like two dots of oil. Cold and unyielding. Under the iced eyes and the twisted hook of nose he wore a smile twisted with malice. I had a sense that smile had been the last thing seen by many people. He was the kind of guy, I guessed, who thought cruelty was funny.
And yes, he had a little sword. A wakizashi. It sat on the desk and gleamed in the faint light.
There was no sign of the scarred man.
I smiled back at Piet.
“I understand you can help us, Mr. Samson,” he said in English.
“I’m sure I can.”
He got up and walked around me. I doubt I looked forbidding. Old jeans, worn shoes, an old gray jacket. Mila had bought my clothes secondhand, clipped out all the labels. I looked like I was neatly dressed but desperate. I met his gaze but then I let my eyes drop. Let him think he was the alpha.
“So. I have fifty parcels I need to get inside the United States. They cannot be discovered; they cannot be seized. I need them there in ten days. They must arrive together; they must not be separated during shipping. At the same time, I want the most secure cover for them imaginable. How would you do this?”
“How big are the parcels?”
“Less than a meter across, a meter long.”
There were fifty of them? Okay. “And heavy?”
“No. Five kilos.”
“Then I’d probably disguise them as leaded crystal glassware from Poland. Mark it as fragile, but it explains the weight. You could also do frozen fish.” I shrugged. “If the goods can be packed in ice without harm, then it’s a good call.” This was standard smuggling tradecraft. “Or electronics from Finland. They ship tons of cell phones and related equipment. If it’s electronic goods, then that would simplify the camouflage in case it’s X-rayed. Or an easy route is counterfeit cigarettes. Fake British or French or Turkish brands.” One out of three cigarettes smoked in Canada today is counterfeit. It’s big business.
“I want you to make sure it’s not X-rayed.”
“I have a contact in Rotterdam who could make sure the container’s not singled out.” I was lying, but it didn’t matter.
“And what about dealing with American customs?”
“I have a friend on the customs staff in New York. He has three children currently in college and grad school, so he has large bills. He’s rather open to not inspecting whatever I say.”
“And where would you get the appropriate export documentation, and the packaging, and the manifests from a legitimate manufacturer?” Piet asked.
“Well, before I give away all my trade secrets, I’d like my money first,” I said.
Piet stared at me. “Why did you come to Amsterdam?”
“I came for the waters,” I said.
“Ha!” Piet said. “One of my favorite movies. Casablanca.”
I used a line from Bogart’s character, the bar owner Rick Blaine, when he is asked to explain his presence in the intrigue-filled city. I smiled. “I needed a change.”
“You were based where?”
“Prague and Croatia. I stayed there after I got out of the army. I liked the country.” I looked at Nic, then back at the smile. “What’s in the fifty packages?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Where’s Edward?” Nic asked suddenly. After all, my performance was supposed to convince Piet’s boss that Piet was untrustworthy, more trouble than asset, and Piet appeared to be alone. There was no one to convince. Edward. Edward was the scarred man. Edward. I let the name roll around in my brain. Edward. The man with the question mark close to his eye who’d taken my wife.
“Edward isn’t here,” Piet said. “Left it up to me to take the measure of this man.”
“This man ended up in a bar fight last night defending your good name,” I said, “and I don’t even know you.”
“Yeah, interesting, that. Thanks for the good turn. Not really used to altruism.”
“I was looking for you,” I said.
“You and the Turk both,” he said.
“Popularity is a curse,” I said. “But I wasn’t really looking for you until the Turk started threatening you. That was an opportunity for me and I took it. But I hope you don’t have more loudmouths around here.”
Piet glanced at Nic. Then back at me. “I’d like to hear what you heard the Turkish gentleman say last night.”
“The Turk was talking to one of his friends at the bar before Nic here showed up.”
“You speak Turkish?”
“Enough. I used to run goods down to Istanbul. Excess Russian ordnance bound for Africa, mostly. The Turk said he had arranged to smuggle