The Amsterdam Chronicles: Def-Con City Trilogy Part 1

by Brian Christopher

  After what seemed like an eternity the un-shredder software had hardly made a dent in the amount of work it had to do. Bakker looked more tired than ever.

  "Why don't you go home and get some sleep. I can take it from here."

  "I'm not tired."

  "Come on, man. You look wasted."

  "There's a room in the station where I can put my head down for a while. Maybe I'll do that and get back when the software has done its job. I'll be back in an hour." Bakker got up and left.

  There were only five other detectives in the room. Dop and Kaps were already gone. Wall knew the others from seeing them around but never really got to know them. He picked up his pizza box which was still three-quarters full, and walked over to them.

  "Any of you guys want some pizza?"

  "Lekker," the first detective said.

  "Lekker?" Wall replied.

  "Yes, it means nice, tasty."

  "Yeah, I've heard it before but was not sure about the meaning. You're right, it's lekker." He held out the box to the other detectives.

  "Go on, help yourself." They all took a slice.

  Wall pulled up a chair.

  "Do you think we'll catch our guy?" Wall asked.

  "Don't we always in the end?" The first detective replied, through a mouthful of pizza.

  "Did you see that body today? Could you believe it? What sick fucker ever came up?."

  There was a crash. The squad room door behind him slammed open. A uniformed officer rushed in and shouted something in Dutch to the detectives, who scrambled out of their chairs and grabbed their jackets.

  "What's going on," Wall shouted above the panic.

  "Someone has been spotted on a roof in the Jordaan," the first detective replied through a mouthful of pizza.

  "That's our man," Wall said, then dumped the remains of the pizza into a rubbish bin. "I'm with you guys."

  They arrived in the Jordaan in three unmarked police cars. A number of streets were already blocked off by uniformed police. Flashing blue lights of police cars lit up the walls of the apartments and houses like a disco. Many of the residents stared out of their bedrooms and living room windows while others stood in doorways in their night clothes.

  Wall heard a helicopter overhead. He saw one of the detectives who had enjoyed his pizza talk to a uniformed police officer. Wall walked over to him and stood next to them. It was all in Dutch. Maybe it was an idea to learn the language, he thought, just enough to know what people are saying.

  "What's the situation," Wall finally asked.

  "Someone was seen on a roof further down the street, but the helicopter has not been able to spot them. There is a team of uniform officers carrying out searches just down there," he said, and pointed to an area near the harbor helicopter.

  Wall watched the helicopter hovering for a few minutes, then got restless, and he took off down a side street. Halfway down, he saw a couple of detectives talking to uniform and decided that this search was not moving quick enough. Nobody was handing out any communication devices, there was no center of command which meant coordination of the crime scene was not in place or badly arranged. The whole operation was falling apart even before it got started. It was turning into a sham.

  Time to do it his way, he thought, something that really pissed his New York chief big-time, but in the end generally paid off.

  Those three were dead - he was still alive.

  He had no clue of the neighborhood, something that would never happen in New York. There he knew the areas like the back of his hand, and made sure he was always on top of the intelligence. Situations and areas should be known and studied, but now he felt like rookie, and in the blind.

  He took out his iPhone and pressed the maps app icon. The blue dot with the arrow showed him exactly where he was, and had a layout of the surrounding area. Towards the end of the street and could see the flashing lights of police cars. From his position he knew there were a couple of side streets further up and behind him, he had to make his move. Wall went back to the detective who brought him to the scene.

  "I'm going to double back to see if I can spot him in any of the other streets."

  "Go ahead, don't let us stop you." One of the detectives said, as he pulled out a tobacco pouch and started to roll a cigarette. Wall took off towards the canal to the left.

 

  Webber heard the helicopter when he came out of the second apartment, a couple of streets from the first on the other side of the canal. In the distance, he saw the blue police lights flashing. Maybe it was for some disturbance or robbery, but deep down he knew it was for him. Time to move.?

  He made his way to the edge of the roof and found a drainpipe that took him down to the garden at the rear of the building, which turned out to be a bicycle graveyard.

  Bits and pieces of broken up bikes covered every available surface in the nearly pitch-black garden.

  He maneuvered his way through the metal mass that lined the route to a wooden door that led to the street out front. But it was nearly impossible to put a foot down without stepping on chains, bicycle wheels, handlebars or bare bike frames.

  Slowly he made his way towards the door, impossible to do quietly, at least he did not think he woke anyone up before he made it onto the street.

  As Wall rounded the corner of the canal, he turned right at the bridge and walked down the Egelantiersgracht. A hundred meters down he saw a lone figure walk on the other side of the canal in the opposite direction. It was difficult to see his face, but saw he had a small knapsack on his back.

  Crampons, Wall immediately thought.

  "Hey, fella," Wall called out. Webber looked to the left over at the tall black American. He recognized him immediately.

  "Do you know how I can get to Dam Square from here?" It was the only thing Wall could think of without raising any suspicion, although he didn't think it worked. Whoever it was on the other side ignored him and kept on walking.

  Webber knew what the tall black American was capable of, he had seen him in action, he picked up his pace.

  "Hey," Wall shouted once again. "I'm lost here."

  As Webber came to the bridge, he turned right into the street and ran.

  Wall turned and sprinted back towards the bridge.

  Halfway across he slowed, in the distance he saw Webber, a couple of hundred meters ahead of him, he was fast.

  Wall took after him. A few seconds later Webber took a right down a side street and disappeared from view.

  Wall instinctively stopped running, then turned and ran a few paces back to another side street parallel to the street Webber took, and sprinted as fast as he possibly could. With any luck Webber would realize he was not directly behind him and slow his pace. It worked with the thieves he caught when he first arrived in Amsterdam, no reason why it would not work now.

  It was impossible to check his iPhone while he ran, so he could only guess the layout of the area.

  Fortunately, around here they were laid out in a grid, and not in semicircles, like in the city center, which made it mostly straightforward.

  He got to the end of the street and turned left. With any luck, just a hundred meters to the next corner, Webber would walk right into his trap.

  Wall carefully approached the junction, then stopped dead to listen. There was no sound of Webber.

  He inched his head around the corner to the left, the street came into view, empty. He looked to the right, again empty. Webber had disappeared.

  He stepped out into the middle of the street, then in the distance he could see a figure running in the opposite direction; it had to be Webber. Wall took off as fast as he could.

  He must have figured out his tactics. He had to learn to be more careful. But it was too late, he had to keep him in sight from now on, and bring him down.

  When Webber turned right to go down the side street, he was confronted by a figure about a hundred meters up ahead. He knew exactly who he was the moment he saw him, the Moroccan who tried
to attack him that afternoon.

  "I knew it," the Moroccan shouted, when he recognized Webber. He took out his mobile and began screaming instructions in Arabic.

  In the far distance, the helicopter could be heard hovering above the streets.

  "I bet those police are for you," the Moroccan shouted at Webber, then immediately began to run towards him. "You put my cousin in hospital. You are going to pay for that."

  Webber turned and ran. Convinced he would run into the black American, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  With his speed and stamina he knew he could quickly outrun the Moroccan.

  Webber took a turn at nearly every corner, but surprisingly the Moroccan matched his speed, which gave him no time to dodge out of sight by hiding in a doorway or scale a building. He would have to keep up his pace and hopefully tire him out.

  Webber turned on to another street. The lights were poor in this area, just enough to see. Halfway down he saw two figures in the darkness at the next corner, their silhouettes were unmistakable. Keeping up his pace Webber looked around for a way out, an escape, nothing was obvious. He had to keep moving towards the two figures in the dark, who stood their ground, facing him. As he approached they came out of the shadows.

  One held something in his hand. The street lighting reflected off it. It was at least a meter long and metal. He strained his eyes then recognized an aluminum baseball bat. Picking up speed he headed straight towards them on the right hand corner. Behind, at about twenty or thirty meters, he could hear the sound of the Moroccan still in pursuit.

  The two in front held their stance, ready for him. They raised the baseball bat to mid-level.

  Webber headed straight for them at speed . He could see their faces, expectant, confident.

  At the last moment he darted to the left down another street. This would lead back into the Jordaan, not what he wanted, but he had to avoid physical contact as much as possible. He looked back, all three were on his heels, but were quickly falling behind.

  At a distance Wall could see what just took place. Three male youths were now after Webber. The problem was who were they? Street thugs? An attempted mugging? Or some other reason?

  Whatever they were they were either doing him a favor or getting in the way. They could catch Webber for him, which would save him this chase in the dark through unknown streets, but they could also kill him. He wanted Webber alive. There were too many questions to be answered. Apart from the dead woman in the house - no other person or suspect could explain what was going gone on.

  He saw Webber take another turn.

  Still running, he could see the three youths converse with one another. One of them took out his mobile and began to shout instructions. Backup, he thought. He wished he could contact his own but had no idea what number they used in the Netherlands to call the police. It was not 911, but could not remember exactly what.

  Detectives from the station were sitting on their asses three or four blocks away, were more than useless, so he was alone.

  The three youths, now a hundred and fifty meters ahead of him, turned another corner. He reached it as fast as he could, but it was getting confusing. All the streets in this neighborhood looked like. Where was he exactly? He had no chance to check his iPhone, his orientation in the darkened streets had gone belly up. At the end of the street they went left again. The good news was, as far as he was aware, they did not know he was right behind them.

  Webber ran towards another corner and into another street. Fifty meters down he saw two other men run towards him, each with two halves of a broom handle. He turned left, the street was clear. He ran, looked for an opening, somewhere to hide, but there was none. The only thing he could do was carry on running. Then, in the far distance he saw another two men coming towards him. There was no way of escaping those behind or in front of him. To his surprise, he saw a way out between them and him, another side street to the left. He picked up speed and made it to the corner before them.

  He sprinted into the Slootstraat then froze, and realized he had made a big mistake. A wave of fear came over him. It was a dead-end street, a trap.

  For the last few minutes they were not running to catch him, but guiding him to this little street. He could not turn back - and could see no way out.

  He jogged on into the street, which was no more than thirty meters long. Like a scared animal caught in a corner he looked for an exit, a wall he could climb, a drainpipe, but there was nothing except a high steel fence that cut across the entire width of the street. On the other side was a children's playground.

  Sweat dripped from his brow, he turned.

  The gang were in the shadows, and had blocked the exit, his only possible way out.

  Nearly all carried a makeshift weapon either made of metal or wood, but the one in front, the ringleader who tried to attack him that afternoon, held a machete in his hand. They moved in towards him.

  When Wall finally reached the corner he realized the situation. "Damn," he muttered.

  This was no mugging, this was organized, and for a reason. Why they were out to get Webber was a mystery, it was not what he wanted. They were planning to tear him apart, he wanted him alive. His hand automatically went to that special place under his jacket, and once again, he did not have his gun when he needed it.

  When this was over - he was definitely going to have a serious talk with the chief about that. Wall looked around for anything he could use as a weapon, there was nothing. The only thing he had were the tie-wraps. Fat lot of good they were going to be here.

  Slowly they started to move in on Webber, who had backed up against the steel fence at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  It was only then Wall noticed the machete. "Shit."

  He had to do something, now.

  He took a deep breath then began to run at speed towards the group.

  They had not yet seen him, so the only weapon he had was that of surprise. Silently coming up behind them Wall opened his arms wide, drew them back, then came in between two men and smashed his fists into the back of their heads at the same time. They hit the concrete with a thump.

  Wall continued forward - lining up two more in front of him - who just before the moment of impact looked around to see Wall towering over them. The last thing they saw was white clenched teeth in the darkness. Again they hit the ground hard.

  The last three turned and finally noticed their attacker.

  The kid with the baseball bat swung it at Wall, who rapidly arched back. The polished aluminum bat missed his face by only a whisker.

  He was quick to take another swing, this time it hit him in the belly.

  Wall doubled over, it hit him hard, and hurt. The one with the machete moved towards him.

  Webber saw his chance. He darted away and ran as fast as he could back up the street, his only way out.

  The machete holder shouted something unintelligible at the other two and took after Webber, who turned right at the corner and was gone.

  Wall looked up and saw the baseball bat being raised and about to come down on his head. His left hand shot up and caught it as it was about to crash into his skull. He held it firmly then stood up straight. A look of shock came over his attackers face.

  The man with the broom handle also took a swing at Wall's head. He caught it with his right hand - and held it fast. The two men looked at one another, confused and scared.

  With a sudden jerk, Wall rammed the baseball bat and broom handle back into the stomach and chest of his attackers. They both went down.

  Wall looked around for the kid with machete. He was gone, and so was Webber.

  He never saw them get away. They disappeared. Where? Which direction?

  Wall ran to the top of the street. In the distance he could see the light of the helicopter hovering to the south-east, still looking for Webber three blocks away. In seeing the light he now had some orientation.

  Webber had to get out of the neighborhood. Obviously he would head in the opposite di
rection. He must be going west. Wall took off as fast as he could, and hoped he could spot him somewhere, anywhere.

  Further down the street, after he broke away from his attackers Webber realized one of them was following him.

  Keeping up speed, he managed to widen the distance between him and his pursuer. He turned another corner and crossed the Marnixstraat and over the bridge into the Frederik Hendrikplantzoen, a small open city park with enough trees and bushes to take cover and disappear.

  Wall kept up his pace. On the Lijnbaansgracht he caught sight of a running figure. Was it Webber? The one with the machete? He watched him cross a bridge and slow down, then he saw the machete. Webber was nowhere to be seen.

  Wall stopped, got down behind a parked car and watched from a distance. No need to interfere, with any luck he would lead him to Webber.

  Ahead of him plenty of greenery. The guy with the machete seemed to be looking, searching.

  As the machete holder got close to some shrubbery, a figure darted out and ran in the opposite direction, Webber.

  The Moroccan was only about ten meters away from where Webber was hiding. He tried not to move, hardly breathing, then the machete came into view, and he panicked.

  Webber jumped out from behind the bushes and ran. It was a day and a night of mistakes. He now wished he had not been so eager to get it all over and done with. He could have waited a few days but after getting that shot this morning he felt the need to burn off the excess energy.

  Webber ran up the van Hallstraat towards a maze of small streets between and the Central Market Halls, which were hermetically sealed off. With any luck he could probably lose him there.

  Webber turned left at the bus stop and past a number of shops. Further up was a canal unlike any other canal in Amsterdam, it ran to a dead-end. On the other side was the industrial market area known as the Central Market Halls. Despite its name it was in fact was a central distribution and processing point for foodstuffs in Amsterdam and the surrounding province. To everyone else, gaining entry would be nearly impossible, he knew a gap.

  The houseboats at the end of the canal were next to the tall fence he could climb. He did not need his crampons, scaling this would be easy.

  The only problem was noise, he had to keep it down to a minimum.

  Webber went from one boat to the other, and on the far side of the canal he took a run at the wall.

  Using some rubbish lying against it to give him trajectory, he grabbed the top and hoisted himself up and over the other side and landed squarely on his feet. He looked around, no sign of security. Karl ran towards the large industrial warehouse fifty meters away.

  Without too much difficulty he got to the roof using one of the many articulated trucks parked up against the loading bays.

  On the roof it was easy to hide and have full view of the surrounding grounds.

  Webber lay down on his stomach, breathing heavily, sweating, waiting for the Moroccan. He was nowhere to be seen. For the second time that night he felt nervous. There was no way he could go up against a machete. He was faster, but there were limits, he never carried a weapon. All he had to rely on was his new-found energy.

  In the distance he heard a male voice shouting. "Hello? Who's there?" Webber could see one of the owners of the houseboats stand on the roof of the steering cabin. Was he reacting to him, or his pursuer? From his vantage point there was no one to be seen in the surrounding area.

  Suddenly, Webber heard a noise behind him. As he turned his head and looked over his shoulder he caught the glimpse of the machete coming down. He tried to move forward then heard a CLANG - the sound of metal hitting metal.

  "Aaaahhhhhh," Webber screamed.

  The knife had slammed with force into the knapsack, and the long sharp teeth of the crampons dug into his back.

  The Moroccan took a step back, totally surprised and confused by what just happened.

  A large chunk of metal was missing from the blade of the machete.

  He lifted it once again.

  Webber rolled to the left and the crampons dug in deeper. The knife came down, and missed his head by a millimeter. He brought back his leg and drove his heel into the Moroccan's groin who crumbled and fell back. There was a loud clash as his knife hit a metal frame of the skylight, the glass cracked. The Moroccan dropped the machete.

  Webber tried to stand, his back hurt, it was impossible to straighten upright. The pain was excruciating. The spikes had dug deep.

  The Moroccan got to his feet and grabbed the knife when Webber lunged forward. He made a swipe, cut a gash in Webber's thigh. Impossible to stop the momentum, Webber threw himself against the Moroccan who fell back. They both crashed through the skylight, and dropped ten meters. They hit the stainless steel metal funnel of the machine with a thump.

  Wall was already inside the compound when he heard the crash in the distance. He turned to run towards the sound and was confronted by two security guards with flashlights.

  "I'm with the Dutch police," Wall shouted. The lights blinded his eyes. He took his police ID out of his pocket and held it up.

  They said something in Dutch.

  "I'm with the Dutch police," he repeated.

  "Normally the Dutch police speak Dutch," the guard said in English, as he took Walls card and examined it close up.

  "I'm on loan to the Dutch police from the New York Police Department."

  "Looks genuine enough," the guard said, as he handed the card to his colleague, who scrutinized it.

  "I followed two men here. One of them is wanted by the police."

  "You are the only one we have seen in the compound."

  "I heard a crash," Wall said. "I think it came from one of those buildings over there."

  "We heard something too."

  The taller of the two security guards took out his mobile. "I'll call Central."

  "Wall began to run towards the large warehouses. "I'm going to take a look.

  The guard said something in Dutch into his mobile then they looked at each other, unsure, then followed.

  "Jesus Christ, are they all like this?" Wall moaned.

  They ran towards the last building. From the corner they could hear the sound of a machine rumbling inside.

  "There should be no machines running at this time of night," one of the guards shouted.

  They passed the articulated trucks. "The entrance is on the other side."

  Wall heard the sound of a helicopter and looked up. It was a couple of hundred meters away and heading in their direction. It was then they noticed the blue flashing lights on the other side of the entrance gates to the market compound.

  When the security guards opened the main gates it seemed that every police car in Amsterdam rolled into the Central Market with chief Ribb leading the pack. Above him the helicopter circled and swept the area with its searchlight.

  Wall was surprised to see Bakker sitting next to him in the passenger seat.

  He ran over to meet them as they pulled up to the front of the building.

  "Mr. Wall," chief Ribb said. "I hear you've been busy."

  "Yes sir. I spotted Webber and followed him here."

  A uniformed officer came up to Ribb and said something in Dutch. Ribb turned to Wall.

  "The helicopter crew have spotted a broken skylight in one of the buildings. Let's take a look."

  The security guards opened the large factory panel doors and switched on the lights. Wall could see it was a white tiled meat processing plant with packing machines and conveyor belts spread throughout the factory floor.

  To the left was an industrial mincer with a large pool of blood across the front of the machine on the white tiled floor. Directly under the spout of the mincer lay a pile of minced flesh. They walked in silence towards the machine, and stopped at the edge of the blood. The mound of minced flesh and bone was a little more than a meter high.

  "Can that be him?" Bakker muttered.

  "A lot of people would like it to be, but I would hav
e preferred him alive." Wall replied.

  Wall pointed to the smashed skylight above the meat grinder. "That's where he fell through, I guess."

  "I'd imagine so Mr. Wall, but how could he fall in, turn on the machine and mince himself up?"

  Bakker went around to the back of the machine where there was no blood. He ran his hand along the inside of the funnel. A sensor automatically switched the machine on. A couple of pieces of mince flesh and bone came out of the spout and landed on the heap.

  "Okay," Ribb said.

  "It seems like you caught your man Mr. Wall."

  "I hope so, but he was being chased by another guy."

  At that moment a team of forensic people in white overalls entered a processing hall.

  "Everybody except those directly connected to the case get out of this building right now and search the grounds," Ribb ordered. "I don't want this area contaminated any more than it is." He turned to Bakker. "Seal off the area and search everywhere for anyone who does not belong here.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine