Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 2) (8 page)

“We can find him again,” Chen said. “And pressure him, if necessary.”

“Sieltjes lives in the Plantage area. I doubt if we’ll get much more out of him.”

“He might have seen where she went, after he dropped her off. What do we do now?”

“I gave him an old business card.” Nicky smiled. “If that information ends up with Sieltjes, we know Thooft is playing us. And we’ll come back to play with him.”

Chen tapped the console on the dashboard. “We can follow him with the GPS tracker.”

“We’ll put a car on him, follow him around, check out who he picks up and where he takes them. I have a feeling Sieltjes will make contact with him.”

Katla circled the scuffed red leather punch bag, dressed in a slip and a halter top, hands covered to the wrists with protective bandages. Her punches rained down on the leather; quick underhand jabs followed by hard overhand hits that rocked the bag on the cable by which it hung from the ceiling. Breathing deep, she detected the fragrant smell of marihuana and moved to the trap door, looked down in a pair of amber eyes.

“Sista.” Zephaniah Catadupa smiled and climbed the rest of the stairs. “No possible sneaking up on you, sight?”

Katla tilted her chin to signal for him to sit on the Nautilus and drifted back to the punch bag. While the corpulent Rastafarian sat down on the padded bench of the weight machine, Katla continued her exercises. Zeph wasn’t smoking, but evidently the marihuana smell permeated his clothes. He was checking out her footwork. Although hampered by her crippled leg, her punches were quick and precise, connecting solidly.
 

Zeph nodded appreciatively. “Like your style. Sober.”

“Fancy moves don’t get the job done, Zeph.”

The punch bag rocked on the chain.
 

“Them cruel blows, sista. Cause damage, you punch a man.”

Katla smiled, kept on punching the bag.

“Where you learn box?”

“Amsterdam, Paris.” Katla punctuated every word with hard punches to the bag. “London, New York and Seoul.”

“Soul?”

Katla steadied the punch bag with her left hand and gave the bag a final vicious blow. “The capital of South Korea, Zeph.”

“Ah.”

“They have good fighters.” She peeled off the protective bandages and hung them out to dry on a rack in the corner. While she took a towel and dried her hair Zeph rose from the padded bench, walked through the aura of sweat surrounding the punch bag and halted by the window.

“What them doing here?” Zeph pointed at the two guilders lying on the sill, gleaming in the early morning sunlight. “You dust them regularly.”

“No.” Katla draped the towel around her neck. “I use them frequently.”

“For what?”

“To test my speed and accuracy.”

She took one of the guilders, stretched out his arm with the palm down and placed the coin on the back of his hand. “Pull back your hand and catch the coin in the palm before it hits the ground.”

Zeph licked his lips and yanked his hand back, sank swiftly through his knees and caught the guilder in the palm of his hand. “Like that?”

“Swifter.”

He put the coin on the back of his hand and tried again, but Katla shook her head. “Too slow.”

“Okay,” he said, holding the coin out to her. “Show me.”

“Fetch the other one as well.”

Katla limped to the punch bag, turned around to face him and sank through her knees, leaving a slight gap between her body and the bag. She stretched her arms out in front of her, the hands held with the palms turned to the floor and Zeph walked up to her with the guilders.

She tilted her chin forward. “Place one coin on each hand.”

“Same place?”

“Just behind the knuckles, yes.”

Her hands were steady, the fingers straight out, the thumbs folded in. Zeph placed the guilders and stepped back.

“You catch them simultaneously?”

Katla didn’t answer, but closed her eyes. The bag hovered behind her. In the space between two heartbeats her elbows rammed backwards into the punch bag and her hands shot forward to catch the coins. She opened her eyes, turned her hands over and showed him the coins. Speechless, the Rastafarian rested his hand against the leather of the punch bag, still shivering from the double elbow blow. Katla smiled at him, limped to the window and placed the guilders back on the sill.
 

As she turned around, Zeph asked, “What happen if you do that to a person?”

“A person?” She looked at him aghast. “Why would I do that?”

“You train this for fun?”

“Not just fun. Testing my limitations gives me self-confidence.”

“You have that in abundance already.”

“You can never have enough.” She slung the towel back around her neck and shrugged into a hooded bathrobe. “And you never know if it might come in handy.”

“Confidence or combat skills?” he called after her as she limped down the stairs. She could hear him slap the punch bag before he followed her downstairs.

-o-

Katla switched on the grinder, listening to the coffee beans getting caught and chewed up between the grindstones. Over the noise she could hear Zeph climb on a barstool behind her and asked without turning, “Cappuccino?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Zeph was silent until she turned around with the two cups of coffee. “What you go to do now, sista?”

“Drink my coffee and have a shower,” she replied. “Why?”

He folded his arms. “About them people in the harbour, sista.”

“Bram told you about my adventures?”

“He tell me Chinese people threaten you, want you company.”

Katla met his grave eyes over the rim of her cup. He tried to meet her stare, succeeding for twenty seconds before looking away.

She drained her cup. “They’re my problem, Zeph.”

“I’m a friend, sista.” He spread his hands. “Friends help each other.”

She twirled the warm stainless steel cup around her finger. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Commendable,” Bram spoke from the doorway. “You two are at it early.”

Katla turned to the Gaggia to make herself a fresh espresso. “It’s not that early.”
 

Bram shrugged. “It’s always too early for altercations.”

“We’re conversing, not altercating.” She whacked the coffee grounds from the portafilter and wiped the basket dry. “You want tea, Bram?”

“Lapsang.” He sat at the bar. “It didn’t sound like a conversation.”

She filled the basket with freshly-ground coffee, tamped it down and screwed the portafilter back on the machine. While the machine filled her cup with fresh espresso, Katla lit the gas ring and placed the kettle on the stove. She switched off the espresso machine, reached into the cupboard for a glass, a tea clamp and his jar of Lapsang Souchon and placed it before him.

“So what’s it about?” Bram fingered his tea paraphernalia. “Your ‘conversation’?”

“Katla won’t let I-man help her.”

She placed the cup of espresso on its saucer. “I don’t need help.”

“You offered, bro.” Bram measured off the loose tea leaves and closed the clamp. “If she needs help, she’ll remember.”

“Can I get straight answer?” The Rastafarian leant forward, his amber eyes fixed on hers. “This about trust?”

“No.” She took a sip from her espresso. “Responsibility.”

“Responsibility?”

“I don’t want to be responsible for involving you in anything that might be dangerous. These people wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”

“You no think I know, sista?”

“My money’s tied up in this business. If I don’t do something, years of hard work are flushed down the drain. Those are my stakes. What is your stake?”

“Friendship.”

“You’d die for me? That’s not friendship. That’s dumb.”

“I have to hand it to you, Katla.” Bram walked around her to the stove. “You have this uncanny ability to make someone feel useful and appreciated.”

She ignored him. “I know why you want to come along, Zeph, but if you lack excitement in your life, go play laser games or take up bungee jumping.”

“Paintball,” Bram put in, taking the kettle from the stove. “Skydiving.”

“Skydiving is expensive.” Katla rinsed her cup. “Material, air fare, courses. Parasailing is cheaper, more like a cross between parachuting and hang gliding.”

“What’s the difference between parachuting and skydiving?”

“The time elapsing before opening your parachute,” Katla replied. “Skydivers delay opening as long as possible.”

The Rastafarian tapped his spoon against his cup to draw her attention. “I scare easy, that it?”

“You handle yourself well, Zeph, but I might have to do… illegal things.”

“You think I care about the law? I’m a criminal too.”

“You grow weed. Real criminals don’t bother with misdemeanours.” She pointed at her leg. “You want to get shot, Zeph? I don’t recommend it. Even with the reconstructive surgery my leg might never regain its former strength and agility.”

“I could drive you. Stand watch. Things like that, sista.”

“Zeph is right,” Bram said. “You might want someone to watch your back.”

She pulled him close and whispered, “Don’t interfere.”

“You can trust him,” Bram whispered back. “Just don’t kill anyone.”

She turned back to the Rastafarian. “I can watch my own back, Zeph. Like Bram says, if I need help, I know where to find you.”

He shrugged and finished his coffee. “I go home, feed Shaitan.”

“Pat her for me,” Bram said, removing the strainer from his tea and adding sugar.
 

Katla waited until the door closed behind Zeph and put her arms around Bram’s neck, burying her nose in his hair and breathing his scent.

“You smell good. Didn’t take a shower yet, did you?”

“I wanted to take a bath and figured you might want to share it.”

“You figured right,” Katla replied and leant against him, listening to his heartbeat while he drank his tea.

-o-

Katla gazed out the rain-splattered windows at the dark sky over the zoo. Soft jazz music played on her stereo, the music only disturbed by the sound of the occasional peanut dancing over the floor and the squeaking of tiny rubber wheels.

Kourou bumped against her ankle and said, “Happy?”

“Yes, I’m happy,” Katla told the macaw and turned away from the window. The soft yellow lights gave the room a cozy feeling, although she also credited Bram’s presence. Kourou bopped his head, his bright eyes focused on Bram sitting cross-legged on the far side of the living room. Bram fished another unshelled peanut from the paper bag in his lap and tossed it across the wooden floor in the direction of the hallway. The macaw screeched and skittered around the coffee table on his roller skates, tiny wheels squeaking as he skated after the peanut.

Katla walked back to her laptop on the coffee table and completed the transaction. Pascal had files on his computer. Files pertaining to Sphinx Shipping. She needed them and she didn’t want anyone else to have access to the contents of Pascal’s computer. Although she was an adequate hacker and could circumvent most security measures, she wasn’t a creator. And you needed a creative mind to create a virus. Like the one she just bought.

Bram cocked his head and pointed at the ceiling. “I think you caught one.”

“You think, or you know?”
 

Katla rose from the couch and walked to the stairs leading up to the gym. Only directly under the trapdoor could she hear the hysterical chirping and the flutter of tiny wings. Smiling she ascended the stairs and went to the small roof terrace.

The tiny sparrow tried to fly away, its feet stuck to one of the glue sticks Katla left scattered around the bowl with pigeon food. She donned a pair of motorcycle gloves and opened the sliding door. The sparrow panicked, dragging the glue stick along the pebbled tiles, but before he could entangle himself in the other glue sticks Katla scooped him up and carried him down the stairs to the kitchen. Bram had already filled the sink with warm water. Katla held the sparrow’s feet in the water until the glue softened and the stick could be removed from the bird’s feet. She put the sparrow in a lunch box and closed the lid. Small holes in the lid would allow the bird to breathe.

Kourou flapped his wings and landed on the kitchen counter, eyeing the lunch box with avid curiosity, but Katla took the boxed-up sparrow away from the macaw.
 

She held the lunch box up to her eyes and looked at the hunkered down sparrow, smiling softly. “You’re going to be a burglar this evening, little fellow.”

The dented Vespa swerved onto the tram rails just in front of a tram, rode past the line of cars waiting for the light to change and passed in front, hooking a right onto the Prinsengracht. With the rails now occupied by the tram, all Zeph could do was to try to pass the queue in front of the traffic lights at the other side with the borrowed Puch Maxi moped. The space between the waiting cars and the parked cars was filled with bicycles, so he had to wait at the rear of the queue. Either Katla had caught on to him or she didn’t like traffic lights, but he knew he had lost her. The idea had been foolhardy anyway, to follow a motor scooter with a moped. The tram pulled away and he glanced over his shoulder, wary for other trams, and swerved onto the tram rails to follow Katla, but just as he intended to cross in front of the queue the light turned green and the cars pulled up. He remained half on the tram rails, fervently hoping no tram would come before the light turned red again.

It seemed to take an eternity.
 

Zeph turned the corner onto the Prinsengracht, but the Vespa was nowhere to be seen. A gaggle of tourists aimlessly wandered in front of the Anne Frank Huis, strolling onto the road without looking.
 

Zeph halted to let them pass, his gaze drifting to the other side of the canal where he noticed Katla parking her scooter at the quayside. Behind him someone honked. The tourists had cleared the road and he turned the Puch’s throttle, pulling up again. A hysterical shriek sounded behind him and a moped courier passed on his right side at breakneck speed, his flapping jacket slapping Zeph’s elbow.