They asked me for identification. I told them I didn’t have any. They asked me who I was. I stuck to my two stories, that I was an American woman living out a fantasy and that one of my customers had robbed me. From that point on they regarded me with a mixture of suspicion and compassion. They didn’t laugh at me. They didn’t appear to judge me. I imagined a similar situation in New York City and how some of the cops might have treated me there, and felt a sudden love for the people of the Netherlands and all things Dutch. Even the bicyclists.
The feel-good didn’t last long. They took my description of the phantom blond American who’d robbed me. I swallowed my guilt as I delivered my fictitious story. The cop on the bicycle took notes. Then all three of them drove me back to my office. They let me change into my business suit and told me to gather my things. While one of the cops stayed with me, the other two canvassed the neighborhood. They spoke with seemingly random onlookers. Then the Turk materialized, out of nowhere as usual, and they spoke with him. I assumed he was verifying I had a lease and confirming my story that I’d been robbed and had hit the panic button.
Before they returned to my office, I thought the cops would scold me and let me go. But once they arrived I could see that their interviews had drained them of their compassion for me. One of them pulled out a high-tech-looking, hinged pair of handcuffs. I looked at them with dread.
“You’re arresting me?” I said. Dejection punctuated my voice.
“You were heard shouting at the young man,” the cop said, “trying to solicit him on the street. That’s against the law. Prostitution is legal but only in certain places.”
“I wasn’t trying to solicit him—”
“You were heard shouting at him. That you wanted to ‘help him.’ Why would you want to help him if he robbed you?”
I realized his point.
“And your protection said that one of his colleagues told him that no such man ever entered your room. He said no one entered your room tonight. No one at all. Did you know they watch the doorways through binoculars from across the street?”
My lies had caught up with me.
I searched frantically for solace of some kind, and found it in my memory banks. I’d seen the getaway car and committed the license plate to memory. Still, when the police officer shackled me with his handcuffs I suppressed a tear. I was surprised at the depth of my emotions, but I’d never been arrested before and until it happens to you it’s impossible to understand the loss of self-respect. For the moment, a highly civilized country had decided its society was better off if I was denied freedom to do as I pleased. It was, much to my shock, a remarkably depressing moment.
Yet it was not nearly as devastating as the scene that transpired when I climbed into the back of the police car. I was trying not to look embarrassed but also avoiding the eyes of the bystanders who’d gathered along the street. Curiosity got the better of me, though, and when I glanced at the crowd of thirty or so, I spotted the last person I wanted to see. I averted my eyes from his, an exercise in pathetic wishful thinking, and then looked back. No, I was not seeing a mirage. He was here. My client was here.
Simeon Simeonovich stood twenty yards away looking like a modern-day Cossack without the horse, handsome and stoic in a turtleneck and one of the half-zip Italian sweaters he favored. Brunello Cucinelli, I guessed. I recognized one of his bodyguards beside him, but didn’t see the second one. That was strange because he was always accompanied by a pair.
Our eyes met for a brief moment. I gave Simmy as neutral a stare as I could muster, determined not to reveal anything about my state of mind. More than anything, though, I was secretly praying to see a flicker of compassion in his eyes. But I saw only the steely gaze of a Russian oligarch, the thirty-seventh richest man in the world. And beneath that gaze I spied disappointment and disapproval.
What the hell was he doing here?
When the policeman closed the door beside me, it shut with audible finality. It drowned out all the noise from the street and left me alone, sunken in cheap leather and despair. I was not the most ingenious and resourceful woman in the world. I was the stupid American woman on her way to jail for prostitution in a city where prostitution was legal.
I really had gone too far this time.
The police car pulled away from Oudekerksplein.
Nadia Tesla was closed for business.
CHAPTER 4
My visit to the Amsterdam police station didn’t go exactly as I expected. I should have been prepared to be treated like a criminal but I was distracted by my plight. Not only had I been arrested, Simmy had seen it happen. That meant I had to extricate myself from criminal prosecution and salvage my relationship with my most important client. Multi-tasking life-altering emergencies can obscure one’s focus.
That focus sharpened as soon as they put me in a room with eight cops. They entered without their firearms. One of them, the only one under six-feet tall, stood apart from the others, looking at me as though I were Interpol’s Most Wanted. He whispered orders. The room buzzed at his command. The duo who’d arrested me removed my belt and confiscated my shoe laces. Another cop took inventory of all the things in my tote bag and had me sign it. They all spoke impeccable English and the entire exercise echoed with military precision.
I knew better than to complain or ask for preferential treatment. I did, however, inquire if I was entitled to a phone call and a lawyer. The cops who arrested me told me I had to be processed first. When they were done, a fresh-faced rookie escorted me to a jail cell and locked me inside. The jail cell looked like Mr. Clean’s training room. It contained a cot, a stainless steel sink, and a toilet. A camera hung in a corner where the walls met the ceiling.
I alternated sitting on my cot and pacing the jail cell, wondering how much damage I’d done to my reputation and my relationship with Simmy. An hour later, a man in a sports jacket and tie arrived with a clipboard and my passport. He introduced himself as Detective De Vroom. He had olive skin, lush brown hair parted to the side, and full lips. But it was the condescending look in his eyes that revealed his character to me. He was one of those men who believed that the handsomest and most talented man on Earth could be seen in his mirror every time he looked in it.
He asked me my name and address even though he had my passport. After I answered him, he moved on to more provocative questions.
“Do you know of any of crimes involving drugs that are about to take place?” he said.
“No.”
“Do you know of any crimes involving the trafficking of women for the purpose of sexual exploitation that are about to take place?”
I told him I didn’t.
“Do you know any women working as prostitutes in Amsterdam below the age of twenty-one?”
The minimum legal age for Amsterdam prostitutes was twenty-one.
“I don’t know any other prostitutes in Amsterdam, let alone minors,” I said.
I realized I’d just called myself a prostitute. That wasn’t true. I was just pretending, and yet I was the one who’d rented the window, right?
His eyes bored into mine. “You’re in serious trouble, Ms. Tesla.”