The truth, p.21
The Truth, page 21
Mr Ponytail wasn’t a kingpin but the fiver would come out if necessary to argue that he was a senior manager, and, as such, not someone they wanted photographed chatting to a senior henchman in Amsterdam. When Smith got back and put those images in front of Christine Archer, telling her what he knew of the people involved, she would begin to frame some awkward questions for the Crown Prosecution Service. He complimented himself on his positive thinking – when I get back, not if, eh? Then he wondered whether there was anything clever he could do with the memory card from the camera, just in case. In films, they post it back to someone reliable. He had someone reliable, but where do you buy Dutch stamps? Do they even have post-boxes? He hadn’t noticed any.
Eventually the waiter discovered him. Smith ordered pancakes with banana and syrup, and coffee, which came in its own pot and which was unexpectedly good. He occasionally bought a single-estate Guatemalan not at all dissimilar to this, which cost an arm and a leg. It makes you wonder, sometimes.
He watched a man walking alongside the canal up from the direction of the river. The man carried nothing and moved slowly, casually, as if he was out for a gentle stroll; he was thickset and burly, in his mid-forties and had tanned and tattooed arms. He didn’t look like a chap who did much gentle strolling and before he got too close, Smith took a look through the binoculars. Certainly this was no one he recognised but he hadn’t seen the third man on the Klymene – even Robbie said he was new, and Smith hadn’t asked for a description. A shaft of sunlight was illuminating the front of the café. Smith leaned back a little so his face was in shadow, and kept watching.
It was not his imagination. The man had slowed as he approached the Tulp Roze. Not a soul in this country knew for certain where Smith had stayed last night but the car might give him away. They had noticed it – Tim said, “You’re the guy in the yellow car…” Could they have made out the registration at that range? European plates are smaller than at home, but if they had some sort of scope? Maybe. And he had not been sufficiently careful when he left, taking the first right turn into this area of canals and backstreets, the Grachtengordel-west, instead of carrying on along the Ruijterkade and then doubling back. From the yacht, could they see he’d turned right? Smith took out his phone, opened the map and enlarged it, trying to answer that question; it was impossible to be certain either way, and therefore one should assume the worst. Time wasted in regret and remorse can be fatal in these situations. You regroup, re-calibrate and move on towards the goal, which in this case was now seat number D18 on the 17.12 flight for Stansted.
The woman took Smith by surprise. She appeared at the top of the steps that led down onto the Tulp Roze – she could only have come from the houseboat. She was carrying a red bucket which she took across to some sort of drain – she lifted a lid and poured in the contents of the bucket. How had he missed her? Perhaps she had gone on board in the two minutes it had taken him to walk to the café, perhaps it had been while he was ordering the pancakes and coffee. She might be a cleaner but when he viewed her through the binoculars, he saw an attractive blonde head and specs that made her look rather studious – more than likely this was his other host, Natalie.
The waiter was hovering, looking either for the table or another order. Smith asked for a second pot of coffee, reluctant to take his eye off the scene for long because the burly man – to whom he had taken one of those irrational dislikes that plague us at inopportune moments – having passed by the Tulp Roze, was now on his way back. Smith guessed he had noticed the woman.
Sure enough, they were soon having some sort of conversation. It wasn’t long before the man looked in the direction of the car and said something – the woman then followed suit. At one point, he raised his arm and made some sort of gesture north towards the riverside, and Natalie – it could be no one else – nodded. These two had never met until now, but the man could be using this casual and apparently accidental encounter to find out what he wanted to know, or at least something useful – Smith was certain of it because he could have done so easily himself. The two spoke for about another minute before the woman went back down to the boat. She must have found the keys and realised her guest had gone. She would be surprised at and probably annoyed by the rudeness of the English, and Smith’s new life as an Airbnb traveller had most likely come to an abrupt end. But much more significantly, the man crossed those tattooed arms and stood for some seconds on the quayside, looking around the area. Smith continued to lean back into the shadows. There were too many people now and he was seated too far away to be seen but he had no doubt this character was looking for him.
The Vondelpark is one of those unexpectedly green oases one finds in all the best cities of the world. There are woodland groves, seats in secret corners, there are lakes and shaded pools and streams that seem to follow courses dictated by nature and gravity rather than those dictated by mankind – something of a novelty in The Netherlands. Smith found an information board with an English translation and was surprised to learn that huge though it is, the entire space is a man-made creation on what was effectively a vast rubbish dump one hundred and fifty years ago. Even better, because it is still inexorably sinking as a result, the park requires a complete renovation every thirty years or so to prevent it becoming a swamp. He looked around at the tranquil, idyllic scene and its people – the walkers and strollers, the sitters in green shade beneath huge plane trees, the readers on park benches, the joggers and cyclists – and realised that although this represented another triumph of the Dutch people’s mastery of water, it was also just another of life’s illusions. And he’d never heard of the poet Vondel, though he found and stared up at the huge statue of him. If the phone had held more charge, Smith would have Googled him there and then, but needs must, Joost.
Smith had waited until the man had disappeared from sight – he went back the way he had come, towards the river. Then Smith had watched some more, allowing now for the fact that he had already been decoyed by people who knew what they were about. He used the time to examine his predicament from as many angles as possible. How much did Natalie know, and how much of what she did know might she have inadvertently revealed? Smith was sure that in her emails Jo had mentioned he was flying into Amsterdam, and there was only one airport. If the burly man had concocted some story about hoping to catch up with his old friend the Englishman, she might have mentioned that. She might, conceivably, have given him a name. Or, just as conceivably, nothing like that had passed between them – burly might simply have said, nice little motor, I’m thinking of getting one for my wife, and the guest on the Tulp Roze had never been mentioned. You assume the worst – if you must assume at all – you hope for the best and you shoot down the middle.
The arrangement he’d made to be picked up outside the Ann Frank house had to be changed, of course. Standing for what could be several minutes that close to the houseboat was unthinkable. Using the map on the phone, he had headed south-west, making for the green space of the Vondelpark – there would be plenty of people but also plenty of room. At 14.20, he began to make his way back towards the entrance, and at exactly 14.29 he stepped out onto the pavement of the Stadhouderskade. Osmanek Demir had said, ‘Across the canal you see the Hard Rock Café. I pick you up there, no problem.’
They were away quickly – the taxi had barely stopped before it was moving again. This time Smith had his rucksack and travel bag with him in the backseat. There was relief at being in the same vehicle but heading in the opposite direction, heading for home. Osmanek said it had been a short visit, and Smith had agreed but said he hoped to return soon to see more of Amsterdam. The driver said, ‘OK. You call me any time. Anything you need. You do some good business?’
Yes, said Smith, it had been a worthwhile trip. He shifted his position so he could use the sideview mirror to see the road behind, but he also glanced back a couple of times. After the second occasion, he noticed the dark, Mediterranean eyes watching him in the mirror, and wondered whether there were automatic locks on the passenger doors. They were passing signs for Schiphol already, but you cannot be too careful.
Stay in the open? You can see them but they can see you. Hide, then. That seems to make more sense but if they find you, you’re trapped. If they meant him harm, how would they intend to carry it out? This wouldn’t be a beating to encourage him to behave – if they came after him at all, the aim would be to take him out of the picture quickly and completely. Most likely a handgun or a knife. He’d be tempted to go for a bullet, just for a change. They would need to get up close and personal, so again, staying in the open seemed like the best choice, but you cannot be sure who it is you’re watching out for – you cannot keep ten yards clear of every other human being in a busy airport, where there are hundreds of other travellers heading in every direction.
After the taxi had cleared the drop-off area, Smith turned and went through the main entrance. When he had arrived here – was it really less than thirty-six hours ago? – he had taken little notice of the layout of the airport; now getting some grasp of it could be critical. All the time there was a voice telling him he was over-reacting, imagining things, but that’s a siren voice. Keep the steady course of reason, calculating the odds; it’s very unlikely anyone could have got a seat on the flight at such short notice. If you can make it onto the plane, you should be OK.
The first concourse was huge but he got lucky and found a kiosk selling papers, magazines and maps. He bought a guide to the airport with a map which folded out from the back cover – he took this to a seating area and sat down with it, taking a first inventory of the nearby faces. The short-term memory had not been tested in such a way for longer than he cared to remember. As a non-Schengen individual, his departure should be through Gate G; he double-checked on his ticket and found this to be the case. He wasn’t far from there now but it would be a mistake to go immediately to the area where anyone who knew where he had come from – and they might know or could make an educated guess – would themselves wait and watch for him. He would head in the opposite direction first, not going through security yet, which would limit his options sooner than necessary. Waiting around with people flying to South America or the far east might give him some cover for a while.
It took four attempts before he found an outlet that provided coffee in ceramic cups rather than paper or plastic, but this had passed some time and given him a purpose in life. We all need, Smith told himself, a little purpose in our lives. There were a few unoccupied seats in a corner beneath a flight of stairs and he tucked himself in there – he could look to the right and the left without being too visible to the never-ending stream of travellers.
Why do airports require such long pre-flight arrival times? How many hours are wasted in this way each year? Millions? Probably billions. The most likely reason, he decided, was the money they generated from selling you stuff while they made you wait around. Checking his watch, he realised he had been in Schiphol for almost an hour already. So far, so good. He had almost certainly been erring on the side of caution.
There had been time to think about all this. He thought about Diver and Diver, the whole business of getting involved with them, albeit only for Charlie’s sake. Private investigation. You turn up your nose at the thought of it when you’re a copper, thinking it’s all serving writs or spying on the eternally unfaithful spouse but divorces don’t look half so bad when you’re stuck in a foreign airport and wondering which way they’re most likely to do for you. Still, this hadn’t been a disaster. He had been made, yes, but only in the act of getting what he came for, which was a chance for Charlie’s son. He would take those odds again and might be luckier next time, should there happen to be one. It was highly unlikely, of course.
He waited there until half an hour remained. Jo had sent a text asking what he would like for supper – his response was that he had been out of the country for so long it had to be a full roast with all the vegetables. She suggested he pick up fish and chips on the drive home instead and in the end they compromised on a Spanish omelette. Whilst she was not infrequently away from home for a night or two, this was the first occasion he had been since they moved in together, and he was looking forward to seeing her and newly appreciating the home comforts of Drift’s End.
He would need to check in in person, the opportunity to do so online having long since passed. If anything, Schiphol was busier than ever as he made his way towards the airline’s desk, which was situated conveniently close to the security checks for Gate G – he could see that from the map he had bought. Nearing the check-in area, he slowed and looked around again, but with less apprehension than before; he had been in the airport a while now, and the worst that had happened was the arrival at an adjacent table of the couple with the screaming baby. Curiously, it had stopped the noise when it noticed the Englishman’s unsmiling observation. Eventually it began to gurgle contentedly at him over the mother’s shoulder and she had turned, noticed and asked Smith if he was going to be on their flight. Sadly, he said, he was not. For some unfathomable reason, they were going to Buenos Aires.
The queues for the check-in desks were longer than he would have hoped but he should still have time. The barriers had been arranged so that the four streams of people came to a halt in coiled lines before beginning the long shuffle forward to freedom. He watched a little longer, searched around the perimeter of the holding area and saw no one simply watching – once he was in one of those queues, he would be trapped. For the final time, he made sure that his ticket, passport, wallet and car keys were in his pockets – a bag can be snatched away, the trousers not so much.
It was hot and humid in here. He took off his jacket and pushed it through the handles of his travelling bag so it could be more easily carried, before joining the nearest queue. So far, so good once more, and almost there – no one could get beyond the security check without a boarding pass. Three of the business sorts he’d seen commuting yesterday morning came straight in behind him, still talking about a meeting, contracts and deadlines for a building project. The English accents were oddly comforting. Smith half-turned to look at them. When he had done so, he glanced around again purely out of habit or instinct, and that’s when he saw the Frenchman watching him.
Chapter Twenty-three
In every life there are moments one knows will alter things forever. Smith guessed he’d had more than his share of those, but if he had been forced to choose one, it would always be the split-second in which he raised the pistol and told Aidan Quinn to back away. Then, pulling the trigger, the single shot going home, the youth crumpling to the ground, dead before he hit it – there is no reset button for such a thing. That moment had ended his military service and set him on a course for an entirely different life. And yet, was it so different? He had wondered from time to time whether every murder investigation he had ever been involved with was, in some strange and indirect way, an investigation into the death of the young Irishman, with himself as the prime – the only – suspect. Hadn’t he always unconsciously been measuring his own actions on that night so long ago against those of the killers he had since brought to some sort of justice?
Pierre looked away after a second or so but their eyes had met for long enough – they knew they had seen each other. He was standing to the side of the space where the queues were slowly winding into each other; standing close to a corner beyond which was the southern end of the main concourse. At least twenty five yards separated them, and Pierre was showing no sign that he intended to enter the crowd of travellers. That could only mean one thing.
At first the light-headedness, jitters as if he had overdone the coffee. Smith counted his next outbreath to eleven and then closed his throat. Altering the brain chemistry a little can help the thinking process – it’s why cigarettes work. Nicotine improves concentration, it’s just a pity about all the other stuff. As he counted slowly, he looked forward again, estimating how many people were ahead in his particular line. No, don’t estimate, count them too. Twelve. The staff behind the desks seemed efficient enough and the travellers were all moving forward a space every one to two minutes. So this might take another eighteen minutes or thereabouts. What would happen to the queues either side in that time?
Now he breathed, evenly and consciously, and turned around again to the right. Pierre hadn’t moved and was still looking studiously in some other direction. Whoever was stalking Smith was likely to be in one of the lines to the side – they could not easily get past the group of businessmen behind him. Because the lines were coiled back on themselves – grimly, he thought, not unlike intestines – and because they were moving at different speeds, the people either side of him were continually changing. A new face could come level with him and lunge with a blade, duck under the temporary barriers and be away before anyone had grasped what was going on.
He watched those in the line to his right, keeping half an eye on the Frenchman beyond. Mentally he made a list: two elderly, blue-rinsed American women travelling together; a ruck-sacked couple in their thirties who looked bored with the round-the-world adventure now or the person they’d chosen to have it with; a smart lady in a business suit who caught him looking and frowned her disapproval; behind her a man in sunglasses with a shoulder bag, wearing a tan leather jacket; then a family with three patient, well-behaved children, none of whom was yet ten years old. He turned to the left and repeated the process. Pierre would understand what was happening now, and that’s why he was positioned where he was; if the hunted man made a break for it, he had to go back into the main concourse.
