Pieter found the tiny microphone attachment on the front of his headset and he twisted it up towards his mouth.
“Where the hell are they?” he repeated. “What are they doing? Are they making for the dam?”
The pilot craned forward to look downwards through the cockpit window, and then he gave a shake of his head.
“They went inshore to one of the small fishing jetties sticking out from the dam. It looks like they dropped someone off, but now the boat’s heading back out across the water again.”
“Who did they drop off? Dammit, speak to me!”
“I can’t tell from this distance, sir. What should we do? Stay with the boat, or follow whoever just got off?”
Pieter gritted his teeth, wondering what the hell Lotte and her accomplice were playing at. They were trying to confuse them, to draw them away, that’s what they were doing. Were Lotte and the girl still in the boat? Had they taken her ashore? Where was the sniper? Still onboard, or making a run for it on land?
“Sir, what do you want us to do?”
“Shit!” Pieter shouted loudly, and then came to a decision, praying he’d chosen the correct one. “Stay with the boat!”
They swooped even lower, the undercarriage of the chopper seeming to be perilously close to the white-topped waves. They were travelling very fast now, the pilots working in perfect sync as they adjusted and manipulated the throttle and collective controls to thrust them forward, their feet gently pressing the pedals to control the main rotors and tail rotors to alter their direction.
Within a few minutes Pieter caught sight of the motor launch once more. It was much closer now, but whoever was using the outboard motor was hunched forward, making it impossible to see their features, and the spray flying up in the boat’s wake as it kept changing direction obliterated his view further so that he couldn’t even be sure how many people were onboard.
Up ahead he saw the distant shoreline, the land flat and barren, with the white-painted Urk Lighthouse standing out against the backdrop of dark clouds.
He turned to one of the crewmen in the back of the chopper.
“Do we have a winch?” he shouted, not sure if he was miked up or not
“No sir. We’re not a search and rescue helicopter.”
“Pilot, get us right over the boat, as low as you can.”
“I can’t risk going much nearer. We don’t have skids, just retractable wheels. If the swell gets us, we’re in trouble. And this wind is a bitch.”
“Okay, okay, just get us as close as possible.”
They closed the gap still further, chasing after the frothy wake thrown up by the small vessel, and Pieter thought he caught a glimpse of blonde hair streaming in the wind.
Closer still, until they were right above the boat and keeping pace with it.
“Take us down!” Pieter shouted.
“Christ!” the pilot bellowed back angrily, but he did as he was told, grimacing as he adjusted their altitude.
Now they were barely a dozen feet above the speeding boat, the chopper swaying and bucking, and Pieter could feel spray from the sea dashing against his face.
He could see clearly that the boat had only one occupant, and even before the person turned their face to look upwards at the helicopter flying right overhead he knew it was Lotte, because of the slim and petite form.
In a repeat of the previous night, during the shootout at the Begijnhof, his eyes locked onto hers, and unbelievably she was smiling and laughing with her head thrown back.
The chopper dropped within six feet of the speeding vessel.
Charlotte Janssen screamed with exhilaration.
The thrill of the moment was exquisite, with the boat speeding over the choppy waters and the wind and spray blowing into her face. She felt so alive that every nerve in her body seemed to send electric vibrations through her being, and when she turned again to look up at the helicopter flying just feet above her head, seeing Pieter seated in the open doorway, she could not stop herself from laughing.
She wasn’t sure if it were an outburst of joy or the rapture of madness, the ecstasy of uncontrollable delight, or the white-hot burn of insanity. Whatever it was, it felt intoxicating.
As soon as it became clear the police were coming, her Uncle Johan had insisted they grab the girl from the basement and make a bolt for it. It was all over the internet, with news crews on the spot streaming live footage of the convoy of vehicles coming racing across the dam from both directions.
He’d run down the basement steps. In the few moments he was gone, she had made a quick phone call – “Mr Trinh, I require your services once more” - and then her uncle reappeared with the girl, dragging her by her wrist through the kitchen and into the parlour. She was screaming and crying, her stupid little face wet with tears, and so Lotte had stepped over and slapped her once, the stinging blow leaving a red mark on her cheek, instantly cutting off her bawling. After that, she had remained silent, her body rigid with shock, and so getting her down the beach and into the small boat had proved easy, and off they had set just moments before the first police trucks arrived.
Part way over the water Johan had removed the sniper’s rifle from the canvas carryall, and Lotte had watched as he had effortlessly fired one single round back towards the house, the rocking and bouncing boat no impediment to his marksmanship.
Then he had shouted across to her, telling her to steer towards the dam, towards a small wooden jetty. He would take the girl and draw the police away, while she tried to make it as far as the opposite shoreline.
Dropping them off, Lotte had once more set a course eastwards, but only moments later she’d heard the familiar
