Slingshot: A Spycatcher Novel (24 page)

Thirty-Eight

I
t was early evening as Will strode through a fine rain and winter chill in De Wallen, the red-light district in Amsterdam’s old city. Divided down the center by a canal, the district’s labyrinth of streets and side alleys was filled with tourists and locals gazing at the multitude of cabins containing scantily clad prostitutes; entering and exiting the neon-lit sex shops, theaters, and peep shows; drinking in bars; or smoking marijuana in the coffee shops.

He barely registered his surroundings, instead wondering if tonight he was about to make a big mistake.

Moving east away from the district, he crossed canals, past street vendors selling warm
stroopwafels, pannekoeken, poffertjes,
and
Vlaamse frites,
and dodged buses and trams and mopeds being driven at speed. One mile later, he was walking along Zeeburgerpad, a strip of land straddled by canals. Pleasure cruisers chugged along the waterways, with more tourists inside them being given waterborne tours of the city. Other boats were moored along the riverbanks, beside cobbled streets containing residential houses and a windmill that had been transformed into a microbrewery.

He stopped by a houseboat, clambered on board, and knocked on a window. A young woman appeared on the other side of the window, then briefly disappeared before opening the door. Will entered.

The interior was open plan and contained a double bed, a kitchenette, and a living room. Two suitcases were adjacent to the bed, brightly colored clothes spewing out of them. The air was thick with the smell of cannabis, cigarette smoke, and petunia oil.

The attractive Dutch brunette moved to the kitchen, wearing only a short negligee. “You want wine?”

“No thanks.” He sat on a red sofa in the shape of a heart. “I’ve got to work later.”

“So have I, and I’ve got to look the part.” Katharyne van Broekhuizen poured herself a glass of rioja and sat opposite a vanity mirror. While applying makeup, she asked, “How’ve you been, Anthony?”

“Busy.”

“You look tired. Are you eating okay?”

“When I have time.” He watched her pat foundation over crow’s-feet that hadn’t been there last time he’d seen her. “What about you? Do you get to do . . . other stuff?”

“A bit of sleep. That’s about it.”

“When will it end?”

She used a blusher brush on her cheeks. “Two months, three months, six months . . . who knows?”

“You won’t be able to keep this up much longer.”

“I’ve got no choice.” She sprayed perfume onto her throat, took a sip of wine, and turned to face him. “Next time you’re in town, will you buy me dinner?”

Will answered quietly, “I’ll treat you to a nice meal when you get out of this game.”

Katharyne seemed to consider this, then smiled. “Okay, deal.” She stood, removed her negligee, and started rummaging through one of the suitcases. Finding a pair of matching panties and bra, she put them on, together with a pair of velvet heels, and frowned as she stared at a rail containing dozens of dresses.

“You look stunning in black.”

“Do I?”

Will nodded.

She picked a black silk cocktail dress and slipped into it. “Can you zip me up?”

Will walked to her, placed his hands on her hips, gently spun her around, and fastened the dress.

She turned to him, wafted the hem of her outfit, and asked, “What do you think?”

He smiled. “I think you’re gorgeous.”

She briefly kissed him on the lips, pretended to look angry, and wagged her finger. “But you never make a pass at me. That’s very naughty of you.”

“I can’t, because you’re . . .”

“Working?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

She took another sip of her wine and lit a cigarette. “You said that last time you came here.”

“And yet you’re
still
here.”

She laughed, then her voice trailed as her expression grew sad. “I feel secure, I guess . . . comfortable in front of you.”

“I feel the same way about you.”

“Why is that?”

Will stayed silent.

She shrugged. “I got what you asked for.”

“Is your back covered?”

“Yes. I made sure of that.” She opened a clutch handbag and withdrew a leather parcel and a folded piece of paper. After handing Will the parcel, she stared at the paper, was about to give it to Will, then pressed it against her lips so that her lipstick mark was on it. “For you.” She held it at arm’s length toward him.

Will took it, looked at the mark of her lips, and smiled.

His smile faded as he gazed at the woman who called herself Katharyne but was really Johanna Kaps, a Dutch AIVD intelligence officer who’d infiltrated a brutal Turkish gang of human traffickers who were using underage eastern European girls as prostitutes in Holland. Eight months ago, she’d posed as an ex-prostitute turned madam who knew how to bribe local officials and thereby navigate local licensing laws for prostitutes. She’d lived deep cover ever since, risking execution every day if she were discovered. It was an incredible act of bravery, and one that was taking its toll on her.

“I
will
buy you that meal when you finish this job.”

“MI6 money?”

Will said softly, “My money.” He stroked the back of her hair. “MI6 doesn’t know about your work for me.”

Johanna’s eyes watered. “Good, because I never wanted to work for them, only you.”

Will kissed her on the cheek.

Her hand clutched his. “It’s a shame things weren’t different.”

“Even if they were, it wouldn’t . . .”

“I know.”

They both knew. Johanna was too similar to him. They lived in a world where they had little in common with the people around them, and though they did extraordinary things, they recognized that their isolation from normality made them flawed individuals. Though it was highly unlikely they’d ever find them, they needed partners who could help them connect with ordinary people. If Johanna and Will had a relationship, neither would be able to help the other with that monumental task.

T
wo hours later, Will was standing under a streetlamp in the Wassenaar diplomatic district of The Hague. Wearing a stylish raincoat and expensive suit, he hoped he looked like an ambassador’s bodyguard to any observers. But aside from the occasional passing car, the area was deserted.

He withdrew from his overcoat the small leather parcel, unwrapped it, and took out a Benelli handgun, which he secreted in his pocket. Next to him was one of the district’s large residences. He jogged alongside the property’s ten-foot-high exterior wall. The side street he was on was empty and mostly dark, with rainwater running down the gutter. He stopped, jumped, grabbed the top of the wall, scanned the property, dropped back to the street, and ran to the north and east sides of the house where he repeated the drill. Silently, he cursed. There was CCTV on every side of the house. The cameras had been carefully positioned—no blind spots.

He’d also seen one bodyguard outside the front of the house and an older man inside, in the living room. He was silent, trying to establish what to do. The cameras would be working, so he’d be spotted the moment he entered the grounds. He pulled out a scarf and covered his face, deciding his only option was to go over the wall and do it fast.

He heard a noise, moved flush against the wall, and looked toward the end of the side street. A slow-moving limousine. It stopped by the electronic gates; a chauffeur got out and spoke into the intercom. The gates began to open as the chauffeur returned to his vehicle. Will moved along the wall, withdrew his handgun, and sprinted as the car moved forward.

He ducked low and moved at walking pace behind the car as it crawled up the driveway toward the front of the big house. He waited as doors opened, feet crunched over gravel, and a doorbell rang.

Voices.

Will instantly stood and raised his weapon.

The bodyguard and chauffeur were standing close to the vehicle. Will shouted, “Don’t!” as they reached toward their concealed handguns. They froze, and he took two steps toward the guards while keeping his gun trained on them. “Hands outstretched!”

As the men slowly extended their arms, Will glanced beyond them at the two older men who were standing close to the front door. Both had expressions of shock. “You two. Facedown on the ground.”

The men’s mouths were wide open, but they made no noise as they did what they were told.

Will walked cautiously toward the guards. “You both understand English?”

The men nodded.

“I’m not here to kill anyone, remove anyone, or steal anything. If you do exactly as I say, you’ll have protected your boss far better than if you try to resist me.” He trained his gun on one of the men. “You—remove your weapon with your thumb and forefinger and throw it away.”

The man hesitated, then moved his hand toward his gun.

“If you put three fingers on there, I’ll pull the trigger!”

The guard gripped the weapon’s handle as instructed, eased it out of its holster, and tossed it onto the driveway. His expression was angry.

“Hands out!” Will pointed his pistol at the other guard. “Now you.”

The man did the same, while saying in heavily accented English, “You’re making a big mistake.” He threw his gun away.

“Turn around.”

The men turned so that their backs were to Will, side by side.

Will took a step toward them. “On your knees.”

One of the men did as he was told.

“On your fucking knees!” He took another step, and as he did so, the man who was standing spun around and punched a fist through the air toward Will’s rib cage. Will stepped back, and the fist missed. He slammed the butt of his handgun into the guard’s throat, then shoulder blade, and as the man slumped down onto his knees, the back of his head. The guard crashed facedown onto the ground, unconscious. He pointed his gun at the other guard. “You want to try something similar?”

“No. No.” The fear in his voice was evident.

Will removed two short lengths of cord from his overcoat and tossed one of them in front of the guard. “Tie him up—facedown, throat to wrists to ankles. Do a very good job, or I’ll put bullets in the back of your knees.”

The guard set to work, sweat pouring down his face. He clearly knew what he was doing, as the cord was expertly knotted, and within twenty seconds the unconscious guard was tied up.

“Your turn.”

“Please, don’t . . .”

“Get in position!”

The guard lay facedown and arched his back so that his hands and feet were touching.

Will jabbed his foot against the man’s genitals, warning him that he’d kick him there if he did anything reckless, yanked his head back, and used the second cord to truss him up. Will knew from experience that the position was agonizing—attempts to escape would cause the binds to choke the throat.

“You’ll be cut free in about fifteen minutes.” He ignored the guard’s moans as he picked up the guns and stuffed them in his coat.

Will strode up to the two older men. “Which one of you is Eric van Acker?”

Nobody answered.

“Van Acker!”

One of the men answered, “It’s me.”

“Stand.”

The chief prosecutor of the International Criminal Court got to his feet.

The portly man looked to be in his late fifties, and was wearing a suit and no tie. When he spoke, fear was evident in his voice, though also a degree of defiance. “My wife and children are due back from the ballet shortly. If you’re going to do anything, make sure it happens before they arrive.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Will walked up to him and put the nozzle of his pistol against the prosecutor’s temple. “Why are you interested in Kurt Schreiber? What’s his link to an impending testimony at the ICC?”

Van Acker’s expression changed. “You’re not the first British man to ask me those questions. Two days ago, I received a call from someone who introduced himself as Alistair McCulloch, a senior member of the Secret Intelligence Service. Do you work for him? Has he sent you here to bully me?”

“He doesn’t know I’m here. But it’s in your interest that you answer my questions.”

“It’s in
your
interest that you leave right now, before the police arrive and shoot you.”

“If they arrive, you’ll be dead.” Will pulled back the hammer on his gun. “I’m not here to negotiate with you. It’s simple: You speak, you live. If not, I pull the trigger. And then I’ll pay the president of the court a visit and ask him the same question.”

“There’s no need.” The man who was lying alongside the chief prosecutor began getting to his feet.

“Down!” Will swung his weapon at the elderly man.

But the man waved a hand through the air and stood. “I am Albert Metz.”

The president of the International Criminal Court.

The tall, thin, well-dressed man pointed a finger at Will. “You threaten my chief prosecutor and me, and you attempt to pervert the course of justice. To your face, and in the presence of witnesses, I can tell you that both are very grave crimes.”

Will smiled. “I’ve broken bigger laws than this.” His smile vanished. “You’re standing in the way of a Western intelligence operation that I believe may be linked to your high-value witness’s presence in The Hague. That pisses me off. To
your
face, I’m telling you that if your obstructive behavior results in my operation failing, then I’ll make sure that every state signatory to the Rome Statute knows that the ICC is run by a group of pencil-pushing bureaucrats who’ve no interest in justice. Your careers and reputations will be fucked.”

The court’s president took a step toward him. “I doubt you have that authority, young man.”

Will kept his gun planted against van Acker’s head. “Oh, I most certainly do.” He stared at the prosecutor. “Why are you interested in Kurt Schreiber?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Wrong!”

Between gritted teeth, van Acker said, “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

Will walked up to him, pointed his gun at his head, and muttered, “Are you telling me that this has been a waste of time? That I should just get this over with?”