There weren’t many people in the bar when I poked my head in the door. A middle-aged couple sat at the bar, sharing a bottle of wine and chatting with the bartender. A group of tourists who looked barely out of their teens scoffed packets of chips around one of the larger tables, stoned out of their scones. I watched them from the doorway for a moment, wishing that I too were in Amsterdam for a holiday, that I could feel safe exploring these streets with their barely legal delights.
Nick was sitting at a table in the corner, two glasses of beer in front of him. He pushed one across the table to me with a smug smile as I sat down. There was no way I was going to admit as much to him, but I knew he was right to drag me away from the warehouse. I couldn’t just go charging into the headquarters of an international drug cartel without a bit of background info.
‘When’s this Ford wanker going to call you back, anyway?’ Nick had already drained half his glass of beer.
‘Grady’s watching him closely,’ I said. ‘He probably hasn’t had a moment alone yet.’
‘Chicken shit,’ Nick muttered.
‘What’s he done to you, anyway?’
‘Nothing. I just don’t like the guy. And I don’t trust him.’
‘You think he’s playing us?’
‘Maybe.’ He gulped down the last of his beer and stood up. ‘Another?’
I held up my glass, still three-quarters full, in response.
While he was at the bar I tried Ford again, but once again the call went straight to voicemail. It’d only been an hour or two since I’d first called him, so there wasn’t any reason to panic. And yet, after Nick’s words, a twinge of suspicion niggled at me.
By the time we’d finished our beers it was time to meet Adelita. The Italian restaurant she’d suggested was small and bustling and packed with square tables covered in red and green checked tablecloths. We’d just sat down at a table when Adelita walked in. Heads around the room turned to take in her towering form in the black tailored suit and matching stilettos. Her bleached blonde hair was, as always, immaculately groomed.
‘Wow,’ Nick said. ‘You didn’t tell me she was hot.’
I snorted as she looked around the room for us. ‘Her make-up is way overdone.’
‘Says the girl who doesn’t wear any.’ Nick flashed me a sideways look.
‘I spent five years applying it to others, I know what I’m talking about.’ I caught Adelita’s eye and gave her a small wave.
‘It’s not like you to dis another woman based on her appearance, beauty girl. Worried I might be interested?’ Nick gave me a wink as he stood up to greet Adelita.
‘Pfft, as if.’ But a hot flash of jealousy shot through me as they shook hands, each appraising the other from the same lofty height.
‘I suppose this is your photographer,’ Adelita said to me. Nick raised his eyebrows at me as he sat back down at the table.
My face burned with embarrassment. ‘He’s not mine.’
A waiter appeared at the table and we ordered drinks and pizza.
‘So what have you found out since you’ve been here?’ I asked Adelita.
She smoothed her skirt over her legs and cleared her throat. ‘I have spoken to the authorities about the European drug trade, and while the laws are certainly a little more relaxed in the Netherlands than they are in the rest of Europe, the government takes drug trafficking very seriously. Importing and exporting hard drugs is a serious offence here, and yet Amsterdam remains the main transit point for the drug trade in Europe.’
‘How do they get the drugs in?’
‘The airport here in Amsterdam routinely scans passengers on board incoming flights from suspect countries, so they are not coming in by air. It would seem that the cartels are using mules to smuggle the drugs into neighbouring European countries, and then—’
‘Wait, mules?’ I interrupted, confused. ‘How do they get a mule on a plane?’ Nick almost choked on his slice of pizza. I glared at him. ‘What?’
He spluttered with laughter. Even Adelita was sniggering despite her professional demeanour. I raised my hand threateningly at Nick.
‘She’s talking about drug mules, Burrowes.’ He tried—unsuccessfully—to keep a straight face. ‘They’re usually poor people desperate for money. They’re paid to swallow balloons of heroin or cocaine and smuggle them into other countries on planes.’
‘Oh.’ I felt more foolish than ever. ‘But if they’ve swallowed the drugs, how do they… oh. Gross.’ Nick was still snorting with glee at my stupidity. I thumped him on the arm and looked pointedly at Adelita. ‘You were saying?’
‘The mules are usually given the first half of their payment in their home countries,’ Adelita resumed smoothly. ‘They fly into other international airports and then get a train across the border and into Amsterdam. When they deliver the product they are given the remainder of their payment, which is usually a fraction of the amount that the drug lords make. Then the drugs are distributed to a network of dealers across Europe.’
‘If they know all this, why aren’t they arresting the dealers and flushing out the head honcho?’
‘Each level of the business covers for the level above them. The authorities know that catching a street dealer is nothing more than a Band-Aid for the real problem. Often the senior people in the business do not even know who their boss is, for their own protection as well as the leader’s. Those at the very top are practically untouchable.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I have spoken to the police, and to several government officials. Anyone they arrest refuses to give up the person above them, even for immunity. They would rather spend years in jail than the alternative, which
