Mourad walked around the car and opened the door for him. Bram offered his cuffed hands first and sighed with relief as the policeman removed the cuffs.
“Can I have my cane, please?”
“No, but I’ll hold your arm and squeeze your elbow when you need to take a step up. The steps are wide and I don’t want you to stumble, okay?’
His right arm was gripped firmly and he stepped on a loose grate that pitched under his feet. “Christ, I almost fell.”
“Don’t worry, that grate is just the lowest step. The rest is solid concrete.”
The next step was wide and rough under his shoes. Mourad squeezed his elbow every time he had to take a step. After ten squeezes he told Bram to halt and opened a door. They moved into a small corridor, then another door was opened across from the entrance and Bram was led into a tiny room. Mourad walked him to the left and guided his hands to a ledge.
“Empty your pockets and place the items in the slot. Do you need any help?”
“I think I can manage.” His fingers found a plastic barrier with little holes with a slot. Plexiglass. A voice on the other side of the plexiglass barrier said, “Please empty your pockets and slide your possessions through the slot.”
Wordlessly Bram took out his wallet and bag with coins and put them through the slot, adding his keys.
“Your belt and shoestrings?”
Bram removed his belt and said, “I’m wearing ankle boots.”
“Do you have any jewellery?”
“No.”
“I see a chain around your neck,” Mourad said. Bram removed his dogtags. “I don’t consider this jewellery.”
“That’s fine, sir, but you cannot wear that in our holding pen. Mourad, can you frisk him?”
This time, the policeman turned out all his pockets and made him take off his boots to check them.
The policeman behind the barrier read the details of his ID back to him and asked him to confirm them, then told him he was under arrest for assault. “You have the right to an attorney, if you don’t have one, one will be provided. You have the right to remain silent. Do you wish to make a statement?”
“I plead self-defence. I’d like to make a phone call.”
“You can make a phone call later. I have a receipt here for your possessions. Can you sign the receipt?”
“Sorry, I can’t sign what I can’t read.”
“I’ll read it to you.”
“I still won’t sign it.”
“That’s fine, sir.” A door to his left opened and Mourad said, “The holding pen is just across the corridor.”
The pen smelled anti-septic. Mourad took him the wall opposite the door and guided his fingers to an intercom embedded in the wall. “You’re alone in the pen. Press the button if you need anything.”
He guided him to the left and sat him down on a hard bench.
“Is there a toilet here?”
“No. Do you need one now?”
“Not now.”
“If you need to relieve yourself, call us on the intercom.”
His steps echoed and the door closed with a soft thump, then two harsh clunks sounded as the door was locked. Bram sighed and leant back against the cool concrete wall behind him. The adrenalin was slowly dissipating and he felt nauseated. First the fight in Bianca’s diner and now this. He hadn’t had violent altercations for years and now twice in one week. He wondered what the smartest thing would be now. Katla could probably sort out an attorney for him, but he needed her to call him. Calling Zeph would probably be best, asking him to relay everything to Katla. He had her pager number and Katla would know something was up if Zeph called her pager.
-o-
Dusk was falling and still the Chinese hadn’t shown themselves. Katla unscrewed the telescope and picked up her Javelin. As she was sighting in the night scope, her pager vibrated again. She looked at the lighted screen. Zeph. That was weird, he rarely called her. She assembled one of her cell phones and called him back.
He sounded relieved. “Sista. The police arrest Bram for assault. He call I-man from the police station.”
“Which one?”
“Y-tunnel. Someone grab him and he break his nose.”
“I’ll get on it.”
“Wait, sista. Bram tell I-man to tell you he forgot his laminated address card in the case.”
“What?”
“That’s it, sista. Verbatim. He say you know what it mean.”
Katla walked back to the mounted night scope. “Yes, I do. Thanks, Zeph. I’ll handle it.”
She switched off the phone and looked through the Javelin’s view finder. Two shadows moved near the hiding place of the flight case and Katla adjusted the view finder. A large young Chinese and an older smaller man. That had to be them.
Katla stormed out of the door and ran down the stairs while she zipped her jacket and fished the keys for her Yamaha from her pocket.
She crossed the Nijlpaardenbrug and headed to the right, where her old XT225 was parked at the quay. She unlocked the Yamaha motorcycle, put the lock in the top case and fished out the helmet. While she donned the helmet, Katla watched the entry to the strip of wasteland in the rearview mirror. Two men appeared from the muddy track, the large one carrying Bram’s flight case. They walked to a BMW sedan and tossed the flight case in the backseat. Katla memorised the license plate, but waited until they pulled away in the direction of the intersection with the Plantage Middenlaan, before she thumbed the motorcycle’s electric starter and took up pursuit.
The BMW took a left at the intersection, heading in the direction of the Tropenmuseum. Katla hung back, allowing a few cars to get between the BMW and her Yamaha. The BMW went into the Linnaeusstraat and halted in the long queue for the traffic lights. Normally she’d pass the queue and get to the front of the line, but she didn’t want to attract attention. Right after the intersection, riding down the Linnaeusstraat, the BMW signalled and crossed the road to enter the forecourt of the Manor Hotel. Katla went straight and took a right onto Vrolikstraat, took another right on the Kastanjeweg and raced along the Derde Oosterparkstraat back to the Linnaeusstraat. Before she reached the busy thoroughfare Katla parked the XT on the sidewalk and walked to the corner. The Derde Oosterparkstraat was straight across from the entrance of the Manor Hotel, so she had a good view of the BMW parked in the temporary parking space of the forecourt. The Chinese were nowhere in sight, so she took off her helmet and found a recessed doorway that allowed her to duck out of sight. She studied the entrance with her small binoculars while she took out her cell phone and called her attorney.
“Advocatenkantoor Kerkwijk.”
“Robert Kerkwijk, alstublieft. My name is Sieltjes. If you put me on hold, please hold the music.”
“Yes, Ms. Sieltjes, just a moment.”
She listened to the silence, glad to opt out of the muzak. If there was one thing she hated, it was being forced to listen to some stupid melody while she waited for her connection.
About thirty seconds later Kerkwijk came on. “Hello Katherine, how can can help you?”
“A friend of mine is held at police station Y-tunnel, charged with assault. Can you represent him, Robert?”
“Sure. Any particulars?”
“His name is Bram Merleyn. He’s blind. A street musician. He was grabbed by someone and broke his nose.”
“I’ll get right on it. Can I mention your name?”
“Please do.”
“I’ll bill your office,” Kerkwijk said. “Talk to you later.”
Katla called Zeph, told him to collect Bram at the police station, erased the call registry and disassembled the phone.
After another five minutes, the young Chinese man left the Manor Hotel and stalked to the BMW. Katla strolled back to the XT and waited for the BMW to show which direction it would go. As the car headed back to the city center, Katla kept a few cars between herself and the BMW. It was clear the driver was following GPS instructions, taking a circuitous route to the
Spinhuissteeg. She watched from across the Kloveniersburgwal canal as the driver got out and walked up and down the alley, halting briefly at the door to the Japanese club to write something on a notepad or PDA.
She assembled her phone again and called Zeph. When he answered, she told him that Bram had to call her ASAP, before he went home.
The driver walked back to the BMW and Katla followed him to Osdorp, one of the less prosperous neighbourhoods known for its high influx of North African immigrants. Moroccan, Algerian, and Egyptian criminals preyed on the communities. At the large Winkelcentrum Osdorp mall, the driver parked and went inside. Katla parked the XT and stored her helmet in the top case, then followed him inside. She unzipped her jacket and turned it inside out, took out a ball cap and pulled the cap down deep over her eyes.
The driver went to a couple of stalls, bought some Chinese ingredients and walked to the next stall. Why he didn’t buy all his groceries at the same stall was apparent when she came closer and saw that he paid with a ten euro bill and received several fifty euro bills wrapped in a five euro bill. He was making collections. Filing that useful fact away, Katla returned to the XT and waited for the driver to return.
When he came back, the driver sat in his car for a while, counting money probably. She followed him when he pulled out again and drove to Geuzenveld. Although Geuzenveld had pretty much the same problems as Osdorp, the reputation was much better and the Chinese criminals mainly preyed on the Chinese community, so the local police never bothered to interfere, unless someone filed a complaint. Chinese immigrants knew better than to complain to the local authorities, so the Triad activities went unchecked. Of course there was some overflow, with gang members turning up dead once in a while, but investigators would hit a wall of silence and undercover officers were difficult to find.
The driver parked the BMW and approached a Chinese health center where, despite the bad weather, several young Chinese men hung around under the awning. They gave him respectful nods that were more like modified bows, and he returned their greeting with a slight nod that indicated his standing. The young men closed rank after the driver went inside, their gazes constantly scanning the street while they shared cigarettes and talked among themselves. Triad front, without a doubt.
Katla turned the XT around and rode back to Artis, where she parked the XT and went inside to get her MacBook.
With the MacBook in her backpack, Katla took her Burgman and returned to the Manor Hotel. The lounge opposite from the entrance was quiet, with just a few tourists waiting to be picked up with their luggage. Katla told the concierge she was waiting for someone, and if she could use the hotel’s wi-fi connection. He graciously gave her the password and she settled in the lounge, the MacBook in her lap. With the wi-fi connection going, she used illegal software to search the hotel for active computers. The computers from the reception showed up clearly and their security was laughably ineffective. She ran a search through the hotel records. Most of the guests were of Mediterranean origin. The only Chinese was Xiao Chang in suite 41. Ground floor, with access to the garden. Katla pulled up a scan of his passport. Date of birth seemed to match the older Chinese man. He didn’t cover his tracks much, so the Chang identity was probably false. Xiao Chang was as ubiquitous as John Smith in the Western Hemisphere, so an internet search for his name wouldn’t do much good.
She put the MacBook away and walked away to the bar. From the bar she entered the corridor, where suite 41 was the last suite on the right hand, just before the emergency doors. Katla checked whether the doors were wired for alarm, but they were clean. She opened the door and entered a barren staircase, obviously fire-proof emergency stairs. The emergency exit leading to the inner gardens was wired for alarm, a simple magnet at the top of the doors. Katla opened the doors, but no alarm sounded. She quickly checked the outside of the door, which featured a simple cylinder lock.
She closed the exit door again, and went up one of the stairs, waiting and watching. After ten minutes there was still no response to the opening of the emergency exit. Katla walked back along the second floor corridor, checking the locks on the doors. A simple keycard system. She went past a cleaning cupboard and on impulse used her lock picks to open the door and slip inside.
A cart filled with clean laundry and cleaning apparel was parked in the middle, next to shelves with supplies. In the corner hung a jacket with the hotel logo. Katla went through the pockets and found a keycard. The security didn’t seem very strict. She took the keycard and went across the corridor to the first suite she could find. After knocking on the door she inserted the keycard and the door clicked open. She touched the switch, but the lights didn’t come on. With her flashlight she found a unit on the wall where she could insert the keycard and turn the lights on. She removed the keycard, pocketing the card as she stepped into the corridor again and went back downstairs to the lounge again.
Opening the MacBook again, she watched the reception, but there were no noticeable indicators from the emergency exit alarm and her entry with the cleaning service keycard. She searched the hotel computers for the entry records of the keycard she had stolen and erased the entry in the suite.
Smiling to herself, Katla put the MacBook away and left the hotel.
-o-
Bram had left the holding cell three times, twice for visits to the lavatory and once to make a phone call to Zeph. He had given Zeph the lowdown, so Katla would know what to do, but there had been no contact since and he was getting really nervous about the probability of having to spend the night in a police cell. They’d given him a meal, and they’d been courteous in their treatment. He’d been asked if he wanted to make a statement, but he told them he’d rather wait on his legal representation. After that they left him alone, although he could hear them walk past his cell and stop to observe him briefly before they walked on.
He heard two sets of footsteps approach the cell and halt at the door, and the harsh clunks of the locking pins sliding back. The door opened and two men entered the cell, one with police boots, the other with leather soled shoes.
“Mister Merleyn, my name is Robert Kerkwijk. Ms. Sieltjes asked me to represent you. If you’d like to follow me, we’ll go to an office where we can confer in private.”
Bram rose from the bench. “Could you guide me, please. They took my cane.”
“Would you like me to hold your arm or the other way around?”
“Your arm, please.”
The arm Kerkwijk offered was draped in expensive cloth. Silk probably. They left the cell and turned to the right, where they entered an office. Kerkwijk thanked the policeman who had accompanied them and closed the door.
“I’m pretty sure these offices aren’t wired for sound, but we’ll keep this brief.”
Bram gave him a succinct report on how he was arrested and Kerkwijk took notes, a pen scribbling on paper. When he was finished, Kerkwijk said, “You felt threatened by the policeman who tried to mace you, but you didn’t know he was about to mace you when you grabbed his wrist?”
“His fist moved toward my face. When I grabbed his wrist to prevent his fist from moving closer to my face I felt something in his hand. It wasn’t until I removed the cylinder from his grasp that his colleague pulled a gun and told me to put down the mace.”
“I think I have all the facts now. I’m going to take you back to the holding pen, but I’m sure I’ll have you out in a few minutes.”
The few minutes felt like another half hour, but Kerkwijk returned and said, “You’re free to go now. I’ll be working on getting your charges dropped, but in the meanwhile your friend, mister Catadupa, is here to escort you home.”
Bram sighed with relief and went with Kerkwijk to collect his belongings and they left the police station at the front door. Kerkwijk took him to Zeph and said, “I’ll keep Ms. Sieltjes posted of the progress regarding your case.”
A quick dry hand and he was gone.
“Katla ask I-man to have you call her before you do som
ething else. I call her pager, she call back soon.”
His phone rang before he finished speaking. Zeph answered and handed Bram his cell.
“You can’t go home,” Katla said without preamble. “They found your address. Can you bunk with Zeph for a few days?”
“I brought some clothes and my saxophone, so that won’t be a problem, I think.”
“I have a lot to do,” Katla said. “I’ll drop by the Mojo tomorrow and we’ll talk, okay?”
“Thanks.”
Katla rang off, without goodbyes. Bram shrugged and handed Zeph his phone. “Can I bunk with you for a few days, bro?”
“Of course. You got everything?”
Bram nodded and took his elbow to walk with Zeph to his bicycle.
-o-
The footage was much clearer than the stills had been, but Zhang still doubted what he saw. He looked at Lau, puffing on his cigarette.
“I’m positive,” the senior Red Pole said. “Limp is less pronounced, but I’m sure.”
“There were no feats of muscular superiority,” Nicky said. “And it would explain the connection.”
Zhang shook his head. “If I had known, I’d have picked another company.”
“We had no choice remember?” Lau said. “The others were either too big or in the pocket of the 14K.”
Ri held up his hand. “We acted on the information we had. Now we have to act on the information we have.”
Zhang nodded. “Make the call.”
CASES
Chang woke up with a start as his bed moved, but he froze at the touch of a blade against his throat. He tried to see the intruder, but the room was pitch-dark, darker than it had been when he’d gone to bed. The intruder had drawn the curtains.
“Easy, Chang,” the intruder whispered hoarsely. “If I wanted to kill you, you would’ve died in your sleep.”
Chang turned his eyes in the direction of the voice. A darker shape sat on the side of his bed, seemingly totally at ease.
“I’m here for information. I’ll ask the questions, you answer. Raise your voice above a whisper and my blade will sever your vocal chords. Along with your windpipe. Understand?”
Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 2) Page 23