A World Without Secrets (30 page)

"Hmm, dead end," I said. "Oh well, it was worth a try. Perhaps we can match it up with clothing when we arrest the perps."

"Have you turned up anything with your tavern visits?"

"Well, I can say I've gotten someone other than Schaake interested enough to put a tail on me."

"How do you know it's not one of Schaake's people?"

"You don't seem surprised that Schaake would be tailing me."

"I'm not. It's obvious he resents your presence here and would probably love to know your movements. Why do you believe this person isn't one of Schaake's."

"I suppose it could be, but I've ID'd most of his people already. This guy is better than all of
them
put together. I haven't tried to lose him, but I think that won't be easy given that he knows the town and I don't."

"So you're not going to tell me if you've learned anything."

"I've learned a great deal. I just haven't put the pieces together yet."

"Yet you feel confident enough to ask about two specific individuals. Is this all a fishing expedition? Are you hoping they'll come after you?"

"It would end any uncertainty, wouldn't it?"

"That's not all it could end. I'm not a fisherman, but I know it can be rough on the bait."

"I'm aware of that, but you've been investigating this for months and, as far as I know, you have no suspects. If someone comes after me and is a bit faster than I am, you might have a fresh lead to pursue."

Ambrose picked up his drink and held it out for a second, "Here's to the bait," he said, then downed his drink in one gulp and stood up. "See you around, James. I hope."

I took a deep breath and released it slowly, then finished off my drink, signed the bill, and headed for the dining room. I had accomplished part of my objective. Ambrose knew I had been searching for leads in the seamier sections of the city, places where nothing was more sacred than the money they thought you would pay for information. But I needed to find out who the skinny guy was who had been tailing me. There were so many people interested in my activities that I didn't know where it was safe to use the gizmo. I tried to put everything else out of my mind as I concentrated on translating the dinner menu.

After dinner I went for a walk along the canal. I didn't like the idea of roaming around in a strange city after dark, but I figured it was safe if I stayed in well lit, heavily trafficked areas, and I really needed the relaxation of a long walk. There was no way to know how many pairs of eyes were following my every movement, but I supposed that knowing several belonged to cops should make me feel more secure. They couldn't stop someone from shooting me, but at least they would be there to call for an ambulance if someone did attempt a hit.

I turned north as I exited the hotel. The road there was wide enough for only one car, so traffic along the canal was just one-way. The only vehicles I'd seen since leaving the hotel were bicycles and motor scooters. Since the sidewalk was busy with strolling pedestrians, I chose to walk in the road along the low curb just two meters from the canal.

I was just passing the Anne Frank house and museum when I heard the screech of tires behind me. I turned at the sound and saw a car headed directly towards me, hugging the curb as it accelerated. Without thinking I leapt to my left, planning on jumping into the canal, and tripped over the low pipe railing used by boats to tie up to the canal wall. I suppose I was lucky there happened to be no boats tied up at that spot or I would have lost all my front teeth when I nosedived onto its deck. As I entered the water I heard a loud crash behind me.

The water was deep enough at that spot that I didn't hit bottom, and I surfaced several body-lengths from the wall. Amsterdam may be a beautiful city, but I can testify now that its canals are no cleaner than the Hudson.

Light from street lamps and buildings was enough for me to instantly get my bearings, and I could see dozens of people rushing towards the spot where I'd launched myself for my evening swim. There weren't any convenient swim platforms or ladders on the wall nearest me, but a tour boat was tied up to the shore about five meters away, so I headed for that. It wasn't true that people from New York City couldn't swim. It's just that the Hudson isn't an ideal aqueous medium. And I personally preferred not to be fully clothed and loaded down with two handguns and extra clips when I take a dip. I probably looked pretty ungainly as I tried to swim while also struggling to stay afloat, but I made it to the boat.

As I grabbed hold of the rope that held a rubber boat fender just above the waterline and began trying to pull myself up, I felt two pairs of strong hands grab me by the jacket and arms, and lift me onto the boat.

The first thing I did was thank the crewmen of the boat. The second thing I did was feel for the small matchbox in my right pocket and then verify that my wallet was still in my rear pocket. Living in a big city, I was in the habit of always buttoning the button tab on that pocket, and when I bought slacks that didn't have a button tab, I had one sewn on.

Finally, I verified that my badge and weapons were still there. It's difficult to miss the weight of forty-caliber pistols, but I wanted to make sure they were secure in their holsters.

As I opened my jacket to check the pistol under my left armpit, my two rescuers raised their hands and took a step back, fear registering on their faces. I smiled and pulled out my ID wallet. As I flipped it open I said, "Politie," the Dutch word for police.

One of the men looked at the ID and said, "American?"

I nodded and said, "Yes, working with the Dutch National police and Interpol."

At that point the men lowered their hands. The second asked, "Spy?"

I shook my head and said, "Policeman," then bent to check my ankle holster. Everything was secure, but I would have to dry and clean everything when I got back to my hotel. As I walked up the gangway to the canal wall, I heard the second crewman say knowingly to the other, "American spy." I smiled as I thought about the amazing affect American movies had on other cultures.

The car that had almost run me down had struck a tree half a meter beyond where I'd fallen into the canal. I guess the driver had been so intent on killing me that he never saw the tree, or perhaps my unique diving form was responsible for the distraction. Whatever, it appeared I was lucky to have tripped into the canal because the wide-open driver's side door was almost hanging over the wall. And if not for the tree, the car might have come down on top of me while I was in the water. I looked around but didn't see anyone who appeared to be the driver.

I guess the gathering pedestrians were trying to avoid the water dripping from me and pooling on the ground wherever I walked because they were giving me a wide berth. "Did you see the driver?" I asked one man, but he just shrugged his shoulders. I didn't know if that meant he hadn't seen the driver or that he didn't understand my words.

Another man offered, "I saw him fall out of the car after the door flew open. Then he ran away. He was bleeding from the head. Perhaps he was drunk and wanted to avoid the police."

I nodded. "That's probably it. Can you describe him at all?"

"He was tall, though not nearly as tall as you, and skinny. He had long brown hair. I didn't get a good look at his face because he was holding his hand up to his forehead as if trying to stop the blood."

"Thanks," I said, then walked around to the front of the car. The windshield was smashed, and the spot where the driver's head had impacted it when the air bag had failed to deploy was clearly visible. If an attempt to run someone down was going to be undertaken, it was probably a good idea to wear the seatbelt just in case the air bag malfunctioned.

When the first police car arrived, an officer got out and started ordering people to get away from the car and back on the sidewalk. More sirens could be heard in the distance.

When the cop reached me, he asked me a question in Dutch. I said in English that I didn't speak Dutch, so he asked me in stilted English if I had been driving the car. I told him what happened and why I was dripping water all over the street. When he asked for my ID, I identified myself as an FBI agent working with Interpol and the DNR, and that I was armed. I didn't want him to get the wrong idea if he spotted my service pistol when I opened my coat.

He looked at me skeptically, but said, "May I see your official ID, please?"

As I reached into my jacket, he put his hand on his sidearm. I stopped and looked at him. When he nodded, I continued reaching for my ID wallet. I withdrew it slowly and he relaxed. When I flipped it open, he relaxed even more, but that might have been because another policeman had arrived. I removed the recently issued pistol permit from the pocket behind my ID and handed it to cop number two then held out my FBI ID to cop number one.

Cop number one looked at my ID closely, then spoke in Dutch to cop number two for a few seconds before handing my ID back. "Okay, Special Agent James. Thank you. My fellow officer had heard there was an FBI agent working in the city. Can you tell me any more of what happened here?"

As I accepted the pistol permit back from cop number two, I said, "All I know is that I went out for a stroll after having dinner at the Hotel Pulitzer, and a car almost hit me. Would have too, if I hadn't dived into the canal."

"You're very fortunate. Did you get a good look at him?"

"I heard tires squealing, turned, saw headlights heading towards me, then went into the water. A witness told me the man ran away, holding his head. He said the man appeared drunk and was bleeding, as you can see from the ground here."

The policeman looked down and saw the blood splatters I was referring to.

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing else," I confirmed.

"You're
staying
at the Hotel Pulitzer?"

"Yes. Chief Inspector Schaake knows how to reach me."

The policeman looked at me for second. I suppose he was wondering if I was name-dropping for a reason. "Very well. Are you injured at all?"

"No, I'm just wet and cold."

"You may go. Would you like a ride back to the hotel when we're done here?"

"Thank you, no. I'll walk back. It's just a couple of blocks, and I expect you'll be tied up here for a while with paperwork and interviewing witnesses."

"Very well. Goodnight."

It hadn't been that cold out, but my wet clothes made it seem a good twenty degrees below the official temperature. I hurried back to my hotel, ignoring the open-mouthed, wide-eyed stares of pedestrians and hotel personnel alike. Once in my suite, I wasted no time in stripping off all my clothes while running hot water in the shower to get it up to temperature. As billowing steam began to lend the appearance of a sauna to the bathroom, I adjusted the water temperature to ensure it wouldn't scald my skin, then stepped in. It wasn't instant relief from the chill I'd been feeling, but I knew it wouldn't take long.

I stayed under the wonderful spray until I felt relaxed, then washed my body and shampooed my hair to remove any residue and harmful bacteria I might have picked up while splashing about in the canal. I didn't trust the filthy water in Amsterdam any more than I trusted the disgusting water in the Hudson. After emerging from the shower, I donned my bathrobe and began the final recovery steps from my evening's adventure. I removed everything from the pockets of my clothes, then called down to have my clothes picked up and cleaned. I was spreading out the contents of my wallet when a bellman arrived to collect my wet clothes.

My driver's license, credit cards, official ID and a few other items were plastic or plastic coated, so they only had to be wiped down, but the small amount of paper money had to be wiped and spread out on a towel to dry. I also had the usual pile of papers people collect in their wallets. Each piece had to be peeled from the pile and set out alone to dry before everything became stuck together. Some items with non-permanent ink had run, but there was nothing I could do about that. The stick matchbox was almost ruined, but the gizmo seemed fine. I set the box aside to dry, thinking it might suffice until I found a replacement, and I placed the gizmo in the hotel desk as the bottom sheet in a small pile of writing paper. The gizmo was a different size than the hotel's writing paper, but I didn't think it would be noticeable to most observers.

Opening up the battery compartment of my cell phone, I removed the battery, then shook the small instrument to get as much water as possible out. I didn't hold out much hope for its recovery, but one never knew as long as the battery was removed before anything else. When it was dry it might work, but if it was still wet it would probably short out with that first use. I would use the hotel hair dryer on it when I was done cleaning my pistols and then let it sit overnight.

After field stripping both weapons and drying them as well as I could, I took out my small cleaning kit and gave each of them a good cleaning and lubrication. Lastly, I used the hair dryer on my cell phone, keeping the heat on the lowest setting. I wanted to dry it, not melt it.

It was a lot of work for a two-minute dip, but I was finally finished. The next day I would use the stall in the bathroom downstairs to get a look at the man who had tried to kill me. I didn't believe for a second that the driver was drunk or that it had been an accident. When I had turned and seen that car headed straight at me, I'd known instantly that the driver intended to kill me. I was lucky to still be alive.

As I prepared for bed, I was suddenly struck by the significance of something I'd noticed earlier but which hadn't registered. My gizmo, which was a standard size for letter paper in North America, was a different size than the hotel's writing paper, which appeared to conform to the ISO size of A4 originally established by the Germans. I hadn't been thinking about the origin of the device since leaving New York, and this might be a valuable clue. If the inventors had been trying to disguise the paper in some way, what better way than to make it a standard size so it could be mixed with other papers? And since letter size was a North American standard not used elsewhere, the gizmo must have originated in North America— unless someone had used that size to disguise the gizmo for traveling in North America. Perhaps it wasn't as significant as I had briefly thought.