The sound woke Walter, a sound he knew he’d heard before. It was the sound of a door opening, the door at the front of the building. Someone from upstairs, he thought. Second or third floor. Coming home late. After all, it is Amsterdam. Must be alone because he heard no voices. Two or more people, they’d be talking, wouldn’t they? Laughing, maybe giggling, urging each other not to wake the neighbors. The door had opened. He waited for the sound of it closing. It never came. Someone must have grabbed the heavy wooden door just before it thundered shut and then silently slipped it into place. An act of consideration at-he glanced over at the small clock he always traveled with-2:53 am? Perhaps. He listened for footsteps. One, two, three, and they stopped. It was seven steps to the stairway leading to the upper floors. It was three to the door of their apartment. Someone was standing just outside, on the other side of the door. Someone was right there, an inch or two away. Walter lay on the couch, in the darkness. Reaching down to the floor beneath him, using only his left hand, he found the pistol Aat had given him earlier that evening. He held it aimed at the middle of the door just left of the latch. If it opened, whoever came in would walk directly into his sights. Then he sat up, moving his body slowly, trying to keep the couch from making noise while he shifted his weight. When both feet were firmly on the floor, he stood in one quick move. The. 9mm held its aim throughout, now leveled at what he figured to be chest height. Gliding on the balls of his bare feet, Walter reached the door in two long steps, flipped the latch, turned the doorknob and threw it open. Instantly, the barrel of his weapon was jammed against the forehead of the man standing in the hallway.
“Not a sound,” Walter said. “Just follow my lead.” With that he pushed the gun forcefully against the man’s head to the left as he stepped to the right. This placed the man inside the apartment with his back to the couch, the one Walter had been sleeping on. Now, closing the door, he pushed him harder, into the apartment. As he did so, he flipped the light switch. “Put your hands on top of your head,” he said, very quietly, very calmly, almost reassuringly. “Get down on your knees and lay flat on the floor, face forward.” The man did as he was told. “If you make any movement or gesture,” Walter went on, “anything at all that disturbs me, I’ll shoot you. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” the man said in a voice muffled by the fact that his face was flat on the floor and he was unable to raise his neck with his hands on the back of his head as they were.
“Good,” said Walter. “I’m going to search you and then ask you to remove your coat. Don’t be alarmed. I will not hurt you, unless you make me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said the man.
With the gun pushed against the back of the man’s head at the base of his skull, Walter ran his free hand down and across the man’s body, his arms and legs, looking for a weapon, including any small ordnance that might be hidden in his socks or hitched on his ankle, around his waist and belt, under his armpits and into his groin. He was unarmed. Walter removed the man’s wallet from the left breast jacket pocket, opened it and dropped it on the floor next to the man’s head.
“I’m going to ask you to do something, Sean,” he said. “When I do, do exactly as I say. Take as much time as you need. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” said the man.
“Good. Roll over on your back. Take your hands from your head and unbutton your coat. Then remove the coat, one arm at a time, without getting off the floor. Do it now.” Walter stepped back a pace and watched the man turn over and begin unbuttoning his long overcoat. “If you make a move other than with your buttons, I’ll shoot you. You understand me?”
“Yes,” said the man.
“Good,” said Walter.
When his overcoat was unbuttoned and the man lay on top of it, Walter reached with his right foot and kicked the coat from under him, away in the direction of the ugly barstools near the kitchen. It slid on the hardwood floor nearly the length of the room. “Now take your pants off.”
“What?”
“Don’t speak. Just remove your pants and your underwear.” The man hesitated. This was not the first time Walter had engaged in this particular piece of melodrama. He was not surprised by the man’s reluctance. He knew that any man who did not instinctively recoil from such an order was a very dangerous man indeed. Any man who could maintain his concentration and keep his cool while his balls were set free to flap on the floor was already working on a plan of escape. Such a man, Walter knew, would be devising a way to kill him. This one was not such a man.
He managed his pants without incident, but again stopped before taking his underwear off. “Do it,” said Walter, this time with an edge to his voice. The man was clearly frightened and that pleased Walter. When he lay there, his genitals fully exposed, Walter said, “Pull your shirt up over your eyes. Let it cover your head.”
“Hey, wait a…” He was stopped by the sound of Walter’s gun clicking into a ready position. “Okay, okay,” the man said and did as he had been told. Finally, he lay there, on the floor, naked below the neck, his face covered and his hands at his side.
“Hands on head,” said Walter. The man complied immediately. At that point Walter brought the gun down and moved the hammer to rest. If that sound made the man feel better, Walter couldn’t tell because the man’s face was covered by his shirt. It made Walter feel safer. He certainly did not want to shoot someone, in the middle of the night, on the quiet and reserved Heerensgracht. How much attention would that bring? And there was Harry. He didn’t want to wake him.
Walter asked, “Where are you from, Sean Dooley?” The man on the floor mumbled something through his shirt. “Speak up,” said Walter.
“Waterford.”
“Waterford?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Where’s that?”
“Ireland.”
“Right on the River Suir,” came a voice from the hallway at the end of the room. It was Harry Levine. “Waterford, you know, the glass people. Nice town. Very pretty really.”
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Walter said.
“Well, I’m up and look what I find. Somebody, naked, face up on the living room floor. And you’re holding that gun on him.”
“At least you’re in a good mood,” said Walter, then turning his attention back to the naked man on the floor, he asked, “Who are you working for?” Dooley said nothing. “Look Dooley,” Walter said with a sigh, “When I ask a question, you have to answer me. Those are the rules. Otherwise I’ll shoot you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you, Sean?”
“Thirty-one.”
“If you’d like to be thirty-two, you need to know that any inclination you might have to tell me less than what I want to know or to give me information which is less than truthful, could lead to me killing you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” and this time he added, “sir.”
“Then tell me what you are doing here and who sent you.”
Harry found himself much more accepting of the situation than he ever dreamed he would be. Of course, he never dreamed anything like this at all. It was like fishing, he thought. You drop your line and hope for a catch. Only thing was, he wasn’t wading in cool water somewhere along the Chattahoochee River, flicking his rod, tossing his lure way out from shore. He was a world away from a warm spring morning in the north Georgia mountains. To be sure, he was the fish. And it looked like Walter Sherman just caught the fisherman.