“You can never tell,” Katla said. “Psychopaths can look deceptively human.”
“Anyway, he paid me two hundred euro for damages and asked me to ask Bram to contact him on the number in his cell phone.” Bianca turned to her brother. “I don’t know what he wants, but he’s obviously affluent.”
“Bram doesn’t need the money.” Katla copied the phone number, purged the memory bank and disassembled the phone. “I’d stay away from them, Bianca. If you see them again, wait until they’re out of sight and call me, okay?”
Bram walked away to the counter to get sugar for his tea, and Bianca whispered, “You don’t think my brother is overreacting?”
“Bram doesn’t get distracted by appearances, like we do. I tend to trust his judgement.”
Bianca shrugged. “I don’t see the harm in calling him and asking him what he wants.”
“I’ll call on him,” Katla said. “Don’t worry.”
Bianca checked her watch. “Listen, I’m heading back. Lunch is my busiest time.”
Katla got up and kissed her on both cheeks. “Thanks for coming over. And heed my advice, okay?”
“You seem a bit paranoid.”
“To be paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.” Katla signalled to the boy behind the counter. “Give Bianca a kilo of your Full Blend Bocca beans.”
“What’s wrong with my own beans? I never receive complaints.”
“Maybe,” Katla said. “But how many compliments do you get?”
Bianca rolled her eyes, but Katla knew she wasn’t going to pass on a free bag of coffee beans.
DART
Chang glanced up from his book as the door of Screaming Beans opened. The girl from the luncheonette left with a large silver bag under her arm. The yellow label featured a drinking negro and the legend ‘Bocca Coffee’.
“Gau,” Chang cursed under his breath. All this trouble just for following someone who was getting coffee. He watched the girl saunter jauntily back in the direction of the Berenstraat. He left the antiquarian bookstore and limped in the opposite direction, toward the Dam Square. This day was just filled with rotten luck. Chang halted at the middle of the bridge over the Herengracht. Finding a spot between the parked bicycles, he leant his hands on the worn green iron railing and gazed morosely out over the canal, the raindrops making intersecting circles in the tranquil surface of the murky water. In the distance, a canal cruise boat appeared from under a bridge. The ‘rondvaartboot’ had a sleek glass-topped design, flat and wide for shallow waters and cruising under the low arches of the bridges. In the summer, dozens of these boats cruised the canals every hour, but in the late autumn, when the tourist season was mostly over, the cruise boats numbered maybe a dozen per day. Chang looked through the glass roof of the boat as it passed underneath the bridge he was standing on. The boat was half empty, but the few passengers seemed to enjoy floating through rainy Amsterdam.
Chang heard the purring of a scooter and glanced into the Hartenstraat, where the Burgman bopped off the sidewalk. The passenger was taller than the rider, and although his head was covered with a helmet, Chang recognised Scruffy by his clothes and that battered saxophone case that almost shattered his knee. The Burgman headed in his direction. He turned back to the canal immediately to ready the cane.
The Burgman passed behind him.
Chang turned as the scooter went into the Gasthuismolensteeg, aimed the cane at the flight case and fired. The city noise drowned the soft popping sound of the dart gun. Unlike shooting a scoped rifle, Chang couldn’t tell with absolute certainty whether he hit his target or the scooter. Nothing tinkled onto the bricks, so he had hit something. The barbed titanium prongs could easily pierce metal and rarely failed to attach the dart to whatever he fired at, whether it was a car or a boat or an airplane. Neither the rider nor the pillion reacted to the dart and the Burgman rode on, turning the corner and disappearing from sight.
Whistling softly under his breath, Chang walked in the direction the scooter had taken. Halfway down the Gasthuismolensteeg, he entered sandwich shop ’t Kuyltje, a regular workman’s eatery, and ordered a ‘Broodje Oude Leidse Kaas’ and a cup of tea. Sitting room was sparse, but one of the Dutchmen noticed his cane and offered him his stool by the window. His knee still hurt from banging into the blind man’s flight case, so Chang gracefully accepted the offer and sat down, watching cyclists in rain gear race over the slick bricks while he texted Ah Sung where to pick him up.
-o-
Katla halted the Burgman scooter by the basement steps. Bram dismounted and removed his helmet.
“I don’t know whether you’re safe here,” Katla said. “At the very least you need a new cell phone.”
“Or maybe a pager,” Bram said. “Your pager can’t be traced, can it?”
“No, but a pager has a screen that shows the message. I’d have to check if there is a talking pager or a Braille version.” She stored Bram’s helmet in her top case. “They know what you look like though. You better not attract attention by playing music in the street.”
“I’m not an idiot, Katla. I have a studio gig in less than a month.”
“Did Zeph arrange the gig? Perhaps you should stay with him, for the time being. If they know your habits, they might know about your basement.” Katla looked at his battered flight case and noticed something she hadn’t seen before. “Did you put a knob on your flight case?”
“A knob?”
“Hand me your flight case,” Katla said. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
A tiny metal cylinder was stuck to the surface of the case, with dark metal prongs embedded in the hard polyurethane shell. Bram reached out for his case, but Katla stayed his hand.
“Do you have another case for your saxophone?”
“What is wrong?”
“Looks like someone fixed a transmitter to your case. Like a beacon?”
“You want to take my case somewhere and see who follows?”
She nodded, then caught herself and said, “That’s right. You need this case mainly for playing in the street, right?”
“I have the original case, sure.” He ducked into the basement and came out with a square case not unlike a suitcase. “It’s less rugged, but I can use it temporarily.”
They transferred the saxophone to the other case and Katla stored his flight case under the Burgman’s buddy seat. “I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can, but you might want to consider changing your routine for a while. Until we get those people off your back.”
“I think I’m safe here,” Bram said. “I don’t think these people want to mess with Tetsuo.”
“If they know where you live, they can always watch until you leave and grab you. I don’t think they’ll underestimate you again.”
“And you, what will you do?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Katla said. “Just avoid your sister’s luncheonette and your regular haunts for the moment.”
-o-
The SUV with Kau Hong members was still parked at Kadijksplein, but Katla was pretty confident that the Burgman didn’t attract any undue attention. She checked her rearview mirrors before she keyed the remote that opened the electric gate to the underground garage below the Entrepôtdok building complex.
There was a chance that whoever had tagged Bram’s saxophone case also noted the plate of her Burgman, so Katla changed the plates. She didn’t have to change any other characteristics, all Burgman scooters looked more or less the same. She checked the Burgman for similar beacons, but the scooter was free of transmitters.
She took the empty flight case from the storage under the buddy seat and put her helmet inside, then slipped out of the garage and made her way to the quay. As she walked she checked the flight case for labels and found a small engraved plaque with ‘Bram Merleyn’ next to the handle. She took her Leatherman from her pocket, selected the screwdriver and pried the plaque loose, damaging the case a little, but gluing it back on afterward would cover the damage a
gain. She slipped the name plaque in her pocket and strolled down the brightly coloured Nijlpaardenbrug.
Between the outdoor parking of the Artis zoo and the Entrepôtdok canal was a small strip of wasteland where people lived in improvised shelters and ragtag houseboats, with an unlit and unpaved access road solely used by the locals who lived there. Even dog walkers shunned the area. Katla walked the muddy road, the slippery ruts trying to unbalance her. She walked halfway down the path and hid the flight case with the transmitter in the bushes near a houseboat. She followed the path to the end, where she could cross an old single track railway bridge back to Entrepôtdok. She walked along the quay back to the tunnels that led to her apartment, taking care to double back twice to make sure she wasn’t followed.
As she unlocked her apartment, Kourou started imitating the barking of a ferocious dog, then bobbed up and down on his stand to attract her attention. Katla left the lights off and moved to the balcony, from where she had an excellent view of the other side of the canal and the hiding place of the flight case.
She mounted her telescope on its tripod and aimed it at the hiding place of the flight case, then played with Kourou, while keeping half an eye on her target. The macaw was pleased with her attention, and with the tasty morsels she fed him.
Her pager vibrated and she checked the screen. An unfamiliar cell phone number filled the screen. She never called anyone back from her apartment, and she didn’t want to leave now and miss someone picking up the flight case. She switched off the vibrating and resumed her surveillance of the flight case.
About ten minutes later, her pager vibrated again. Same unknown number. Katla switched off the vibrating and kept her eye glued to the telescope’s viewfinder. It was still early afternoon, but she kept her Javelin night scope ready in case they’d show up after dusk.
ARRESTED
“Listen, Bram, I need my phone back,” Yukiko said. “I’ll give you a heads up if Katla calls, all right?”
“I’m going over to Zeph. Give her his number and tell her to call me straight away, okay?” He took his saxophone case and a bag with a change of clothes and his toiletries. “Tell her I forgot my laminated address card.”
He smelled her girly perfume as she came near and kissed his cheek. “Give Zeph my regards.”
“I might be staying over, Zeph is inviting people over for a jam.”
Her hand rubbed his shoulder. “Have a good time.”
Bram left the club through the front door and walked down the steps, feeling exposed. Katla had spoken about protecting him, but he wondered how she would accomplish that, if he couldn’t even reach her now. Maybe he should’ve called Zeph and ask him to pick him up. He walked to the Kloveniersburgwal and crossed Zuiderkerkhof to the Antoniebreestraat. As he turned right toward the Jodenbreestraat, his cane swung to the right and hit something soft.
“Hey, fucko,” a voice growled from low down. “Watch where you’re going.”
“Sorry,” Bram said and walked on. He heard someone scrambling up from the ground and rapid steps closed in on him. He started to turn when a hand grabbed his right arm and fetid breath assailed his nostrils.
“Listen, fucko,” the voice said. “You—”
Bram instinctively clamped his left hand on top the hand that grasped his right elbow, shot his free right hand underneath and up and turned his hips counterclockwise. He misjudged the room to move and felt the man’s body smack against something solid. Probably one of the pillars in front of the shops that lined the Antoniebreestraat.
Bram released the arm and stepped back, feeling a parked car behind him.
“My nose!” the man yelped. “You broke my fucking nose!”
Bram felt sweat prickling all over his body. “I’m sorry, that was not my intention.”
“You broke my nose!” the man bellowed. “You crazy fucker!”
He had to get away from here. Bram felt around for the bag with his clothes he’d dropped, but he couldn’t locate it. A chorus of voices surrounded him, commenting on how he’d smacked a panhandler against a pillar. The bag was of minor importance now. He had to leave before the matter escalated beyond his control. He bumped against bodies as he tried to find a gap in the crowd to get away, but they pushed him back, and he could feel panic rising within him. Without warning the crowd split and he could pass, but a pair of hands grabbed his sleeve and someone said, “Politie. Did you attack this man?”
Bram opened his eyes to show them he was blind. “No, he attacked me. He grabbed me, I defended myself.”
“He broke my goddamn nose!” the man yelped and Bram felt fingers grazing his arm. He backed away, but the policeman held him tight and said, “Mourad, hold that guy back.”
He could hear the man cursing. The policeman turned back to him and said, “Put your hands behind your back.”
“Why?”
“You’re under arrest for assault,” the policeman said. “I’m going to cuff you.”
“No, you’re not.” Bram put his palms together. “I’m blind. My hands are my eyes.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you started slamming people into pillars. Put your hands behind your back, I’m not telling you again.”
“You can cuff me in front.” Bram could hear the other policeman calling into his radio for an ambulance. “I’m not resisting arrest, but I won’t be cuffed behind my back.”
“Tough guy, aren’t you?” The policeman let go of his arm with one hand. Bram could feel the policeman’s hand near his face. In a flash he reached up with both hands and grabbed the policeman’s wrist, feeling a cylinder in the policeman’s fist.
“Fuck!” the policeman cursed. “Mourad!”
Twisting the wrist up and away Bram turned around and pushed the policeman forward against the car and jabbed his thumb in the nerve center of the wrist. The fingers opened and he took out the cylinder.
There was a click and the other policeman said, “I got a gun aimed at you. Drop the mace.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bram said. “You’re going to mace a blind man?”
The crowd grumbled and someone yelled, “Mace the motherfucker, he’s right in front of you.”
Shaking his head, Bram tossed the cylinder over the roof of the car into the street. The first policeman, breathing heavily, grabbed his arm, but Bram easily pulled his arm from his grasp. “You better bring an Arrestatie Team if you want to cuff me.”
A growling motorcycle bopped up on the sidewalk behind him and an commanding voice bellowed, “Mourad, put away that gun!”
Bram recognised the voice of the motorcycle cop. “Ruurd?”
“I got a call about a panhandler being assaulted. What’s going on?”
“He’s under arrest for assault,” the first policeman said. “He—”
“Jos, shut up. What’s going on, Bram?”
“They wanted to mace me for not allowing them to cuff my hands behind my back.”
“You’re arrested. Cuffing is SOP.”
“Listen, I was grabbed by this panhandler and when I tried to disengage myself I accidentally pushed him against a pillar. I—”
“Accidentally, my ass!” the panhandler bellowed. “You hit me with your stick first, and—”
“Shut up,” Ruurd bellowed back. “Jos, take him to the ambulance and stay with him at the hospital.”
“Ruurd,” the first policeman said. “He didn’t just assault this guy, he assaulted me as well.”
“Nice, Jos. You can commiserate about getting your ass handed to you by a blind man.” The motorcycle cop came closer and gently took Bram’s arm. “You’re under arrest, Bram. Will you come quietly, now?”
“As long as I’m not cuffed. My hands are my eyes.”
“No cuffs. Mourad, escort Bram. Take him to the station. I’ll see you there.”
The other policeman grabbed his elbow less gently and Bram said, “Ruurd said escort, Mourad, not manhandle.”
“Wiseass,” Mourad said and
loosened his grip. “And it’s ‘agent’, not ‘Mourad’.”
They halted and the policeman said, “Give me your case and your cane.”
He handed over his cane and his saxophone case and heard the policeman open the passenger door. It closed and Mourad said, “Before you get in, I need to frisk you. Do you have any sharp implements on you? Needles, knives?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Put your hands on the car.” He felt Mourad’s hands frisk him quickly. “I also dropped my bag, back there, agent.”
“Get into the car.”
The door opened and he felt a hand on top of his head, making sure he wouldn’t bump his head.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
“Ruurd said—”
“I know what Ruurd said. I’m just cuffing you for the ride, to protect myself. I’ll remove the cuffs at the station.”
Bram put his hands behind him and felt the cool metal bracelets around his wrists. The door slammed shut. Bram waited for the policeman to get in, but he’d gone away. He leant back his head. This was bad. If Ruurd hadn’t responded to the call, he could’ve been hurt, simply because he’d defended himself against a panhandler and a belligerent policeman. The door opened and Mourad said, “An Adidas sportsbag?”
“If it has a little ball of rope fixed the zipper, it’s mine.”
The policeman tossed something on the passenger seat with his saxophone case and said, “I understand how you might dislike having your hands cuffed during the ride, so I’ll tell you whenever I’m making a turn and which direction, okay?”
“Thank you, that will be great.”
“Don’t mention it. I have to take care of your well-being while you’re in my custody.”
The patrol car pulled away, bopping off the sidewalk and speeding off. True to his word, Mourad kept him up to date about turns and speed bumps. They rode for about five minutes, then Mourad said, “We’re there.”
Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 2) Page 22