Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 2)
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CONTENTS
Peccadillo copyright page
Pitch
Dedication
pec·ca·dil·lo
Also Available
SIELTJES
WTC
VANGUARD
ACCIDENT
VERMEER
TRAP
MEETING
SLAUGHTERHOUSE
ANOUK
TRACKING
CATADUPA
OFFICE
MISSING
GENERATOR
CLAIRVOYANT
VIRUS
LUNCH
SENTRY
IAI
KWONG
CANE
TAXI
INTRUSION
SCRUTINY
AMULET
BIJENKORF
WERTHEIMPARK
DEMOTION
HOSPITAL
ARRIVAL
TESTING
CONFRONTATION
SCREAMING BEANS
DART
ARRESTED
CASES
ZEEBURG
CHADRI
ROAD RAGE
ER
FOLDER
SLEEPOVER
KILLING JAR
DARK
CLINIC
Note to the Reader
Glossary
The Amsterdam Assassin Series
About the Author
Contact Martyn
Reviews
Special Thanks to
About the locations...
Disclaimer
AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES
Peccadillo
[A Katla Novel]
By
Martyn V. Halm
Pushdagger Publishing Limited
Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series)
ISBN: 978-94-91623-03-5 (ePub)
ASIN: B00AOR07BG (mobi)
Copyright: Martyn V. Halm
Published: December 1st, 2012
Publisher: Pushdagger Publishing Limited
Cover design: Farah Evers
The right to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by Martyn V. Halm in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher.
Please do not circulate this book in any format without express consent.
Assassin Katla's legitimate business is the target of a hostile takeover...
Still recuperating from injuries sustained in Reprobate, freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes, expert in disguising homicide, finds herself at war with the Kau Hong, a gang of ruthless criminals who will stop at nothing to get their hands on Sphinx Shipping.
The potentially lethal situation quickly becomes untenable, when victims fall on both sides, and a Hong Kong sniper arrives to team up with a mute enforcer from the competitive 14K Triad.
Amsterdam might prove too small for Katla to play hide and seek, when her enemies match her skills in search and destroy...
Peccadillo is the second novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.
With authentic details and brisk action against the backdrop of the notorious Dutch capital, featuring a devious heroine and a supporting cast of singular characters, Peccadillo gives a rare glimpse into local Dutch culture, Chinese Triads, computer hacking, sniping, clairvoyance, circumventing car alarms, martial arts, the psychology of social engineering, and the brutal efficacy of disciplined violence.
This e-book features a glossary.
For Maaike, the love and light of my life.
And to Tycho Thelonious and Nica Hilke, thankfully still too young to read my work.
pec·ca·dil·lo
noun. plural -loes, -los
a petty sin or trifling fault; a character flaw
[from Spanish peccadillo, from pecado sin, from Latin peccātum, from peccāre to transgress]
Also available from this author:
AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES:
Novels:
Reprobate
Peccadillo
Rogue
Ghosting (to be released 2015)
KillFiles:
Locked Room
Microchip Murder
Fundamental Error
Aconite Attack
Sign up for the Amsterdam Assassin Series mailing list!
Click this link and fill out your email address to stay up-to-date.
SIELTJES
Amsterdam, Winter.
Pascal Vermeer cursed his need for an office in the centre of Amsterdam. Not just because of the exorbitant rent of office space or the endless quest for a suitable parking spot, but most of all because of the tourists. Even at this time of year, the buggers were everywhere. Gritting his teeth, Pascal braked for another idiot blithely stepping off the sidewalk, swinging a backpack with dangling sharp utensils that almost scratched the luscious coat of his new BMW X5 luxury sports utility vehicle. Didn’t these people have the least amount of self-preservation? Wandering about like blind sheep, straying into the road to take pictures of quaint gable houses.
The tourist took a picture, gave Pascal an apologetic wave, and shuffled back to the sidewalk. Pascal floored the gas pedal and his Bavarian brute leaped forward, causing the tourist to stumble into his fellow sheeple waiting in the queue for the Anne Frank Huis.
An impotent gesture, since Pascal had to brake twenty meters further on to take the sharp curve onto the steep bridge that spanned the Prinsengracht canal. After the bridge he turned left again and found a parking spot not far from his office. He shut down the engine, but stayed in the comfort of his huge car for a little while longer.
Listening to the patter of rain on the roof, Pascal gazed out across the canal at the old church. Built in typical Amsterdam renaissance style by Hendrick de Keijzer, the view of the Westerkerk complemented the soft classical music pouring from his speakers. The rain on his window made the Westertoren ripple like the enormous church tower was shedding its skin of ancient masonry.
The BMW’s passenger door opened and a stocky Chinese man got into his car, closing the door behind him before Pascal could protest.
“Tasteful music.” The man studied him with obsidian eyes. “Händel?”
“Who are you?”
“Lau.” The man checked the display of his car stereo. “Ah, yes. Water Music. Appropriate, for this weather.”
“Mr. Lau, what do you want?”
“Me? Nothing. I came at the behest of Mr. Zhang.”
Pascal groaned inwardly, but gave him a confident smile. “Mr. Zhang? What can I do for him?”
“Your limit is ten thousand. You’re thirty down the hole.”
“Listen, I owe Mr. Zhang ten. What I owe others is not his concern, is it?”
“What others?” The flat black eyes gazed at him with the equanimity of a sunning lizard. “We have all your markers. You owe us thirty-two thousand eight hundred.”
“The debt is covered,” Pascal replied. “Although the money is not all available at—”
“If you think you’re talking to our Cho Hai,” Lau interrupted him. “You’re mistaken.”
Pascal tried to meet his gaze without twitching. If not a mediator, he could only be an enforcer, coming to collect.
Lau pulled out the ashtray, reached in his inside pocket and withdrew a gold cigarette case. A slight click and the case opened in his
palm. The enforcer calmly removed an unfiltered cigarette. Pascal wanted to tell him not to smoke in his new car, but Lau probably wasn’t the type to comply.
Studiously unhurried, the enforcer closed the case and tapped the cigarette twice on the gold surface, before placing it in the left corner of his mouth. A steady flame danced in his fingers, reflected in his dark eyes. Lau touched the flame to the cigarette and drew smoke into his lungs.
Pascal adjusted the air conditioner to suck the smoke from the car.
“Does the smoke bother you?” Lau aimed a plume of smoke in his direction. “You ought to be used to it, visiting our dens of iniquity.”
“I sit in the non-smoking section,” Pascal replied. “Or near an open window.”
“I had no idea we were so accommodating. But then, I don’t gamble.” Lau grinned, but his dark eyes showed no merriment. “Smoking is my only vice.”
“You’re an enforcer, aren’t you?”
The lizard eyes stared at him through the smoke. “That’s right.”
“Violence and death are not exactly virtues.”
“Violence and death are part of doing business. We avoid the latter. Dead people don’t pay their debts.” His grin widened to display polyester dentures, with an amber-coloured stain on the left side. “Although the living have difficulty with that also.”
“I—”
“I heard you the first time. You can lay your hands on the money in a few days. A week at the most.” Lau tapped his ashes in the general direction of the ashtray. “Except you can’t. Not in a few days. Not even in a few weeks. You’re indebted to so many people, I’m amazed there’s no queue outside your office.”
Pascal watched flecks of ash land on the upholstery around the ashtray and resisted the urge to wipe the ash away. He looked at Lau frostily and said, “I can assure you I can get the money in less than a week.”
Lau held up his hand. “Maybe there’s another way. Beneficial for both of us.” The palm of his hand looked like tough old leather. “Mr. Zhang is interested in Sphinx Shipping.”
“Interested in what way?”
“He wants to meet Ms. Sieltjes.”
Pascal blinked. Sieltjes was majority shareholder of Sphinx, not involved in the day-to-day business. “You tried the office?”
“Mr. Zhang wants an informal meeting. We’d like her address.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have it.” Lau stared at him and Pascal added, “All correspondence goes through the office.”
“We don’t want to ‘correspond through the office’.”
“There’s not much I can do. I have a phone number…”
Lau took out a notebook, opened it and showed him a page. “This one?”
“Uh, yes.”
“This phone number is a pre-paid cellular phone. Untraceable.”
“Ms. Sieltjes is protective of her privacy. I doubt if she’d meet outside the office.”
“This business proposal is a delicate affair. If the office is the only place, Mr. Zhang would prefer the building to be empty. Arrange a meeting for tonight. Around ten.”
Pascal tilted his head. “I’d have to arrange this meeting?”
“Your mediation would make a favourable impression.”
“Not on Ms. Sieltjes,” Pascal replied. He could just imagine her reaction and suppressed a shiver. “I don’t think she’d appreciate—”
“She doesn’t hold your markers, we do. And your fee will equal your debt.”
“My entire debt?”
Lau made a slicing movement with his hand. “Canceled on her arrival. Your fee won’t depend on the outcome of the meeting.” The enforcer pointed at the car phone. “If you manage to arrange it.”
Thirty-thousand euro to arrange a meeting…
Pascal noticed Lau was still pointing at the phone.
“You want me to call her now?”
Lau shrugged. “What’s wrong with now?”
“Nothing.” Pascal took the phone from the holder. “I’ll have to improvise.”
“On the speakers. I want to listen in on the conversation.”
Pascal returned the phone to the holder and called the number. The phone rang and they waited for the other side to be picked up.
By the fourth ring Pascal shook his head. “I don’t think she’s in. You want me to leave a message on her Voicemail?”
A robotic voice answered the call. The enforcer showed his cheap dentures and motioned for Pascal to speak.
He cleared his throat. “This is Pascal Vermeer. I’d like for Ms. Sieltjes to call me back at her earliest convenience.”
He broke the connection and turned to Lau. “Nothing more I can do.”
Lau blew smoke at the windscreen. “Contact her later. Arrange for a meeting at ten this evening. I’ll pick you up at your office at eight-thirty.”
“I have to be present?” Pascal felt a queasy churning in his stomach. Sieltjes was always cordial, but something in her cold blue gaze made his balls shrivel. Lau made him even more nervous, though, so refusal was not an option.
“I insist.” The enforcer seemed to relish his discomfort. “Don’t disappoint us.”
“What if she doesn’t want to come?”
Lau stepped out of the BMW, took a last drag from his cigarette and shot the butt into the car. The burning cigarette bounced against Pascal’s chest and dropped in his lap.
In a reflex Pascal opened his legs and the smouldering butt slipped between his thighs and rolled down under his buttocks. Cursing, he arched his back to lift his butt from the seat, but the safety belt restricted him and he had to sit down before he could click it loose. The hot tip burned against his buttocks as he pressed the release button, elbowed his door open and clambered from the BMW.
Disgusted Pascal pinched the cigarette between his fingers and threw the butt into the canal. He checked the seat. A dark spot marked the tan leather. He cursed again. His pants were probably ruined as well.
With the rain dripping into his collar Pascal straightened and looked around, but Lau was nowhere to be seen. He took a last look at the cigarette mark on the seat, cursed Lau again and crossed the cobblestone road to his office.
WTC
Katla Sieltjes sat at a window table in Café Nooon on the ground floor of World Trade Center Amsterdam, sipping ginger ale and watching people through the immense glass façade while she waited for her target to arrive. Her disguise was simple—a smart suit to blend in with the financial crowd and a pair of non-prescription tortoise spectacles that altered perception of the bone structure of her face.
Dusk arrived early at Zuidplein, a rectangular square separating the old and new buildings of the WTC. Snowflakes danced in the yellow light of the street lamps and landed on the muddy tracks around a largely ignored temporary skating rink.
A man wearing sunglasses in the dusk attracted her attention momentarily, but he wasn’t blind like her boyfriend Bram—just another fashion victim. Besides, Bram never covered his damaged eyes.
Cyclists rode carefully over the snow toward the escalators leading down to the massive bicycle parking under the frozen square. Opposite from Nooon, on the other side of Zuidplein, was an Albert Heijn To Go supermarket, bristling with people grabbing something to eat before they hurried on toward train station Zuid/WTC.
Two businessmen came down the escalators from the second floor, strolled into Nooon and sat down at the bar, ordering Glenlivet. Katla studied them in the reflection of the window. The short one was Bert Hamerling, her client. The tall one, Ronald Heiboer, was the target. Together Hamerling and Heiboer had started a business, H&H Unlimited, currently housed on the twelfth floor of Tower B. Katla didn’t know details, but she knew Hamerling was getting tired of Heiboer. Enough to hire the services of Loki Enterprises. Hamerling was a decent actor though, didn’t show his animosity at all. He showed amusement at something Heiboer told him and his smile looked genuine enough.
After two whiskeys each, Hamerling clapped Heiboer’s should
er and told him to be careful out on the road with all the snow. Hamerling strode past the enormous Christmas tree, went through the revolving door and walked down the square to the metro station, while Heiboer ordered his third Glenlivet. Three was his habit, so he’d be leaving in another ten minutes.
Katla left a five euro bill under her empty glass and strode to the escalators opposite the revolving door. The first escalator went down to P1, the visitor parking deck. She took another escalator to the P2 parking deck, reserved for WTC tenants. Heiboer’s Porsche Cayenne was parked in a corner under the old section of the World Trade Center. The low ceiling featured fluorescent lights that illuminated the interior of the Cayenne. That wouldn’t do. Katla donned a pair of disposable nitrile gloves, unclipped the translucent cover of the light fixture and twisted the round starter fuse. Both fluorescent tube lights winked off. She reattached the cover and went to the second fluorescent light fixture, repeating the procedure. The Cayenne was still visible in the gloom, but the interior was no longer illuminated.
Heiboer was lazy—he didn’t lock his doors with the key, but with the button on the key fob, sending the alarm code over the airwaves. According to the security system, the code changed every time any particular key was used and would be secure that way. In a way, it was. To track down the code of a particular key was a time-consuming job that would be counterproductive for the average car thief or car burglar.
Since Katla was neither a thief nor a burglar, she’d put in the effort.
The code-hopping security system was difficult to crack—not only was there a particular manufacturer’s unique code, every manufacturer could give another unique code to each type of vehicle. Keys might appear similar, but worked with different key generator algorithms. Cloning Heiboer’s key required copying the code from a key at the Porsche dealership and making sure she was close enough to Heiboer to copy his code when he used his fob to disarm his alarm. With two key codes, separating master from identifier was easy enough to clone Heiboer’s key on a blank fob with an identical microprocessor. And presto, undetectable access.