Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 2) (24 page)

Ten minutes later, the tires touched tarmac and the Boeing followed the runway to the terminal. As the other passengers disembarked, the friendly blonde stewardess hurried to his side to retrieve his carry-on luggage from the overhead compartment.

“Heavy,” she remarked, holding out his slim briefcase. “A computer?”

“Precision optics,” he replied, taking the briefcase from her hands. “Sensitive equipment.”

Her sharp eyes looked him over, from his sober Ermenegildo Zegna suit to his Fratelli Rossetti shoes, and lingered on his Vacheron Constantin watch. Her smile brightened and she asked, “Is this your first visit to Holland?”

“No,” he replied, watching her smile fade. “But the last time was quite a few years ago. Are you a native?”

“Born and raised in Amsterdam. Where are you staying?”

“The Manor Hotel, at the Linnaeusstraat.”

“The former Burgerziekenhuis.” She cocked a finger at him. “You might not believe me, but I was born there. In that building, that is.”

“In that case….” He held out one of his business cards. “If you don’t have a dinner engagement for this evening, perhaps you would like to help me sample the restaurant. Enoteca is supposed to have four stars, like the hotel itself.”

She tapped the business card against her palm. “This evening?”

“I booked a table for two at eight o’clock.”

“Just dinner.”

“And conversation,” he replied. “Nothing more.”

“Why me?” she asked. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Because you were born at my hotel.” He tapped the company pin on the lapel of her uniform. “J. Smit.”

“Jacqueline.” She held up his own card, pointed at his name. “What does the X stand for?”

“Xiao, but everyone just calls me Chang.”

Another stewardess came walking over and Jacqueline spoke quickly, “The lobby? Quarter to eight?”

“Quarter to eight will be fine.”

With a slight nod Chang turned away and joined the end of the queue leaving the plane.

-o-

The moment Chang passed through the revolving doors of the terminal, a young man climbed from a sleek black BMW sedan with tinted windows parked at the kerb and approached him with the cat-like grace of a martial artist, holding the lapels of his jacket with his left hand, ring finger extended to signal his rank. Not a common foot soldier, but a Red Pole. Like a squadron leader, Red Poles usually command lower level enforcers. To have one pick him up at the airport was a sign of respect from the 14K.

Chang didn’t signal back, just nodded and handed him his suitcase. While the Red Pole put his luggage in the trunk, Chang opened the passenger door and glanced into the empty backseat, before climbing into the car and closing the door behind him. He kept the briefcase with his scopes on his lap.
 

The interior of the car was furnished in walnut and tan leather, smelling fairly new. There was no handsfree cell phone or stereo in view. In the space of the radio sat a GPS console, the screen tilted towards the steering wheel. The ashtray underneath was clean and unused. The Red Pole closed the trunk and climbed behind the wheel, automatically fastening his safety belt before pulling into traffic. Chang studied him from the corner of his eyes, watching him handle the car with quiet self-assurance. The Red Pole’s inscrutable face featured the prominent cheekbones of the Manchurian Chinese, his beard more fuzz than stubble. Chang guessed him to be in his late teens or early twenties, younger than he appeared at first glance. His promotion had to be recent. And he had to be gifted, to be promoted to such stature at his age. The rank of Red Pole carried responsibilities usually considered too demanding to grant to anyone under thirty.

“I have to see my supplier first,” Chang said. “At Tussen de Bogen. You know where that is?”

The Red Pole nodded. A man of few words. Good.

Chang settled deeper into his seat and looked outside.

On the motorway, the BMW took the left lane, passing the slower traffic. Chang considered telling him there was no hurry, but—despite his relaxed posture—the Red Pole’s calm eyes were constantly studying the traffic, an obvious sign the young man was used to driving fast. And he drove well, the BMW purring as it sped through the slow curves. A car tried to cut in front, but he only took his foot from the accelerator and flashed his lights, not showing any irritation at being hindered. The car slipped back into the middle lane and the BMW smoothly surged forward again.

Slick move. Chang smiled faintly and the Red Pole noticed, a corner of his mouth briefly mimicking Chang’s smile while he kept his attention on the traffic. On the ring road around Amsterdam, the BMW took the E19 northbound, leaving the motorway to follow the Haarlemmerweg into the city. Despite their slow progress, the young man was patient, not drumming on the steering wheel, but resting his hands lightly on the lower rim as they waited for the lights to change.

The long flight and the heroin deficiency made Chang restless, but he didn’t show his agitation, concentrating on the scenery floating by. Amsterdam seemed smaller and dirtier than he recalled from his last visit. Or he had spent too much time between the shiny skyscrapers of Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur. Amsterdam’s old inner city had an air of dejection hanging over it. Perhaps the constant drizzle soaking the toy-like houses was getting him down.
 

Chang shivered and the young man stretched out his hand, turning up the heat in the car.

“Thanks,” Chang spoke, his voice sounding alien in the silence. The Red Pole nodded, but didn’t reply, his unwavering attention on the traffic. They drove past Tussen De Bogen, with studios, offices and warehouses in the spaces of the arches that supported the railroad embankment.
 

“Take a left at the next light.”

The BMW crossed under the tracks and doubled back, halting beside a grey Peugeot van parked near the fourth arch.

Chang got out with his slim briefcase and walked around the BMW’s sleek bonnet to the anonymous grey van. The side door opened and he stepped inside, moving to the rear of the van, while the door closed and a halogen lamp over the workbench flickered to life, illuminating the man who had let him in.

The years had not been kind to Manfred Kiekendief. Most of his hair was gone, a few remaining limp wisps framing his long sad face, the skin grey and sagging, his eyes dulled with fatigue.

“Cancer,” the gunsmith spoke before Chang could ask. “Eating me from the inside out.”

“How long have you got left?”

“With treatment, ten to twelve months. Without… six, maybe seven.”

“And you’re going without.”

“I have painkillers.” Kiekendief took out a slender bullet and showed the engraving on the brass casing. “And this for when the pain gets too big to kill.”

“A bullet with your name on it. How poetic.”

“There’s a purpose to the engraving. The gun will eject the casing in my hand, so there won’t be any doubt I killed myself.”

“In lieu of a suicide note.”

Kiekendief gave him a wry smile. “I’ve never been much of a writer.”

Chang tilted his chin at the Pelican case on the workbench. “Is that for me?”

“The PGM you ordered.” Kiekendief opened the lid. “Second-hand, new suppressed barrel and firing pin.”

The dull black parts of the disassembled sniper rifle didn’t reflect the light of the halogen lamp suspended over the workbench. Chang looked over the folding stock and the fat barrel, and checked the rail on top of the receiver to see if it would fit his scopes. The bolt and magazine were stashed separately.

“Did you break in the barrel?”

“And I adjusted the trigger to your specifications.” The gunsmith stroked the Picatinny scope base. “Still lugging your own scopes around?”

“Good optics are harder to come by than rifles.”

“True, all too true.” He gestured at the case. “Ammunition in the left corner. Eight mags, five mercury-tipped rounds each.”

From the worktable came the sound of someone arming a bolt action rifle. Manfred pointed at his phone. “It’s just an SMS.”

“That sound was an alert that you received a text message?”

“Yes,” Kiekendief said. “Funny, isn’t it?”

“You might not want to receive texts when you’re around trigger happy people.” Chang closed the lid of the Pelican case and handed Kiekendief the money. “It’s in US dollars.”

“Listen, folding stock PGMs are difficult to come by, so if you need to be rid of it, I’ll buy it back at half price.”

“I’ll take it in consideration.”

“Two-thirds,” Kiekendief corrected himself. “Depending on the state of the rifle, of course. I’ll have to replace the barrel, but that won’t be a problem.”

Almost dead and still greedy.

Chang smiled and nodded, left the van, closed the door behind him and walked back to the waiting BMW.

-o-

The last time Chang had stayed in Amsterdam, he’d stayed at the luxurious five star Amstel Intercontinental Hotel, but he never used in the same hotel twice. This time the Red Pole drove him to the Linnaeusstraat, where the BMW halted before the Manor hotel, housed in the former Burgerziekenhuis.
 

The Red Pole followed him with his luggage to the reception, waited for him to sign in and followed as the concierge preceded them to luxury suite 41, on the ground floor. They walked towards restaurant Enoteca, Chang following the concierge at a short distance and the Red Pole closing the rank, protecting his back. They turned right at the end of the corridor and crossed the hotel bar, still empty. The next corridor had burgundy carpeting with small Xs, a theme that was continued in the wallpaper. The concierge preceded them into the suite and slipped the hotel keycard into a slot on the wall, showing them how the lights only worked when the card was inserted.

The Red Pole followed the explanation with his dark eyes, but didn’t speak.
 

“The minibar is empty,” the concierge said. “Since most of our guests either don’t use it or stock it with their own choice of beverages.”

His eyes nervously followed the Red Pole, moving through the room like a wraith searching for a soul. The Red Pole tested the door leading to the hotel garden, checking the outside of the door. When he turned around, he didn’t look pleased, and the concierge coughed and said, “Will you be staying here too, mister—?”

The Red Pole studied the concierge with an unblinking reptile gaze, but didn’t give him his name.

Chang cleared his throat, then spoke, “My assistant won’t stay here, but he’ll need his own keycard so he can come and go as he pleases.”

“I’ll make sure your assistant can collect a keycard at the reception, right away.”

The concierge hurried away and Chang turned to the Red Pole. “Tone down your brooding presence.”

The Red Pole motioned for him to follow and walked to the door, lifted the keycard from the slot and stepped out of the suite. Chang followed as the Red Pole turned right and opened the emergency door, which opened on the emergency stairs. He walked to the doors leading to the garden and studied the alarm wiring at the top of the door behind the pictogram. He opened the door briefly, then closed it and looked at his watch while he brushed past Chang and moved back to the suite.

They lingered in the corridor, while the Red Pole opened the door to the suite and stuffed the keycard in the slot for the electricity.

Chang was getting itchy. He needed to score some heroin, but he couldn’t do that with the Red Pole dogging his steps.
 

“If you are to assist me,” Chang said. “I’d like to know your name.”

The Red Pole bowed slightly and handed him a business card with a sleight of hand that would make a magician envious. No doubt he could make a gun appear just as smoothly.
 

Chang took the card with two hands and studied it carefully. “Tsui Yun Sung. You’re a relative of Tsui Pak Yun, Ah Sung?”

A PDA appeared in the Red Pole’s hand and the index finger of his free hand swiped in a blur over the tiny keyboard. He flipped the PDA so Chang could read the screen.

‘Ah Yun was my uncle,’ the screen said. ‘He was my sponsor.’

“My condolences. You are mute?”

Ah Sung tapped a button and the screen filled with a standard message.

‘I am deaf and mute, so I cannot hear or speak, but I can read lips. Please don’t cover your mouth or turn away from me while talking. Thank you.’

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Chang articulated without a sound. “I’m an old man and tired from the trip, so I’ll stay in and catch up on my sleep.”

The Red Pole’s finger blurred over the PDA’s keyboard again.

‘Nobody came when I tripped the alarm of the emergency door. This place is not safe. Can’t you move to a more secure location?’

“I have my reasons for staying here, Ah Sung. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your advice in mind. Can you pick me up tomorrow at dusk? And take me to a spot where I can sight in my rifle?”

‘You won’t need my assistance during the day?’

“I think I can manage.”

The Red Pole bowed and the PDA disappeared. In its place, a small lacquer box appeared that he presented to him with a flourish. As soon as Chang accepted the lacquer box, Ah Sung bowed and left the suite, silent as a ghost, the door closing softly behind him.

A deaf-mute assistant.

Chang shook his head and opened the lacquer box. Inside were ten small flat tinfoil packages, a butane lighter and an ornate silver pipe with a dragon wrapped around the stem. Even through the wrappings he could smell the contents.

Heroin.

-o-

Chang lay spent on the bed, enjoying the best feature of his hotel room. From the bed, he could look through a window pane straight into the bathroom, where Jacqueline the perky flight attendant was lounging in the bath. She’d been energetic, almost aggressive in her lovemaking, but the heroin had dulled his libido and he’d taken ages to climax, which seemed to have pleased her.

She tapped the window and gestured for him to join her in the bath. He shook his head, mimicking that he liked looking at her and blew her a kiss. She arched back in the soapy water and started giving him a show of what he was missing, caressing herself with her eyes closed and her mouth half open, showing her cute little overbite as she panted with excitement.