There is a time on every job where you say, Screw caution. I’m not foolhardy. I’m not stupid. But sometimes you have to be the battering ram. Howell was getting way too close. So my time to find the scarred man was running short.

“I want to tell you how to handle this,” Nic said. “Piet will be there, and so will another man. You don’t need to know his name.”

I realized I was holding my breath. “Okay.” Let the other man please be the scarred man. Please.

“You will tell them exactly how to set up an alternate route.”

“And in return, I get money and work?”

“Yes. But I want you to make Piet look bad. You tell Piet’s boss that you know of Piet through smuggling in Moldova—that you’ve worked the same routes. That Piet sold girls that he moved, along the way, and pocketed the money before delivery. He cheated his clients.”

My guts twisted. “Piet is a human trafficker.”

“Piet is mostly a mover of commodities.” I could practically hear the shrug in Nic’s voice. “Women from Moldova, shipped to Britain and Germany and Israel for the whorehouses. Babies sold to adoptive parents in Italy, brought in from Macedonia and Albania. Mass-produced counterfeit goods, brought in from China to western Europe. It doesn’t much matter. He moves what needs moving.”

A sick tickle feathered the back of my throat as the van stopped. I could smell a tang of fuel, of exhaust, and in the distance I could hear the purr of freeway traffic.

“We’re here, Sam. Showtime,” Nic said. “Do good and I’ll do good by you.”

45

THE FOURTH BLOW TO THE FACE produced their desired result. It was Howell’s experience that hired computer hackers were easily broken. Their loyalty was earned only with money and access to technology. The Chinese boy—who, according to his ID, was a graduate student in computer science at the Delft University of Technology—made it through two black eyes, a torn lip and a badly cuffed ear before he screamed out an address. It was a warehouse off the A10 highway, which ringed Amsterdam. Van Vleck stepped back from beating the hacker, and August checked the address with his smartphone.

“And who will we find there?” Howell asked.

“Nic. Nic.”

“Who’s Nic?”

“Guy who hired me.” The boy broke into a babble of Mandarin, calling Howell a worthless stump of a penis, and Howell slapped him and told him in Mandarin that his mother was a disgusting whore and to not talk to him that way. The student’s mouth twisted in shock and pain.

“And Nic hired you why?”

“We have a back door into a passport-monitoring exchange… used by North American and European governments.”

“And you were checking Peter Samson’s passport and records.”

“Yes. To see if he was for real.”

“Who does Nic work for?”

“He does work for hire.”

“For Samson?”

“No, Nic wanted to be sure Samson was who he said he was. He was hiring Samson.”

“For what kind of job?” Howell’s voice sharpened. He leaned close to the battered face and he could smell the milk and stale coffee on the student’s breath, under the coppery blood from his ear and his nose.

The Chinese student started to cry. “I don’t know any more. I swear. I was just supposed to verify his story as he told it to Nic. That he was a Canadian named Samson.”

August gestured at Howell and they stepped out of the van, where the hacker couldn’t hear them.

“If Sam’s risking using a legend, he’s trying to get close to this guy Nic,” August said, “so maybe he has a lead on whoever took Lucy.”

“We’ll know soon enough. Let’s go see who’s at this address.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for recon?”

“Sam Capra is close, August,” Howell said. “No way in hell we’re waiting.”

“That’s not standard protocol.”

“Neither is letting his friend be part of the search team,” Howell said. “You coming or staying, Holdwine?”

August got back into the van. He did not notice the small blue car, at a distance behind them.

46

NIC KEPT ME BLINDFOLDED until I was inside. When he shut the door, it made a steely echo. He pulled off the blindfold, and I could see that it was an old machinists’ shop. The equipment to reshape and refine steel into tools remained in place.

Near the entrance, the shop was crammed with boxes and pallets along two walls. I could smell the tang of curry and the yeasty aroma of spilled beer. A metal table, scattered with papers, stood in the center of the room. Windows, smeared with dust, let in a slant of brownish light.

Two men—twins—stood on either side of me. One was armed with a Glock, the other with an assault rifle. Both had dead eyes. One was shaved bald, the other had scant reddish hair. Smiles with cruel mouths.

“These are the twins,” Nic said, as if I hadn’t noticed they shared the same scowling face.

The twins searched me for weapons and wire. They found nothing; they too missed the little transmitter in my shirt collar.

I looked to see if any of these guys sported the same Novem Soles tattoo as the killer in my apartment. No, no sign of it. So maybe Nic and the twins were just hirelings.

Sitting at the table was the dyed-blond man I’d seen on the videos. Piet. The trafficker.

He was taller than me, six-six, wide shoulders, narrow hips, the curve of powerful arms under his sleeves. He looked like a guy who’d fight with gusto. His nose had been broken in the past, and he had eyes 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.