“They have killed one source, assaulted others, attempted to intimidate me—”
“Kill you.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We’re outnumbered.”
“This is my cause, not yours. Let’s call this,” she says, laying her warm hand between his legs, “our parting gift.”
“You’ve made it mine,” he says. “You gave them names.”
She removes her hand. “They have names.”
“Take a couple weeks away from here. Let it cool down.”
“There are two different groups of girls in there, John. Those like Maja—day workers whose own families condone the labor. Then there are the Bernas. Some of them chained. None well fed, nor looked after. Who knows what happens to them?”
“You can’t bring her back.”
She rolls away from him. “Get out of my bed!”
Knox sits up. Pulls on his jeans and gathers the rest of his clothes. He stands too quickly, banging his head on the ceiling.
She rolls back, pulling the sheet across her.
They meet eyes in the faint light of a spreading dawn. He looks away quickly, a reflex as he feels the power she now possesses.
Grace listens to the voice mail forwarded by Knox for the third time. Chief Inspector Brower’s voice is calm and deliberate as he explains. The Special Investigative Services division of the KLPD has determined that two thousand euros used to purchase the radio-triggering device in the EU delegate car bombing is traceable to a single bank branch. It is information he is not supposed to possess, and therefore cannot act upon. The KLPD is itself unlikely to act, as the discovery surfaced as an unintended consequence of an ongoing investigation of its own, having nothing to do with the EU car bombing. The situation leaves the police and the KLPD in a bureaucratic tangle and has led to Brower’s sharing the information with Knox and Dulwich. The euros were withdrawn as cash and paid out to the man who built the trigger for the car bomb, providing a possible trail to the person who ordered the bombing—the person behind the knot shop.
After her third listen, Grace stares pensively from the back window of a different Mercedes than the one she rode in the day before. Dulwich begins his day by renting a new vehicle, limiting the chance of a bombing. He has settled into his role as driver, looking comfortable behind the wheel, talking back to his Dutch-speaking GPS, and cursing the other drivers.
Grace is asked for her take on the message. Dulwich has listened only once.
“With the help of the Hong Kong office, we have a fair chance of breaching the bank’s firewalls. It should not be difficult to determine cash withdrawals in amounts over two thousand euros in a given time frame. My guess is it will not be a terribly long list given that it is a particular branch.”
“It will be a shell corporation.”
“Perhaps. If they are in fact that sophisticated. It is possible, certainly. But you are overlooking the obvious. Whoever is running the knot shop will not use banks. Safe-deposit boxes possibly. But far more likely a private safe in a home or office.”
“So this is useless information? To hell with that. We must be able to use it somehow.”
“These people are not stupid. But their customers? More likely, this cash was paid to the shop. A withdrawal was made to cover the purchase of some rugs or drugs or whatever else it is they sell. That money was passed along to the knot shop and locked up in a safe. When it came time to pay off the bomb maker . . .” She doesn’t finish the sentence.
“It’s not the knot shop’s money, but a customer’s.” Dulwich stops the car at a red light, throws his arm across the backseat as he turns to face her. “We identify the customer, have a little chat, and we’re noses to the ground on our way to the shop.”
“I identify the customer,” she says, correcting him. “Knox performs the interrogation. More than likely the money leads to a middleman or agent. But we are closer, yes.”
“Don’t get all bitchy on me. It doesn’t suit you. We’re saying the same thing, and you know it.”
“It is late in Hong Kong. I will need to speak to Dr. Yamaguchi or Mr. Kamat.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I will require high-speed Internet access. Not this café or hotel bandwidth. A legal firm, an investment firm. Something with some muscle.”
“Understood.”
“The light is green.”
Dulwich drives more slowly than just a few minutes earlier. “I’ll make some calls.”
“As for tonight,” Grace says, “they may be expecting me.”
“I can arrange for a runner.”
“Please.”
The GPS speaks again. Dulwich consults the screen. “Two hundred meters. Keep the phone in your boot and the call open.”
“Make certain you are seen. But not your leg.”
“The trouble with Chinese is they speak too bluntly. You need to work on that.”
“If you want an American, hire one.”
The Mercedes slows and pulls to the curb. Identical four-story brick buildings populate every block in every direction. Only the street signs and bicycles and parked vehicles break the similarities. A blue and white real estate sign is taped to the inside of a vacant storefront window. To the right of the empty shop lies an antique toy train store; to the left, insurance.
The real estate agent awaiting Grace is in her late forties, wide of girth and heavy of bosom. She’s dressed in solid color wools. Her lipstick attempts to hide the purse-string wrinkles that have overtaken her mouth. They speak Dutch.
“I will wait!” Dulwich calls out, also in Dutch. He’s a formidable specimen at any distance. The Mercedes looks suddenly smaller to both women.
Grace dismisses him with a wave of the hand. She has slipped the iPhone into her right boot where it’s wedged between calf muscle and black leather. Dulwich will monitor the conversation as well as Grace’s location in case there’s an attempt to abduct her. The kind of space she has requested could raise some eyebrows. At least, she and Dulwich are hoping so.
Graces walks to the center of the shop. A counter sticks out from the wall two-thirds deep into the space. She goes through the motions of inspection, then asks if there’s cellar storage. She’s led down to an open common space into which storage cases have been installed. Like everything Dutch, the space is clean and tidy. It runs against Grace’s Chinese heritage.
“I will be honest with you,” Grace says. “I am looking for something . . . it need not be so upmarket as this. I must not have explained myself. You might call it . . . artist space. A loft will not do because I must have quiet. Cellar space would be ideal. Four to five hundred square meters. Street access, but it cannot be a busy street with difficult parking.”
“Galleries and boutiques are moving into this neighborhood. It is why I thought of you.”
“My needs are strictly work space. Not retail. I have a . . . a start-up in mind. You know the women in India who make useful art from plastic bags? Eco-art? It is along those lines.”
“Light industrial.”
“Emphasis on light. It must be fairly close to town, but in a more residential neighborhood. A place with schools and housing.”
“An old paint shop or garage. Furniture store.”
“That’s the idea.”
“But on a quiet street,” the realtor says, reminding Grace of her own requirement.
“Yes. Perhaps you could pull up some comparison leases or rentals? Maybe that would give us a lead.” Grace has reached the crux of the matter. “Rentals or leases made within the past twenty-four months.”
The realtor nods contemplatively. “Yes. I am happy to do so.”
“We could do this now?” Grace asks. “At your agency?”