Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 2) (34 page)

“If you leave them in the sleeves and in the same order.”

Bram had quite a record collection. Chang spotted an older Hank Mobley album that would easily fetch three thousand dollars at any auction, if the record was in mint or near mint condition. His hands flipped through the dust-sleeved albums and he stopped when he found
True Blue
by Tina Brooks. Chang had the recording on a recent CD reissue, but he’d never seen the original LP album.
 

He licked his lips. “Bram, could I take one record from its sleeve?”

“Why?”

“Just humour me.”

“Which one?” Bram came up to him. “I’ll take it from the sleeve.”

He handed Bram the album, and the blind man ran his fingers over the raised letters on the dust sleeve. “Yes, good one. You want me to put it on?”

Without waiting for an answer, Bram lifted the needle from
Soul Station
, returned the Hank Mobley record to its sleeve and slipped the Brooks record from its inner sleeve, the vinyl glistening deep black in the light. He felt the label and twirled the record.
 

Chang stopped him. “What is that notch in the label?”

“Side B.” Bram put the record on the turntable and wiped the vinyl before he lowered the needle in the groove. “One notch is side B for a single album, two notches is side B for a double album.”

“You purposely damaged the label? Do you have any idea what that record is worth?”

As the glorious saxophone of Tina Brooks filled the basement, Bram said, “Worth to me, or market value?”

“Market value.” Chang looked around the sparsely furnished apartment. “Your collection is worth thousands.”

“It’s worth more than mere money to me.” Bram took him by the elbow and led him away from the stereo. “I’d rather go hungry than sell my music.”

Chang looked at his disfigured face. “Did Loki really take your eyes?”

The blind man opened his scarred eyelids, showing milky white cataracts covering his eyes. “Drink your tea.”

Bram sat down near the gunsmith and took up his Lapsang, smiling to himself as he sipped his tea. Shaking his head, Chang sat on Kiekendief’s other side and sipped his Earl Grey. “You seem very loyal to Loki.”

Bram shrugged.

“Why did Loki take the Kau Hong amulet to you?”

“I don’t presume to know why Loki does things.”

“He must’ve had a reason.”

“Probably. Far as I can tell, he wanted my opinion.”

“Why yours?”

“Why not?” the blind man countered. “It’s a tactile object, not a photograph. I figured out the carving on the front was a distraction for the Kau Hong markings on the back.”

“You figured that out? Not Loki himself?”

“And I still didn’t know what the markings meant,” Bram continued. “Ah Yun told me.”

“The Kau Hong beat him to death for that.”

“I know,” the blind man said, his face unreadable. “I was at the Wertheim park, waiting for him. Two Chinese guys on a Suzuki 650 V-Strom bludgeoned him and rode off.”

“You certainly know a lot for someone who cannot see.”

“Lack of one sense heightens the others. I could tell the Suzuki had an aftermarket exhaust on it, but I couldn’t tell you the brand.”

“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

The blind man tilted his head. “Are you always mistrustful, or just with me?”

“It sounds far-fetched, that’s all.”

Bram drank his tea and put down the empty cup. “Time for you to go.”

“Have I offended you?”

“No, I have work to do.”

Kiekendief drank his tea and placed the cup carefully on the saucer. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“
Geen dank
, Manfred. Take care.”

Bram handed them the rifle and scope cases, and ushered them out into the hallway, where they collected their shoes. Chang looked up the stairs, where a figure stood in the shadows. All he could see was an arm with intricate Japanese tattoos and the glitter of light reflecting on sunglasses. A yakuza, guarding the stairwell. Chang turned his back, pulled on his shoes and followed Kiekendief out the door.

As soon as they were outside again, the gunsmith took Chang’s elbow and said, “You should’ve told me your partner was Loki.”

Chang gently removed his elbow from his grasp. “Why?”

“Why?” Kiekendief looked confused. “Because the guy is extremely lethal. I heard he slaughtered five men in a hotel last summer, in less than half an hour.”

“What’s the big deal?” Chang shrugged. “I decimated a whole platoon in five minutes.”

“He did it with his bare hands.”

“That’s why Loki is my partner, Manfred. I do the long range stuff, and he does the close quarter combat. As for being lethal, I think I have more confirmed kills than Loki.”

“Of course.” Kiekendief rolled his eyes. “Loki never confirms his kills. I’m not afraid of death. Cancer made my life forfeit anyway, but I’d like my ending to be relatively painless. I’d prefer a bullet to the brain to getting my throat slit.”

“I’ll keep that mind,” Chang said with a grin. “Now, let’s find a place to zero the PGM for three hundred meters.”

“The maximum distance with suppressed barrel is two hundred meters.”

“I know,” Chang said. “So if we want to be accurate at the distance Loki specified, we’ll need to practice.”

Those Yakuza were smart fellows, Nicky had to give them that. The Spinhuissteeg was impossible to stake out. The only thing remotely close enough to view just one side of the alley was from across the Kloveniersburgwal canal at a café called De Engelbewaarder, an old Dutch word for guardian angel. The cozy brown café was home to several literary groups and featured jazz on Sunday, when the band would occupy the elevated part in front of the windows where Nicky was sitting, looking out the window. To avoid too much suspicion, Nicky brought a notebook, pretending to be a writer lost in thought as he stared out the window at the alley on the other side of the canal through the tiny binoculars in his palm. He hadn’t told Lau or the others what he was doing. Lau would just call him an idiot for wasting time. Feng was wrong about Lau in many aspects, but he was right about his lack of refinement. If Lau knew about Merleyn, he’d probably kick in the door of the Yakuza club and drag the blind man out by the scruff of his neck. Not that he’d succeed, but that was how Lau operated. Brute force.

Nicky also felt that Zhang was getting disenchanted with his Red Pole. Lau was a brilliant enforcer. People shivered if Lau just glanced in their general direction, whereas Nicky knew his appearance was not intimidating enough. And Lau’s aura of violence had opened many doors. Still, while Lau might be more intimidating, Nicky never showed the full scope of his abilities. Most people were weak, and he rarely needed to perform at the top of his skill. Only the wooden dummy in his apartment knew the true extent of his martial arts prowess.

There was movement at the mouth of the alley. Sieltjes appeared, with something bundled up under her arm as she made her way to a small displacement Yamaha XT motorcycle parked in front of the Used English Books store. She opened the top box of the Yamaha, removed a helmet and stuffed the bundle inside.

He had to be quick.

Nicky tossed a twenty euro bill on the table and waved at the bartender, stuffing the notebook in his backpack as he left the café, skipped down the steps and hooked right, heading for the Zandstraat, an alley just a few meters down the Kloveniersburgwal. He disarmed the alarm and unlocked his KTM 690 as he heard the sound of the XT starting up. He quickly popped his flip-up helmet on his head and donned his carbon-knuckled gloves.

He’d follow her, beat her to a pulp and get the guys to collect her.

Nicky straddled the KTM and edged to the mouth of the alley so he could see in which direction Sieltjes would ride. His front wheel was already out of the alley as he noticed that Sieltjes had crossed the bridge over the canal and was riding straight in his direction. He closed the flip-up helmet, fiddling with his gloves to let her pass.

-o-

Katla passed the Engelbewaarder and glanced at the KTM idling at the Zandstraat, the rider adjusting his gloves. Most KTM riders either used jet helmets or cross helmets, but this rider wore a closed flip-up helmet with a dark visor. Although the KTM rider wasn’t dressed all in black, his helmet reminded her of the Kau Hong killers on their V-Strom.
 

Only one way to find out.

In her rearview mirror she watched the KTM roll smoothly onto the Kloveniersburgwal and follow her, but that was normal. If he went the other way, he’d be riding against traffic.

Katla hooked a right between the metal posts onto the bicycle path of the Nieuwe Hoogstraat and checked her rearview mirror. The KTM followed her without hesitation. Either he was a habitual lawbreaker like herself, or he was following her. Katla smiled and hooked another right into the Zanddwarsstraat. If he followed her into an alley that lead back to where he came from, he’d be up to no good. She was close to the Zandstraat when the KTM turned into the Zanddwarsstraat.

Bad news.

Katla hooked a left to the Zuiderkerkhof, the shrill beep of her horn scattering the oblivious pedestrians. Her XT was smaller than the KTM, so she could go under the pedestrian arch that lead to the Antoniebreestraat. Pedestrians cursed and jumped out of the way as she came roaring onto the Antoniebreestraat, braked sharply for a taxicab and shot onto the street, bopping up the curb to get on the bicycle path heading left towards the Nieuwmarkt. The rider of the KTM didn’t hesitate and roared through the arch, almost grazing his helmet. With total disregard of traffic he crossed the road in an instant and followed her onto the bicycle path.
 

The KTM was only slightly larger than the XT, but had more than double the power. She hooked a sharp right into the Snoekjessteeg and roared across the bridge, hooking right and riding against traffic along the Oudeschans. A truck was coming from the other direction and she skidded left into the Korte Dijkstraat, hoping the KTM wouldn’t make it the alley before the truck blocked it. The KTM jumped the sidewalk and raced behind her into the alley, the engine roaring as the powerful motorcycle overtook her underpowered XT.
 

The rider aimed a kick at her left handlebar and missed, but she reacted instinctively, steering away.

Wrong instinct.

The front wheel of the XT hit the curb and the motorcycle high-sided, throwing her off. Katla tumbled over the ground, remembering to tuck and roll.

Brakes screeched and rubber squeaked over the bricks as the rider swung the KTM around. The engine howled like a banshee as the motorcycle bore down on her. The rider’s boot went for her knee as she was trying to stand.
 

Pivoting on her good leg, Katla whirled with her arm extended like a medieval jousting quintain and hit the rider’s shoulder with her fist. The impact unbalanced the rider, but he managed to control the motorcycle and skidded to a halt. He kicked out the stand and the engine died, then he jumped from the motorcycle.
 

He was smaller than she figured from the size of his motorcycle, but the excited spring in his step warned her not to underestimate him. He flipped up the front of his helmet, but his Chinese features were no surprise. His eyes were dark and calm, with an amused twinkle.

“I’m going to enjoy hurting you,” he said. “You’re going to beg to sign those papers you tore up.”

Katla removed her helmet. “I’m not an old blind man.”

A telescopic baton clicked from his fist. “No, your death will be painful beyond belief.”

He swung at her with the baton, but she stepped in, taking the impact on the helmet in her left hand as she jabbed stiff fingers at his throat. He deflected her jab with a forearm hard as steel. The baton grazed the helmet and the flexible tip swung through and whacked her hip, stinging her flesh even through her leathers. He stepped back and whirled around. She tried to close the distance, but he scored a direct hit on her right upper arm. The leather jacket spread the impact and prevented the baton from shattering the bone, but her whole arm went numb.
 

He followed up the strike with a straight punch in her right side, his gloved fist connecting solidly with the folded cane in her inside pocket. The carbon knuckles on his glove split from the impact, but his hand seemed unhurt. Or he had a higher pain threshold than she imagined. The baton whistled through the air in a downward strike, but she threw herself forward in desperation. Her back protector took the impact, protecting her from injury, although she could feel the plastic segments crack under the punishing blow.
 

Her helmet clattered on the bricks and Katla drew her knife, slashing at his face. He threw himself backward, but a metal post tripped him up and he went sprawling. Ignoring her pain she pounced to seize the moment, but he whirled to his feet, one of his feet hitting her shoulder as the baton hit her good leg just above the knee.

Pain exploded in her leg and she stumbled and dropped on all fours, her knee protectors and gloves cushioning her fall. The knife fell from her hand and clattered on the bricks. In one movement he kicked the knife away and planted his boot solidly in her ribs, knocking the wind out of her. She toppled sideways and he circled in, the baton raised for an overhead blow. She curled into a foetal position. As he stepped in and put his weight on his front leg, her right leg pistoned out and her boot caught the side of his knee.

He spun with the blow, avoiding damage to his knee, and dropped himself on top of her. His sharp elbow hit her in the ribs he’d kicked seconds before. With lithe grace he rolled over her and spun back on his feet, dancing forward again while she crawled away and tried to get up to her feet.

He kicked at her face, but she managed to deflect the kick with her elbow and roll away. As he followed she reversed and rolled toward him, aiming her body at his shins.

Like an acrobat, he jumped over her, but she managed to lift her knee and hit his right boot when he was still up in the air. He landed on his left foot, pinwheeling his arms to regain his balance. Katla sat back on her knees, but her legs hurt too much to get to her feet. With her right arm still numb from the blow with the baton, she only had her left arm to defend herself. In her peripheral vision she saw her cracked helmet in the gutter. The arm with the baton swung overhead and whistled in a downward arc toward her right shoulder. She rolled sideways just before the blow, the flexible tip grazing her hair as she landed on the bricks, grabbed the strap of the helmet and swung at his knee.