If it’s possible, the woman loses a shade to where her skin is a lemony cream.
“Posing?” The woman’s voice cracks.
“Maja Sehovic’s biological father is serving time in prison. There is no male guardian.”
The woman’s blank expression confirms her greatest fears: this is potentially a career-ending oversight.
“In order for him to remove a particular student—” Sienna Galbraith stabs the computer keyboard like she’s trying to crush a bug. Her face distorts as she drills deeper—apprehension, agitation, anticipation. “A visitor must be registered.” She pauses. “In the system.”
She spins her computer monitor dramatically for it to face Sonia.
“Father,” Galbraith says.
The lens cap of his camera already removed—because he sneaked a photo of Sehovic off the screen—Knox springs into action. He coughs loudly to cover the shutter noise and fires a wild shot in the general direction of the monitor where a man’s stony face looks back at them.
Do the math, Knox wants to say. If this man is Maja’s father, he was a father at fourteen. He’s darkly complected, with a nearly shaved head and a heavy shadow of beard. Greek? Turk? Slavic? Mixed blood. A Euro mutt with dead, angry eyes. It’s the face of the enemy and Knox identifies it as such immediately, reacts to it viscerally. Coughs again, taking another photo. He simultaneously memorizes the mobile number listed among the man’s information, wondering if it’s legitimate. Could they get that kind of break?
The head of school pulls the monitor back. “I cannot give out such information, of course.”
“If it means possibly rescuing these girls?”
“To the police, of course.”
“They are not involved yet,” Sonia presses. “Whereas, I am . . . we are.” She indicates Knox. “I am able to operate in ways the police cannot, as I’m sure you understand. This hastens certain investigative avenues that become restrictive for the police.” While Galbraith considers this, Sonia continues. “How trustworthy is this individual’s phone number?”
“As to that,” the woman says, “it would have been verified at the time of registration.”
“Verified?” Knox says, unaware of a mobile phone registry.
“We had . . . that is, the Amsterdam school system . . . There was a child pornography ring. They used one or two girls . . . horrible acts.” She closes her eyes, recovers slowly. “For the photographs.” She looks at Knox’s camera. “They used dozens—hundreds—of local girls’ faces. Digitally pasted onto the bodies to give variety to their customers. It was discovered that some of the head shots were taken on school grounds. Photographs taken primarily by mobile phone. It prompted a regulation to account for the mobile numbers of all registered visitors.”
“So that number is valid?” Sonia asks anxiously.
“It was at the time of registration. Our receptionist personally calls the mobile at the time of registration. It was a horrible—despicable—case. Girls who’ve never been compromised in any way made to look like willing participants. The parents . . .”
“I remember the story,” Sonia says. “I would very much appreciate his phone number, Ms. Galbraith. I can do much more, far more, and much faster if I’m in possession of that number.”
Knox has the number memorized. He wants to prompt her, but there’s no opportunity. Sonia and Galbraith battle over the good of the whole weighed against an individual’s privacy. It’s too socialistic an argument for Galbraith. She works the keyboard, closing the file, no doubt.
“You will have to obtain this information another way.”
“What other way?” Sonia objects. “It’s a face. An unremarkable face at that. Every girl used by them is subjected to the disgrace and abuse you’ve just outlined for us. Certainly you see your own hypocrisy?”
“I will, of course, cooperate fully with the police. I promise to contact them immediately. It’s the best I can do. You must have sources within the police?”
She’s not only holding a gun to their heads, but has started a clock running as well.
“Might I suggest Chief Inspector Joshua Brower?” Knox’s speaking seems to surprise Galbraith.
“By all means,” Galbraith answers.
“Yes,” says an incredulous Sonia, “by all means.”
It was John Knox speaking, not Steele. He curses himself, but sees no reason to backtrack.
Sonia returns her attention to the head of school. “I cannot believe you would not have the child’s best interest at heart,” she says. “This will be reflected in my article. You understand?”
“I understand, Ms. Pangarkar, that my obligation is first and foremost to the child’s family and the proper authorities, and so alerted I now intend to follow through with precisely those responsibilities. Providing the man’s personal information to the press could hardly be called responsible or proper. However you choose to report that, I trust you will at least keep this in mind. And now if you both will excuse me, I have calls to make.”
Sonia is unaccustomed to losing; it’s a side of her Knox has not witnessed. He would not like to find himself on that side—he recognizes the fury of the scorned when he sees it. He takes her gently by the arm and she looks down at his grip spitefully. He lets her go.
He’d like to review what just happened. Not Sonia.
She’s gone.
Knox occupies the seat of the motorcycle across the canal from Kreiger’s latest hangout: a coffee shop/pot bar in the red-light district. A cold drizzle falls causing him to wipe the visor of his helmet. It’s not wet enough to want to get out of it, but he’s hardly dry. It’s nearing the lunch hour; Kreiger isn’t in there to get high. It’s business.
Three days of following the man and it’s apparent to Knox that Kreiger has his hand in everything the city has to offer: a company offering walking tours; a private brothel where Kreiger keeps an office. This is the man’s third visit to a “coffee shop” in as many days. The previous two he entered alone and left with a young woman. The city is working to eliminate the coffee shops and clean up the red-light district, a plan that can’t sit well.
Knox switches out SIM cards and texts Sonia if she wants to meet for lunch. She’s been writing around the clock and could use the break. She texts back that she needs to keep working, showing her true colors. He envies her that kind of singular focus. He’s more of a Ping-Pong ball in a cardboard box. The stakeout on Kreiger has tested him. It’s getting time to bust some heads and take shortcuts. He understands why police detectives are such assholes.
—
“YOU’RE SCREWING HER, AREN’T YOU?” His only meeting with Dulwich in the past seventy-two hours. “That’s a mistake.” They’re customers in a brown café near the Van Gogh Museum. Tourists go in every direction. Cabs are queued up. There are more people in the bar from the UK than the Netherlands.
“That’s indelicate,” Knox says.
“Find yourself another hole.”
“And again.” Knox fights the urge to jump across the table and shut him up.
“She’s a source. The most important source we have. What happens when it goes south?” he asked rhetorically.
“Such confidence.”
“We can’t lose her, Knox. She’s at the center of this storm.”
“I won’t lose her.” He adds, “You’ve had that phone number for three days. What the hell?”
“We’re using our Paris office. They’re on it. The chip is a pay-as-you-go just like yours and mine.”
“So map it.”
“I said they’re on it. When they have something, we’ll have it.”