Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 2) (5 page)

Dressed in jeans and a turtleneck, Katla carried a pair of black leather sneakers into the living room and halted at the kitchen counter to watch Bram make tea. A ritual at once deliberate and circumspect. The stainless steel clamp, filled with loose-leafed Lapsang Souchon tea, descended with a slight chink into the high thin glass. Like handling molten lava, Bram poured boiling water into the glass and returned the kettle to the range. He turned with the glass in his hand and halted, feeling her presence.

“You want something to drink?”

“An espresso would be nice.”

Bram nodded and turned to the Gaggia espresso machine. Katla limped into the living room, sat on the couch to put on her sneakers, bending her right leg with both hands to slip her foot into the sneaker. Bram might’ve been right about overexerting herself. She’d better take it slow for the next few days, give her leg plenty of rest. While she tied her laces, Bram strolled around the counter with his peculiar loping gait that made him appear to glide over the gleaming parquet floor. Katla envied him his grace, wished she was rid of her limp. He placed a fresh espresso on the coffee table in front of her and sat down next to her, stirring his tea with the clamp, his aquiline nose hovering in the steam rising from the glass.

She snuggled up to him. “I once dreamed of retiring to an atoll in the Pacific Ocean. House on the beach, walking around naked all day.”

“But?”

Katla leant back.”Somehow I don’t see you in my dream.”

“Maybe that’s because it’s your dream, not mine.”

“I know. I don’t like my dream anymore. I’d love to live like that, but I wouldn’t like to leave you behind.”

“I wouldn’t like that either,” Bram replied. “But I’d understand.”

“You’d understand if I left you behind to live on an island?”

“I love you.” He turned in her direction. “Your happiness is more important to me than my own.”

She leant her head against his shoulder. “Wouldn’t you be miserable without me?”

“Your happiness would probably ease my misery.”

“You wouldn’t prefer it if I’d stay here?”

“Not if it would make you unhappy. Don’t you have a meeting?”

She checked her watch. “Yes. You’ll be here when I come back?”

“Yes. But I have to get up at nine to make my aikido class.”

“I’ll be back around midnight.” Katla shrugged into her jacket. He opened his flight case and assembled his saxophone.

She halted him briefly to kiss him. “Don’t play too long.”

“Don’t worry.” He followed her into the hallway and climbed the stairs to the gym. “I’ll limit myself to ballads.”

As she opened the front door to go out, a flurry of notes came down from the gym. Katla limped back and stood at the bottom of the stairs. “That’s not a ballad.”

The music stopped. His voice floated down the stairs. “I wrote it for a girl with ADHD.”

Katla rolled her eyes and left the apartment, pulling out her cell phone as she limped down the stairs. The Taxi Centrale Amsterdam asked for an address to collect her, but she gave them the entrance of Artis. The fewer people knew where she lived, the better.

As Katla walked down the Nijlpaardenbrug, a late-model Mercedes turned the corner, the sign on the roof lit to show its availability. The taxi halted in front of the zoo. Katla waved with her cane and the taxi drove the extra fifty meters to the curve to the Plantage Doklaan.

His window whispered down. “You called for a taxi?”

“Yes,” Katla replied. “You mind if I sit up front?”

“Not at all.” The driver popped the door open. “Whereto, moppie?”

“Vlothaven.” She scooted into the passenger seat, closed the door, and put her cane between her legs.

The driver turned onto the Plantage Doklaan. “Isn’t the harbour closed on Saturday night?”

Katla shrugged. “If it is you can drive me back.”

“Easily offended, aren’t you?”

Katla studied him. Early-thirties, dark hair, black leather jacket, thin gold chain over a white shirt. Dark stubble on his chin, dark rings under his eyes.

“Not offended,” she replied. “I just don’t think it’s a good policy to question the mental capabilities of your passengers.”

He frowned. “I did that?”

“You questioned my request to be taken to the Vlothaven.”

“True, but I didn’t doubt your sanity.” He turned onto the De Ruyterkade. “If I suspect a passenger to be stoned, drunk, or otherwise under the influence, I ask them to repeat their request, to avoid misunderstandings.”

Katla checked herself in the mirror of the sun visor. “So now I’m drunk or stoned?”

“You look sober, but your request was odd.”

“Believe me, behind every request I make lies purpose and reason.”

“Then you’re an oddity yourself.” He grinned at her. “No offense.”

“I guess that could be construed as a compliment.”

The Mercedes purred smoothly through the chaotic traffic behind the Centraal Station and accelerated, speeding down the sweeping curves of Westerdoksdijk.

“I’m not in a hurry,” Katla said. “Keep to the speed limit.”

He slowed down and glanced in her direction. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You do? So why are you speeding?”

“What is this? Are you with the police? I wasn’t speeding.”

“Sixty-two in a fifty zone. I’m sure this Mercedes can brake faster than average, but I don’t want to be pulled over because you’re eager to get rid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“So why are you speeding? To impress me with your driving skills?”

The driver took a deep breath and stared straight ahead through the windshield.

“The meter is coupled to your mileage, isn’t it?”

He grunted an affirmation.

“So speeding is to your disadvantage. You burn more fuel and risk a fine. Still think you know what you’re doing?”

“I can see why some people might be eager to get rid of you.”

Katla shrugged. “Common sense is only irritating in other people.”

They continued in silence. She knew why he was speeding, but he obviously couldn’t tell her that he was indeed eager to get rid of her. Not because she annoyed him, but because he wanted to take as many fares as possible. And driving her to the harbour wouldn’t get him a return fare.

They reached the Spaarndammerdijk. The driver turned to her and said, “I’m not too familiar with the harbour. Should I take a right here?”

“Up ahead, at the fork,” Katla replied. “Follow the Nieuwe Hemweg and take a right at the next intersection.”

The driver nodded, tapping his hands on the wheel as he slowed down at the traffic lights and turned right, driving parallel with the motorway.
 

Katla pointed at the neon sign to her right. “Take a right at the Gunco building.”

The Mercedes halted at the gate. The terrain between the low warehouses was dark and looked deserted, the beams of the Mercedes reflected by huge stacks of wet timber. Next to the rolling gate was a small gate for pedestrians.

The driver looked at her. “You walk from here?”

“Not a chance.” Katla handed him a keycard. “Hold this against the black box on the left pole.”

The driver turned down his window, held her keycard against the reader, and the gate rolled sideways. He handed her back the keycard and drove past the gate. The gate stopped in its tracks and rolled back to close again.

The driver stopped the car. “How do I get out again?”

“With my keycard,” Katla said. “After my meeting.”

“If I have to wait here I’ll have to leave the meter running.”

“I’ll probably be half an hour.”

“Fine by me,” he said and put the car in gear. “Straight ahead?”

Katla looked at the stacks of wet timber littering the terrain in haphazard stacks. Straight ahead the terrain was cleared for vehicles, just wide enough for a single car or truck to pass through. Which was odd, since lanes between the stacks were supposed to be wide enough for two trucks to pass each other. And there should’ve been more than one lane. She looked to the right, but there was no other space cleared than the narrow lane in front of them.

“Take a left,” she said. “Pass behind the warehouses.”

“Whatever you say.”

The terrain behind the warehouses was also strewn with rubble, except for the tracks of the cranes at the edge of the quay.

Katla pointed at the quay. “Drive between the tracks.”

The driver frowned. “You want me to pass under the cranes?”

“Trucks can do it, so can you.”

The Mercedes bumped over the tracks and turned right, occasional pebbles shooting out from under its tires. They passed under a crane, the axles of its wheels level with the taxicab’s door handle. Another crane hulked in the distance, silhouetted against the dark blue night sky.

Katla pointed ahead. “The office building is just behind those warehouses.”

The driver pointed with his chin at a slender silhouette between them and the crane. “And who’s that?”

The silhouette’s right arm appeared slightly longer than the left.

“Stop the car,” Katla replied. “Put on your high beams.”

The high beams of the Mercedes illuminated a slender Chinese man in a dark suit, his left arm shielding his eyes, his right hand out of sight behind his back. Next to Pascal’s BMW she noticed three black Lexus SUVs, but Emil’s Saab was nowhere in sight.

“Park in front of the building.” Katla fished her cell phone from her pocket. “What’s your name and the number on your roof?”

“Why?”

“Give it to me.”

“Laurens Thooft.” He pointed at the laminated card on the windshield. “234.”

Bram answered and Katla said, “It’s me. If I don’t call you in fifteen minutes, or call you by your last name, I want you to call the police. Location: Sphinx Shipping, Vlothaven. Taxi 234, driver Laurens Thooft. Got that?”

“Taxi 234, Laurens Thooft,” Bram repeated. “Sphinx Shipping, Vlothaven.”

“Fifteen minutes.” Katla broke the connection and glanced at her watch.

The driver halted in front of the building. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “Your tip went up to fifty euro. Stay in the car.”

Another Chinese man walked up to the Mercedes and opened the door. Katla smiled up at him and swung her legs out of the car, placing her cane between her feet before she rose from the seat. The Chinese man held her elbow to help her from the car, reached in his pocket, took out a twenty and held it out to the driver. “We’ll drive Ms. Sieltjes home.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Katla put her hand on his arm. “He’ll wait for me.”

The Chinese man looked at her, shrugged and put the money back in his pocket. He preceded her to the door and held it for her, then followed her inside, staying three paces behind her. Katla exaggerated the effort she needed to climb the stairs and limp slowly to the Sphinx office.

In the tiny office sat three men; two Chinese and Pascal Vermeer, who approached her with his hand extended, a nervous smile around his lips.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Sieltjes.”

“No problem, Pascal,” she replied. “It’s good to see you.”

Gazing deep into his eyes, Katla clasped his clammy hand and jammed her thumb into the nerve behind the knuckle of his index finger. Vermeer blinked with the pain and his smile faltered, but he didn’t cry out. She released his nerve-deadened hand and turned to the two Chinese.

The younger man, in his late twenties like the one who followed her, wore a large gun under his armpit; large enough to cause his left arm to hang away from his body. He should’ve worn a broader tie; his suit was cut to hide the gun, but his shirt showed signs of a shoulder holster, the tips of his collar askew.

The older man appeared unarmed under his expensive silk suit. If his age and the quality of his clothes hadn’t revealed his seniority, his leadership would have been apparent in his demeanour; even in relaxation his straight shoulders and upright bearing betrayed a military background. His hair was shot with grey and shorter than that of his companions, and his dark eyes remained opaque as he gave her a boyish grin and extended his hand.

“Ms. Sieltjes, my name is Lau.” His callused palm felt like he had flat coins implanted under the skin. “I apologise for our ruse to get you to meet with us.”

“I’m sure you have an excellent reason for your subterfuge.”

Katla released his hand and moved to Emil’s desk.
 

“I do.” Lau opened a briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. “We want you to sign these documents, signing your Sphinx stock over to us.”

Katla rested her butt against the front of the desk, the cane ready to strike. “You mean you want me to sell my stock to you?”

“No, Ms. Sieltjes. We want you to give us your stock.”

Lau held out a ballpoint pen, but Katla made no move to take it.

“You think I will sign my stock over to you? Just like that?”

“I expected you’d need encouragement.” Lau took a Ruger pistol from the briefcase. “So I brought this.”

“Shooting me won’t get your documents signed.”

Lau screwed a silencer onto the barrel of the Ruger. “If you sign the documents, both of you will leave this office alive and unharmed.”

“And if I don’t sign?”

His companion seized Pascal Vermeer and pushed him down on a swivel chair. Lau walked over and put the muzzle of the silencer against the accountant’s head. Vermeer’s eyes bulged in panic and Katla noticed his crotch darkened.

“I have no love for Pascal, Mr. Lau, especially after this betrayal.” Katla raised her cane and rested it against her shoulder. “If you shoot him, however, I’ll assume my fate will be the same, whether I sign your documents or not.”

“This pistol is loaded with custom hollow-point bullets,” Lau spoke while he looked at her. “They expand and turn the brain to mush, but have not enough force to leave the skull. Keeps this from getting messy.”

He pulled the trigger.

The Ruger barked like a miffed Chihuahua. A spent casing flew from the ejection port, bounced against a framed picture of the Gizeh and dropped to the carpet, while Vermeer shook his head, his mouth falling open, and slipped sideways from the chair. His arms and legs worked spasmodically and Lau stepped over the dying accountant, pressed the Ruger against his forehead and fired again. His limbs stopped trashing and with a final shudder Vermeer became motionless.