“I wonder,” Piet said, “if that girl is playing you.”
“She is not.”
“I think she might do anything to survive,” Piet said. “She knew it was her or that Turk. You said she was a scientist, right? I think she just might be stone-cold. Don’t turn your back on her. She’s shot a man now. It will be easier the second time. Always is.”
“Shut up and get rid of the body,” Edward said. Piet could do the dirtiest job, given his mouth. “And Demi, I want that tape ready to send. I want her father to start his day with his lovely, perfect daughter.”
35
I opened my eyes.
I heard a baby crying and for one sweet moment I thought it was my and Lucy’s Bundle, and that all was right in the world. That London had never happened.
But the ceiling was weird, a blue peaked roof with white beams cutting across it at an angle. I was in Amsterdam. Morning light shone on my face. I could still hear the baby. I got up and went to the small window that overlooked the Prinsengracht canal and saw a harried mother walking by, pushing a stroller. The night’s rain had gone and it looked like a pretty morning.
I had not thought much about being a father. When Lucy had told me we were going to have a baby, there was at first the shock of surprise and joy. Then I thought of my dad, who’d taken me and my brother to six continents by the time we were ten, who was busy saving the world and often ignoring us. He had been a good father in some ways and an indifferent one in others. I would not repeat his mistakes, assuming I got that chance.
A knock at the door. I kept my gun close and opened it. Mila, dressed like a young account executive, a neat gray suit, muted scarf, stylish shoes. She carried an expensive briefcase and a bag of groceries. She was a little chameleon.
“Are you job-hunting today, Mila?”
“Yes. I hope to work with a better class of people very soon. Get showered, I’ll make coffee. We have a busy day.”
I showered fast, dried, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt and a jacket. When I came out to the small kitchen she had breakfast pastries on a plate, coffee steaming from the percolator. Her laptop was open and a video was playing on it.
Yasmin, shooting a man. The video reached its end, started again.
Mila munched on a roll, sipped coffee. “The quality of the film is dodgy, but impact is there.”
“My God,” I said. I rewound and looked at the murdered man’s face.
The man executed was the Turk I’d fought in the bar the night before.
I hit the space bar on the laptop and the video stopped-Yasmin frozen, raising the gun. Her face was clear in the video. Every other face, except the dead man’s, had been digitally blurred.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Blackmailing Bahjat Zaid, chapter two.”
“This arrived in his e-mail at six o’clock this morning. He forwarded it to me via a secure line.”
“So they’ve made her into a bomber and a murderer,” I said. “They can’t, or won’t, take her to a bank for her Patty-Hearst-joins-her-captors moment, so they’re manufacturing them.”
Mila made a noise as she sipped her coffee.
“Did Zaid send that man?” A slow anger started to smolder past the soreness I felt from last night’s fight. “He hires me, he hires this guy, we don’t know about each other? I don’t like it.”
“He could have named you before they killed him if he’d known.”
“Yes, but now they’ll be on guard like never before. We both took the same tack, trying to connect to Piet, and now I’m screwed, Mila. My job just got a thousand times harder, just when I’d started to get close to Nic.” I stood and paced the floor. “Get Zaid here. We have to talk. What the hell is this shipment that his other hired gun was supposed to steal?”
“He told me he was leaving Amsterdam.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then let’s find him.” I sat down, reopened the e-mail he’d sent on the laptop. The original e-mail source- from Yasmin’s captors-had gone through an anonymizer service and was untraceable. But I looked at Zaid’s e-mail to Mila. Encoded in the source headers was information about the provider. I looked at it, plugged the information into a website that provided information on server locales. “Zaid sent this from Hungary. Why the hell is he in Hungary? He’s hiring me to save his daughter, and instead of being here, close to the action, he’s in Hungary.” I heard my voice rise. “That’s where Yasmin worked. Why is he there?”
“I don’t know, Sam, and yelling at me is not going to put a GPS on him. His company has a facility there. He might simply be tending to business.”
Right. The one Yasmin worked at. “I do not like this. Zaid hiring another agent to attempt a rescue-we could have tripped each other up. We could have killed each other, mistaking each other for members of the gang. I assume the Turk was given the same orders I was-rescue Yasmin and wipe out the kidnappers.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. We need a different approach.”
“No, we don’t even have the full story. Zaid wanted the Turk to steal whatever’s being shipped so it could be exchanged for his daughter. We need to know what that shipment is.”
“I will find out,” she said.
I considered. “Okay, I was in the bar before Nic was. Maybe I can say I heard the Turk make a threat that will concern both Nic and Piet.”
She gave me a slight smile. “Eat your breakfast. You must be prepared to frighten Nic very badly.”
I watched the tape again. “What will they ask Zaid for now? They did this because they knew the Turk was chasing them, but they did it to ruin her again. Now there’s footage of his daughter bombing a station and executing a man. What if she hasn’t been brainwashed? What if she’s a willing participant?”
“Nothing in her background suggests violence.”
I stared at the video. Watched Yasmin become a murderer again. “It’s like they want Zaid to suffer. This is personal.”
“That is your guess. You could be wrong,” Mila said.
“Here’s the problem. I don’t know how I can get leverage with Nic, and therefore Piet, and rise above suspicion.”
“We could grab Nic, force him to tell us.”
“No. You want this whole group eliminated, then I have to get inside. I have to get them all together. Nic is the key right now.”
“So how will you convince him that you are necessary?”
“Any operation like this faces a challenge,” I said. “I need to know what their challenge is, and be the cure.”
“How will you find that out?”
I considered. “Gregor told me that Nic lives above a coffee shop in the Jordaan. I know his last name is ten Boom. That’s a start.”
36
It took me a while to find Nic. He was not listed in the phone book. I could have called Gregor, but I didn’t want him any more scared. The Jordaan is an older neighborhood, not far from the Prinsengracht, that’s gotten a bit trendy. It wasn’t a canal district; the streets were narrow in some stretches and wide in others, even with parking for cars in the middle of the street. The buildings were the narrow, tall sort favored in Amsterdam: the roofline was
