Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (35 page)

Gerda calls an emergency meeting on the
Fredrika Maria.
  “Someone in the Resistance issued him a blank travel pass.  The fool wrote his date of birth in the space for the date issued.  The Landweer took him in for questioning.  He broke down, telling everything he knows.”

“Have they made arrests?” asks Garret.

“They nabbed twelve liaison people and two cell leaders.  We got hit hard—our Friday morning meeting.”

Everyone gasps.  Nasira, who sits beside me, laces her fingers with mine and squeezes firmly.

“What's going to happen to them?” asks Lars.

“The usual routine—police station, police headquarters, police interrogation, prison, more interrogation.  Then a judge from the sharia court will sentence them.”

“Chop-Chop,” says Rikhart with a macabre smirk.

Gerda frowns. 

“How did they find out about the meeting?” asks Kaart.

“The courier didn't know about it.  Nobody knew about the meeting except the people who were there.  Our people
walked right into a trap.  Luuk got away.  When he rang the doorbell, a Landweer
officer
answered.  He slugged him and took off.  Two more Landweer officers chased him, but he grappled with them and got away.”

“Thank God,” says Margo.

Gerda raises an eyebrow, and I notice that Luuk isn't here, which seems odd.  Gerda continues.  “They're searching apartments and barges.  Two from our group were shot while being arrested, as well as Voddenman and the Chief Liaison Officer for the Secret Army.”

“You mean Reynard?” asks Garret.  We have all heard of Reynard.  He is organizing Resistance troops for when Coalition Forces invade.  The secret army will join them and drive the Islamists from Holland. 

“Yes,” Gerda replies.  “All four were taken to Medisch Centrum on Jan van Goyen.”

“Are they badly wounded?”

“Our contact at Medisch Centrum says three have shots to the arms or legs, one with a shot to his butt.  I'm sorry to tell you this, Lina, but your Uncle Sander was taken.”

I feel like someone has punched me hard in the chest.  “I want to be part of the escape plan.”

“I figured you would.”  A rare smile flickers on Gerda's lips, before she resumes her frown.  “The information Wilma feeds us from the Yilmaz household is critical.  If you're caught, she is immediately under suspicion.  But I will not keep you from rescuing your uncle.”

“I understand,” I say.

“Don't get caught.”  She continues.  “So far, the Landweer
only knows the names our people were using for this one meeting.  Their families are safe for the time being.  But nobody will be safe if they are interrogated.  We must get them out fast.”

“Do you know if their photos were taken?” Garret asks.

“They were taken to the hospital before they were booked, so I think we're safe there for the time being.”  Gerda turns to me.  “Lina, you and Nasira go to the hospital during visiting hours.  Make a precise map of the reception area and the administration offices, and the section reserved for prisoners.  Kaart and Pim will be drivers.  Janz, Garret, and Hansen will be operations.  Have them run through a plan in advance with two cars.  Arrival, parking, departure.  It all must be done swiftly without mishaps.  Lars, you plan the escape route from Amsterdam.”

“Up the
Varken Weg
?” asks Kaart, who has recently rejoined the group after escaping from the Landweer.  He had to go underground for several months.

“Any way you can get them to Delfzijl.  They'll probably want to join Coalition Forces in Denmark, but they're free to head to Norway or Iceland.”

I call Melis and tell her I am going to visit a friend in the hospital.  She knows without my saying that I'm asking for her to cover for me.  She doesn't know I work for the Resistance, only that I sometimes like to go unmonitored.  “Do you want me to go with you?” she asks. 

“No, that isn't necessary.  But thank you for offering.”  I purposefully don't tell her which hospital I'll be at.

Medisch Centrum

Wearing black burkas, Nasira and I
sign in at the visitors' center in
Medisch Centrum
.  We go into the bathroom and come out each wearing the white
shalwar kameez,
worn by nurses.  Identical Allah pendants hang from our necks along with our fake IDs—we need to be able to recognize each other.  I take out a stethoscope and clipboard from my bag.  We go in opposite directions. 

I am somewhat familiar with the hospital from when we spirited Joury away, and Uncle Hamza's triple bypass.  I find the prison ward on the third floor, the far wing on a floor for cardiac patients.

A nurse greets me and shows no sign of suspicion.  This wing used to be private rooms, now packed with three or four beds each.  Shoulders back with confidence, I walk to the first bed, where an old man lies dozing.  I pick up the medical chart at the foot of the bed, and take a look at his personal history, vital signs, diagnoses, progress notes, and lab results, then ask him how he feels today, if there are any changes.  I check vital signs and he tells me a nurse just did that.  “I know.  I'm checking her work.”

I will be familiar with these charts in case I get stopped—“I was just checking on Dhr. Visser's blood pressure to see if the Lopressor is working.  We might have to change his medication.”

I go on to the next bed.  Then to the next room. 

I watch a doctor enter the prison wing, followed by two interns and a male nurse.  When they come out a half hour later, one intern goes to the nurses' station and leans on the counter, eying a nurse taking inventory in the back.  Even her
shalwar kameez
cannot disguise her shapely figure.  She ignores him.  I lean up beside him.  “How are they?”

“What?  Oh, you mean the prisoners?”  I nod.  “Two need operations.  We'll try to drag out the process as long as we can.  Give them a chance to rest before the Landweer
gets them.  Fucking assholes.”

He takes one last doleful look at his nurse, then hurries after the doctors.

I spin on my heels and walk right up to the guards stationed outside of the prison ward.  “They forgot to check one of the patient's blood sugar.”  The guard swipes his card and lets me in.

I spot Uncle Sander immediately.  His right arm and opposite leg are handcuffed to the bed.  He has been brutally beaten
—no front teeth, swollen ears, his skin mottled blue, yellow, black, and red.  A patch where they took out an eye.  How he recognizes me, I have no idea, but when I enter the room, he rasps, “Nurse.  I need your help.” 

“Relax,” I say, pushing down his shoulder.  I use the stethoscope as an excuse to lean in close.

“I didn't talk,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.  “You and Jana are safe.”

“Don't worry about that now,” I say, patting his hand, then lower my voice to a whisper.  “In two days we will come and take all four of you for more interrogations.  Be prepared.  I have to go.” 

He squeezes my hand, and I make the rounds to the other three beds—Gottfried and Voddenman, whom I recognize from when I used to set up the Friday meetings, and a man with his rump in the air, who must be Reynard.  They are all asleep.  I look at their charts, memorizing the names they gave the Landweer
. 
We'll have to use the same names to get them out.  Curious to see the famous Reynard, I try to get a look, but his face is buried in the pillow.  The name he uses is Ruud van Gelder.

When I leave, it is hard not to look back.

Nasira and I reconnoiter at the hospital mosque, a room by the hospital gift shop on the first floor.  No one is there.  She draws a precise map of the hospital, showing guard stations and access to the prison section.

“The
doctors and nurses make most of their rounds in the morning,” I say.  “I think an afternoon escape is best.”

Nasira nods.  “People are drowsy after lunch.”

“Uncle Sander used to be in an amateur theater group.  Do you think I should have told him not to overdo it?”

“They give them so many drugs, you'll be lucky if he even remembers.”

I recall the determined anguish in his eyes.  “He'll remember, trust me.”

#

For the next two days, I go back, pretending I am a nurse, making the rounds, chatting up the prison guards.  Only the hospital director, two doctors, and the head nurse for the wing have swipe cards to get into the prison ward, which needs a second swipe from one of the guards to work.

Pim finds us two cars, the same black Volkswagen Tourans used by the Landweer.  The license plates are faked.  Bogus LW stickers are pasted on the windshields and the rear windows.

Janz, Garret, and Hansen wear the blue uniforms of the Landweer.  I am dressed as a nurse
under a navy burka, the color worn by female Landweer, used when woman prisoners are involved.  It is unlikely they would have need of a female colleague here, but they might bring one to deal with the nurses.  If questioned, that's what we'll say.  Janz
looks the part more than the rest of us.  He looks like military, which is difficult to fake, that mix of of arrogance and unquestioning decisiveness. 

“The hospital shifts are 7 AM to 3 PM, 3 PM to 11 PM, 11 PM to 7 AM,” I report.  “The nurses have a half hour meeting between shifts, where they go over charts and update the fresh nurses on the patients.  At the reception area, you have two ward clerks.  The guards for the prison wing change out at 8, 4, and 12.  You have a reception desk as you enter the side entrance, an elevator to the third floor, down a hallway to a security door.  Two guards stand outside the security door.  Inside is a nurses' station.” 

Janz hands Garret a pistol.   “You stay in the hallway, near the office.  Keep the ward clerks and nurses away from the phones.  Lina, you run interference.”

At three o'clock, I slip into the building and begin my normal nurse runs.

Ten minutes later Janz, Garret, and Hansen come up the elevators to the receptionist, show their identification, and storm down the hallway.  They look quite frightening, jaws clenched, swinging their arms, boots thwacking the linoleum in unison.  They get to the prison ward, followed by a hospital director and a male nurse, who scamper after them.  The guard swipes his card, and Janz and the others march in shouting, “Landweer!  You must come for interrogation.  Get dressed quickly.”

Uncle Sander looks completely terrified.  “I am entitled to see some identification.”

Janz laughs, which he turns into a delicious sneer.  “You don't get to ask for shit.  Leave your tie.  You're not going to need it where you're going.”

The doctor, who is a big man, blocks them with his body, protesting.  “These men are extremely ill, entrusted to the care of our hospital.  They are in my charge.  I cannot let you take them.  The guards at the door will not let you take them.”

“There are no guards,” says Hansen, smugly.

I glance back at the door.  It's true.  As soon as “Landweer”
was shouted, the two Amsterdam police guards
disappeared.  They are probably afraid of getting arrested themselves. 

While the “prisoners” get dressed, I lead the doctor by the elbow out of the prison ward.  “It's best that you let them take them,” I say.  “You don't want to endanger the rest of the staff, or the other patients.  Don't give them reason to raid the entire hospital, accusing us all of collaboration.  Think of your children.”

“I hate the fuckers,” he hisses under his breath.

As Janz, Hansen, and Garett
march the four prisoners out, the doctor breaks from my side and chases them.  “You must bring them back today.  One is in critical condition.” 

I dip into the restroom, collect my blue burka, and follow them out.

Hansen sits in front; I crawl into the back seat with Gottfried and Uncle Sander.  The cars zip out of the parking lot, then separate.  Janz and Garret and their two prisoners are headed south, before turning north.

We drive several blocks in stony silence, too tense for any fist bumping.  A woman in a burka
stands next to a garage and opens it.  The car drives in.  We all get into another car and drive out.

I check Gottfried first.  He has a broken arm.  We will stop in Zwolle, where Dr. Zaan will take care of him.

Uncle Sander groans as we bounce over the rutted road.  He lies with his head in my lap, whimpering, soaking my burka with his saliva and tears.  I give him some pills I took from the nurses' station, and he falls asleep all the way to Zwolle.

#

We meet back at the
Fredrika Maria. 
Janz, Garret, Hansen, Pim, and I.  “Reynard is in there with Wilma, getting that bullet out of his rump,” Kaart reports, stepping out of Gerda's office.  I had almost forgotten that Wilma used to be a veterinarian.  “He'll be out shortly.” 

Kaart informs us Gottfried and Voddenman are on their way to Copenhagen.  We left Uncle Sander with the Dr. Zaan in Zwolle.  He needs a lot of rest, and a new set of teeth, once the swelling in his face goes down.  He'll stay at a safe house.  My mother will join him in a few days.  I don't know if he'll be able to go back to running couriers out of his health food stores or not.  It'll be up to Gerda.  His eye patch will likely raise questions.