Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (12 page)

To demonstrate to us Allah's merciful love.

Purple-faced corpses swing like metronomes in the wind.

A large crowd has already gathered to see the spectacle, and we push to the front to get a good view.  It is important I see it. 

We stop by every Friday, not out of morbid curiosity, but to harden our resolve.  It is easy to get used to oppression.  The human spirit yearns for normality, and will create it even in the most vile of circumstances.  I have read how even in Nazi concentration camps, people filled their days with “normal” activities.  Making the best of a bad situation.  It is hard to be angry all the time.  To keep up the fight.

A black Mercedes pulls into the middle of the square.  A young woman about twenty-five is roughly pulled out of the back seat.  She is beautiful, with long blond hair.  She stands stoically, hands bound, without a veil, because she is disgraced.  They want us to see the suffering in her face.

A
mutawa
unrolls a piece of paper, and, like a town crier, reads the woman's crimes.  The crowd murmurs, shocked that any woman could behave so lewdly.  It's all lies, of course.  A soldier stuffs a rag into her mouth to gag her, strips her naked to the waist, and ties her to a post.  The
mutawa
then recites Quran 24:2: “The woman and the man guilty of adultery or fornication, flog each of them with a hundred stripes.”  As if that is not enough, he reads from a Hadith:  “If an adulteress is married, there is one hundred lashes, then stoning to death.”

The first thwack brings no blood, but her body jerks, and a pink diagonal slash rises on her back.  By twenty, her back is red with blue bruises.  She twists and turns, trying to save herself, her anguished groans unbearable.  By fifty, you can hear flesh tearing, and by seventy-five, her back is a bloody hash tag of red bleeding gashes, her moans now whimpers.  By ninety, her knees give out and she hangs unconscious by her wrists.  The flogging goes on.

Nasira and I clutch each other, our hands white knuckles.

A truck appears and empties a pile of fist-sized rocks in a pile.  The
mutawa
orders a soldier to splash her with water to wake her, then turns to the crowd and tells them to begin the execution.  Men and women rush forward to the pile of rocks, grab them, and begin throwing them at the woman.  Rocks thud against her body, which jerks in all directions as she is hit.  The crowd hollers taunts as they pitch stones, yelping in victory when they hit her head.  Blood pours in rivulets down her face.  Finally she topples over.

I can't take any more.  I grab Nasira's arm and we leave. 

Later I learn the stoning went on for two hours.  A doctor finally pronounced the woman dead, her body hoisted up on a spear in front of the Royal Palace.  A warning to all women not to let themselves get raped. 

Arrests

With Rosalie captured, Nasira will have to go underground or be secreted out to Denmark.  Out of action for a month or two.  Whenever I leave one of our group, I always wonder if I will ever see them again.  People disappear out of each other's lives all the time, in an instant.  Every time I say goodbye, it could be forever.  Often it is.

After we part, I stop on the corner and buy a newspaper.  The vendor today is an Egyptian Christian who fled after the fall of Hosni Mubarak in 2011.  He calls himself Muhammad.  The vendor changes often.  All of them use the name Muhammad.  I think they are all members of the Resistance, but I can't be sure, unless he has a message for me. 

Muhammad eats a falafel while he waits for customers.  A glob of tahini sticks to his beard.  “Try the crossword puzzle today.  It's a bit of a challenge,” he says. 

I buy a copy of
De Telegraf,
place change in a shallow dish so he doesn't have to touch me, and thank him.

All the major papers in Holland have been bought out by EyeUniverse, the Islamic television mega-media conglomerate.  They fired all of the reporters, and replaced them with Islamist propaganda writers.  I scan the paper, which tells me how brilliantly jihad is progressing.  It doesn't mention the victories of Coalition Forces under German direction in Romania and Bulgaria.  We have our own methods of finding out information.  The only reason to buy the newspaper is to learn the weather.  And to read the crossword puzzle. 

Today the crossword puzzle tells me that the
Fredrika Maria
has moved to the Southern Canal Belt. 

I don't dare go in the daylight.  I bike south along Keisersgracht to Vondelpark, where I sit near a group of grackles, which is what we call groups of mothers in their  burkas who meet in the park with their children.  No one will notice me.

It is still March, and darkness falls early.  When the mothers head home, I bike to the Boerenwetering Canal.  I see the
Fredrika Maria
, parked between two barges.  After locking my bike on the iron railing, I hop down into the boat.

Most of our group is there.  Everyone is anxious and confused, passing bottles of strong home-brewed beer.  I've been in a stir every since my botched pickup.  With Rosalie's capture, my level of agitation rattles my bones.  I drink long and hard, and pass the bottle on. 

The raid was worse than Nasira reported. 

Fourteen Resistants were arrested in the sweep.  Leaders and liaison officers.  Eight of them women.  Many had large sums of money on them and multiple sets of false IDs.  Berger was arrested outside his house.  He yelled a warning to his wife.  When the Landweer broke in, they found her tossing documents into the stove.  She managed to swallow a small thumb drive, but they retrieved a few documents.  They got reports on resistance activities all over the country.  At every house they discovered secret hideaways—behind water cisterns, in attics and cellars, under bins of food—and came away with tracts, caches of money, detailed lists and addresses of members of the Resistance, and guns.

Gerda shambles in from the wheelhouse.  She looks like she hasn't slept in days and smells of cigarettes.  She stands at the end of the long communal table, leaning on her hands. 

“Please sit down, everyone,” she says, her voice gravely, looking around at each of our faces.  “You have all heard about the sweeps yesterday.  Several groups have been hit hard.  This is a critical time, and we all have too much to do for a single one of us to get caught.  Your identities are probably safe.  The Landweer picked up Karel, which could've been a disaster, but he made an escape and was shot before he could reveal anything.”

Two of us lost—Berger captured, Karel killed.

Several of the women gasp, and Edda, who is also a courier, stifles a sob.  There is no mistaking that look—when the one you love is taken.  We all guess, after the fact, that they were a couple.

Gerda glares at her, a silent reprimand for dating within the group, then continues.  “There is no reason to take chances.  Be on the lookout for anyone following you.  Use evasive routes.  When possible, couple up with strangers in the streets.  A single woman in a burka could be a Landweer spy.  Or a schoolboy hanging out by himself.  No paper printouts of anything in your houses.  Keep everything on thumb drives, and hide them well.  Wipe your computers clean after every use, and use an overwrite program, which will lay random numbers over your deleted data files.  If you don't have a copy of the overwrite program, see Hansen.  Destroy all private photos of yourself and your family.  If someone misses a rendezvous, do not go home.  And never ever be late.  Any questions?”

We all know the procedures, but we get sloppy.  That's how these things happen.

“Do we know where the fourteen have been taken?” Lars asks.

“To a police station in the Western Islands.  Another group is working on trying to get them free.  We know from intelligence that this is just the first offensive against the Resistance.  If Coalition Forces invade France, they want to make sure we aren't around to help.”

“So what's our plan?” asks Femke.

“Janz will lay it out for you.   We will plan three simultaneous attacks.  They will be done by people outside of their communities, who will then disappear.  That means for some of you, this is your last mission before going underground.  Now, if you'll excuse me.”

Gerda leaves us, back to the wheelhouse, with Hansen.  Janz takes over, slouching over the table.  

“You will all be working outside of Amsterdam.  Our first attack will be in Essen, the derailment of a train carrying material from Germany to the Turkish front.  The second will be the simultaneous assault of IHR soldiers all around Holland.  And the third will be an assassination of a member of the Islamic Military Command for the Islamic Republic of Holland.  You will go in as teams, coordinate with local groups, then disappear.  Use your new ID papers.”

I feel a fluttering in my stomach, excited.  This is the work I was born to do.  Truus walks out of the wheelhouse and taps me on the shoulder.  “Gerda wants to see you.”

As I get up, Truus takes my seat.  I open the door to the wheelhouse and walk in. 

Gerda is studying a map of western Germany, the railways marked in red.  Hansen stands beside her.  “Ah, Lina,” she says. 
“Kom binnen. 
Please take a seat.  Did you get something to eat?”

Berger isn't here to make soup.  But no one feels like eating anyhow.  My stomach grumbles.  “I'm fine, thank you,” I say as I sit.

Gerda smiles at my lie, then frowns.  “Your contact was picked up?”

“Yes.”

“We have to assume she'll talk.  What did she know about you and the package?” 

“Only my Resistance name . . . my first name.  And where and when the package was to arrive and be delivered.  But not where it would go from there.”

“The package was successfully delivered?”

“Yes.  The Landweer showed up at the pickup site.  I improvised.”

“Did anyone see your face?”

“No.”

Gerda nods, obviously curious, but not willing to spend the time.  “Good.  You should be all right.  Visit Rikhart for new papers after you leave here.”

“Yes.  Of course.”

She shifts a little in her seat.  I know she needs a new hip, and can see the pain in her face.  A hip operation is well beyond what our Resistance doctors can provide.  She needs to get out to Denmark or Norway, but is unwilling to leave.  So she suffers.  “I hear you are to marry Kazan Basturk.”

I jump in my seat, my heart suddenly pounding loudly.  I had almost forgotten.  Very little happens in Amsterdam that Gerda doesn't know about, yet I wonder how she found out.  A spy in the mosque?  It had never occurred to me there would be spies there, but of course there must be.  “Yes,” I say, terrified I'll be dismissed.  “It wasn't my idea,” I blurt stupidly.

Gerda smiles wanly.  “I think it's a very good idea.” 

Hansen gives me a skeptical look.  Apparently he has never thought of me that way—as someone who might marry.  I squint back.  “My mother arranged it,” I say.

Gerda tilts her head and nods.  “It could play brilliantly for us.  Will you be living with his family?”

I jolt at the possibility.  “I don't know.  I'm sure there will be some interaction.”

“Women are usually shunted away from the men in those households, but whatever information you can pick up about the Islamic Council
or the Landweer
will be helpful.
 
Do
y
ou think you can place some bugs in their house?”

“Yes,” I say, without having any idea if it will be possible.

“Good.  Ask Pim to make you a few.  We may ask you to do some other things.  More dangerous than merely spying.  This is important for us, but you can say no.”

“I'll do whatever I can to help the Resistance.”

“Good.  What do you know about Kazan Basturk?”

“Nothing.  Only that he is the son of Ahmed Basturk, an Islamist
who sits on the Islamic Council
. 
His family is in the import-export business.”

Gerda laughs.  “Everyone in Holland is in the import-export business.”

“I believe they import coffee and olive oil.”

Gerda lowers her chin, lips pressed together.  She knows more than she's saying.  “Learn what you can.  When is the wedding?”

“I don't know.  I am meeting the family for the first time next week.”

“Give me a full report.  I am very interested in the Basturks.”  She says no more on the subject, but glances at Hansen.  Something they've discussed that she needs to add.  “Of course,  you no longer need to complete your homework assignment.  Write down the name, fold the paper, and hand it to me.  I'll find someone else.”

“No.  I can do it.  I've already put together my study group.”

“Absolutely not.   I don't want you to compromise your position.  This marriage is much too important.  Usually after a homework assignment, students go on vacation for awhile.  You obviously can't do that.”

“I can do both.  I'll be careful.  I won't need to disappear.  Everyone else is headed out for a major assault.  Don't make me sit this one out.  Please, I'd like to be able to say I killed the most hated person in Holland.”  I blush deeply—how can she trust me when I basically just told her who the target was?