Microchip Murder - A Katla KillFile (Amsterdam Assassin Series) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Microchip Murder copyright page

  Pitch

  Dedication

  Also Available

  MICROCHIP MURDER

  Note to the Reader

  The Amsterdam Assassin Series

  About the Author

  Contact Martyn

  Reviews

  Special Thanks to

  Disclaimer

  AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES

  Microchip Murder

  [A Katla KillFile]

  By

  Martyn V. Halm

  Pushdagger Publishing Limited

  Microchip Murder - A Katla KillFile (Amsterdam Assassin Series)

  ISBN: 978-94-91623-02-8 (ePub)

  ASIN: B00A4LKSYI (mobi)

  Copyright: Martyn V. Halm

  Published: November 10, 2012

  Publisher: Pushdagger Publishing Limited

  Cover design: Farah Evers

  The right to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by Martyn V. Halm in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

  Please do not circulate this book in any format without express consent.

  Assassin Katla has to kill an industrial spy and retrieve the stolen item...

  The Microchip Murder KillFile (8,600 words) follows freelance assassin Katla Sieltjes executing a contract on an industrial spy, who is in the process of selling a stolen microchip with valuable software to the competition. Katla’s client wants the stolen microchip and research materials returned to him, but her target is wary and the unscrupulous buyers are prepared to kill for the stolen software.

  The Katla KillFile short stories chronologically precede the novels in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

  Each KillFile features Katla Sieltjes, expert in disguising homicide, executing one of her contracts. While not mandatory reading, each KillFile provides insight both in Katla’s work methods and skill, and additional background information in her character and personal history.

  For Maaike, the love and light of my life.

  And to Tycho Thelonious and Nica Hilke, thankfully still too young to read my work.

  Also available from this author:

  AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES:

  Novels:

  Reprobate

  Peccadillo

  Rogue

  Ghosting

  KillFiles:

  Locked Room

  Microchip Murder

  Fundamental Error

  Aconite Attack

  Sign up for the Amsterdam Assassin Series mailing list!

  Click this link and fill out your email address to stay up-to-date.

  MICROCHIP MURDER

  Dark clouds drifted low across the sky over the Westerpark, where Katla Sieltjes sat on a bench at the top of the artificial hill, her all-terrain bicycle leaning against the backrest. Behind her, a train rumbled past, gathering speed on its way to Amsterdam Sloterdijk railway station. The slight drizzle weeping from the dark sky coated her black windbreaker, but her thermal underwear kept her warm and dry.

  Through her binoculars, Katla checked the tiny figure stepping from a car parked near the Haarlemmerstraat entrance. A black umbrella unfolded, virtually removing him from view, then the umbrella started moving towards the artificial hill.

  As Katla watched his laborious progress, ambling all the way around the artificial lake to climb the bicycle path to the top of the hill, she studied the few people visiting the park. None of them seemed to pay the midget any attention.

  One of the advantages of living in Amsterdam was that the locals considered staring or being impressed to be uncool, so both the grotesque and the celebrated found the Dutch capital a place to relax from the pressure of being stared at or fawned over. One of the reasons why Amsterdam was hugely popular with foreign celebrities. That and the abundance of legalised drugs and prostitution, of course.

  The midget was puffing as he made it up the hill. As he came closer, Katla could see he was dressed impeccably in a two-piece Italian charcoal suit with a silk yellow tie. His glance flitted over her, but there was nobody else on the hill.

  “Are you with Loki?” the midget panted, checking out the wet bench. “I expected a man.”

  “Live life without expectations.” Katla wiped the bench with her sleeve and motioned for him to sit. “And you won’t be surprised.”

  “I don’t need lessons in philosophy.” The midget declined her invitation and remained standing. “Can we get down to business?”

  “From what I understand, you have a case of industrial espionage?”

  “My former employee, Olivia Schijf, stole from me.” The midget reached in his pocket slowly and handed her a photograph of a blonde with her hair in a chignon. “She used to supervise my technical department.”

  Katla checked the back of the photo, where the target’s address was jotted down. “And you fired her because she stole from you?”

  “No. She didn’t perform to my satisfaction. When I gave her notice, she stole from me, but I didn’t find out until after she left the building. She’s now offering the stolen item on the market.”

  “And you want Loki Enterprises to retrieve the item?”

  “She’s in negotiations with the competition.” The midget drew a finger across his throat, his eyes cold. “Can’t have that.”

  “Hiring Loki Enterprises is a pretty radical solution to your problem,” Katla said, her eyes even colder than the midget’s. “Have you tried any other options?”

  “I offered to buy back the item.” The midget studied his nails. “She refused, told me the item was rightfully hers. I told her she’d be in trouble if she didn’t return the item.”

  “You threatened her?” Katla shook her head. “Smart.”

  “It wasn’t a threat.” He looked at her disdainfully. “It was a promise. And I intend to make good on my promise. That’s why I want to hire Loki Enterprises. And you speak for Loki, don’t you?”

  “That’s right.” Let him think she was just a representative. “So what is the item?”

  The midget looked solemn. “A microchip.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What’s on it?” Katla folded her hands. “A microchip is just a storage medium.”

  “Listen.” The midget jabbed his finger at her. “Don’t lecture me on microchips—”

  “You might want to change your tone.” She tilted her head. “I’m here to vet you, but if you give me attitude, this conversation is over.”

  “I paid Loki to listen to my case.” The midget shivered as a gust of wind blew rain under his umbrella. “Five thousand, non-refundable.”

  Katla fixed him in her cool blue gaze. “Are you whining?”

  The midget opened his mouth, paused, then his mouth snapped shut.

  “If your problem requires our solution and you can meet the fee, we have a deal,” she said. “However, if your problem can be solved in a less radical manner, I might suggest another venue. If you need to recover stolen software stored on a microchip, I can help you find a good hacker to break into her computer, check if she downloaded the software on her hard drive and steal back your software.”

  He shook his head. “That won’t be possible. The software doesn’t work on regular operating systems. And I doubt if she has i
nstalled the software on a regular computer with internet access.”

  “So it’s fancy software.”

  “Extremely fancy,” the midget said. “And for restricted purposes.”

  “Military?”

  “Restricted, that’s all you need to know. The software is in a compressed file that cannot be extracted by ordinary computers. She intends to sell the program to the competition. I need the program back. And I need her out of the picture.”

  “Who is the competition and how do you know she approached them?”

  “I have my sources.” His mouth twitched into a half smile. He gave her the name of his competitor and the contact Schijf had approached. “The most important thing is the program returned to us, but implicating my competitor in her demise would warrant a bonus.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Katla replied. “Let’s say Loki can obtain the microchip, how can we verify that it contains the program?”

  The midget handed her a piece of paper with a string of digits. “If you try to read the compressed file, you’ll see this serial number. The size of the file itself is twelve point four gigabytes. And you won’t be able to find a supporting application to open it.”

  “We have a free hand in the demise?”

  “As long as her death appears random and cannot be connected to our firm.”

  Katla handed him a Loki Enterprises business card with an email address and an account number. “The fee is on the back. Remit within twenty-four hours or take your problem somewhere else. You can send Schijf’s particulars to the email address.”

  The midget showed some class by putting away the card without looking at the fee. Or he was merely arrogant enough to pretend the fee didn’t matter. With a curt nod, he turned away, his short legs making him wobble as he ambled down the hill towards his parked car. It looked comical, but Katla didn’t smile. Despite his short stature, the midget was obviously someone not to be crossed.

  She stayed on the bench and watched him climb back into his car and drive away before she rode her bicycle down the hill and through the tunnel that led to the maze of streets north of the embankment. Even though she was sure she wasn’t followed, she still took the long way home.

  -o-

  Katla didn’t know what kind of threats the midget had made to his former employee, but to say the target was wary was an understatement. Schijf acted like a professional spy, avoiding routine, skirting potential choke points, using random counter-surveillance techniques to see if she was followed. And the apartment building she lived in was busy with young families—children out at all hours, sharp eyes constantly surveying the inner courtyard and all those who entered past the electronic gate.

  The upside was the constant flow of visitors and deliveries, which would make sneaking in under the guise of a TNT or UPS delivery simple, assuming she would open the door for a delivery. In these apartment buildings it was quite common to accept packages and deliveries for neighbours, so that wouldn’t pose much of a problem. The downside was that waiting around in ambush was pretty much impossible.

  The target rarely went out for dinner, used different supermarkets when shopping for groceries, and paid in cash to avoid a paper trail. Schijf reminded Katla of herself, except that the target didn’t change her appearance as often. And Schijf was wary within reason—most former employers wouldn’t hire an assassin to permanently terminate their contract.

  Katla put a GPS trace on Schijf’s cell phone and fixed a tracking device to her car, a Peugeot 206 that had seen better days. The car also wasn’t a good vehicle for an ambush, not enough room to lie in waiting. She had to lure Schijf away from her familiar surroundings and into a place that would provide ample opportunities for ambush.

  -o-

  In a shed at the salvage yard, Katla rummaged through the crate with electrical components. Her iPad was propped on the edge of the crate, showing Google images of the relay she was looking for. One of the salvage mechanics came up to her and fished the right relay from the crate with unerring accuracy.

  “Peugeot 206 fuel pump relay, right?” He slid back the red lever and removed the relay from the connector with the cut wires still hanging down. “You want the connector as well?”

  “I think the connector is still fine. What do I owe you?”

  The mechanic handed her the relay. “Nothing. You’ve been a good customer.”

  “Thanks.” Katla put the relay in her pocket. “I’m amazed that you remember me.”

  “Not you.” He pointed at her dented silver scooter. “Your Vespa. I used to have a blue one, back when I lived in Italy.”

  “I also have a Lambretta, but those parts are harder to come by, so the Vespa is my daily ride.”

  The mechanic scribbled on a Post-It. “If you need Lambretta parts, give this guy a call. If he doesn’t have the part, he’s probably able to find it.”

  With a sweet smile, Katla accepted the Post-It note. “Thanks for the relay.”

  Next time, she’d park her Vespa out of sight from the salvage yards. With the stuff she did to used parts, being recognised as a regular customer was not desirable.

  -o-

  A thin waft of acrid smoke rose up from the cannibalised fuel pump relay. Katla leant back and looked at her handiwork.

  With the cap removed, the relay was quite a bit smaller than one would expect. The empty space around the components easily accommodated the circuit breaker and micro radio receiver Katla had fixed to the relay. The difficult part was the antenna—it was impossible to fit an antenna into the tiny box, so she’d drilled a tiny hole in the cap through which she threaded the receiver’s wire antenna.

  Before she replaced the cap, Katla sprayed the inside of the relay with 3M Novec Cleaner to remove any fingerprints. While she pulled the antenna through the hole, she carefully replaced the cap and clicked it back into place. She cleaned the outside of the relay and rolled up the antenna, then slipped the relay and the antenna in a clean ZipLoc bag before she removed her gloves. After she locked the customised relay in the glove compartment of her Citroën van, she cleared away her tools.

  -o-

  Under normal circumstances, following a car with only one surveillance vehicle was close to impossible, since you had to stay close enough to keep the target in view, but with enough distance to prevent being noticed and make sure that you can react to any actions, like the target vehicle suddenly taking an exit or executing a U-turn.

  Having a tracking device fixed to the vehicle made following a lot easier, though. Staying about five hundred meters behind Schijf, Katla followed the Peugeot 206 as it drove sedately along the N200 leaving Haarlem and heading in the direction of Zandvoort through a nature reserve called Kennemerduinen. The target played golf nearby, which would give Katla the right opportunity to access her Peugeot.

  At the parking, Katla waited until Schijf was walking away from her car, before she parked her Citroën van near the Peugeot and took her binoculars from the glove compartment. From inside her van, she followed the target’s progress. When Schijf walked onto the course, pulling her own golf clubs, Katla got out of her van and slipped the slim jim in the gap between the window and the door, and pulled the lock open. As soon as she opened the door the car alarm went off, but she squatted calmly and pulled the hood release next to the foot pedals. Blithely ignoring the ruckus, she walked around to the front and opened the hood, quickly disengaging the battery to silence the alarm. Katla located the fuse box and removed the cover. The multifunction relay featured a sliding red lever to disconnect. She switched the relay for the one she customised in her workshop and re-attached the battery leads. As expected, the alarm didn’t come back on. She closed the hood, then locked the driver’s door and strolled back to her Citroën, where she settled in to wait until Schijf would leave, so she could check if the swap had been successful. She poured herself an espresso from her thermos and played Zombie Gunship on her iPad while she waited for the target to return from her round of golf.

>   -o-

  It took almost a week of surveillance before the right opportunity presented itself. The target used an unprotected handsfree car kit for her cell phone. Foolish, considering her technical background. Staying within reasonable parameters, Katla could listen in on the car kit itself, hear anything that went on in the car, not just the telephone conversations.

  “You’ve been stalling for almost two weeks now,” Schijf said. “I’m sure I can find others who have similar interests.”

  “I’m sure you can,” the other person replied. “But are they also willing to meet your price?”

  “My price is two-thirds of what it’s really worth.”

  “Value is relative, and since the item is not rightfully yours…”

  “It’s my invention,” Schijf said. “My intellectual property, so I have the right to sell it to the highest bidder.”

  “Not if you developed your invention in the laboratories of your employer in the time you’re supposed to work for them while using their equipment. Listen, I’m not getting into an ethical debate with you here, but what you’re selling is essentially a stolen item, and we don’t want to be dragged into court. You said you have all the research papers?”

  “Digital and paper. Regular white paper, without a letterhead.”

  “You have to understand that we need to make it plausible that the item was researched and developed in our own laboratories, to avoid any unpleasant questions.”

  “I can show you the research material,” Schijf said. “But only if we can make a deal.”

  “You want a face-to-face?”

  “Just tell me where.”

  The other person paused. “Neutral ground. Not at our offices.”