A World Without Secrets (38 page)

Mia had purchased a one-fare ticket, so she was ready to board the train to Rotterdam immediately, but I still had to purchase a ticket on the Sprinter line. Once I had it, we boarded the train and found seats where we could continue to talk. This time we sat side by side, and after a few minutes Mia slid her arm inside mine and leaned closer. I told myself it was because the car was a little noisy.

In Rotterdam, we changed to the InterCity Train for the final leg to Amsterdam. After settling in, Mia again slid her arm through mine, but this time she also intertwined her fingers with mine. Okay, most people wouldn't consider it a big deal, but we had only met that morning. I attributed it to her age and the mores of her peers, but it made me just the least bit uncomfortable.

In spite of my personal discomfiture with the familiarity, we had an engaging conversation all the way to Amsterdam. And, truth be told, I had forgotten all about my earlier discomfort by the time we arrived at Amsterdam Central Train station.

After exiting the station, Mia pointed out the NH Barbizon Palace on the other side of a canal. I flagged down a taxi, and in several minutes we were at her hotel. I explained to the driver that after my friend got out I would be continuing on to the Pulitzer.

Mia was on the right side of the rear seat, and as the hotel doorman opened the door, he greeted her by name. After she was out of the cab I slid over to the right seat. Mia waited until I was settled, then leaned in and planted another kiss on me. I expected a simple peck on the cheek or maybe on the mouth, but it was by far the most passionate kiss of the several she'd generously bestowed on me.

As she pulled back and I sucked in some much needed air, she smiled and said sweetly in that sultry voice of hers, "Nine o'clock, sweetheart. Don't keep me waiting."

The hotel manager intercepted me as I entered the lobby of the Pulitzer and headed towards the desk. "Welcome back, Special Agent James. I'm delighted to see you're okay. The news contained stories that there had been two more attempts on your life and that you had been injured in one. Is that the reason for the cane?"

"Thank you. My injuries were minor. I'm almost ready to stop using the cane, and I'm happy to say that the man who attacked me here in the washroom won't be attacking anyone ever again."

"That's wonderful to hear. I hope there won't be any further— issues here at the hotel."

"As do I."

"Your room is just as you left it. Shall I have a boy take your bags up?"

"I'm fine, thanks. It's only the one bag."

"Then allow us to prepare your key." The manager snapped his fingers and the desk clerk held out the plastic room-keycard. The manager took it and then extended it to me. "Here you are, sir. And again, welcome back to Amsterdam."

"Thank you."

The room certainly looked unchanged as I entered, but I expected that in my absence a number of bugs might have been planted to replace those I'd found and removed. I wondered if the Chief Inspector had made any progress identifying who was responsible for planting the ones in my jackets, if he hadn't already known. I would have loved to sweep the room, but I didn't have time if I was going to meet Mia at nine o'clock. I would also have loved to look into her background a little. I was concerned because she had never asked me what I did for a living, why I was armed, or why I was using a cane. She had to have felt the Glock under my left arm in at least one of our close encounters. Kathy had noticed it immediately upon my return from Quantico.

If Mia was working for the 'other side,' whoever that might be, I had to know. She could be with the art thieves, who, after having been unsuccessful in killing me, might now simply be trying to learn what I knew and how I knew it. Or, Mia could be working for the Spanish police, the Netherlands police, Interpol, or even someone else— someone who was trying to get to the artwork before I did. Or— Mia could be exactly what she seemed to be— a lonely young woman who didn't know what to do with herself. I sincerely hoped it was the latter, but that was unlikely. She had been coming on to me from the start, and, as I said, I've never been a chick magnet. Finally, it's been my experience that most very tall women don't wear very high heels under normal circumstances because it reduces their chances of meeting someone. Some guys really dig tall chicks but most prefer someone their height or shorter. Mia seemed too perfectly suited to me for it to be an accidental meeting.

If only I had time to check with the gizmo— but I also had no place where I could use it until I swept the suite.

The front desk at the NH Barbizon Palace hotel called Mia to announce my arrival. I was then given the room number and pointed to the elevators.

Mia opened the door almost as soon as I knocked, but she wasn't quite ready yet. She hadn't put on her shoes, so she was some four inches shorter than me.

"Zip me up, dear," she said, turning to expose her back to me.

The zipper was still well below her waist, so I pulled the dress out slightly so her panties wouldn't get caught and then zipped it up to the top. She stood there patiently, playing with a stud holder that refused to secure to the stud of an earring in her right ear while I fastened the top closure. "All done," I said.

"Wonderful. Just give me five more minutes. I think I have to find a different set of earrings. Why don't you open a bottle of wine? The bar refrigerator has several in it."

As I took my first good look around her suite, I couldn't help but be impressed, both with its size and the quality of its furnishings. I began to seriously wonder who this girl was. It appeared less like she could be associated with any police force, but there was still the chance of her working for the art thieves. They might have some serious money behind their operation. Still, a one-night stay in the hotel wasn't going to break anyone's budget. The field was still wide open.

I was delighted when I looked into the refrigerator. The wines were some of the best available vintages. They were the ones I had never been able to afford until the gizmo had come into my life.

"White or red?" I shouted.

"You pick, sweetheart."

There was a bottle of 1997 Mascarello Barolo on the top shelf— fitting since it was supposed to be a top-shelf vintage. I'd never tasted it myself, but I'd overheard someone talking about it once. He'd said it was his favorite wine to have when he was celebrating a special occasion. I opened the bottle and poured two glasses to let it breathe.

Mia appeared about twenty minutes later. By then I had drunk a glass of the most delicious wine I could remember drinking, and poured another. But even if I'd had nothing to drink, I would still have been floored by Mia's beauty. Though I'd seen her as she was dressing, the finishing touches— the shoes, the makeup, the jewelry— made it seem like she'd just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.

"Mia, you're breathtaking. How can such an intelligent woman look so incredibly fantastic and not be taken?"

"Taken?"

"Uh— married or betrothed."

"I guess I just haven't found the right man yet." Looking at my glass, she said, "Oh darling, you started without me. I guess I'll have to catch up."

"I couldn't resist. It's such a great vintage, and I held off as long as I could. Once I took the first sip, I couldn't stop."

"I've always had a fondness for this vintage as well."

"Where shall we dine tonight? Downstairs?"

"Oh, no. Their food is excellent here, but I have a special place I like to go when I'm in Amsterdam. It's a private club— very exclusive. The cost of a lifetime membership is one hundred fifty thousand Euros."

"That does sound exclusive." This revelation added a whole new dimension to learning the real identity of Mia. I'd have to discount the police agencies now, if the club was genuine. I supposed that the ties of a crime syndicate could pull together a scam like that— after all, those two assassins wouldn't have come cheap— and someone looking to beat me to the five million recovery fee could be likewise financed.

"And the food is incredible. Even though a member, you still pay for whatever you consume. The prices are outrageous, but it's worth every cent. And after you eat, you can dance or try your luck at the tables. But most important, you don't have to worry about paparazzi. They can't get within fifty feet of the club entrance. Let's go, darling, I'm starving."

As Mia finished off the wine in her glass, I re-corked the bottle and put it back into the refrigerator. Then I helped her with her coat.

Rather than give the cab driver the name of the destination, Mia gave him an address. I was beginning to become concerned when we arrived at what appeared to be a private residence, but I paid the driver and followed Mia as she used a key to open the wooden entrance door. As it closed behind us, I realized we were standing in a short corridor with just one door. When we reached that door, a panel in the wall slid up, exposing a flat piece of glass or plastic. Mia placed her hand against it and the door opened, revealing an elevator car. I felt like I was in a spy movie.

"There are five different entrances to the club," Mia said, as the car descended, "and we're told which entrance we should use when we call for reservations. One entrance is in a parking garage, another is in a five-star restaurant around the corner, and the others are like this one. The club's office staff monitors the street activity with closed-circuit cameras, and if we call just before we leave, they can confirm no one is loitering around the entrance they suggested. The paparazzi have given up trying to keep track of who goes in or comes out. And unless your handprint is registered in the club's computer, you can't even open the elevator door."

"Is the five-star restaurant run by the club?" I asked.

"Yes, but it's generally managed as a separate, but lesser, entity. They never share staffs, except that sometimes the club will promote an exceptional restaurant employee to work downstairs. At least that's what I've heard."

The door opened and we stepped into a short corridor. A man stood at the end, near a pair of decorative doors that seemed like enormous frosted glass panels set in wooden frames. The corridor was quiet, but I could hear soft music coming from behind the double doors.

Mia slipped her arm into mine and pulled slightly to get me walking, then said quietly, "Show no surprise to anything I say to the maître d'."

I wanted to ask her what she meant, but we were too close to the maître d' by then.

The man greeted Mia with a huge smile and then began speaking in Dutch. She responded with a smile of her own and a Dutch response. I just stood there and smiled like a polite fool because I had no idea what they were saying. The man then held the left door open and Mia preceded me into the club.

The club was as beautifully appointed as I would have expected of a place that catered exclusively to millionaires. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps Mia might really be as wealthy as she appeared to be. I guess I had always expected beautiful, wealthy young women to be continuously surrounded by a full entourage of eager-to-please people trying to get a share of her money. But Mia had been completely alone when we met. It just didn't add up. However, for the time being I saw no danger, and I allowed myself to be lulled by the extravagances of wealth.

After we had been seated and ordered our food— actually I let Mia order for me— I leaned over towards Mia and asked what she'd meant in the corridor about not showing surprise by what she said.

"You don't speak Dutch?" she asked with seeming astonishment.

"Not a word. Well that's not exactly true. I do know a few words but not enough to follow a conversation."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I didn't realize. Let me explain. The club is intended to be a social place, not a business place, so members are permitted to bring no more than three adult guests at a time, at least one of which should be a spouse, fiancé or fiancée, or family member. I told the maître d you were my fiancé." With a smile she added, "You are the fourth fiancé I've brought here this year. It's all a silly game really, but they say it helps keep the social nature of the club intact."

"I see. The fourth this year? And it's only March. You've been a busy girl."

Mia giggled. "I just like coming here, and I hate to come alone. I know a few men who are always willing to give their girlfriend some excuse about not meeting them when it means they get to come here for dinner. They know the secrecy here means that their girlfriends will never know."

"The food is that good? It's not just the 'no paparazzi' factor?"

"I'll let you judge for yourself."

Yes, it was that good. Mia bypassed the local ethnic dishes and ordered a seafood medley with King Crab, scallops, and lobster. As I took my first mouthful, I imagined that heaven would be like this. She also ordered a bottle of the '97 Mascarello Barolo. Halfway through the meal, she ordered a second.

Mia finally opened up a bit more to me. I guess it was the wine. She also asked about the gun I wore under my left arm.

"I didn't know you'd noticed it. You hadn't said anything."

"Darling, I know a lot of men, and a few women, who carry guns. Most are bodyguards, but some carry a gun for self-protection. My own father was never without a gun when he left the house. I once asked him why. He said that people in the shipping business who don't carry a gun and who deal with powerful people who need to ship things sometimes find themselves sinking to the bottom of the Mediterranean with heavy objects tied to their legs. The gun gives them options. It was a chilling statement to a fourteen-year-old girl, but he felt I was mature enough to understand. We live in dangerous times. But when have people not lived in dangerous times? In your country, many people want to believe that everyone is gentle, and if you're nice to them they will be nice to you. They sometimes learn the realities too late. I'm content to let them live with their delusions, but I feel sorry for them. So why do you carry a gun?"