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

by Martyn V. Halm

  “Just like that?”

  “An old injury.” Bram straightened. “I need a hard flat object to put under her.”

  “Kitchen,” the girl whispered, as if talking out loud would hurt her. “Serving tray.”

  “I’ll find it,” Katla said. “You stay with her.”

  The Siamese cats observed Katla with their blue eyes as she found a tray near the sink and brought it from the kitchen to the bedroom.

  Bram placed the tray upside-down on the bed, gently took the girl’s ankles and stretched her legs. Anouk grimaced and clutched the eiderdown. With his hand on her back he rolled her carefully onto the upended tray. A shiver ran across the girl’s shoulders as her bare belly touched the cold tray.

  Bram moved his hands over her spine.

  “Take a deep breath,” he spoke, while he put his thumbs together with the fingers fanned out to the side. “And sigh.”

  Near the end of her exhalation, Bram shifted his body weight. With a dull crack her vertebrae slipped back in place.

  Anouk groaned. “Christ, that hurts.”

  “Raise your arms over your head, I’ll turn you over.”

  “You need help?” Katla asked.

  “No, thanks, I can handle it.” Bram rolled the girl from the tray onto the bed.

  While he handed her the tray, Katla noticed more tattoos; Japanese katakana to the right of the girl’s navel.

  Anouk gave her a strained smile. “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble.”

  “Don’t worry,” Katla said. “I didn’t mind.”

  Bram directed her to the other side of the bed. Together they pulled the eiderdown from under Anouk and covered her with it. He fluffed a pillow and put it under her head, then said, “What happened?”

  “Zeph was here and we smoked some doobie. He left and I undressed to go to bed. I threw my clothes on the chair.” She pointed with her chin at a chair with clothes. “My blouse slipped from the backrest and I leant over to snatch it up, when my spine clicked. I sat down on the bed before I could fall.” Anouk looked at her. “I didn’t know Bram was at your place. I was leaving a message when I had another spasm and the phone slipped from my grasp.”

  “I’ll get you some water,” Bram said. “So you won’t have to get up.”

  He left the room.

  Anouk gave Katla an apologetic smile. “I envisioned our first meeting to be different.”

  “Less dramatic, you mean?”

  “Uhm, yes. And I’m not looking my best.”

  Katla shrugged. “You don’t have to impress me.”

  “I might want to try.” Anouk grinned. “Although Zeph told me not to bother.”

  “He did?”

  “Well, if a bullet doesn’t impress you…”

  Katla leant on her cane. “That bullet made a deep impression.”

  Bram entered the room with a bottle of water, which he put on the bedside table. “For when you get thirsty.” He turned to Katla. “I have an aikido class in less than six hours, so we better leave now.”

  Anouk nodded. “Thanks for everything.”

  “No problem,” Bram replied. “Call me tomorrow if your spine still hurts.”

  “Oh, my phone. It’s under the bed somewhere.”

  Bram sank down on his knees and felt around, came back up with a phone, a battery and a battery lid.

  Anouk put phone back together and switched it on. “It still works. Again, I’m sorry.”

  Katla flashed her a smile. “You’ll have to impress me some other day.”

  “Maybe I will,” Anouk replied and turned off the light.

  -o-

  Bram went straight to bed, but Katla stood by the window in her dark living room and gazed out over the buildings of Artis. The Reptile House with its muted green glow, the silvery trails of the footpaths.

  Her gaze shifted focus and she compared her dim reflection with the image in her mind. The tattooed nude on the bed, glistening doe-like eyes looking up at her, her gaze containing more than idle curiosity. She knew that look all too well. There was no denying the arousal in Anouk’s eyes.

  Katla turned from the window and limped to the bedroom, where Bram snored gently. She slipped under the covers and pushed her buttocks against his warm belly. His breathing changed and his sleep-heavy arm curled around her waist. She snuggled closer, his warm breath moist against the back of her neck, and closed her eyes. Thinking of ways to turn this new information to her advantage, she drifted off to sleep.

  TRACKING

  With his hands flat on his desk, Gene Zhang listened to Nicky’s report, his gaze fixed on the fingernails. Nicky finished and took an apologetic stance. He hoped Chen, standing behind him, did the same. If Chen was stupid enough to show amusement, Nicky wouldn’t save him. Not this time.

  Zhang put his hands together and lifted his head. “Sphinx should’ve been ours.”

  Nicky didn’t reply, but looked calmly into Zhang’s eyes, drawn to pinpricks in cold fury.

  “We have a shipment of perishable goods waiting in Macao, Nicholas. And the Gizeh will sail the day after tomorrow. Lau has forty hours to correct his mistake.”

  “We’re close to locating Sieltjes, Elder Brother. We’re tracking the taxi driver, so we know where he dropped her off.”

  “Forty hours,” Zhang repeated. “Lau better not fail again.”

  Chen and Nicky bowed and left the office.

  -o-

  The small man in the big chair looked up from his laptop and smiled at Nicky. “I have the information you requested.”

  “You have her address, Feng?”

  “Sieltjes expected to be followed.” Feng pointed at the laptop showing the GPS track. “I’m inclined to disregard the first stop.”

  Nicky looked over his shoulder. “Why?”

  “I put myself in her shoes. Java Eiland is a huge area, with many high rise buildings. And he stopped in the middle, so we’d have to consider her living anywhere within walking distance.”

  “It is an affluent area,” Nicky said. “And the second stop?”

  “He took a roundabout route to Artis.”

  Chen looked over Feng’s other shoulder. “The zoo?”

  “Which is closed at that time of night. After that he went to this place, opposite the Stopera, where he stayed for almost fifteen minutes. I guess that’s a taxi rank.”

  “So she got out at the last spot? Artis?” Chen narrowed his eyes at the screen. “Or the Oostelijke Eilanden, right?”

  “The taxi stopped in the middle, between KNSM Laan and the Java area. So she got out there, or Artis, or at the taxi rank.”

  “And where is he now?” Nicky asked.

  “At the 24-7 Texaco near the Sarphatistraat.” Feng smiled. “His lunch break, I guess. I think he’ll head back to the taxi rank near Stopera again.”

  Chen nodded. “I’ll bring the car around.”

  -o-

  Taxi 234 came from Meester Visserplein and turned onto the taxi rank. Nicky had been sheltering against the rain under the canopy at the entrance of the Stopera. City Hall was closed, but the opera house part of the Stopera wasn’t, so it was still busy enough for the driver to feel safe. Even so, Nicky had opted to go alone. He crossed the bicycle path and walked up to the taxi. The driver was about his age, his dark hair slicked back, unshaven with dark smudges under his eyes.

  Nicky opened the passenger door of the Mercedes and got in. “Hard night, pal?”

  “Just tired,” the driver replied and started the car. “Where to?”

  “Stopera,” Nicky replied. “So you might as well kill your engine.”

  The driver turned the ignition key and the engine died. He looked Nicky up and down and said, “You’re looking for the woman I took to the harbour.”

  “You know where she lives?”

  “I picked her up at World Trade Center, where I dropped off another fare. After the meeting at the harbour, I dropped her off at Java Eiland.”

  “Did you see where she went
from there?”

  “KNSM Laan.” The driver nodded to himself. “Pretty sure she went into the third building on the right.”

  Nicky nodded with encouragement. “She paid cash?”

  “Yes.” The driver smiled. “Good tipper, too.”

  “So am I.” Nicky handed him a twenty. “So, after you dropped her off?”

  “I came back here.”

  That was not what the GPS tracker said. “You didn’t pick up another fare?”

  “No, I came straight back here.”

  So the woman left his taxi at Artis. Or he would’ve mentioned it.

  Nicky smiled. “You’re a regular at this rank?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “We’re still looking for the woman.” Nicky handed him an old business card. “If you see her again or manage to find out where she lives, give me a call.”

  He got out and crossed the road to the car. Chen opened the passenger door and pulled away as soon as he got in. As they drove back to the restaurant, Chen looked sideways and said, “Did he object?”

  “To being questioned?” Nicky shook his head. “He expected me. Or someone like me. I think Sieltjes warned him, he had his story down.”

  “He didn’t know where he dropped her off?”

  “He knew exactly where he dropped her off. Java Eiland.” Nicky smiled. “He saw her walk down the KNSM Laan and enter the third building on the right, then went straight back to this taxi rank.”

  “Right. He waits and watches her walk to a building while he could’ve dropped her off at her front door?” Chen’s eyes twinkled. “Feng was right, that was a ruse.”

  Nicky nodded. “He also lied about the location where he picked her up, and he failed to mention stopping at Artis.”

  “Where did he pick her up?”

  “WTC, where he just dropped off another fare.”

  “WTC? Late in the evening, while she has no offices there?” Chen shook his head. “Highly improbable. You think he left her at Artis?”

  “The zoo is closed at night. No reason to drop someone off at Artis unless they live in that neighbourhood.” Nicky shrugged. “I gave him incentive to call me if he had more info.”

  “We can find him again,” Chen said. “And pressure him, if necessary.”

  “Sieltjes lives in the Plantage area. I doubt if we’ll get much more out of him.”

  “He might have seen where she went, after he dropped her off. What do we do now?”

  “I gave him an old business card.” Nicky smiled. “If that information ends up with Sieltjes, we know Thooft is playing us. And we’ll come back to play with him.”

  Chen tapped the console on the dashboard. “We can follow him with the GPS tracker.”

  “We’ll put a car on him, follow him around, check out who he picks up and where he takes them. I have a feeling Sieltjes will make contact with him.”

  CATADUPA

  Katla circled the scuffed red leather punch bag, dressed in a slip and a halter top, hands covered to the wrists with protective bandages. Her punches rained down on the leather; quick underhand jabs followed by hard overhand hits that rocked the bag on the cable by which it hung from the ceiling. Breathing deep, she detected the fragrant smell of marihuana and moved to the trap door, looked down in a pair of amber eyes.

  “Sista.” Zephaniah Catadupa smiled and climbed the rest of the stairs. “No possible sneaking up on you, sight?”

  Katla tilted her chin to signal for him to sit on the Nautilus and drifted back to the punch bag. While the corpulent Rastafarian sat down on the padded bench of the weight machine, Katla continued her exercises. Zeph wasn’t smoking, but evidently the marihuana smell permeated his clothes. He was checking out her footwork. Although hampered by her crippled leg, her punches were quick and precise, connecting solidly.

  Zeph nodded appreciatively. “Like your style. Sober.”

  “Fancy moves don’t get the job done, Zeph.”

  The punch bag rocked on the chain.

  “Them cruel blows, sista. Cause damage, you punch a man.”

  Katla smiled, kept on punching the bag.

  “Where you learn box?”

  “Amsterdam, Paris.” Katla punctuated every word with hard punches to the bag. “London, New York and Seoul.”

  “Soul?”

  Katla steadied the punch bag with her left hand and gave the bag a final vicious blow. “The capital of South Korea, Zeph.”

  “Ah.”

  “They have good fighters.” She peeled off the protective bandages and hung them out to dry on a rack in the corner. While she took a towel and dried her hair Zeph rose from the padded bench, walked through the aura of sweat surrounding the punch bag and halted by the window.

  “What them doing here?” Zeph pointed at the two guilders lying on the sill, gleaming in the early morning sunlight. “You dust them regularly.”

  “No.” Katla draped the towel around her neck. “I use them frequently.”

  “For what?”

  “To test my speed and accuracy.”

  She took one of the guilders, stretched out his arm with the palm down and placed the coin on the back of his hand. “Pull back your hand and catch the coin in the palm before it hits the ground.”

  Zeph licked his lips and yanked his hand back, sank swiftly through his knees and caught the guilder in the palm of his hand. “Like that?”

  “Swifter.”

  He put the coin on the back of his hand and tried again, but Katla shook her head. “Too slow.”

  “Okay,” he said, holding the coin out to her. “Show me.”

  “Fetch the other one as well.”

  Katla limped to the punch bag, turned around to face him and sank through her knees, leaving a slight gap between her body and the bag. She stretched her arms out in front of her, the hands held with the palms turned to the floor and Zeph walked up to her with the guilders.

  She tilted her chin forward. “Place one coin on each hand.”

  “Same place?”

  “Just behind the knuckles, yes.”

  Her hands were steady, the fingers straight out, the thumbs folded in. Zeph placed the guilders and stepped back.

  “You catch them simultaneously?”

  Katla didn’t answer, but closed her eyes. The bag hovered behind her. In the space between two heartbeats her elbows rammed backwards into the punch bag and her hands shot forward to catch the coins. She opened her eyes, turned her hands over and showed him the coins. Speechless, the Rastafarian rested his hand against the leather of the punch bag, still shivering from the double elbow blow. Katla smiled at him, limped to the window and placed the guilders back on the sill.

  As she turned around, Zeph asked, “What happen if you do that to a person?”

  “A person?” She looked at him aghast. “Why would I do that?”

  “You train this for fun?”

  “Not just fun. Testing my limitations gives me self-confidence.”

  “You have that in abundance already.”

  “You can never have enough.” She slung the towel back around her neck and shrugged into a hooded bathrobe. “And you never know if it might come in handy.”

  “Confidence or combat skills?” he called after her as she limped down the stairs. She could hear him slap the punch bag before he followed her downstairs.

  -o-

  Katla switched on the grinder, listening to the coffee beans getting caught and chewed up between the grindstones. Over the noise she could hear Zeph climb on a barstool behind her and asked without turning, “Cappuccino?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Zeph was silent until she turned around with the two cups of coffee. “What you go to do now, sista?”

  “Drink my coffee and have a shower,” she replied. “Why?”

  He folded his arms. “About them people in the harbour, sista.”

  “Bram told you about my adventures?”

  “He tell me Chinese people threaten you, want you company.”<
br />
  Katla met his grave eyes over the rim of her cup. He tried to meet her stare, succeeding for twenty seconds before looking away.

  She drained her cup. “They’re my problem, Zeph.”

  “I’m a friend, sista.” He spread his hands. “Friends help each other.”

  She twirled the warm stainless steel cup around her finger. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Commendable,” Bram spoke from the doorway. “You two are at it early.”

  Katla turned to the Gaggia to make herself a fresh espresso. “It’s not that early.”

  Bram shrugged. “It’s always too early for altercations.”

  “We’re conversing, not altercating.” She whacked the coffee grounds from the portafilter and wiped the basket dry. “You want tea, Bram?”

  “Lapsang.” He sat at the bar. “It didn’t sound like a conversation.”

  She filled the basket with freshly-ground coffee, tamped it down and screwed the portafilter back on the machine. While the machine filled her cup with fresh espresso, Katla lit the gas ring and placed the kettle on the stove. She switched off the espresso machine, reached into the cupboard for a glass, a tea clamp and his jar of Lapsang Souchon and placed it before him.

  “So what’s it about?” Bram fingered his tea paraphernalia. “Your ‘conversation’?”

  “Katla won’t let I-man help her.”

  She placed the cup of espresso on its saucer. “I don’t need help.”

  “You offered, bro.” Bram measured off the loose tea leaves and closed the clamp. “If she needs help, she’ll remember.”

  “Can I get straight answer?” The Rastafarian leant forward, his amber eyes fixed on hers. “This about trust?”

  “No.” She took a sip from her espresso. “Responsibility.”

  “Responsibility?”

  “I don’t want to be responsible for involving you in anything that might be dangerous. These people wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”

  “You no think I know, sista?”

  “My money’s tied up in this business. If I don’t do something, years of hard work are flushed down the drain. Those are my stakes. What is your stake?”