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

by Martyn V. Halm

  “What attempts?”

  “Killing the blind from the east was a mistake that brings the long arm of Death within striking distance.”

  “Do I still have time?”

  “You’re moving in the wrong direction. You have to get back to the crossroads and take the righteous path.” She lifted her hands. “Let me speak to your younger brother now.”

  She lifted her chin and motioned Nicky to take the seat Lau vacated. Nicky smirked and sat down, put his hands flat down on the table. The claw descending on his left hand creeped him out, but he didn’t show his disgust, although the left corner of the psychic’s mouth curled up in a reflection of his smirk.

  “Disfigurement abhors you,” the psychic said. “You think I chose being a psychic, because it suits my appearance. In fact, I had no choice. When I told people what was in their heart of hearts, I was propelled into this calling. You think it’s easy money. Being able to see in the heart of man isn’t easy. Touching most hearts is like sticking your hand in a rotting carcass, with the maggots crawling up your arm and defecating all over you.”

  “So the money is to compensate the icky feelings, I get it.”

  “Actually, I’m amazed how little you get. You’re more intelligent and perceptive than your older brother, but your cynicism had infected your capabilities.” She shrugged. “I guess that’s why you’re a criminal, instead of using your considerable faculties for nobler purposes.”

  “Thanks for the psychobabble.”

  Nicky pulled back his hands, but her good left hand seized his wrist and she closed her eyes. “The dark scares you too, and with reason. The trickster has seen you and rarely forgets a face. You’re marked, just like your brother. You’ll get one chance to defeat the dark, but your arrogance will lead you astray.”

  Nicky snorted. “Astray?”

  “You should be afraid, but your machismo prevents you from acknowledging your fear.”

  “You keep telling us that we should live by our fear, as if fear is a good thing. Fear makes people stupid.”

  “Fear makes people cautious,” the psychic corrected. “And in the face of real danger, caution can save your life.”

  “Maybe in your world,” Nicky said. “I think I heard enough. And I’m not convinced that your intel is spiritual. I think you’re working with Loki to undermine our resolve.”

  “Just because your mother abandoned you doesn’t mean all women are suspect.”

  “My mother didn’t abandon me.”

  “No, but you do regard her death as a betrayal. And you rage against the impotent anger. I pity you.”

  Nicky lashed out, punching her in the disfigured side of her face and sending her sprawling on the floor. Behind him, her servant aimed his gun at Nicky’s head, but Lau whirled around, his extended leg connecting hard with the servant’s face. The servant crashed into the wall and the gun discharged, filling the room with an echoing thunderclap that seemed to shake the plaster from the ceiling. Nicky advanced on the fallen servant with his chair, but the man was unconscious, his nose pulped and bleeding all over the man’s shirt. Lau moved in as well, black eyes flat as usual before a killing blow. Nicky changed direction and used the chair to stop Lau from killing the servant. Lau looked like a cat whose mouse was taken away, but he blinked and both of them turned to the psychic, slumped on the floor.

  She shook her head and spoke, but her words didn’t penetrate the ringing in their ears. Lau took his sleeve and Nicky allowed himself to be pulled into the corridor. They collected their guns and left the apartment, making no effort to hide as they walked to Lau’s Audi and drove away.

  ARRIVAL

  A twinge in his kidneys announced the onset of cold turkey. Chang put down his paperback novel, ordered a bottle of mineral water from the friendly blonde stewardess, and dug the arthritis pills from his carry-on bag. According to the pharmacy label, the pills contained three percent morphine and twenty percent codeine, while the actual amount of morphine was closer to sixty-five percent and the codeine content virtually non-existent. Two would sustain him until he arrived in Amsterdam and put his hands on some brown heroin.

  The stewardess returned with a bottle of Sourcy and a plastic cup.

  Chang swallowed the pills and picked up his novel again, searching the page for the last paragraph he’d read. Bought in a bookshop at Hong Kong Airport, the ‘critically acclaimed blockbuster’ was not half as interesting as the drawing on the cover. After struggling through four more excruciatingly dull and unimaginative pages, he gave up and stuffed the novel in the pouch with the security pamphlet and airsick bag.

  Waiting for the morphine pills to do their work, Chang cranked back his seat, his gaze taking in the inflight movie. He didn’t bother donning the headphones. Through half-closed eyes, he watched a silent argument unfold between the main character and the female lead, and wondered if the actors themselves considered their expressions natural and realistic. To Chang the whole frantic cast appeared in dire need of sedatives. The dialogue would most likely be stuffed with snappy one-liners, rapid fire ripostes more irritating than funny.

  Despite the ventilation, the cabin air had a stilted quality composed of sour breath, body odour, sweat and that faint fragrance Chang always associated with the low-level panic that imbued cramped spaces filled with too many people. He closed his eyes, ignoring the slumbering ache spreading through his abdomen, and sifted through his memories for pleasant recollections.

  A child started bawling behind the tourist class curtain and his mind sent him the soldier, splashing awkwardly through a Cambodian rice paddy towards the safety of the lush forest, holding a bawling infant over his head as a shield against sniper fire. Chang sat in a tree, tracking the soldier in the crosshairs. Near the edge of the paddy, in the shade of the trees, the soldier lowered the child against his chest, exposing his head. The crack of the rifle followed a second after the 7.62mm bullet tore into the soldier’s brow and the back of his head exploded in a cloud of torn brain tissue and skull fragments. Not much blood, like with a neck shot, but a spasmodic twisting of limbs as the soldier fell headlong into the swampy waters, crushing the infant under him. The shot echoed against the green hills while the child drowned under the weight of the dead soldier.

  Chang opened his eyes. That one had been counted as one confirmed kill.

  -o-

  The effect of the pills was wearing off by the time the Boeing was in a holding pattern over Schiphol Airport, but Chang resisted the urge to take more. He would suffer the withdrawal symptoms, not just to avoid appearing drowsy or otherwise impaired to the customs officers, but high quality heroin wouldn’t be hard to find in Amsterdam and he didn’t want his senses dulled when he’d be chasing the dragon.

  Ten minutes later, the tires touched tarmac and the Boeing followed the runway to the terminal. As the other passengers disembarked, the friendly blonde stewardess hurried to his side to retrieve his carry-on luggage from the overhead compartment.

  “Heavy,” she remarked, holding out his slim briefcase. “A computer?”

  “Precision optics,” he replied, taking the briefcase from her hands. “Sensitive equipment.”

  Her sharp eyes looked him over, from his sober Ermenegildo Zegna suit to his Fratelli Rossetti shoes, and lingered on his Vacheron Constantin watch. Her smile brightened and she asked, “Is this your first visit to Holland?”

  “No,” he replied, watching her smile fade. “But the last time was quite a few years ago. Are you a native?”

  “Born and raised in Amsterdam. Where are you staying?”

  “The Manor Hotel, at the Linnaeusstraat.”

  “The former Burgerziekenhuis.” She cocked a finger at him. “You might not believe me, but I was born there. In that building, that is.”

  “In that case….” He held out one of his business cards. “If you don’t have a dinner engagement for this evening, perhaps you would like to help me sample the restaurant. Enoteca is supposed to have four stars, li
ke the hotel itself.”

  She tapped the business card against her palm. “This evening?”

  “I booked a table for two at eight o’clock.”

  “Just dinner.”

  “And conversation,” he replied. “Nothing more.”

  “Why me?” she asked. “You don’t even know my name.”

  “Because you were born at my hotel.” He tapped the company pin on the lapel of her uniform. “J. Smit.”

  “Jacqueline.” She held up his own card, pointed at his name. “What does the X stand for?”

  “Xiao, but everyone just calls me Chang.”

  Another stewardess came walking over and Jacqueline spoke quickly, “The lobby? Quarter to eight?”

  “Quarter to eight will be fine.”

  With a slight nod Chang turned away and joined the end of the queue leaving the plane.

  -o-

  The moment Chang passed through the revolving doors of the terminal, a young man climbed from a sleek black BMW sedan with tinted windows parked at the kerb and approached him with the cat-like grace of a martial artist, holding the lapels of his jacket with his left hand, ring finger extended to signal his rank. Not a common foot soldier, but a Red Pole. Like a squadron leader, Red Poles usually command lower level enforcers. To have one pick him up at the airport was a sign of respect from the 14K.

  Chang didn’t signal back, just nodded and handed him his suitcase. While the Red Pole put his luggage in the trunk, Chang opened the passenger door and glanced into the empty backseat, before climbing into the car and closing the door behind him. He kept the briefcase with his scopes on his lap.

  The interior of the car was furnished in walnut and tan leather, smelling fairly new. There was no handsfree cell phone or stereo in view. In the space of the radio sat a GPS console, the screen tilted towards the steering wheel. The ashtray underneath was clean and unused. The Red Pole closed the trunk and climbed behind the wheel, automatically fastening his safety belt before pulling into traffic. Chang studied him from the corner of his eyes, watching him handle the car with quiet self-assurance. The Red Pole’s inscrutable face featured the prominent cheekbones of the Manchurian Chinese, his beard more fuzz than stubble. Chang guessed him to be in his late teens or early twenties, younger than he appeared at first glance. His promotion had to be recent. And he had to be gifted, to be promoted to such stature at his age. The rank of Red Pole carried responsibilities usually considered too demanding to grant to anyone under thirty.

  “I have to see my supplier first,” Chang said. “At Tussen de Bogen. You know where that is?”

  The Red Pole nodded. A man of few words. Good.

  Chang settled deeper into his seat and looked outside.

  On the motorway, the BMW took the left lane, passing the slower traffic. Chang considered telling him there was no hurry, but—despite his relaxed posture—the Red Pole’s calm eyes were constantly studying the traffic, an obvious sign the young man was used to driving fast. And he drove well, the BMW purring as it sped through the slow curves. A car tried to cut in front, but he only took his foot from the accelerator and flashed his lights, not showing any irritation at being hindered. The car slipped back into the middle lane and the BMW smoothly surged forward again.

  Slick move. Chang smiled faintly and the Red Pole noticed, a corner of his mouth briefly mimicking Chang’s smile while he kept his attention on the traffic. On the ring road around Amsterdam, the BMW took the E19 northbound, leaving the motorway to follow the Haarlemmerweg into the city. Despite their slow progress, the young man was patient, not drumming on the steering wheel, but resting his hands lightly on the lower rim as they waited for the lights to change.

  The long flight and the heroin deficiency made Chang restless, but he didn’t show his agitation, concentrating on the scenery floating by. Amsterdam seemed smaller and dirtier than he recalled from his last visit. Or he had spent too much time between the shiny skyscrapers of Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur. Amsterdam’s old inner city had an air of dejection hanging over it. Perhaps the constant drizzle soaking the toy-like houses was getting him down.

  Chang shivered and the young man stretched out his hand, turning up the heat in the car.

  “Thanks,” Chang spoke, his voice sounding alien in the silence. The Red Pole nodded, but didn’t reply, his unwavering attention on the traffic. They drove past Tussen De Bogen, with studios, offices and warehouses in the spaces of the arches that supported the railroad embankment.

  “Take a left at the next light.”

  The BMW crossed under the tracks and doubled back, halting beside a grey Peugeot van parked near the fourth arch.

  Chang got out with his slim briefcase and walked around the BMW’s sleek bonnet to the anonymous grey van. The side door opened and he stepped inside, moving to the rear of the van, while the door closed and a halogen lamp over the workbench flickered to life, illuminating the man who had let him in.

  The years had not been kind to Manfred Kiekendief. Most of his hair was gone, a few remaining limp wisps framing his long sad face, the skin grey and sagging, his eyes dulled with fatigue.

  “Cancer,” the gunsmith spoke before Chang could ask. “Eating me from the inside out.”

  “How long have you got left?”

  “With treatment, ten to twelve months. Without… six, maybe seven.”

  “And you’re going without.”

  “I have painkillers.” Kiekendief took out a slender bullet and showed the engraving on the brass casing. “And this for when the pain gets too big to kill.”

  “A bullet with your name on it. How poetic.”

  “There’s a purpose to the engraving. The gun will eject the casing in my hand, so there won’t be any doubt I killed myself.”

  “In lieu of a suicide note.”

  Kiekendief gave him a wry smile. “I’ve never been much of a writer.”

  Chang tilted his chin at the Pelican case on the workbench. “Is that for me?”

  “The PGM you ordered.” Kiekendief opened the lid. “Second-hand, new suppressed barrel and firing pin.”

  The dull black parts of the disassembled sniper rifle didn’t reflect the light of the halogen lamp suspended over the workbench. Chang looked over the folding stock and the fat barrel, and checked the rail on top of the receiver to see if it would fit his scopes. The bolt and magazine were stashed separately.

  “Did you break in the barrel?”

  “And I adjusted the trigger to your specifications.” The gunsmith stroked the Picatinny scope base. “Still lugging your own scopes around?”

  “Good optics are harder to come by than rifles.”

  “True, all too true.” He gestured at the case. “Ammunition in the left corner. Eight mags, five mercury-tipped rounds each.”

  From the worktable came the sound of someone arming a bolt action rifle. Manfred pointed at his phone. “It’s just an SMS.”

  “That sound was an alert that you received a text message?”

  “Yes,” Kiekendief said. “Funny, isn’t it?”

  “You might not want to receive texts when you’re around trigger happy people.” Chang closed the lid of the Pelican case and handed Kiekendief the money. “It’s in US dollars.”

  “Listen, folding stock PGMs are difficult to come by, so if you need to be rid of it, I’ll buy it back at half price.”

  “I’ll take it in consideration.”

  “Two-thirds,” Kiekendief corrected himself. “Depending on the state of the rifle, of course. I’ll have to replace the barrel, but that won’t be a problem.”

  Almost dead and still greedy.

  Chang smiled and nodded, left the van, closed the door behind him and walked back to the waiting BMW.

  -o-

  The last time Chang had stayed in Amsterdam, he’d stayed at the luxurious five star Amstel Intercontinental Hotel, but he never used in the same hotel twice. This time the Red Pole drove him to the Linnaeusstraat, where the BMW halted before the Manor hotel
, housed in the former Burgerziekenhuis.

  The Red Pole followed him with his luggage to the reception, waited for him to sign in and followed as the concierge preceded them to luxury suite 41, on the ground floor. They walked towards restaurant Enoteca, Chang following the concierge at a short distance and the Red Pole closing the rank, protecting his back. They turned right at the end of the corridor and crossed the hotel bar, still empty. The next corridor had burgundy carpeting with small Xs, a theme that was continued in the wallpaper. The concierge preceded them into the suite and slipped the hotel keycard into a slot on the wall, showing them how the lights only worked when the card was inserted.

  The Red Pole followed the explanation with his dark eyes, but didn’t speak.

  “The minibar is empty,” the concierge said. “Since most of our guests either don’t use it or stock it with their own choice of beverages.”

  His eyes nervously followed the Red Pole, moving through the room like a wraith searching for a soul. The Red Pole tested the door leading to the hotel garden, checking the outside of the door. When he turned around, he didn’t look pleased, and the concierge coughed and said, “Will you be staying here too, mister—?”

  The Red Pole studied the concierge with an unblinking reptile gaze, but didn’t give him his name.

  Chang cleared his throat, then spoke, “My assistant won’t stay here, but he’ll need his own keycard so he can come and go as he pleases.”

  “I’ll make sure your assistant can collect a keycard at the reception, right away.”

  The concierge hurried away and Chang turned to the Red Pole. “Tone down your brooding presence.”

  The Red Pole motioned for him to follow and walked to the door, lifted the keycard from the slot and stepped out of the suite. Chang followed as the Red Pole turned right and opened the emergency door, which opened on the emergency stairs. He walked to the doors leading to the garden and studied the alarm wiring at the top of the door behind the pictogram. He opened the door briefly, then closed it and looked at his watch while he brushed past Chang and moved back to the suite.