Staring at the security gates, he wondered if tonight the ship’s captain would suffer bad luck and be searched as he tried to exit the port. He wasn’t unduly worried about this, for he had backup options, though it would be a waste of valuable time.
Cars and trucks were entering and exiting the port. There were too many of them, and they were indistinguishable in the nighttime conditions, so it was fruitless trying to ascertain which vehicle belonged to the captain. He removed his attention from the security gates and gripped his coffee mug. Mathias and Wendell would now be tucked up in bed, and his wife would be reading to them. This was the second night that he’d missed their evening routine, and he hated that. His wife had been understanding when he’d told her that he’d been asked at very short notice to stand in for a sick colleague who’d had to pull out of a teachers’ conference in Amsterdam. And thank goodness his school was shut for the winter vacation, meaning he hadn’t had to make excuses for a sudden absence from work. It would have galled him to let his pupils down at a time when they were gearing up for their summer history exams. Even so, if felt wrong to be away from his family. He supposed he’d better get used to it.
A large, rough hand slapped Kronos’s shoulder. “Ernst, how the devil are you?”
The German assassin turned and looked at Jack Vogels. In German, he said, “You’re late.”
The Dutch captain replied in the same language. “Of course I am.” He grinned and pointed at the docks. “I can sail my ship across the world and arrive within a minute of when I’m supposed to arrive. It’s only when we have to deal with the idiots on land that it all goes to rat shit.” He sat at the table, placing a small canvas bag on the seat next to him. “You want a proper drink?”
“No.”
“Come on. Won’t hurt.” He clapped his hands while glancing at the bar attendant.
She rolled her eyes and sauntered over. In Dutch she muttered, “Spent too long on water and lost the use of your legs?”
Jack’s grin widened as he put his muscular arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Don’t be like that, Marijne. You know that all of me is in perfect working order.” He winked at Kronos. “Get us two large brandewijns.”
After she left, he switched back into German. “You staying the night? Want me to get you some girls?”
“No thanks. I’m heading back to Germany this evening.”
Jack’s smile vanished as he patted the canvas bag. “Not with this.”
“Of course not. It’ll be left somewhere safe in Holland.”
“Good.” His jovial expression returned. “For a moment, I thought you’d lost your touch.”
“You have the spares I asked for?”
“Yes. Plus the tools you need to adjust their impact.” He smoothed a hand over the canvas bag. “Be very gentle with these babies. They’re nasty.”
“I hope they are.” Kronos could see that the group of men was looking at them. They’d stopped singing and had grown quiet, looked hostile. “Best we lower our voices. I think the men behind you object to the German language.”
Jack was dismissive. “I know them. Dockers on the wrong end of a postwork knees-up. Rum bunch, but they know they’ll lose their jobs if they touch me.” He nodded toward the canvas bag. “Important job?”
“All my jobs are important. If you want to know more about this one, please proceed and ask. You’ll die after I finish speaking.”
For a moment, Jack looked unsettled. “I. . I don’t want to know anything about it.”
“And that’s how it must always be.”
Marijne brought the liquor to their table, leaned toward Jack, and whispered, “I finish at midnight.”
The captain patted her behind. “I’ll see you then, my beauty.”
As she returned to the bar, Jack downed the drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “It’s a shame you’re heading home. I’m sailing tomorrow afternoon, so I’m going to make the most of tonight. You could have joined me.”
“Indeed.”
Jack stood. Quietly, he added, “Don’t hang around here.” He shook Kronos’s hand and walked out of the bar.
Kronos placed cash next to his untouched drink. Reaching across the table, he gripped the canvas bag and stood to leave. The men were still staring at him.
One of them called out in slurred words, “German pig?”
From behind the bar, Marijne slammed a glass down and looked angrily at the man. “Stop it, Theo!”
The dockworker ignored her, got to his feet, and took two steps toward Kronos. “German pig.”
The other men stood. All of them were big.
Kronos was motionless, keeping his eyes fixed on the men.
“This isn’t a place for pigs!”
The assassin stared at them. He could see that they’d reached a stage in their drinking where joviality had passed, that they now needed a fight. No doubt it would make their evening if they could all stand around his prone body, kicking his head until it became a bloody pulp. He glanced at Marijne and saw uncertainty and fear on her face. Clearly, she knew what these men were capable of.
He reached for his glass of brandewijn, clicked his heels together, raised the glass, and began singing “Wilhelmus van Nassouwe,” the national anthem of the Netherlands.
The men frowned, though the hostility remained on their faces.
Kronos sang louder, his voice note perfect, no hint of an accent as he recited the peaceful Dutch song.
One of the men smiled, then laughed. The others looked puzzled before joining their colleague in laughter. They grabbed their glasses, lifted them high, and accompanied Kronos in the song. The cafe was filled with the sound of the anthem.
When the song finished, Kronos downed his drink, placed a fifty-euro note on the bar, and said commandingly in Dutch, “Gentlemen. That was excellent. You all deserve a drink.” He clicked his heels again, turned, and walked out to the sounds of more laughter and singing.
As the assassin stepped into the driving rain, he smiled. A moment ago, he could have snapped all five men’s necks in under thirty seconds. But they were just simple-minded thugs whose dumb brains had become addled with booze. They probably had families to go home to. Just like him.
But he wasn’t going back to Germany and his family.
He wouldn’t be leaving the Netherlands until he’d conducted an assassination that would be his masterpiece.
Thirty-Eight
It was early evening as Will strode through a fine rain and winter chill in De Wallen, the red-light district in Amsterdam’s old city. Divided down the center by a canal, the district’s labyrinth of streets and side alleys was filled with tourists and locals gazing at the multitude of cabins containing scantily clad prostitutes; entering and exiting the neon-lit sex shops, theaters, and peep shows; drinking in bars; or smoking marijuana in the coffee shops.
He barely registered his surroundings, instead wondering if tonight he was about to make a big mistake.
Moving east away from the district, he crossed canals, past street vendors selling warm stroopwafels, pannekoeken, poffertjes, and Vlaamse frites, and dodged buses and trams and mopeds being driven at speed. One mile later, he was walking along Zeeburgerpad, a strip of land straddled by canals. Pleasure cruisers chugged along the waterways, with more tourists inside them being given waterborne tours of the city. Other boats were moored along the riverbanks, beside cobbled streets containing residential houses and a windmill that had been transformed into a microbrewery.
He stopped by a houseboat, clambered on board, and knocked on a window. A young woman appeared on the other side of the window, then briefly disappeared before opening the door. Will entered.