Killing Truth: A Leine Basso Thriller Prequel Page 6

  At least she had good memories of Amsterdam. Arriving at Schiphol almost felt like home.

  Almost.

  Leine headed straight for Schiphol Plaza and a train to the city center. The abrupt change from the tropical climate of Campeche to the cool fall weather in the Netherlands had her digging through her carry-on for a jacket. She stopped at a kiosk to exchange several hundred dollars for euros. Half an hour later she found her hotel, and checked in as Eve Mason.

  She dropped her bags on the bed and checked the time. 16:10. Just after seven in the morning on the West Coast. Eric would be awake. She logged in to a secure site run by the Agency and clicked to make a video call.

  Eric’s tanned face materialized. By the looks of him, he was well rested and still in his kitchen, having coffee.

  “Good morning,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Or should I say good afternoon?”

  “Checking in. I’m in Amsterdam.” Leine was too tired to keep a leash on her impatience. She needed to get on with this and then get back to April and Carlos. And sleep for a week.

  “Good afternoon, Eric. It’s good to see you. How are you?” Eric said in a feminine voice, mocking her clipped tone.

  Ignoring him, Leine glanced at the notes she’d made on Robicheaux. “I have an address, some cryptic information, and a shitty photograph, but nowhere in the file does it say when the package will be available. I assume contact is imminent?” Otherwise, why the hell did he need her there so quickly?

  Eric nodded and tilted his head to one side, stretching his neck. “You’re right about that. You’re to go to Café Ryker on Lauriergracht Canal, at precisely twenty-one hundred. Our friend is scheduled to meet a Russian agent posing as an arms dealer. Word is he’s in the market for aircraft.”

  “Then why do you need me there? Can’t the Russians take him out?”

  “Our Russian counterpart prefers to remain undercover. The Frenchman isn’t the only quarry they’re after. If things go south too many other operations would be at risk.” Eric shrugged. “Besides, if he does have moles inside Russian intelligence, then he might be able to identify whoever they used.” His gaze dropped to the cup in his hand. He took another sip of coffee. “And, as I explained before, they want the best.”

  Acid burned in her gut. Be careful with this one, Leine. Something isn’t right.

  “Who gave you the intel?” Leine leaned back in her chair, working to keep her voice modulated. “Can you trust them?”

  “I realize you’re gun-shy because of the Glushenko incident, but trust me, I’ve vetted this source for months. He’s clean.”

  “Of course. Do I have any support on this one?”

  “Lou’s still on another job, but I can assign someone if you feel you need them.” Eric took another sip of coffee and set it back down. “You seem to have managed on your own in Mexico. The PRI is indebted to you, as is the United States government.”

  Leine rolled her eyes. She hated it when he cloaked himself and the Agency in the flag. She was perfectly aware she and the other operatives worked in that murky area considered off-book. No matter what happened when securing the nation’s interests, the decision makers didn’t want to know anything except that the job was done.

  “What about Carlos?” Leine asked. “We work well together and know each other’s style.” Most jobs didn’t last more than a few days, so he would have checked in, unless he was collecting intel for further operations.

  Some kind of emotion flickered across Eric’s face too quickly for Leine to identify. Irritation? Anger? Carlos might have been right about Eric’s jealousy, she thought.

  “I haven’t heard from Carlos. He was supposed to call in last night.”

  She sat forward. “That doesn’t sound like him.” Memories of Carlos’s demeanor the day he left the apartment came rushing back. Relax, Leine. He’s fine. Don’t jump to conclusions.

  “No, it doesn’t. That’s why I’ve decided to give him more time before we dissociate.”

  Leine’s fingers itched to grab her boss around his perfectly tanned throat. “What do you mean, ‘dissociate’? You’re joking, right? He’s been with the Agency for ten years. Ten years. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” Her cheeks heated as anger spiked in her chest. “You should send all available personnel to his last location to search for him.”

  She rose from her chair and strode to the window. Leaves from a nearby tree littered the private patio, staining the bricks red.

  “Calm down, Leine. I have every faith in him. He’s only a day late. I’m sure he lost his phone, or something as equally simple as that.”

  Leine walked back to the laptop and glared at Eric. “Send someone now, Eric. You can’t afford to lose him.”

  Eric’s eyes glittered at the warning in her voice. “No, I can’t.” He stared back, matching her expression.

  “Tell me where he is,” she said, crossing her arms. “If I’m close, I can catch a flight once I’m finished with Robicheaux.”

  “You’re not. Like I said, I’ll give him one more day and then we’ll send in a recovery team. Is that okay with you?” His voice dripped sarcasm.

  It wasn’t, but there was little Leine could do if he wouldn’t tell her where Carlos was. She could always try Mindy, although that might be a hard sell. She was loyal to Eric.

  “So we’re good?” Eric asked, his expression stern as he went into business mode. “You have everything you need?”

  “No, we’re not good. But as long as you gave Spartacus a heads-up that I’d be in town, then yes, I’m fine.”

  Eric nodded. “Spartacus is expecting you, and he’ll have what you need. Good luck, Leine. I’ll wait for your call.”

  The screen went black, and Leine closed her laptop. Tendrils of worry etched their way into her mind.

  Where was Carlos? Eric was within his rights not telling her his location. He probably feared she’d put her current mission on hold in order to go to his side.

  He’d be right.

  As far as she was concerned, the job with the Frenchman could wait.

  Chapter 9

  Amsterdam, the Netherlands

  Leine freshened up and walked to a nearby Indian restaurant for dinner. Then she hopped on a tram and headed for a bookshop in Old Town where Spartacus was located. She’d used him and his extensive contacts for several jobs in the past and she trusted him. Well, as far as she could trust a man who had no past and who supplied anything to anyone, no questions asked. So far, he’d never let her down.

  Situated in a centuries-old building originally built for a member of the banking community, Spartacus’s shop took up minimal space on the ground floor near the back. Hidden as it was in an unassuming corner of the building, the only way anyone would be able to find it was through word of mouth. Often, even that wasn’t enough. It was a good thing his main business wasn’t books.

  The door opened to the sound of a tiny bell jingling above her head. Leine stifled a sneeze as she entered. Sunlight streamed through a narrow window, illuminating a blizzard of dust particles sent spinning in frenzied abandon as she walked past. The dark wood beams and high white ceiling did little to dispel the claustrophobe’s nightmare; the seemingly endless shelves of books stacked floor-to-ceiling and way too much furniture gave the room the ambiance of a hoarder’s dream. She picked her way carefully through stacks of newspapers and magazines and around chairs piled high with magazines and more books, marveling at how each was able to maintain verticality.

  Phlegmy wheezing preceded the owner by several beats. As she waited for Spartacus to appear, Leine glanced at several of the titles in the bookcases. Most were in Dutch—a language she spoke with only rudimentary skill.

  “Well, well. I’ve been expecting you.” The smile on Spartacus’s face put her at ease and she smiled in return. The buttons on his wrinkled blue shirt barely contained his soft beer belly, although the brown, moth-eaten sweater he wore over the top of ancient chinos worked hard in his favor.

&
nbsp; “It’s good to see you, Sparky.” Leine leaned in and they kissed each other’s cheeks. “It’s been a while.”

  Spartacus, or Sparky for short, waved a doughy hand in the air, dismissing her comments. “With friends like you, the length of time matters little. It always feels as though we parted last week.” He placed the book he’d been carrying on a nearby stack of papers and crooked his finger, indicating she follow him. He pressed a button concealed in an old brass lamp, and a section of bookcase swung open to reveal a hidden room. They stepped through, and he closed the door behind them.

  “Eric made it clear that I was to do everything I could to accommodate your requests.” He shuffled around a long, scarred counter in the middle of the room. Passport blanks from different countries lay stacked on one end, with a half dozen in various stages of completion taking up residence in the center. A paper cutter and row of official-looking stamps graced the other end.

  “You’ve been busy,” Leine observed. A few of the pictures were duplicates, some weren’t.

  “Yes, several clients requested passports in anticipation of the RFID requirement.” RFID stood for radio frequency identification, and the US government was now requiring all new passports to have the chip. Most European countries had already adopted the technology.

  “Will it affect business?”

  He shrugged. “Not much. It isn’t hard to duplicate the chip. In a few years it will be even easier.” He grinned, his rosy cheeks pushing deep creases to the outer corner of his eyes. “Thank heavens. Passports are my bread and butter.”

  US passports were valid for ten years. Within that time, the older ones containing the original computer chips would be vulnerable to new technology: scanners, encryption, whatever the criminal mind could dream up to circumvent government’s attempts to keep the information safe and forgers stymied. Sparky’s business model would be viable for years to come.

  They chatted a bit about how fast technology was changing and moved on to Sparky’s grandchildren before Leine steered the conversation back to her original reason for being there.

  “In addition to the equipment Eric requested, I need a tactical knife with a six-inch blade and a VSS sniper rifle with a night scope, suppressor, bipod, and ammunition. I’d also like a US passport.”

  Sparky gave her a sharp glance. “Eric did not mention the additional requests. I will have to recalculate the charges.”

  “Bill me for the extras. I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t mention this.”

  Sparky nodded. One of the things she liked most about him: no questions.

  “It will take some time.” He waved at the unfinished forgeries on the table in front of him. “There are several ahead of you.”

  Leine pulled a wad of euros from her pocket. “Here’s a down payment. I’m happy to pay for expedited processing. On all of it.”

  Sparky smiled and took the money. “We understand each other, don’t we?”

  Leine nodded. “Yes, I think we do.”

  ***

  Two hours later, Leine had everything she requested except the passport. Sparky had the weapons she needed stored in a secret room hidden behind a false wall in a closet. He’d secured the rifle and scope in anticipation of Leine’s visit, as it was her preferred weapon. He’d found it odd that Eric hadn’t ordered one beforehand.

  The extra money Leine had given the supplier pushed all but one of the clients clamoring for new passports to the back of the line. Sparky had explained that the passport ahead of hers couldn’t be delayed. The client was only in town for a short time and had paid handsomely—more so than Leine—for the expedited work. Hers would be ready by morning, which in retrospect would be fine. Her lack of sleep was beginning to show, albeit in small ways. The tremor in her left hand worried her most. She could do with a rest before heading back to the States.

  With a few hours to spare, Leine decided to walk to the café and check out the neighborhood before finding the best vantage point. Normally, she’d have a few days to become familiar with the target’s habits: when and what they ate, whether they were night owls or not, who they spent time with. Not that rush jobs were unusual, but after the Glushenko incident Leine was wary. Shouldering a backpack she’d picked up earlier that day containing the weapons and other tools she needed for the job, she set off toward Lauriergracht Canal.

  There was a bite to the crisp fall air signifying winter’s approach, and Leine pulled her jacket tighter to ward off the chill. She loved walking through Amsterdam. The low-key city had a relaxed, experienced feel, like a woman of a certain age making her way home in the early morning hours, trailing the scent of sex and too much wine behind her. Leine enjoyed the Dutch and their pragmatic approach to life, and looked forward to her visits even though most of the time she was only passing through. It was a rare occasion that she was tasked with actually completing a job here. Usually the city was a jumping-off point to the rest of Europe—a place to secure what she’d need before heading to other locales.

  The neighborhood where the café was located held a mixture of old and new. Lauriergracht Canal boasted several cars and bicycles parked along its banks, its dark waters mirroring the streetlights now blinking on as dusk descended. The Ryker Café occupied the lower floor of an imposing brick building dating from the seventeenth century. Originally a wealthy merchant’s home, the curved gables and red roof lent its façade the iconic presence of the Dutch Golden Age. It stood shoulder to shoulder with similar structures, interspersed with modern, gleaming storefronts advertising the latest in tech and fashion.

  Leine stepped to the side as a bicycle whooshed past, piloted by a young man wrapped in a patterned neck scarf. Taking her time, she walked toward the café, unobtrusively scanning the exterior, making note of the buildings and streets nearby.

  Once inside, she walked to the counter and ordered a cup of tea. Small clusters of patrons sat at round tables and in secluded booths, speaking in hushed tones. A popular spot, apparently. Not what she was expecting. Eric had recommended she set up inside the café, which made his requisition for a handgun understandable, but the idea didn’t sit well with her now that she was there.

  Leine moved to a small table near the back, memorizing the layout as she did. The space was dark and crowded—not conducive to an easy kill or escape. Allowing the Frenchman to enter the space would complicate matters and put innocent bystanders at risk. It would also expose her to potential witnesses.

  No, she’d have to finish the job before he walked in the door. The server brought her tea, and she sipped it while considering her options. Close-quarters assassination would make verification of the target easy—the only thing that would be easy. Everything depended on how heavily guarded Robicheaux was. The advantage of using the rifle from across the street was twofold: she’d be gone before anyone knew what happened, and she could control casualties.

  Leine finished her tea, paid the proprietor, and walked back outside to catalog the neighborhood’s tactical locations, ingress, egress, and choke points. Turning right onto a bridge, she crossed over the canal and walked along the other side, turning onto a quiet side street. She stopped and waited near a building with a low roofline situated between two taller structures with darkened windows. The window ledges combined with the iron wall anchors created a zigzag route to the roof and would be an easy climb—the only difficulty would be to accomplish it unnoticed. She scanned the immediate area for passersby and waited as several bicyclists approached, hunched against the chill. After they rode past, Leine tightened the straps on the backpack and stepped closer to the building. She checked her surroundings once more before she grabbed hold of the lowest windowsill and pulled herself up.

  She’d made it to the third set of windows before a pedestrian appeared and she stilled, waiting for them to pass. Once they’d gone, she continued until she reached the roofline, and climbed over the top. She moved to the canal side of the building and set the bag down, and checked her watch. Forty-five minutes until R
obicheaux was scheduled to meet the Russian agent. Leine removed the rifle components from the bag and put them together, and set up the bipod. Then she flipped open the scope covers to sight the café across the canal.

  Perfect.

  Chapter 10

  Leine closed her eyes to absorb her surroundings. The distant sound of traffic and briny scent of canal water in the cool air transported her back in time to a trip she’d taken to Amsterdam with Carlos several years before. They’d shared a romantic dinner and one too many bottles of wine before winding their way back to their cozy hotel room. Carlos had been a fount of information on the architecture and history of the area, spouting little-known facts, and made the neighborhood come alive in a way she hadn’t experienced before. She’d developed a deep appreciation for the people who settled Amsterdam and would never look at the city the same way again.

  A boat with happy partiers cruised by on the canal, breaking through her reverie, and she focused on the café. The reassuring weight of the handgun against her back and the knife strapped to her calf gave the illusion of preparedness.

  Who was she kidding? Not enough sleep, not enough time, not enough information. Eric rarely gave her jobs this sketchy and hadn’t ever scheduled a back-to-back. She could cut bait and return to her room for some much-needed sleep. But she’d just have to try again, and the location might not be as good the next time. Plus, there’d be the added headache of having to deal with Eric’s anger. She glanced at the rifle and mentally shrugged off her reservations. The repercussions weren’t worth it.

  Might as well finish the job since I’m here.

  Leine took a moment to center herself before settling in with the rifle. Drumming her fingers on the roof, she wondered why Carlos hadn’t checked in yet. It wasn’t like him, and she was worried. She dug in the backpack for the burner phone that had been in the equipment Spartacus gave her and glanced at the screen. No messages. Her concern growing, she fired off a text asking him to message her, and returned the phone to her bag.