I touched his shoulder.

And he tried to slice my throat open.

29

THE BLADE WAS A SMALL THING; but then, so is a vein. I wasn’t sure if it was part of his watch-mending gear or if it was simply a weapon he kept close at hand. I heard the hiss it made as it sliced the air and I flinched back and it parted only the air close to my skin.

“Oh, hell,” Gregor said, hesitating. “Sorry. I just want you to go.”

“I’m insulted you’re more afraid of him than of me.”

He dropped the little blade. “It wouldn’t have hurt you really.”

“That’s between me and my carotid,” I said. “Why’s he got you so scared?”

He didn’t answer me and so I decided that if he was afraid of violence I’d show him a little. Just a taste. I shoved him back toward the watchmaker’s repair table. I knocked him with a hard blow to the throat into a chair.

“You’re a bully,” he coughed. “I just wanted to run you out of here. Leave me alone.”

“That is entirely unfair, Gregor.” I inspected the craftsman’s tools. They were designed to hold gears in place, remove bits of metal. One had a curved point to it; like an instrument you would see in a surgery. I picked it up.

I put a fingertip on each side of his left eye. I held up the vicious little tool.

“I don’t know the scarred man!” he yelled.

“Oh, I believe you. But you know the blond.”

“Please, please!”

“Gregor. I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to go to your stepdaughter’s party and enjoy your 20/20 vision.”

“I have to pick up the cake,” he said, sobbing a little. “For the games, the koekhappen.”

“The what?”

“The game the kids play, sticky cake hanging on a string, you try to eat it fastest…”

“Oh, Gregor, that sounds like fun. I want you to go to that. I want you to go get the cake and win the race. I hope it’s an awesome party. And you can go, soon as you tell me his name and where he is.”

Gregor tried to wrench away from me.

“Is the blond an old friend?”

“More… friend of a friend.” He gave in. “The blond’s name is Piet. He is close to an acquaintance of mine.”

“And your acquaintance?”

“His name is Nic ten Boom. I haven’t known him long. He and I had a beer a week ago, this Piet came with him. But Nic is connected, and Piet carries himself like he is, too.”

“And what did you talk about during this beer.”

“Ajax—that’s the Amsterdam football team. And we talked about women.”

I put the edge of the tool closer to his eye. “Then what? You just hung out and drank beer?”

“We went to the Rosse Buurt—the red-light district.”

“And you a newlywed, Gregor.”

“I… I didn’t partake. Neither did they.”

“You just went and looked at the whores?” I said this in approximately the same tone as a disbelieving spouse.

“That was what Piet wanted. He was a little drunk; he likes his beer. He wanted to see the hookers standing in the windows.”

“Is he a pimp?”

Gregor’s tongue flicked along his lip. “No. No. I don’t know why Piet wanted to go. He was insistent. We just went and we laughed at them, the women standing behind the glass. I don’t know. Piet laughed and so Nic and I laughed, too. You do whatever Piet likes. He takes over the room.”

Laughing at prostitutes. I didn’t believe him.

I cut him a little, close to the eyelid. “What else did you talk about?”

He yelled, gritted his teeth. “Okay, okay. Piet wanted to know about moving goods to North America. He asked me questions. How did I sneak goods into the States? I told him, but I think they decided I was too small an operation for what they wanted. I don’t ship watches in big enough quantities, I guess.”

“Have you seen either of them again since?” Now I put the instrument so close to his eye I could see the eyeball tremble, shake in its socket.

He didn’t answer right away and I jabbed the small blade into his palm. He gasped. A little blood welled up from his hand.

“Next the eye. I am serious, Gregor. You do not want to get in my way right now.”

“I haven’t seen Piet again. I had a beer with Nic two nights ago.”

“What’s Nic do?”

“He works with Piet—but I know him just through friends in the business, he does stuff with computers—he’s a bit of a geek. He runs Internet scams, you know, bank letters from Nigeria kind of stuff. I don’t know how he’s gotten involved in smuggling.” His face was tense under my hands. “He’s… he’s odd. I don’t really want to be friends with him, but he always has good e-mail lists for marketing.”

Oh, a spammer. True evil. “Where can I find Nic?” I touched the pointed end of the instrument to my tongue. Wet the metal.

Gregor shuddered under my grip. “He lives above a coffee shop over in the Jordaan neighborhood. But mostly hangs out at a bar. Called the Grijs Gander. It’s down near the Rosse Buurt. They know him there.”

I let him go. Slowly. “You tried to cut my throat,” I said. “If you want me to forget that bad idea of yours, you’ll forget we talked. You don’t mention me unless I need you as a reference with these guys. Then we’re buddies, got it?”

Gregor nodded. “You’re after Piet. Piet, I don’t like. Piet can fry in hell.” He clutched his hurt hand close to him, but carefully, so he didn’t besmirch his suit with the blood. He didn’t look at me. They’re always ashamed after they talk.

“If you tell anyone about our visit, I will be back, Gregor. I mean Nic no harm. I just want to talk to this Piet. But you narc on me to them and I’ll make a phone call and you’ll be on the next plane back to Prague.”

“I’ll say nothing.”

I tucked a little extra wad of euros in his pocket. He nearly sighed with relief. Then I extracted his cell phone and said: “What’s your wife’s name? Your stepdaughter’s?”

His eyes were bright with fear. “Leave them alone, Samson, please.”

“Their names.” I made the words sound limed with frost.

“My wife is Bibi. My stepdaughter is Bettina.”

“I hope you and Bibi are happy, Gregor. Tell Bettina I said happy birthday.” I gave him a long look and said, “If they ever make a film about Peter Lorre, you have a lock on the lead.” I turned and walked out.

I was not used to terrorizing people, and if Gregor hadn’t tried to cut me I would have been a lot gentler. But a scared Gregor was a useful Gregor.

On the street I checked the call log on Gregor’s fancy smartphone. Two days ago, a call from a Nic, late in the afternoon. Probably the invitation to have the beer at the Grijs Gander. I checked the other phone records. Nothing of interest that jumped out. Many calls to Bibi, a few to Bettina. Nothing else.

I checked the voice mails. One from Bibi, in rapid-fire Dutch, reminding him to pick up the party decorations for Bettina. Bibi sounded impatient and drunk, and she told Gregor twice in the voice mail that he was a useless piece of crap, but it was not up to me to question Gregor’s choices. True love was blind, I thought, with a sudden and sharp sting in my chest, thinking of Lucy.

The other voice mail, from a week before, was from Nic: and, bonus, there was a picture of Nic next to the voice mail. Thick-necked, red hair gathered in a short ponytail, no smile. “Grijs Gander, tonight, if you can slip from Bibi’s chain. See you there at six. I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Nic said in the unerased voice mail.

Said friend being Piet. Gregor was good at slipping all sorts across borders, under the authorities’ noses.

What did Piet want smuggled into the States?

30