Reprobate - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 1) Read online

  Katla remembered the drink in her hand and sipped her vodka. She studied the crowd. Without Merleyn the place wasn’t all that interesting. Two men tried to catch her eye, but she finished her drink and left the empty glass on a table. With the vodka blazing in her belly, she crossed the bar to the exit and glanced over her shoulder, just in time to spot Merleyn stepping from the back room, his narrow black tie askew and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows.

  She turned and watched him move in the direction of the bar. The customers made room for him; some briefly touched his elbows and spoke to him. The blind man didn’t pay them much attention, his face composed but strained. With visible relief, Merleyn settled at the end of the bar and rested his head in his hands. The bartender walked up to him and placed a glass and a bottle of ginger ale in front of him.

  Katla worked her way back through the crowd, straddled the empty stool next to the blind man, and ordered another glass of vodka. Merleyn removed yellow tubes from his ears and dropped them on the beer-splattered bar where the waxed foam earplugs expanded. He poured his ginger ale, drank half in a single gulp, and leaned his elbows on the bar, a blank expression on his face. The bartender placed a glass of vodka in front of her and she sipped it slowly.

  The back room door opened and the Rastafarian came out, eyes roving the crowd until they found the blind man. Katla turned her face the other way as the Rastafarian approached.

  Standing behind her, the Rastafarian put his hand on Merleyn’s shoulder. “Why you do that, bredda?”

  “I didn’t want to be fondled.” Merleyn finished his ginger ale and swivelled on his stool. “I removed her hand, nothing more.”

  Flanked by the piano player and the drummer, a slender auburn-haired girl left the back room, holding her right wrist and glaring at Merleyn. She attempted to head in his direction, but the musicians held her back. The bouncer entered, put his arm around the girl, and escorted her to the exit.

  As the drape closed behind them, the Rastafarian squeezed the blind man’s shoulder. “She gone now. You come?”

  Merleyn shrugged, slipped from his stool and followed him. She waited until they disappeared into the back room, and headed for the exit. She passed the bouncer and stepped outside, taking deep gulps from the cool night air. To her left, the auburn-haired girl slumped against the wall, still holding her wrist.

  Katla walked over and tilted her head. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course not,” the girl moaned. “The prick assaults me and I’m thrown out.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was blue about his performance. I console him and he flips. Grabbed my hand. Twisted it.” She rubbed her wrist. “You’re supposed to use that martial shit only in self-defence.”

  Katla shrugged. “Technically, if you fondled him…”

  The girl narrowed her eyes. “That what you came for? I’m still pressing charges!”

  A taxicab came to a stop in front of the club and the girl walked up to it, opened the door and turned around. “Just because he’s blind doesn’t mean he can fuck up my wrist without repercussions.”

  She got in and slammed the door behind her. The taxicab circled the Nieuwmarkt while Katla sauntered to the Waag in the middle of the square. She sat sideways on her Vespa parked in the shadows of the ancient building, her gaze on the blue neon signs flanking the entrance of the Roustabout.

  She wondered if Merleyn was any good at martial arts—twisting the wrist of some hapless girl was not exactly a measure of skill.

  People trickled out in groups of two or three.

  A scruffy dealer ambled past and recited a mantra of drugs for sale, but Katla stared right through him until he got the message and moved away to pester someone else.

  The Roustabout’s neon signs winked out and more people streamed out of the club.

  Some twenty-odd minutes later, a small group left the club and lingered on the sidewalk, talking. Merleyn stood with them, his white cane reflecting the light of a street lamp. After five minutes the group split up.

  Merleyn and the Rastafarian strolled south towards the Kloveniersburgwal.

  Katla left her scooter and followed them on foot. The sidewalks teemed with tourists, but they were easy enough to follow.

  Just past the Compagnietheater, they turned away from the canal and disappeared into the Spinhuissteeg. She quickened her pace to close the distance and stopped at the corner. The Rastafarian stood motionless halfway down the alley, while only the blind man’s upper body was visible above ground. He seemed to be unlocking the doors to a basement. When Merleyn ducked inside, the Rastafarian followed him down the steps.

  Katla sneaked into the alley and halted in front of the building. A brass sign mounted near the front door featured a row of Japanese kanji characters, but no translation. Light shone from the windows and a small gap between in the basement doors, but she couldn’t see inside through the wire-glass.

  She moved closer to the doors.

  “…last thing I need,” Merleyn snarled. “I’m not a TV set with a burned-out tube.”

  “You finish?” There was a silence, and the Rastafarian continued, “Sista rub you wrong way, tell her bother someone else, sight? You nearly break her wrist.”

  “It was a long way from breaking.”

  “Rass!”

  “It wasn’t. Really.”

  “You upset Christine.”

  “You must be kidding me. She wasn’t fondled. I was.”

  The Rastafarian spoke softly and Merleyn said, “Let’s do this some other time, okay? I’m tired.”

  Katla walked away and waited in the shadows. A moment later, the basement doors opened and light flooded the alley. The Rastafarian climbed the steps, unlocked his transport bicycle, and pedalled away.

  She took out her flashlight and drifted back to the basement.

  The lights behind the wire-glass windows went out, but she could hear movement inside. The right basement door clicked open, a safety chain gleaming in the gap, and the floor creaked as Merleyn walked away. She played the flashlight’s beam over the safety chain.

  Flaked chrome links. Wouldn’t stop a bolt cutter.

  Katla unzipped her pocket to put away her flashlight. The gap between the doors closed with a bang. The chain rattled and the door flew open.

  Merleyn appeared in the dark opening—shirtless, a snarl on his face. “Go piss somewhere else, fuckwad!”

  Katla stifled a giggle and remained motionless. The blind man’s face became expressionless and he cocked his head to the side, listening. The fingers of his left hand moved as if stirred by a breeze. She matched his respiration until they breathed in unison. Close enough to smell his sweat, she played the beam of her flashlight over his pale chest. He was a whippet, all ribs and sharp angles.

  The silver dog-tags around his neck jingled as Merleyn planted his right foot on the threshold, shifted his weight and leaned forward until his upper body was outside the basement.

  When he was within kissing distance, Katla reached out and brushed her fingernails over his throat.

  Merleyn recoiled instantly, stumbled back into his basement and slammed the door.

  The lock clicked.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Katla straightened noiselessly and grinned.

  Without a sound, she moved away from the doors and left the alley.

  EMBASSY

  With her documents in hand and her weekend bag containing her belongings, Deborah Stern waited in the queue at Schiphol Airport Customs. She studied the sea of faces beyond passport control, although she didn’t expect a welcome party. The smartphone in her inside pocket contained all the information she required, and she didn’t have to report before tomorrow morning at ten. And maybe she could contact her new AA sponsor for the closed meetings. Three of the five meetings in The Hague were open to non-alcoholics, but Amsterdam had thirteen meetings, most of them closed to non-alcoholics. The woman in front of her shuffled forward and Deborah closed the gap.

  A trim black man with lazy eyes sauntered up to her and showed her his ID. “Creaux, DEA. Hand me your bag.”

  A businessman next in line backed away from her.

  Creaux switched his gaze to him, studied him like he was some nasty bug.

  The businessman shuffled his feet. “I’m not with her.”

  “I should hope not.” Creaux turned back to Deborah. “Come with me, Stern.”

  Deborah stepped out of the queue and handed Creaux her weekend bag. “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Immensely.” He motioned for her to lead the way. They walked down the corridor and turned the corner.

  Creaux smiled gleefully. “Did you see him sweat?”

  “Why didn’t you take him in? Give him something to talk about?”

  “Jerome wants us to keep a low profile.” He looked at her hair. “Makes me wonder why he selected you.”

  “They don’t have redheads in Holland?”

  “They do. You notice redheads are either ugly or good-looking? Never plain?” He held up his free hand to fend off an imaginary blow. “Don’t worry, you’re in the last category.”

  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Creaux.”

  A mischievous grin lit up his face and Deborah felt a flutter of lust that confused her. Her libido had been put to sleep by the copious amounts of alcohol, but now that she was sober, the last thing she needed was lusting after a colleague. Quelling the flutter, she followed Creaux to the platforms where he walked to an old BMW 3-series, parked in a lot reserved for airport security vehicles. While she walked around to the passenger side and fished in her bag for the sunglasses she hadn’t expected to need, Creaux tossed her weekend bag in the back seat, and got into the car.

  “You travel light.” He backed out of the parking spot. “Or is the rest of your luggage still in transit?”

  “It was time for a new wardrobe.”

  She didn’t add that she wanted to make a clean break. And that buying locally might help her blend in.

  Creaux drove to a check-out point near the KLM Catering building. The guard waved them through and he merged with the traffic leaving Schiphol Airport.

  “This isn’t a rental.” Deborah patted the seat. “You’ve been here a while.”

  “Five years. And my Dutch is still crap.”

  “You take courses?”

  “I don’t get much practice. Everyone speaks English when they hear your accent.”

  She stifled a yawn, but he noticed anyway. “Jet lag?”

  “Long flight. Boring, but noisy.”

  “Take a nap. We still have plenty of time to talk tomorrow.”

  Deborah closed her eyes behind the sunglasses and listened to the soothing sound of tires on tarmac. A click sounded and soft classical music filled the car, but Creaux himself remained silent, concentrated on piloting the BMW.

  She peeked at him through her lashes.

  His hands held the wheel with a minimum of contact and his head swayed in time with the music, the ghost of a smile around his lips replacing the frivolous mischief. Calmness radiated from him as if he traveled in his own private pocket of tranquility.

  The brief flutter of lust reappeared. She tried to look at him with dispassionate eyes, but she couldn’t escape her feelings. The attraction was not just in the mischief in his eyes, but also the nonchalant way his suit covered his lean body and the obvious strength in the hands curled loosely around the leather rim of the steering wheel. Like a coiled viper, his whole attitude hinted at a subdued power.

  Deborah closed her eyes again, not opening them until they left the highway and entered The Hague.

  Creaux guided the BMW through the city streets and pulled up in front of a Greek deli in the Zoutmanstraat. The car had been cool and dry, but the air outside was warm and moist.

  “Heat wave,” he said. “In a few days it will rain and it won’t be so humid anymore. Just muggy.”

  With her weekend bag hanging from her shoulder, Deborah joined Creaux and crossed the street to a shop in office supplies. He unlocked an anonymous blue door with a small oval looking glass. “Best we could do on such short notice,” he said. “We rented you the studio top floor, so you’ll get your exercise.”

  Seemingly unencumbered by the weight of her luggage Creaux almost ran up the winding staircase while she followed more sedately. By the time she reached the top floor he had already opened the door to the tiny studio. Deborah put her weekend bag next to the luggage Creaux had dropped by the door and allowed him to give her a quick tour of the studio apartment, about thirty square meters in white and burgundy with hardwood floors and a sumptuous double bed.

  He took her to the window. “You can take the tram, but Jerome told me you were part Dutch, so I got you a bicycle.” He pointed at a granny bike with high handlebars parked across the street on the sidewalk near a tailor. “The key to the bicycle lock is on the same ring as the apartment keys.”

  “It’s been a while, but I think I’ll manage.”

  “You can lease a car on our costs, but parking is horrible here.” He walked over to the dinner table and pointed at the various objects. “Five hundred euro in cash, so you won’t have to hunt around for an ATM. Here’s a map of The Hague. I circled the location of the Embassy and this apartment. Take note that the address says Lange Voorhout, but the entrance is at Smidsplein, opposite the French Embassy.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Here’s a list of telephone numbers. I stocked some coffee and tea and breakfast stuff in the kitchen, but you might want to do groceries later on.” He glanced at his watch. “Don’t wait too long, because the shops aren’t open 24/7 like in New York. And here’s a Dutch SIM for your phone, so you can call at local rates.”

  “Pre-paid?”

  “No, it’s charged to the Embassy. Five hundred minutes worth.”

  Deborah smiled. “Should be sufficient.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Creaux strolled to the door.

  She cleared her throat. “James? Thanks for picking me up at the airport.”

  “Don’t mention it. I mean it. Jerome thought we would wait for you to show up tomorrow.” He twirled his keys. “I’ve always been bad at delaying gratification. So I thought I’d pick you up. Satisfy my curiosity.”

  “And? Is it satisfied?”

  “Not yet.” He flashed her his mischievous grin again. “But there’s always tomorrow.”

  He closed the door behind him. Deborah listened for his light-footed steps as he skipped down the stairs, then went to unpack her luggage.

  -o-

  After a long shower, Deborah hung her wrinkled suits in the steamed up stall. The high ceiling of the room kept the room cooler than outside, but not much. She missed the air-conditioning of her mother’s apartment. Even walking around nude she could feel fresh perspiration popping out all over her skin. The ceiling fan only mixed the warm air with the hot air from outside. She made herself an egg and tomato sandwich, sprawled on the couch and drank two bottles of mineral water while watching a documentary on forensic science, her favourite subject at the Academy. The documentary offered little new information, but the Dutch subtitles were educational. She opened her laptop, but couldn’t make a connection yet, although the brochure of the apartments claimed every room had wireless Internet.

  Rubbing the bump on her left collarbone, Deborah made a grocery list, then studied the map of The Hague for the easiest route to the Embassy. She programmed her phone for a wake-up call at eight-thirty, and slipped between the cool sheets.

  Tired as she was, sleep wouldn’t come. Deborah thought about the sleeping pills in her suitcase and the need to kick them. Now was as good a time to start as any. She stretched out under the covers and stared at a solitary fly in an erratic holding pattern around the extinguished ceiling lamp.

  -o-

  The shotgun slug came from nowhere, slammed into her left shoulder and spun her around like a rag doll.

  Hit.

  Deborah bounced against the pilothouse and left a red smear on the smooth white wall.

  I’m hit.

  Her own shotgun clattered on the deck, yanked from her hands by the slug’s violent intrusion. Holding the elbow of her numb left arm she staggered backwards and tried to locate the source, but her eyes had trouble focusing. A blur in front of her became one of DeLillo’s henchmen, aiming a pistol with laser sight, red light flooding her eyes as he drew a bead on her head. Like a rabbit caught in a poacher’s lamp, Deborah could only stare and wait for the bullet.

  Then his face exploded in a cloud of blood.

  -o-

  Deborah awoke with the stink of fear in her nostrils and the sheets twisted around her body. She rubbed the scar on her collarbone and tried to control her breathing. Her mind made a silent plea for the soothing numbness of the sleeping pills.

  Or a drink.

  She shivered with the desire, the soothing burn that would warm her all the way to her fingertips.

  “To thine own self be true,” she murmured. “One day at a time.”

  Staring at the dark ceiling, Deborah remembered the aftermath of the DeLillo bust. The white cranes against the orange sky, the deck vibrating under the stomping boots, cries of surrender and shots echoing through the woods. Michael sitting next to her, smelling metallic from burnt gunpowder, holding her hand and urging her to stay awake. Vomiting on the floor of the swaying helicopter that lifted her out of the swamp. The acrid death smell of the hospital. The bland surgeon showing her x-rays and telling her how a few inches separated life and death...

  She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep without dreams.

  -o-

  Deborah entered the cool marble lobby of the embassy at a quarter to ten, showed her ID at reception and was directed to a door to her left which buzzed briefly. The high ceiling gave the stairwell the slight chill of a mortuary despite the heat wave outside, but the thick runner in the middle of the staircase—fastened with gleaming brass rungs to the marble steps—softened the ambiance. Turning away from the elevator, she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and entered the left corridor, passed a door marked ‘FBI’ before she spotted one with ‘DEA’.