Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (40 page)

As the man disappears back into the boat, Marta turns to me.  “Are you sure you can handle the
Allegro
alone?”

“I'm not alone.”

“Does Kazan have any sailing experience?”

“He's a fast learner.  I just have to run all the lines to the cockpit.  Dad showed me.  I'll be fine.”

“Do you have enough gas for motoring?”

“Hans said he filled it just before he was arrested.”  I had visited Marta's husband in jail that afternoon.  I told the guard I was his niece, bringing him a basket of food.  A nice Gouda served as a bribe.  Hans looked pretty good for someone who'd spent three weeks in jail.  Apparently he'd been teaching the guards chess.  After a few minutes of loud pleasantries, he whispered to me a new float plan.  “They're cracking down.  None of us dare sail to Creil anymore.  It's safer to go through the canals.”

The man comes out from the berth, and approached Marta.  “We will take our chances together . . . with them.”  His index finger, limply extended, doesn't indicate an overwhelming confidence in us.

We arrange to meet again in two hours.

Twenty, April 2021

Staande Mast

After we motor through the lock between the IJsslemeer south into Markermeer, we put up the sails.  Hans has taken good care of the electronics and the sails go up easily.

We open the hatch to give our family some fresh air.  I hear them moving about impatiently, the children asking questions, the women mumbling assurances.

Winds blow from the northeast around 15 knots, so we have a perfect broad reach sail to Amsterdam.  When we are about six miles from the IJsslemeer lock, I pull in the main sail, back-wind the jib, and lock the wheel.  Moonlight gleams brightly on the deck and on the sails.  Waves slap gently against the hull.

“What are you doing?” asks Kazan, more curious than worried.  Bright-eyed and fizzing with vitality.  I'm grateful to see no sighs of seasickness in his face. 

“I'm heaving to . . . stopping.”

“You want help dropping the mainsail?”

“No.  This gives us more control.  The sails work against each other, keeping us in one place.  We'll just zigzag a bit.  You didn't really think I knew how to sail, did you?”

He looks abashed, a slight lift to one corner of his mouth.  “Well . . . it's like someone saying they're an astronaut.  Sure astronauts exist, but meeting one doesn't seem very likely.  Why are we stopping?”

“The Markermeer is about twenty miles across here.  If we stay in the middle, we should be invisible from the land, even with a telescope.”

“Are you sure?” asks my doting landlubber. 

“Yes.  Because of the curvature of the earth.  If you're standing at sea level, you can only see about four miles.  We're ten miles from land.  Let's get out our captives.”

Kazan helps them out, one at a time. 

“Hold on with one hand at all times,” I warn.  “Don't worry about veiling.  No one can see you.” 

I want to see what we have.  Four men, two women, a boy and girl, about eight and ten. 
Allegro
rocks a bit.  All of them appear a little wobbly, vampire white in the moonlight.  When they're all out, I ask, “Do any of you know anything about sailing?”  One of the men says he does.  “I will need your help once we get to the locks—throwing out the buoys, helping with lines.  Are you up for that?”

He nods.  He looks worn out, enervated.  Were I picking men for a mission, he'd be the last.  We work with what we have.  “When you're on deck, you may be under scrutiny by guards and IHR soldiers.  You might think they suspect you when they don't.  Can you be cool?”

A flash of uncertainty in his eyes.  Then a short percussive nod. 

“What is the name on your new passport?”

“Jean-Luc,” he says.

“Good.  Get used to it.  The VHF radio is just inside the cabin at the navigation station.  Turn it to the Marine Weather Channel, and listen for tomorrow's forecast in the North Sea.”

Jean-Luc ducks down into the cabin.  The scratchy drone of the marine forecast crackles on.

“Kazan, will you lift up the seat on the port side of the cockpit and get the life jackets?”  I am so proud—he already knows port from starboard.  There are only four life jackets, and one for a dog.  Angus's old life vest.  I get a sharp stab in my chest, remembering my slobbering buddy.  No time for that.  “Strap the vests on the children and anyone else who can't swim.” 

Kazan's eyes go big.  Shit.  He doesn't know how to swim.

That makes me a little annoyed.  Two weeks on the beach, and he never told me.  I could easily have taught him.  Surprises like this in the middle of a mission can be disastrous.  He's always worked alone.  He doesn't know.  

“Seas are four to six feet in the North Sea,” reports Jean-Luc, coming out from the cabin.  “Possible afternoon thunderstorms.  Where are we going?”

Rough seas.  I may have to rethink this.  “We're sailing south through the Markermeer to Amsterdam, then through the North Sea Canal, which bisects the country from Amsterdam to IJmuiden, on the west coast.  We will pass through the Schellingwoude Bridge, and one lock, the Oranjesluizen.  From there we just have to keep out of the shipping lanes until we get to the North Sea.”

“Will we be searched?”  Again, our meek volunteer.

I don't expect to run into the Nederlandse Kustwacht, the Dutch Coast Guard.  The Islamists prefer to do inspections from land.  “They might stop us at the Oranje locks,” I say.  “There are no locks for the thirteen miles between Amsterdam and IJmuiden, so we should be fine once we get through Amsterdam.”

“Why aren't we moving?” asks the little girl.  She grips the safety lines with both of her small hands, and peers over the side.

“We'll get going again soon.  I wanted to let everyone stretch their legs a bit.  Once we enter the canals, you'll have to stay in the cabin.  Marta gave you new passports and travel documents.  Memorize your new identities.”

“It's like a game,” Kazan adds, tightening the life vest straps on the little boy.  “You get to pretend you're this new family.”

I smile at him, lost for a moment.  “We'll stay here for about a half hour.  You're free to walk around.”

The moon is so bright, we have no need for lights.  I dip into the cabin.  The navigation and switch panel is on the right.  I switch off the red and green navigation lights.  No reason to draw attention to ourselves sitting out here.

The
Allegro
zigzags very slowly.  There isn't much to do right now.  Kazan comes up behind me and puts his arms around me, and we look at the stars.  I glance to the side, and see his affectionate gesture immediately relaxes the family.  One of the women opens Marta's basket and passes out food. 

“Do you think you could get used to this?” I ask.

“Holding you?”

“Sailing.”

“With you?  Absolutely.”  He nibbles on my ear.  “You love this, don't you?”

“I didn't realized how much I missed it.”

“I love watching you.  You transform.”

“Transform?”

He nuzzles my neck.  “Once when I was in London, I went to see a famous cellist play at Kings Place.  He was old—shuffling through the orchestra to his seat, lugging his cello.  But when he started to play, he immediate appeared fifty years younger, vigorous, bowing with vitality.  Passion and authority spread from his vibrating strings through the chamber orchestra, through the concert hall.  Like his whole body was filling the hall.  It was amazing.  That's you on a sailboat . . . transformed.”

That Kazan can see it moves me tremendously.

It should take no more than three hours to sail to Amsterdam, two hours to get through the lock and bridges, another three hours up the North Sea Canal, making Zeehaven at the port of IJmuiden at around dawn.  I can hardly wait to see the open sea.

Around 8 PM, I reset the sails, and we're underway again.  We are making about 6 knots.  I am pleased.  

#

The Schellingwoude Bridge, which spans the entrance into Amsterdam, opens on the hour.  We immediately come to the main lock, the Oranjesluizen.  Kazan tosses out the buoys; Jean-Luc ties up to the side, and helps the other boats come up around us.  The rest of the family is fast asleep in the cabin.

About twenty boats crowd into the lock, three across, bow to stern.  We'll sit here for about forty minutes until everyone is loaded in and the water empties out.  It is a good time for visiting.

“Jean-Luc, you have the boat.”  He nods, apparently comfortable with the rituals of passing through locks.

“Where are you going?” Kazan calls out worriedly as I step over a bowline onto a neighbor's boat.  The captain raises a coffee cup in greeting, disappears into the cabin, and brings out a fresh cup of steaming coffee.

“I'll be back.  Keep an eye out for inspectors.”  I notice a few lock keepers on either side.  They seem relaxed, almost bored.  Nobody in an IRH uniform.  I imagine if they were expecting an official they'd be scrambling around trying to look busy.

I have time to visit four captains.  One tells me to avoid Zeehaven, the port of IJmuiden.  “Usually you can get through the small craft lock on the south side without much trouble, but they're cracking down on smuggling, inspecting every boat.  They are confiscating boats for minor violations.  If you go that route, make sure to dump your booze.”  Another tells me the North Sea is rough, confirming reports from the weather channel.  Yet another says they are doing spot inspections all up and down both
Staande Mast
routes.  “They tend to make more inspections on the Harlem Route, but you can sail during the day.  Usually the bigger the convoy, the better off you are.  But sometimes, if there's just two or three boats, they'll wave you on.  If you can, time the bridges during meal time or
salat.
”

I climb across back to
Allegro
before they open the west lock.  Kazan's face looks so relieved, I laugh.  “Change of plan,” I announce, waving Jean-Luc over.  “We're going through Amsterdam.”

“What do you mean?” asks Kazan.

“We'll be taking the
Staande Mast
route.”  I explain that
Staande Mast
routes are canal routes through the country on which sail boats can sail without lowering their masts.  Two main routes run north and south.  One goes south from Haarlem, the other through Amsterdam to Willemstad.  “At midnight, eleven bridges and one lock are open for two hours to let sailboats through.”

We motor a little more than a half mile to the red marker at Houthaven.  About fifteen sailboats are lined up, single-file, in front the Westerkeersluis bridge.  There is plenty of room alongside the canal for mooring while we wait for the convoy to leave. 

“Turn to VHF channel 22,” I say to Jean-Luc.  “They will announce when the canal is open.  It shouldn't be long.  They'll open the bridge after the last train has arrived in Amsterdam for the night.” 

Half past midnight, the bridge keeper announces on the radio that boats should line up in convoy.  Westerkeersluis bridge slowly opens.  The laborious rising of concrete and steel always feels somehow magical to me.  Like the doors of Oz swinging open.  Permission to enter the kingdom granted.  Others must feel the same; in the daytime it always draws a small crowd of spectators.

Finally the boats get underway.

A few are no doubt smugglers, but this is our convoy, whether we like it or not.  We have to stick with it through to the Nieuwe Meer, an inland lake just beyond the Schiphol airport.  We just have to hope the authorities aren't looking for any one of us.  It's likely all of the boats have some contraband.  Sailors love to drink—at least one of the captains I talked to had gin on his breath.

Passing through Amsterdam's canals at night is eerie.  The city looks entirely different, melancholy, filled with long shadows and dark passages, brackish smelly water, old buildings leaning against each other as if trying to keep from sinking.  A low mist hides in pockets of the side canals, snaking out like worms from holes. 

Beneath the stillness, I sense the tremor of clandestine life, thieves, smugglers, and Resistants darting in the shadows, breaking curfew.  I think of the film noir classic
The Third Man,
the streets of bombed-out Vienna, the long spooky shadows, the tortuous sewers.

We motor just west of Jordan, my old neighborhood.  Streetlights make long reflections on the canal water, giving a stately formality to the procession, as if through a colonnade of Greek ruins.  The only sounds are the putter of twenty boat motors going 5 miles an hour, the lapping water.  Police sirens many blocks away.

We pass a few barges tied up to the canal walls, windows covered, lights on.  I wonder if any are barges of the Resistance.

All eleven bridges open in turn.  The bridge keeper races on his bicycle from one bridge to the next to open them.  We have to wait a maximum of five minutes at some bridges.  The waiting is tense and agonizing.

The convoy moves slowly, inexorably, like a funeral procession.  Time stands still, waiting for us to pass.  I find myself holding my breath.  We are the only people still alive, passing among the dead, across the River Styx.  As soon as we pass, ghouls will dance on the canal walls, mooning us with their wispy bare bottoms.

It takes two hours to travel four miles through the city.  Once through the lock at Nieuwe Meer, the boats separate into two different directions—those looking for a marina to sleep, and those headed on.  We go with seven boats two miles across the lake to the railway and road bridges, leading to Schiphol airport.  The Schiphol bridges open at 5:30 AM.  

About a dozen boats moor with us at the waiting pier.  This is the perfect place for a random inspection, but I see no inspectors, no red turbans
,
no
Speciale Operaties,
no Landweer.

Jean-Luc agrees to keep watch.  “Wake me immediately if you see anyone,” I tell him.  “Anyone at all.”

There's no place to sleep in the cabin, so Kazan and I flop down on the benches in the cockpit.  There is no way to lie together comfortably.  We've been up all night, and my body is jittery.  Kazan fidgets, and keeps on punching a sail bag he's using as a pillow.  I can't worry about him any more.