The Amsterdam Chronicles DEF-CON CITY Part 2

Chapter One

Detective Harvey Wall’s new apartment on the van Eeghenlaan, less than a kilometre from the hotel where he spent his first four weeks in Amsterdam, looked out onto the Vondelpark. A green oasis in the heart of the city, with towering lush green trees that lined the park just across the street, no more than twenty-five meters away; it felt good. Today he would put his energy into stocking up and rearranging the modern apartment to suit his needs. Not that there was much to do, it was nicely furnished to more or less his style when he moved in. It also came with a cleaning lady who would come once a week to dust and change the bedclothes. If that was left to him, he knew he would be lying in the same sheets for the next five months of his exchange program with the Amsterdam police force. Although, expected female company would definitely encourage an extra change of laundry. The apartment layout was nearly identical to those he came across on his last case. Front living room with a balcony, a small kitchen and bedroom at the rear. However, near-perfect as it was, he decided to make some changes. He moved the sofa from the left side to the right of the living room, which gave him a better view of the park. This also meant rerouting the wiring for the TV and stereo system to where the sofa used to be. In the kitchen, he made a list of groceries to stock up the bare cupboards which contained only one pack of sugar when he moved in. With a small black backpack in hand, he headed to the Albert Hein supermarket, only a ten minute walk away and situated underground directly across from the Concertgebouw. The moment he stepped off the escalator, he could see the supermarket was busy with a healthy mix of tourists and Dutch. Although he had been in the city for about a month and had stayed in the Albert hotel just two blocks away, this was his first visit. He grabbed a trolley and made his way through the aisles in search of essentials: peanut butter, tinned vegetables, pasta, ready-made meals and dairy. Dutch labelling on the packages was different from what he was used to back in New York, but it was obvious what everything was. Normally he would regularly cook his own meals back home, but in Amsterdam he took a liking to the restaurants. It turned out to be a great way to get to know the city and the people. He would cook, but only when necessary. Chief Ribb had given him a few days off after he finished writing up his report on the last case; the second he had to hand in since coming to Amsterdam. The first was after he witnessed a robbery at a pizza restaurant the day he arrived. Diligently, he tracked down the three thieves one by one, apprehending them with the only things he had in his pockets: tie wraps, a post-it block and a pen. The second was after he tried to apprehend the serial killer Karl Webber, who met his end when he fell through a skylight into an industrial meat grinder, together with a Moroccan kid who was on the hunt for Webber that night.

The Amsterdam Chronicles DEF-CON CITY Part 2 1

The Amsterdam Chronicles DEF-CON CITY Part 2

After fifteen years as a homicide detective in New York City, he thought he had seen every type of murder. Nothing compared to the deaths Webber was responsible for. The horror of the bodies they found shocked him and everybody else who worked on the case, and attracted worldwide media attention. Kelly Westen, the CNN reporter who covered the murders, re- christened Amsterdam “Def-Con City”. DEFCON, a countdown system used by the Pentagon to describe states of national alert – ranged from 5 to 1. Zero meant the end of life as we know it. After seeing the bodies, he understood why she made that association. Back at the apartment, he stacked up the cupboards and refrigerator with enough bare essentials and checked his watch. It was nearly eight o’clock, and he was feeling a little more than a little peckish. He could stay in and try out his new kitchen, but a decent meal in a restaurant would satisfy his needs quicker and better than he could put together at that moment. The problem was where to go? Most of the restaurants in the Leidseplein area he had already visited, along with the hordes of tourists who seemingly seldom ventured into new territory. Time to move away and go somewhere the Dutch dined and fewer tourists. The question was, where? One detective at the station told him about the Rembrandtplein, which sounded real Dutch. He was assured of a wide range of restaurants and bars, and decided to try his luck. The only problem was how to get there? On foot, tram, or taxi? He had no bicycle despite Detective Bakker’s insistence on getting one. He had long decided to ride out the next five months on two feet rather than two wheels. His anxiety came from tackling packed bicycle lanes and embedded tram rails. Getting a front wheel stuck in one of them would probably result in being returned home in a box. He’d leave the bikes to the Dutch and tourists who were tired of living. Luckily, the Amsterdam tram system was second to none. Within the first week, Harvey realised he could get anywhere and sometimes quicker from one end of the city to the other than any other type of transport, including a bicycle or taxi. He checked his transport app on his iPhone. The number twenty-four tram was less than ten minutes away, on the corner of the Gabriel Metsustraat, next to the Concertgebouw. That would bring him close to the Rembrandtplein. He grabbed his leather jacket, wallet and keys and headed out. Within twenty-five minutes, he was there. It was exactly as his colleagues said, full of restaurants and bars and fewer tourists. Unfortunately, it was not what he was looking for. It was loud, crowded, and the hyped-up buzz around the cafes that lined the small park was twice as much as the Leidseplein. Kids in their late teens and early twenties filled the bars that flowed out onto the terraces. It was a mad cocktail of music, drink, and everyone wanting a great night out. All he wanted was a quiet meal and a place to sit and relax. That was not going to happen around here – he decided to give it a miss and look for somewhere away from the hustle and bustle. A couple of hundred metres further up he stopped outside an Italian restaurant ‘Lo Stivale D’oro’. He had no idea what it meant, but it was small, not too crowded, looked authentic, and no one inside resembled a tourist. It was after 9 PM, and he was starving. He could walk on until he came to something else, but what was the point. He had to eat, now. Inside, he

WWW.BRIANCHRISTOPHERNOVELS.COM 2

The Amsterdam Chronicles DEF-CON CITY Part 2

found a table where he could sit with his back to the wall, commanding a perfect view over the rest of the clientele and the entrance. He checked the menu which seemed less expensive than the same type of restaurants around the Leidseplein, and ordered pasta and salad. An hour later, he was back on the street, feeling fulfilled, although the pasta was a little on the small side for his build. He had to order an extra portion to ﬁll the gap. Wall checked his watch, ten o’clock. Too early to go back to the apartment where he knew he would just spend the night watching TV. He felt the warm breeze in his face. At least the weather had picked up. When he first arrived some weeks ago at the beginning of July, it was cold and wet. Finally, it felt like summer had arrived. Feeling adventurous, he decided to walk on and see where it would lead. Just a few metres further up from the Italian restaurant was a large bridge. Okay, what to do? Crossing it would bring him into new territory, and out of the heart of the city centre. Instead, he turned left along the Amstel River. Directly around the corner was an Ice Bar, a phenomenon he had once come across in midtown Manhattan. Everything inside was so cold clients were given a special coat at the front door, to prevent hypothermia. They went so far as to make the drinking glasses out of ice. Too cold, he thought, and strolled on. Private houses and hotels lined the left side of the street, with traffic and a wide river to the right. After about 100 metres he spotted a flag. The green, white and orange tricolour was immediately recognisable. Every year he celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in New York. Not only with his Irish friends, but anyone who claimed to have an Irish connection, and that was more than fifty per cent of the population. At least twenty-three US presidents claimed an Irish connection, including Barack Obama. In that case, maybe he had Irish blood too. He always felt at home in an Irish bar. He peered in through the window of Mulligans Irish Music Bar. At least it seemed more civilised and relaxed than the bars on the Rembrandtplein. The pasta had settled nicely, it was time for dessert; a pint of Guinness. Irish music greeted him from the speakers as he entered. A welcome surprise, since many of the Irish bars back in New York, had stopped playing music from the old country, preferring the modern playlist to bring in fresh faces; he preferred this – the real thing. “What can I get you?” The bar lady asked, with a friendly smile. “A pint of Guinness, please.” “Right you are.” Her accent sounded Irish. Once he walked into an Irish bar on the outskirts of Paris while on his honeymoon with his new wife, and asked the young French girl behind the counter which Irish beers they had on offer. Guinness, Heineken and Carlsberg, she told him. At least the people behind the bar here sounded Irish. He checked his wallet and took out a ten euro note. The bar lady pulled a three-quarter pint then left it to stand. He settled back to watch the magic happen. Guinness needed time to settle. Slowly, the grey-brown cloudy mixture turned dark, and a creamy head began to form at the top. Many Irish bars didn’t follow this rule outside Ireland, an Irish friend once told him. If a barman filled a Guinness to the top in one go in Ireland, he would probably be lynched, at least, that’s what his friend said.

WWW.BRIANCHRISTOPHERNOVELS.COM 3

The Amsterdam Chronicles DEF-CON CITY Part 2

He looked around; the bar was long and deep. Near the entrance, musical instruments hung on the wall – a couple of guitars, a banjo and what looked like a mandolin. The rest of the bar was covered in Irish memorabilia and photos which added to the character of it being well visited and authentic, and not just a cheap tourist trap. Finally, after waiting a minute or two, the bar lady picked up the three-quarter pint and topped it up. The typical thick milky smooth cream head, half a thumb deep, rose to the top and looked absolutely perfect. “No live music tonight?” He asked. “Yes, there is of course. In the room at the back.” She pointed to a door on the left at the rear of the pub. “It’s an open session tonight. So if you want to sing a song yourself, you’re more than welcome.” Harvey laughed. “I don’t think so, but thanks anyway.” At that moment, the door to the back room opened, and a couple in their late twenties came out. The sound of acoustic instruments and singing could be heard clearly. When he approached the door, he noticed a sign: smoking room, and next to it another sign which read “no smoking during the Wednesday night session. He was in luck. Just inside the door, he went up a few steps to the small elevated room. In the far corner, a group of musicians sat around a table. A curly-haired guitar player with a beard sang. Next to him, two females on guitars, another on fiddle, and a man with what looked like a small Greek guitar accompanied them. He had no idea what the tune was called, but it sounded definitely Irish. As a tall, athletic African-American towering over everybody else, he felt a little out of place and looked around for somewhere to sit. Apart from the musicians, about twelve people were listening, with little room for movement, and only two free seats left. He settled down onto a dark brown wooden chair at a small table to the right of the musicians, and took a mouthful of Guinness; it was surprisingly good. They finished the song, a typical Irish instrumental, to the applause from everyone in the room. “You want to give us a song?” The guitar player with the beard asked Wall. “Me?” “Yeah, you. Where are you from?” “New York.” “Everybody knows a song in New York, Why don’t you give us one.” “My vocal cords never developed like the rest of my body, so if you don’t mind, I’ll give it a rain check.” The guitar player laughed and burst spontaneously into song. “Oh my name is Sam Hall chimney sweep chimney sweep My name is Sam Hall chimney sweep Oh my name is Sam Hall and I’ve robbed both great and small...” On the other side of the small room next to the entrance, two men sat talking. To the right, another man in a light blue shirt sat alone with a pint of beer, and directly behind him a mountain of coats and instrument cases lay stacked up in the corner. When the song finished, everybody clapped. “Any requests?” The guitar player asked the crowd.

WWW.BRIANCHRISTOPHERNOVELS.COM 4

The Amsterdam Chronicles DEF-CON CITY Part 2

“Beeswing,” somebody shouted from somewhere behind him. One of the girls with a guitar, a blonde, smiled and quickly began to tune her instrument. The rest of the musicians relaxed and waited. When she was ready, she began to sing. Wall took another mouthful of beer. She had a classic tone, bright and clear. He had never heard this song before, but it was good, exceptional. This was serious talent, he thought. Throughout the song, the two men near the entrance continued to talk, while the rest of the room went silent to listen. “Will you guys keep quiet,” Wall heard the man in the light blue shirt behind them ask. “We’ll talk if we want to,” one of the men abruptly replied. Wall immediately recognised the strong New Jersey accent, which sounded confident and menacing at the same time. Irritated, the man in the corner turned back to listen to the music while the two carried on talking. The blonde singer finished with a large round of applause, then went straight into a duet with the brunette next to her, also on guitar. This was a concert worth paying for, he thought. As the night progressed, the atmosphere remained good but tense. The two men ignored further requests to keep quiet, and people shushing them. “Will you shut the fuck up? The man in the light blue shirt finally demanded. “We’ll talk if we want to, mate,” the second man replied. That was a British accent, Wall noticed. But from where in the UK he had no idea, they all sounded the same to him. “Listen, pal, if you know what’s good for you, you won’t bother us again.” The American said. Wall tensed and moved his Guinness to one side. There could be a fight any moment. The man in the light blue shirt stared them down for a few seconds, then turned his attention back to the musicians. Most of the songs were typically Irish, but sometimes they would sing bluegrass, or English or American folk songs. At one o’clock the barwoman appeared, it was closing time. Within ten minutes, he was outside Mulligans in search of a taxi. After finishing three pints of Guinness, he was not going to chance of getting back to his new apartment on foot. It was near two o’clock in the morning when he finally lay his head on his fresh new pillow and shut his eyes.

WWW.BRIANCHRISTOPHERNOVELS.COM 5

The Amsterdam Chronicles DEF-CON CITY Part 2

Chapter Two

Nabil al-Wannan opened his bedroom door as quietly as possible. Although everyone in the house slept deeply in general, the last week had changed all that. Especially his father, who awoke at the slightest sound, and immediately got up to check everything out. Exactly which stair would crack when he put weight on it he knew from the 15 years he had grown up in the house. Carefully, he made his way down, skipping the third and ninth step with practised ease. On the downstairs landing, he slipped on a light black jacket and went as quietly as possible out the front door. Before closing it, he removed the front door key from his pocket and placed it gently in the lock. The latch slid back, and with his heel on the kerb, he put his toe against the bottom of the door and guided it to a point where he could let the latch slide back into the bolthole without making a sound. Closed. Now all he had to do was walk to the corner of the block 500 metres down the street, and wait for the pickup. It was not his first outing with this group. He had no real wish to do the job, but he badly needed the money. The street was empty and quiet. After a couple of hundred metres, he felt his stomach rumble and began to feel queasy. Nabil carried on regardless, no way he could call it off now. None of the others would forgive him for backing out at the last minute. When he approached the corner, he spotted two scooters in the distance heading towards him, black this time, and stolen. That was the one thing they were exceptionally good at, mostly because they were easy to crack open, start-up, and made a quick getaway. They used to rob scooters and sell them on for a couple of hundred euro each, but getting rid of serial numbers on the frame and engine was just too much like hard work. These days they wanted easy money and knew how and where to get it. Two scooters carrying three youths pulled beside him. One of them handed him a black full-face helmet. The moment he slipped it over his head, he felt nauseated and dizzy. His head began to throb: migraine. He recognised the symptoms, having had it for the last couple of years. Nabil reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a small pillbox. Wherever he went, he always had them for emergencies, just like now. He downed two ibuprofen but had Eletriptan at the ready if the migraine got out of hand. The moment he climbed onto the back of the scooter, they took off. It would take only ten minutes to get to the station, the job another ten minutes, sharing out the takings probably twenty minutes, and with any luck, he would be back home in bed within an hour and a half. His instructions were very clear – be on the lookout while Hamza, the biggest of the group, attacked the machine. Once cracked, the others would remove the money box located at the bottom and empty the cash into a cotton bag.

WWW.BRIANCHRISTOPHERNOVELS.COM 6

The Amsterdam Chronicles DEF-CON CITY Part 2

After a couple of minutes on the scooter, he began to feel more nauseated. The thumping pain in his head had increased and became more intense. This was a real bad one, he thought, then reached for the pillbox from his jacket pocket. He fumbled the capsule out of the box, careful not to drop it as they raced through the streets of Amsterdam. When he finally got the chance, he lifted his visor, shoved the capsule into his mouth and swallowed the Eletriptan. When the bikes turned left at a crossing, he thought he was going to pass out. Quickly he grabbed the jacket of the driver, who turned and shouted something incoherent. The only thing he could do was nod in agreement. His friend looked at him in the rear-view mirror. His visor was now pulled down, everything seemed normal. They pulled up to their target, a metro ticket machine in a wide underpass beneath the main railroad and metro lines of the Lelylaan Station. Immediately recognisable, he had bought tickets there many times. The moment they came to a halt, he felt physically sick. Everything spun around in his head. It was impossible to see straight. Then he realised he was on his feet and could just make out Hamza assault the ticket machine with a crowbar. Nabil lifted his visor, and the world suddenly looked like a merry-go-round of horrors, twisting and turning, going in and out of focus. He tried to stay on his feet but was losing all sense of balance. Without warning a sharp dart of pain ripped through his belly, he doubled over. One of his friends appeared in front of him. With difficulty, he pointed to his helmet. “Take it off,” he shouted. “Take it off.” One of them held him, while the other tried to remove the helmet. The pain was excruciating, it felt as if his head was about to explode. Finally, it came off. His friend immediately jumped back and let out a scream. “Look at his face,” he heard him shout. The sound was deafening. Impossible to see clearly, everything was blurred. He tried to speak, but only incomprehensible sounds emerged. His legs buckled, he fell to the ground. In the distance, he recognised the sound of the scooters starting up. Strong arms reached under his body and lifted him up off the hard concrete. He turned his head towards his helper, who he thought was Hamza. He hoped he could focus and see him this time. Suddenly a scream of fear erupted from his giant friend — who let his feet drop, then pushed him away. He could feel himself hitting something cold, hard, metallic. His friend let out another roar, then everything went black.

Louis was again on call, and in the back of his mind knew before he went to sleep, it would be a short night. His wife was already getting used to his new job, but it was taking her a long time to adjust to the different pattern. The upside was planning his weekends, unlike his last job, he never knew whether he would be free or not. Organising anything with the family was impossible, everything was at short notice, and that was not how he functioned. He was a man set in his ways and routines. Now he knew the shift times well in advance. The only downside was being called out in the middle of the night, like now. The problem was a ticket machine in the underpass at the metro station in the Lelylaan, one of the few places in the city where people could buy a ticket for a tram or metro by using good old fashioned cash. The target was a steel box in the bottom of the machine with only

WWW.BRIANCHRISTOPHERNOVELS.COM 7

The Amsterdam Chronicles DEF-CON CITY Part 2

enough spending money to last a couple of days; he never saw the point. This was not the first time for Louis at this machine. They tried to open it with a crowbar at least twice before, but never got to the cash box. However, the damage caused was roughly 20,000 euros. Louis got dressed, splashed cold water over his face, brushed his teeth, and knew with any luck he would be back within hours, soaking up the warmth his wife produced under the duvet. The motorway was quiet, it usually was at four o’clock in the morning. But with road works on the A1 heading into Amsterdam from Almere, he could run into a traffic jam, even at this time. He made it the Lelylaan within thirty minutes. Usually, the police would be at the scene of the robbery, but right now, they were nowhere around. The message he got was a serious error in one of the ticket machines. If the money had been stolen, and the machine was open, the police would stay to investigate. He quickly realised it was only attempted robbery and the machine was still closed, so they did not hang around. The large shining brushed steel ticket machine had marks and dents where had they had tried to force it open, without success. The error message that flashed on the small screen told him something was wrong with the mechanics or software inside. He still had to open it up to press the reset button. The key went in without a problem. At least they could not easily force their way through the actual lock itself. Otherwise he would have had to call the locksmith, which would add another three hours to the problem. That part of the design was robust. If only they put a steel band to the outer frame where it closed, that would prevent them from trying to force it with a crowbar. He turned the key and pulled on the front of the machine which opened out. He jumped back, startled. The last thing he expected to see was a body inside, at least it looked like a body, deformed and mangled. One eye was half open and stared directly at him. A shiver went down his spine. He would have to call the police, and then his wife.