simply from his memory of the vague image of a take-out cup’s logo? Was he not just going on the blind hope that somehow, someway, he’d find his family again?
All he knew was that he had to keep searching.
The next possibility on his list was Lake of Dreams Cafe on Seventh Avenue.
Plain white take-out cups, no luck there.
Looking at his map Jeff saw how the other locations on his list webbed across New York City. Before resuming, he went to an ATM for more cash, then flagged a taxi and negotiated a flat rate to hire the driver to take him to every location.
They crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and went to the Lasagne Table in Brooklyn. Take-out cups bore no logo. It was the same at Laserinta Cafe. Then they moved on to Queens and Uncle Lassiter’s Bar and Grill. Nothing. Then on to Lasha’s Ukrainian Roadhouse without success before going to the Bronx and Lakeshi’s Gourmet Diner. Nothing there. Then to uptown Manhattan, striking out there before working their way to the Village and down to Battery Park where Jeff paid the driver, then queued up for the Staten Island Ferry.
He had two final places to check on his list, the Last Drop Coffee Den and Lakasta’s Eatery. He got a cab at the dock, headed to the locations, struck out in both cases and returned to the ferry.
During the twenty-five-minute ride across New York Harbor back to Manhattan, he looked at the Statue of Liberty and thought of how badly Cole had wanted to visit the landmark.
Jeff took in the view of Lower Manhattan’s bridges and the skyscrapers. The enormity of the metropolis overwhelmed him. But fear was driving him, fear and the unshakable faith he could not, would not, ever give up looking for Sarah and Cole.
He searched the majestic skyline for hope.
51
Grand Central Terminal.
From her balcony table in Michael Jordan’s restaurant Aleena Visser looked out over the Grand Central’s main concourse and took in its cathedral splendor while finishing her tea.
She set her cup in the saucer with a nervous rattle as the knot in her stomach tightened.
The time was drawing near. She could still pull out, toss the music box and walk away.
She’d go through with it.
But this would be the last time. When she returned to Amsterdam, she’d go into Joost’s office and she would tell him that it was over, she was done. She’d quit the magazine and go back to newspaper reporting in Rotterdam, back to a normal life.
After today’s job, her life as a smuggler was over.
It was nearly 11:00 a.m.
Time to go.
In keeping with Joost’s instructions, she took an orange scarf from her bag, tied it to her shoulder strap so it hung prominently, making it easy to identify her in a crowd.
She went to the information booth in the main concourse and waited for her contact. They were to arrive precisely at 11:00 a.m. according to the big brass clock above the booth.
At 11:00 a.m. no one had approached her.
By 11:15 a.m. no one had shown.
Aleena grew anxious.
She started to walk slowly around the booth area amid the gentle rush and hum of thousands of people going about their business.
Maybe she had confused her instructions from Joost?
She reviewed them again.
Aleena had followed Joost’s instructions to the letter.
She glanced at faces in the crowd to determine who among them might be her contact, even though she had no idea what her contact looked like. She knew she was being watched on Grand Central’s closed-circuit security camera system. She’d seen the radiation detectors and motion sensors placed throughout the terminal. And there was no shortage of police officers. Everyone knew that Grand Central was considered a terror target, but how could you tell by looking at the thousands of travelers who passed through it every day what their intentions were, Aleena thought.
She searched the sea of faces again.
It was now 11:32 a.m.
Or maybe the contact was not coming at all? Maybe the delivery had been canceled, called off, abandoned? The possibility gave rise to hope. Before considering it further Aleena was interrupted. Her phone vibrated in her pocket with a text message from Alice, her coworker at the magazine in Amsterdam.
I’m sorry to tell you that Joost has died.
Aleena caught her breath and responded.
No! What happened?
We don’t know. Police are asking questions. They think it was a heart attack at his desk.
This is terrible. What are police asking?
About the two men who visited him before he died.
Who were the two men?
Marta in reception said they were KLPD.
What did the KLPD want with Joost?
It’s a mystery.
This is horrible. Prayers to everyone. Will call later.
Joost was dead.
Why had the KLPD visited him? Could this be connected to her delivery? Aleena covered her mouth with her hand and thought of the emergency contact number: 718-555-76-
“Excuse me, miss, you look lost. Can we help?”
Two uniformed NYPD officers had approached Aleena. Both men looked to be her age. They surveyed her jeans, short-sleeved top, tattoos and blond hair.
“Oh, no, thank you.” Aleena flashed her beautiful smile. “I’m waiting to meet a friend, who is a little late.”
“That’s a nice accent you got there, is it German?”
“Dutch.”
“What brings you to New York?”
“I’m a travel writer for a magazine in Amsterdam.”
“That so?” The cops gave her another subtle head-to-toe look. “Well, enjoy your visit. Hope you write nice things about the town.”
The officers strolled away and about a minute later she bit her bottom lip and thought of leaving.
“Aleena?”
She turned to a tall man in his early thirties with a medium build. He wore a navy T-shirt, faded jeans, a ball
