While the area is quite near to the city center—the railroad embankment that supports the railroad between Sloterdijk and Centraal Station passes over the south side of the area, where deep moats used to separate the area from the Haarlemmerdijk area—the Westelijke Eilanden have a walled-in feeling, the narrow quiet streets almost free of cars.
Katla went past the small square on her left and straight onto Grote Bickersstraat that cut straight across Bickerseiland until she came to the second street on her left, Kleine Bickerstraat. After crossing the Galgenbrug, or Gallows Bridge, she turned right on Prinseneiland and followed the road that circled the island. After the first bend in the road she took the first street on her right and stopped.
“This is the best spot.” Katla turned off the engine. “The Drieharingenbrug.”
Schijf dismounted and looked at the narrow bascule bridge. “Not very wide.”
“Exactly,” Katla said. “It can’t be crossed by anything wider than bicycles, mopeds and scooters.”
“Is that why they call it Three Herring Bridge? Because it’s as wide as three herrings laid out head to tail?”
“No.” Katla pointed to a house on the other side of the Realengracht. “That house over there has a plaque with three herrings over the door. Belonged to a wealthy merchant.”
Schijf looked around. “Quiet here.”
“It’s pretty remote,” Katla said. “And tourist season is over.”
They walked from the Vespa onto the narrow bridge. Katla pointed to a similar but wider bridge in the distance. “The Zandhoekbrug, the nearest bridge to cross by car, and they’d have to go down the wrong way of a one-way street.” She circled her finger counterclockwise. “If we block that bridge, anyone by car on Realeneiland would have to drive around Zoutkeetsgracht and down Planciusstraat to get to the Sloterdijkbrug.”
“Or around Westerdok.”
Katla shook her head. “That’s even longer around. Meanwhile, we can return the way we came, go either right to Nieuwe Teertuinen or take a left back to Bickerseiland. This is the ideal spot for an exchange.”
They crossed to the Realeneiland and Katla pointed at the posts blocking the end of the street. “No cars can pass beyond this point, so anyone going up to the bridge would have to leave their car behind.”
“What if they’re armed?”
“As with any proper exchange, you place the goods in escrow. In this case, your papers and the microchip will be in the trunk of a car parked at the Zandhoekbrug. We’ll hand them a walkie-talkie and tell them where the goods are once we’re out of sight.”
“You really think it will be that easy?”
“No, but it will be the safest way to exchange something they’ll be happy to kill for.”
Schijf nodded. “Set it up.”
-o-
An hour before dawn, Katla drove her Citroën van down the quay to the Korte Prinsengracht, where she parked close to bridge 1901, an elevated walkway over the water of Korte Prinsen Canal for pedestrians and cyclists. She opened the back doors of the van and took down a steel ramp to guide the Aprilia motor scooter to street level. After putting the ramp back inside, she took a long grey bag from the back and closed the doors, then rode the Aprilia scooter to the Drieharingenbrug, the long grey bag slung across her back. She parked the Aprilia at a high wooden fence, stood on the scooter’s seat, and lowered the long bag down the other side of the fence, where the grey bag, hanging by its strap, would be close to invisible against the colour of the worn wood.
Katla got back on the Aprilia and rode the scooter to the Zandhoekbrug. The bridge was not wide enough for two cars to pass, except Smart Cars or Fiat 500s, but she doubted if the people she’d spoken with would drive small economy cars. They’d probably arrive in luxury sedans. She unlocked the side door of an off-white Ford Transit van parked near the bridge and took a Samsonite case identical to Schijf’s briefcase from the rear. Watching the Drieharingenbrug, she walked back until she was out of sight, then hid the Samsonite case where she could pick it up in an instant.
When she was finished with her preparations, dawn was peeping over the houses. Katla rode the Aprilia past Squash City over bridge 1901 and went to pick up Schijf.
-o-
Katla parked the Aprilia scooter against the wooden fence, just around the corner from the Drieharingenbrug. She got up on the seat and checked her view of the narrow bridge from behind the fence.
Tendrils of early morning mist curled up from the still water of the Realengracht. The bascule bridge appeared to be standing in a low cloud. Katla carefully studied the houses lining the deserted quay. So far, only two windows were lit, and they had been illuminated when she’d been there an hour before. Maybe insomniacs. Behind her, the converted warehouses were still dark.
Katla stepped back down from the scooter. Schijf was teasing her short hair, flattened from the helmet.
“You’re sure they don’t know what you look like?” Katla asked. “If they know, you won’t be able to pretend to be from LKE.”
“Even if they hacked my ex-employer’s personnel files, I don’t have long blond hair and glasses anymore, do I?”
Katla inspected the page-cut brown hair and the coloured contact lenses. “I wouldn’t be fooled, but I never look at hair styles or accessories.”
“Never?”
“Too easy to change. I’ll stay out of sight. As soon as you get the money and give them the walkie-talkie, walk back and I’ll be waiting to take you away from here.” Katla held her shoulders, looking her in the eyes. “Forget that they tried to kill you, okay?”
“Easier said than done. I’d like to bring a gun and shoot the fuckers.”
“That would be a bad idea. I’m sure they won’t be alone and they’ll turn you into a sieve before you have a chance to pull a gun.”
“So where will you be?” Schijf peeked around the corner at the Drieharingenbrug. “You’re coming with me?”
“I’ll stay here.” Katla held out her hand. “Give me the briefcase.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I told you, I’m going to put it in a car at the other bridge, where they can collect it if we want to give it to them.”
Schijf handed her the briefcase and said, “Better be careful with this.”
“Don’t worry.”
She walked away with the Samsonite briefcase and turned the corner, walking quickly to the hiding place where she switched briefcases and walked on, making sure to slow down again when she came into view for Schijf. She put the fake Samsonite into the van and looked at her watch, then backed the van closer to the bridge, making it impossible for a car to pass through. The clients would be there in twenty minutes, and she couldn’t move the van at the last moment. The partition between the cab and storage looked solid, but she could fold it back and access the storage from the cab. Leaving the Ford van in gear and on the handbrake to make sure it couldn’t be moved, she attached the wire to the levers on the inside of the cab doors and exited the van through the sliding door.
She walked back slowly to the Drieharingenbrug and said, “If they try anything, we’ll tell them to open the rear doors. If they play nice, we’ll tell them to open the sliding door.”
“What did you do to the rear doors?”
“Nothing serious, don’t worry.”
Some fifteen minutes later they heard the rumble of heavy engines as three SUVs came around the corner of Zandhoek and drove down Realengracht until they reached the posts.
“You’re up,” Katla said. “Don’t spook them, just take the money and give them the walkie-talkie.”
As Schijf walked to the narrow bridge, Katla retrieved the long grey bag and fished out a scoped rifle. Standing on the Aprilia’s seat, she rested her elbows on the fence and checked through the scope as six men left the SUVs. Four men stayed with the cars, watching the low mist over the dark water of the Realengracht, the other two walked to the Drieharingenbrug, edging slowly around the steel raili
ngs that narrowed the access slope. Schijf was already on the bridge itself, halting in the middle. The man in front was empty-handed, the one who followed carried a fat satchel, which would presumably hold one million euro.
A car honked twice on Bickerseiland and Katla looked over at the Zandhoeksbrug. A Mercedes with a taxi sign was idling close to the Ford van, the driver evidently hoping his honking would summon the inconsiderate driver of the van. Katla turned her attention back to the exchange. The leader held the walkie-talkie in his hand, looking none too pleased. With his free hand, he reached into his jacket and drew a gun, handing the walkie-talkie back to Schijf and motioning for her to walk back to Prinseneiland.
Not good.
The honking of the taxi driver became more insistent and Katla cursed under her breath. A taxi driver should know his way around the Westelijke Eilanden. It would be illegal to ride back down a one-way street, but there was no traffic and he could always tell a cop that the road was blocked.
She heard a car door slam and checked back at the taxi driver who had gotten out of his taxi and was circling the Ford van.
Fuck.
She swivelled back to Schijf being forced to walk back to Prinseneiland and aimed the rifle at the leader. The one behind him was still following with the satchel, which was probably empty. Or filled with old newspapers. She aimed at the leader’s throat just as a low whoomph sounded from the direction of the Zandhoeksbrug.
Katla didn’t have to check to know that the taxi driver had opened the cab door and set off the smoke bomb she’d planted near the handbrake. She fired twice, the red paintball pellets hitting the gunman in the throat. He staggered back with the pain, his free hand flying up to his throat as he fired his gun at Schijf. The woman spasmed, but she wasn’t mortally wounded. Slamming the walkie-talkie in the gunman’s face, Schijf pushed him against the railing of the bridge, while Katla fired two more paintball pellets in the face of the bagman with the satchel.
The four men with the SUVs, momentarily distracted by the smoke bomb going off, turned their attention back to the Drieharingenbrug as Schijf pushed the gunman over the railing of the bridge into the water of the canal, nearly toppling after him. The bagman dropped the satchel and staggered back to his friends, his hands covering his face. While two men ran to the bridge, the other two took guns from the SUVs and fired at Schijf, who had one hand pressed against her side as she limped in Katla’s direction, the satchel hanging from her other hand. Katla fired a few more paintball pellets at the men on the bridge and tossed the rifle. She dropped back on the Aprilia and started the scooter, turning it around as Schijf came around the corner, pale as a ghost and clutching the satchel.
Schijf climbed behind her on the scooter. “I’m hit.”
“Hold on.”
Katla raced back to Galgenstraat, crossed to Bickerseiland and rode along the cobblestone road of Bickersgracht to the Hendrik Jonkerplein. Instead of taking the tunnel to Haarlemmer Houttuinen, Katla took the Blokmakerstraat to Squash City and got onto the bicycle path leading to bridge 1901. She stopped under the railroad next to the basin of Korte Prinsengracht and switched off the engine.
Schijf was leaning against her. “Christ, it hurts.”
“Dismount,” Katla said. “Let’s take a look.”
Schijf stepped from the scooter and opened her coat. Katla took the satchel from her hand and put it on the seat of the Aprilia, then checked the wound in the woman’s side. Her white shirt was coated a deep red and there was no exit wound.
An early morning cyclist came from the Korte Prinsengracht, heading for Bickerseiland and Katla stepped closer to Schijf, as if they were lovers. The cyclist glanced at them, but continued on his way.
As Schijf looked at the cyclist pedalling away, Katla rammed a gloved fist in her injured side while her other fist punched into her throat. Not hard enough to damage the trachea, but enough to shock the breath out of her. Katla squatted and hooked her fingers in the cuffs of her target’s pants. Standing up, she lifted Schijf and tilted her over the bridge railing.
Pinwheeling her arms, Schijf fell backward over the railing, banged her head against a stone pillar of the railroad viaduct, and somersaulted forward into the cold dark water.
Katla didn’t bother looking over the railing, but turned back to the Aprilia and the satchel hanging over the seat. She lifted it by the straps and felt the heft. The bagman had dropped the satchel and left the money for Schijf to grab. Of course he’d been stung in the face with paintball pellets, but he’d abandoned a bag with a million euro without a second thought. If something looks too good to be true, it probably is. Katla tossed the satchel over the railing, where it snagged on a pipe and dangled over the dark water.
She abandoned the Aprilia and jogged to her Citroën van, climbed into the storage space and sat down on the stool behind the one-way windows in the back. Overhead, police cars with wailing sirens broke the early morning quiet as they raced down the Haarlemmer Houttuinen.
A dark SUV edged around the corner of the Korte Prinsengracht and halted, two men slipping from the car and creeping to the Aprilia. She could see a flashlight shining down the side of the bridge. One of the men climbed over the railing to retrieve the satchel. They must’ve put a tracker in the satchel, or they wouldn’t have found the spot so easily.
Good thing she hadn’t taken the satchel into her van, or they would’ve found her.
Two more SUVs arrived and the two men from the bridge returned, one of them holding the satchel triumphantly over his head. Another guy stepped from the third SUV and they argued, then one of them went back to the bridge and returned with her Aprilia scooter. The leader gestured and two men picked up the scooter and lifted it into the back of the first SUV.
Katla waited until they all got back into their cars, took out her remote and pressed the button. A minor charge went off under the Aprilia’s seat and the men in the SUV threw open the doors, falling out of the car as the sparks ignited the fuel in the scooter, setting the Aprilia ablaze inside the SUV. The two men were hauled into the two remaining SUVs and both roared past her to the Haarlemmer Houttuinen, while the burning scooter torched the remaining SUV, dark smoke billowing into the morning air.
Katla climbed from the storage space into the cab of her Citroën and followed the SUVs to the main road. At the green light she crossed the road and took the tunnel back to Bickerseiland, driving the primer-spotted delivery van sedately down Grote Bickerstraat.
A police motorcycle blocked the road at the intersection, the rider motioning for her to drive in the direction of the Galgenbrug. In the Galgenstraat Katla stopped the Citroën and fished the target’s Samsonite from the bushes, tossing it on the passenger seat, then drove straight down to the Sloterdijkerbrug and away from the Westelijke Eilanden.
-o-
Under the weeping sky, Katla sat on the same bench as their first meeting and watched the midget struggle up the artificial hill. Under the umbrella, his face was red from the exertion as he came closer. She didn’t offer him a seat, but he covered the wet bench with a plastic bag and plonked himself down next to her.
“Not really ‘low key’, was it?” the midget panted. “Bombs going off and everything? I think the police thought they had a terrorist attack on their hands.”
“You think Loki had something to do with that?” Katla shook her head. “Some people are more volatile than others.”
“Right.” The midget rolled his eyes. “Do you have my microchip?”
Katla handed him the ziplock bag. “Doesn’t look like a million euro, does it?”
“A million?” The midget checked the microchip through the transparent plastic. “Who says it’s worth that much?”
“That’s what the competition offered, so it’s likely to be a lot more.”
The midget gave her a crafty smile and put the microchip in his inside pocket. “Well, you earned your bonus.”
“Wasn’t easy,” Katla said. “Arranging for a diver to get the microch
ip before the police fished her corpse out of the Prinsengracht.”
The crafty smile disappeared from the midget’s face. “Diver?”
“Schijf was mistrustful. She carried the microchip on her person, instead of in the case with the research papers.” Katla rose and walked around the bench to her bicycle. “Luckily she carried it in a zipped pocket. If it had slipped out, it would’ve been lost forever.”
His hand trembled as he fished the microchip from his pocket and looked at it. “It has been under water?”
“We let it drip dry, didn’t want to mess with it more than necessary. You never know what happens if you put a hair dryer on sensitive electronics.” Katla swung her leg over her all-terrain bicycle. “Anyway, nice doing business with you and feel free to pass our pager number along.”
He was still sitting there, deflated, as she pushed off and zoomed down the hill. The midget could try to revive the microchip, but submerging the microchip in salt water and drying it on a electromagnet had pretty much destroyed it. Not that she cared all that much, but the world didn’t seem to need more accurate and undetectable weapons of mass murder.
Katla pedalled back to the city, laughing in the rain.
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Microchip Murder - A Katla KillFile (Amsterdam Assassin Series) Page 3