Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (44 page)

“Get everyone armed.  As soon as the bomb is dropped, we target all of their command centers at once.  Clearing the way for ground troops.”

“Where are they landing?”

“You know enough for now.”

“When is this going to happen?”

“Soon.  Laszlo and I have to get down to Turkey and coordinate the Resistance there.  They will protect all their electronics in aluminum foil, or bury them deep underground.  After the blast, they'll be able to communicate with Coalition Forces.  Turkey is vitally important.  It needs to be won quickly.”

“What about civilians?”

“Leaders in Denmark have worked out the details for the provisional governments.  It's complex.  All mosques will be destroyed.  All schools will be secular—no madrassahs.”

“That's denying freedom of speech, freedom of religion.”

“Yes, it is.  A number of well-respected moderate Islamic clerics are collaborating on a reformed Islam—like the Christian Reformation.  At some point, a small number of mosques will be allowed to reopen with the new creed.”

“What about Muslims who refuse the new creed?”

“They may be allowed to go back to the Middle East.  They'll return to a pre-industrialized society. 
It takes years to replace a knocked-out power transformer and rebuild critical infrastructures. 
If they want to live in the Middle Ages, we'll let them.  If they want to join the rest of the world, they'll have agree to secular governments, and the religious tenets of the Muslim Reformation.  Aid will be available.”  Kazan pauses for a long moment.  “Many will die.”

“Water,” I gasp, getting it.

“Yes.  Much of their water comes from desalinization plants, which will be knocked out.  Especially in the cities.  Hundreds of thousands will have no water.”

“That's horrible!  How could the Coalition governments agree to that?”

“As I said, aid is available.  We hope they'll come to the negotiation table quickly.”

“What about radiation poisoning?”

“No more than after a solar flare.  Their main problem will be water.”

“Couldn't we have done this years ago?” 

“We had to get the Americans on board.  Sweden and a few others refused at first to deprive huge populations of water on humanitarian grounds.  Working on plans for provisional governments took forever.” 

A woodstork cries in the swamp.  I get up and lean against the gunwale, trying to spot it.  I turn.  Kazan is looking at me, his eyes filled with anguish and yearning.  “What about me?”

He takes me into his arms and kisses my forehead.  “I can't do what I have to do and protect you at the same time.  I'd prefer you sailed to Denmark, and waited out the invasion, but I don't imagine you will.”

Annoyed, I sit down hard.  I can't stand the idea of stewing in Copenhagen, in a lovely apartment, ear to the radio, wondering what is not getting reported.  Then something occurs to me.  “You sent Pim to Copenhagen on purpose, didn't you?”

Kazan looks into his hands—face white and strained—then sinks down next to me, not touching.  “I wanted to be sure you had someone there to take care of you.”

“I'm so easy to pass along?” 

“That's unfair.  That was before Schiermonnikoog.  Before I cared so much.  Now I'd kill anyone who laid a hand on you.  No, that isn't true.  I'd do the same.  If I'm killed, I want the best for you and our baby.  I'd still want Pim to take care of you.”

I think of the documents and money he left in the safe for me, even before we loved each other.  I fall more deeply in love with this honorable man.  Amazed that he loves me.  “I will go back to Amsterdam,” I say, “to my group.  There will be a lot to do.”

“I'm glad you said that,” Kazan says, his lips turning up.  “Otherwise I'd have to tie you up to the mast.”

“That could be fun,” I say, smiling through blurry eyes.

“Hmm.  Something to look forward to.”  Kazan kisses me long and hard, wipes my tears into my hair.  He takes a white handkerchief from his pocket and presses it in my hand.  He then turns to go.  “Be good, Salima.”  He motions to Laszlo, and they both climb into the motorized skiff. 

Twenty-Two, June 2021

Bloemen Route

The moon is full. 

We drive along a narrow irrigation canal on a muddy track surrounded by tulip fields gone by.  Further in, gigantic heads of dahlias nod in a gentle breeze like sleepy sentries, with gladioli, their imperious spears.  I feel as if we are being watched by ten thousand drowsy imperial guards. 

The cell phone tower stands like Cyclops under the full moon, casting a great solemn shadow across the fields.  You can't imagine how big they are from a distance.

Garret brakes the truck, Janza unslings his AK-47.  Their faces have become sharper, almost wolf like. 

Margo and I wade through the stalks to set up the bombs.  

The explosives Pim made for us are simple. 
Plastique
, fitted with a small detonator—a small amount of unstable explosive of sulphuric acid—which can be set off by a small amount of weak electric current.  We will activate them mechanically by a wireless signal from a radio transmitter.

Tonight we will install these bombs at the base of eight radio towers up and down the west coast.  They'll sit perfectly harmless until a radio signal is sent to trigger the explosions.  There is a small possibility that someone operating a radio on the same frequency in the vicinity might set off the explosion at any time.  We aren't too worried.  All of the radio towers are in the middle of fields, away from houses and traffic.  If a bomb goes off accidentally, it is unlikely anyone will be hurt.

After Margo and I set up the bombs, one on each of the four legs, we head back to the truck.

We pull out and continue on the Bloemen Route, the flower route, which starts in Haarlem, taking Highway N208 to Lisse, then A44 to Leiden.  We need to hit eight towers in one night.  Tomorrow there will be guards and security.

Half a mile away, Janz activates a radio signal.  There is no fireball in the sky.  Pim packed just enough explosive to weaken each leg.  The weight of the tower will bring it down, he assures us.

The plan, explained to us earlier by Gerda, is to take out communications, then attack three different parts of the country to draw IRH soldiers out of Amsterdam.  That is all we are told, before we are assigned our particular roles.

Ours is to take part in a derailment of a train in Eindhoven, an hour south of Amsterdam.  Eindhoven already has a well organized Resistance.  We only need a handful of men to unscrew the heavy bolts holding the train rails together.  It is noisy work and we'll need a lot of lookouts for IRH patrols.

I later learn that the second mission was a series of assassinations of military brass in The Hague.  Five IRH officers were shot and killed.  The third attack was blowing up of a mosque in which the Islamic Council of Rotterdam was meeting.  Two imams were killed, the rest escaped.

#

Bodies hanging from streetlamps.  Brick buildings textured with bullet holes.  Blood stains smeared over sidewalks.  Gunfire rattling in the distance.

My city trembles with anticipation.

A new poster goes up around Amsterdam, offering 10 thousand euros for information leading to the capture of the culprits.  Enraged, Shirzad Sahar announces that fifty hostages, picked up randomly from Christian communities, will be arrested and shot without trial.

We don't let up and step our attacks—assassinations, cellphone towers, railway lines cut, grenades rolled into restaurants frequented by IRH soldiers, bombs thrown at depots, into IRH canteens, bombing Landweer offices and Islamic Council buildings.  A number of mosques are targeted, those with the most radical imams.  The bombs are set to go off at night, to mitigate carnage.

It is emotional sabotage more than any great destruction on our part.  We want the Islamists to feel anxious and under attack, constantly racing from one area of destruction to another.  So when the drones come, they're already at the breaking point, on the point of running. 

This is the plan anyway.

I hurry over to
Freyja Natuur Winkel to pick up fliers to be distributed at the sound of the first drones.  They explain what is happening, instructing citizens to leave the cities if they can.  To avoid historic buildings where the Islamists have set up administrative offices, and where IRH soldiers bunk.  The drones will bomb those first.  Resistance fighters will fire on IRH soldiers trying to escape. 

When?  That's the question.  It's frustrating to everyone not to know when the attack will begin.  It makes everyone jumpy.  No one can sleep.  Their fingers twitching restlessly, inches from their weapons.

I leave my bike at the station and walk along Brouwergracht toward Westerpark.  I decide to ignore the crowd and eat the raw herring sandwich I picked up, gobbling it beneath my veil, dripping fish oil stains on my burka.  I'm a mess. 

Twice along the way, I sense someone behind me, but when I turn, no one is there.  In the five years since I started as a courier, I don't think I've ever been followed.  The feeling is unmistakable.  Strange and eerie, like being underwater and a large shark passing overhead, blocking the filtered sunlight. 

I hurry past a restaurant spilling into the street, IRH soldiers sprawled out among the tiny wire tables, drinking tea, laughing.  They pay no attention to me.

I pass over the bridge at Willemsstraat.  My feet stop moving.  Something isn't right.  Out of place.  Too many black Tourans parked on the street.  No one walking or biking.

I cross the street, dip into an alley, making several quick turns.  I stop suddenly, surprised by a disappearing shadow. 

The hairs on the back of my neck bristle.  I glance back quickly.  Still no one. 

A half block from
Freyja's
,
I hear gunfire.

I run toward the store, as frantic customers brush past, escaping.  Two IRH soldiers are shooting up the place.  Broken glass shatters over the sidewalk.  Splinters of wood and shards of concrete spew in every direction.  The soldiers run down the street.

One stops and turns toward me, leveling his rifle.  He must've seen me running up the canal.

I dive to the ground, bullets whizzing over my head.  The shooting stops and I look up.  The soldier is dead on the ground.  I don't wait to see who saved me.  I jump into a crouch, and dart into the store.

The door hangs off its hinges.  I push inside, as shoppers flee around me.

Uncle Sander sways beside a hanging scale, a large aluminum scoop in his hand, over a bin of onions, his unpatched eye wide in surprise.   Red blood blossoms in his chest like a flower filmed in time lapse photography.  A terrified woman presses herself against the wall, muttering over and over, “
Bism'allah, ar-rahman, ar-rahim.”

I rush to Sander's side, forgetting about the soldiers, who might still be around.  He staggers, blood dripping down the tips of his fingers, and tumbles to the floor.  I gently roll him on his back.  Two shots, shoulder and chest.  His blood seeps onto my thighs.  The blood feels smoother than silk, warm in my hands like warm soapy water.  His eye is open and he is breathing.  I apply pressure to his wounds with potato sacks. 

The woman whom Sander was serving picks me up by the elbow and pushes me aside.  “I haven't practiced in nine years, but I used to be a doctor.  Get me some sterile cloth.  Quickly!”

As I run in back to get paper towels, I look to see who else was hit.  Amazingly, the customers appear to have scattered in time.  Fruits and vegetables all over the floor, broken shards of wood and plaster.  Blasted tomatoes splotched all over the white walls.  The air reeks of plaster dust, blood, and onions.

“He's still breathing,” she tells me.

A crowd gathers outside, scooping up the produce that has rolled into the street, brushing off the glass, slipping apples and potatoes into their pockets.  The ambulance comes; they load Sander onto a stretcher, and carry him out of the store, crunching on glass chunks of sheetrock.  A medic stumbles on a potato and nearly falls.  I cringe at every jolt.

I watch as they load him into the van and hook him up to tubes.  I want the van to go now—every second seems a hour. 
What's taking so long?
  Finally the driver gets back behind the wheel and starts up the van.  The doors close.

Hands grab me from behind, my arms jerked up behind my back.  “Come with us, please.”

No point in struggling.

I am dragged into a police squad car.

Hoffdbureau van Politie

The police are not rough with me. 

As soon as I am shown Rafik's office, I relax a bit.  I take a seat in a brown captain's chair in front of his desk, which is a foot deep in papers.  It is cold and damp, and the wind from an open window flutters loose messages by the phone.  My burka is covered in Sander's blood, and leaves a snail trail of blood wherever I move.

I have not been in the Hoffdbureau since I was a child, when Pieter brought me once to see Rafik.  It might have been punishment for some naughtiness, to show where I might end up if I persisted in my willfulness.  Or he might have been dropping off something for Rafik.  I don't recall.  I just remember it being huge and smelling of coffee, big men in uniform clomping around as if they never got enough sleep.  Now it seems cramped and a little shabby.  Messy.  The cops look skittish.  No women cops.

The door opens.  “Salima!” 

I turn and stand.  Rafik, looking frazzled, hurries into the room and pulls me hard to his chest. 

“Christ, I was worried about you.  As soon as I heard, I sent a squad car over to pick you and Jana up before the Landweer showed.”

“I was there when they shot up the place.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Jana was there?”  In the chaos, I'd forgotten I was to meet my mother. 

“Yes.”

How had I not seen her?  “Where is she?”

“I had a car take her to the hospital.  Sander is in intensive care.”

“Will he live?”

“It's too early to tell.”  Rafik lowers me down into the chair.  I hadn't realized my knees had given out.  He drags his desk chair around, and sits opposite me. 
“You absolutely have to get out of Amsterdam.  Both the police and Landweer have warrants out for Lina Van Dyke.  They have your picture.  The Landweer are insisting we enforce a new policy—any woman on the street without a male escort is assumed to be a Resistant.  They take off her veil and check her face against their database.  You only have to get stopped once, and you'll be arrested.”

“I can't leave now.  Things are critical.  I have to be here.”

“No, you don't.  Your family needs you.  I need you to get Jana and Uncle Sander out, as soon as he's stable.  You know how to get new IDs and travel documents.  Please, get them out of the country.”

“What about you?”

“Someone has to stay and collaborate with Coalition soldiers.  It's going to be confusing to everyone.  They have learned to look at the police as their enemies.  We have to earn back their trust.  How do you keep order during a war?  We have to try.  Islamists must be arrested, and turned over to the Coalition Forces.”  Rafik takes my hand.  His palms are dry and rough.  “Jana is my life.  I loved her even before—”

“I know.  You don't need—”

“Please.  Get her out.  You have someplace?”

I nod.  “She's not going to want to go.”

“I know.”

“I will make sure she's safe,” I promise.

Rafik gets up and opens the door to his office, and asks someone to bring me a burka from the lost and found.  Apparently they get left all over the city.  Like umbrellas and bicycles.  A young cop brings me a winter burka, heavy and musty.  I give Rafik a kiss, dive into the burka, and hurry away.

A Woman's Place is in the Home

There is no time to waste. 

I go to Kazan's apartment, to the circuit breaker panel in the garage.  I open the safe and take out the passport and travel documents for me, twenty thousand euros, the small bag of diamonds, the bankbook, the deed to the apartment in Copenhagen.  And Kazan's envelope with instructions.  No time to read it now.  I close the safe and hurry upstairs.

After changing out of my bloody shirt and jeans, I find a backpack in the top of my closet.  I throw in several changes of clothes, toiletries, brushes, shoes.  Knowing Kazan, he's stocked the apartment in Copenhagen with whatever I need.  He has the mind of a set designer.  Even before he loved me, he had memorized every detail about me, and knows my style.

It seems strange—I have helped hundreds of people escape along the
Varken Weg,
told them what they'll need, what to take, but I feel confused and panicky.  The picture of me and Angus—suddenly it seems I can't live without it.  A friendship ring Joury once gave me,
The Brief History of Time. 
Talismans I have hidden to remind me who I am.  But I have to leave them, have to trust I will not forget, will not lose myself.  The only talisman I need grows inside of me.

I head back down to the kitchen for granola bars or anything I can cram into my mouth.  This crazy hunger is new.  I've always prided myself in being able to skip meals during missions without losing energy or concentration.  Now all I want to do is eat.  I find apples and Leyden cheese in the refrigerator.  I pop the apple between my teeth, while I open drawers, looking for a knife.