knew was Henrik, the soft-spoken bartender at the Rode Prins, and I’d only talked with him once or twice. But—if he was smart, he could cover me. I had no idea if he knew what kind of work Mila and I did. And by giving Piet the Rode Prins, I was giving him my hiding place in Amsterdam. Mila would kick my ass.
But it didn’t matter if Piet tied me to the Rode Prins; he was going to die soon. “I drink at a place called the Rode Prins, on the Prinsengracht. You know it?”
“I had a drink there, once.”
“A bartender there, Henrik, he knows me.”
“And what’s your drink?”
“Usually beer.” Henrik had served me only once, but I’d drunk the beer on his recommendation. I held my breath. “I’m not real original.”
He worked his phone, presumably summoning up the Rode Prins number from an Internet search. He pressed the button so I could hear him make the call.
But to Piet, I was Peter Samson. I was just Sam to Henrik. This might not work.
Henrik’s voice came on. “Rode Prins.”
“Henrik, please.”
“This is he.”
“Henrik, this will sound very strange, but do you know a gentleman who goes by the name Samson who drinks there now and then? Not Dutch.”
A pause. A painfully long pause. The barrel of Piet’s gun felt screwed into my temple.
Henrik said, “Samson? You mean Sam?”
“Yes, is that what you call him?”
Thank God, thank God.
“Yes, everyone calls him Sam. Dark blond hair, tall, midtwenties.”
“Yes. What is he?”
“You mean what nationality is Sam? I don’t know. Wait. I saw him once take stuff out of his pocket to get his money, set it on the bar. His passport was Canadian. I remarked on it then.”
“Do you know what kind of work he does?”
“No idea. He is one of those who doesn’t talk much about himself. Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“No, he’s not. What does he like to drink there?”
“Heineken. And, you know, I have a business to run, and you sound like a goddamn stalker. You like Sam’s green eyes, maybe?” Henrik got a little edge going in his voice. “You want a date with him? He doesn’t swing that way as far as I can tell, but you could leave your number.”
Piet hung up. Silence stretched for five long seconds. “I like you don’t talk about what you do. I don’t like people who talk too much.”
He dialed another number. “Speak and you’re dead,” Piet said.
“Hello?” a voice said.
Gregor. I could be dead in the next ten seconds.
55
GREGOR. THIS IS PIET. DO you know a man named Samson?”
A pause that ripped my heart from my chest. “Yes. But not well.” Establishing that all-important distance. “He’s in town,” Gregor said.
“What does he do?”
“Um. I would describe it nicely as transport work.”
“And?”
“I don’t know what else. Muscle when needed: Sam’s dangerous in a fight.”
“Who did he work for when you knew him?”
“The Vrana brothers, but they’re dead now. Pissed off their partners and got axed in the bathroom. He worked with Djuki, too.”
“Is Sam reliable or not?”
“Reliable. Kind of a know-it-all. But he can move all sorts of goods. He had inside contacts at legit shippers. Made things easier.”
I could feel the air give in my chest, a hollow breath. Gregor was repeating words he believed to be true.
“Thank you, Gregor. How are things?”
“Fine but slow. Do you think people don’t wear watches so much with their phones telling them the time now?”
Piet didn’t answer his question. “I can throw some major business your way. Very soon.”
“Good. Okay.” Now I could hear the tension in Gregor’s voice, the eagerness to be done with the conversation.
“Thank you, Gregor. We’ll speak soon.” Piet clicked off the phone. The barrel stayed in place.
“What the hell more do you want? A résumé?”
Now I pulled the car over to the side of the road, earning a honk from a truck behind me. I turned to look at him.
Piet was scared to death.
This stone-cold mother was in deep trouble. He’d lost his ally, who had betrayed him to an unseen enemy. He’d lost his distribution point for a lot of counterfeit goods and his slave trade. He’d lost two men that he’d counted on. He’d lost a warehouse full of goods and slaves that his clients would be expecting him to move. He had just lost a great deal of money. He’d been made by Nic, and he was being chased. This on top of the Turk blaring his name around town. Piet was rapidly