A World Without Secrets (31 page)

I decided to sleep on it.

My clothes were returned the next morning when my breakfast was delivered to the suite. The hotel staff, or whoever had performed the cleaning, had done an excellent job, and they looked none the worse for having been dipped into the canal.

Halfway through breakfast, I was surprised to hear a knock at the door. Chief Inspector Schaake was standing in the hall when I answered it. I stepped back and he entered with one of his men while another stayed out in the hallway.

"Coffee, Chief Inspector?" I asked, before he had even opened his mouth.

He nodded, pulled a chair over to the table and filled a cup from the pitcher, then added milk and sugar, while I sat down to finish my breakfast. I knew Schaake would tell me why he'd come when he was ready.

Schaake had the good manners to wait until I'd finished eating and poured myself another cup of coffee.

"You lied to the police officer last night," he finally said.

"Lied? What do you believe I lied about?"

"You told him that a drunk almost ran you down. We've since learned that the car was stolen, and there's no evidence that the man was drunk."

"I never said he was drunk. I said a
witness
told me that a man, bleeding from a head wound, and who appeared to be drunk, exited the car and ran away. I was still in the canal at that time, so I never even got a look at him."

"He veered off the road and headed directly towards you," Schaake said with a hint of anger in his voice. "How could you not see him?"

"I was walking north, with my back to traffic. When I heard the tires screech and the engine roar, I turned, but it was already dark and I was blinded by the vehicle's headlights. I leapt towards the canal, but tripped on a low pipe, so I wound up going in head first instead of feet first."

"Who in Amsterdam would want to kill you?"

"I can think of only one group."

"The gang that committed the robbery? Why?"

"I might be getting too close."

"Ambrose told me you questioned one of his operatives."

"I didn't know he was one of Ambrose's people. I was just seeking information."

"I understand you've been seen in some very disreputable places recently."

"That's usually where you can find information about the very disreputable people we're looking for."

"We've already covered that ground."

"And did you learn anything?"

Schaake didn't respond. He just stared at me.

"I assume that means you didn't."

"Have you?"

"I've picked up a little."

"The law requires you turn over any evidence you find."

"I have. I immediately turned over the blood smear I found, and I gave the button to Ambrose. There is no other evidence to be turned over."

"What of the information you've uncovered?"

"It's just bits and pieces right now. It's more leads than evidence. At the proper time, I'll give you everything."

"When you think you've solved the case?"

"Isn't that why I was invited here?"

"I didn't invite you."

"True. You'd prefer to see the criminals escape justice rather than have someone else get the credit for solving the crime."

Schaake bristled, and I half expected him to jump to his feet. "That's a lie."

"How do you see it? You'd hit a dead end and exhausted all leads before the insurance company invited me in."

"Something will turn up eventually. It always does."

"I'd be willing to bet you have file cabinets full of unsolved robberies, assaults, arsons, counterfeiting scams, identity theft, missing persons,
and
murder cases."

"Every police force in the world has that."

"Exactly. So something doesn't always 'turn up eventually.' Often, the cases must be solved."

"And you believe yourself to be our proactive solution?"

"I could be, if you stopped working against me."

"Against you? What do you mean?"

I stood up and walked to the desk where I removed all but one of the tiny evidence envelopes containing the tracking devices. As I returned to the table, I tossed them down in front of Schaake."

"What are these?" he asked as he picked up the plastic envelopes.

"Those are the tracking devices your people put into my clothes when I arrived at the airport."

"I never placed tracking devices into your clothes or personal possessions and never ordered anyone to do that either."

"Your people retrieved my suitcases from the airline, and when they were brought out to the car, one of those tracking devices was inside each of my suit jackets. Perhaps someone else took it upon himself to order the placement of the bugs, but it was done by your people."

An angry look came over Schaake's face and his voice was loud as he said, "They weren't put there by
my
people."

"Who else could have done it?"

"Perhaps they were there when you boarded the plane."

"No. Not a chance. I scan my apartment and auto for bugs on a regular basis. They weren't in my clothes before I reached Amsterdam."

"You scan your own apartment?"

"Of course. This is the information age and people always want an edge over the competition, or their perceived enemies."

"Well, we didn't bug your clothes."

"Then it sounds like you have another
unsolved
crime on your hands, Chief Inspector. If it helps, I believe I can ID every one of the people who tailed me when I was wearing one of those bugs."

"If you spotted them, they definitely couldn't be mine."

I just shrugged. "They belong to somebody who knew I was coming and wanted to track my movements. You were the most likely candidate since your people were the only ones to handle my bags, other than Customs."

"Yesss— Customs. I've heard rumors about certain involvements with criminal organizations, but we've never had anything substantive to move on."

"Congratulations, Chief Inspector. You've got your first lead. For starters, I suggest you find out everything you can about those tracking devices, such as who made them and what their range is."

I was almost hesitant to walk out of the hotel after the attack of the previous night, but I couldn't hide in my suite. If I was going to do that, I might as well head back to New York. The service pistol under my left armpit was comforting, and the pistol in my ankle holster was reassuring.

However, before I ventured out again, I wanted to use the gizmo to track my assailant. I had used the stall in the bathroom near the bar several times now, and the people watching me might have begun to suspect it was for reasons other than bodily waste elimination. Nevertheless, I was leery of using the gizmo in my suite, so I opted for one more session in the toilet stall.

The driver who had tried to run me down was, in fact, the one who had been tailing me. I tagged him, set the gizmo to the day before I arrived, and then ran it forward in high speed to see if he had made contact with anyone I knew and possibly learn his name. He had talked on his cell phone several dozen times since I arrived, but there was no face-to-face contact with any of the thieves involved in the robbery. I watched him as he tailed me for two days and then as he broke into the car he used for his murder attempt. After hitting the tree, he literally fell out of the auto, obviously dazed and barely conscious at first.

After running from the scene, he found a place near another canal to wet a handkerchief and wipe the blood that had dribbled down his face. After making a quick call from his cell phone, he continued on foot until he found another car to steal. Twenty minutes later he was lying on a table in someone's kitchen while a woman stitched the gash on his forehead. He paid for the services before leaving, and I never got the impression that this was anything other than an illegal clinic, like those found in every city, large or small, where injured criminals who couldn't seek medical attention at a hospital could find help. Usually, they were run by medical practitioners who had lost their license to practice, former military corpsmen, or even veterinarians. Occasionally the 'doctor' might just be a proficient wannabe.

I followed his movement to a four-story walk-up on Kinkerstraat, where he fell into bed alone. I jumped ahead in time to the present, and he was still in the bed. I guess he'd whacked his face and head really hard and was trying to sleep off a monster headache. He might even have a concussion.

Deciding I had already spent too much time in the stall, I carefully put the gizmo away, flushed the toilet, and went through the pretense of zipping my pants as I opened the stall door and stepped out.

The same guy who had been using the washroom the last time I was there was here again on this occasion. That was an odd coincidence, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but he was just leaning on a sink, staring into the mirror with his back to me. That wasn't unusual; however, he wasn't staring at his face, he was staring at mine. That was also not unusual, but usually people would look at a stranger and then return their attention to themselves when eye contact was made. He didn't. As our eyes met, he straightened up quickly and began to turn while reaching into his buttoned jacket. Having just survived one assassination attempt, I assumed the worst. My reflexes kicked into high gear, and for the first time since the FBI Academy, I bent forward and rushed at someone like they were an offensive lineman on an opposing team. I reached him before he managed to pull the Beretta completely out. He might have made it if not for the silencer with its added length. Or it might have snagged on his waistband or jacket flap. It didn't matter which. All that mattered was that I hit him before he could bring the pistol to bear and fire.

I caught him in the midsection with my right shoulder. As we closed with the wall, I turned my head aside but continued my charge. My attack drove him backwards and upwards until he hit the wall just above the sink where he'd been standing. His head snapped backwards and I heard the sound of breaking glass as he impacted the mirror. I also heard the air whoosh out of his lungs.

Anyone who has ever had the wind knocked out of them knows that there are several seconds when they are virtually incapacitated as they struggle to refill empty lungs. As I backed off slightly, he plopped onto the sink. I didn't waste any time and wrestled the pistol out of his weakened grip before he could fully recover. With the pistol in my possession, I stepped back. I thought he was subdued. I was wrong.

As soon as he managed to draw a full breath, he jumped off the sink and swung a fist at my jaw. I sidestepped his punch and laid the gun's barrel across the right side of his head with a backhanded blow. Blood began to flow where I'd opened his scalp and he dropped to the floor like a rock as I stepped back again so he couldn't make a grab for the gun. To make sure the fight was over, I plopped onto his chest with my knees on his upper arms and stuck the muzzle of the pistol against the bottom of his nose and upper lip. He was dazed but not out, so I pushed the barrel upwards until he screamed. I probably had six inches and thirty pounds on the guy, so it may not have been a fair fight, but fairness in street fights is something I'd stopped worrying about as a kid. The only important thing was winning because the loser was often seriously maimed, or dead.

I had a chance to look at his face closely. He was neither one of the gang that had robbed the museum nor one of the people tailing me. I had only seen him once before, right here in this restroom.

My attacker began to squirm and I figured his next move would be an attempt to buck me off, so I pushed the pistol harder into his face. He screamed as the pain registered, and he stopped squirming. As he did, I eased the pressure on the pistol.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He grunted something in Dutch. I knew it wasn't his name, and from the sound I figured it was a profanity.

"Speak English," I ordered without any idea if he actually knew any English.

"American pig," he screamed. His accent sounded French, but one could never tell where or from whom a person had picked up a second language.

"Who are you?" I asked again, but he didn't say anything else, so I contorted my face and raised the pistol as if to whip him with it.

My assailant screamed when he saw what I seemed about to do. At that instant, a patron walked into restroom, saw the bloody face of the man under me, and ran yelling from the room. I knew I wouldn't have much more time, so I stuck the muzzle in the guy's face again and climbed off him. Once I was on my feet and out of kicking range, I signaled him to get up. I watched him carefully as he rolled over slowly and got to his knees, but he seemed to be cooperating.

What happened next was a blur. I saw the flash of chromed steel as the blade of a knife arced towards me, narrowly missing my chest as I jumped back out of its path. My longer arm length and the additional length of the silenced weapon served me well as I stayed out of his reach. When he slashed at me in a backhand move, I evaded the blade and brought the pistol barrel down on his head, hard. I was pissed and put plenty of strength into my counter attack. This time the guy collapsed to the floor and didn't move. The second gash to his head, this time on the left side, bled even more profusely than the first as he lay sprawled face down on the floor.

I bent over and felt his neck for a pulse. It seemed strong enough, but he wasn't going to be swinging any more knives for the next few hours. I had put enough force behind the second blow to definitely give him a concussion.

I kicked the blade away from where it had fallen, then turned him over and began to search his body for other weapons and documents as I should have done the first time I knocked him down. I found two other knives and a cell phone but no wallet, papers, or anything else.

Anticipating that we wouldn't be alone very much longer, I took out my ID wallet to wait.

"And you have no idea who this gunman is?" the police officer asked.

"None. I stepped out of the stall and he started to pull a gun. We fought, I got the gun away from him, and he went down when I backhanded a blow to his head. He was dazed for a few seconds, then jumped up and pulled a knife. He swung it at me and I hit him with the gun a second time. End of fight. That's all I know."