Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (29 page)

I feel sick to my stomach, dreading what appears to be the beginning of an endlessly repeating cycle of attacks, reprisals, more attacks, more reprisals. 

Uncomfortable sitting, Gerda stands and circles the table.  “The Landweer is bypassing the sharia courts.  On Friday, after midday prayer, fifty men will be shot in the Amsterdam ArenA, which seats fifty thousand.  Their bodies will be put into coffins and driven to a number of different cemeteries around Amsterdam and buried in unmarked graves, so their plots will not become shrines.  Wives of those to be executed will be allowed a fifteen minute visit.  I am sorry Anika.”

We all look at Anika, our transportation specialist, who recently married Kaart against all advice.  “I'm in love,” I remember her saying to me, eyes all glassy.  “I may die tomorrow.  If I don't love now, when will I?”  The small remaining uncynical part of me understands. 
Love can be the only thing that keeps you going—those brief moments together, when you forget.  But love makes you take foolish risks.  If you see your lover tortured, you will keep no secrets.  If he or she dies, the universe collapses into blackness.  Nothing can bring you back.  You are useless to the cause.

Now Anika, our transportation specialist, whom we rely on to find us cars and boats, sits mutely, tears streaming down her face.

Gerda continues, ignoring Anika's mewing sobs.  “A new curfew has been set for nine o'clock; restaurants must close by eight.  They are checking IDs throughout the city, stopping everyone.”

“How many so far?” asks Lars.

“Three thousand is what I hear,” Garret interjects. 

Gerda nods, cross her arms over her chest.  “We have all felt an up-tick in surveillance.  We must be extra careful.  The Landweer
have formed an elite group of military police called the
Speciale Operaties
, who take notes and follow anyone who looks suspicious, noting where they go, whom they talk to.  They often disguise themselves as meter readers, electrical repairmen, or postmen.  Be very wary of anyone in those uniforms.”

I feel horrible.   We killed Mahmoud al-Kubaisi, but it accomplished nothing.  The serpent has grown back two heads.  A new phase of resistance has begun, one of armed violence.  An all out war between the Islamists and the Resistance.

“Double down on your precautions.  Change your disguise two or three times a day.  If you feel you have been discovered, prepare to get out.  Come see me or Hansen.  Truus or Edda will make arrangements to get you to Denmark.  Do NOT go home.  Does everyone understand?”

Later, when everyone has disbursed, I corner Gerda.  “You need me.  Give me something to do.  Send me out again.  Let me take up the slack.  Anything.”

“You have your assignment, Lina.  Bring me something.”  She turns, goes into her office, and shuts the door.

Lonely

As the weeks progress, I see less and less of Kazan.  He is polite in every way, but steers clear of me.  He brings me gifts back from his trips, gold trinkets I put away.  I will sell them later at Spui Square to buy food coupons for people in hiding.

When he isn't away on a trip, he gets up early to go to work at the diamond exchange, which is in the Medieval Center of the city, not far from where the old coffee exchanges once were.  The Basturk Diamond Emporium is busy.

At 7 PM, he returns for the main meal, generally with a male guest in tow, and with bags of takeout.  I greet them and set out the food, my presence clearly unwanted.  I excuse myself, saying that I have already eaten.  In the evenings, he plays cards with his friends until very late. 

I hear him slipping into his bedroom well after midnight.

I have never felt so lonely.  I expected many things when I started working for the Resistance—fear, poverty, the sacrifice of emotional attachments—but never this crushing isolation.  What is worse is I'm getting no information out of him.  My only contact is Nasira at the mosque. 

I've become quite devout.

Nasira tells me what the television and newspapers omit. 
Al Jazeera
reports the United Nations of Islam is crushing the opposition.  Every day another victory, another advance.  Nasira tells a different story.

UNI forces are stymied in Turkey, crippled by lack of any kind of naval or air power.  Every time they try to make it over the Marmara Sea, they are beaten back into Turkey.  Coalition Forces have entered France from Spain.  Russian troops are advancing on Azerbaijan and Georgia.  Islamists fighting in Albania, Kosovo, and Bosnia-Herzegovina have been crushed.  Islamic England is surrounded by Coalition Forces in Scotland and Ireland.  Muslim Africa doesn't seem to care about conquering Europe, and have infighting and wars among themselves.

“What's next for us?” I ask.

“As soon as Coalition Forces enter France, the Danish will make moves on The Netherlands.”

“Bombs?”

“Central Command is organizing from Copenhagen.  Yes.  Bombs.”

“Shouldn't we be trying to get everyone out of the cities?”

“As soon as Coalition Forces take The Netherlands, they will make this the starting point to take back Europe.  We'll need all the support we can get.”

“If we don't all get killed by our own forces.”

“Well, there is that possibility.”

“How long do we have?”

“Six months to a year.”

#

Often, when I feel overwhelmed with loneliness, my thoughts turn to the memories of another time in my life.  To a place that seems so distant now. 

I dream of sailing the
Allegro
, clinging to a line to tighten a sheet, the wind in my hair, the sun and surf on my face, my breathing labored, riding the current, my spine undulating with the rolling waves.  The sails snapping, the masts creaking.  Dolphins leaping beside me, as if we were part of the same herd of antelope sweeping across a plain.  My lungs sting from inhaling cold air. 

I wake breathless and exhilarated.

And very alone.

Sixteen, July 2016, Zürich

Diamonds are Forever

The war seems to diminish Uncle Osman. 

Or maybe he's just hit that age where a middle-aged man turns into an old man.  A wide rushing river tapering off into a serpentine tributary.

Seventy-seven doesn't seem that old.

Some days he seems as robust and dynamic as ever; other times he sits all day, contemplating over a glass of
raki
, answering Kazan's questions with kindly but baroque replies.  A simple question such as, “Would you like me to pick up a newspaper when I'm out?” elicits, “The charm of the daily dispatch and its enigmatic lesson that nothing changes, yet everything is completely different.”  Is that a yes or no?  Kazan picks up a newspaper anyhow.

He fusses over his uncle, making sure he dresses warm, and takes his vitamins and beta blockers.  He brings him his tea in the afternoon so he doesn't have to climb the stairs to the kitchen, and pours his glass of
raki
before dinner.  He reupholsters an old divan he finds at a flea market, and places it in back for Osman's naps.  He begins taking care of the bills, writing out the checks for Osman to sign, balancing the books.  After Osman has a slight fainting spell, Kazan tries to accompany him whenever he goes out.  His breath smells of acetone, and Kazan wonders if he is diabetic.  He makes an appointment for him with his doctor. 

In addition to his courier jobs, Kazan takes over most of the work for the front store.  He hurries back from his trips abroad instead of spending a few days to sightsee, as was his habit.  When he is away, he makes sure friends stop by to visit his uncle.  “Bring him something—like an article from a magazine—so he doesn't think you're looking in on him.”  When Kazan returns, the house smells damp and lifeless, like dead leaves after a rain.  He opens windows and plumps pillows, dusts and vacuums, but the smell lingers.

He picks up fresh fruit from the farmers' market, which seem to please his uncle.  When he notices his uncle's personal grooming is suffering—hairs springing exuberantly out of his nose and ears, yellow stains on his underwear—he gently suggests a visit to the barber and to a department store.

Osman is turning into an absent-minded, muddle-headed, gentle giant, who makes self-deprecating asides and amusing excuses. 

He never does any diamond cutting himself anymore, hiring a terribly competent Indian named Sunny.  He still negotiates with clients, but more and more, he relies on Kazan or Sunny for prices and delivery dates.

His only remaining interest in antiques is mending “the cripples,” reupholstering Turkish chairs, replacing legs, polishing brass.

Kazan finds he likes running the store and is good at it.  Within moments of seeing a new customer, he knows exactly what he can sell them—young designers, who want large striking pieces to offset ultra modern chic, young couples fixing up their first apartment, middle-aged women looking for wedding presents, shifty-eyed bargain-hunters, who flip over items to look at prices before they even know what they're looking at.  Even if you merely ducked into the shop to get out of the rain, he will sell you exactly what you always secretly yearned for.  A Turkish rug, a scimitar, a Persian chess set.  It is almost a contest with himself, to see if he can get a customer to say, “You know, I've always wanted a Turkish lamp.”  He waits for eyes to widen, and spins a fantastical provenance.  “Talking up” an item with unabashed enthusiasm, throwing in historical anecdotes, makes a dull bronze platter embody almost magical qualities.  “It's just a story,” he says.  “A tale told in the desert villages.” 

He comes to think that everyone has an attachment to something old—maybe a talisman from a previous life—something that awakens them, pulls them out of the present, and floats them over time and over space, like ashes sprinkled on the sea.

For young women, he brings out trays of antique jewelry.  Instinctively he knows not to compliment them right away, but to let them try on several pieces first.  Often he gets a date out of it.

He can immediately spot when someone comes in for diamonds.  Stiff men in suits, guys in black leather jackets.  They are all business; most have been there before.  They march to the back and ask for Uncle Osman.  Kazan rings a buzzer, and his uncle comes out, usually waving them back.

Kazan knows Ozymandias could never turn a profit even close to what they make in the diamond trade, but he feels a sense of accomplishment when it begins do well under his management.  Uncle Osman nods proudly when Kazan brags about a particular sale.

After the business day concludes, he and Uncle Osman often go out to a restaurant.  Unlike Basel or Frankfurt, Zürich has only a few good Turkish restaurants.  Millennium, Valentin, and New Point are near the train station in District 4, in an old industrial part of Zürich, now transformed into a chic area of galleries, artist lofts, and hip restaurants.  Uncle Osman finds all this newness offensive and avoids it.  His favorite restaurant is Cafe Ferdinand, in District 3, a two-tram ride, west of the river Limmat and the train station.  It operates as an Italian cafe during the day, and as a Turkish restaurant at night. 

As soon as Kazan and Uncle Osman enter and sit down, the waiters, recalling the days when Osman spent a fortune feting clients, stream out of the kitchen like ants, bringing them little plates of food. 

As always, Uncle Osman orders
meze,
which is like Spanish tapas—an array of little delicacies: dolma (stuffed grape leaves), hummus,
acili ezme (
a puree of peppers with walnuts),
cig köfte,
babaghanouse, calamari,
haydar (
yogurt with herbs), melon, and artichokes.  Osman eats very little, and Kazan wonders if his uncle merely likes the feeling of abundance, just as he likes sitting in his antique store, surrounded by treasures.  It occurs to him that many of the
meze
are purees of one kind or another, which don't require much chewing.  He wonders if his uncle's teeth are bothering him. 

Uncle Osman talks more and more about his childhood in Turkey.  While they play backgammon together on a small table at the back of the store, Osman reminisces about his brother, Kazan's grandfather.  “He never wanted to leave the village.  So many times I tried—offered to pick him up and show him Istanbul or Antalya on the coast.  He wouldn't even consider getting on a plane.  As far as I know, he went to Ankara only once.”

“Did he have a bad experience?”

“Not as far as I know, but he never wanted to go back.  'Cities aren't for me,' he'd say.  He knew Turkish history better than a professor.  He even knew a couple of ancient languages.  Completely self taught.  He didn't want any part of the modern world.  It was almost as if he got off a bus in our village, and was waiting for the bus to return, pick him up, and take him back to his own time. 

“Like a time machine?”

“Something like that.”

“Is that why you got into antiques?”

“No.  Like most things in my life, I just happened on it.  I came here with everything I owned in a bag made from a Turkish rug.  A woman stopped me in the street and offered what I thought was a fortune for it.  I carried my stuff in a black plastic bag after that.”  He guffaws loudly.  “A lot of Turks were immigrating at the time, bringing their treasures.  I bought up whatever I could, then started importing from Turkey directly.  Made enough to buy this little shop.”

Uncle Osman tells him about his adventures on Greek freighters, a trip to Argentina with Aristotle Onassis, of the early diamond trade in Africa, of his favorite Swiss eccentrics, of rare blue diamonds.  He is most proud of being part of the team that cut the Centenary Diamond under Gabi Tolkowsky, the great Russian diamond cutter, who cut a 600 carat diamond from the Premier mine near Johannesburg.  “The diamond had perfect color, but was a real mess, full of tiny cracks and bubbles.  We worked in this underground room at De Beers, engineered so no vibrations could disturb the delicate cutting.  They kept the thermostat at sixty.  Tolkowsky studied the diamond for a year.  Finally he decided it was too dangerous to cleave, so he rubbed away the cracks, one at a time.  When we got the diamond down to 520 carats, he put the Centenary to the wheel.  Three years it took, the whole thing.  The finished diamond weighs 273.85 carats.  Third biggest diamond in the world.” 

Uncle Osman seldom pries or asks Kazan annoying questions.  And with such fantastic stories to listen to, Kazan doesn't feel he has much to add.  Yet when he does mention an amusing transaction with a customer, or a concern he has about his family in Amsterdam, or an awkwardness with a girl, Uncle Osman listens sympathetically, without comment or judgment.  Like an equal.

No adult has ever treated Kazan like that.  It makes him feel a deep abiding loyalty to Uncle Osman, the kind of loyalty he imagines a soldier must feel for his sergeant. 

Or to a father.  If your father were ever around.

Hunting

One day, when walking down the street in Zürich, someone calls out, “Hey, Sheik!” 

Kazan turns to see Michael Chalhoub and Khalid Chahine, sitting at a café.  He groans silently to himself, but he can't just walk past.  They wave him over and seem genuinely pleased to see him.  No longer chubby, Michael is dressed in mujahideen chic—a scruffy beard, an Afghan cap, and a wallet outside of his clothes attached with a shoulder holster.  He asks Kazan what he wants to drink, and waves over the waiter.  Khalid wears a crisp blue tunic reaching nearly to his ankles, and sips a Red Bull with his coffee while they talk. 

They have both served their two-year service in the UNI army.

A twinge of guilt passes through Kazan's body.  Uncle Osman had helped him apply for Swiss citizenship, in large part to avoid serving in the Turkish military or the UNI army.  Kazan has no desire to fight for the Islamists.

It isn't long before Chubby starts in on him. 
“Are you going to pledge
baya'a
to the new caliph, Talaat Saleh?” he asks, chugging back an espresso in one gulp.  “If you are a Muslim, you must give him the
baya'a.
  You are still a Muslim, aren't you?”

“Yes,” said Kazan, although he hasn't prayed or gone to mosque in a long time.

“He who dies without pledging himself to a valid caliph, without incurring the obligations of that oath, has failed to live a fully Islamic life,” entones Michael.  “You will die a death of disbelief.”

Kazan bristles, irritated and annoyed.  Against his better judgment, he takes him on.  “What about all the Muslims who died between 1924 and 2013, when there wasn't a caliphate.  They died a death of disbelief?  They will go to hell?”

“Well, they don't go to heaven.” 

“You're sure about that?  All those devout Muslims, who made
hajj
and lived good lives?”

When Michael goes to the bathroom, Khalid leans in toward Kazan.  “I know you're the one who pulled those pranks on us at school.  Don't worry, we just laugh about it now.  No hard feelings.  We were all just kids.  In fact, I respect you for it.  You were standing up for your friend.  Loyalty is important.  To your friends, your family, your country, your faith.  To the guy who stands beside you in battle.  I gotta tell you, it's the best feeling in the world.  Fighting for the same cause.  You feel alive.  Really alive.  Like what you're doing means something.”

There it was.  Kazan sits back in his chair, impressed.  Khalid has zeroed in on the three things that might get to him.  His guilt over being a bad Muslim, his estrangement from his family, and, most of all, his loneliness.  Kazan loves his engineering classes at the University of Zürich, but he's made few friends.  He can hardly blame the other students for their coolness.  Half of Europe is at war with Turkey.  Girls, who used to go nuts for him, scurry in the other direction.  Except for a few Muslim girls, who flutter their eyes behind their burkas.  If they can't even lift their veils to smile at him, he isn't interested.  He only has Uncle Osman to talk to, and his customers, who all are somewhat ill at ease. 

He misses his old friends from Berchtold.  He misses being part of something.  He even misses his old enemies.  Enough to think of them as old friends. 

Khalid had guessed as much and had used it against him. 

Michael comes back to the table.  “Tomorrow we're leaving for a couple of weeks to a hunting camp in Slovenia.  You should come with us, Sheik.  Get outside for a change.  You can't use classes as an excuse, it's summer.  Com'on, it'll be like old times.”

“That's a hundred and fifty miles away,” protests Kazan.  “I don't have a car.”

“Don't worry about that.  We'll pick you up at six tomorrow morning.  Is that too early?”

#

It turns out not to be exactly a hunting camp.

Nestled in a mountainous area of Slovenia, the camp is three hundred acres of forest,
obstacle courses, and firing ranges.  Several rudimentary buildings lie scattered around the grounds; dozens of tents cover a grassy knoll near a small lake. 

Green and white banners with slogans in Arabic flap at the edge of camp. 

They come from all over: Africa, Syria, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Libya, Albania, Kosovo, Saudi Arabia, Yemen. 
The rest are European born Muslims.  They are there for a three-week basic-training program.