He waits.
“Seven seconds,” he says. “No more calls.”
“Done.”
Knox ends the call, throws his head back and steps out so the rain strikes his teeth.
He has spent time before in the waiting areas for private jets. The jet centers spoil their corporate customers or anyone waiting for them. Knox gets a catered meal, more coffee and a shower. Pays cash.
He calls his brother, but wakes him and promises to call back later. The clock grinds slowly toward three P.M. Much of the time—all of the time—is spent with pieces of a plan spinning in his head, coming together only to separate and refuse to bind like same-pole magnets. There’s much to accomplish.
Grace’s laptop comes to his aid repeatedly. He watches live video of Gerhardt Kreiger’s empty office as he navigates into the man’s contacts list. It takes him nearly thirty minutes to locate what he’s after, primarily because his written Dutch is so poor, and the online translators so confusing. But even this piece comes together for him, and he’s beginning to sense the tide has turned; losing Fahiz, the arrest of Dulwich and Grace, all marked the crest of the wave breaking. Now he rides calmly to the beach without need of paddle or sail.
Satellite maps and the jet center’s complimentary printer allow him to compile not only a plan of attack, but an atlas of pages with highlighted routes, notes about timing and Sharpie notations pointing to possible obstacles.
Brower will attempt to burn him—never trust an ambitious cop—making Knox’s job all the more problematic, demanding impeccable planning. He establishes relief valves and a time line that will invoke aborts. He projects three different competing perspectives, making a plan for himself, one for Brower and one for Gerhardt Kreiger. He looks for intersections and competition.
At last, he tries several times to channel Fahiz, wondering if he needs to be included. And again. But Fahiz hides behind a two-way mirror, impossible to see. Knox knows the unaccounted-for is what scuttles any op. Yet no matter how hard he tries, he can’t fully account for Fahiz, his knowledge of the man so limited as to be useless.
The plane has landed. Knox greets the captain at the door, a wiry man with flinty eyes and a soul patch who gives the impression of once having been a long-rifle sniper.
“The others are delayed,” Knox says.
“Wheels up, sixteen hundred.”
“One needs medical attention. It’s imperative she make the flight.”
“Which’ll work fine as long as she’s here by sixteen hundred.”
“I need twelve hours.”
“You need another plane.”
“You’re our plane.”
“I’m on a schedule.”
“Just put in the request for me. Can you do that?”
“There are rules. Hours aloft, hours of rest. Can’t be messed with. This crew is at the end of a run. We miss the wheels up, we don’t fly again before oh-four-hundred.”
“Twelve hours from now is oh-three-hundred,” Knox presses.
“What are you, my dispatcher?”
“Oh-three-hundred,” Knox repeats.
“You have any idea of the expense of parking the bird and the rest of us overnight? No way my dispatcher’s going for that.”
“Have her contact Brian Primer’s executive assistant. Give me two minutes to send an e-mail. Then you can make the call.”
“Is that right? And can I have your permission to take a dump while you’re sending your precious e-mail?”
“Works for me,” Knox says, straight-faced. “And take your time.”
He begs God: Give the man a hemorrhoid the size of a walnut.
—
“THE VEHICLE YOU WERE OPERATING struck and injured a man.” Chief Inspector Brower is fashionably dressed in a white Oxford button-down and a gray zip-neck sweater under a black corduroy sport coat. He looks remarkably well rested for a man who must not be. He drinks tea from a plastic travel mug.
“I lost control of the vehicle,” Grace says.
“It was captured on CCTV, you know? Coincidentally, you took down a man with a lengthy criminal record.”
Grace is unfazed by the attempt at a staring contest.
“You have a bullet wound in your thigh. We have blood stains at a perplexing homicide crime scene that I would be interested in testing against your own. Do you wish to explain your wound?” When Grace fails to answer, Brower continues. “One of two such homicide scenes.”
“I do not envy you your job. I am sure you are very good at it.”
“I am.”
“We all have our jobs to do.”
“And yours is?”
“I am employed by the European Union. But surely, you must know that by now.”
“It is a good cover. Very strong. I must compliment David.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about. Cover? It is my job.” She adds, “My wound was a foolish mistake on my part during training. My colleague, as I am sure you are aware, was the victim of a bombing. I was given training in the use of a handgun, should the need arise. I was careless.”
“Then the blood at the scene will not match yours. I am sure you would be willing to allow us to take a swab.”
“My government will be wondering why I was treated like a common criminal. I cannot help but wonder how that will affect and influence your superiors. Their opinion of how you handled the case.” Despite her EU cover, she is a Chinese national, a fact she believes will help her situation if the worst comes. No one likes to upset Mother China.
“I have two staged homicides, a vehicle at the bottom of a canal, and a woman with a fresh bullet wound. All of this needs explaining.”
She knows that Dulwich gave Brower both the dormitory and the knot shop, that his star has risen substantially since Knox came along, that he can’t possibly want to muddy the waters. She expected the interview to be by the numbers, a video and report that could be filed away to cover his ass if the need arose. His persistence is a surprise to her. Dulwich would not sacrifice her. So it’s John he wants. Dulwich is willing to let Knox go if it means saving her. While that thrills her, it sickens her as well, and she wonders how far she’s willing to go, how much she’s willing to play along.
“I am sure you will make sense of it all.”
“You have the night to think about it,” he says. “I suggest you consider cooperating with the investigation.”
A continuance. The night ahead means something to Brower. And then she has it: the message intercepted that was sent to Kreiger—the date and time. Tonight.
She has to fight back a grin. Knox has sent them a message through Brower to give this time to play out.
He’s up to something.
The lat/long saved as “3” on the stolen GPS is due north, across the river. There is no easy or quick way to reach the remote waterfront location.
He knows the knot shop girls who have served out their usefulness are resold through Kreiger to Asian markets. Connecting the information they have, he assumes there are three rendezvous locations for the girls’ transfer. On this night, according to the message Kreiger received, it’s to be number 3.
Knox rides the motorcycle he left near the Keizersgracht houseboat several nights before. It feels much longer than that. He doesn’t dare go within half a kilometer of the desolate spit of industrialized waterfront for fear of forcing an abort. The roads become unpredictable once he’s off the major thoroughfare. Interrupted by water and bridges, dead-ending at piers and docks, Knox hangs a U-turn and seeks an observation point.
He finds it thirty minutes later: the Noorderlicht Café, a bizarre greenhouse affair on a dock in the middle of nowhere. It specializes in organic, farm-raised meats and vegetables that cater to the platinum-card set despite its docklands location. It couldn’t be better situated for Knox’s needs: it sits on the western bank of a man-made inlet across from the spit of sand and cranes indicated by the GPS’s coordinates. A five-minute swim, but at least a ten-minute motorcy
cle ride. The rendezvous location is so well chosen as to madden him. No way in or out without being spotted, and a long way from anywhere.
To make matters worse: the restaurant closes in an hour, leaving him with time to kill. One hundred meters inland, the canal is lined with trees on both sides.
His mind made up, he orders the skate with creamy polenta and a stein of lager.
The last supper.
—
THE NOORDERLICHT CLOSES AT TEN, an hour before the rendezvous. A kind waitress serves him a beer beneath an outside umbrella as the restaurant lights go out and the last of the kitchen staff heads home. The sky is broken cloud and light from a half moon. The flashing lights of jet aircraft play hide-and-seek up there.
Knox wasn’t made for stakeouts. Once he might have had the capacity for such boredom, but roadside IEDs and Tommy’s condition have advanced his path down the time line. He can handle watching the occasional football game with friends. But most television leaves him antsy and with the feeling he’s wasting his life. There are probably meds he should be taking. For now, the beer will have to do.
Worried about the outcome of the next hour, Knox checks the time difference and calls Tommy.
“I always know it’s you because how long the number is,” Tommy says, answering.
Knox doesn’t need to ask “How’s it going?” because the tone and focus tell him the new meds are working better.
“Just called to say hi.”
“Hi.”
“Miss you.”
“And how,” Tommy says. “Hey, we’re up six percent for the month over last year.”
Maybe it’s the fatigue, maybe that they’re carrying on a real conversation, but Knox chokes up. Wipes his eyes as a sky full of lights blurs.
“Remember that trip to the Wisconsin lakes?”
“Boy, do I. With Mom and Dad.”
“Yeah,” Knox says. “I’m looking out on water like that, only there are lights and stuff, but it reminds me of you and me sitting out there on the dock.”
“The mosquitos.”
“No shit.”
Tommy laughs. “Website traffic is up nearly twenty percent. The Google ads.”
“Good deal.”
“I was thinking . . . You think I could maybe get a Segway? You don’t need a driver’s license and it’s not like I’m going to use one of those sit-down things the fat people drive.”
“Worth looking into.” Knox can’t believe the progress. It’s like he was never diagnosed. A bigger part of him knows it won’t last and he hates himself for not just thinking it but knowing it.
“You remember the girls across the lake?”
“If we’d been caught, we’d have been locked up as pervs.” Knox has to hold the phone away, and he gags himself with his free hand and thinks of all the bum luck. That his kid brother had to go off the rails. That the world is an unfair place. That he can’t bring himself to be Tommy’s caretaker and how he knows that’s wrong and how it’s never going to change. His selfishness creates this debt between them that cannot be bridged.
“Are you crying?”
“Windy here, is all. I should probably go. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“This is my voice.”
“I like hearing it.”
“You must be tired.”
“Very.”
“So come home.”
There’s the word. “Working on it.”
“Work harder.”
“Later.”
“Later.”
The red and white lines of taillights and headlights streak across a bridge in the far distance. Container ships and canal boats jump into frame and disappear. Directly across from him, nothing. The lumberyard—or is it concrete beams or steel?—sits as the spindle on a phonograph; the world spins around it. Knox enters a meditative state, part coffee, part beer, part full belly, part winsome recollection of what he’s left behind in the red-light district café.
He swallows deeply, fearful he’s left the import/export business behind as well; that, like a drug dealer, Dulwich has dared him to sample the product and now he can’t quit. As a man who eschewed “causes,” he’s frightfully close to caring. This final chapter isn’t about justice or Fahiz or Kreiger. It’s about Maja.
At 10:35, he removes the Scottevest along with his shoes, his wallet and the change from his pocket. He wraps it all in a ball and stashes it near the motorcycle. He leaves his watch on, empties the plastic takeaway bag holding his leftovers, and wraps the mobile and the handgun. All of it automatic, like a painter laying out his tubes and preparing his palette.
The water is colder than he expected. He’s allowed himself enough time to swim slowly, holding the wrapped phone and gun at head height, soundless and serpentine. He’s chosen a crossing deep into the inlet, away from the yard’s extended docks. He arrives at a stand of trees clinging to a muddy bank, beyond which rise stacks of logs and concrete light poles. He shivers in the copse, awaiting warmth, then steals among the stacks, crouching and moving stealthily, looking for the best spot to light. His feet are tender against the splintered wood and chunks of bark, an unexpected liability.
The yard holds three massive rows of timbers running north/south with two wide dirt aisles between them; these lead to two more shorter piles running east/west and a wider dirt area that feeds a one-lane bridge wide enough for a tug. The bridge connects to a barren man-made island twenty meters square, off of which are tied several empty barges. Knox assumes the boarding will take place off the island; it’s a location well chosen for its exposure. Having returned to the cover of the trees, Knox looks for opportunity. Any vehicles or boats headed toward the yard will be spotted well in advance of their arrival, giving the human smugglers time to kill the girls and sink their bodies. Anyone trying to cross the bridge in an attack is defenseless and vulnerable—a sitting duck.
And what if they don’t use the island? Another two empty barges are secured in the inlet between the island and the yard. Loading from these barges would be more difficult to see from the café side of the canal.
His watch’s hands glow green in the dark: 10:45. He conducts additional reconnaissance, realizing his mistake. He can hear Dulwich schooling him, can feel the choking heat of the desert: “Watch for the choke point, or it’ll be the last thing you see.”
It is only with leverage he’s able to budge a stray timber from the swollen grass that cradles it. Once it’s out onto the asphalt, it rolls easily as he applies an iron pipe to its side. The log waddles left, then right, refusing to go straight and consuming unnecessary time to keep it on track.
He phones Brower, waking him. Recites the lat/long, having no idea of the street names or how to explain the area.
“Wait for us,” Brower says.
“If you don’t make this public, I can deliver the ringleader.” He ends the call; he knows better than to trust the police’s handling of hostage situations. It’s why a company like Rutherford Risk is kept so busy. Has no idea if he can deliver what he’s promised, but it was all he could think to say.
Knox gets the log rolling with his arms, still battling its wandering.
A blink of white light to his right through the trees. One last push of the log; it partially blocks the entrance, angling in, pointing toward the open yard. Knox moves to the hidden side of a warehouse office building. Is finally able to look at his work.
It’s pathetic. He might as well have written a sign declaring his intentions. With no time to correct it, he hurries around the far side of the warehouse and into the lee of a storage trailer. He’d like to make the stand of trees by the gate, but there’s no time.
The approaching vehicle slows. It’s a dark minivan, the kind that looks like it’s come out of a metal crusher, forcing it high and narrow. On the water, Knox sees a boat slowing toward the yard’s canal. They have this timed to the minute, suggesting radio or cell phone communication.
The van rounds the turn into the yard and the driver b
rakes immediately upon seeing the log.
Knox hears the driver going for reverse. It’s too far away—ten meters or more—forcing Knox out into the open, into the headlights. No choice. If the driver gets the van turned around, Knox will be shooting into the back of the vehicle—and into the hostages.
He braces his hands against the corner of the building, sights the pistol and pops off two rounds through the driver’s side of the windshield. The angle is wrong for the passenger side, exposing too much of the van’s interior, should Knox miss.
The van continues backing up, but at idle speed, indicating that the driver is impaired or dead.
Knox rounds the corner in a squat. He moves to his left to get a better angle as an arm protrudes from the passenger side. The telltale white muzzle flash commands Knox to go limp. His right shoulder flashes hot and his fingers release the handgun.
He starts rolling before he ever hits the ground. Hears three more reports, all evenly timed, the product of a cool and collected shooter. Rolls toward the van, requiring the shooter to come up out of his seat to acquire a shot. If the man isn’t wearing a seat belt, Knox is dead. But he hears the restraint engage, a man curse in Dutch, and before the gun discharges at close range, Knox stands behind the open window, his hand on the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe.
The weapon appears, forcing Knox to release the man’s throat and go for his wrist. As it discharges into the sky, the door behind Knox slides open and Knox spins—one hand battling against the weapon, his left grabbing for the sliding door’s handle and pulling the door shut. The sliding door thumps, not closing fully, and a man screams from inside, his forearm crushed.
A semi-automatic holds eight to ten rounds. This weapon has fired five. Six, as another flies high. Knox creeps his hand up the man’s wrist. The shooter mistakes this for an effort to angle the gun away; he pushes against Knox, who allows it to move, shortening his reach to the trigger guard. Knox pulls the man’s index finger twice—two shots out through the windshield. Then swings his fist, crushing the man’s nose.
Choke Point gc&jk-2 Page 27