at me. She had been brainwashed. That wasn’t a crime. His reputation might survive.
Eliane moved to a box, opened it. The box was marked with a logo I recognized. Militronics, Zaid’s company. Gear from his own company would help free his daughter.
“Do you have restraints?” I asked.
“Yes, but I thought you were going to kill them, not take them hostage.”
“Let’s keep our options open. Let me have several sets.”
She showed me a thick banding of plastic wrist cuffs. “And this. A flash grenade,” she said. “Modified police issue. Do you know how to use it? Here is the activation button, here the timer.”
“Thanks. Where am I going to hide these?” I could hardly go downstairs loaded with gear in front of Piet. “My van is parked about a kilometer away. Can you get this stuff there?”
“Yes,” she said. “This man with you—he is not good.”
“He’s a cold-blooded murderer and a slaver. I have to ambush him and several others at a meeting.”
“Then we mustn’t make a mistake,” Eliane said. I liked her. I’d been judged by so many people lately, from Howell to August to Mila, and Eliane just seemed to want to help me. I could have kissed her.
I gave her the keys and the description of the van. “And I need a cell phone. Programmed with a number where I can reach Mila.” I took off my baseball cap and she gasped at the encrusted blood. She insisted on examining the wound.
“It’s superficial, but it needs tending,” Eliane said.
“No time, and it would make him suspicious. How much time do you need to get to the van, load it, and get back?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Give me cash. A thousand euros, if you have it. I need to impress him that I cut a deal with Mr. Cadet.”
She went to a safe in the wall, keyed in a combination, then fingered her way through a pile of bills and handed them to me.
It felt human again, to not be pretending to be someone I wasn’t, to not be with scum like Piet. I wanted to savor the moment. Eliane was like a cool mom for people on the run.
And just like a mom, Eliane looked at me as though my thoughts were written on my forehead. “We have jobs to do. Go.”
She was right. I hurried back down the stairs. Piet had found a corner table and was sitting in a sullen funk, wolfing his beer.
I sat down and slid him a hundred euros. He blinked at me.
“Cadet owed me some money,” I said. “And gave me an advance on the next job.”
“This wasn’t worth the stop.”
“It was to me, Piet.”
I gestured at the waitress. I had to give Eliane time to find the van, plant the goods where he wouldn’t see them.
Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” began to play on the speakers. Not louder than the talkers, but enough to impart the necessary funky vibe to the suit-infested pub. I saw Piet lean back slightly and let the feel, the groove, of Taverne Chevalier ease into him. It had been a long, hard day. The mind, the body, wanted to relax, let the adrenaline burn itself out.
We ordered the specialty, thick Ardennes ham sandwiches, but Piet downed another beer in four long gulps and said, “No, coffee, please,” when the waitress asked if we wanted another round. I agreed: coffee.
“Get the sandwiches and coffee for takeaway, please,” Piet said.
“No,” I said. “I am sitting here, like a human being, and having my dinner.” I leaned forward and made my voice a hiss. “I got grazed by a bullet and lost blood today, Piet. I jumped onto a truck. If I want to eat here, we’re eating here. We’re taking a short break.”
How much did he still need me? I could see him weighing the balance by the way he glared at me. He could get up, walk out, force this to a fight. Shoot me in the darkness of the parking lot where we’d left the truck and the van, leave the van behind. The stop had raised his suspicions.
Hurry, Eliane, I thought. I couldn’t risk a glance at my watch or the clock. He watched me, a hard, awful light in his eyes, so I took refuge in my beer.
Some of the suits—men speaking in hushed German—pushed past our table, making their way to their own. Piet scowled. “I hate these suits. Rule makers. They think they run the world. All they do is set up walls and rules and