For three days the shipping company stymied him. Then they told him that the man he wanted to interview, the captain of the Elisa Martin, was already back out at sea and wouldn’t be available for a face-to-face interrogation until he docked in New Jersey in another week.
He decided to question the man by satellite phone, which he did, and ran into a wall of denial. Someone had paid well for silence, Howell thought.
“Let me at least send his face to the authorities. Say his passport may have been compromised, stolen by a known fugitive and whoever is using it needs to be contained immediately,” August said.
Howell agreed.
So. Rotterdam. Homeland Security had constant satellite surveillance going on all major ports in the world. Howell pulled strings to get the imagery analyzed. It took a team of twenty and they found a dozen leads. They coordinated it with security camera footage from the port itself and caught a photo of a man who might have been Sam Capra walking out of a secured crew area, next to a blonde pixie in leather jeans. The crew area was close to where the Elisa Martin had docked.
So Sam Capra was in Holland. Probably trying to figure out a quick way to London. Howell alerted the Dutch intelligence service, who promised to coordinate with the police in Rotterdam, Amsterdam, and The Hague, and the border police, all quietly. Eurostar and the ferry companies were alerted. The Dutch authorities had their hands full with a train station bombing, and Howell could tell his request wasn’t a priority. He contacted his counterpart in the British intel service, who, given that the Company bombing had taken place on their soil and they had lost several civilians, were most eager to find Sam Capra themselves.
He could not find any identification on the woman. Her eyes were masked by sunglasses, and the facial recognition software did not give any partial matches in the Company database. He asked the techs to expand the search; Sam had a friend, and he wanted to know who this most interesting woman was.
Howell badly wanted to go to the Netherlands. He wanted to find Sam himself because he suspected this would only end with a bullet now, and he wanted to be the one to deliver it.
“If he’s done this, it’s for a good reason,” August said. “Maybe he’s doing the job we should have done months ago-finding the people who bombed our office.”
Howell said slowly, “Yes, that has occurred to me. But that’s my job, not his. And who’s this woman?”
“He’s gotten some help.”
“Yes,” Howell said. “And who would bother to help Sam, and why?”
Howell and August took a flight to Amsterdam, hurried to a Company safe house that lay in a stately home along the Herengracht canal, and set up a communications point, waiting to hear. Waiting. Because someone was going to see or find Sam Capra in the next day. Sam was not going to be hiding; Sam was going to be looking for the people who had grabbed his wife. Howell felt certain.
August Holdwine stood at the window watching the rain hit the bridge and the canal and thought, You dumbass, your only hope is if we find you and you are willing to talk to me. If you don’t, you’re going to jail for the rest of your life.
And a jet-lagged Howell lay awake, listening to the rain patter against the canal and the roof’s shingles and thought, They won’t risk another embarrassment back at headquarters. They won’t care what he’s doing, even if it’s right. Now I have to find out what he knows and then I will have to kill him.
34
There is a man trying to infiltrate our group,” Piet said. “Nic told me about him. He is a former intelligence agent. He has been seeking a means to get close to me, and presumably to you. I’m pretty sure he’s tied to your little bitch’s daddy.”
Edward had just gotten off a plane, his flight delayed by bad weather, and he was tired and irritable. His stomach rumbled. The lunch he’d eaten in Budapest disagreed with him. The fish, he thought. That would teach him to eat seafood in a landlocked country. And he’d gotten word that Simon, his man dispatched on a critical errand in Brooklyn, had failed. Which meant Sam Capra was alive. This was a bad night. But he would not be afraid. Fear was for fools.
“Where is he now?” Edward asked. He put down his suitcase. He took a calming breath.
“Earlier he was at a bar. Nic can tell us.”
“And he wants to see me?” Edward said. “Bring him to me. I will put him to good use.”
“And your little bitch?”
“If anyone is my little bitch, Piet,” Edward said, “it’s you. You will undo my work if you speak of her that way. She’s one of us now. Be nice.”
Piet sucked in air and crossed his arms. Edward hated him. But Piet was necessary.
“You better be getting what you need to get out of her,” Piet said. His voice was a low growl. “Otherwise, you’ve risked us all for nothing. And nothing doesn’t pay my bills.”
“Life is getting what you want, and I’m better at life than you are, Piet.”
“Her father caved?”
“Caved, collapsed, avalanched.”
“You’re overconfident,” Piet said. “Bahjat Zaid is behind this infiltration; he is trying to outflank you.” He had his plaything, the wakizashi sword, pulled free from the custom holster on his pants. “Let me go van Gogh on her ear, send it to him. He’ll behave.”
“You don’t touch her. Ever.”
“I’m starting to think you have feelings for the little bitch-”
On the last word, ignoring the short sword in Piet’s hand, Edward seized Piet by the throat and pushed him, almost gently, back into the wall. Piet brought the sword up quickly, the edge of it touching Edward’s wrist.
“You know if you cut me, you’re dead,” Edward said. “The sword is a stupid prop, Piet. Carrying it, you look like a refugee from a bad samurai film. Now put your toy down or I’ll yell out and my friends will come up here and kill you with their bare hands. That’s their loyalty to me.”
After a long moment, Piet lowered the sword.
Edward released his grip. Piet was afraid of losing respect, of face. Easy to manipulate.
“The routes to get my goods-you did an excellent job. The pickup in Budapest went very smoothly.” It had been so hard to leave his treasures behind and get on the plane back to Amsterdam, but now the treasures were on their way, hidden in Piet’s smuggling route. They would be in the Netherlands soon enough. “Let’s have a look at this spy and make him useful. Get the cameras set up. Please.”
The modicum of respect worked. Piet left with a curt nod and Edward went to Yasmin’s room. He touched the place where the sword had lain against his wrist; he could still feel the edge of the blade. Piet was starting to be more of a problem than he was worth, but Edward needed him right now. Everything was lining up: the money, the goods, his future.
Yasmin lay on the bed-that was her privilege now.
Edward was proud of his fair lady, the woman he’d modeled from raw clay into a killer. He stood over her as she slept in an uneasy drowse.
After she’d dropped the backpack behind a book display inside the small magazine store in the train station, they’d hurried her out to a van two blocks away and driven off. She had not panicked or freaked out or tried to flee. She had followed her orders without question. Without fear.
Edward could see the admiration for his work in the eyes of the others.
That night they had moved her to the attic. Edward brought her favorite food, cinnamon pastries. He told her she had done a wonderful job, that she had done great good today.
“You eliminated a serious problem for us today.” He began to unbutton her blouse. “You are a heroine to me, Yasmin.”
“Are they listening?” she whispered.
“No. You are one of us now. You proved that at the station. No one is listening to us. It is only you and me here, little bird.”
He slipped her blouse from her shoulders; she did not resist. He held up a small wooden dove. “I saw this on
