To minimize the effect of the rain I bent far over the handlebars. With my thoughts receding to the back of my helmet, I rode past the apartment building toward the bridge over the Boerenwetering. There was a big puddle on the road in front of me. I could pass it on the left, but that would mean swerving into the middle of the road. On the right was the sidewalk. I looked into my rearview mirror and saw a heavy black form quickly approaching. If I went to the left I’d be right in the path of the oncoming car.
I squeezed my brakes, turned the handlebars to the right, heaved the front wheel onto the sidewalk and was completely unprepared for the crash that came next, for at that very moment the car grazed the back of the scooter. I heard the thing crack beneath me and felt it topple over, despite my efforts to keep it upright. With dogged determination I held onto the handlebars and pulled my right leg out from under the scooter. Creaking and spitting sparks, it juddered across the paving stones until it hit the wall and came to a halt. I was lying on my stomach in the water, backpack on my back, helmet on my head. The scooter was beside me. The entire rear fender was torn off, right up to the saddle. The crash had left the front fender bent and torn as well. My whole body tensed up, and I felt all my muscles tingling and straining. I jumped up and looked behind me. Ten metres away the car was idling next to the sidewalk, its brake lights glowing red.
Cursing and roaring, I pulled the scooter upright, set it on its kickstand and walked up to the waiting car. I stepped off the sidewalk to get to the driver’s side, and at that moment the brake lights went out. For a few seconds it was dark and silent except for the rain, which was still coming down in buckets. Then I heard the dry click of an automatic gearbox, and two blazing white back-up lights came on. All at once the roaring engine drowned out any other sound. The car was coming right at me.
I jumped—out of the path of the car and off the road, onto the sidewalk in a single bound. I raced to the scooter, climbed onto the remains of the saddle, pushed it off its kickstand and attempted to ride away. The torn front fender was dragging along the ground and part of it got stuck between the front wheel and the fork. I stopped, braced my foot against the frame, picked up the piece of plastic and jerked it loose. Then I climbed back on the stripped vehicle without a second to spare. The car had stopped and had taken up a position near an exit right across the sidewalk. I couldn’t get past it, not by the road and not by the sidewalk. So I had to go the other way. I opened the throttle, leaned the scooter to the right, made a tight right-hand turn with a skidding back tire and tore off, back to the front of the RAI. Without fenders the scooter was a fountain on wheels. Behind me I saw the approaching car, slipping and sliding. It was a large car and it accelerated effortlessly through the rain. I gave the scooter full throttle, shot into Scheldestraat and continued riding down the middle of the street between the cars that were going to and from the RAI, where there was the most room. The little engine under me screamed as if I were trying to strangle it. Meanwhile, with bright headlights and flashing blinkers, the car stormed up behind me. The drivers on the right and left pulled over to the side, and in my rearview mirrors I could see him gaining on me. I had to do something. The distance was shrinking with every second. I squeezed the brakes hard, flung the scooter to the right, slid between two cars and up onto the wide sidewalk and turned the scooter around, front wheel toward the street. Gasping, I looked around. In the middle of the street was the big dark car, an Audi. I’d never be able to beat it. There was a side street to the right maybe two hundred metres farther on. Too far. The Audi would get there before I did. Going to the left would take me back to the RAI, to the big square in front of it and the street where he had already hit me once before. Feverishly I scanned the area. I was safe as long as I was on the sidewalk and the car was in the middle of the street. Or so I thought—until my reasoning process suddenly broke off. The Audi’s side window slid down noiselessly, and between the passing cars I saw in a flash the barrel of a pistol. Instinctively I pulled the scooter to the left and accelerated. Behind me I heard a small bang, muffled by the rain, immediately followed by the tinkling noise of a shattered shop window.
The scooter leaped forward and rattled over the sidewalk. I saw the Audi next to me racing backwards down the street. It went almost as fast in reverse as it did going forward. I zipped between two parked cars and crossed the street, brushing past the back of the Audi, then tore up the other way to Churchilllaan. The sudden turn gave me a lead that I managed to maintain until I got to the corner. There the Audi caught up with me just before the curve to the left and hurled the scooter from the road. Again I pulled my legs up until I was almost standing on the saddle, hands on the handlebars, as the scooter bounced down the sidewalk and slammed into the wall, where it came to a stop. Upright. I heard the frame groan beneath me. And crack. But above it all I heard the unbroken sound of the little engine. Without even thinking I opened the throttle again and spurted away. Everything that could break off was already off. The scooter had been reduced to a bare frame with an engine, and it seemed to run all the faster for it. I tore off, down the sidewalk, down the shoulder and onto the wrong traffic lane, where I was safe. Until the next intersection. The Audi got there first. It turned left and ran the red light. With flashing lights the car stopped at the beginning of the roadway. I stopped too. We were a hundred metres apart, maybe less. There was no traffic between us and all the more around us. An accumulation of cars quickly formed behind the Audi, and they couldn’t go anywhere. Flashing lights. Bleating horns. Pouring rain.
The Audi began advancing slowly, almost in slow-motion, creeping closer and closer. Its powerful engine was capable of building up enough speed to crush me, scooter and all, in five or six seconds flat. Somehow I had to make my way to the centre of town. It was the only thing I could think of. There in all the little streets and alleys I’d be able to shake him and disappear. But not here. In the broad streets of Amsterdam South the car had the advantage. The straightaways were too long, the curves too wide. Not here, I thought, and stepped on the gas.
Cautiously I steered to the left side of the road, along the edge of the sidewalk. The Audi followed in my direction and blocked the way through, ready to rush onto the sidewalk and corner me. We crept toward each other with excruciating slowness, waiting for the moment when the other guy would make up his mind to go left or right, or straight ahead. We both put off the decision as long as possible, because whoever decided would be committing himself to one plan of action, precluding all other possibilities, trusting that with his speed at his disposal he had made the right choice.
I stopped, the engine chugging between my knees. Rainwater dripping from my helmet. I was drenched. My entire body was shaking in my dripping clothes. I couldn’t keep this up. I could barely see what the other driver was doing. Every move I made was by feel and intuition, and that would have been fine if I had been shooting through the streets of downtown Amsterdam at top speed. There I knew every corner and every intersection. But here, face to face with a two-and-a-half litre V6 four-wheel drive Audi, that was out of the question. I accelerated, turned the scooter to the right, heaved it onto the grassy strip that separated the two lanes of traffic, and shot to the other side, spraying mud everywhere. This time the Audi responded immediately. Snarling and roaring, the heavy vehicle plunged into the low shrubs. Slipping on the smooth grass, turning and spinning to get itself aimed in the right direction, the monster came after me. I stayed on the grassy strip, riding as fast as I could, because there I could take the lead. If I were to choose one of the traffic lanes, either to the left or the right, the car would have the advantage. I rode to the bridge behind the Apollo Hotel. There I shot off the median strip and onto the right-hand lane, past the cars that were waiting at the traffic light. I turned right and crossed the bridge, then turned left onto the road running along the canal. The Audi took no notice of the one-way traffic and came after me at full speed. By the time I got to the last section, past the rowing club, my lead h
ad already shrunk, but now I was at the edge of the Pijp and I knew that from the next side street on the advantage would be mine. I slid through the curve and across the sidewalk, the Audi less than ten metres behind me. A hundred metres further, then a sharp left. Two hundred metres, another sharp left. Another hundred metres, right-hand turn and immediately another left, across the Ceintuurbaan at full speed, left, right, and right again. I was riding as fast as I could, nothing to lose, yet the Audi was still too close. Street after street I managed to put more distance between us, but not enough. I took two more sharp, ninety-degree turns and flew toward Ferdinand Bol. Riding at top speed I arrived at the intersection, bounced over the tram rails, smashed the front wheel into a pothole that the rain had made invisible, lost control of the handlebars and succeeded in jumping off just in time before the scooter flew away, sputtering, crashed against the tracks of a big loading machine and burst apart. Apparently the fuel line had been severed, because a second later flames started shooting out. I ran away, looked around and saw a tram at the tram stop on the other side of the intersection. In a frantic sprint I squeezed out every bit of energy that was left in me. Stumbling and gasping for breath, I reached the front door of the tram and jumped inside.
‘DRIVE!’ I screamed.
The driver turned around and looked at me with big, astonished eyes. Another troublemaker in his tram, I saw him thinking.
‘GO!’ I shouted. ‘DRIVE!’
I turned around and saw that the passenger from the car had jumped out and was running toward the same tram door. With one enormous kick I tried to slam the door shut behind me. Immediately the driver got out of his seat.
‘Hey!’ he shouted, grabbing me by the shoulder. ‘Knock it off!’ He was bigger than me. He pulled me away from the door with his huge hand and dragged me backward. Just then, the man from the Audi tried to kick the door open again. Provoked, the tram driver turned around.
‘Ah, another comedian,’ he said, and looked out through the window. He and I both saw the pistol that the man was trying to stick through the rubber door seal. I dove behind the driver and climbed into his seat. Pounding my fist on the bell button I pushed the handle forward, and with a jerk the tram began moving.
The steel wheels howled on the rails. People screamed and shouted, tumbling against each other. The tram pushed the Audi aside with a dull thud and began accelerating. The man at the front door tried to find something to hold onto, but ten metres further on he slammed into a lamppost. There was no room for him on the narrow sidewalk. With my hand on the bell I kept pushing the handle forward. The tram went faster and faster, down the Ferdinand Bol to the canal that ran past the Heineken Brewery. I couldn’t tell whether the intersection at the bridge to the Weteringcircuit was free, and I had no time to worry about it. Clanging, rattling, cracking and squeaking, the tram flew across the intersection. The Audi was following at a distance. The right side of the car was crushed, but that didn’t slow it down. My chances of shaking him were getting smaller and smaller. Even smaller than I thought.
‘Okay, that’s it!’ With one violent tug the tram driver yanked me out of his seat and hurled me into the aisle. He assumed his rightful position and brought the tram to a halt in the middle of the Weteringcircuit. I crept between the passengers on my hands and knees, shouting at them to get out of the way. No matter what happened, I couldn’t stay there. If the guy in the Audi managed to catch me, it would be all over. His partner was still lying somewhere on the sidewalk, and forgiveness was probably not high on his list of priorities. And if it were up to the driver of the tram we’d just sit there until the police came. That would be much worse, because I couldn’t fight with the police. I screamed and flailed in every direction, pushing people out of the way without noticing who or what I was hitting. I had no choice. I had to get out of this trap. At the next door down I pulled on the emergency cord and the door sprang open. I rolled out, scrambled to my feet, ran across to the other side of the circle and disappeared into the narrow streets of the Weteringbuurt.
It was busy in Leidsestraat, drenched people everywhere. Everyone was trudging close together through the narrow street, snack bars were full of steaming, dripping groups of customers. Hamburgers, pizzas, bagels, ordinary sandwiches, French fries—food of every kind was being bolted down all around me, and in the crush of greasy smells, salty and sweet mixed together, my stomach pushed aside all my body’s protests. With a cheeseburger and a large coffee in hand I searched for the most remote table at McDonald’s and, hidden in the crowd, I promptly devoured the burger. The harsh flavours and soft texture were just what I needed. My hands shook and my teeth chattered, involuntary reactions of my relaxing muscles. My head was spinning. As I took tiny sips from the piping hot coffee, my first thoughts slowly began to return, and they were not encouraging. I opened my laptop on the small table, plugged in my cell phone and tried to make contact with the internet. With anyone. Anywhere.
33 Bellilog 06.20.04
Okay, if I had any doubts, I can forget them as of now. That in itself is something. No matter how little I know, I no longer doubt. This is real.
Mail from: Jess
Subject: return flight
at the airport, flight cancelled. terror warning. can you believe this? these people see attacks everywhere. so i’m back at the hotel. book new flight tomorrow, then soon in a’dam. where are you, because i don’t think any planes are landing where you are
… love u, jess
Mail from: HB2
Subject: Re: Re: Uncle
No, no beard. Uncle is from the other side. Fundamentalist white. God himself with a gun. One of those. My family says you have to be careful. Discussing here what we’re going to do.
And where does that network come from? This is big, this is chaos. Mail. I’m waiting.
Mail to: HB2
Subject: Excuse me?
Fundamentalist white? And you’re going to do something about it there?
By all means. M.
34 Defensive position
I couldn’t go back to the hotel on Vijzelstraat. I had to find another address, another hotel in another part of the city. In one week’s time I had been in more hotels in the Netherlands than in the thirty preceding years. I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, surrounded by the noise of voices and music. Dozens of school children were trying to outdo each other screaming for the attention they already had, wanting to confirm it every minute of the day. Tourists were calling to each other from one table to the next. In the steady clamour it was impossible to have two intelligible, consecutive thoughts. I picked up my cell phone and sent a text message to Wolfsen.
Meeting discovered. You’re being followed. Don’t do anything.
I pushed the buttons and sent the message. Two minutes later a message came back.
Okay. WorldWare is waiting for you.
I switched off my phone. Now that I had used it to make contact with Wolfsen it had become unusable. The 06 cell phone number could be recovered from Wolfsen’s phone, and from that moment on I’d be traceable. I gathered my things together, walked into Leidsestraat and bought a new cell at the first phone shop I came to. I threw the old one away in a garbage can somewhere near a tram stop on a canal. Whoever found it could have it. At the Koningsplein I turned left onto the Singel and walked to the University Library a little further on. In the information centre were about fifty PCs, speedy things with a fast internet connection. Soon I was safely ensconced in the back rooms of Amsterdam academia.
E-mail, that’s what it was all about. Always. Without e-mail and access to the internet there wasn’t much I could do. The internet has become a part of our world that can neither be closed down nor monitored. It’s a public logbook, anonymous and personal. Virtual society has become actual, not in the images and games and applications that can be found there but in the connections you can make through the internet from everywhere to everywhere. Not very long ago, the mail went either to your home or your place
of work. You had two delivery spots. Now I could be reached at as many virtual addresses as I chose, all of which could be accessed from every other conceivable location. That was real, not virtual. I didn’t know where Huib Breger lived in South Africa, but I had found him and he had managed to find me. That’s what it was all about.
HB2 sent me the address of a website along with login credentials, instructing me to disconnect from the internet and to log in at that address on another computer. And to erase this e-mail. Dry. No nonsense.
I wrote the login on a scrap of paper, deleted the message from the folder of incoming e-mails and also deleted it from the recycle bin. Then I closed the browser and logged in again on another computer. The login I’d received from Huib took me directly to a chat program.
‘Hi,’ it said on my screen. ‘Where were you? The chaos here is aggressive.’
I typed my answer: ‘Busy.’
‘This is safe,’ he wrote. ‘This is a secure server. No one runs it except me, and the identity of the server is hidden behind that of another one.’
‘Then the other one is in danger.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Too late,’ I typed. ‘I worry.’
Huib told me how he had shielded the server by hiding behind that of the Johannesburg police headquarters. ‘By routing via Israel,’ he wrote, ‘we can get into the HC&P network without them being able to localize us.’ Even if they did succeed in finding his computer they’d end up with the South African police, and if they tried to hack through that they’d find themselves at an address in Tel Aviv, where the contact would be scrambled before being routed to him.
Mr. Miller Page 17