“Thanks. Where am I going to hide these?” I could hardly go downstairs loaded with gear in front of Piet. “My van is parked about a kilometer away. Can you get this stuff there?”
“Yes,” she said. “This man with you-he is not good.”
“He’s a cold-blooded murderer and a slaver. I have to ambush him and several others at a meeting.”
“Then we mustn’t make a mistake,” Eliane said. I liked her. I’d been judged by so many people lately, from Howell to August to Mila, and Eliane just seemed to want to help me. I could have kissed her.
I gave her the keys and the description of the van. “And I need a cell phone. Programmed with a number where I can reach Mila.” I took off my baseball cap and she gasped at the encrusted blood. She insisted on examining the wound.
“It’s superficial, but it needs tending,” Eliane said.
“No time, and it would make him suspicious. How much time do you need to get to the van, load it, and get back?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Give me cash. A thousand euros, if you have it. I need to impress him that I cut a deal with Mr. Cadet.”
She went to a safe in the wall, keyed in a combination, then fingered her way through a pile of bills and handed them to me.
It felt human again, to not be pretending to be someone I wasn’t, to not be with scum like Piet. I wanted to savor the moment. Eliane was like a cool mom for people on the run.
And just like a mom, Eliane looked at me as though my thoughts were written on my forehead. “We have jobs to do. Go.”
She was right. I hurried back down the stairs. Piet had found a corner table and was sitting in a sullen funk, wolfing his beer.
I sat down and slid him a hundred euros. He blinked at me.
“Cadet owed me some money,” I said. “And gave me an advance on the next job.”
“This wasn’t worth the stop.”
“It was to me, Piet.”
I gestured at the waitress. I had to give Eliane time to find the van, plant the goods where he wouldn’t see them.
Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” began to play on the speakers. Not louder than the talkers, but enough to impart the necessary funky vibe to the suit-infested pub. I saw Piet lean back slightly and let the feel, the groove, of Taverne Chevalier ease into him. It had been a long, hard day. The mind, the body, wanted to relax, let the adrenaline burn itself out.
We ordered the specialty, thick Ardennes ham sandwiches, but Piet downed another beer in four long gulps and said, “No, coffee, please,” when the waitress asked if we wanted another round. I agreed: coffee.
“Get the sandwiches and coffee for takeaway, please,” Piet said.
“No,” I said. “I am sitting here, like a human being, and having my dinner.” I leaned forward and made my voice a hiss. “I got grazed by a bullet and lost blood today, Piet. I jumped onto a truck. If I want to eat here, we’re eating here. We’re taking a short break.”
How much did he still need me? I could see him weighing the balance by the way he glared at me. He could get up, walk out, force this to a fight. Shoot me in the darkness of the parking lot where we’d left the truck and the van, leave the van behind. The stop had raised his suspicions.
Hurry, Eliane, I thought. I couldn’t risk a glance at my watch or the clock. He watched me, a hard, awful light in his eyes, so I took refuge in my beer.
Some of the suits-men speaking in hushed German-pushed past our table, making their way to their own. Piet scowled. “I hate these suits. Rule makers. They think they run the world. All they do is set up walls and rules and then argue amongst themselves about what those walls will be.”
“Men like you and me, we tear down the walls,” I said. I couldn’t help thinking of my first few months in London, Lucy and me sitting in a wine bar on the side of Paternoster Square in the soft light of the old city, happy to be together and excited to be doing good work.
Good work had been my family’s specialty and my family’s tragedy. I had killed now to stay alive, and I wasn’t worrying about it, but I wouldn’t have wanted to describe those moments to my father or mother. My own life had marked me with my own permanent stains, the damned blood that didn’t wash off the guilty hand.
“Eh, tear them down, they build them back up.” He fell silent as the waitress set coffee down in front of us. “We’ll take our food to go, miss,” he told her.
“But-”
“No, Sam.” His voice was like a knife. “I don’t like this bar. I don’t want to be here a moment longer after I’m done with my coffee.”
This wasn’t a fight I could win, and I knew now that the closer we were to delivering the shipment to Edward, the more Piet would seize command. This was his deal; I was a replacement player. Fine. Let him think I was cowed. “All right, Piet.” But I didn’t really hurry.
“You’ve got time to finish your coffee,” he said. “I need to make a call. Stay here.” And he stood up and left the table, stepped outside the Taverne Chevalier. Panic inched up my bones. If he was running, I would lose the only thread I had to Edward, and to Yasmin, and to whatever happened to Lucy. I couldn’t see him on the front window of the bar.
My gut said, He’s dumping you, follow him.
The waitress placed the bag with our order on the table. I slid her money and got up from the table.
I stepped out from Taverne Chevalier’s front door. Piet stood twenty feet away, closing the cell phone. Staring at me.
67
I raised the bag of sandwiches. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” he said. “Come here, Sam.”
I did and he pushed me along the street. Then into the barely lit doorway of an art supply shop. “What, you’re going back to art school and need supplies?”
“Hands on the door.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
He ran probing hands along my legs, my arms. Searching to see if I had anything I shouldn’t have had. He pulled the wad of euros from my pocket.
“That’s enough. I don’t have a phone, I don’t have a weapon. You’re really getting our partnership off to a great start after I saved your ass. Give me my money.”
He pushed the wad back into my hand. “There. Sorry,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
I pretended to be angry. “I pulled your ass out of the fire, I found you the Lings’ shipment, I took the bigger risk today. If someone’s not going to trust someone, maybe it should be me not trusting you.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “I think you think I’m not as smart as you, as tough as you.” He was threatened by me; I’d jumped onto a moving truck and hijacked it. Stupid. This was about machismo. “Come on.”
“Let’s sit here and eat, if the bar’s making you nervous. I don’t like cold food.” I had to give Eliane time to return. Otherwise I’d have to pretend I’d lost the van key in the tavern and we’d have to come back and his suspicions would skyrocket.
He seemed to feel a bit guilty about his rant, so we sat on a bench on the road and ate our sandwiches. I saw a vaguely female form race around the corner on a scooter. I could tell it was Eliane and hoped that Piet couldn’t. He seemed engrossed in his food, though, hunger winning out over the desire to make time.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I said when the sandwich was done.
“Me, too,” he said.
I wanted to go back in alone; I needed that van key. Eliane was behind the bar, drawing a beer. She glanced up, caught sight of me, but gave no sign of recognition. Piet was close behind me.
We both went into the bathroom; I finished first and stepped back into the hallway. Eliane was three feet away, and she brushed by me, calling out orders to the barkeep. She pressed the key into my hand and it was in my pocket a moment later.
Piet’s hand clapped me on the shoulder. “You’re right, a break helped. I got new life. Let’s get going.”