Adrenaline (31 page)

“Weapons. For who?”

“Not your concern.”

“What kind?”

“Terrible ones,” Piet said.

I said nothing for a long, long minute, let the conversation in the other parts of the Rode Prins rise and fall. Then:

“Define terrible,” I said. “Unlike you, I don’t bite off more than I can chew.” I had to play my part right, and it was okay to be scared of the enormity of a job.

“You can’t back out now.”

“Are you going to tell me the N word?”

“N word?”

“Nuclear.”

“Oh, my God.” Piet laughed. “Oh, no. No.” He laughed again. “No.”

“I need details.”

“Before I give you details, I need to talk with Edward.”

“Fine. I need to talk with Edward, too.”

“Why?”

“Because I blew Nic’s cover and I saved all your asses. I want payment. I want my slice of this, Piet. I’m getting shot at and I deserve a stake in this deal.” I made my words a hiss. Apply the pressure, I thought, crack him. Crack him now. Make the world an anvil falling from the sky in a twisted cartoon to obliterate his head. “I don’t share a bit of information on the shipments until I talk to this Edward and his people. Not a bit.”

I could sense the desperation coming off him. A dozen telling signs: in the flick of the tongue on his lips, in the way he held the heavy glass. This was a man not easily rattled and he
was
rattled, badly, by the thought of failing Edward.

He didn’t speak, so I asked, “When was your shipment supposed to arrive in Rotterdam?”

“Morning after tomorrow.”

“Then we don’t have much time, do we?” Tomorrow wasn’t enough time to plan a robbery, but I hoped that their desperation would be as great as mine.

“Edward does not rush. Ever. He will not be rushed by my deadline.”

In the mirrored wall of the bar, I saw Mila walk past us. She did not look at us; but she caught Piet’s eye.

He watched her pass with an appreciation that made my bones go cold. “That’s a prime little number.”

“Three or five?”

“Huh?”

“Little prime number. What, you don’t like math jokes?”

“Math only exists for money.”

Mila vanished through a door into the back of the Rode Prins. I wanted to talk to her, now, find out what had happened.

He finished his beer. “Come with me, Sam.”

I didn’t want to leave but I set my beer down. “Where are we going?”

“You want to meet Edward, you shall meet Edward. Let’s go.”

Finally. It would happen. I was going in unarmed, but I’d face the scarred man. Find my wife and my child.

Henrik watched us leave. I wondered if Mila was going to tail me again. But I never looked behind me to see. I couldn’t have Piet becoming suspicious.

I
SAW HIM.” HOWELL STOOD
in the quiet of the safe house in Amsterdam. Outside the spring light danced on the shallow waters of the Herengracht; bicyclists pedaled by slowly, savoring the lovely day. He could smell gunfire and blood as if it were burned into his clothes. “I saw Sam Capra. He fired on us. He left behind a warehouse full of goods that I suspect are stolen or counterfeit, and a room full of women I suspect are bound for sex slavery.”

“There has to be a reasonable explanation,” August said. A Company doctor was tending to his arm. He winced as the doctor closed a stitch.

“I think he went rogue long before his wife died. Has it occurred to
anyone
that
he
was the bad guy, not her? That Lucy wasn’t the driving force behind him turning traitor?” Howell said. “I appreciate your loyalty to him. But I am telling you, August, that it is misplaced and misspent on Sam Capra.”

“Or he thinks these people know where his wife is.”

“He shot at my men.”

“Did you see that?”

Howell hesitated. “No.”

August thanked the doctor, who left without a word. Then he turned to Howell. “
Novem Soles
.”

“What?”

“You asked him about the words
Novem Soles
. Is it a group? Could these people be it?”

“These people are apparently cheap traffickers. I doubt they’ve endowed themselves with some grand Latin name.”

“What’s
Novem Soles
, Howell?”

Howell crossed his arms. “A term heard mentioned on some monitored lines tied to criminal rings, or to government officials who were on the take. I don’t know if it’s a group, or a code name for a person, or what it is.”

“That dead man in Brooklyn had a tattoo of a stylized nine and a sun.
Novem soles
, nine suns. I didn’t sleep through Latin.”

“Maybe Sam Capra was working with these people on the bombing, and now they want him dead. Or maybe he’s turned against us since we let him walk.”

“We’ve thrown him away; are you surprised he’s landed with trash?” August said.

“The hard, awful truth is that the only survivors of the London office are the Capras. Someone recruited either Lucy or Sam, or both of them. They killed our people. They attacked us with impunity. That’s what’s unacceptable. He’s acting like a criminal. Pretty it up how you want it, August, but he’s a criminal, too.”

“You told him that you had proof he was innocent.”

“I lied,” Howell said. “It was a considered decision to let him go, to see what he did.”

“Then let’s use our contacts in the underworld here. Ferret him out. I’ll talk to him.”

“You,” Howell said, “are going home, soon as we can get you a plane.”

“Sir, don’t. Let me stay.”

“You’ve been shot, Agent Holdwine. Go home.”

“You’re going to kill Sam,” August said.

“Only if he tries to kill me,” Howell said.

“Sir, I request permission to stay. My injury is not that serious, and—”

“Permission denied. Get some rest, August. Read a good book, watch TV. You’ve earned some quiet.”

Howell walked out, shutting the door behind him. On the other side of the door, August considered. He still had the spare phone in his pocket, the number that he’d given to Sam in case someone came after him back in Brooklyn. It had never been used. He felt bad that Sam hadn’t called him after the attack in his apartment. Either Sam didn’t trust him, August thought, or he liked him too much to get him involved. But he still had a few hours in Amsterdam to hope for the phone to ring.

D
O YOU KNOW WHERE DE
Pijp is?”

“Yes.” It was the same district as the Albert Cuyp Market, where Gregor’s shop was.

“Drive there.” Piet gave me directions and an address and dialed his phone. “Yes. Hello. Listen, I have bad news. The machinists’ shop was compromised. Nic turned on us, he was spying. I have an associate who exposed him.” Great, he was claiming ownership of me. “Nic might have been working for the same employer as the Turk. We were attacked, not by police, possibly by rivals. The twins are dead, our cover shipment lost. What do you want to do?”

This had to be Edward. And Edward would have to summon Piet for a meeting. Then I was set. I’d already killed two of them. I figured, from the video I’d seen, that there were about nine more who could damn Yasmin Zaid as a killer.

Nine targets and Edward. I had no weapons on me and couldn’t have counted on taking any because I would be searched before I was brought anywhere close to Edward’s inner circle. Fine. I would have to start killing them before he saw me, before he recognized me as Lucy Capra’s husband. With what? My bare hands?

Bahjat Zaid wanted them all dead. But Zaid had lied to me, and avoided me, and given this group weapons, if Piet was to be believed, all without telling me. I didn’t like being a pawn. So I didn’t feel that I had to follow his orders to the letter. Grab his daughter and get out was good enough for me. And that alone was going to be a nearly insurmountable challenge.

“We lost the shipments, but my partner says he knows how to get replacements.” He listened. Then said yes three times. He clicked off the phone.

“Where are these shipments we can take over?” he asked.

“You can’t steal a legit shipment,” I said. “You can’t redirect it, not if you want to be sure of total control of it. They could have GPID chips inside for the police to track it. You need to steal from counterfeiters. They can’t run to the police and if they want to try and take you on, you might be able to outgun them.”

“I don’t want to steal in Rotterdam,” he said. “These people could be my customers later.”

I hate people who think long-term. I needed him panicked, not logical. I tented my cheek with my tongue. “We don’t have time—”

“We will have to figure it out. Now. We’re on a deadline. I miss it, Edward will kill us both.”

Well, I was about to ruin his plans. But what if Edward and Yasmin weren’t where we were headed right now? I’d have to continue the charade to get close to them. Where the hell would I find illegal shipments to hijack?

I considered. “The Chinese usually move their billions in counterfeit cigs in stages, shedding shipments in major cities as they move west across Europe.” I drummed a finger against my lip. “So. I think Chinese counterfeits are
our best hope. We can grab a shipment, relabel it, hide the goods, and get it on its way to America.”

He was calmer. “What do you need?”

“A team of at least seven, and guns. Silencers. We will need forged papers to replace their shipping manifests with our names in case we are stopped.”

“And how will we find the Chinese shipments?”

“I know a man,” I said. But I hoped I’d have Edward in my grip before I had to make that call.

The house was in a section of De Pijp that was a bit worn and tired.

If I could get the gun from Piet before we were in, I could work through the house, eliminating them. I would be going in blind, though. But better to get the layout, see the faces, then strike. Assuming I got my hands on a gun.

God, I was assuming a lot.

I glanced at the rear mirror. It would have been nice to see Mila pulling up behind us, arms laden with, well, arms. But the street was empty except for two women walking along the sidewalk, carrying their shopping bags.

A man opened the door as we approached, his eyes hidden behind retro-style sunglasses. His mouth was a lush, cruel curl. I tensed. I felt like I was walking into a gas chamber. This was what my life had come to: killing. I wondered what my baby looked like; I wondered what his skin felt like, what it would be like to know the curl of a hand around a father’s finger.

You think the damndest things when you believe you’re really about to die. Like you know you only have so many thoughts left.

The man who had taken my wife and child from me was inside. Waiting.

Piet said, “He’s clean,” but the sunglassed man guided me into the house with a fist in the small of my back and searched me thoroughly, his hand running along my back, my legs, my groin.

Beyond the entryway I could detect a scent of spicy food, of laundry detergent, of sweat. Another man, a blond, stood at the end of the hall. Three to kill. But I would kill them, somehow.

A young woman stepped out next to him. She wore jeans and a faded T-shirt and held a gun. She had brown hair, pulled back. Not Yasmin Zaid. She stared at me with flat eyes. Four to kill.

And on her arm, a nine paired with a sun, stylized. Just like the man in Brooklyn who I’d killed with my bartender’s guide.

I wondered if the guy in shades could smell my fear, my tension. I didn’t want to die. The realization was on me like a weight slamming between my shoulders.

“You’re enjoying this,” I said, as he ran probing fingers up my leg, toward my crotch. “Those are some gifted hands.”

“Shut up. You talk when I say so,” he said in perfect English. Since his fist was close to my groin, I decided silence was the best option. I could see the gun in the back of his pants. Good to know. I’d already decided I’d take the woman’s gun; she was holding it a bit loosely, as though it were more prop than weapon ready to use.

“This is Samson,” Piet said. “He’s all right. He—”

And he didn’t get a chance to finish. The sunglassed man jabbed a hand hard into Piet’s throat. Piet slammed
against the wall, choking, and the sunglassed man—probably about six-four, two hundred very solid pounds—said, “I’m not happy with you, Piet.”