Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

After she left, he switched back into German. “You staying the night? Want me to get you some girls?”

“No thanks. I’m heading back to Germany this evening.”

Jack’s smile vanished as he patted the canvas bag. “Not with this.”

“Of course not. It’ll be left somewhere safe in Holland.”

“Good.” His jovial expression returned. “For a moment, I thought you’d lost your touch.”

“You have the spares I asked for?”

“Yes. Plus the tools you need to adjust their impact.” He smoothed a hand over the canvas bag. “Be very gentle with these babies. They’re nasty.”

“I hope they are.” Kronos could see that the group of men was looking at them. They’d stopped singing and had grown quiet, looked hostile. “Best we lower our voices. I think the men behind you object to the German language.”

Jack was dismissive. “I know them. Dockers on the wrong end of a postwork knees-up. Rum bunch, but they know they’ll lose their jobs if they touch me.” He nodded toward the canvas bag. “Important job?”

“All my jobs are important. If you want to know more about this one, please proceed and ask. You’ll die after I finish speaking.”

For a moment, Jack looked unsettled. “I. . I don’t want to know anything about it.”

“And that’s how it must always be.”

Marijne brought the liquor to their table, leaned toward Jack, and whispered, “I finish at midnight.”

The captain patted her behind. “I’ll see you then, my beauty.”

As she returned to the bar, Jack downed the drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “It’s a shame you’re heading home. I’m sailing tomorrow afternoon, so I’m going to make the most of tonight. You could have joined me.”

“Indeed.”

Jack stood. Quietly, he added, “Don’t hang around here.” He shook Kronos’s hand and walked out of the bar.

Kronos placed cash next to his untouched drink. Reaching across the table, he gripped the canvas bag and stood to leave. The men were still staring at him.

One of them called out in slurred words, “German pig?”

From behind the bar, Marijne slammed a glass down and looked angrily at the man. “Stop it, Theo!”

The dockworker ignored her, got to his feet, and took two steps toward Kronos. “German pig.”

The other men stood. All of them were big.

Kronos was motionless, keeping his eyes fixed on the men.

“This isn’t a place for pigs!”

The assassin stared at them. He could see that they’d reached a stage in their drinking where joviality had passed, that they now needed a fight. No doubt it would make their evening if they could all stand around his prone body, kicking his head until it became a bloody pulp. He glanced at Marijne and saw uncertainty and fear on her face. Clearly, she knew what these men were capable of.

He reached for his glass of brandewijn, clicked his heels together, raised the glass, and began singing “Wilhelmus van Nassouwe,” the national anthem of the Netherlands.

The men frowned, though the hostility remained on their faces.

Kronos sang louder, his voice note perfect, no hint of an accent as he recited the peaceful Dutch song.

One of the men smiled, then laughed. The others looked puzzled before joining their colleague in laughter. They grabbed their glasses, lifted them high, and accompanied Kronos in the song. The cafe was filled with the sound of the anthem.

When the song finished, Kronos downed his drink, placed a fifty-euro note on the bar, and said commandingly in Dutch, “Gentlemen. That was excellent. You all deserve a drink.” He clicked his heels again, turned, and walked out to the sounds of more laughter and singing.

As the assassin stepped into the driving rain, he smiled. A moment ago, he could have snapped all five men’s necks in under thirty seconds. But they were just simple-minded thugs whose dumb brains had become addled with booze. They probably had families to go home to. Just like him.

But he wasn’t going back to Germany and his family.

He wouldn’t be leaving the Netherlands until he’d conducted an assassination that would be his masterpiece.

It was early evening as Will strode through a fine rain and winter chill in De Wallen, the red-light district in Amsterdam’s old city. Divided down the center by a canal, the district’s labyrinth of streets and side alleys was filled with tourists and locals gazing at the multitude of cabins containing scantily clad prostitutes; entering and exiting the neon-lit sex shops, theaters, and peep shows; drinking in bars; or smoking marijuana in the coffee shops.

He barely registered his surroundings, instead wondering if tonight he was about to make a big mistake.

Moving east away from the district, he crossed canals, past street vendors selling warm stroopwafels, pannekoeken, poffertjes, and Vlaamse frites, and dodged buses and trams and mopeds being driven at speed. One mile later, he was walking along Zeeburgerpad, a strip of land straddled by canals. Pleasure cruisers chugged along the waterways, with more tourists inside them being given waterborne tours of the city. Other boats were moored along the riverbanks, beside cobbled streets containing residential houses and a windmill that had been transformed into a microbrewery.

He stopped by a houseboat, clambered on board, and knocked on a window. A young woman appeared on the other side of the window, then briefly disappeared before opening the door. Will entered.

The interior was open plan and contained a double bed, a kitchenette, and a living room. Two suitcases were adjacent to the bed, brightly colored clothes spewing out of them. The air was thick with the smell of cannabis, cigarette smoke, and petunia oil.

The attractive Dutch brunette moved to the kitchen, wearing only a short negligee. “You want wine?”

“No thanks.” He sat on a red sofa in the shape of a heart. “I’ve got to work later.”

“So have I, and I’ve got to look the part.” Katharyne van Broekhuizen poured herself a glass of rioja and sat opposite a vanity mirror. While applying makeup, she asked, “How’ve you been, Anthony?”

“Busy.”

“You look tired. Are you eating okay?”

“When I have time.” He watched her pat foundation over crow’s-feet that hadn’t been there last time he’d seen her. “What about you? Do you get to do. . other stuff?”

“A bit of sleep. That’s about it.”

“When will it end?”

She used a blusher brush on her cheeks. “Two months, three months, six months. . who knows?”

“You won’t be able to keep this up much longer.”

“I’ve got no choice.” She sprayed perfume onto her throat, took a sip of wine, and turned to face him. “Next time you’re in town, will you buy me dinner?”

Will answered quietly, “I’ll treat you to a nice meal when you get out of this game.”

Katharyne seemed to consider this, then smiled. “Okay, deal.” She stood, removed her negligee, and started rummaging through one of the suitcases. Finding a pair of matching panties and bra, she put them on, together with a pair of velvet heels, and frowned as she stared at a rail containing dozens of dresses.

“You look stunning in black.”

“Do I?”

Will nodded.

She picked a black silk cocktail dress and slipped into it. “Can you zip me up?”

Will walked to her, placed his hands on her hips, gently spun her around, and fastened the dress.

She turned to him, wafted the hem of her outfit, and asked, “What do you think?”

He smiled. “I think you’re gorgeous.”

She briefly kissed him on the lips, pretended to look angry, and wagged her finger. “But you never make a pass at me. That’s very naughty of you.”