James Patterson - Kill Me If You Can

It was 7 p.m. when we pulled into Milan, and I had forty-five minutes to stretch my legs before the sixteen-hour train ride to Amsterdam.

Milano Centrale is one of the most beautiful railway stations in the world, but it reminded me of Grand Central Terminal, and that reminded me of the night I found the diamonds. And of course finding the diamonds is what led to losing Katherine.

I was miserable. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the only person I knew who could understand what I was going through.

It was 11 a.m. in Colorado, and my father picked up on the first ring. “How you doing, boy?” he said.

“Been better,” I said. “I made the mistake of taking my girlfriend on a business trip and it didn’t go well.”

“I’m guessing she found out what business you’re in, and she’s none too happy about it,” he said.

“You’re pretty smart for an old jarhead.”

“Don’t have to be smart if you’re experienced,” he said.

“So lay some experience on me. I could use a little of that fatherly wisdom you enjoy beating me over the head with.”

“That’s the thing about us Devil Dogs. We never did get much subtlety training,” he said. “But I’ll give it a shot. I got three questions for you.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“First question,” he said. “Do you love her?”

“Of course I do. More than anything.”

“In that case, fatherly wisdom won’t do it,” he said. “Matthew, I could teach you how to shoot, how to live as a man, how to soldier, but when it comes to love I’m as dumb as the next guy, who’s as dumb as the guy next to him. Kind of like dominoes. Men are dumber than dirt when it comes to love.”

“So it’s hopeless.”

“No. You just have to learn to understand how women think.”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay. Good. Second question, then,” he said. “How many pairs of your shoes did Jett chew up before you got her to quit?”

I smiled. Jett was my favorite hunting dog, but she had a taste for shoes, especially the ones that smelled like me. “About a dozen.”

“But you didn’t get rid of her after she ruined two pairs. Or four pairs. Or ten.”

“Hell, no, I loved her, and I was determined to train her.”

“That’s how women think,” he said. “They love us, and they’re determined to train us.”

Now he had me laughing. “So what you’re saying is I just need to be housebroken.”

“According to your mom, we all do,” he said. “Last question. This business trip you’re on — what’s the degree of difficulty?”

“It was supposed to be a slam dunk, which is why I brought Katherine along,” I said. “But I have this aggressive competitor who would like to put me out of business. Permanently.”

“In that case, it’s time to beat you over the head with some professional advice. Snap out of it, boy. Put that girl out of your mind and focus on your business a hundred and ten percent. You can’t afford to be pining away like a lovesick puppy when you’ve got chips on the table. You hear that?”

“Yes, sir.”

He was right. As soon as Marta Krall found some dry clothes and a new gun, she’d come after me again. Being in a funk could get me killed.

“So, here’s the wrap-up, boy,” my father said. “You’re a man, so Katherine expects you to be as dumb as the rest of us. She’s a woman, so she’s hardwired to fix you, which means you’re going to get at least one more chance at redemption. Most important, if you don’t watch your ass on this trip, there ain’t ever gonna be any grandkids. And if that happens, your mama will blame it all on me.”

“Good advice, Dad,” I said. “I owe you one.”

“You can pay me back right now,” he said. “I know exactly where you are.”

I figured he would. The stationmaster’s announcements in the background were a dead giveaway.

“I’ve been there a dozen times,” he said. “There’s an old nun, Sister Philomena, sitting outside track seven. She used to be a mail drop for me. Put a hundred bucks, or whatever that new Italian money is, in her basket. Tell her it’s from Colorado.”

“Will do.”

“I don’t want to know where you’re going, but is there anybody you want me to give your regards to?” he said.

That was code for I do want to know where you’re going, but don’t say it on the phone. Spell it out for me.

“Yeah, say hi to Adam, Mom, and Sarah,” I said. AMS. Airport code for Amsterdam.

“Safe travels,” he said.

“Thanks. I love you, Dad.”

“Semper fi, boy.”

My father is old school. That’s as close as he ever gets to I love you .

JUST AS MY father had said, there was an ancient nun outside track 7. She sat on a folding chair with her head bowed, but she looked up to thank anyone who tossed a coin in her basket.

I dropped in a one-hundred-euro note. Her head came up fast. “Grazie mille.”

“It’s from Colorado,” I said.

“Ah, Signor Colorado. Nice man.” She studied my face carefully. “You are the young Colorado, sì? ”

“I’m his son,” I said.

She beamed and touched a bony blue-veined hand to her heart, much the way I imagined she would have if she’d been in the maternity ward thirty years ago when my father announced, “It’s a boy.”

“Where are you going?” she said.

I hesitated. “I’d rather not say, Sister.”

She lowered her head and peered at me over rimless glasses. She smiled, amused at my lack of trust. The deep-set, watery eyes and crinkled-paper skin put her somewhere north of eighty, but her teeth could not have been more than a few years old. Straight, white porcelain dentures that were so perfect, I imagined they could only have been the generous gift of a devout Catholic dentist.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You can tell me. I will pray for you to Saint Christopher.”

I trusted my father, so I trusted her. “Amsterdam,” I said.

She took my hand, closed her eyes, and mumbled a prayer. Then she opened her eyes, flashed another dazzling smile, and said, “Vai con Dio.”

I said good-bye, not sure if my father was paying her back for past kindnesses or buying me some travel insurance.

I got my answer when I arrived in Amsterdam. The train ride had been uneventful, but as soon as I stepped up to the taxi stand at the station, a man called out, “Colorado.”

I turned, ready to fight.

The man held up both hands. “I’m a friend of Sister Philomena’s,” he said. “You don’t want to take a taxi. They remember every passenger and write down every destination. I remember nothing.”

My father had been long retired, but his network was still open for business.

My driver’s name was Harold, and my ride was a spacious black Citroën that still smelled factory fresh.

Harold was a professional. He asked no questions and spoke only when spoken to. He negotiated expertly through the midday traffic, and after driving me to the Zeedijk neighborhood, he handed me a business card that had nothing on it but a phone number.

“Anytime,” he said. “Day or night.”

I reached for my wallet, but he wouldn’t take my money.

I got out of the car and did a slow three-sixty, scanning the area. I hadn’t been tailed. I silently thanked my father and watched as the wheelman he had sent turned the car around and disappeared into traffic.

THE ZEEDIJK REMINDED me of Times Square in New York — part trendy, part seedy. I checked into the Bodburg, a hotel on Beursstraat that was also a little of both.

The Bodburg should have been called the Bedbug. The elevator was out of order, the fire hose in the hall leaked, there were rat droppings in my room, and my only window looked out onto a sex shop. It was the ultimate comedown after the Danieli. But it was perfect. Hardly the kind of place you’d go if you were looking for a guy with a bag of diamonds.