“Are you?”
“What? Pregnant?” I really hadn't thought about it. There had been that post coital burst, like a tiny orgasm, which at the time I thought was pretty weird. And the nausea, which I'd thought was nerves. “Please don't make me go back alone.”
“If you can hang out in Dordrecht for a few days, I'll come back and go with you to Amsterdam. I'm sure you can make yourself useful.”
“I'm not one of your minions you can order around. I'm your wife.”
“I'm sorry. It'll just be a couple of days.”
“You don't know that.” I am furious at myself for feeling so needy.
“You're right. I can't be sure. But I'll get back as fast as I can. I can't stop my work now. Not now. If we had gone to Copenhagen or some other place from Schiermonnikoog, I could've gone. But not now.”
“Haven't you done enough? Haven't we done enough?”
“The war isn't over is it?”
Of course, he is right. But that doesn't stop me fuming. He kisses me hard, gets up and has a few words with several of the men by the bar.
Draak sits back down beside me as we watch them slip out the door. “Where'd you meet Reynard?” she asks casually.
“At our wedding,” I say. Giggles get the best of me, until I calm down enough to tell Draak our story.
New Recruit
Just before curfew, Draak putters up to the Allegro in a large skiff. My family is all packed and ready to go. The skiff will take them to the end of Wijnhaven canal, which empties out into an industrial area of barges and fishing boat, where the trawler is waiting. I kiss each of the children, hug the women, and shake Jean-Luc's hand. “We couldn't have made it without your help. We could use someone like you.”
He nods solemnly.
I mean every word of it. Jean-Luc is brave and handy, if a bit reckless. I'll miss him. I give him my father's Walther. “You know how to use it?”
He nods.
“Send me a note when you're safe.”
When everyone is settled, Draak starts the motor. “Thank you, Draak. I owe you.”
Her steely gray eyes squint a little. “Stay alive,” she says. I toss down the bow rope, and she shifts to reverse. The boat putters back, then turns down the canal.
I put on my burka, close up the boat, and walk down to Newbrug. There is still time before curfew. I cross the bridge to a café I recall from earlier. They have take-out, and I pick up a few things for dinner, then retrace my steps up Taankade to the boat.
I am looking forward to being alone on the Allegro. I have an urgent desire to straighten up the boat and make it mine again—the way a hostess feels, cleaning up after a party. Laying claim. I'd like some time alone to think about old times, racing with my dad. Pieter crafted a number of secret drawers. I want to see if he left me anything.
I walk dreamily up the canal, swinging my bags. The crowd of boats obscures the Allegro, so I'm almost on top of her, before I make out her lovely lines.
Someone's on my boat! It's that fake Greek-capped Captain Barbarossa. What's he doing snooping—
The moment he looks up and sees me, I know I should be running. His index finger stabs the air in my direction. “That's the one. Grab her!”
I spin, dropping my bag of groceries, my take-out bowl of chowder splatting on the ground.
Two IRH soldiers charge after me and grab my elbows, one slipping in the chowder. I bring both feet to my chest and spring them, kicking a third soldier in the groin, throwing my captors off balance. I somersault, and they grab after me, getting handfuls of burka. I slip out of it, and dive against their legs. They land on their backs, groaning. I roll into a squat, crouching for a run, already planning my route through the canals.
Springing forward, I feel someone grab my foot. I fall on my elbows, and I'm pulled up, scraping my chin on the ground.
Five soldiers surround me, one with an AK-47 pointed at my chest, two hold me.
“Let me go!” I demand, and I sense indecision, surprised by a woman who fights back. Surprised to see a bare face.
“Bring her here,” orders a very officious looking Landweer officer from my boat.
I squeal and squall and squirm, while at the same time trying to bring my heel up against the left soldier's knee; the two Kroots hold me all the tighter. They drag me to Allegro's stern, which is tied up to the seawall. I suddenly go very still—all I can do now is watch how this plays out, to see how much they know, conserving my energy.
The Landweer officer is tall, his blue beret jauntily angled. I bet he spends five minutes in the mirror every morning trying to get it just right. As threatening as Landweer want to appear, something about the berets are amusing. It helps to think of them as overgrown boy scouts. Who torture. A wave of panic shakes my body.
“You are under arrest,” he says.
“On what charge?”
Captain Barbarossa steps up behind the Landweer officer, holding up a bottle of brandy. He grins. “Smuggling.”
“Are you sure this is the woman you saw sailing this boat?” The Landweer officer looks dubiously at me.
“That's her.”
“Give me her purse.”
One of the soldiers hands him my purse, which he opens, looking for my ID. He finds it and flips it open to my picture. “Abeela Sadik? Is that you?”
I make no response whatsoever.
“Take her to the station,” he barks gruffly. “Cover her face. She's indecent.”
The soldiers curse, trying to get my burka back on me. I don't make it any easier for them. Finally they get my eyes at the slit so I can see, and haul me down the street to their Touran wagon. As they open the door and begin to shove me inside, I see Jean-Luc hurrying toward us down the street, a duffel bag on his back.
He comes to a dead stop and we lock eyes. Please, God. Don't!
Somehow we communicate. He slips back into the shadows of the building.
Twenty-One, May 2021
Sharia Court
My only consolation is that no one has connected me with the Resistance. Even under Islamic fascism, one bottle of brandy does not constitute smuggling. But it is haram. I'm utterly grateful I got the family out of the boat and gave Jean-Luc my father's gun. A minor miracle, really.
I scold myself for not having gone through the boat earlier. But the family was packed in there—floor to ceiling humanity—and it was awkward. I didn't even go through the documentation papers at the navigation station. I don't know if the registration is up-to-date, or who it is registered to. Did Hans register Allegro in his name when I gave it to him years ago? Is it still registered under Pieter Brinkerhoff? Could it even be in my name? And if it is, which name?
Still, I am lucky. They have not connected Abeela Sadik with Lina Van Dyk or Salima Shahin or Katrien Brinkerhoff.
For now I am safe from a Landweer interrogation. I only have sharia court to worry about. Chin up, girl.
One thing I do have to say for sharia law. It is efficient. Only a day of waiting before I'm dragged before a panel of three judges. Two mutaween, and one civil magistrate. The courtroom is filled mostly with women. We all sit on courtroom benches, brought one at a time before the magistrate.
By now I've figured out that Barbarossa is a Speciale Operaties officer. When the Officer of the Court calls my name, Barbarossa swaggers into the courtroom, hair combed, beard neatly trimmed, in a gray suit. His face is lighter, and I realize he must've worn tanning cream to give him that wizened old salt look. A soldier by his side carries the offending bottle, which he sets on the magistrate's desk.
“Abeela Sadik, you are charged with smuggling, theft of a sailboat, and commanding a sailboat. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, sir.”
He looks over some paperwork, then waves to Barbarossa. “You testify that when you first spotted Allegro, it was sitting 'low in the water,' but at the time of arrest, the boat was no longer sitting low in the water. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. Th
e defendant must have off-loaded her cargo before we managed to arrest her.”
“Did anyone witness the off-loading of cargo?”
“No, sir.”
“Apart from this one bottle of brandy, was there any evidence in the hold of contraband?”
“No, sir.”
The magistrate looks at the bottle carefully. At first when he tries to open it, he can't. He raises his elbow and tries again, unscrewing the top with considerable force. Sugar crystals cover his palm, crumbling from the crust of dried brandy on the mouth of the bottle. He sniffs the bottle. A flicker of a smile. “Courvoisier,” he says, chuckling, as if recalling youthful revelries involving the forbidden drink. I suspect he wouldn't mind a sip himself. The two mutaween do not smile.
“Where did you find this bottle of brandy?”
“In a secret drawer in one of the cabins.”
“Are not all sailing vessels designed with cubbyholes and cleverly disguised drawers?”
“Yes, sir. To economize on space.”
“Did you see the defendant drink from this bottle?”
“No, sir.”
“It states here that you offered the defendant and her husband alcohol on another boat, and they declined.”
“Yes, sir.”
“From what I see, this bottle of brandy is thoroughly crusted over. My guess is that it hasn't been opened in years.”
“But it was in her possession.”
“You said yourself it was in a secret drawer. Could it have been on the boat without her knowledge?”
“I suppose that is possible, but—”
“Isn't it also true, from time immemorial, sailors have used alcohol for medicinal purposes, as an antiseptic and sedative?”
“Yes, I suppose that is—”
“Mevr. Sadik, I see no evidence of smuggling, but there is the question of ownership. The boat is registered to a Christian, Pieter Brinkerhoff. What is his relationship to you?”
I am silent, struggling with what to say. If I admit the truth, saying he was my father and admit my pre-conversion name, they can trace that to Salima Sahin, which would beg the question, why do my papers say Abeela Sadik. It will immediately peg me as a Resistant, and the court will hand me over to the Landweer. I cringe to think of all the people I will put in jeopardy.
“Mevr. Sadik. Did you hear me? What is your relationship to Pieter Brinkerhoff?”
I hate myself for doing it, but I can think of nothing else. I faint.
Two women officers of the court, appointed to handle such situations, rush to my side, and get me to a chair. While they slap my face and hands, and bring me a glass of water, there is a minor commotion at the back of the courtroom, newcomers barging in.
“I am Pieter Brinkerhoff!” booms a loud, authoritative voice.
Christ Almighty, no!
Kazan strides in, shoving past the guards, waving documents, Jean-Luc trailing after. Despite the terrible danger to Kazan, to Jean-Luc, and to me, I have never been so happy to see someone.
“Step forward,” says the magistrate, who takes his papers and looks at them. “Who is this woman to you?”
“She is my wife. My name before I converted was Pieter Brinkerhoff. My name now is Aarib Sadik. You have both sets of IDs.”
The magistrate looks entirely more comfortable talking to a man. “Do you know about this bottle of brandy?”
“No, sir. I bought the boat secondhand years ago. I am ashamed the haram item was still on my boat and had not been removed and destroyed.”
“This woman is your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then.” The magistrate looks scathingly at Barbarossa. “I apologize to you and your wife for her embarrassment, and I apologize to the people of this court for wasting their time. However, you should be advised that women are not allowed to navigate boats or ships. From here on, please keep her in the cabin. Your boat will be released to you, your impound fee waived.” He pounds the gavel.
I follow my husband timidly out of the courtroom.
#
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Jean-Luc.” Kazan smiles at our navigator. “As soon as he saw you getting dragged away, he contacted Draak, who got in touch with me. I turned back as soon as I heard you'd been arrested.”
“Why did you come back, Jean-Luc?”
“It was what you said about needing people like me in the Resistance,” says Jean-Luc, passing me a bottle. “These last few days, I've felt alive again. I don't like hiding. I don't want to wait out the war in another country. The women and children will be safe, their husbands safe. I have no one to worry about except myself. So I came back.”
“I'm glad you did,” I squeeze his hand gratefully. “I was sure I was headed to the Landweer. Barbarossa was practically gleeful about it. What did I ever do to him?”
“Some Islamists can't stand to see a competent woman,” says Kazan. “It makes them crazy.”
“But how did you know the boat was registered in Pieter's name?”
Kazan tilts his head. “Jean-Luc again.”
Jean-Luc looks bashful. “I got bored sitting in the cabin for days on end, so I started going through everything. All the paperwork. I didn't know who Pieter Brinkerhoff was, but I knew they would confiscate the boat until the owner showed up. When Kazan got back, Draak helped us with the paperwork and fake IDs. The ink was practically still wet when we rushed into the courtroom.”
I am so happy to be on Allegro again, which we have sailed up into the swamps of De Biesbosch. It didn't seem wise to hang around Dordrecht. We filled up with provisions, enough for Jean-Luc to live on for a month. He plans to stay and work with the De Bevers cell. He and Draak seem to have hit it off.
I lean back and catch little patches of blue through the thick willows that form a green roof over our heads. For a moment there, I wondered if I'd ever see the sky again.
I am less happy about the new addition to our crew, one Laszlo Luzzatti, who returned from Antwerp with Kazan, and now sits on my boat, conniving to take him away again. He is an intense wiry man, unsmiling, who sits agitated like a school boy who needs to pee. Perhaps I am predisposed to dislike him because he recruited my husband for dangerous work. But then again, if he had not drafted Kazan, he would still be buying arms for Islamists. He does appear competent. Perhaps I should trust him. On the other hand, his plan aims to leave me alone again.
“Why do you have to go?” I say in annoyance. “What can be so important that others can't handle it? If you go, I'm going with you.”
“You can't,” says Kazan patiently. “It is far too dangerous. It shouldn't be more than a month. I swear, when I get back I'll never leave you again.”
“We both might be dead by then,” I say sullenly. “I don't want to wait here, wondering what's happening to you. Let me come with you. At least let me be in the same country as you. I promise to stay out of your way, standing patiently in the wings, like a good Muslim wife.” I can't help a bit of sarcasm.
Kazan sighs impatiently, tired of arguing. He looks at Laszlo, who shakes his head. Obviously I'm playing the type of woman he can't stand. Tough Chiclets. I don't like playing the hysterical woman, either, but I am not willing to lose what I just found. I want to nurture it and see it grow. I am willing to sacrifice a lot for the Resistance, but not everything.
“You nearly brought us down with Barbarossa,” says Laszlo sharply. “Do you know how close you were to getting Kazan and everyone on your boat killed? To exposing our entire organization? You were lucky he just thought you were smugglers.”
I look down at the deck, shamefaced. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have diverted Kazan into refugee work.”
“I'm glad you realize that. You should know Shirzad Sahar has been put in charge of hunting down international Resistance liaison officers. One of the liaison officers he's after is a Resistant named Reynard, and he is close to identifying him. He claims he will follow him to the ends of the earth.”
I let out an involuntary groan.
Laszlo continues. “He knows you are married to Kazan, and if he arrests you, he will torture you, discover Kazan is Reynard, and use you as bait to get him.”
“You plan to keep Kazan and me apart until after the war?” I ask archly.
“Salima, please,” says Kazan, giving me a look.
“At least tell me where you are going.” He can't make me stay, I reason.
Laszlo scowls again.
“You don't know her,” says Kazan, seeing my mutinous look. “Stubborn as an ox. If I don't tell her, she'll shoot holes in your boat.” He indicates the skiff tied up to the Allegro, on which Laszlo intends to abscond with my husband.
“I'd never do that,” I say flatly. “It might drift into Allegro and scratch her gelcoat.” Laszlo does not smile.
“She'd better not get captured.” Laszlo stands abruptly and leaves us alone, his meaning clear—You handle your wife.
Kazan makes us both sit down, and lowers his voice. Afraid the beavers will eavesdrop. “The Americans are going to launch a nuclear bomb thirty miles into space over Baghdad. The plan is to create an electronic magnetic pulse that will knock out all the electronics in a six to eight hundred mile radius. That will get Tehran, Riyadh, Ankara, Cairo, maybe Mecca. All of Syria, Iraq, most of Turkey. Computers, transistors, repeaters, cables, transfer stations, anything with a microchip, will be gone. Washing machines to cars to planes to giant generating plants and servers.”
“How long does it last?”
“The pulse is a second, but everything gets fried. There's no fix. They'll have to start from scratch. It'll be like a Twilight Zone. All of a sudden the world will grind to a stop. No one in the Islamic Armed Forces will be able to communicate. Their tanks and trucks won't run, trains won't run. No electricity. They'll have guns and other light arms. That's it.”
“That's why we've been leaking information that the Coalition forces are headed to Turkey?”
“Yes, the Islamists have been amassing forces on the border in Syria, Iraq, and Iran. The bulk of their fighting force will be in the strike zone. Almost their entire air force.”
Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) Page 37