Kill Me If You Can

That was code for I do want to know where you’re going, but don’t say it on the phone. Spell it out for me.

“Yeah, say hi to Adam, Mom, and Sarah,” I said. AMS. Airport code for Amsterdam.

“Safe travels,” he said.

“Thanks. I love you, Dad.”

“Semper fi, boy.”

My father is old school. That’s as close as he ever gets to I love you.

Chapter 61

JUST AS MY father had said, there was an ancient nun outside track 7. She sat on a folding chair with her head bowed, but she looked up to thank anyone who tossed a coin in her basket.

I dropped in a one-hundred-euro note. Her head came up fast. “Grazie mille.”

“It’s from Colorado,” I said.

“Ah, Signor Colorado. Nice man.” She studied my face carefully. “You are the young Colorado, si?”

“I’m his son,” I said.

She beamed and touched a bony blue-veined hand to her heart, much the way I imagined she would have if she’d been in the maternity ward thirty years ago when my father announced, “It’s a boy.”

“Where are you going?” she said.

I hesitated. “I’d rather not say, Sister.”

She lowered her head and peered at me over rimless glasses. She smiled, amused at my lack of trust. The deep-set, watery eyes and crinkled-paper skin put her somewhere north of eighty, but her teeth could not have been more than a few years old. Straight, white porcelain dentures that were so perfect, I imagined they could only have been the generous gift of a devout Catholic dentist.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You can tell me. I will pray for you to Saint Christopher.”

I trusted my father, so I trusted her. “Amsterdam,” I said.

She took my hand, closed her eyes, and mumbled a prayer. Then she opened her eyes, flashed another dazzling smile, and said, “Vai con Dio.”

I said good-bye, not sure if my father was paying her back for past kindnesses or buying me some travel insurance.

I got my answer when I arrived in Amsterdam. The train ride had been uneventful, but as soon as I stepped up to the taxi stand at the station, a man called out, “Colorado.”

I turned, ready to fight.

The man held up both hands. “I’m a friend of Sister Philomena’s,” he said. “You don’t want to take a taxi. They remember every passenger and write down every destination. I remember nothing.”

My father had been long retired, but his network was still open for business.

My driver’s name was Harold, and my ride was a spacious black Citroen that still smelled factory fresh.

Harold was a professional. He asked no questions and spoke only when spoken to. He negotiated expertly through the midday traffic, and after driving me to the Zeedijk neighborhood, he handed me a business card that had nothing on it but a phone number.

“Anytime,” he said. “Day or night.”

I reached for my wallet, but he wouldn’t take my money.

I got out of the car and did a slow three-sixty, scanning the area. I hadn’t been tailed. I silently thanked my father and watched as the wheelman he had sent turned the car around and disappeared into traffic.

Chapter 62

THE ZEEDIJK REMINDED me of Times Square in New York — part trendy, part seedy. I checked into the Bodburg, a hotel on Beursstraat that was also a little of both.

The Bodburg should have been called the Bedbug. The elevator was out of order, the fire hose in the hall leaked, there were rat droppings in my room, and my only window looked out onto a sex shop. It was the ultimate comedown after the Danieli. But it was perfect. Hardly the kind of place you’d go if you were looking for a guy with a bag of diamonds.

Now all I had to do was sell them. Matthew Bannon might not know how to unload millions of dollars’ worth of blood diamonds, but the Ghost did. And my main contact was right here in Amsterdam.

When you think of organized crime in the European Union, the Italians overshadow everyone. But there are plenty of well-oiled smuggling operations in Holland. The Dutch play such a big role in transporting legal goods across the continent that crossing the line to smuggling is an easy step.

I knew most of the players by reputation, and I decided that the best possible buyer in the country was Diederik de Smet. I had two reasons. One, he had the money to handle the kind of volume I was selling. And two, he hated the Russians. A year ago, de Smet had been running a cell-phone hacking operation that was so profitable, the Russian mob couldn’t resist trying to move in on it.

The Dutch pushed back, and it escalated into a blood feud with a nasty body count on both sides, so I knew I didn’t have to worry about de Smet ratting me out to the Diamond Syndicate. I did have to worry about him, though. His street name was de slang—“the Snake”—and word had it he was as treacherous as a king cobra.

I had a meeting scheduled with him for tomorrow afternoon. But first I needed some sleep.

I locked my door, pulled down the window shade, got down on the floor, sliced open the underside of the box spring, and shoved my bag of diamonds in between the coils. Then I stretched out on the bed, not even bothering to undress first. The mattress was lumpy, and I felt good knowing that one of those lumps was going to bring me millions.

I woke up at 9 p.m., showered, got dressed, and felt almost human. I went downstairs and asked the guy at the front desk where to eat.

“The Grasshopper around the corner on Oudebrugsteeg,” he said. “They’re a steak restaurant, a sports bar, and a cannabis cafe. They’ve got a little something for everyone.”

I strolled over and opted for a rib eye and a baked potato at Evita, the Grasshopper’s Argentinean steak house on the third floor. The food was good, but it triggered the memory of the night Katherine and I shared a porterhouse at Peter Luger to celebrate my getting into Parsons.

Dinner was a lonely affair, and by the time I finished, I was feeling pretty damn sorry for myself. I knew I should get back to my room and keep one eye on the diamonds and the other peeled for Marta Krall, but sometimes, no matter how hard trouble is beating down on you, you just don’t give a shit. So despite my better judgment, I went downstairs for coffee and some weed.

Technically, selling marijuana is illegal in Amsterdam, but it’s not punishable, so the law isn’t enforced. Most of the coffeehouses that sell it follow some basic rules, like no hard drugs and no selling to kids. The espresso was mediocre, but the weed was primo. After my first few hits, I wanted Katherine to be with me something fierce.

I figured she was back in New York now, and I wondered if she missed me as much as I missed her.

And then I started wondering if my father was right. Would she give me another chance? And what did I have to do to earn it?