54
I WATCHED THE GUN POINTED in my direction. “I just saved your life. If I wanted you dead, I could have shot you in the back when we were running to the van.”
“But I don’t know you. And you walk in and everything goes to hell.”
“Everything went to hell because of Nic turning against you. I gave him to you and everything that happened since then confirms he was trying to screw you over.”
“But I don’t know you.” Logic wasn’t his strong point. “I’ve lost everybody. Everybody.”
He was scared.
“Listen, Piet. I have a few friends in Amsterdam. Maybe you know them. Gregor, he used to run a watch shop in Prague, he’s living here now. He was a friend of Nic’s. We did a bit of business last year. Ask him about me.” I was gambling huge here that Gregor would play along. Welcome to the tightrope.
“I know Gregor. The watch geek. Who else? Give me another name. One is not enough.”
The only other person I 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.