“No.” He shook his head. “Either you’re mixed up in this or you aren’t. If you are, you’re too dangerous to have you with me. If you’re not, it’s too dangerous for you. Either way, you’re either going back to Germany or I tie you up all day in this room till I get you vetted.”
“What about last night?”
“Last night I found out just how close to losing control with you I am. It’s because of last night that I’m letting you go. Go on, get out,” he said in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own.
She stood up, and it was all he could do not to grab her. She was close enough for him to still smell sex and the smell of her.
“You think I don’t know you are some kind of policeman or spy? What if I am involved? What if you are letting an enemy go free?”
“Others will find you. It won’t be me and it won’t be pleasant,” he said in the thick voice that didn’t seem to belong to him. It wasn’t much of a choice, he thought. Even if he left her tied up, there was a good chance the femme de chambre would free her before he could get back.
“You really are a cold bastard, aren’t you?” she said, angrily grabbing her clothes and pulling them on.
“Tell me you never exploited some poor bastard’s personal tragedy for a two-minute TV network feed? We’re all bastards,” he said. “It’s a bastard world.”
Two hours later he rode a rented bicycle to an RDV with someone named Piet De Jong of the Dutch Secret Intelligence Service, the AIVD. They met on a bridge over the Herengracht Canal. The water was cool and gray, reflecting clouds that promised rain. The canal along this section of the Herengracht was lined with trees and houseboats, and the outdoor setting and passing boat traffic made it less likely a sound receiver could pick up their conversation. They stood beside each other at the railing, gazing down at their reflections in the water. De Jong took his time stuffing and lighting his pipe.
“His name is Hassan Tassouni. Moroccan. An artist. Quite a good one, according to those who are supposed to know about such things. Here’s his address,” De Jong said in accented English, passing him a slip of paper. “Not a bad address.”
“That didn’t take long,” Scorpion said.
“Well, a Muslim dwarf in the Jordaan,” De Jong said. “You made it easy for us.”
“What else?”
“He doesn’t fit the usual profile. More likely to frequent the brown bars and the bordeels in De Wallen than a mosque. Then perhaps eight months ago he shows on the radar at the Moroccan Islamic Center in Osdorp.”
“You keep a close eye on them?”
“You know what we are dealing with in Nederland,” De Jong said, puffing on his pipe. “After two months going to the mosque, he is never there again. There was something about a woman.”
“Who was she?”
“A Muslim woman in hijab. There are a million of them.” He shrugged. “Peters said you would not share.”
Peters was the CIA station chief in Amsterdam. It was why he had hesitated about using Company resources to track Tassouni down. Given a day or two, he would have found the dwarf without them. As De Jong had said, finding a Muslim dwarf in the Jordaan district shouldn’t be that difficult, but the time factor was burning him. Somewhere, he knew, the Palestinian was en route to whatever was about to happen, and by now he would have heard about what happened in Damascus. Every second was beginning to count.
“No,” Scorpion said. “I won’t share.”
“It does not seem like good partners. We tell you, but you tell nothing. In Nederland we have many rules,” De Jong said, his eyes searching Scorpion’s face. “You do not seem a man for rules.”
“Did Peters tell you that?”
“No. That is my own judgment,” De Jong said. Scorpion looked at him: business suit, tall, sturdy, fair-haired; someone who did his job by the book.
“I’m not gezellig?” Scorpion smiled, using the word for cozy, comfortable, the Dutch ideal.
“Definitely not gezellig. I have the feeling you will deal with this Moroccan on your own and leave us to clean up the mess, Heer Crane,” De Jong said, deliberately using Scorpion’s current cover name to let him know they were aware of him. Before he left Holland, he would jettison it, he decided.
“What about his communications? Computer?”
“So far as we can tell, he doesn’t have one. Either old fashioned or he doesn’t want his communications tracked. And you haven’t answered my question. Amsterdam is not your, how you say, kinderbox, for children’s play.”
“Peters should’ve explained. I don’t exist. There are no rules.”
“And the artist? He is a Nederland citizen.”
“Stay away from him,” Scorpion said, walking away, toward where he had left his bicycle.
“Our patience is not unlimited,” De Jong called after him.
“Neither is mine. I don’t have a lot of time,” Scorpion called back as he got on the bike.
That afternoon in Osdorp near the Westhaven harbor, over a trade for cocaine with two members of the Moroccan Smitstraat street gang, Scorpion tried to find out about the dwarf’s girl.
“Who was she?” he asked. They were speaking in standard Fusha Arabic.
“Some girl. I don’t remember the name,” the Moroccan said. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy, typical of heavy hashish use. “This is good coca.” He held up the plastic-wrapped packet. “Listen, you want ice-o-lator hashish? They use this ice water method makes the hashish so pure, you think you die it’s so good.”
“About the girl?” Scorpion asked.
“Doesn’t matter now,” the other Moroccan said, his eyes darting around the coffee shop, filled with the smell of marijuana and hashish. It was near the overpass to the port, a bare place with Formica tables for foreign dockworkers and local gangs to stop in for a quick high. The other Moroccan was the twitchy one; the one to keep an eye on, Scorpion thought.
“Why?”
“Someone killed her. Dood, Brother. Pretty girl, nice, then batoom,” he said, pointing his finger and making a sound like a gunshot.
“Who did it?”
The hashish user shrugged. “Who knows? Her family, maybe.”
“They didn’t want her to see the dwarf?”
“It looked stupid,” the twitchy one said. “She was, you know, tall for a girl. Her with that ugly little fatah!”
“I saw them at the mosque,” the hashish user said. “He was too old for her too. She was young. College girl. Nice, not some shlicke slut.”
“How’d they get together?”
The twitchy one stood up. He put one of his hands in his pocket.
“Shem et Duat!” Go to hell! “Who cares about this zarba? You want to buy or not, ya khawal?”
“Wait! We’re doing business, right?” the hashish user said.
“Kess emmak,” Scorpion said, insulting the twitchy one’s mother. As the twitchy one started to pull a Spanish folding knife out of his pocket, Scorpion grabbed his wrist in the Krav Maga move, making him cry out in pain, and took the knife away.
“Neem het buiten!” the burly Dutch counterman shouted, pulling out a police club from under the counter. Take it outside! “Nu!” Now! The dockworkers at other tables, some Dutch, some foreign, turned to watch. The hashish user’s eyes blinked rapidly. Suddenly, he stuffed the cocaine in his pocket and ran out. By the time Scorpion and the twitchy one got outside, he was running down the street.
“The coca’s gone. There’s nothing to fight about,” Scorpion said.
“Give me my knife,” the twitchy one said.
Scorpion flung it across the street.
The Moroccan shouted in Arabic that Scorpion’s mother had committed adultery with a thousand monkeys as he ran to retrieve his knife, but by then Scorpion was already down the block, pedaling away on his bicycle.
“L ook at me,” the dwarf said. “One of Allah’s jokes. Bitter, a cynic. Never go to a mosque. Religion’s a farce. I despise people; the ones who mock me and my art, and I hate even more the ones who feel sorry for me and
