“Yes we are,” Hertz admitted. “We want justice, our country deserves it. Besides, your family is FBI, yes? You tried to join yourself, three times. It’s because you wanted to serve your country, right? Well now is your chance, kid.”

  “When you’re done, we’ll extract you. We’ll keep an eye on you, you’ll never be in danger. We’ll bring you home safe and sound.”

  Rick’s gaze shifted from Hertz to Jemiolo and to Hertz again. The last thing these guys inspired in him was confidence.

  Chapter 14

  Jackman was incredibly nervous as he walked down the street in the middle of Rome. Thankfully, it was chilly and most of the tourists were indoors by this time of night.

  It was crazy, he wasn’t usually one to suffer from anxiety. In fact, his job had always been a high-wire act and as such he’d been trained to keep cool under pressure no matter what.

  However, today was different. Short of drinking a quart of whiskey or swallowing a handful of pills he had no idea how to manage this stress. He was walking next to the world’s most wanted man.

  Worst of all was that Willis Greenwood didn’t seem to be affected at all. After the bombing in New York, he had to know that the entire planet was after him. You didn’t kill a hundred people without being aware that you were likely to get shot at a moment’s notice.

  But no, Greenwood was walking confidently, seemingly without a care in the world. And was he even smiling? Jesus…

  “Why the long face?” Greenwood asked, noticing the younger man demeanor.

  “I was expecting our meeting to be a little more covert.”

  “A long time ago, I made myself a promise that I wouldn’t remain in hiding all my life. I’ve never wanted to end up like Osama bin Laden, burrowing in a cave or a compound. What’s the point of being alive if you’re not living?”

  Jackman didn’t reply because he didn’t trust himself with not being snarky. What kind of trite self-help bullshit was that anyway?

  They stopped in front of a small trattoria. The restaurant was nothing but a hole in the wall and the lighting was dim. It was almost full, most of the 15 tables occupied by people speaking a handful of languages, tourists and locals eating pasta and drinking wine.

  “Are you sure we’re safe here?”

  Greenwood grinned and leaned closer. “The owner is a friend. He’s former Red Brigade and he’s sympathetic to our cause.”

  “It’s not my cause,” Jackman answered curtly.

  “If you’re standing here with me, then it is your cause. Make no mistake about it, son.”

  There was a hint of menace in Greenwood’s voice and his eyes had turned black. The expression vanished in a flash when an elderly man in a white shirt and black apron came out of the kitchen.

  “Come stai, amico mio?”

  “Stefano, good evening!”

  Greenwood shook his hand enthusiastically before embracing. Jackman heard them speak in rapid-fire Italian, it sounded like they were catching up.

  “This way, I have good table for you!”

  “Stefano, you’re too good to me. Someday someone will erect a statue in your honor.”

  They walked through the restaurant and Jackman’s stress levels were off the charts. All it took was somebody looking up from their linguine to recognize that the international terrorist Willis Greenwood was right next to them. If they so much as snapped a picture of him they’d be national heroes and Jackman would be in jail.

  But nobody noticed.

  In all fairness though he didn’t look much like the photographs the FBI had distributed to the press. In spite of the computer-aging and the possible mustaches and beards and hairstyles, something was missing from those pictures. The eyes were different, the cheekbones higher.

  Plus Greenwood walked in such a relaxed fashion that he didn’t arouse suspicion in the least. At the moment, he was just an American tourist about to indulge in some Italian delicacies.

  The restaurateur led them to a table by the wall, near the back. They weren’t exactly hidden from view but they were far enough from others so they could discuss without being overheard.

  “I bring you nice bottle of Chianti, best I have.”

  “That sounds delightful, Stefano. You have the best taste in wine, I still haven’t forgotten the fragrance of that 1986 Bruno Giacosa, so delicious. I can’t wait.”

  With a proud smile, the old man went away and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “I don’t like this,” Jackman said. “This is too public, we should have done this in a hotel. Hell, we should have done this in a parking lot somewhere.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic. We’re gonna have some great wine, we’re gonna have some great food, and then we’ll talk.”

  “No, let’s talk now. Let’s get it over with.”

  Greenwood smiled and shook his head. Nevertheless, his eyes weren’t smiling, they were black with menace again.

  “It’s not how I do business. First we drink and eat and relax.”

  Jackman stared back. He didn’t enjoy any of this posturing, if that was what it was. He was strongly considering calling off the whole thing and going back home. He’d taken enough of a risk flying to Italy in the first place.

  Stefano returned with a bottle in a traditional straw basket and two glasses. “You see, the very best wine in Tuscany!”

  He poured two glasses, not bothering with a sample first. Greenwood brought his to his lips and closed his eyes as he took a sip. He let out a soft moan.

  “Oh my God, Stefano! This is divine.”

  “Si, I tell you.”

  “You can’t let me leave without getting a couple of bottles from you, okay?”

  “Perfetto! Tonight we have delicious specials for you. We have spaghetti alla carbonara, saltimbocca alla Romana which is veal with sage and prosciutto, very good. But my favorite tonight is trippa.”

  Greenwood’s eyebrows rose. “Tripe? Tell me more about that.”

  “Yes, cow stomach I cook in rich tomato sauce for many hours. Then I serve with pecorino, much delicious.”

  “You’ve never led me wrong when it comes to food, Stefano. Let’s go with the tripe.”

  “Uh,” Jackman stammered, wondering how anybody could eat a cow’s stomach. “I’ll take the carbonara.”

  “Perfetto.”

  He left and the two Americans drank wine until they were alone.

  “Now can we talk about this?”

  “No, Mr. Jackman. As I said, we eat first. You know, like civilized people. Then we’ll talk.”

  There was no sense arguing so Jackman shut up. After all, a lot of money was at stake. The food took a surprisingly long time to arrive and they had the opportunity to drink half the bottle. After that, they ate. Greenwood never stopped talking but it was never about anything related to their meeting.

  No, he talked about going to Columbia University, about sports and his passionate dislike of football. He talked about his dating experiences in Cambodia and the importance of revamping the education system. Jackman was shocked that the conversation didn’t veer more toward politics given who Greenwood was.

  The younger man had finally begun to relax as he finished his pasta – it had to be the wine, he decided – when Greenwood got down to business. The mission specifics were outlined and he was asked if he could deliver. Honestly, Jackman wasn’t sure.

  And then the subject of money came up and this changed everything.

  Stefano returned himself to pick up the empty plates. “Was everything to your satisfaction?”

  “It was fantastic! I’ve had the privilege of traveling all over the world and never did I taste better tripe. I think you should be awarded the Nobel Prize and I don’t say that lightly.”

  “Grazie!”

  The restaurateur was beaming as he walked away. Greenwood clasped his hands together and leaned toward his guest.

  “So, where do we stand?”

  Jackman took a moment to reply but the situation was now crystal clear. “For that price, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “I can get started the minute I see some money.”

  “Music to my ears, Mr. Jackman. Music to my ears.”

  Greenwood smiled broadly and leaned back into his chair as he finished his wine.

  Chapter 15

  It was ten o’clock and Rick was ready to do some business. He had grabbed himself a frikandel, some kind of minced meat hot dog, and he was just finishing it as he walked back into the antique shop. It was delicious. He needed to eat it again before he left the Netherlands.

  The bell above the door rang as it swung shut. Behind the counter he spotted the clerk, still a walking advertisement for the color brown.

  “Hi, me again.”

  The old man grinned tightly and held up a finger before disappearing into the back.

  Okay, Rick figured. He isn’t in a talkative mood. He approached the counter and wiped his hands on a napkin before inspecting his teeth in an ancient mirror. It was cracked but still serviceable.

  There were footsteps and his heart beat a little faster. But something was odd, the steps were faster than the old man’s. That’s when a woman appeared from the backroom.

  “You’re Hoover?”

  The woman was about his age and extremely attractive. Her accent was British.

  “Sometimes,” he said cautiously.

  “I want you to meet me at the red Mercedes on Weesperstraat in 20 minutes, on the Nieuwe Herengracht Canal bridge.”

  “What’s wrong with talking here?”

  “You want my business you do it my way. I’m leaving now, you follow ten minutes later. When you do, you will have bought a pair of earrings.”

  “I’m getting tired of all these games, lady.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who needs my help. Shall I make new plans for tonight instead?”

  Rick searched hard but couldn’t find a trace of humor on her face. “No, that’s fine. We’ll do it your way.”

  “Splendid.”

  She turned to leave again when he cleared his throat. “Uh, just a question.”

  “What?”

  “What’s a whisper straight?”

  “Weesperstraat,” she corrected him. “It’s a street.”

  “And how do you spell that?”

  She told him, the letters coming so fast that he was immediately puzzled, but at least he knew how to pronounce the word now. She left right after and the clerk came back.

  This time he was smiling. He leaned forward on the counter which Rick could see now doubled as a glass display case. It was filled with what he guessed was vintage jewelry, including several pairs of earrings.

  “See something you like?”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Weesperstraat turned out to be a wide street in central Amsterdam. Rick got out of his taxi a block away and walked the rest of the distance toward the bridge. In his hand was the discreet shopping bag from the antique store.

  He made out the red Mercedes just after the bridge and when he got to it a tall blond man with a buzz cut came out from the front passenger side. He opened the rear door for him.

  This was getting way too familiar, Rick thought. He wondered if people in the criminal underworld were issued a handbook teaching them how to be so mysterious and dickish.

  Not having a choice, he got into the backseat, sliding in next to Olivia. He immediately saw that the driver was even bigger than the blond henchman dude.

  “Fancy meeting you here. I got the earrings. Now what?”

  She grabbed the bag from him and fished the jewelry out. She pulled the earrings from the small velvet box and put them up to her ears. She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, craning her neck to get a good look.

  “A little flashy but I guess they’ll do.”

  She pocketed them, leaving Rick to ask himself if this purchase had been a code of some sort or if she simply was into jewelry that she didn’t have to pay for. In any case, he had picked the cheapest earrings he could find, paying €20.

  He said, “Can we talk now?”

  “I want a detailed list of what you need.”

  “Oh, you know, rocket launchers, Stinger missiles, miniguns–”

  She shook her head, interrupting him. “What grade did you graduate?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What is the highest level of education that you have achieved?”

  “I have an undergraduate degree from Virginia Commonwealth University.”

  He was absolutely confused and told the truth instead of lying like he should have.

  “So I take it you’re fairly familiar with the English language.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Are you familiar with the English language?” she repeated.

  “Yeah, I’m fucking familiar! What the hell are you driving at?”

  “Did you ever happen to look up the word detailed in a dictionary? When I say I want a detailed list, I think it’s rather self-explanatory. It therefore entails specifics. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hoover?”

  He gazed at her, his eyes narrowing because he’d never wanted to hit a woman until now.

  “I can write something down,” he forced himself to say calmly.

  “Smashing. What will be your method of payment?”

  “It depends, I’d like to see an estimate for the merchandise first.”

  “Are we gonna play this game again, Mr. Hoover? I think you have an idea of the amount involved.”

  “It should be cash.”

  “Splendid. Make it large denominations and I prefer newer bills, euros of course. One last thing: how did you get wind of my operation?”

  Rick opened his mouth to speak before pausing. He could screw everything up if he said the wrong thing.

  “I don’t think I should say.”

  “I think you should,” the woman said coldly. “You found us through the phone book? Through Facebook? I want to know, Mr. Hoover.”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential information.”

  She nodded gravely. She obviously wasn’t happy with the answer but Rick was pleased with himself for standing his ground. He felt that’s what somebody about to purchase Stinger missiles would do.

  The woman turned to the driver. “Let’s go to the office.”

  Somehow this didn’t sound like a positive outcome anymore. Would they dispose of his body at her office or would they dump him in one of the canals?

  He had a feeling he’d be dead before he could reach for his weapon.

  Chapter 16

  Not being familiar with Amsterdam, Rick had no idea where he was being driven to. He guessed it was probably why he hadn’t been blindfolded. Why do so when he couldn’t identify the place afterwards?

  They went through an industrial area and the dark gray cement everywhere was foreboding. They drove past rusty chain-link fencing and stopped outside a warehouse.

  It was only after everybody was out of the car that Rick did the same. There weren’t any other vehicles in the vicinity and even though there were street lamps everything was just plain gloomy. The place seemed abandoned – or made to seem that way.

  They walked into the warehouse. The woman spun toward the blond guy.

  “Dieter, lights.”

  He flipped a switch and overhead lamps came on. The warehouse was smaller than Rick had imagined. There were what he supposed to be crates against the back though they were covered with tarps. There were some folding chairs in no discernible order as well as a desk. The air smelled like garbage.

  The driver pushed Rick until he stumbled into one of the chairs. He felt insanely vulnerable with the other three towering over him.

  “Hey!”

  No one paid attention to his protest.

  “Enough with sniffing bollocks,” the woman said, bending toward him. “Who are you really?”

  Their faces only inches apart, he was breathing hard but remained quiet. Defiant.

  She shook her head as if she was losing her patience. She said, “I can’t do business with a copper.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  She reached forward and probed his pockets for his wallet. She read every ID card she encountered. He was glad he didn’t store condoms in there anymore. She pursed her lips as she found out his true identity.

  “What do you want with us, Mr. Travis?”

  “I want to buy guns.”

  She popped open his shirt and the cold air made him shiver instantly. What was she doing, checking for wires? The next thing she did was run her hands down his legs. It made him uncomfortable like nothing else before. It was humiliating even though in hindsight it was benign.

  “In this line of work, we only provide services to members. Like Costco, really.”

  Rick shrugged. “Then sign me up.”

  “We’re a rather tight unit in our little netherworld. Until you get us credentials, there’s nothing we can do.”

  She took a step back, basically just walking circles around him. Rick took the opportunity to button his shirt again.

  “My sources swore me to secrecy.”

  She laughed. “Isn’t that convenient?”

  “Fine, I’ll go someplace else.”

  Rick stood up. This was another dead end, evidently. Coming to Europe was beginning to appear like a big waste of time. He’d just go back to Washington and perhaps beg for his old job back.

  But before he could take a step, Olivia was on him. She reached behind his back and pulled out the revolver from his pants.

  Shit.

  “I’m not a cop,” he said meekly, without much conviction.

  She took a few steps to the side where there was a desk with lamp on it, which she turned on. She placed the gun under the light and searched for something specific.

  “The serial hasn’t been filed off and if I’m not mistaking this is a police issue. Very sloppy work, Mr. Travis.”

  “I told you I’m no cop.”

  She came back, her face hard as stone.

  “You’re an amateur, which is even scarier. Pros don’t pack, even the police would have taught you that.”

 

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