A man with a broken nose.
“All right,” the Englishman said, catching Hill’s eye.
“All right,” Hill replied, attempting to control his compulsion to act.
He succeeded, and after an awkward pause the broken-nosed Englishman stepped into the stag party’s carriage, and Hill stepped into the other. Then, losing the battle with his twitching muscles, Hill finally smiled.
Because he’d found his thieves.
Chapter 18
“Wake up.” Barrett prodded Scowcroft. “Amsterdam.”
Scowcroft opened his eyes and saw the Amstel river—from which the city of Amsterdam takes its name—stretching out beside the tracks.
“You didn’t sleep?” Scowcroft asked, rubbing at his eyes as the train slowed into the city center rail hub of Centraal station.
“Kept my eye on things,” Barrett replied, not wanting to admit that he was rattled. Though he couldn’t place a finger on what was bothering him, the trip wire of his veteran’s instinct had been triggered. “We’re all good,” he said aloud to reassure himself.
The Eurostar came to a final stop and the stag party let loose a mighty roar that drowned out the bilingual Tannoy announcements.
“About bloody time!” one of the party shouted. “We’re out of drink!”
“You coming with us?” another of the men slurred at Charlotte.
“Course I am, babe,” she smiled back, before whispering to her partners, “We can use them as cover to leave the station. It’ll be easy enough to ditch them outside.”
Barrett liked the idea, but Scowcroft kept silent, reluctant to admit that Charlotte had found them a brilliant disguise for their journey from London.
“Let’s go!” shouted the best man, the bikini-clad groom draped over his shoulder.
The thieves followed, pressing themselves into the group. As they stepped onto the platform and Dutch soil, Charlotte and Barrett put on big smiles, acting every part the traveling British lager louts. Scowcroft scowled.
This was usual for him, the young man full of fire and bitterness, but at that moment Scowcroft scowled because of what he saw ahead of them.
Dutch police officers. A pair at every exit.
His heart beat faster.
“They can’t be here for us,” Barrett whispered, keeping up his smile. “Look who they’re stopping.”
Scowcroft did, and saw that the police were stopping mainly young people in gaudy neon outfits.
“They’re looking for drugs,” Charlotte assessed, relief in her voice.
“No.” Scowcroft shook his head. “You don’t bring drugs into Amsterdam. Even the bloody police have to know that. It’s a cover, so they don’t spook us.”
“It’s not. Just be calm, mate. It’s fine.” Barrett was trying to reassure the younger man, noticing the sweat beading on Scowcroft’s forehead.
“I’m gonna do something,” Scowcroft suddenly declared.
“Alex, don’t,” Barrett pleaded.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Charlotte hissed, her eyes ablaze.
But he did.
Scowcroft had already seen his chance—a loud-mouthed member of the stag party who was strutting along the platform as if he had bales of hay under his arms. Scowcroft moved forwards and shoved a businessman hard in the back, and the middle-aged man slammed into the drunken Brit, who spilled lager on his white sneakers.
“Prick!” the lout shouted into the businessman’s face, rounding on him and shunting him backwards.
The businessman tried to open his mouth, but before he could protest his innocence, the Brit threw what was left of his beer into the man’s face. Then the businessman surprised even Scowcroft by replying with a quick right hook into the loudmouth’s jaw, sending him reeling.
At that moment, the platform turned to anarchy as the rest of the stag party jumped on the businessman. The police were forced to bolt from their positions to intervene, leaving the thieves an open exit into the city.
They took it.
And at the end of the platform, one man watched it all.
Chapter 19
Detective Inspector Hill had been in no rush to leave the train. He’d seen the police waiting by the exits—why, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to question good luck—and he was certain his thieves would try to lose themselves in the crush of passengers.
So Hill had stepped from the train, walked to the back of the platform, and made a call.
“Hello, babe.”
“I thought you were dead,” Deb replied. “My phone hasn’t been going off every two minutes. At least not from you, anyway,” she teased.
“That’s because I don’t want a horrific phone bill. I’m in Amsterdam.” Hill’s eyes scanned the passengers that began to emerge from the train’s doors.
“What? Why?”
“Calm down, Deb. I had to deliver some confidential docs.”
“You’re not a bloody postman,” Deb moaned.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Hill promised, eager to be off the phone before his wife’s temper took over. “Listen, babe, I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you tomorrow, OK? Love you.”
“Love you too, but stay away from red lights, or I’ll cut your bits off.”
Shaking his head, Hill hung up the phone and readied himself to move.
This was the time.
A steady flow of passengers was coming down the platform now. The police were searching the bags and persons of young adults, causing a bottleneck at the exits. Hill guessed the police action was an antidrugs gesture, though why anyone would bring their own drugs with them to Amsterdam was beyond him. Doubtless a politician or high-ranking officer had thought it a great idea.
Hill now saw the stag party amongst the mix, the men launching into a lewd chant that Hill was well acquainted with from his rugby-playing days. Perhaps it was due to someone taking offense at the obscenities that a fight suddenly broke out, and in the space of one breath the platform turned into a mess of flying fists and chaos.
Then amongst all that chaos, Hill saw them.
He saw his thieves.
Chapter 20
“Leg it!” Scowcroft shouted, grabbing his partners by the arms and tugging them clear of the melee. “Come on!” he hustled as the police entered the fray. “The exit’s clear!”
“You stupid ass!” Charlotte chided him as they passed through the exit and onto the busy pavement.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Scowcroft snarled.
“We should walk,” Barrett cut in. “It’s one thing running clear of a fight, but we should walk.”
Around them, other passengers who had run from the trouble had slowed their pace to breathless gaits. Amongst them, Barrett saw the old lady whose bags he’d helped place into the train’s overhead storage.
“Are you all right, love?” he asked her, seeing her face was flushed. “Come on, I’ll carry your bags to the taxi for you.”
Scowcroft glared as the woman gave her thanks, but Barrett ignored his younger accomplice and turned to pick up the lady’s suitcase.
And that’s when he saw him—the man who’d looked into his eyes outside the toilet. The man who had studied his face, his broken nose. The man who, Barrett now knew, was the reason his soldier’s survival instinct had been triggered. Whoever he was, the athletic man glided around the side of the melee at a slow trot, avoiding the flying fists and police batons with ease. Clear of the fight, he didn’t slow down.
He was coming straight for them.
“I’m sorry, love!” Barrett shouted the apology as he hurled the woman’s baggage into the man’s path. It didn’t collide with him, but it sent other travelers scattering. The fast-approaching man crashed into a young woman, sending them both sprawling to the ground, the woman crying out in pain.
“Go! Go!” Barrett shouted, but the others were already running.
Barrett chanced to look over his shoulder. He saw the man leap to his feet, unharmed, but the woman lay prone,
and Barrett could see his pursuer was torn between tending to her and continuing his pursuit.
“He’s police,” Barrett said as he caught up with the other two. “He stopped to help that girl.”
Slowly, above their heavy breathing, the thieves became aware of the sound of bass and cheers in the distance. Mastering their temptation to run, the trio pushed off at a fast walk. The sound of music and cheering soon grew louder, as did the steady stream of ravers making their way in the direction of the party.
“What’s going on?” Scowcroft asked a young girl whose face was painted with dots and swirls of neon.
“It’s the Amsterdam Dance Event,” she told him in accented English that hinted at Italian. “It’s a five-day music conference, and party.”
“Outside?”
“Outside, inside—it’s taking over the city.” She beamed at him.
Scowcroft smiled his thanks, and turned to his accomplices. “How did we not know about this?” he hissed.
“We came here to sell diamonds, not to go clubbing,” Charlotte reminded him. “Now make friends with that girl. Ask her to paint our faces.”
Scowcroft hated being told what to do by Charlotte, particularly when she was right, but the incident at the station had shaken him and the chasing man could still be on their heels.
“OK,” he relented.
Five minutes later, their faces painted neon and backpacks deposited into waste bins, the diamond thieves pushed their way into a crowd with their new friends, and were swallowed up by the party.
Chapter 21
“They got away,” Hill said into his phone. “Bollocks!” he spat, hating to lose.
He was standing back from the streets that were a riot of noise and color, the Amsterdam Dance Event in full swing. Hill was the only one present without a smile.
“Tell me you have a bone, boss,” he pleaded, pressing Vaughn for the reason that he’d called.
“I do,” Vaughn replied, and Hill could tell from his tone that his superior was becoming as invested in the case as he was. “The CCTV images from the stations have come up with a hit on the facial recognition databases.”
“Well, that’s bloody good news!” Hill beamed.
“Good and bad,” Vaughn admitted. “One of them is Matthew Barrett. He served with the Commandos on three tours of Iraq, including the invasion. Made the rank of corporal, but was discharged for drug abuse a year after his final stint out there.”
“A Commando?” Hill asked, relishing the challenge. “What did he do when he left? Any priors?”
“He’s been living on welfare benefits since they kicked him out. The forces were his last employer.”
Vaughn paused. When he went on, Hill could hear the conflicting emotions in his voice.
“This was a good lad, before he went bad, Hill. Sounds like he’s got balls enough for ten men, and if he was a Commando, he has the skills to back it up.”
“Don’t worry about me, boss.” Hill grinned, looking out at the sea of partygoers. “I know where he’s hiding.”
Chapter 22
The streets pounded with sound and throbbed with the movement of thousands of ravers.
“They’ll never find us in this,” Scowcroft shouted against the noise. “It’s insane,” he added with a smile, a young man after all.
“Head in the game, mate,” Barrett warned, attempting to bring Scowcroft back to earth. “I’m gonna text the buyer.”
Scowcroft leveled out at the mention of the anonymous buyer. The search for a prospective customer for the stolen diamonds had been Barrett’s child in the operation, and had involved months of feeling out old military contacts—men who made their living by selling their skills to the wealthy, the greedy, and the crooked. To find such a connection took time and trust, but Barrett had finally found their go-between.
The connection was a former Commando known to Barrett from his deployment during the invasion of Iraq. The veteran—whom Barrett had sworn he would not name to his accomplices, or vice versa—had left the forces for the private sector, and was now bodyguard to an Arab prince. An Arab prince who coveted diamonds no matter their source, so long as the price was good.
Barrett had agreed to two million pounds for the dozen stones that were valued at three. The money would be enough for Tony, and that was all that mattered. Barrett hadn’t turned to crime for his own benefit.
Now he took a cheap phone from his pocket and turned it on for the first time. Entering a number from memory, he sent a simple message: “SEND.”
“Now what?” Scowcroft asked, the neon paint on his face doing little to disguise his anxiety.
“We wait, mate,” Barrett told him. “Come on. Let’s go find some food.” He led the trio into the narrow alleyways that ran from the densely packed streets.
“You want Charlie? Ecstasy?” they were asked by shady men in hoodies.
Scowcroft was wary of the criminals. “They could be cops out to sting,” he whispered.
“Look at his eyes, mate,” Barrett schooled him. “He’s off his face.”
Partygoers came and went in the alleyways that fed the main party, but away from the crowds the group’s camouflage was diminished.
“I’ll keep a look up the street,” Charlotte volunteered, and Barrett led Scowcroft into a kebab shop with Arabic lettering on its sign.
“Marhaba,” Barrett greeted the graying owner, before going on to order the meals in the man’s native language.
“Bloody hell,” Scowcroft said with admiration. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
Barrett shrugged. “After the invasion, it wasn’t a bad place for a while. We’d patrol around, get some food and some tea. It was all right,” he said, casually dismissing some of the most momentous times of his life.
“So why my brother?” Scowcroft asked, after a pause to catch his nerve.
It was longer still before Barrett replied.
“It all went to shit, Alex. Don’t ask me the how and why, but it went to shit.”
The conversation was uncharted territory for the two men. Scowcroft had always yearned to know more about his brother’s service, but the thought of Tony in his younger years, strong and vital, caused the younger man much pain to reflect on it.
As for Barrett, he had kept the memories of those days pushed down in his mind, weighted there by drugs, but the memory of his best friend would never let him be.
Perhaps it was seeing his brother’s salvation at hand that let Scowcroft finally ask the questions that had burned inside him for almost a decade.
“Did he like it?” He pushed carefully. “My bro. Did he like Iraq?”
“He loved it.” Barrett smiled. “But he missed you. And he missed her,” he added with a nod towards the door. “He never shut up about the pair of you.”
Their conversation was cut short as the restaurant owner placed their trays of food on the counter.
“Was he happy?” Scowcroft finally asked, taking great interest in the salt shaker. “The day it happened. Was he happy?”
Scowcroft stole a glance out of the corner of his eye, and saw the older man’s jaw twitch before he answered.
“Right up until that last moment.” The phone buzzed in his hand. “Must be my guy.”
The message was from a Dutch number that Barrett had never seen before, doubtless bought to send that single text before it would be discarded: Get drinks with my British friend Pete at midnight. Table to the left of the DJ booth. Club Liquid.
“We got our place,” Barrett said, taking his food from the counter and turning towards the door and Charlotte.
He was stopped by Scowcroft’s hand.
The veteran met the young man’s eyes.
“Thank you,” Scowcroft told him.
“It’s just a kebab, mate.” Barrett attempted to laugh, uncomfortable with the admiration.
Then, as he turned away from the young man, Barrett wondered how Scowcroft would have thanked him had he known the truth.
&
nbsp; That every day since the insurgent’s bomb had blown their vehicle apart, Barrett had hated himself for saving the life of Tony Scowcroft.
Chapter 23
“Detective Inspector Hill?” Hill was asked by a Dutch giant of a man.
“That’s me.”
“Sergeant Corsten. Please follow me and I’ll show you to the control room.”
Hill followed behind the Dutchman’s huge strides. They were in a mobile operations center set up at a city-center police station, the building providing a control point for the policing of the Amsterdam Dance Event.
“My chief tells me that you are here to see if there is something you can learn for the policing of festivals in London this summer?” Corsten asked, repeating the fabricated story that Vaughn and Hill had concocted.
“That’s right, Sergeant. They get bigger every year, and the police force gets smaller.”
“Maybe that is why they send a detective to observe?” Corsten questioned with a knowing look.
Seeing that the sergeant had spotted the visit as a charade, Hill was content to smile and let him know he’d scored a point.
“Here is our CCTV room,” Corsten told him, pointing to banks of TV screens monitored by a mixture of police and private security personnel. From the look of a hard bearded man in the corner, even the Dutch special forces had their eyes on the event.
“Terrorism,” Corsten explained, catching Hill’s gaze. “But it makes our job easier, in a way. We wouldn’t have half the number of these cameras and equipment if it wasn’t for the terrorism budget. If you want to see the number of crimes prevented or responded to today, I can bring you the papers.”
“Sure.” Hill smiled, playing along. “Until then, you mind if I take a seat? Oh, and do you have a Wi-Fi connection I can use?”
“Of course,” Corsten replied, and wrote out the memorized network and passcode for the detective before taking his leave. Hill didn’t expect to see any paperwork. Corsten knew that Hill’s familiarization was a sham, but police officer to police officer, he was happy enough to look the other way.
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