recording of your girlfriend committing a murder, Merleyn.”

“Something that would hold up in court? That would unmistakably show my lover, a respectable and successful businesswoman, without a criminal record or even a parking ticket to her name, stab someone to death despite having an aversion to blood?”

The silence in the room became oppressive. Merleyn leaned forward and said, “You know what I’d do? I’d swallow my pride and apologise to her before she’ll make you eat your mistake in court.”

INTERROGATION

Laure Cohn opted to ride back to Amsterdam with Marijn Polak and the blind man, not eager to share a car with Basalt, who seemed in a foul mood after Merleyn’s last comment.

Polak drove an unmarked Volkswagen Golf, the radio hidden in the glove compartment and a blue light in the leg room of the passenger seat. She had to fold her legs and keep them to the right so they wouldn’t bump against the equipment under the dashboard. The Volkswagen didn’t feature a barrier between the front and back, which made her glad it was Merleyn sitting behind her and not the morose killer.

There was no doubt in her mind that Sieltjes was Kosinski’s killer. Maybe you had to be a woman not to underestimate another woman, but one look in Sieltjes’ eyes told her enough. Not that it was obvious, far from that. The look in those wary blue eyes had not been crafty or cunning, but confused and indignant. Only if you tried to penetrate deeper, they became opaque and unreadable. And while Sieltjes acted nervous, her hands had been still, not squirming in her lap or moving at random.

Since she couldn’t turn around in her seat, Laure studied Merleyn via the vanity mirror on the inside of the right sunshade. He was involved, but what was his role? Unlike Sieltjes, the blind man seemed to be totally at ease, slouched in the back seat of the Golf. Although she had only gotten the gist of what he told Basalt, his non‑verbal communication needed no translation. He had been genuinely amused, but not surprised, at the suggestion that his lover was a killer. If he doubted himself, Merleyn had only shown it when Basalt mentioned the film, when he hesitated slightly before rejecting the evidence.

“Mr. Merleyn?”

“Bram, please,” Merleyn replied in English.

“Bram,” she corrected herself. “Please call me Laure. Is it a habit for you to analyse people around you?”

“Only if I need to keep them apart.”

“So what do you know about me?”

Merleyn gave her a wry smile. “Sorry, Laure, but I usually don’t tell people what I know about them.”

“Why not?”

“How do you think Chief Inspector Basalt feels about me now?” Merleyn shook his head. “Basalt is used to scrutinising, not to being scrutinised.”

“He didn’t ask you,” she said. “I do.”

Merleyn pursed his lips, then said, “You’re well‑educated, born and raised in the Mississippi Delta area, but you moved north. I’d say a decade or so ago. You have a flair for languages, your accent is almost gone.”

A chill ran across her spine and it took tremendous effort to keep her voice steady and light. “That’s right. Baton Rouge, Louisiana. What else?”

“Maybe that’s all I know. What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s classified information.”

“I’m not surprised,” Merleyn said and fell silent.

Polak looked at him in his rear‑view mirror. “You’re a musician?”

Merleyn didn’t answer, but pretended to look outside, his face blank. Polak looked at her and shrugged. Laure looked forward again, but couldn’t help glancing in the vanity mirror from time to time.

At the Police Headquarters on the Marnixstraat, Laure left Polak and the blind man and went in search of Basalt and the Sieltjes woman. The desk sergeant told her they’d gone up to an interview room on the second floor. She made a stop at Basalt’s office on the first floor to collect her briefcase, taking it with her to the interview room.

Through a window beside the door she could see Basalt sitting in the middle of the room, while Sieltjes was limping to and fro like a caged animal.

Laure knocked on the door and waited for Basalt to yell, ‘Kom binnen,’ before entering.

For a moment she stood inside the door and gazed around the drab room. The air was stuffy with the sour smell of unwashed bodies. The crime prevention posters on the walls added to the miserable ambiance. The Chief Inspector sat opposite the empty hard-backed chair, jotting down observations on a notepad. In the corner sat a uniformed policewoman, leafing absently through a fashion magazine.

Sieltjes had moved to the window in the far corner. The lower part of the barred window was covered with cracked foil, but the assassin looked up at the sky through the upper part. They hadn’t taken away her cane, which looked too much like a club for comfort, but Laure knew that commenting on their oversight would no doubt result in a barbed remark on American paranoia.

Laure placed her briefcase on the floor and said, “Do you mind if I ask her some questions?”

“Be my guest,” Basalt said and spoke in Dutch to the woman at the window. Sieltjes turned around and fixed both of them in a cold gaze, then spoke slowly in Dutch, biting off every word.

“She won’t say anything without her lawyer present,” Basalt translated. Sieltjes turned on her heel and resumed looking out of the window. The Chief Inspector got up from his chair and said, “I’m going for coffee. Roosje, thee?”

“Graag,” the uniformed policewoman said. Basalt looked at Laure. “You?”

“Make mine black,” Sieltjes spoke without turning around, her English as flawless as Merleyn’s. Basalt didn’t pay Sieltjes attention, but kept looking at her. Laure shook her head and took a file from her briefcase.

“Ms. Sieltjes, my name is Laure Cohn. Can we talk?”

The woman turned around, but didn’t say anything.

“The man who died today was a colleague of mine.”

Sieltjes limped up to her, leaning on her cane like a disgruntled vulture. “I didn’t kill him, Laure.”

“Do you know this man?” Laure spoke softly, holding up a picture of Menendez. Sieltjes looked at it blankly, then shook her head. Not a glimmer of recognition. Laure looked her in the eye and resumed, “He was killed last summer. The killers tied him up in his hotel room and slit his throat.”

She held up the black‑and‑white police photo and watched the brunette grow pale and turn away from the picture. Blinking furiously as if fighting to hold back tears, Sieltjes limped back to the window.

Laure put the photo away and said, “You’re a consummate actress, Ms. Sieltjes, but…”

“Actress?” Sieltjes turned around with tears in her glaring eyes. It looked as if she was going to add something, but she closed her eyes and turned back to the window. Her shoulders moved slightly, as if she was trying to keep her composure. Basalt entered with a tray, handing a paper cup to the uniformed policewoman and turning to Sieltjes. “I got you your coffee.”

Sieltjes turned around, sniffing and wiping at her red‑rimmed eyes. Basalt asked her something and she replied curtly, her hand shaking as she grabbed her coffee and returned to the window.

The Chief Inspector looked at Laure. “She calls you a sick bitch. What did you show her?”

Laure took the photo from the folder. “This police shot.”

Basalt glanced at the picture of the murdered Menendez. “Ms. Sieltjes is not accused of anything. You can’t show her that shit.”

Laure looked up at him with narrowed eyes, but the Chief Inspector winked at her and said, “I think you should apologise.”

“I believe—”

“I don’t care what you believe, Cohn. You’re out of order.”

She put the photo in the folder and dropped the folder in her bag. “In the States they wouldn’t pussyfoot around a killer.”

“We’re not in the States,” Basalt barked. “Get out.”

“I don’t think—”

“Out, Cohn.” Smiling Basalt opened the door. She nodded and left with a last look at Sieltjes, still turned to the window.

Laure found Polak in the cafeteria, sitting behind a bowl with remnants of tomato soup clinging to the rim. He was rolling a cigarette. “You found them?”

“Yes.”

She told him what happened and he nodded. “Carel knows what he’s doing, Laure. I’ve seen him crack tougher cases than this one.”

“Where’s Merleyn?”

He pointed over her shoulder. The blind man sat on the other side of the cafeteria, sharing a table with a young blonde, who looked vaguely familiar. “Isn’t that the commissioner’s daughter?”

“Cynthia, yes.” Polak looked as if he was about to say more, but he shook his head and licked the cigarette paper, gluing his roll‑up shut.

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“Merleyn claims to be a musician, but conveniently forgot to mention that he was a busker.” Polak plucked a shred of tobacco from his lower lip and rolled it between his fingers before he dropped it in the empty soup bowl at his elbow. “See that suit he’s wearing?”

Laure studied the dark suit. “Looks like Armani.”

“It is an Armani. And I doubt if he paid for it himself.”

The amiable blind man smiled into space as commissioner’s daughter flapped her hands and spoke rapidly.

Laure looked back at Polak and said, “You think Merleyn hooked up with Sieltjes because of her money?”

“Could be. What I don’t get is why an upwardly mobile businesswoman would bother with a blind loser like Merleyn.”

“He’s not unattractive. And obviously intelligent.”

“He’s also severely disabled. Sieltjes doesn’t strike me as a philanthropist.”

“Me neither. You think he lives on her pocket?”

Polak shrugged. “If he does, I wonder what he does in return.”

“Maybe he’s a great lay.”

“Ask him.”

Laure got up. “Maybe I will.”

“Have fun,” Polak remarked sourly at her back. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

Laure made her way past the other tables, observing as Merleyn took the young girl’s hand and put her finger on the glass of his watch. A high-pitched giggle escaped her mouth and Cynthia Koninck drew back her hand, then looked up as Laure approached.

“Hi, Cynthia.” Laure gave her a friendly smile. “May I join you?”

“Sure, Ms. Cohn,” the girl said, extending her hand. “This is Bram Merleyn.”

Merleyn leaned back in his chair. “Laure knows who I am, Cynthia. She arrested my girlfriend.”

“She’s not arrested,” Laure said, sitting down. “What was so funny about your watch?”

Merleyn shot his cuff and took her hand. “Close your eyes.”

“Okay.”

His hand isolated her index finger and placed it on the glass of his watch, then ran it around the rim. The watch vibrated and she pulled away her hand.

“A vibrating watch?” She opened her eyes. “Nifty.”

Merleyn smiled. “Apparently made for busy managers, so they could check the time under the table. The glass vibrates where the hands are.”

“You had a talking watch before, didn’t you?” Cynthia mimicked a robot voice. “It’s half past one, AM.”

“My girlfriend didn’t like it, so she got me this one. Less obtrusive.”

“Can I see it?” Laure observed the brand. “Tissot? Not exactly a cheap brand.”

Merleyn caressed the watch. “She has an eye for quality.”

He pulled the cuff of his shirt over the watch again and picked up his tea.

“Nice suit, by the way.”

“Not nice enough apparently,” Merleyn said. “If you only noticed it just now.”

“I noticed it right away,” Cynthia piped up. “On the street Bram looks like a bum.”

“I have to look the part, Cynthia.”

Laure leaned her elbows on the table. “You don’t look uncomfortable now.”

“I adjust.”

“Did your girlfriend buy you this suit?”

“Of course,” Merleyn said. “I couldn’t afford to buy its sleeves. I have a suit for when I play gigs, but it was too threadbare for this trip.”

“So you don’t mind women buying you things?”

A crafty smile blossomed on his scarred face. “I prefer spirituality to vapid materialism, but if it’s important that I look presentable, I tend to go with the flow.”

“And presentable means a custom-made Armani?”

“Don’t forget the shoes.” Merleyn showed off a pair of Italian Moreschi loafers. “I only balked at wearing a tie.”

Cynthia jabbed his arm. “If you’re such an ascetic, then why do you live so conveniently under a Japanese restaurant?”

Merleyn rubbed his arm. “It’s a club, Cynthia. Not a restaurant.”

“Still, you get to eat Japanese, like, every day.”

“To free your mind, your body needs to be well-nourished.”

Laure tapped his wrist. “So you eat at a restaurant every day?”

“The owner is a friend, I live in the basement. I don’t need much of a view.”

“You don’t live with your girlfriend?”

“No,” Merleyn said. “She has her own apartment.”

“Tell me if I’m getting too personal, but how did you two meet?”

“At an art gallery, where I picked up a gift for a friend. She spotted my flight case and we talked about music. I had a jazz gig at a café on the Nieuwmarkt, backing Christine LaRue, and invited her over. I didn’t know she was there until after the set, when we met at the bar.” Merleyn smiled dreamily. “We talked and drank, she tucked me in and stayed the night.”

“That’s so romantic.” Cynthia put a finger on the blind man’s hand. “I’d like to hear you play with a band.”

“I’ll let you know the next time.” He handed her an iPhone. “Here, put your number in my contacts.”

While the girl was busy with his smartphone, Laure touched his wrist and said, “So she was attracted to you straight away?”

“Pretty much.” The corner of his mouth curled up. “She wasn’t a groupie, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean, she doesn’t strike me as impulsive.”

Merleyn cocked his head. “A woman has to be impulsive to be attracted to me?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“You think she liked me because I’m blind?” He gave her a crooked smile. “You’re not buying into the myth, are you?”

“The myth?”

“Blind guys being better in the sack.”

Cynthia giggled, but Laure said, “And you? Isn’t it difficult to become attracted to someone if you’re visually impaired?”

“Blind, Laure. ‘Impaired’ suggests there’s still vision left.” Merleyn grinned. “My priorities might have shifted, because I’m more interested in a woman’s skin, her scent, her voice.”

“I didn’t notice anything in particular about her voice.”

“You wouldn’t. Where is she now?”

“Upstairs, talking to Chief Inspector Basalt.”

Merleyn snorted. “Interrogated by Basalt, you mean.”

“We only interview suspects.”

“I’m sure you do.” Merleyn held out his hand for his phone. “Did she get her phone call yet?”

Cynthia gave him back his iPhone. “I put my number under Koninck, in case there are more Cynthias.”

“That’s very thoughtful.” Merleyn turned to Laure. “I think I’ll call her lawyer now.”

Merleyn held the phone by his ear and ran his finger over the screen. Laure felt like snatching it from his hand, but knew she couldn’t prevent him from making his call unless she arrested him. And even then he had the right to call his lawyer. His Dutch was polite but clipped. The only word she caught was ‘moord’, Dutch for murder.

Merleyn switched off the telephone and smiled at Laure. “Better tell Basalt to hurry up. Our lawyer will be here in ten minutes. Now, if you please excuse me, I was having a conversation with Cynthia here.”

The girl giggled.

“Of course,” Laure patted his arm. “Goodbye, Bram.”

He nodded dismissively and turned to the girl, continuing in Dutch.

Polak just returned from his smoke and Laure went up to him. “Better warn Carel. Sieltjes’ lawyer will be here in ten minutes.”

The Brigadier gave her cold look. “You couldn’t resist, hmm?”

“What do you mean?”

“Instead of buying Carel time, you remind Merleyn that his girlfriend is being grilled. I thought you’d be smarter that that.”

Laure threw up her hands. “He asked where his girlfriend was. I told him she was talking to Basalt. I won’t lie about that.”

“Cynthia was doing a good job distracting him. You should’ve left him alone.” Polak shook his head. “I’ll tell Carel.”

-o-

Basalt folded his arms. “So what were you doing at the D‑terminal?”

Katla looked at the obese inspector, but didn’t reply. Exercising her right to remain silent. Like everyone should do when facing a murder charge.

When she didn’t seem about to answer his question, Basalt tapped his pen on the papers in front of him. “Your boyfriend told us quite a bit about you.”

She sighed and stared at the ceiling of the tiny office, longing for an espresso. The coffee Basalt had fetched was undrinkable and half of it was cooling in its paper cup.

“He told me your tough attitude was just an affectation.”

She studied her hands. At least they had allowed her to wash her hands and rinse her mouth. Her throat still burned from the bile, caused by the nausea-inducing concoction from the capsule that was languishing in her stomach. The result was well worth the discomfort. Vomiting all over the Brigadier’s shoes had been more convincing than simply telling them she couldn’t stand blood. She didn’t know what they had on tape, but not many killers would puke their guts out after stabbing someone to death.

“You’re not doing yourself a favour,” Basalt said. “You’re just a tool, we’re looking for the person who hired you.”

Katla kept her eyes blank. She had expected this line of questioning. Involvement of the Amsterdam police confirmed that Loki had been expected. Otherwise she would’ve been arrested by the Koninklijke Marechaussee and held at Schiphol.

“You know,” Basalt spoke. “An innocent person would protest more. Your calm betrays your guilt. And for someone who has no criminal record, you seem quite unperturbed by your situation.”

Katla yawned and closed her eyes.

“Both of you,” Basalt continued. “Your boyfriend was more chatty than you are, but also too calm to be innocent.”

Bram could cram ninety minutes of talking into an hour, or shame a stone buddha into silence. No surprises there. And this was not the first time Bram was interviewed by police officers.

“Either you two are the most stoic people I’ve ever encountered or you expected to be arrested. The last seems more likely.”

Bram had probably expected to be arrested, but she hoped he acted surprised when the police had taken him in.

“Then again, your boyfriend has a criminal record.” Basalt leaned back and was silent for a while. When she didn’t take the bait, he said, “He broke a beggar’s nose, because the beggar touched him. A bit strange for a blind busker to show such violence.”

The panhandler had grabbed him because Bram hit him by accident with his cane and Bram had used his martial arts skills to free himself. That the panhandler had walked into a pillar and broke his nose wasn’t Bram’s fault. Apparently the judge agreed and gave Bram a suspended sentence.

“It must’ve been your influence,” Basalt said. “Even a blind guy would be affected by your homicidal attitude.”

Basalt was close to the truth. It was doubtful that Bram would’ve killed the Chinese enforcer if she hadn’t been around, but then again, he’d killed to protect her. Not out of financial gain. Still, she noticed the phrasing of Basalt’s remark, as if being blind sanctified someone beyond being influenced by reprobates like herself. Apparently he believed in the persistent misconception that blindness either perverted or sanctified someone.

“I guess you picked a blind boyfriend because he makes a bad witness.” Basalt snorted. “Won’t make a difference in this case, but he can’t tell where the other bodies are buried, hmmm?”

As if she buried bodies. Katla opened her eyes, watching the detective through her eyelashes. His questioning wasn’t sophisticated. Hardly effective, unless you were an easily excitable moron. Katla opened her mouth and noticed how that piqued his attention. Suppressing a smile, she said, “I need to go to the toilet.”

There was a knock on the office door. The young detective with caked vomit on his sneakers stuck his head around the door, his eyes gazing at her dispassionately. “Carel, a word?”

Basalt got up and looked at the uniformed policewoman in the corner.

“Roosje, please show Ms. Sieltjes the ladies’ room.”

The policewoman showed Katla to the lavatory and waited outside the door as she relieved herself.

Basalt and the young detective were waiting outside the interview room when she returned.

“Let’s go downstairs,” Basalt said. “We’re finished. For now.”

“For now?” Katla sneered. The young detective turned away and strode down the corridor and the policewoman followed him, leaving her alone with the Chief Inspector. Basalt took a humidor from his inside pocket, looked at it for a moment as if considering taking out a cigar, then stuck it back and said, “Yes, Ms. Sieltjes. For now. Until we’ve checked you out, you are not to leave the country. Your passport will remain with us until that time.”

“How long will that take?”

“A week, at the most.”

“My lawyer will…”

Basalt held up his hands. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Ms. Sieltjes, but you cannot claim harassment on our part.”

“No?”

“No. We are within our rights to arrest anyone if we have reasonable suspicion that this person committed a felony. Since we wanted to spare you embarrassment, we haven’t arrested you, but detained you, like we would with a witness. Which, considering the circumstances, can only be construed as—”

“—fear of arresting an innocent bystander,” Katla finished. “Nice try, Basalt, but it won’t wash. You cost me a lot of money and I hope they’ll deduct it from your salary. Now, where is Bram?”

“Downstairs, in the cafeteria.”

“Good. Take me to him.”

Basalt smirked and turned away, ambling down the corridor for the stairs. Katla suppressed a smile and followed him.

Bram wasn’t in the cafeteria and a young blonde told the Chief Inspector he had gone downstairs to the desk. They found Bram standing in the hallway with a small sloe‑eyed older man, who gave Basalt a cynical smile. “You’re the detective in charge?”

“Yes.”

“Robert Kerkwijk, barrister.” He didn’t shake hands, but handed the Chief Inspector a thick crème‑coloured business card. “I’d like your name and rank, please.”

“Carel Basalt, Chief Inspector.” The detective reached in his pocket and handed him a plain business card, embossed with the arms of the Amsterdam Municipal Police.

Kerkwijk put it in his pocket without a glance and smiled at her. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“No,” Katla said. “I should’ve been halfway to Japan by now.”

“We’ll fix that.”

“I doubt it, Robert. It seems I’m still under suspicion.”

Basalt shrugged. “Ms. Sieltjes is referring to our demand that she’s not to leave the country until we checked her out.”

“In the meantime they refuse to give me back my passport,” Katla added.

Kerkwijk sighed, took a small notebook from his pocket and unscrewed a Waterman fountain pen. “When will the passports be returned, Chief Inspector?”

“As soon as we’re finished with them.”

Kerkwijk gave the Chief Inspector a sleepy look. “Any idea how long that’ll take?”

“A week or so.”

“I’m expected in Yokohama the day after tomorrow.”

“Chief Inspector?” Kerkwijk raised an eyebrow in question.

“I’m sorry.” Basalt shook his head. “Ms. Sieltjes has not been cleared yet.”

“We’ll be in touch, Chief Inspector.” Kerkwijk turned away dismissively and capped his fountain pen. “Bram has your belongings, my dear. Check them carefully.”

“Thank you.” Katla took the plastic bag from Bram’s hand.

The sloe‑eyed man gave Basalt another sleepy look. “You’re excused, Chief Inspector.”

Without a word, the Chief Inspector turned away and ambled back into the corridor.

Katla put away her possessions. “How are you doing, Bram?”

“I’m okay.”

“Sorry about the trip.” She put her arms around Bram, kissing him lightly on the mouth. “Let’s go home.”

HOME

The taxi dropped them off at Artis and Katla checked for anyone showing unusual interest in them as she guided Bram over the Nijlpaardenbrug to Entrepôtdok. The route to her apartment couldn’t be observed unless someone followed them on foot, and there were too many niches and corners to hide behind to surprise pursuers.

When she was confident that they hadn’t been followed, Katla led Bram up to her apartment, where Kourou barked his welcome.

The macaw went through an enthusiastic display of acrobatics, which Katla acknowledged by talking to him in muted tones while Bram went into the bedroom. When he returned he was only wearing his boxers.

“The suit isn’t uncomfortable, is it?”

“No,” he said. “But projecting a calm and confident exterior upped my temperature a notch or two.”

He poured himself a glass of fresh orange juice, put the glass jug back in the refrigerator and pressed the cool glass against his neck.

“You must’ve expected to be arrested.”

“Aim for success,” Bram said. “But prepare for failure.”

“Then we succeeded.” Katla ran her fingers over his naked back. “Target is dead, we’re not in jail. Their set-up failed miserably.”

Bram drank his juice, not taking down the glass until it was empty. He sighed contently and said, “I’m glad you see it my way.”

“I didn’t disagree with you. That’s why I went along with your plan to take him down at Schiphol.”

“I’m sure they figured Loki would take more time to observe the target before taking him out, so they weren’t fully prepared.”

“Maybe not a hundred percent, but the undercover cop who arrested me was following the target from the moment he left the plane,” Katla said. “He’s good though, I didn’t figure him out until after I killed my target. He wasn’t there to protect him though, just to observe. The target was wearing a ballistic vest. I guess they figured I’d fail and he would identify me.”

“A Judas goat,” Bram said. “I guess you won’t argue about my strategies anymore.”

“The flashmob worked brilliantly, but I will always argue your strategies. Not because I don’t think they’ll work, but to make sure you thought everything through.”

“I had a scary moment when they mentioned the film though.”

Katla kissed his back. “I knew they wouldn’t be able to film the actual act, but the flashmob helped mask it. Plus the nausea made me an unlikely suspect.”

“They still detained you. I wouldn’t get cocky just because they didn’t arrest you.”

“Don’t worry. If anything, I’ll be even more alert.”

Bram turned and took her in his arms, holding her tight without speaking.

She peeked up at Bram’s face. “What’s your opinion on the Cohn woman?”

“Smart. Could even be dangerous, given half a chance. Not that I’ll give her a chance, next time.”

“Next time?”

“She’ll come by. We haven’t finished talking.”

“Maybe you ought to keep your distance, Bram.”

His scarred face turned in her direction. “Why?”

“Just because she wants to talk to you, doesn’t mean you should.”

His finger came up and landed with uncanny precision on her lips. “There is a saying in Aikido. ‘The closer you are to your opponent, the easier to predict his moves’.”

“Exactly how close do you figure on getting to Cohn?”

“As close as necessary.” Merleyn smiled beatifically. “Are you worried or jealous?”

“Worried. There’s no telling what she’ll do to get me.”

“On the contrary. The first thing she’ll do is approach me.”

“I could make sure she won’t harass you either.”

“I want her to,” Bram said. “She’ll confirm my suspicions.”

“What suspicions?”

He waved his hand. “That’s not important now, the main thing is that she’ll be pressed to perform. Even more so now that she failed at Schiphol. However, with the animosity between the two of you, she’ll be unable to approach you directly.”

“So she’ll come to you for help?”

Bram shrugged. “Who else?”

“What about the police?”

“I think Basalt won’t be eager to participate in any future plans Cohn might come up with.”

Katla put her hand on his chest. “Okay, so what do we do with Cohn?”

“Discredit her until she’s taken off the case,” Bram said. “Cohn didn’t strike me as popular with her colleagues. She’ll be supported as long as she makes progress, but if she fails to build a case against you, they’ll reassign her.”

“But you need me to lay low.”

“You need to be Ms. Sieltjes, the Sphinx Shipping director, indignant about the detention and worried about the consequences for her company.”

He wandered to her stereo and selected a CD from his tray. A moment later the melancholic trumpet of Miles Davis filled the room. Someday My Prince Will Come.

Katla smiled. Weird. A little over a year ago she wouldn’t have been able to distinguish between Miles Davis and Freddie Hubbard, now she could separate one Miles album from the other. Not that it made her the jazz aficionado Bram was, but still…

She sat on the couch. “I can’t put Loki out to pasture. I have outstanding contracts that need to be fulfilled.”

“That’s why I didn’t want you to take the Pavocelic job in the first place. If you value your self-preservation, you cancel the outstanding contracts and put yourself on a sabbatical.”

“I can’t. It’s just two contracts left.”

Bram drifted to the couch. “At least delay them for a while.”

“I don’t like to do things at the last moment. Leaves no room for adjustments.”

“I’ll help you plan the remaining contracts.” He caressed her hair. “Make sure you don’t need to improvise.”

“That’s virtually impossible. I know you can play a whole game of Go in your head, but in real life there’s a fluke factor.”

He kneeled before the couch, the movement fluid and graceful. “You can do the impossible as long as you follow my advice.”

“You have no idea how arrogant that sounds.”

“Self-confidence is often confused with arrogance, but you know this is not an ego thing.”

She pulled him close and kissed his neck. “Probably not, but I won’t follow your plans without questioning you.”

“I never expected you to follow orders. If you need elaboration, just ask.”

DEA I

The long‑distance connection hummed. Laure Cohn could hear ghost voices traveling along the line while she waited for Cutlass to finish his other call.

A harsh click and his gruff voice filled her ear. “Who fucked up, Cohn? You or the Amsterdam police?”

She closed her eyes. “Me, sir.”

“Let’s see, that’s one dead agent and… how much money?”

“One hundred thousand euro, sir.”

“In dollars?”

“A little over a hundred thousand, sir.”

“So we paid ‘a little over a hundred thousand dollars’ for Kosinski’s death.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Kosinski was briefed, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. And a combat veteran. We took all available precautions. Ballistic vest, anti-stab sleeves for parrying knife attacks—”

“Must be an exceptional hitman.”

“Hitwoman, sir.”

There was silence on the line, then Cutlass growled, “How did she kill him, Cohn?”

“Stabbed him with a handmade commando dagger, sir. Once in the crotch to disable him, the next in the throat. I’ll get the forensic pathologist’s report tomorrow.”

“Crotch and throat? Deliberately circumventing his vest?”

“No way to tell, sir. They let her go. Lack of evidence.”

“Who is she?”

“Katherine Laetitia Sieltjes. She—”

“Affiliations, Cohn. Where did she acquire her skills? Army?”

“She has no army or criminal record. Nor has she ever been enlisted or part of any group whatsoever.”

“What about terrorist groups?”

“Still checking, sir, but there are no indications in that direction.”

“Think you might have arrested the wrong one?”

“No doubt in my mind, sir.”

“You’re sure this hitwoman also killed Salahedin?”

“Absolutely,” Laure said with a confidence she didn’t feel.

“When can I expect your report?”

“Already preparing it, sir, but I’m waiting for information that will become available late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll finish it right after and send it to you with the diplomatic mail. You should have it the day after tomorrow.”

“Anything else?”

She took a deep breath. “I need more men, sir.”

“I’ll think about it, Cohn. After I read your report.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t let me down, Cohn, or you won’t even get a desk job. Understand?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Good.”

The line went dead.

She returned the receiver to the cradle and switched off the light, looking out of the Consulate’s high window at the lighted façade of the Concertgebouw and resting her hand on the telephone until it stopped shaking.

Without taking her eyes from the golden harp on the roof, Laure dialled The Hague.

A soft mellifluous voice answered the phone. “DEA Netherlands.”

“Jerome Bishop, please.”

“He is not available. Would you care to leave a message or speak to his assistant?”

His assistant. That would be Deborah Stern. The last person she wanted to speak to.

Laure cleared her throat and said, “Tell Jerome to call Laure Cohn in Amsterdam. Tonight, if possible.”

“Cohn, you said? Just a moment.”

She was put on hold and listened to Don McLean’s American Pie.

The line clicked and Bishop’s warm voice entered her ear. “Laure….”

“Hi, Jerome. I need to see you urgently.”

“I’m not in The Hague, at the moment.” Bishop said. “I’m visiting friends in Amsterdam and—”

“I’m in Amsterdam,” Laure said. “I don’t want to disturb you in your down time, but I’m in a complicated situation and I need your help.”

“Tomorrow, noon, Café Restaurant Open, west of Central Station.”

“Thanks, Jerome.”

He rang off without saying goodbye.

-o-

About ten minutes walking from the Amsterdam Centraal Station, Laure came upon Café Restaurant Open, located on an opened railroad bridge suspended over the water of the Westerdok. She climbed the industrial steel stairs and entered the restaurant, where a waiter took her coat and led her to Jerome Bishop, sitting at a table near the windows with a magnificent view on the modern white EYE film museum at the other side of the IJ.

Sunshine reflected from the white pilot houses of the ferries traversing the blue waters that split Amsterdam in two distinct parts, although the parts had grown more together through the Noord-Zuid Lijn, the recently finished subway traveling under the water to the other side. Before the NZL, pedestrians and cyclists had to take the ferries, while motorized vehicles had to take the IJ-tunnel or the A10 ring road.

Jerome rose from his seat as Laure approached his table. Despite his reputation as a smart field operative and shrewd administrator, Jerome looked as unobtrusive as a real estate agent at a Prudential convention. Part of what made the DEA Chief Liaison so effective, Laure guessed. Unlike Cutlass, who was even more intimidating in person than on the phone, or European section chief Zellweger, a smooth politician, Jerome looked harmless and friendly. Only the friendly part was genuine.

Jerome kissed her on both cheeks, European style, then sat back down and gestured for her to take a seat. Laure sat across from him. Not out of propriety, but she had no idea whether his feelings towards her had changed.

Jerome cocked his head inquisitively, but didn’t speak. An astute interrogator knows how to drop a silence people want to fill with chatter.

“I screwed up.” Laure folded her hands to keep from fidgeting. “I got a colleague killed.”

Jerome nodded, not showing any prejudice.

Laure took a deep breath and told him everything that had happened. She knew how to give a succinct but detailed report, so he didn’t need to ask her for extra information.

When she was finished, Jerome sat for a while, then said, “Sieltjes pushes the female angle?”

“She had an excellent reason to be at Schiphol, but I have little doubt that she killed him.”

“But the Amsterdam Police officers believe her story?”

Laure ran a hand through her hair. “She threw up over a detective’s shoes, claiming an aversion to blood.”

“You think she did that to avoid being seen as a hardened killer.”

“Vomiting can be induced on command. Ask any bulimia patient. Anyway, I don’t think she’s merely ‘affecting a tough attitude’, as her boyfriend put it.”

“What is the boyfriend like?”

“Believable, alas.” Laure sighed. “Sieltjes kept silent, but the boyfriend was chatty. Didn’t help much. Everything he said made Sieltjes appear more innocent.”

“He had his story down?”

“I would’ve noticed a rehearsed speech. He didn’t appear shaken at being detained, so I focused on his body language and speech patterns to see if he expected to be arrested, but if he was acting, he should become a thespian.”

“Natural talent at deception?”

“I’m not a walking polygraph, but this guy was sharp. And unshakeable in his belief that his girlfriend was just a hardworking businesswoman, not a cold remorseless killer.”

“If Loki is as good as they say, Sieltjes might be able to fool anyone.”

“I don’t know, Jerome. This guy is perceptive. Plus everyone seems to believe that Loki has to be a man.”

“Not everyone,” Bishop said. “The BKA recently turned an informer, who is convinced that Loki is a woman.”

“Who is he?”

“According to Rudolf Heckler, my BKA contact, he’s linked to the Skunks, the motorcycle gang who are suspected to have hired Loki to kill Menendez.”

Laure scooted forward in her seat. “They have a former Skunk as an informer?”

Bishop shook his head. “There’s no confirmation that he actually is a Skunk.”

“You didn’t mention him in your report.”

“Like I said, it’s a recent development.”

“The Skunks clamped up tighter than the Mafia.”

“Tighter, actually.” Bishop grinned. “The Mafia’s omertà is a joke compared to the cloak of silence donned by the Skunks.”

“Their group is a lot smaller, so I guess it’s easier to maintain proper discipline. So, who is this guy?”

“The BKA are roping him in, trying to turn him into an asset. His identity is kept under wraps.”

Laure steepled her fingers. “You think he’ll talk to me?”

“If you mention that you nabbed a woman who might be Loki, I’m sure he’ll be interested, but I’m not sure the BKA will allow you to approach him.”

“Not even if he can identify Loki?”

“I doubt if he can, Laure. Far as I know he never met Loki. The only people who did are dead.”

“I’d like to show him a picture of Sieltjes, see if he can connect her to the Menendez killing.”

“I’ll put in a request through Rudolf Heckler.” Bishop rubbed his nose. “If the BKA allow you to speak to this guy, I think you should take Deborah with you.”

Laure snorted. “So she can flash him her boobies?”

“I know why you feel animosity towards Deborah, but your suspicions are unfounded. I didn’t break up with you over her and our work relationship is strictly professional.”

“Men rarely see manipulative bitches for who they are.”

“Deborah is a good agent and fluent in Dutch. Those are my reasons for adding her to my team. Without her, we wouldn’t have flushed out the people behind the sabotage last year.”

“She’s easy on the eyes too.”

“If you think this guy is susceptible to that kind of coercion, all the more reason to take her along. You should bury the hatchet, Laure. Be professional.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I haven’t met this guy, but Rudolf told me he’s a nasty piece of work. They think he might’ve killed one or more of his associates, so you better not meet him alone.”

“I can take care of myself, Jerome.”

“Two is better than one.”

“Why don’t you extend the same courtesy to me as you do to Deborah?”

“I know you’re capable and able to handle yourself, Laure. That’s not the issue.” Bishop shook his head. “I don’t want to spook you, but I think someone went off the reservation.”

“Someone went rogue?”

“I know about the guy in Washington, but he’s not the only terrorist on someone’s list.”

Laure nodded. “I heard about this Scandinavian fellow.”

“There are three more,” Bishop said. “Not as overt. Two were involved in traffic accidents and one drowned while scuba diving.”

“And you think Loki is behind all of them?”

“Someone is. And it’s just a matter of time before one of these killings sparks off an international conflict. I don’t give a crap about terrorists getting killed, but repercussions can cause civilian casualties.”

“I think Cutlass agrees with you.”

“I know he does, Laure. I recommended you to him for this job.”

“Because of our history together?”

“No. You have good instincts.”

“You knew I would come to you, didn’t you?”

Bishop smiled. “Good instincts.”

He held out a business card. Laure looked at the name. Deborah Stern and a telephone number.

She sighed and put the card away. “I’ll think about it.”

“Be a professional, Laure. Accept help.”

She kissed his cheeks and walked out.

KONINCK

They met in the office of Commissioner Symen Koninck. Not the regular place for a meeting, but the interagency factor and the gravity of the situation demanded heightened privacy. And Koninck’s offices had the high definition equipment to show the surveillance tape to full advantage. Which wasn’t to say that there was anything more to see than they’d already seen on the small monitors in the security booth. This was the third time they played the sequence and Chief Inspector Basalt froze the image of Kosinski starting to fall. He turned to the commissioner.

Koninck stroked his salt‑and‑pepper goatee. “If this is all we have got, it’s not even worth going to court. What about witnesses, Carel?”

“None.”

“None?”

“Everyone seemed to think Kosinski was rude, walking into a crippled woman.” The Chief Inspector sighed. “I don’t see how Sieltjes did it. If she did it.”

Laure Cohn leaned forward, but—before she could speak—Koninck held up a hand and said, “Are there likelier suspects?”

“There’s Bordewijk, the man who turned Kosinski over. He has an army record, but so does half the male population. And Terlouw, the man who stood behind Bordewijk, told us Bordewijk stood with his back to Kosinski when he fell over. We’re in the process of checking everyone in his direct vicinity. Not everyone’s accounted for, though…”

“Some of them got away?”

“Yes, sir. Ms. Cohn knew there were death threats, but the attack still came unexpected. Only Marijn was in a position to observe.”

“And you didn’t have a good view of what happened, Marijn?”

Polak shook his head. “No, commissioner. There was a melée. The flashmob?”

“What was that about?”

“As far as we can determine, the objective was to stage an impromptu welcoming party at the terminal to show how crappy airport security is. We’re sure the flashmob was organised as a distraction by the killer.”

“So the killer might just have walked away when the mob dispersed.”

Behind the rimless glasses, Koninck’s blue eyes stared into space. Laure was on the edge of her seat, but she knew better than to break the silence. She’d shown impatience with Koninck in one of their previous meetings and she could still feel the rebuke.

Koninck fixed his gaze on her now, a soft smile around his mouth. “Still convinced Sieltjes killed your man?”

“No one else could’ve done it, commissioner.”

“That argument won’t hold up in court, Cohn. And Sieltjes doesn’t fit the profile of a contract killer.”

“No, she doesn’t. Ninety percent of the known contract killers in the United States are male psychopaths with histories of anti‑social behaviour and petty crimes leading up to their current status.”

Koninck curled his fingers into a fist and flexed them again. “And the remaining ten percent?”

“Military men who took their skills to market, mercenaries.”

“No women?” Koninck inquired politely.

“There’s no reason why women shouldn’t be working as contract killers, especially since women have become more prominent in other fields as well.”

“Yet female contract killers are rare.”

“Or rarely caught,” Laure countered. “I don’t want to appear cynical, but the contract killers who fall into our hands tend to be the runts of the litter. The fact that Sieltjes can commit a murder in a crowded airport under the eyes of the police and get away with it—”

“Sieltjes is not getting away with anything, Cohn.” Koninck leaned forward. “According to the file compiled by Chief Inspector Basalt and Brigadier Polak, Sieltjes is what she claims to be. A hardworking businesswoman. She has no criminal ties whatsoever. Everything checked out.”

“Of course everything checked out. I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

“You don’t believe her?”

“I believe Sieltjes is a disciplined borderline sociopath. The absence of a criminal record points in the direction of a sharp intellect coupled to a highly developed sense of survival and an essentially guilt‑free conscience.”

“I’m not impressed by your analysis, Cohn. It seems you have a tendency to jump to conclusions.” He raised his hand as she started to protest. “Kosinski’s death shows misjudgment on your part.”

“Sieltjes rose above my expectations.”

“Or rather, you underestimated the threat to your colleague.” Koninck turned to Basalt. “What do you think, Carel?”

Basalt shifted in his seat. “If I look at the evidence, Sieltjes goes free, but if I follow my gut, I’d say agent Cohn might be right about her. I suggest we dig deeper in her background, see what we can find.”

“That could be a problem.” Koninck leaned back in his chair. “Sieltjes filed a harassment suit. Based on your report, Carel, I’d say we have no reason to worry, but we have to proceed with caution.”

“I’d like to have a talk with her boyfriend,” Laure said. “Unless Merleyn’s off‑limits too.”

“The blind guy, hmm?” Koninck stroked his goatee. “You think he might say something that’ll help us convict his girlfriend?”

“Not on purpose, but everyone slips sometimes.”

Koninck studied her for a moment. “Well, you’re an expert at that.”

Cheap shot and way below the belt.

Laure kept a tight lid on the rage boiling inside her. “Do I have your permission to talk with Merleyn, commissioner?”

“You’re welcome to pursue any option you like to find evidence against Sieltjes as long as you avoid harassment. If you haven’t found anything by the end of the week I’ll have no other choice but to return her passport.”

Careful to keep the disappointment at the lack of support from her face, Laure nodded, not trusting her voice to mask the sarcasm she felt welling up inside her.

“If you want advice on how to proceed you can consult with Chief Inspector Basalt. Brigadier Polak will remain available to escort you and translate if need be.” Koninck rose to his feet and brushed invisible lint from his sleeve. “Good luck, Cohn. Keep me informed if there’s progress.”

They left Koninck’s office while the Commissioner strolled to the windows looking out on the Raamplein.

Both Basalt and Polak seemed fidgety as the cramped elevator descended. Probably from a lack of nicotine. Basalt looked up from the unlit cigar in his hand. “I don’t want to appear cynical, so I’ll keep my comments to myself.”

“Please do,” Laure said. “Now, what was the blind guy’s address again?”

INTERLUDE: THREE MONTHS EARLIER

Washington DC, Connecticut Avenue, Monday Afternoon.

A former tobacconist shop, David Escudo’s tiny blade shop didn’t have a lot of space, but David catered to an exclusive clientele, who could afford to put down hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars for a single blade. Aware of his valuable inventory and the privacy his clientele desired, David preferred to help one customer at a time—Severin in this case.

So when the doorbell rang and Escudo looked at the door, Severin expected David to signal to the customer that he’d have to wait his turn. And since Severin had just started to admire the collectible blade David had called him about, the customer at the door was just shit out of luck.

David cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I let her in, Severin? She comes to collect her knives.”

The ‘her’ made Severin turn to look at the customer standing outside the fortified door.

Women interested in collectibles and specialty knives were even rarer than the blades in Escudo’s shop.

Dressed in muted grey gabardine, the unassuming young woman ran a hand through her short brown hair and adjusted her rectangular glasses. She looked like a typical twenty-something secretary, from up on Capitol Hill.

“Sure,” Severin said. “Why not?”

David buzzed the woman in and she entered noiselessly, closing the door softly behind her. Severin pretended to turn back to admiring the blade in front of him, but he studied the woman in the reflection of the glass displays behind the counter. She put down a weekend bag and carried a briefcase to the counter, where she sidled up, as if to check what he was studying. The limited edition tactical folder before him was a custom full dress CQC-6 handmade by the renowned Ernie Emerson. Its value hadn’t been discussed yet, but—considering the blade’s excellent condition and rarity—the price would be upward of three thousand dollars.

The woman nodded in approval, but didn’t say anything.

Severin loathed people who ran their mouths off incessantly giving their unasked and worthless opinions. Especially women, who had the annoying tendency to voice any stupid thought that entered their heads. This one showed restraint, which scored positive points with him. Up close, Severin could see she was closer to thirty-five than twenty-five, but his mistake was understandable. While her bright blue eyes studied the Emerson, Severin cast a sidelong glance at her trim lithe body.

She still hadn’t spoken, but now she glanced at David and tilted her head.

David nodded, glanced at Severin, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

She pursed her lips, her gaze still flicking towards the Emerson while she pretended to look at a display of Spyderco knives. Her face was unremarkable, but her shining blue eyes weren’t. The fact that those eyes were focused on the Emerson and not on him wasn’t lost on Severin. Women fawned over him all the time, if not over his physique, then over his dark Persian eyes. This one paid him no attention, her focus almost single-mindedly on the blade. Almost, because he got a sense of alertness from her that was uncommon in women. Or men, for that matter. Most civilians seemed to lack focus.

Maybe she was Secret Service. That would make sense, but her glasses indicated that her vision wasn’t 20/20, and she seemed to lack the quiet bravura female Secret Service agents exuded. On top of that, she didn’t seem at all curious about him.

Severin closed the Emerson and held the knife out to the woman. She flashed him a shy smile and reached out with her right hand. The assured way in which she took the CQC-6 from his fingers and opened the knife with a flick of her wrist convinced him she was no novice when it came to handling tactical blades.

He started to like her even more. Women were a dime a dozen, but women who shared his obsession with blades were rare. The woman juggled the blade to test the balance. Her hands were large for a woman, but the strong sensual fingers were still feminine. He imagined them wrapped around his cock. The woman nodded again, folded the blade into the grip and handed the knife back to Severin. Her eyes shone behind the rectangular glasses. He liked her secretarial look. The glasses could’ve made her look stern, but instead they gave her a certain fragility and vulnerability. He’d love to see those blue eyes shine up at him through those glasses while she kneeled before him with his cock in her mouth.

“What do you think?” Severin flicked the knife open and closed a couple of times. “Should I buy it?”

“If you can afford it,” the woman spoke softly. “If you keep it in this condition, its value will only increase.”

“So you like quality blades. Do you carry one?”

“One?” Her soft springy brown hair moving like delicate tendrils as she shook her head. “More than one.”

David returned from the back room and placed two high-end Japanese kitchen knives with birch wood handles on the counter. The woman turned away from Severin and smiled down at the knives like they were long lost lovers.

She bent away from him and Severin admired her firm butt flexing under the grey gabardine skirt. She straightened and put her leather briefcase on the counter. Snapped the locks and lifted the lid. Five more high quality Japanese kitchen knives were suspended in neat rows. Two slots were empty.

“You’re into kitchen knives?”

She tilted her head. “My tools of the trade.”

“Tools? You’re a chef?”

“Two of my favourite knives were damaged by a clumsy exec. Someone recommended David as the person to save my knives. I can sharpen and maintain my blades, but this required a specialist.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Exec?”

“Studio exec. Cooking show. Anyway, David saved my knives.” She turned to the salesman. “How much do I owe you?”

“It’s my pleasure, Ms. Schuurman.”

A smile lit up her face, changing her appearance from unassuming to stunning. A phone rang in the back room and David said, “Do you have a moment? I was expecting a call.”

The woman nodded and picked up her knives, holding the damascus steel blades up at the light and checking their edges.

David turned to Severin. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. Take your time.” Severin turned his attention back to the limited edition Emerson in his hand, as David disappeared in the back of the store again.

Schuurman, that was German. Or Dutch.

“And you?” Schuurman placed her knives with the others in the case. “Is your interest in blades professional or enthusiast?”

“I collect combat knives,” he lied. Well, it wasn’t a total lie. “You seem to be an enthusiast as well, Ms. Schuurman.”

“Karina, please. I’m not a serious collector, but I have a few Fairbairn-Sykes, several Fred Perrins, two Bo Randalls, and a Joe Kious.”

“No kidding?” Severin blinked at her, slowly, which usually had a charming effect on women.

Karina didn’t seem affected. “Back in Amsterdam, of course,” she said. “I don’t carry them around.”

So she was Dutch. Her excellent English was devoid of any accent. “You don’t carry a knife for personal protection?”

Karina stepped closer, a friendly smile on her face, and Severin looked into her twinkling eyes, when he felt a knife edge press against his throat. The incongruity between her friendly face and the threat of sharp steel was unsettling.

“Nothing collectible,” she murmured. “Just a plain La Griffe.”

David entered the store again and Karina stepped back, her Fred Perrin knife disappearing like a magic trick. Severin felt his throat while the woman turned her smile at David and closed the lid of her briefcase, snapping the locks shut.

Severin stood frozen, still shocked to the core. Without any hesitation, an ordinary chef de cuisine had moved into his space and put a knife to his throat. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d fought and trained with the warrior elite. Experienced killers had tried to ambush him at training camps, but even asleep he’d retained an alertness that allowed him to defend himself before they could get within five meters of his sleeping cot. His hyper-vigilance bordered on paranoia.

And this woman just broke through his defences and put a knife to his throat like it was nothing.

Karina Schuurman shook David’s hand. “Thank you again, Mr. Escudo.”

“Have a good trip, Ms. Schuurman.”

She turned back to Severin, still smiling. “It’s always nice to meet a true enthusiast. Enjoy the Emerson.”

She carried her briefcase to the door, shouldered her weekend bag and turned for the door. Like she wasn’t interested in him at all.

Fascinating.

Karina Schuurman had her hand on the door, waiting to be buzzed through, when Severin signalled David to wait a moment. She glanced at David, a question in her eyes. Severin adjusted his tie and said, “Are you in a hurry? Or just eager to leave my company?’

Karina turned her gaze from David to study Severin, an amused twinkle in those bright blue eyes. “Your company? You own this shop?”

“No, I meant—” Severin gave her a bashful smile. “Can I take you out for lunch?”

Her gaze didn’t leave his face. “At a quarter past two?”

“Dinner, then?” He turned his smile from bashful to boyish. “I can get us in at Komi.”

“Really? On a Monday? I know Johnny, but he won’t open on a Monday, not even for me.”

If she was on familiar terms with the owner of Komi, she had to be a good chef herself.

“I was thinking about tomorrow. Or the day after?”

“I have a flight at seven,” Karina said. “Now if you excuse me, I still have to arrange for a kitchen.”

Severin tilted his head. “You don’t have a kitchen?”

“The production assistant booked me in a suite without a kitchen, if you can believe that.” She rolled her eyes. “They should know I only eat food I prepare myself.” Karina pointed at the door. “David?”

“You can use mine.” Severin didn’t know why he offered her the use of his kitchen, but he didn’t want her to leave. “You can use my kitchen.”

“Your kitchen? At your home, you mean?”

“It’s close by, near Dupont Circle. And it was designed by a chef. I do a fair bit of cooking myself.”

“Designed by a chef?” Karina looked skeptical. “What’s your name?”

“Severin.”

“Severin.” She rolled his name in her mouth, as if she was tasting it. “Gas or electric, Severin?”

Assuming she referred to his stove, he said, “Gas. Only amateurs cook on electric.”

“You buy the groceries,” she said slowly. “If your kitchen passes my inspection, I’ll make us dinner. Deal?”

“Deal.” Severin turned to David. “I’ll take the CQC-6.”

-o-

After leaving her weekend bag just inside the door, Katla followed Severin, a.k.a. Salahedin, into his apartment, carrying her knife case as she looked around. Her target seemed to dislike clutter and favour clean lines. His spacious apartment was furnished in blonde wood, industrial steel and black leather. The brick walls featured huge windows on both sides, but the blinds were drawn and angled, so sunlight filtered in where gazes could not penetrate. To her left a black-and-white tiled open kitchen was dominated by a generous, marble-topped island that could double as a bar.

“Beautiful place, Severin. You live alone?”

He put down the grocery bags in the middle of the kitchen island. “I enjoy my privacy, yes.”

While the target unpacked the groceries, Katla donned nitrile gloves and inspected his kitchen. Well-used, but immaculate.

Her information had been right about his hobbies. Knives, women and cooking. Not too difficult to concoct a persona he’d find irresistible.

The person who had furnished the kitchen had an eye for quality. Fancy espresso machine, first class electric milk foamer, top of the line electric kettle. Prominent family-sized refrigerator with built-in ice-maker. On a separate shelf stood a row of tagines, most of them plain terracotta earthenware looking at odds with the clean modern furnishings.

Katla put on an apron, located a cutting board and took a ceramic honing steel and two identical high end knives from her case.

“Apron? Gloves?” Severin sidled up to her. “You don’t need them here.”

“I’m used to them.” Katla honed the knives and rinsed them under the tap. “I have to set the example in the kitchen, you know.”

“Should I don gloves too? As your assistant?”

She shrugged. “If you want to.”

Severin smiled, dimples in his cheeks. “I’ll pass on the apron and gloves, but I think I can assist you.”

He was cute, but not as cute as Bram. Also, unlike Bram, the target was too aware of his charms. Bram thought women approached him because they either liked his music or wanted to have sex with a blind guy. And he was only half right.

“I’m still amazed.” Severin handed her a leek. “At what you did.”

“I’m not a celebrity chef.” Katla laughed. “And I love to cook, especially for cute men, who appreciate quality knives.”

“I wasn’t talking about that.” He touched his throat. “That move with the La Griffe.”

“I’m so sorry.” Katla looked worried. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He laughed, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I wasn’t scared. It’s just rare that someone gets so close to me with a knife.”

“You’re a martial artist?” Katla chopped the leek right-handed. “I don’t think there was anything wrong with your instincts.” She smiled at him. “I guess subconsciously you knew I didn’t mean you harm.”

A frown played on his forehead for a moment. “Maybe that’s it. An opponent radiates a certain vibe. You didn’t.”

“What martial arts do you train?”

He leaned against the counter next to her and lowered his voice. “PerSev.”

“What’s that?” Katla took a paprika and a paring knife. “Like Krav Maga?”

“Not really.” He gave her a secretive smile. “It’s a knife art. Perforate and Sever.”

Katla arched an eyebrow. “How do you train something like that? On a practice dummy?”

“I’ll show you.”

He walked away. Katla finished cleaning and chopping the vegetables. She was unwrapping the meat when he returned with a small black case that he opened on the kitchen island. “In old times, they trained with a smouldering rope, but time moves on.” He took out a red-handled knife with a fake-looking blade. “Now we use these.”

ShocKnife. She tilted her head and said, “What are they?”

Severin pushed the tip of the blade against her waist. The electrical shock actually wasn’t as bad as she expected, but Katla shied away and pretended to almost drop her kitchen knife. “Ow!”

“Sorry,” he said, looking unapologetic. “You wanted to know.”

“A verbal explanation would have sufficed. I didn’t ask for a training session.”

Severin put the ShocKnife back in the case. “If you want a session after dinner, I’m open for it.”

He poured two glasses of wine. Katla smiled and said, “Severin, can you come here for a moment?”

Katla framed the slab of meat on the kitchen counter with the two similar knives. “Did you check this meat?”

He stood next to her, a glass of wine in each hand. “Looks all right to me.”

Katla rolled her eyes. “Smell it, Severin.”

As the target bent over the cutting board, Katla used her left hand to plunge one of the kitchen knives in his throat. The flat of the blade instantly sealed his trachea, but she’d angled the blade to avoid damaging the neck vertebrae.

Rearing back, the target stared at her in horror. His wide dark eyes showed more white than she’d thought possible and his mouth opened and closed like a fish on land. The drinks dropped from his hands and Katla instinctively stepped back as the delicate glasses shattered on the tiled floor. Red wine splattered the lower kitchen cabinets.

As his hands reached up automatically for the knife lodged in his throat, Katla switched the other blade from her right to her left hand and stepped forward, slashing at his arms with the knife. In a futile attempt to defend himself, the target stepped back and raised his arms to block her slashing knife, which was exactly what she wanted.

Katla closed in to slash his arms and create defence wounds, but the target slipped on the bloody tiles and fell backward, pinwheeling his arms. The back of his head hit the kitchen counter with a sharp crack, knocking him out.

Despite his ferocious reputation, Severin/Salahedin didn’t have much fight in him.

She needed to make more defence wounds, but his arms were slack. That wouldn’t do. With her right hand Katla took a ShocKnife from the case and put the electrified edge in his hand. The low-voltage current passing through his arm put tension in the muscles and she stabbed his quivering arms with the kitchen knife in her left hand.

The warm heady scent of blood filled the air and arterial spray from his wrists coated her apron. Katla stabbed him in his chest and belly, taking care to angle the stab wounds to look like they were made standing up. He stopped breathing and she tossed the ShocKnife aside so she could use her right hand to feel his carotid artery for a pulse.

Weak, but still present.

The grip of the knife in his throat looked too clean. After she transferred her knife to her right hand, Katla curled the gloved fingers of her left hand around the quivering grip of the knife stuck in his throat, smearing blood all over the wooden handle. A clean handle in a vicious stabbing would be improbable.

A low sighing moan escaped from his slack mouth and he stopped moving.

Katla backed away from the spreading pool of blood, watching him carefully. Cadaverous stillness was difficult to fake, but she kept one wary eye on him as she ran the tap and rinsed the blade she’d used on him. She changed her soiled gloves for fresh ones, while she watched Severin’s skin grow paler. When the heart stopped pumping blood, gravity pulled the blood down to the lowest point in the body.

She observed the scene as a forensic scientist would.

The knife in his throat would seem to be the last cut made by the assailant. Forensics would conclude that he was attacked by a left-handed assailant and fended off the first stabs and cuts before he slipped and fell with the knife in his throat. They rarely considered the presence of a second blade with similar dimensions to make defence wounds after the fatal stab wound. As long as the other cuts were made before the heart stopped pumping.

Wearing fresh gloves, Katla dried the other blade carefully and placed the knife back in her leather case.

The widening pool of blood reached the handle of the electrified training blade she’d tossed aside. Before the ShocKnife could get tainted by the blood, she picked up the training blade and put it back in the case.

Nifty gadgets. She wouldn’t have much use for them, but if she left them, their presence might complicate the crime scene. Severin wouldn’t have them just lying about in the kitchen.

Katla ran on her blood-covered shoes into the hallway and put the anti-burglary chain on the door. She turned to her weekend bag, took out a large ziplock bag with fresh clothes, a garbage bag and a large shopping bag. After opening the garbage bag, she removed the bloody apron. The clothes underneath seemed virtually free of blood, but that was an illusion. The soiled gloves and apron went into the garbage bag, which would go in the shopping bag after she’d added the killing clothes. She covered her soiled shoes with a pair of brand-new oversized Nike sneakers she took from her weekend bag.

Katla explored the apartment, the Nikes squeaking on the smooth wooden floor. The police might find the sneaker prints, but the Nikes had no wear pattern yet, so the prints and their size would give them a number of false leads.

The CQC-6 Severin had just bought was on his bedside table. Maybe he’d figured to impress her later. She slipped the knife in her pocket and opened the drawers of his wardrobe, starting with the bottom drawers in case she’d have to abandon her explorations before she was finished. Underwear, socks, shirts, more shirts, belts, gloves. The wardrobe doors ran silently as she pushed them aside. Nice suits, a rack with ties. The left side held shoes. More shoes than she’d ever seen in a men’s wardrobe. Weird, because he hadn’t looked at her shoes. Or maybe they’d fitted with her off-the-rack suit.

The next wardrobe contained his knife collection. Unlike the CQC and the training knives, his other collectables would doubtlessly be documented and traceable. A shame, because he had some beautiful collector’s items.

A drawer contained close to three thousand dollars in cash, and one passport. The petty cash drawer. He’d probably have a more secure safe somewhere else, with more money and the rest of his passports, but his execution was supposed to look like a spontaneous killing, not a hit or a burglary gone wrong, so she took two thousand dollars and left one thousand and the passport. She closed all the drawers and doors and slipped back out of his bedroom. She didn’t expect anyone to drop by soon—Severin had obviously expected to spend a couple of undisturbed hours with her—but she shouldn’t overstay her welcome. After a cursory inspection of the rest of the apartment, Katla returned to the scene of the crime.

The kitchen smelled of faecal matter. His sphincter had obviously loosened, as expected, and her stab wounds to his belly had punctured his stomach, which added to the aroma. Katla put her knife case, the ShocKnives, and the CQC-6 in the weekend bag, changed quickly, put her used clothes in the garbage bag and stuffed that in the shopping bag.

From the pocket of her navy-blue suit she took a pair of large round spectacles that changed perception of the shape of her face. The best disguises were the simplest.

With the weekend bag hanging from her shoulder, Katla went into the hallway and listened behind the closed door. Not a sound. It was early yet, but she didn’t want to be seen by his neighbours. Nobody had met them on the way in, not even a doorman, so the building was probably deserted.

Ideal for a terrorist like Severin, but also accommodating for assassins.

She removed the chain from the door and stepped out into the hallway, closed the door behind her and stripped off her gloves as she went down the stairs. At the ground floor, she pushed the door open with a paper tissue and stepped into the street. Katla walked to the Dupont Circle metro station, where she took the Red Line to Gallery and switched to the Green Line to Ward Eight, where she could find a place to burn the shopping bag without attracting attention.

YAKUZA

With her black umbrella shielding her from the summer rain Laure Cohn walked from Nieuwmarkt to the blind man’s house, occasionally checking the map on her phone to see if she was still heading in the right direction. As she was heading south down along the canal, the alley had to be on her right just beyond the Compagnietheater.

The Spinhuissteeg was lovely and clean and seemed to be pedestrian only.

Not what Laure had expected.

Someone had even put large pots with flowers outside. Nobody seemed to have taken issue with their unblemished exterior to tag them with graffiti. Or something else had held them back.

She checked her phone again for the address and halted before the house. A large ornamental door set about four feet high with stone steps. To the right of the door was a polished plaque engraved with dark Japanese characters. For a moment Laure thought Basalt had given her the wrong address, then she remembered the conversation Merleyn had with Cynthia Koninck and the reference to Merleyn living in the basement of a Japanese club.

The house didn’t look like a club though.

Laure went down a few steps to the basement doors. The tiny windows, made of sturdy wire‑glass, were dark, but Laure rapped them anyway. Merleyn might not turn the lights on if he was home alone.

Right above her someone cleared her throat and Laure looked up in the face of a young Japanese girl, dressed in a burnt-orange kimono, standing just outside the elevated entrance door.

Shielded under a peacock-shaped umbrella that made Laure’s plain black umbrella seem shabby, the girl tapped her manicured nails on the metal railing at the top of the steps. Without saying anything, she made Laure feel like she was snooping.

Laure straightened. “I’m looking for Bram Merleyn.”

The girl blinked slowly like an owl after eating a juicy mouse. “And you are?”

“Laure Cohn. He knows me, we spoke briefly yesterday.”

With a smirk, the girl slowly tilted her head sideways. “And what makes you think he’d like to see you?”

See me? Was that a trick question?

Laure climbed the basement steps back to street level, but she didn’t ascend the steps to the main entrance. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Why would I?” The girl couldn’t be more than seventeen, but she dialled up scathing disapproval in her eyes with the ease of someone twice her age. “You smell like police. ”

“Is that right? What do police smell like?”

“Desperation,” the girl said. “And bad coffee.”

“Forget it,” Laure said. “I’ll find another way to talk to him.”

She turned and the girl said, “Are you that desperate to disturb him?”

“Disturb him?”

“Your funeral.” With a secretive smile the girl folded the peacock umbrella and retreated into the hallway, opening the ornamental front door all the way. “Come on in.”

Laure climbed the stone steps, closing her umbrella as she entered a plush hallway. The wall behind the door featured small lockers, the other wall racks with boxes for shoes. The girl held out a box. Laure took off her Manolo Blahnik booties and placed them in the box. The girl handed her a numbered token, then pointed at the lockers. “Knives and firearms.”

“You’re kidding.”

The girl gave her the bad smell look again. “Nope.”

“I don’t carry weapons.”

The girl stepped aside and pointed up the stairs, where a Japanese guy sat on a stool, watching her with dead fish eyes.

“He will frisk you,” the girl said. “If he finds anything, he’ll toss you back down the stairs.”

“For a club, the hospitality is underwhelming.”

The girl smirked again. “We don’t cater to your kind, officer.”

From her pocket Laure took a flashlight and her tactical folding knife and put both in the locker. The girl watched dispassionately, waited for Laure to close the locker and take the key. She handed her a pair of cheap slippers and pointed at the cold-eyed yakuza.

“Bram is upstairs, in the dojo. Yori will take you to him.”

“Thanks.”

They went up one flight of stairs, where the Japanese guy pointed at a bowl and held up a metal detector. Laure fished out her keys, pen and digital voice recorder, and placed the items in the bowl while he ran the detector over her body. Switching off the detector, motioned for her to pick up her stuff and go up the stairs while he followed.

On slippered feet Laure climbed the stairs to the top floor, where she halted at a door with small black kanji characters.

“This is it?”

The yakuza looked at her. “You better not talk to Bram until he leaves the mats.”

She nodded and stepped into a changing room, empty except for a thin cotton robe hanging from a peg. The yakuza waved her on as she walked to a door to their left and peered through a small window. Before she reached the window a blood-curdling cry sounded from the other side and the yakuza smiled mirthlessly. “See, he’s still practicing.”

Laure walked up to the door and looked through the window into the dojo itself.

Merleyn was crouched in the middle of the dojo, dressed in blue, a scabbarded sword at his side. With a shout he jumped up, unsheathed the sword and cut the air in front of him, before landing on his left knee, his right foot in front of him. For a moment he remained motionless, then the sword swung back until it rested edge‑up on his left shoulder. In a single fluid motion he sheathed the sword and sank in his crouch again.

“What is he doing?” Laure asked.

“Battōjutsu,” the yakuza said. “Sword-drawing.”

Merleyn emitted another spine-chilling cry and rotated his upper body to the right as he stepped out with his right foot, the sword simultaneously leaving the scabbard and slashing the air in a horizontal arc from left to right. Putting the pommel against his chest he moved forward and extended his right arm, skewering an unseen enemy. Swiftly he pulled the sword back, jumped up and changed feet in the air, raised his sword high overhead and cut down.

When he began sheathing the sword Laure glanced at the yakuza and tilted her chin in Merleyn’s direction. “Is that a real sword?”

The yakuza gave her a bemused look. “Of course. This is not iaido.”

“I heard they’re expensive.”

“I heard that too.” The yakuza turned away from the window. “I go downstairs. You better wait here until he’s finished.”

“I’ll be fine.”

The yakuza stopped at the door. “Probably. Don’t step inside.”

He closed the door behind him. Laure turned back to the window to watch Merleyn slash more unseen enemies to bits. Slowly Laure took the handle and opened the door, padding silently inside and closing it softly behind her.

Merleyn stiffened slightly and held up his right hand. “Blijf daar.”

She was about to ask what he meant, but the intention was obvious and the girl had told her not to speak to him before he left the mats, so she kept silent and sat on the wooden steps that led to the practice floor. Merleyn seemed to relax again, his right hand back on his thigh.

With a shout Merleyn drew his sword and stabbed forward, rising to his feet and turning in her direction, slashing the air in front of her. Despite the tip being a long way off, Laure automatically whipped back her head, hitting the back of her head against the door behind her, while Merleyn turned forward again, raised the sword high overhead and slashed down while he sank on his left knee.

Grimacing, she rubbed the back of her head, while Merleyn returned the sword to the scabbard and sank in a crouch again. With his thumb he undid the cord and pulled the scabbarded sword from his belt, offering the weapon horizontally in the direction of the altar on the dais in the back and bowing his head. He held the position a couple of seconds, then pulled the sword diagonally against his chest and rose to his feet.

After a standing bow, he turned and walked towards her, the scabbarded sword loosely in his left hand.

“That was pretty impressive,” Laure said.

“It keeps the mice away.” Merleyn halted a pace away, his face mask‑like. “What brings you here?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

Merleyn reached past her and picked a small box from the shelf. “Any particular topic?”

“Your girlfriend.”

“I see.” Merleyn opened the box and took out what looked like an oversized Q-tip. “I guess nobody told you it’s impolite to talk about people behind their back.”

He unsheathed his sword and started some elaborate cleaning ritual. Again Laure was struck by the inner peace Merleyn projected. Maybe she was just surrounded by fidgety people, but his efficiency in motion, without a single unnecessary movement, made her aware of the deep calm reigning in the dojo.

In the distance a carillon played, the tinkling sound enhancing the austere serenity of the simple space. Merleyn sheathed the sword and put the cleaning utensils back in the box.

Without using his hands, Merleyn floated to his feet and took both kit and sword past her into the changing room. Laure followed him and watched as he opened a cupboard, put away the cleaning kit, hung the sword horizontally on pegs and closed the doors.

Paying no attention to her, Merleyn undid the straps around his waist and stepped out of the skirt‑like garment that covered his legs, flapped the skirt twice and twisted the straps around a couple of pegs to air out the garment. He unwound the wide belt that held the blue jacket together and removed both. Turning his back to her, Merleyn dropped his boxers, reached stark-naked into a locker and took out a small bottle.

Laure cleared her throat and Merleyn turned around. It didn’t look as if he was deliberately exposing himself. At least, he wasn’t aroused. She forced her eyes up and noticed a scar over his left collarbone. Unlike the old scars in his face, this one was fresh, maybe a few months old, and puckered like he’d been skewered with a sword.

“I can’t talk with your girlfriend, Bram. She filed a harassment suit.”

“Yes, she told me.”

Merleyn turned and walked to the showers. A moment later she heard the sound of water spraying on flesh and tiles.

Laure walked to the doorway of the shower area and spoke loudly, “You didn’t file suit, so you must not feel harassed.”

“Nobody accused me of killing someone.”

The blind man tilted his head back and let the water beat him in the face. With his arms raised he stood motionless in the spray for a minute, turned off the hot water and leaned his hands against the tiles, blowing and gasping under the cold water pouring on his neck and shoulders and running down his lanky frame. He shut off the water and shook his head like a dog, spraying water drops around, then turned and stalked in her direction. She backed away from the doorway as he reached around and plucked a fluffy white towel from a wooden peg.

“So,” he said. “You still think she killed someone?”

“No,” Laure said. “I know she killed someone.”

“I won’t refute your allegation,” he said, towelling himself off vigorously. “In a way it’s gratifying to see someone else’s blindness superseding my own.”

“Are you trying to insult me?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Merleyn stopped drying himself and cocked his head. “What time is it?”

“Five minutes past noon.”

“I’ve got an appointment to massage someone at one-thirty and I’ve got plenty to do beforehand.” Merleyn shrugged into the thin cotton robe and knotted the sash. “My time’s too valuable to waste on idle chit‑chat.”

“What if I’d pay you for your time?”

He snorted. “Like a snitch?”

“We don’t call them snitches,” Laure folded her arms. “Confidential Informant is the term. How much do you make from massages?”

He turned away from her to hang the damp towel on a drying rack in the corner. “You’d have to be a member of the club to use my services.”

“Where do I sign?”

He twirled his finger. “Turn around.”

She turned and felt him come closer, standing right behind her. Merleyn rested his hand on her shoulder, then moved his fingers to the side of her neck, the tips applying gentle pressure on her carotid artery.

“Seventy‑five euro for half an hour.” He flexed his fingers. “No checks, no credit cards.”

Laure handed him a fifty, a twenty and a five euro note. Merleyn scanned the notes with his fingers. Unlike US dollars, the Euro banknotes did not only increase in size according to their value, but also featured tactile symbols that signified their denomination. Merleyn tossed the banknotes on a bench and said, “Take off your clothes.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Laure said. “I’ll pay you, but you can skip the massage.”

Merleyn walked away to the other side of the changing room and returned with a rolled-up futon and a folded robe. “You can talk all you want during the massage, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable accepting a fee without rendering services.” He gave her a crooked smile. “You’re a prude, but I promise I won’t look.”

She could see Merleyn enjoyed her discomfort, like the girl in the burnt orange kimono.

“What’s with the disdain?” She hung her jacket from a peg and fingered the digital voice recorder in the breast pocket. Even in high-quality mode, the digital voice recorder could record for thirty-six hours straight. Leaving the recorder hanging in the breast pocket, Laure pressed the record button. She could always erase the digital file. “Just because I might be uncomfortable undressing in front of strangers doesn’t make me a prude.”

Merleyn held out the robe. “Maybe not, but hesitancy to undress before a massage is prudish behaviour.”

She took off her sweater and jeans, cursing herself for wearing a body stocking instead of a bra and undies. Now she had to get totally naked. She shrugged into the robe. “You don’t waste time setting your clients at ease, do you?”

“My clients never need comforting, Laure. They trust me.” Merleyn carried the futon into the dojo. “Follow me.”

Laure snatched the voice recorder from her jacket and followed Merleyn. The robe didn’t have pockets, but he couldn’t see the recorder anyway, so there was no need to hide it. He unrolled the futon on the mats close to the entrance, told her to get comfortable and went back into the changing room.

She looked around for a place to leave the recorder. There was a wooden platform next to the steps, quite far from the futon. It was quiet in the dojo, so even from a distance it would pick up their voices. She adjusted the sensitivity and put the recorder on the wooden platform, aiming the built-in microphone at the futon.

Merleyn returned with two tube pillows. She took off the robe and lay on the futon, resting her arms along her body and closing her eyes.

Merleyn walked up to her and placed a hand on her lower back, rocking her slowly from side to side. At the gentle touch of his warm hands she couldn’t help a small sigh escaping from her mouth. He had been right about her needing a massage. While he rocked her softly, the fingers of his free hand prodded her spine. Moving with her exhalations he pressed and she heard her vertebrae click.

“You’re pretty good,” Laure said.

“I have to be.”

“Because your clients are yakuza?”

“Because my clients are used to Japanese practitioners,” Merleyn said. “I have to surpass my peers to show my clients I’m equal.”

“But this is a yakuza club, isn’t it?”

“Not all Japanese are yakuza.”

“No, but the yakuza are easy to dis—”

Laure stopped herself. Of course, he couldn’t see their tattoos. That must be why they allowed him to massage them.

“Dis?” Merleyn said. “I’d never disrespect my clients.”

“I wasn’t talking about that. You can’t see their tattoos, of course. What about the elaborate ritual at the front door?”

“Taking off your shoes? That’s normal for a Japanese household.”

“The lockers? The guard in the stairwell? Is he one of your clients?”

“Yori? What about him?”

“Never noticed that he misses part of his little finger?”

“Of course I did. He used to work in a factory.”

“He could be lying to you about that.”

“Yes,” Merleyn said. “Yes, I suppose he could.”

She wouldn’t get anything out of him. Laure relaxed and let him massage her. At least she got a massage out of her money.

“Why did you leave the DEA for Homeland Security?”

Laure worked herself up on her elbows. “How do you—”

“You’d be amazed how much information can be gleaned from digital records.” Merleyn pushed her down on the futon. “Did they make you, because of your brother?”

“You don’t know anything.” Her mind flashed to her brother’s wasted body lying in a basement of an abandoned factory. “My brother had nothing to do with that.”

“The DEA didn’t mind your brother was a junkie?”

“It wasn’t his fault he got addicted.”

“Of course not,” Merleyn spoke softly. “You can’t blame someone for displaying a weak character or having bad friends.”

“It wasn’t like that,” she replied, stiffening. “Philippe had problems.”

“If everybody with problems took an overdose, not many people would be left.” His hands rested on her shoulders. “Don’t feel you have to defend someone’s choices, not even if you love them. People have a right to make their own mistakes. Even if it kills them.”

“What if they aren’t equipped to handle their problems?”

“They can ask for help, Laure. Like you’re doing, right now.”

“What makes you think I—”

“You want to discuss my perceptive abilities or shall we come to the point?”

“My problem might be too big for you to handle.”

“I’m not without resources. Turn over.”

She propped herself up on an elbow and looked up at him, but Merleyn’s face was inscrutable, a mask. “What would you want in return?”

“Depends on the problem, Laure.”

She lay back down and closed her eyes. “What if I tell you my problem and you decide against helping me?”

“There is a limit to my abilities.” Merleyn resumed his massage. “And I’m too fond of myself to place myself in obvious danger, so I guess there is a chance I might be inclined to let you sort out your own problems.”

“Cautious fellow, aren’t you?”

“I don’t trust you. You tried to land my lover in jail.”

“Putting your girlfriend in jail wouldn’t serve my goal. Sieltjes was a tool.”

“Is that right?” a soft voice spoke to her right. Laure opened her eyes and almost cried out at the sight of Sieltjes standing in the doorway, gazing at her with a cold glitter in her blue eyes and a faint smile on her face. The panic that made her heart beat like a triphammer must’ve been visible in her eyes, because Sieltjes’ smile turned into a feral grin.

“Relax, Laure,” Merleyn spoke, prodding her stiff shoulders with his strong fingers. “Calling my girlfriend a tool was rude, but I’m sure Katla will accept an apology.”

“Jesus Christ, you knew she was here.” Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips before she could stop it, hating herself for displaying her agitation like that. “Give me my clothes, I want to leave.”

“Katla, can you hand Ms. Cohn her robe?”

The recorder.

“I’ll get them myself.”

Sieltjes didn’t move at all, just watched her as she rolled from the futon and scrambled for the robe.

“Looking for this?” Sieltjes held the digital voice recorder. “I don’t think you’re allowed to record a conversation without consent.”

Laure whipped the robe around her. “I’d like that back.”

“I’m sure you would.” Sieltjes slipped the recorder in her pocket. “What are you doing here?”

Maybe she should follow Merleyn’s lead. “I need your help.”

“You want something shipped?” Sieltjes tossed her a Sphinx Shipping business card. “Call Emil Bootz, tell him you know me. That’ll get you a discount.”

Merleyn walked away into the changing room, the futon rolled up under his arm.

“I shouldn’t tell you.” Laure looked Sieltjes in the eye. “I’m with Homeland Security.”

“You’re far from your homeland.”

“I could give you a lot of abbreviations, but I’m with the department that seeks out international threats before they become domestic.”

Merleyn stuck his head inside. “I’m heading downstairs. You want something?”

“Order me coffee,” Sieltjes spoke without turning around. “I’ll be right down.”

Merleyn disappeared and Sieltjes said, “Get dressed and get out.”

“Can you just listen to what I have to say?”

The assassin turned and for a brief moment her blue eyes became opaque, drained of humanity and indifferent like the eyes of a doll. A murderous psychopathic doll. Standing close, as close as the assassin had been to Kosinski just before she jammed a sharp sliver into his crotch.

Laure swallowed and said, “Five minutes.”

“What the hell.” Sieltjes curled her lip. “You can have six.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Sieltjes moved into the changing room. “I’ll listen, that’s all.”

“That’s good enough for now.”

-o-

Laure came downstairs, where the taciturn guard pointed at the wide doors leading to the basement. The left door was ajar and Laure slipped inside.

Milky orbs illuminated a sparsely furnished low‑ceilinged space, the floor covered with spotless tatami. Laure halted at the top of the ramp leading down to the floor from the double doors. Merleyn stood to her left, carefully lowering a needle in the groove of a vinyl record. Muted jazz came from speakers wired up to the ceiling.

The assassin sat on the bed with her back against pillows propped against the wall and her long legs stretched out in front of her. Sieltjes fiddled with her voice recorder, not paying her any attention.

Laure gazed around for something to sit on. The only pieces of furniture apart from the bed were a wardrobe with sliding doors against the back wall and a wooden chest with ornate carving beside the small basement doors leading directly to the street. Except for the glowing orbs, the off‑white walls were bare.

Laure sauntered slowly down the ramp and said, “Where do I sit?”

“On the floor or on the bed,” Merleyn said. “I don’t entertain much, so I don’t have chairs.”

“That’s okay.” Laure sat on the edge of the bed, away from the assassin’s feet, and crossed her legs. “Can I have my recorder back?”

“Sure.” Sieltjes tossed it in her lap. “I wiped the memory and removed the battery.”

A bell pinged in the corner and Merleyn walked to an alcove in the corner beside the wardrobe, where he opened a partition and took out a tray. Sieltjes leaned over lazily, picked up the lacquer table beside the bed and placed it on the futon.

Merleyn halted at the edge of the bed and sank slowly to his knees, placing the tray carefully on the lacquer table, then rose again and turned to walk to an electric kettle on a fridge by the washbasin. Like in the dojo, his movements were precise and efficient. The blind man moved carefully back to the bed with his tea and floated into a kneeled position.

“Let’s hear your pitch.” Merleyn placed his tea carefully on the mats and folded his hands in his lap. “Succinct and to the point.”

“Where do I start?”

“We don’t need the story of your life,” Sieltjes said. “Elevator pitch, please.”

“We need your client,” Laure said. “Not the one who ordered the Kosinski hit, but the previous one, in Washington.”

“Kosinski?” Neither of them showed signs of recognising the name.

“Pavocelic,” Laure said. Sieltjes looked at her blankly and Laure sighed. “The guy at the airport? Ring any bells?”

“You want me to tell you who ordered him killed? Why would I—”

“Not him, we know who ordered that hit. We want to know who ordered you to kill Salahedin?”

“Who’s Saladin?”

“Salahedin,” Laure corrected. “You might know him as Severin.”

Merleyn leaned forward. “When you say, ‘hit’, you mean assassinated?”

“Yes. By your girlfriend here.” Laure tilted her head. “I thought we dispensed with the games now?”

“Who are these people?” Merleyn blew across his hot tea. “Terrorists?”

“Yes. Well, not Kosinski, but Salahedin, yes.”

Sieltjes tilted her head. “What was Kosinski?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I like to get my facts straight, Laure. You’re not interested in who ordered the Kosinski hit. You know who ordered that hit. And he’s not a terrorist. So, who is he?”

Laure sighed. “He was an undercover agent, who volunteered to be your target.”

“Wait a minute,” Merleyn said. “You had an undercover agent pose as a target for an assassin?”

“I cannot go into classified operational details, but I supervised an undercover operation from Washington DC.” Laure looked at Sieltjes. “We were about to catch a terrorist, when he was stabbed to death.”

Sieltjes reached out and placed her hand like a spider over the steaming cup of espresso, grabbed the edge of the stainless steel saucer with her fingertips and nimbly lifted cup and saucer without the rim of the cup touching her palm.

“Go on,” Sieltjes said. “Haven’t heard anything interesting yet.”

“The guy was known for his expertise with sharp implements. And his forearms were torn up with defence wounds.”

“Isn’t that normal?” Merleyn asked. “Defence wounds when you get stabbed?”

“If you’re threatened with a knife, and someone lunges, an unarmed person might try to block the knife with his arms, yes.”

Sieltjes yawned and said, “Except that this guy was armed.”

“Some people are gun nuts. Salahedin was a knife nut. And hard to surprise. If someone threatened him with a knife, he’d most likely take it away and use it on his attacker. So he was stabbed to death and the defence wounds were added later.”

“Post-mortem?” Merleyn asked. “So they’re not defence wounds?”

“Actually, the wounds were ante-mortem, but they were definitely not defence wounds.”

Sieltjes looked bored, but Merleyn nodded. “If they were not defence wounds, what kind of wounds were they?”

“They were made later to mask the surprise attack,” Laure said. “We got an outside specialist, just to study the defence wounds. And he was pretty sure the defence wounds were added later because the musculature didn’t seem to match up.”

Sieltjes sipped her coffee.

“Let me show you what I mean.” Laure turned to Merleyn. “Hold up your arms in a block.”

Merleyn held up his arms and Laure jabbed at his arms with her thumbnail. The muscles in his arms flexed and she said, “The muscles flex involuntarily when you block. In this case, some cuts seemed to show that the muscles didn’t flex, so the arms were relaxed. They were in a blocking position, but not tensed up to block.”

“Your specialist wasn’t ‘sure’,” Sieltjes said. “He was ‘pretty sure’. And the musculature didn’t ‘seem to’ match up. His conclusion was conjecture, wasn’t it?”

“You probably don’t want your own expertise devalued,” Laure said. “Your shoddy work would’ve gone unnoticed in most cases as most detectives wouldn’t bother having the defence wounds re-examined after they’d been judged ante-mortem by a certified pathologist.”

“But he wasn’t certain, your specialist?” Merleyn asked.

Laure shook her head, pinched the bridge of her nose and said, “No. Not absolutely certain. The arms weren’t totally relaxed, so the killer must’ve tensed the muscles in some way prior to applying the defence wounds.”

Sieltjes sipped her espresso, her eyes closed, but Merleyn frowned. “How?”

“I don’t know. Your girlfriend knows, but I don’t think she’ll reveal the tricks of her trade.”

The ghost of a smile passed fleetingly over Sieltjes’ face.

“Just what I thought,” Laure said. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea what amuses me,” Sieltjes murmured. “And your blunt observations are neither accurate nor amusing.”

“You’re not infallible, you know?”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Merleyn said. “Though not as spectacular as you. Setting up a colleague to act as a target for an assassin and getting him killed. Does Basalt know you ordered that hit?”

“My Dutch colleagues know. Why do you think we were all at Schiphol?”

“Their presence at Schiphol doesn’t mean they were informed. You seem at ease lying to people.”

“They were informed,” Laure said. “And I’m not a liar.”

“I bet you told your dead colleague that he wouldn’t get killed,” Sieltjes remarked, gazing at the ceiling. “Or don’t you consider that a lie?”

Before Laure could speak, Merleyn lifted his hand. “Guess you underestimated that assassin you hired. What was the whole idea behind your ploy anyway?”

“People are getting killed left and right, without due process of law. We want to put a stop to that.”

“So you set up your colleague as a Judas goat?” Merleyn put down his tea. “Seriously? Is that the same crap you told Basalt?”

“It’s the truth.”

Merleyn shook his head. “Please don’t tell me you care about terrorists getting killed without a fair trial.”

“Even terrorists have rights.”

Sieltjes shook with silent mirth.

“I think I know what you wanted,” Merleyn said. “You wanted to flush out an assassin, then get him to do your dirty work for free.”

Sieltjes folded her hands behind her head. “Not only did you catch the wrong person, but you got your colleague killed. I bet that stings.”

“I know you killed Kosinski,” Laure said. “You don’t fool me.”

“I know you want to believe I’m some kind of super assassin.” Sieltjes finished her espresso. “If only to ease your guilty conscience for getting your colleague killed.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Eyewitness reports are notoriously inaccurate,” Merleyn said. “Even observations by law enforcement personnel.”

She couldn’t discuss eyewitness testimony with a blind man without sounding petulant. Worst of all, Merleyn was right.

Laure got up, took out her card and tossed it at Sieltjes. “If you reconsider, give me a call.”

“Re-consider?” Sieltjes tossed the card on the tray with the coffee cups. “I haven’t heard anything that needs considering.”

Laure studied the assassin. “You don’t want to play ball, that’s your decision. We could make life difficult for you.”

Sieltjes smirked. “If that is supposed to impress me, it’s not working.”

Laure took one last look at the empty blue eyes and turned on her heel, suppressing a shiver as she walked to the double doors. She was one foot out of the basement, when Merleyn spoke in a high voice, “Thanks for the coffee, Bram,” then answered himself, “Sure, Laure, you’re welcome.”

Laure felt shame and rage fill her up as Sieltjes’ laughter followed her into the hallway. Wordlessly she collected her weapons and booties from the girl in the burnt-orange kimono and stepped outside again.

The summer rain had stopped.

With the folded umbrella in her left hand she went down the steps, skirting the puddles as she walked out of the alley.

KERES

Marijn Polak studied the forensic specialist in the mirror behind the bar while he waited for his two beers. Either Niels was not used to being in dingy bars or he was taking the undercover status of Marijn way too serious. He twitched in his seat and kept looking over his shoulder. Marijn put a Heineken in front of him and slipped in the booth, his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. “So there is a pattern, Niels?”

“It’s a highly unusual pattern.” Niels unfolded a piece of paper and pointed at the numbers at the edge of the web of lines he’d drawn. “The client paid five thousand into an account number for what looks like editorial work. The account number is for a company called Keres Edits. I cross-referenced amounts of four to six thousand paid to Keres Edits and found one other, about seven years ago. Different amount, same company. However, when I did my search again with just the amount, I came across several other accounts that seemed linked. Libitina Makelaars, Kur Travel, and Schilderbedrijf Valdis.”

“And that’s all that links them? The fee?”

“You’re not meant to see the link. Unless you’re interested in mythology.” Niels smiled happily. “Mythology is a hobby of mine. I specialise in Greek mythology, but no study of mythology is complete without at least a cursory look at other cultures.”

“Keres is from mythology? Never heard of it.”

“Greek mythology. The Keres are female death spirits,” Niels whispered. “Daughters of Nyx or night, they are the opposite of Thanatos, the peaceful death. The Keres are violent death, dark winged demons with gnashing teeth and sharp claws, who attack fallen soldiers on the battlefield and drink their blood, casting their souls into Hades.”

“I get the picture,” Marijn said. “And the other names are also death related?”

“Libitina is the Roman goddess of corpses and funerals, Kur is Sumerian for the realm of the dead, and Valdis is the Scandinavian goddess of the dead, from the Old Norse ‘valr’ meaning ‘the dead’ and ‘dis’ meaning ‘goddess’.”

Marijn leaned back and raised his beer. “Still, five thousand is a small amount of money. Not nearly enough to hire a killer. Especially someone like Loki.”

The forensic specialist raised his beer in return and said, “What if it’s only the contact fee? Just to make contact and discuss the job?”

Marijn nodded. “You might be right about that.”

He took a beer coaster and jotted down the names of the companies.

“So the actual fee is much higher,” Niels said. “Except that I’ve found nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Just keep looking,” Marijn said. “You’re onto something here.”

The forensic specialist beamed at the compliment and drained his beer. “Thanks. It’s the first time my hobby paid dividends.”

“Never found another use for your knowledge of Greek mythology?”

“Sadly, no,” Niels replied. “I find it fascinating, but even scholars are denigrating about Greek mythology.”

“Whoever is behind these companies probably shares your fascination with mythology.” Marijn rose from his seat. “Thanks a lot for meeting me here. I appreciate it. Let me know if you find something else, okay?”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’d love to talk about mythology some more,” Marijn lied. “But I’ve got to be somewhere. You have my number, give me a call.”

The forensic specialist nodded. “I will.”

Marijn put the beer coaster with the names in his inside pocket, pulled his ball cap low over his eyes and left the bar.

-o-

The girl behind the counter at the Chamber of Commerce was suitably impressed by Marijn’s police ID card. He gave her the beer coaster with the names.

She frowned at her computer screen and said, “Keres is not registered.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Neither is Libitina.” She typed another. “Or Kur. Or Valdis.”

“All these companies have bank accounts that would require them to be registered at the Chamber of Commerce, right?”

The girl shook her head, but said, “I think so. Even if a company is no longer active, I should still be able to see that there was a company registered, but none of these companies ever existed.”

“As far as your computer records go.”

“The records go back five years. If these companies have been active, they’ve done so without being registered with us.”

Marijn thanked her and left her frowning over her computer as he walked out, calling the forensic specialist on his cell phone.

“Niels, the companies we discussed are not registered with the Chamber of Commerce. Do you have the bank account numbers for me?”

“Sure, I’ll send a file to your phone.”

“Can you include the name of the bank?”

“Of course,” Niels said, as if it was a ridiculous question. “I’m currently looking into more death-related company names.”

“Great, Niels. Keep me posted.”

Marijn disconnected and walked to his Yamaha XT motorcycle. Basalt had asked him to join him later at the Coffee Company at Waterlooplein, but he still had an hour to kill.

A watery sun was breaking through the low clouds, reflecting off the line of cars that snaked down the De Ruyterkade. He looked out over the IJ and the huge white building of the Film Museum EYE dominating the waterfront. Behind the industrial area lay the countryside he knew so well, small asphalt roads snaking through meadows. He started the Yamaha, figuring he’d clear his head with a ride, when his phone beeped.

Marijn checked the screen, which filled with account numbers and the name of the bank. He knew the bank. The headquarters were at the Amstelveenseweg. If he left now, he’d have twenty minutes to check out the accounts before he’d have to leave for his appointment with Basalt. He put away his phone and concentrated on riding the city traffic, ignoring most traffic laws except the law of the asphalt jungle: Don’t Get Hit.

At the bank, the receptionist called a bank manager, who copied the account numbers and promised to look into them. Marijn had hoped for something more, but the bank manager was professionally evasive. If he wanted information he’d have to get the bank fraud department to look into the accounts.

He was early for his appointment with Basalt, so Marijn figured a short ride through the countryside would be just the ticket.

If only to blow the stench of bureaucracy from his mind.

DEA II

Marijn Polak parked his Yamaha next to a covered sidecar rig in front of the Hell’s Angel tattoo shop and nodded at the unkempt biker staring bored from the window. The Coffee Company was just across the way.

Basalt sat upstairs on the mezzanine, close to the railing to keep an eye on the entrance. Marijn pointed at the counter to show that he was going to get a cappuccino and Basalt held up his cup and three fingers. Marijn ordered three cappuccino and took them up the stairs.

Basalt was in deep conversation with a stunning redhead, who glanced up and rubbed her left shoulder as Marijn approached the table. With her short red hair and her pixie face she looked like Jean Seberg in À Bout de Souffle. Except that Seberg was a blonde with blue eyes and the redhead’s eyes were bright green.

“You must be Marijn,” she spoke in Dutch with an American accent. She extended her hand. “Deborah Stern, DEA.”

Her grip was strong, almost masculine. Marijn shifted one of the chairs closer to the railing so he could keep half an eye on the stairs. “DEA? The Chechen case?”

She shook her head. “I’m not here for the Chechen, Marijn. Can I call you Marijn?”

“Sure. Your Dutch is excellent, for an American.”

“Deborah is half-Dutch on her mother’s side,” Basalt said. “She’s a special liaison with the Den Haag office.”

“I’m here for the Kosinski case,” Deborah said. “I’d like to hear what you’ve got so far.”

Basalt gave him a nod and Marijn told her about the pager number, the non-existent companies with death-related names, the five thousand euro and the maze of bank accounts.

“The bank is not forthcoming, I’m afraid,” Marijn said. “The amount is too low for murder-for-hire, but a specialist I spoke to figures the fee is just a contact fee.”

Deborah nodded. “Something like that.”

“So what do you know?”

“Who is your specialist?”

Marijn leaned back and folded his arms. “You first.”

“Last summer, a Colombian businessman and his bodyguard were killed in an Amsterdam hotel.”

“Hotel Slaughterhouse.” Basalt nodded. “One of my colleagues was pissed off that the case wasn’t handled by our homicide division.”

Deborah shrugged. “The victims were part of a joint DEA/IPOL operation.”

“You said two people were murdered. I remember it was more than two.”

“More than two, yes, but only the two I mentioned were targets. The others were circumstantial.”

“How many others?” Marijn asked. “More than two?”

“Three extra bodies. At the hotel. Based on the evidence, we figured there were two or more perps, with military experience. The perps sprayed FARC on the wall, but we got information later that all five were killed by one ambidextrous perp, who took great pains to make the killings look like the work of a FARC death squad.”

“One person?”

“We don’t believe that’s necessarily true. However, the rest of the information was verified.”

“This was murder-for-hire?”

Deborah nodded. “The client wanted the investigation to be focused on Colombia. We can tie the hotel murders to a killing at Schiphol and a supposedly accidental drowning.”

“Drowning?” Marijn looked at Basalt. “Is she talking about Heiboer?”

Deborah shook her head. “No, but Heiboer is on our list as well. As possible target.”

“Really? You think Heiboer might’ve been killed by a hitman?”

She put a piece of paper on the table. “Familiar?”

Marijn looked at the number on the paper. “Nope.”

“This is the pager number for Loki Enterprises. My colleague has automated programs scanning information provided by the telephone companies. A prepaid cell phone called this pager number from the World Trade Center about two weeks before Heiboer drowned.”

“A pager? Isn’t that technology a bit outdated?”

“The main reason pagers are still used is because the coverage is better. Cell phones lack reception underground or when you’re surrounded by metal and concrete. Pagers don’t have that problem, since they receive a blanket signal amplified by multiple transmitters.”

“So they work with pagers because they have better reception?”

“No, the lack of transmitters.” Deborah smiled. “The reason pagers are used in hospitals, is because they only receive and don’t send out signals, so they won’t mess with sensitive equipment. But that also means they cannot be tracked like cell phones, so Loki Enterprises can be reached but not located.”

Marijn nodded. “So, what happened?”

“The prepaid cell that called the pager was contacted by another prepaid phone, that disappeared right after. After that, they communicated in another fashion.”

“And you think the call and Heiboer’s drowning are connected?”

“Same pager number,” Deborah said. “And another drowning victim.”

Basalt shook his head. “Heiboer was beyond drunk, I have the toxicology reports to prove it. It was a miracle he could drive at all.”

“Maybe he wasn’t.” Deborah took a sip from her cappuccino. “Maybe his accident was faked.”

Marijn held up his hand. “I’m probably the most mistrustful person at this table. I’ve looked at all the crime scene evidence, but some things cannot be faked. Heiboer’s Porsche Cayenne was going eighty-plus, left the road, ploughed without braking through the grass of the embankment and crashed through the ice. Since both airbags were deployed, we examined all evidence on the possibility of another person being in the car.”

“And you didn’t find anything,” Deborah said. “Even better, the deployment of the passenger airbag always happens with this brand and model.”

“Exactly. And nobody left the car before, during or after the crash.”

She smirked. “All doors were closed, and there was no river mud in the car?”

“Evidently you studied the photos.”

“Yes. The underwater photos were beautifully arranged.”

“Our photos are never—”

“—arranged, I know.” Deborah held up her hand. “Let me phrase it differently. The photographs captured the arrangement in minute detail. The open door, the panicked victim, leg ensnared by his safety belt…”

“Heiboer was drunk. He drowned in that river, at that moment. The water in his lungs matched the water in the river.”

“I’m sure it all fits, down to the smallest detail. So how come a pager number crops up that is an exact match for a pager number associated with a whole string of murders, including an experienced swimmer drowning in open water?” Deborah tapped the table. “Heiboer was drowned. Drowned twice, actually: first in Glenlivet, and then in a river.”

“You seem sure of this.”

“I am. And I can tell you something else.” The redhead rubbed her fingers together. “This kind of expertise doesn’t come cheap.”

“We only found the five thousand paid to Keres Edits,” Marijn said. “That wouldn’t be nearly enough for something like this.”

“The five thousand is a consulting fee. The contract fee disappears into a maze of accounts. Ever since the Menendez case I’ve been interested in tracking down these assassins, but they’re slippery.” Deborah spooned milk foam from the bottom of her cup. “The thing is, the Menendez case is closed. We know who the client was, so there’s no investigation. Plus, as liaisons for the DEA, we don’t investigate, but we keep tabs and these assassins might be more prolific than we estimated.”

“There was a shootout at the hotel, wasn’t there? There were rumours that someone was shot.”

She licked the spoon. “One of the bullets was missing, but nobody was seriously hurt. Both parties managed to escape the hotel and evade detection.”

A young man approached their table, heading for the magazine rack behind them. While he was perusing the magazines they halted their conversation, but the man took his time until Marijn cleared his throat and drew his attention. The man looked briefly into his eyes, didn’t like what he saw, grabbed a magazine and walked away immediately.

Marijn focused on Deborah again. “The missing bullet. No chatter?”

She shook her head. “We had our ear to the ground, but not a peep. The missing bullet was probably lodged in something the shooter took with him. A suitcase or something.”

“The limp?” Basalt looked at Marijn. “You’re thinking Sieltjes was shot?”

“Could be, I don’t know. I couldn’t find any hospital records, neither here nor abroad.”

Deborah leaned forward. “What’s your opinion on Sieltjes?”

“I can’t figure her out. If that shipping business is a cover, it’s solid. She seems respectable and her boyfriend tried to convince us that her attitude has to do with her high position in a male-dominated arena.”

She smiled. “But?”

“I have instincts, and I listen to them. They saved my ass when I worked undercover. And there’s just something ‘off’. I don’t know what it is, it’s nothing tangible.”

Deborah nodded. “You can’t put your finger on it.”

“I don’t know if I’d want to,” Marijn said. “I might not get it back.”

“But you think she could be part of this outfit?”

Marijn shrugged. “She vomited all over my shoes.”

“Thousands of bulimic patients can vomit on demand.”

“And look green with nausea while they’re at it?”

“So you don’t think she was faking it?”

“She looked genuinely shaken and upset by the blood. If that was an act, she should get an Oscar.”

“Plus there was no need for a performance.” Basalt looked at him. “Unless she made you.”

“Doubtful. She looked green right after they turned over the body and discovered Kosinski was dead.”

Deborah pursed her lips. “So the colour saturation in the tape wasn’t off. She definitely looked pale when she moved away from the body. I guess it wasn’t her performance at the scene that was ‘off’?”

Marijn stirred his cappuccino. “She seemed too guarded. As soon as it was clear that we suspected her of killing Kosinski, she clammed up and waited for her lawyer.”

“Then again,” Basalt said. “That’s just smart. People who are innocent might protest the accusation, because they think the lack of cooperation will mark them as suspect, but Sieltjes gave up convincing us of her innocence and left it to her lawyer to sort out. If you’re facing murder charges, that’s the best course of action.”

“Of course it is,” Marijn said. “But how would she know? She’s clean, no criminal record or anything, but she has a criminal lawyer at her beck and call?”

Basalt shook his head. “You’re forgetting the boyfriend. Merleyn got into this aggravated assault beef and Sieltjes arranged for Kerkwijk to bail him out. Did a good job, too, so it’s not unlikely that Merleyn kept his number in his iPhone. After all, it was Merleyn who called Kerkwijk, not Sieltjes.”

“Yes,” Marijn said. “How convenient. Like she knew we wouldn’t take away Merleyn’s phone and instructed him to call Kerkwijk if she was arrested or detained.”

Deborah tilted her head. “You’re right. You are the most mistrustful person at this table.”

“There’s just something weird about this couple. The CEO and the busker? And now this blind bum sports Armani threads and expensive watches? It feels like Sieltjes bought herself an alibi. A blind Sherlock, who can vouch for her innocence.”

“Sherlock?”

Marijn looked at Basalt. “You didn’t tell her what he did?”

“No, he didn’t.” She focused on Basalt. “What did he do?”

“Merleyn analysed me,” Basalt said. “Then told me that Sieltjes wouldn’t have been able to deceive him.”

“Maybe she didn’t,” Deborah said. “Maybe Merleyn knows exactly what she’s doing.”

“There’s a fine line between suspicion and paranoia,” Basalt said, “but I think you just crossed it.”

“It’s not that improbable,” Marijn said. “Perhaps Merleyn feels marginalised by society. Sieltjes and her obvious affluence could be his ticket out of the doldrums.”

“Not that I’d need your permission.” Deborah turned to Basalt. “But would you mind if I had a talk with him?”

Basalt looked at him. “What do you think, Marijn? Is this guy a chick magnet, or what?”

“Certainly seems that way.” Marijn grinned at Deborah. “He’s not that cute.”

“Not cute at all,” Basalt said. “He’s actually horrifying with all those scars. And his arrogance is grating too.”

“Scarred and arrogant?” Deborah smiled. “No wonder all these women are attracted to him.”

“Maybe you better talk to Laure first,” Marijn said. “I think she had a talk with Merleyn, but I don’t know if she liked him that much afterward.”

Deborah leaned back in her seat and sipped from her cappuccino. “I’d like his address. And hers.”

“You can get Merleyn’s. He lives in a Japanese club in the Spinhuissteeg. Sieltjes didn’t give her address.”

“But she lives in Amsterdam, right?”

“Probably, but the address she’s registered to is that of her company, Sphinx Shipping. And I doubt if she lives there.”

Deborah cocked her head. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“No. It’s a physical address, although we could quibble over the designation. The address is marked offices slash industrial, so it’s not a domicile, but it’s not worth the trouble to get the zoning department involved. I have no doubt she lives in the inner city, some apartment rented or bought under another name or company.”

“Sounds like a lot of trouble to go through if you’re just a shipping company director.”

Marijn shrugged. “According to her partner, Emil Bootz, Sieltjes likes her privacy.”

“What about her personal history?”

“Frankly, we don’t have the manpower to dig very deep.” Basalt finished his coffee. “I’ll give you what I got, on both of them, if you keep me posted on developments.”

Deborah handed Basalt a card. “Physical files can be couriered to the Embassy in The Hague. You can email me the digital files.”

She got up and shook their hands, then moved downstairs and out the door.

“What do you think?” Basalt asked.

“I don’t like Sieltjes, or Merleyn for that matter,” Marijn said. “I know Koninck doesn’t want us to harass Sieltjes, but the commissioner didn’t mention the Americans, so we can just let them do the harassing.”

Basalt smiled. “Good. I had the same idea, but I wanted to know if we’re on the same page.” He tossed Deborah’s card in Marijn’s lap. “You can liaise with her, just keep me in the loop. Another cappuccino?”

Marijn stuck the business card away and watched Basalt head downstairs to the coffee counter.

Outside, at the corner, Deborah was on the phone, when she was approached by someone. Probably a panhandler, because she waved him off. He didn’t seem to like that and started to wave his arms around. The redhead opened her long coat and put her hand on a gun riding her hip. The panhandler stepped back quickly and crossed the street to the market.

Deborah turned and closed her coat, looked into the glass façade and smiled up at him, her ear still glued to the phone. With a finger wave she turned around again and crossed the road onto the market, and out of sight.

MOJO

In the cargo hold of the Mojo, Zeph Catadupa moved slowly through his hothouse and checked the soil in the flower boxes, the ultraviolet lamps suspended from the third shelf warming his gloved hands as he studied the leaves of his cannabis plants. Growing ganja without the use of pesticides required daily checking for the spider mites and other pests that could ruin his crop. Jah be thanked that he replaced his old filters with state-of-the-art carbon filters.

Zeph wiped his fingers on his jeans and drank from the bottle of ginger ale in his free hand while he looked over his hothouse, which was looking better than a year before. At first Zeph had been hesitant to take her money, but Katla showed him several ways to improve his hothouse and offered him a hundred thousand euro against one percent interest. He could always come up with a thousand euro. And Katla’s investment allowed him to overhaul his entire hothouse with a new generator and sorely needed better lamps and filters.

Zeph leaned against the cool metal wall of the hold and listened to the humming of the electric drippers. He figured Katla made the investment on Bram’s recommendation, perhaps to compensate for his troubles last winter when he helped her against the Chinese who’d planned a hostile takeover of her company, but she didn’t have to. He’d offered to help her, knowing that it might be risky. She’d even had to kill someone to defend him, at great personal cost to her eternal soul.

Outside, the ship’s bell clanged.

Ding ding ding. Pause. Ding ding.

Bram? That couldn’t be right. Zeph quickly finished his ginger ale and climbed the iron rungs to the deck. Bram walked up the gangway, one hand trailing the guide rope. Shaitan stood at the top of the gangway, her stubby tail wagging.

Bram patted the Rottweiler and sniffed the air. “You’ve been working in your hothouse?”

“I need to shower later, bredda.” Zeph took out the dented tin with his spliffs. “You not go to Japan?”

“No, the trip was cancelled for now. I was heading to Flevoparkbad to swim. You want to come?”

“I have a delivery to make in an hour. Want to come?” Zeph lit up a spliff. “I&I can go swimming after.”

“Sure, bro.”

“Katla bummed about cancelling the trip?”

“She always has plenty things to do. Did you put the fresh crop in the Zodiac?”

“Yes, bredda.” Zeph filled his lungs with sweet smoke. “Ready to go if you are.”

-o-

Zeph manoeuvred the Zodiac through the Amsterdam-Rijnkanaal, the small choppy waves slapping against the bottom. He swerved around a yacht and headed for the IJ, opening up full-throttle and racing the dinghy past the waterfront estates on the East Harbour. Bram smiled, enjoying the breeze and the spray from the bow arching over the dinghy.

Around the ferries Zeph throttled back on the gas and puttered slowly past the pier of the Harbour Police. Out of sight he opened up full‑throttle again and the Mercury growled, propelling the dinghy over the low waves as he made for the Oude Houthaven.

They passed through the locks of the Westerkanaal and reached smoother waters. A train passed by overhead and Zeph kept on going down the Singelgracht. He could’ve turned onto the Kostverlorenvaart directly after passing under the railway viaduct, but the De Wittenkade crawled with junkies, who liked to throw stuff at passing boats.

As he turned the Zodiac onto the Kattensloot, Zeph took a bottle of ginger ale and the opener from the shopping bag between his feet and opened with one hand, bracing the bottle between his knees while he manoeuvred the Zodiac around a slow‑moving barge. A small boy at the railing waved at him as they passed and Zeph waved back, giving the barge wide berth before moving in front of it. Barge skippers got nervous from people cutting too close to the bow. Out of sight from the bridge, a small boat or raft could be pulled under the barge without the skipper even noticing it.

“You want to take over for a spell, bredda?” Zeph asked as they had gained some distance on the barge. Bram nodded and they changed places, Zeph settling comfortably in the bow with his ginger ale. Occasionally he had to correct Bram when he threatened to ram the quay, but on the whole Bram swerved a lot less than Zeph himself would have with his eyes closed and a braille compass in his hand. The Kostverlorenvaart was one long straight canal anyway.

They passed the tram depot and Zeph took over to guide the dinghy past the locks, but once they reached the Nieuwe Meer he allowed Bram to spin the Zodiac in crazy circles around the small lake. Coots and ducks took to the air as the dinghy bopped over the waves with Bram grinning from ear to ear, his right hand firmly on the outboard’s handle and his hair flapping in the wind.

Zeph noticed the tall Rastafarian slouched on a bench along the Jaagpad, his arm around the shoulders of a smiling boy of about seven or eight with the same unruly dreads as his father.

“Obie’s here.”

Bram slowed and they changed places, then Zeph aimed the Zodiac at the Jaagpad. As the dinghy scraped against the make-shift beach formed by dark slabs of basalt covered with slippery algae, Obadiah took the boy on his shoulders and waded over the rocks to the Zodiac, lifting him from his shoulders and handing him to Bram. Obadiah pushed the dinghy back into the lake until the water reached his shorts and vaulted aboard, Bram and the boy leaning on the other side as a counterweight to keep the Zodiac from tipping over. As the visitors settled on the bottom, the dinghy slowly drifted away from shore.

“Welcome aboard,” Zeph said and raised his bottle of ginger ale in a salute.

Obadiah smiled. “You got one for me?”

“Yes, bredda,” Zeph said as he fished a fresh bottle from the shopping bag and looked at the boy. “You want one?”

“Yes, please,” the boy replied in perfect English and glanced at Bram, who had moved to the bow. “Does he want one too?”

“Yes,” Bram said. “He wants one too.”

Obadiah patted the boy’s head. “He’s blind, Tommy. Not deaf.”

Bram grinned and accepted the bottle, pulled the boy up on the bow and put his arm around him to keep him from falling overboard. Obadiah fished an envelope from his inside pocket and handed it over.

Zeph stuck it away without looking. “The bag is in the bow.”

“Fine,” Obadiah said, leaning back and squinting at the sun. “It’s nice, drifting like this. Maybe I should get me a boat too.”

“Can we?” the boy asked, slipping down to his father. “That would be phat.”

“Fat?” Zeph asked. “Why would that be fat?”

“Phat.” Obadiah ruffled the boy’s hair. “School jargon.”

Bram took his iPhone from his pocket and held it to his ear. “Yes?”

Obadiah turned to Zeph. “Demand for your ganja has risen.”

“So?”

“Is there any way you can increase production?”

“No, bredda. I no want expand. What I got is what you get.”

“With the demand, I also raised the price. You’ve got a bonus in that envelope.”

While extra money was always welcome, he didn’t want Obadiah to think that he could be encouraged to grow more and take more risks. He didn’t want to tell Obadiah that he couldn’t sleep on delivery days for the nightmares of getting caught. More product would mean more transactions. More risk and more sleepless nights. He didn’t even trust Obadiah with the location of the Mojo, which was why the bags with ganja were attached to a brick, so they could be put overboard at the first sign of trouble. He’d rather lose a harvest than go to prison. Or risk someone seizing his boat.

Bram finished his call and said, “That was Anouk. We have to go.”

Zeph started the outboard and steered the Zodiac back to the shore. The boy looked disappointed as he finished his ginger ale and handed the empty bottle to Bram, who rinsed it in the lake and dropped it in the shopping bag.

Obadiah stepped over the side, feeling for solid footing before he lifted the boy from the dinghy and carried him ashore. Zeph undid the rope from the bag and gave it to him when he came back. They shook hands and Obadiah splashed back to the shore, the bag on his shoulder. The boy guarded the bag while his father slipped his sandals back on. Zeph watched them crunch down the gravel path and carry the bag to a beat‑up Chevrolet Impala in the parking lot behind the bird sanctuary.

Bram took a fresh bottle of ginger ale from the shopping bag and uncapped it, dropping the opener and the cap back in the bag. “I faked the call, Zeph.”

“Anouk no call?”

“Nope.” Bram settled in the bow again as the dinghy cruised in the direction of the Schinkel. “I just figured you didn’t want to prolong the ordeal of making this transaction.”

Zeph smiled. Good to have a friend who has your back.

If you enjoyed reading this preview, please visit my blog https://amsterdamassassin.wordpress.com to find the retail links for all the books in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

To the Reader,

Having readers eager for the next instalment of a series is the best motivation for a writer to create new stories. If you enjoy reading my work as much as I enjoy writing Katla’s adventures, there are ways for you to support me and help me gain more exposure for the Amsterdam Assassin Series:

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Send me feedback. If you have a question about the Amsterdam Assassin Series, like to point out errors and typos, discuss issues raised in the book, want to know how to become one of my beta readers, or just embarrass me with totally undeserved adulation, I urge you to send me an email at katlasieltjes@yahoo.com. I love to hear from readers and try to answer every email.

Kind regards,

Martyn V. Halm

For reasons of authenticity, many non-English locales, phrases, and names in the Amsterdam Assassin Series are written in their original language. Instead of breaking the words down into Dutch/Japanese/German/Arabic/Jamaican, I merely list these words alphabetically, adding explanations where warranted. If you spot other words that require translation or elaboration, please send an email to katlasieltjes@yahoo.com so I can include them in this glossary. For the full list that contains all the foreign words used in the entire series, check the blog.

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.

FLIR - (technical term) Forward looking infrared (FLIR) cameras, typically used on military and civilian aircraft, use a thermographic camera that senses infrared radiation.

Ganja - (Jamaican) General term for cannabis. Also known as lambsbread or herb.

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.

Tanto - (Japanese) dagger shaped like a small katana, i.e. single edge with sword tip.

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.

THE AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES

Novels

Reprobate

Assassin Katla breaks her own rules when confronted with an unusual witness...

Blessed with an almost non-existent conscience, freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes, expert in disguising homicide, regards murder for profit as an intricate and rewarding occupation. Her solitary existence seems more than satisfactory until a blind musician wanders in on her crime scene.

Katla only kills for profit or to protect her anonymity, and Bram Merleyn seems harmless and unable to identify her. By sparing his life, she breaks one of her most important rules—never leave a living witness. A decision Katla might not survive to regret...

Reprobate is the first novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

Peccadillo

Assassin Katla’s legitimate business becomes the target of a hostile takeover...

Still recuperating from injuries sustained in Reprobate, freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes, expert in disguising homicide, finds herself at war with the Kau Hong, a gang of ruthless criminals who will stop at nothing to get their hands on Sphinx Shipping.

The potentially lethal situation quickly becomes untenable, when victims fall on both sides, and a Hong Kong sniper arrives to team up with a mute enforcer from the competitive 14K Triad.

Amsterdam might prove too small for Katla to play hide and seek, when her enemies match her skills in search and destroy...

Peccadillo is the second novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

Rogue

Assassin Katla kills the wrong target and draws attention from combined intelligence communities…

Freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes runs her business of disguising homicide below the radar of law enforcement, but when her latest target is a judas goat intended to draw her out into the open, the hunter becomes the hunted.

Fooling local law enforcement can be challenging, but hiding from intelligence communities aiming to enlist Katla for their dirty work might prove impossible.

With Homeland Security, DEA, and the German BKA joining forces with Dutch Intelligence in an effort to track down Loki Enterprises, not only Katla’s future is threatened, but also the lives of her lover and his friends.

Rogue is the third novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

Ghosting

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

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

But there's no rest for the wicked.

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

Ghosting is the fourth novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

KillFiles

The Katla KillFile short stories chronologically precede the novels in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

Each KillFile features freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes, expert in disguising homicide, executing one of her contracts. While not mandatory reading, each KillFile provides insight both in Katla’s work methods and skill, and additional background information in her character and personal history. The KillFiles can be read out of order, as the contracts are random samples from Katla’s past.

Locked Room

Assassin Katla reinvents a forensic landmark while creating a Locked Room mystery...

The Locked Room KillFile (7,800 words) follows freelance assassin Katla Sieltjes executing a contract on a physician responsible for the death of her client’s wife. Using an updated version of a lethal puzzle that astounded forensic scientists at the end of the twentieth century, Katla recreates a diabolical killing method that became a landmark in the forensic sciences. Thwarting forensic scientists is not her only hurdle in fulfilling her contract, as her target has to be killed in his home, an opulent penthouse in a fortress-like apartment building…

Microchip Murder

Assassin Katla has to kill an industrial spy and retrieve the stolen item...

The Microchip Murder KillFile (8,500 words) follows freelance assassin Katla Sieltjes executing a contract on an industrial spy, who is in the process of selling a stolen microchip with valuable software to the competition. Katla’s client wants the stolen microchip and research materials returned to him, but her target is wary and the unscrupulous buyers are prepared to kill for the stolen software.

Fundamental Error

Assassin Katla is hired by a client whose brother is planning a terrorist attack…

The Fundamental Error KillFile (9,800 words) follows freelance assassin Katla Sieltjes on her most dangerous assignment yet. When Peter Brandt watches his brother Roel convert to Islam and turn into a domestic terrorist, Katla needs to enter into the mind of a fanatic suicide bomber in order to thwart a mass-murder attack in the shopping mecca of Amsterdam.

Aconite Attack

Assassin Katla finds a devious way to get a target to poison himself…

The Aconite Attack KillFile (10,700 words) follows Katla Sieltjes on her first foray as a freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter, when she gets herself hired by the CEO of a modelling agency to permanently remove his playboy partner draining the firm’s resources on his downward spiral into self-destruction. Katla finds a way to administer poison to the target, but he has to be isolated for her plan to succeed. Every plan has a fluke factor though, and Katla soon finds herself in mortal danger, when the target reveals his darker side…

About the author:

Martyn V. Halm lives in Amsterdam with his wife Maaike, two children, two cats, and countless imaginary characters vying for attention.

Writing realistic crime fiction is hard work, especially when you're a stickler for verisimilitude. When your protagonist is a seasoned killer, research can take you right up to Nietzsche’s abyss. Luckily, things get easier after the first few killings...

Apart from being an accomplished prevaricator, Martyn already possessed an eclectic variety of skills that qualified him to write the Amsterdam Assassin Series. Skills he shares with his deadly fictional characters...

If you want to contact Martyn…

Email: katlasieltjes@yahoo.com

Mailing List: Click here for the form

Blog: http://amsterdamassassin.wordpress.com/

Website: www.tao-of-violence.weebly.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Tao_Of_Violence

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/katla.sieltjes

Publishers Weekly Review of Reprobate - A Katla Novel:

Fast-moving and intricately plotted, this manuscript of Dutch intrigue follows assassin Katla, who’s renowned for her ability to cover up a job. When the U.S. DEA’s base in the Netherlands catches wind of a heroin ring within the U.S. military, they set up an undercover operation. When the heads of the drug ring discover the plot, they arrange for Katla to assassinate the undercover agents, but the assassination doesn’t go as planned. As Katla recovers from injuries sustained in the botched job, DEA agent Deborah Stern and her colleagues investigate. Violence, drugs, and sex abound in this intense story, and the plot is less farcical than a lot of the thrillers clogging the shelves.

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Blog Reviews:

Sunday, 27 January 2013

http://hannah-thompson.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/blindness-in-fiction-4-reprobate-katla.html

Blindness in Fiction 4: Reprobate: A Katla Novel

It is notoriously difficult for non-blind writers to depict blind characters in fiction. Although anyone can close their eyes and imagine blindness for a few minutes, living in a world where sight has lost its meaning is incredibly hard to imagine. For this reason, blind characters in fiction are relatively rare. Where they do exist, they are either secondary and therefore always described from someone else’s point of view (as in Adrian Mole) or evil and not described sympathetically at all (as in Ratburger). Like Star Gazing which I blogged about last April, Reprobate is a novel of shared viewpoints, in which a blind character, Bram, plays a crucial role.

When the reader first encounters Bram, it is easy to mistakenly think that he is nothing but a fascinating plot device. We initially encounter him just after assassin Katla has finished a job. When he interrupts her as she is cleaning up the crime scene, her first instinct is to kill him, as she normally would an ‘additional’ who might later be able to place her at the scene. But when Katla realises Bram is blind she decides to spare him. Her reasoning is that he poses no threat to her because he will never be able to make a positive identification of her.

Katla, like most sighted people, imagines at first that a world without sight is a world of darkness and confusion. But Bram is not the kind of passive, low-functioning blind person who is frequently found in fictional representations. Unlike the blind man in Amelie, for example, he is always well aware of his environment. He picks up clues from the sounds, smells and atmospheric conditions he senses and is never described as having a lesser experience of life because of his blindness. This is wonderfully demonstrated in the scenes, such as the episode in the diner at the beginning of the ‘Luncheonette’ chapter, which are told through his perspective. In these scenes, the author focuses only on what Bram can hear, touch and sense. But the reader nonetheless gains a complete understanding of the scene. In fact until you look closely at the language of the scene, you probably won’t even notice the absence of visual clues. Bram’s presence in the novel, and the part he takes in its narration, brilliantly shows that sight is not essential to a full and happy existence. Bram is clever, funny, sexy and sporty. In fact very soon the story becomes so gripping that the fact of his blindness would easily be forgotten if it weren’t for the detail with which the narrator describes the practicalities of his life.

If you want to know what it is like to be a blind person living in a sighted world, then you should read this book, especially if you enjoy complex and multi-layered thrillers with unexpected twists and a truly triumphant ending.

Hannah Thompson is a Senior Lecturer in French at Royal Holloway, University of London. As a partially blind researcher, she is particularly interested in blindness and how the sighted and partially sighted and the blind and partially blind relate to each other.

For customer reviews, see the retail websites. Direct links to the books in the Amsterdam Assassin Series available here.

Special thanks to:

First and foremost, my bèta readers, Hannah, DG, Katja, Ash, Sukhi, Hans, Marie-Luise, for reading drafts and providing their helpful comments; the public relation staff of Hotel New York in Rotterdam for the tour and information, The Thoughtcafe Writers Community, now sadly gone, Accentuate Writers and the Inmates of ADVrider.com, for support and critique; Farah Evers for the beautiful cover; the Kindleboards and Goodreads community members for their support; my cats Gris-gris (deceased), Mingus, and Jotta, for comic relief; and—last, but not least—the multitude of skeptics, for strengthening my resolve to prove them wrong.

While most locations in the Amsterdam Assassin Series exist as depicted, you will look in vain for:

- The Society of the Eternal Blossom, at the Spinhuissteeg. A lovely alley, for sure, but no Japanese club with a blind man living in the basement.

- Bianca’s luncheonette, at the corner of Prinsengracht and Berenstraat. The Nine Streets have lots of other nice lunchrooms, though.

- Sphinx Shipping on the Vlothavenweg.

- Jazzclub The Roustabout on the Nieuwmarkt. Plenty of nice bars and restaurants, though.

- The bay south of Zeeburgereiland has quite a few houseboats, but Zeph Catadupa’s Mojo isn’t one of them.

- Café De Bonte Hond. In its place, you’ll find Café De Zwarte Kat, which is not owned by a legless biker. They do have a lovely terrace looking out over the river Amstel.

- The Blade Shop run by David Escudo in Washington. In its place is a tobacco shop.

- The Trafico Building in Rotterdam. In its location stands the building of Provimi, an animal feed producer.

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.