Adrenaline (36 page)

“Then we mustn’t make a mistake,” Eliane said. I liked her. I’d been judged by so many people lately, from Howell to August to Mila, and Eliane just seemed to want to help me. I could have kissed her.

I gave her the keys and the description of the van. “And I need a cell phone. Programmed with a number where I can reach Mila.” I took off my baseball cap and she gasped at the encrusted blood. She insisted on examining the wound.

“It’s superficial, but it needs tending,” Eliane said.

“No time, and it would make him suspicious. How much time do you need to get to the van, load it, and get back?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Give me cash. A thousand euros, if you have it. I need to impress him that I cut a deal with Mr. Cadet.”

She went to a safe in the wall, keyed in a combination, then fingered her way through a pile of bills and handed them to me.

It felt human again, to not be pretending to be someone I wasn’t, to not be with scum like Piet. I wanted to savor the moment. Eliane was like a cool mom for people on the run.

And just like a mom, Eliane looked at me as though my thoughts were written on my forehead. “We have jobs to do. Go.”

She was right. I hurried back down the stairs. Piet had found a corner table and was sitting in a sullen funk, wolfing his beer.

I sat down and slid him a hundred euros. He blinked at me.

“Cadet owed me some money,” I said. “And gave me an advance on the next job.”

“This wasn’t worth the stop.”

“It was to me, Piet.”

I gestured at the waitress. I had to give Eliane time to find the van, plant the goods where he wouldn’t see them.

Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” began to play on the speakers. Not louder than the talkers, but enough to impart the necessary funky vibe to the suit-infested pub. I saw Piet lean back slightly and let the feel, the groove, of Taverne Chevalier ease into him. It had been a long, hard day. The mind, the body, wanted to relax, let the adrenaline burn itself out.

We ordered the specialty, thick Ardennes ham sandwiches, but Piet downed another beer in four long gulps and said, “No, coffee, please,” when the waitress asked if we wanted another round. I agreed: coffee.

“Get the sandwiches and coffee for takeaway, please,” Piet said.

“No,” I said. “I am sitting here, like a human being, and having my dinner.” I leaned forward and made my voice a hiss. “I got grazed by a bullet and lost blood today, Piet. I jumped onto a truck. If I want to eat here, we’re eating here. We’re taking a short break.”

How much did he still need me? I could see him weighing the balance by the way he glared at me. He could get up, walk out, force this to a fight. Shoot me in the darkness of the parking lot where we’d left the truck and the van, leave the van behind. The stop had raised his suspicions.

Hurry, Eliane
, I thought. I couldn’t risk a glance at my watch or the clock. He watched me, a hard, awful light in his eyes, so I took refuge in my beer.

Some of the suits—men speaking in hushed German—pushed past our table, making their way to their own. Piet
scowled. “I hate these suits. Rule makers. They think they run the world. All they do is set up walls and rules and then argue amongst themselves about what those walls will be.”

“Men like you and me, we tear down the walls,” I said. I couldn’t help thinking of my first few months in London, Lucy and me sitting in a wine bar on the side of Paternoster Square in the soft light of the old city, happy to be together and excited to be doing good work.

Good work had been my family’s specialty and my family’s tragedy. I had killed now to stay alive, and I wasn’t worrying about it, but I wouldn’t have wanted to describe those moments to my father or mother. My own life had marked me with my own permanent stains, the damned blood that didn’t wash off the guilty hand.

“Eh, tear them down, they build them back up.” He fell silent as the waitress set coffee down in front of us. “We’ll take our food to go, miss,” he told her.

“But—”

“No, Sam.” His voice was like a knife. “I don’t like this bar. I don’t want to be here a moment longer after I’m done with my coffee.”

This wasn’t a fight I could win, and I knew now that the closer we were to delivering the shipment to Edward, the more Piet would seize command. This was his deal; I was a replacement player. Fine. Let him think I was cowed. “All right, Piet.” But I didn’t really hurry.

“You’ve got time to finish your coffee,” he said. “I need to make a call. Stay here.” And he stood up and left the table, stepped outside the Taverne Chevalier. Panic inched up my bones. If he was running, I would lose the only thread I had to Edward, and to Yasmin, and to whatever
happened to Lucy. I couldn’t see him out the front window of the bar.

My gut said,
He’s dumping you, follow him
.

The waitress placed the bag with our order on the table. I slid her money and got up from the table.

I stepped out from Taverne Chevalier’s front door. Piet stood twenty feet away, closing the cell phone. Staring at me.

I
RAISED THE BAG OF SANDWICHES
. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” he said. “Come here, Sam.”

I did and he pushed me along the street. Then into the barely lit doorway of an art supply shop. “What, you’re going back to art school and need supplies?”

“Hands on the door.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

He ran probing hands along my legs, my arms. Searching to see if I had anything I shouldn’t have had. He pulled the wad of euros from my pocket.

“That’s enough. I don’t have a phone, I don’t have a weapon. You’re really getting our partnership off to a great start after I saved your ass. Give me my money.”

He pushed the wad back into my hand. “There. Sorry,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

I pretended to be angry. “I pulled your ass out of the fire, I found you the Lings’ shipment, I took the bigger risk today. If someone’s not going to trust someone, maybe it should be me not trusting you.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I think you think I’m not as smart as you, as tough as you.” He was threatened by me; I’d
jumped onto a moving truck and hijacked it.
Stupid
. This was about machismo. “Come on.”

“Let’s sit here and eat, if the bar’s making you nervous. I don’t like cold food.” I had to give Eliane time to return. Otherwise I’d have to pretend I’d lost the van key in the tavern and we’d have to come back and his suspicions would skyrocket.

He seemed to feel a bit guilty about his rant, so we sat on a bench on the road and ate our sandwiches. I saw a vaguely female form race around the corner on a scooter. I could tell it was Eliane and hoped that Piet couldn’t. He seemed engrossed in his food, though, hunger winning out over the desire to make time.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I said when the sandwich was done.

“Me, too,” he said.

I wanted to go back in alone; I needed that van key. Eliane was behind the bar, drawing a beer. She glanced up, caught sight of me, but gave no sign of recognition. Piet was close behind me.

We both went into the bathroom; I finished first and stepped back into the hallway. Eliane was three feet away, and she brushed by me, calling out orders to the barkeep. She pressed the key into my hand and it was in my pocket a moment later.

Piet’s hand clapped me on the shoulder. “You’re right, a break helped. I got new life. Let’s get going.”

We walked out into the darkness, the laughter and music of Taverne Chevalier fading as we headed down the avenue.

He kept his hand on my shoulder. In my pocket, I worked the key back onto the ring.

“So. Back to Amsterdam?” His phone call had to have
been to Edward, now that we had the cigarette shipment to camouflage his military gear.

“Yes. We’re meeting Edward and his people. We’ll get the shipment ready with their goods and on its way to Rotterdam and then we’ll get paid and you and I will go celebrate.”

“How long do we have until the meet?”

“Three hours.”

“All right,” I said.

The parking lot was in sight; I could see the truck, the van parked next to it. Nearly there. Within three hours, I would either be dead or I’d have killed Piet and the kidnappers and found Yasmin. And have Edward talking to me about where my wife and child were.

“You know, Sam,” he said, “you’re right. You have proved yourself, more than once. Here. You drive the truck.”

I stopped. No. Not what I wanted.

“No, that’s fine. You drive it,” I said.

“No. You drive the shipment. As a sign of trust in our partnership.”

I felt a chill settle into my bones. Either he was being sincere or he’d seen the key passed from Eliane to me.

Trust or suspicion. I still needed him; I didn’t know where the rendezvous was, and if I showed up without him I’d never get inside. “Fine, whatever, let me have the truck keys.”

He dug them out of his pocket, and traded them for the van keys.

“Just follow me,” he said.

“What if we get separated in traffic?”

“We won’t,” he said.

I got into the truck. Maybe that was all this was: he was
tired of driving the truck. Maybe that was all it was. But the phone, and the weapons, were now out of my reach. And once we got to the rendezvous point, there was no need for me to go near the van.

I was still heading, defenseless and alone, into the snake pit.

A
MSTERDAM, WELL PAST MIDNIGHT
. The night was a mirror of the city, the lights of Amsterdam reflected in the sky by a sprinkling of stars peering through the tracery of clouds. It was not a city that ever slept deeply or soundly. Too much business in Amsterdam needed the night.

I followed Piet. There would be ten of them, including Edward, if the count in the group in the video held true. We’d have to meet at a place with privacy for the weapons to be repackaged with the cigarettes. Some of the gang would be dispatched to unload the cigs. Another group would probably be inside the facility, guarding whatever Edward’s prize was. That division of targets might make it easier for me, but not for long.

Yasmin would be held separately, I guessed. I should be able to make a sweep and not worry about her in the cross fire.

Don’t you need a gun?
a little voice chimed in. That was, I told myself, only a temporary problem.

Piet drove to the southern edge of Amsterdam and stopped at what appeared to be an old brewery. An unweathered sign announced in Dutch that the brewery was closed
for renovations. Another truck was there, unmarked. Next to it was an Audi sedan, and I felt my heart jump.

The silver Audi I’d chased through the streets of London, with Edward and Lucy inside. Different license plate, but I recognized the scuff on the back bumper where he’d scraped through the jammed street to get away.

He had taken my wife. And I was close to him now. I felt a primal rage rise in me, the raw anger we like to think was banished with cave fires and wall paintings. But I couldn’t be angry. I had to be cold.

Thin lights flickered in the windows. They were here. This was it.

Time to live or die.

Piet had already walked back to the truck as I got out. “Van keys, please,” I said.

“Why?”

“I left my smokes in there.”

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Well, I do,” I said.

“Well, hell, you got a whole truck of cigs right there.”

“I don’t feel like opening crates.”

“Fine. Go get them.” And he pressed the van keys into my hand.

I turned and went back to the van. He went around the back of the truck, presumably to open up so the unloading could start.

Go.

I could only guess where Eliane had hidden the gear. Under the driver’s seat.

They took your wife and your child. Be cold
.

I made a show of searching the seat for the cigarettes in case Piet was watching.

Then I put my hand under the van’s seat.

Nothing. I leaned over, groped under the passenger seat. Nothing. No way Eliane would have hidden it under the back seats. I glanced into the emptiness of the van.