F-15s as they went into their attack profile. But the real reason the Americans approved the mission was to send the Iranians a clear message. Which had to be why they were getting their kit direct from Tarasov, these days.
It was my turn to approach the desk. One glance at Nick Smith’s photograph and the Dutch immigration officer waved me through.
2
I picked up the keys for a Fiat Panda while Anna headed for the Radisson, opposite the terminal. It would be easy to park in highly congested streets, and it wouldn’t draw too much attention to itself. It would blend in even more once I’d installed the baby seat that the very tall blonde woman at the Budget desk passed over with a smile. I liked the Dutch. They spoke perfect English and even looked like us. Maybe that’s why the Costa del Clog had taken over from Spain as every self-respecting Brit villain’s hideout of choice.
I handed her Nick Smith’s MasterCard. It had about PS2,000 left out of its PS5,000 limit. You can’t do without credit cards. They’re uncomfortably easy to track, but you need them for things like car hire and flights. Try to pay cash and you’ll be flagged up as a possible terrorist or, in this neck of the woods, drug-dealer or criminal.
Half an hour later, we were following the A10 north, day sacks tucked alongside the baby seat. There hadn’t been time to go to the room. All the earlier flights had been fully booked, and the clock was ticking.
Anna was navigating with the map Budget had given us. The place was heaving with blue motorway signs and glass-fronted office blocks - we could have been driving along the M4 into London. I even passed a service station with signs for BP and a Wild Bean coffee shop.
Anna told me we had a while before we hit the city exit. ‘Do you know Amsterdam? Do you know where this—’
‘Used to. When I was a young soldier in Germany, I used to go to the Dutch camp to buy stuff because everything was cheaper. A tank unit was billeted there - good lads. We played football with them and went downtown as a gang, that sort of thing. We even went on a couple of trips to Amsterdam with them, doing what young soldiers do. We out-drank them, of course.’ I gave her a grin. ‘But only just.’
‘What is it with soldiers?’ She wasn’t impressed. But she probably knew I was trying to keep her mind off the meeting and what went along with it.
I suddenly realized I had a bit of a lump in my throat. That sort of carry-on had stopped years ago, but until the day I’d walked into Kleinmann’s consulting rooms the memories of those times had always brought a smile to my face. Thinking about them now just made me miserable. Not the events themselves, but the thinking about them. Was this what happened when you knew the clock was ticking?
The sun was bright, even though it was starting to spit a little with rain. I pulled the visor down to protect my eyes and Anna handed over a couple of Smarties.
As I swallowed them, something weird happened. I started to think about the people I’d fucked over. Not work people, but the real ones - women mostly, who I’d messed around through naivety, stupidity, or just not giving a shit. What had happened to them all? Did they think of me? What did they think of me? I didn’t even know where my ex-wives lived, let alone anyone else, but should I go and say sorry, like an alcoholic starting out on the Twelve Steps?
Was I good or bad, all things considered? Was there a heaven and a hell? If there was, I knew which of the two I’d be heading for.
For the first time ever, I found myself thinking about what happens when you die. Maybe you discover all the secrets of the universe in a nano-second. Or maybe an old man with a long white beard presses your off button and then there’s oblivion. Part of me wanted there to be something that went on afterwards - even if it was in a place where you had to meet all the people you’d fucked over and try to be best mates with them. I rather liked that idea. There were a few times I should have been a better person and done the right thing, rather than what I was getting paid to do. Actually, more than a few.
I was starting to scare myself here. Fuck this. I made myself cut away. I’d always preferred action to thought. Maybe that was why I’d wanted this job: it was the one thing that could stop me thinking about that kind of shit. The fact was: I was going to die. Getting shot at, you know you stand a chance of getting killed - but you don’t
I closed my eyes for a second, as if that was going to block everything. I turned the radio on, but the Dutch presenter sounded like he was clearing his throat after every syllable.
Anna had been busy with her iPhone. She was inputting the meeting place so her sat-nav app could tell us the best route.
‘This is our exit.’
I peeled off the motorway, thankful that I had to start changing gear and going round roundabouts, anything to keep the weird stuff at bay. The architecture changed from glass and steel extravagance to boring two-storey rectangles.
The coalition government had just collapsed and it was election time. Huge billboards had been erected so the competing parties had somewhere to slap their posters. The only face I recognized was the smiling blond-haired right-winger, Geert Wilders, whose anti-Islamic views had barred him from the UK.
They had the same arguments over here as we did about the war in Afghanistan, but ours hadn’t yet brought down a government. The Dutch had about 2,500 troops over there and had taken a lot of casualties. Now it looked like they were all coming home. Their mums would be pleased, but I wasn’t sure the boys themselves would be: they were good lads and wouldn’t want to leave the job half finished.
The iPhone’s GPS was up and running.
‘Another thirty minutes, depending on traffic.’
The address Robot had given her was a cafe on Herengracht, one of the three main canals. It was close to the city centre, and deep in
3
We crossed a bridge and turned left onto Herengracht. The houses looked too large for families to live in. A lot of them were offices for banks, lawyers and architects.
Anna put her phone down. ‘It’s down towards the other end. On the junction with Bergstraat.’
‘Got it.’
‘As soon as we get there we turn left.’ She checked her watch. ‘We’ve still got twenty minutes. All good.’
‘I’m going to try to park on the side road. You need to be set up and waiting for him. If anything spooks you, get up and walk. Don’t take any chances. Last night was bad enough.’
Her eyes stayed on the road.
‘Any fuck-ups and we get separated, we meet back at the hotel. No one knows about it. It’s just ours.’
‘There - up on the left, by the junction.’
I slowed down, which made a couple of cyclists very happy, but really because I wanted to give us better eyes on the cafe. It was bang on the junction.
Five or six people were braving the chill to eat their breakfast at tables outside. The canal was less than ten metres away on the other side of the road.
I took the left up Bergstraat. The street was much narrower, with houses on both sides. It was bollarded all along. There was no parking. Behind a window in one of the houses, a woman sat on a stool in her underwear. I looked at the next house. Her neighbour was in the same line of business.
I drove the fifty metres to the end of the street and turned left. I found a pay-and-display space. I did a three-point turn so I’d be facing her.
