Adrenaline (24 page)

“Do you know? Be totally honest with me.”

“No, I don’t,” she said, and I believed her.

“I still have to know what they want to get to America.”

“First things first. Yasmin. This gang. That’s the way to find out the truth about your wife, Sam. Stay focused.” Her voice got a new steel to it. “I have some leverage for you with Nic. Most unpleasant.”

“What?”

“On his computer.” She opened a file. Photos. Photos of youngsters, in awful, provocative poses. Boys, girls, a range of ages, a range of poses, from coy to hardcore. I saw a list of names, of e-mails. I looked away.

“He’s a child molester?”

“Perhaps. At the least he is a broker of smut. It seems that if you want a photo to your specifications—Nic can provide it.” The steel in her voice faded and she cursed under her breath.

I thought of the odd glance he’d given the little girl in the café by Dam Square last night, and felt ill. “Okay. That’s leverage. I can force his hand.”

“And then,” Mila said, “you can cut it off.”

H
OWELL STUDIED THE VIDEO FEED
in the security center at the Rotterdam train station. There. The cameras caught the man he’d seen on the port coverage that looked like Sam Capra. The blond-haired pixie in the huge sunglasses walking a few steps in front of him.

“The train they’re boarding?” he said.

“That was the 10:15 service to Amsterdam,” August said, checking a train itinerary.

“I want every record of a pair of tickets bought together on a credit card.”

“They could have paid cash, or used a prepaid ticket,” August said.

“Or they could have made a mistake,” Howell said.

Ten minutes later Howell had a name, en route to Amsterdam. Most people traveling on the 10:15 service already had their tickets; but one pair, in car five, were charged to a credit card belonging to a woman named Fernanda Gatil.

He called the CIA office in Amsterdam and gave them the name, requested a full workup on Fernanda Gatil, told them to put her name out on the wire to the Dutch border stations. He wanted to know where she worked, where she
lived, every detail of her life. He wanted photo enhancement on the images pulled from the train station security cameras; he wanted to know who this woman was and why she was traveling with a man he felt reasonably sure was Sam Capra.

T
EN AFTER NOON
.

Nic the scumbag was late. I sat outside the Pelikaan, on the south side of the canal, sipping a half-pint of Heineken. The sunlight shimmered on the water.

I wondered, for the first time, who the Turk was that Zaid had hired. A soldier of fortune? An actual smuggler? Someone, like me, with his own personal vendetta against the scarred man? Bahjat Zaid was a panicked father who hadn’t put his entire trust into Mila or her secret employers. After I calmed down a bit on the way to this meeting, I could not blame him. I didn’t know if
my
child was dead or alive, either.

I was getting closer to the truth and to Lucy. I knew it. This was the most important meeting of my life. I tried not to sweat. I tried not to think too much. Just play the right note and I’d be in.

Nic worked his way through the strolling Saturday crowds. He gave everything and everyone a disdainful glare. He did not look happy.

He sat across from me. In the daylight he looked pasty, robbed of sleep. I wondered if he’d figured out he’d had an intruder in his room, parsing his hideous secrets. But
probably none of them had slept well last night after learning of the Turk’s attempt to infiltrate them.

“Hello,” I said. I absolutely had to keep the contempt from my voice.
I know what you are
.

“I’m having a very bad day,” he said. The waiter stopped by the table; Nic ordered a Coke. The waiter brought it and vanished. No one sat near us.

“So. This Turk compromised your route?”

“It was all bluff,” Nic said. “The Turk was a liar.”

“Was?”

“I mean is. Forgive my English.”

I had to sound like a guy desperate for a job; which I was. “Nic. Listen. I’ve moved plenty of stuff from eastern Europe to Holland, to England and America. I know how to get contraband of any sort through. If you’re worried that the Turk has screwed up your planned route, let me design an entirely new route for you, with new transport. Be safe.”

Nic sipped his soda. I waited. If they’d depended on the Turk to set up transit for their goods to the U.S., they couldn’t use whatever he’d arranged, so they had to be desperate. Unless they’d already found a solution. But the Turk had died a few hours ago, and maybe I was their best chance of keeping their operation moving forward. Nic would have been sent to take my measure.

“Why are you so desperate for work?” he asked.

“I like eating and sleeping under a roof. And I need a foothold in the Netherlands.”

“Why here?”

“A few minor difficulties for me in eastern Europe. I need to focus on smuggling goods to the West.” I took a long sip of beer. “I wouldn’t mind a slice of the action of whatever you’ve got going. What is it? Counterfeit cigs or
luxury goods? Designer drugs?” All of those were trades worth billions—nearly twenty percent of the world economy these days is in illicit goods.

“You must be in dire straits to be hanging out in seedy bars looking for work to appear.”

“Actually I’m just a big karaoke fan. And if you’d said dire straits there last night, I would have sung one of their hits.”

A smile flickered and vanished. “What’s your full name, Sam?”

“Peter Michael Samson.”

Nic’s phone rang. He opened it, listened carefully. He kept a poker face, mostly—I saw the slightest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He got up from the table, walked to another empty one, made a second call. He listened, watching me. I raised my glass to my lips, whispered behind the camouflage of the half-pint.

“Did you get that?” I said.

Mila answered. “Yes.” The transmitter was hidden beneath my collar, thin as a toothpick. Hard to detect under my starched shirt. Hence dressing for the meeting like it was a job interview. Mila had slipped the transmitter into my clothes. The earpiece where I could hear Mila speak to me was a risk; it would be easier to spot. State of the art; I wasn’t sure the Company had field gear this good. It made me wonder again exactly who I’d decided to work for.

“If they have passport records access… they could be digging my name up right now.”

The Company could have killed the Peter Samson legend, eliminated the IDs, the passport records. And surely there would be a trace put on any queries made against my old, discarded names, as well as watching for any use of them.

Which might bring the Company right down on Nic and his friends. But that couldn’t happen before I got what I needed from them. Not before I had the scarred man in my grip. Not before I had got Yasmin to safety and knew the truth about Lucy and my son.

I watched Nic. Nic watched me. Minutes passed. Long enough for whoever he had working for him to access a Canadian passport database? They had hacked into the Amsterdam police servers; why not the Canadians’ as well? I had underestimated Nic before.

I said nothing more to Mila; she was close, watching us from an empty office space across the Singel canal.

On the Herengracht, in the grand Company safe house, August pushed open the door of Howell’s office. Howell glanced up from looking at photos that had come through passport control in Rotterdam. Thousands of faces, none of them Sam Capra. He felt dizzy.

“Sir, we just got a query hit on one of Sam Capra’s old legends. The Peter Samson identity. It just came, moments ago, from an IP address from an Internet café in Amsterdam. Looking for passport information, military records, criminal history.”

“Where?”

“Over on Singel. A few minutes away.”

“Let’s find out who’s so interested in Sam.” God, he thought, maybe it was Sam himself, checking to see if the old identity was still active. That little bastard finally made a mistake. “Any record of the passport being used to enter Holland?”

“No, sir,” August said. “Do you want me to kill all the documentation tied to the identity?”

“No. No. Leave it active. Let’s see where it leads us.”

He and August and Van Vleck, an ex-Marine permanently assigned to the Company office in Amsterdam, hurried down the steps into the bright spring day. “We can call the Dutch police…,” Van Vleck said.

Howell raised a hand. “Absolutely not. We handle this ourselves.” He glanced at August. “This may get ugly. If he’s there, we take him down, and you can talk to him later. Don’t hesitate.”

“I won’t, sir,” August said. “We’ll catch him.”

N
IC CLOSED THE PHONE
and I lowered the beer glass from my mouth. He approached the table. He might have been told that Peter Samson no longer existed. He could have taken a picture of me with his phone, sent it to Piet or even the scarred man—in which case I was dead. I looked at what was on the table: cloth, lovely flowers in a small glass vase, half-pint glass. If he came back to the table knowing I was a fraud, I could kill him with the vase. Shatter the end, put it against his throat. The glass in the vase was heavier than the beer glass.

Nic slid into the seat across from me. He straightened the ponytail and smiled at me.

“You were wanted in Croatia last year for smuggling.”

That was sadly true of Peter Samson; he was such a loser. “That’s so last year.”

“I guess so. The charges were dismissed.”

“Bribes work.” I shrugged. “And a witness decided not to talk.”

“What were you moving?”

“Whatever needed moving. Illicit explosives from the Czech Republic. Old weapons from Ukraine. Opium moving through Turkey.” I shrugged again. “I’m not a
product specialist. I move whatever needs moving to Canada and New York.”

“And being a mover made you a good fighter.”

“The Canadian Army made me a good fighter.”

“I have a friend from Prague. I asked him about you last night.”

Gregor. “Yes.”

“He said you could do a good job, but he also said that he thought you might have sold out some people who tried to screw you over, a pair of brothers.”

“The Vrana brothers were screwing over the people who brought me into the deal. Internal politics in a group aren’t my concern. I’m only about the money. Sorry if that makes me sound bad; it is what it is.”

“So your loyalty would be to… me.”

“Are you the one getting me my money? Then, yeah, my loyalty is to you.”

He watched me for a minute, deciding. “I might have a job for you, then. But I need you to do me a favor if you want to land work.”

“I’m not really in the favor business.”

“Then think of it as an investment. My boss, Piet, has become a liability. I think he needs to be cut out.” There it was, bluntly. Nic wanted Piet gone. Probably to take his place, to take his cut. Or to take his power. “If you can get us a route to America, then you and I—we don’t really need Piet in the picture. Or in the profit.”

“And if I don’t want to get into your messy office politics?”