Reprobate - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 1) Page 2

  He was nervous, but the fear had left his eyes.

  Not a good sign.

  “Later.” Katla rested the blunt side of the wakizashi on her shoulder. “Open your jacket.”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  Sweat popped out on his forehead. He unbuttoned his jacket and showed her the lining. Attached to his inside pocket with a steel clip was an elegant little holster with the grip of a small pistol visible.

  Without warning, Katla slashed the lining with the tip of the wakizashi.

  Dolfijn went rigid. Blood drained from his face as the holstered gun slipped through the torn silk lining and thumped on the rug. Katla forced him back by prodding his belly with the tip of the sword. She stepped forward and kicked the holstered gun under the couch.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” Dolfijn spoke with a tremor in his voice as he studied the damage to his suit. “I could’ve taken it out.”

  “To hone skills, it is necessary to exercise them.”

  He glared at her. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a comedian. Open the safe.”

  He squatted, rested his left hand on top of the safe and worked the keypad with his right index finger. The safe issued a long beep and the door clicked open.

  As he reached for the handle, Katla rested the wakizashi’s keen edge on his collar. “I’ll handle that part myself. Get up.”

  He pushed himself up to his feet and she directed him to the swivel chair behind the desk, commanded him to sit and cross his ankles. The leather creaked under his weight and with his crossed legs he wouldn’t be able to jump up. Not that the fat man looked that agile, but desperation might give him a rush of adrenalin.

  “You have what you want.” Dolfijn closed his jacket as if hiding the ruined lining would give him back his dignity. “Take the money and get out.”

  “I’m not after your money, Dolfijn. I need some information.”

  He grew still at the mentioning of his name. Wariness replaced his bravado. “About?”

  “Your dealings with the police.”

  “Takeshi sent you?” Dolfijn reached for the unlit cigar in the ashtray. “Didn’t know the Yakuza employed female enforcers.”

  His podgy hand halted in the air as Katla speared the cigar on the tip of the sword. She flicked the cigar from the ashtray onto the floor and ground it into the rug.

  “Smoking irritates me.”

  His bravado returned. “Needless vandalism irritates me.”

  “Vandalism is always needless. Put your right hand flat on the desk.” He rested his trembling hand on the desktop and Katla placed the sharp edge of the sword on the first joints of his fingers. “I take it you’re familiar with yubitsume, severing fingers as atonement for failure.”

  “I’m—”

  Katla held up her free hand. “Fail to answer and I help you atone. Understand?”

  Dolfijn paled. “You are mistaken. I’m—”

  “I don’t make mistakes.”

  “Listen.” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. “I’m not an informant. Takeshi must be paranoid to think I…”

  “To be paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.” She put light pressure on the sword, enough to dent the skin. “Which shipment will Customs intercept?”

  His eyes went flat in an effort not to betray himself, but he didn’t reply.

  “You’ll open up.” Katla drew the blade a fraction across his skin. “One way or another...”

  Blood welled up along the shiny edge of the wakizashi.

  Dolfijn blinked and licked his lips. “I—I’m sure Takeshi and I can solve this misunderstanding without—”

  “Last chance, Dolfijn.” She pushed down on the sword until the edge touched the phalanges, ready to sever the fingers if he showed more hesitation. “Which shipment?”

  His voice cracked. “Next Tuesday’s.”

  “The twentieth?”

  “The twentieth, yes. Please...”

  She lifted the blade. Cradling his bleeding hand against his heaving chest, Dolfijn slumped in the swivel chair like a deflated balloon. “This wasn’t necessary—”

  “Where is your ledger?”

  “Ledger?” His pale face shone with perspiration. “What do you want with—”

  She put the tip of the sword under his chin. “I ask the questions.”

  Dolfijn didn’t move his head for fear of getting skewered. “Desk. Locked drawer. Keys in my pocket.”

  Katla lowered the sword and his head sank down.

  “One more thing, Dolfijn.”

  “What else?” Dolfijn raised his head. “Sumimasen?”

  “Apologies won’t do.” In one smooth motion Katla drove the sword through his throat and pinned Dolfijn to the back of his chair. “But your death will satisfy him.”

  His eyes bulged and his hands went up—as if to fend off what had already happened—before dropping in his urine-stained lap, where they twitched as the life seeped out of him. Muscle spasms traveled through the steel and made the hilt tremble in her hand. Wary of gushing arteries, Katla released the sword and stepped aside, but only a drop of blood welled up from the gash to stain the collar of his shirt. His last breath whistled through the ragged slit clogged with blood and phlegm. Then—as if someone cut the string that held it up—his head sank forward until his chin rested at an angle on the blunt side of the sword.

  Katla let the messenger bag slip from her shoulder and turned to the desk, where a monitor on the wall showed a wide-angle view of the entrance.

  First things first. Killing isn’t difficult, getting away clean is the real challenge.

  She pressed the eject button of the time-lapse recorder hidden under the desk, put the cassette in her bag, and squatted by the safe. Inside she found a money tray with cash in various denominations and a grey-black semi-automatic pistol hidden under a stack of papers. Carefully removing the pistol and the money tray, she checked the papers. Nothing of interest. Katla put everything back, closed the safe and locked it again before she turned to the desk.

  Dolfijn’s death had to appear like the work of a frustrated robber, someone who didn’t manage to get him to open the safe, settling for whatever was in the desk. She pulled the drawers from the desk and emptied them on the rug, strewing papers all over the cubicle. The top drawer containing the ledger was locked.

  Ignoring the key ring in Dolfijn’s pocket, Katla yanked the sword from the dead man’s throat swiftly enough to leave his body upright. She inserted the bloodstained tip in the gap over the lock and wrenched the sword sideways and up. The lock didn’t resist and the drawer slid open to reveal a leather-bound notebook. She tossed the damaged sword on the couch behind her and pulled out the drawer.

  A bell jangled in the distance as someone entered the gallery.

  Katla crept to the blinds and lifted one of the rosewood slats. The bright morning sun turned the intruder into a slender silhouette. She glanced at the monitor, but the intruder didn’t look up. Long dark hair. No clue to race or gender. Not that those particulars mattered—someone was about to learn the hard way that some ‘CLOSED’ signs were not to be ignored.

  The intruder didn’t move deeper into the gallery, but called out Dolfijn’s first name in a clear baritone, which solved the gender question. And he had to be a regular customer—the proprietor’s name was not painted on the window. She lowered the rosewood slat, lifted the dead man’s key ring from his pocket and stepped from the cubicle.

  The voice rang out again, the intonation curious but not yet alarmed. “Klaas, you here?”

  Katla closed the cubicle door behind her and strolled towards the intruder.

  “We’re closed, sir. Didn’t you notice the sign?”

  “Closed?”

  “Mr. Dolfijn had to leave urgently…” The words dried up in her throat. The intruder’s closed eyelids were riddled with white scars. His slender hands were wrap
ped around the wooden grip of a long white cane with red bands, the worn leather strap curled around the long fingers of his right hand.

  “What was the emergency?”

  “I don’t know,” Katla said. “Some family matter.”

  The blind man tilted his head and opened his mouth to speak, but she regained her poise. “You better leave.”

  “My name is Merleyn.” The blind man pressed a stud on the handle, folded the cane and moved the strap to his wrist. “Klaas reserved a tsuba for me.”

  Outside, the elderly dog walker halted by the window and gazed out over the canal while his poodle urinated against the gallery’s façade.

  “It’s a sword guard.” Merleyn formed a circle between his thumbs and index fingers. “A flat disk, about this size.”

  “I really can’t help you, sir. I’m just cleaning up in here.”

  “Will Klaas be back later today?”

  “I don’t expect him to.”

  The blind man’s face twisted in dismay. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” Katla said. “Perhaps you better call him tomorrow.”

  His face changed into a mask, all emotion fading away. His blank expression lasted a couple of seconds before animation came back to his face. “If I describe the tsuba to you…”

  “Sorry, but I can’t—”

  “It’s eight centimeters in diameter, iron with gold inlays.” He rubbed his temple. “Pierced wheel design, Momoyama period.”

  “You don’t understand.” She stepped closer to the blind man. “Even if I could find it, I couldn’t sell it to you.”

  “I’m not asking you to.” Merleyn backed to the door and leaned against the frame. “I paid for it already.”

  “Not my problem, is it?”

  He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Can’t you just look?”

  The dark frost filled her heart. Katla flexed her fingers. “I really don’t have time for this.”

  “Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

  The frost spread throughout her body. One blow and he would never ask anything anymore. In her mind she crushed his throat. Pink bubbles on his lips as he died without even comprehending the reason.

  Katla shuddered with the desire to kill him, but there was no reason for killing him. No reason, except sheer annoyance. And she wouldn’t kill for that reason alone. She blinked and the frost retreated grudgingly.

  “Please?” he said. “It should be easy to find.”

  Katla relaxed her fist. “If I can’t find, I want you to go without further discussion.”

  “I’ll go. I promise.”

  She rattled Dolfijn’s keys. “Step aside.”

  Merleyn moved out of her way and she locked the door.

  He cocked his head. “You’re locking us in?”

  “No, I’m locking everyone else out. Wait here.”

  She stalked away to the back of the store, her soft-soled running shoes inaudible in the silent gallery.

  Guards would be stored in the sword cabinet. She would just pull out some drawers to make it sound like she was looking, then tell him she couldn’t find it. She switched the spotlight back on, squatted near the two drawers at the lower half of the cabinet and opened the bottom drawer first to save time. The bottom drawer contained various sword fittings; sageo, cords to secure the scabbard to the belt; kogai, ornamental pins worn on the outside of the scabbard; kozuka, ornate handles for the kogatana utility knives; and cleaning kits.

  Leaving the bottom drawer open, she pulled out the top drawer, filled with rows of sword guards. Maybe she could just hand him one. She riffled through them. None of them had wheel designs.

  Katla sighed and someone sighed in unison. Her head swivelled around so fast her neck creaked. The blind man hovered behind her like a gangly vulture, his scarred face an arm’s length away.

  She whirled to her feet, her right hand raised high and open to distract while her left curled into a loose fist at her hip, poised to strike. To her surprise, the blind man stepped back in an unmistakable defence posture—left leg in front, bent at the knee and bearing his weight, the right leg stretched behind him for balance. His left hand hovered near his heart, palm out, and his right hand protected his crotch with the folded cane swinging from his wrist. Not a pose. There was no tension in his shoulders and he remained perfectly still, waiting for her move.

  “Can’t find it?” Merleyn’s voice was incongruously pleasant.

  “I told you to stay put.” Adrenaline soared through her system, constricting her throat.

  “No, you told me to wait.” The corner of his mouth twitched as if he was suppressing a smile. “You didn’t specify the location.”

  “I told you.” Her hands shook with the desire to clench into fists and punch his smug face, but she managed to control herself. “By the door.”

  “I scared you,” Merleyn said. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention.”

  “You didn’t scare me.”

  “Fine, I didn’t scare you.” The blind man shrugged without changing the position of his hands. “I just came over to tell you Klaas wouldn’t put a reserved item in his storage cabinet. My tsuba is probably in his office.”

  She groaned at her own stupidity—the tsuba had to be in the ebony cigar box on Dolfijn’s desk.

  He tilted his head. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she bit back and the corner of his mouth twitched up again.

  Smug bastard.

  Katla brushed past him and headed for the cubicle. Merleyn followed in her footsteps.

  She turned around. “I think I can find it without your assistance.”

  “All right.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll wait by the door.”

  The blind man crossed the gallery like a hooded falcon, skirting unseen objects with the ease of someone used to eternal darkness. Katla waited until he reached the door, stepped into the office cubicle and picked up the ebony box.

  The clasp securing the lid was difficult to open with gloves, but she didn’t want to leave prints. On a bed of velvet lay a tsuba with lateral apertures fanned out like the spokes of a wheel from the central slit, the iron burnished silver with age. She held the sword guard under the desk lamp. Gold flashed around the rim.

  Well, you found it. Now, get him out of the gallery.

  She closed the box, left the cubicle, and padded softly towards the blind man. Before she came within reach, Merleyn turned around with an expectant smile on his face. “And?”

  “You were right, it was in the office.”

  His smile turned smug again and he held out his left hand. Katla placed the box on his palm and studied the blind man as he opened the lid and examined the tsuba with his fingertips. The smile lingered like an afterthought in the stillness of his scarred face. Apart from the white slashes covering his eyelids, faded traces of tiny cuts peppered his face. His facial bone structure seemed intact, so force and penetration must have been negligible.

  She glanced at her dive computer. Twenty minutes had passed since she entered the gallery, a third of the time wasted on getting rid of the blind man. Maybe she should urge him to hurry up.

  Merleyn seemed to sense her anxiety, closed the lid, secured the clasp, and lifted his head. “How much is it?”

  “What?” Katla blurted out. “You said you paid for it!”

  “A down payment.” Merleyn unzipped the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket, took out a slip of paper and held it out to her. “Here, my receipt.”

  She didn’t have to dig deep to put anger and anxiety in her voice. “I can’t sell you anything. I don’t know what that thing is worth.”

  “Can you contact Klaas?”

  “Not today.”

  “Can you give him a message?” His long fingers ironed the slip of paper. “Ask him to call me at The Roustabout. Leave a message at the bar.”

  She let doubt creep into her voice. “I don’t know…”

  “I couldn’t have described this t
suba if it wasn’t meant for me.” He put the receipt and the ebony box with the sword guard in his breast pocket. “Trust me, Klaas won’t mind.”

  Katla paused as if contemplating his proposal, reached over his shoulder and unlocked the door. The bell jangled as she pulled it open. “I’ll tell him.”

  Merleyn slipped out and flicked his wrist, the cane elongating until the telescopic parts clicked in place. Deep creases bracketed his mouth like parentheses. “Thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome.” Katla stayed in the shadows. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too.”

  Still smiling, the blind man walked away, his cane tapping the bricks. Katla locked the door and hurried back to the cubicle to finish the job.

  The ledger—filled with coded entries written in the same backwards slanting script—went into her messenger bag before she patted down the corpse. His right inside pocket contained a leather organiser she put with the ledger. When she was finished, she inspected her dress for stains. Two small droplets of blood near her left breast were probably exhaled by Dolfijn. She quick-changed into a longer blue silk sheath and stuffed her stained dress in her bag.

  With the messenger bag hanging from her shoulder Katla left the cubicle and crossed the gallery to the backdoor. Head down—in case anyone watched from the windows of the surrounding buildings—she stepped out into the backyard. She skirted Dolfijn’s collapsible bicycle and unlocked the door leading to the narrow path.

  Not a soul in sight.

  She locked the door behind her and tossed the key ring over the wall into the yard.

  After stepping through the green metal gate onto the sunbaked quay, Katla stripped off the gloves, stuffed them in her bag for future disposal and walked back to her old dented Vespa. She put a battery in her prepaid cell phone, called the number she had for her client, and scraped her throat to lower her voice.

  A Japanese voice barked, “Nani?”

  “Loki calling.”

  “Chotto matte kudasai,” the Japanese voice replied.

  Didn’t sound like a request.

  Katla stretched to ease the tension from her body.

  Overhead, a small white cloud drifted across the blue expanse. Too small to be a harbinger of the end of the heat wave.