James Patterson - Kill Me If You Can

Now all I had to do was sell them. Matthew Bannon might not know how to unload millions of dollars’ worth of blood diamonds, but the Ghost did. And my main contact was right here in Amsterdam.

When you think of organized crime in the European Union, the Italians overshadow everyone. But there are plenty of well-oiled smuggling operations in Holland. The Dutch play such a big role in transporting legal goods across the continent that crossing the line to smuggling is an easy step.

I knew most of the players by reputation, and I decided that the best possible buyer in the country was Diederik de Smet. I had two reasons. One, he had the money to handle the kind of volume I was selling. And two, he hated the Russians. A year ago, de Smet had been running a cell-phone hacking operation that was so profitable, the Russian mob couldn’t resist trying to move in on it.

The Dutch pushed back, and it escalated into a blood feud with a nasty body count on both sides, so I knew I didn’t have to worry about de Smet ratting me out to the Diamond Syndicate. I did have to worry about him, though. His street name was de slang— “the Snake”—and word had it he was as treacherous as a king cobra.

I had a meeting scheduled with him for tomorrow afternoon. But first I needed some sleep.

I locked my door, pulled down the window shade, got down on the floor, sliced open the underside of the box spring, and shoved my bag of diamonds in between the coils. Then I stretched out on the bed, not even bothering to undress first. The mattress was lumpy, and I felt good knowing that one of those lumps was going to bring me millions.

I woke up at 9 p.m., showered, got dressed, and felt almost human. I went downstairs and asked the guy at the front desk where to eat.

“The Grasshopper around the corner on Oudebrugsteeg,” he said. “They’re a steak restaurant, a sports bar, and a cannabis café. They’ve got a little something for everyone.”

I strolled over and opted for a rib eye and a baked potato at Evita, the Grasshopper’s Argentinean steak house on the third floor. The food was good, but it triggered the memory of the night Katherine and I shared a porterhouse at Peter Luger to celebrate my getting into Parsons.

Dinner was a lonely affair, and by the time I finished, I was feeling pretty damn sorry for myself. I knew I should get back to my room and keep one eye on the diamonds and the other peeled for Marta Krall, but sometimes, no matter how hard trouble is beating down on you, you just don’t give a shit. So despite my better judgment, I went downstairs for coffee and some weed.

Technically, selling marijuana is illegal in Amsterdam, but it’s not punishable, so the law isn’t enforced. Most of the coffeehouses that sell it follow some basic rules, like no hard drugs and no selling to kids. The espresso was mediocre, but the weed was primo. After my first few hits, I wanted Katherine to be with me something fierce.

I figured she was back in New York now, and I wondered if she missed me as much as I missed her.

And then I started wondering if my father was right. Would she give me another chance? And what did I have to do to earn it?

I hadn’t smoked grass since I got out of the Marines, and this stuff was powerful. It sneaked up on me, and before I knew it, I was half-baked.

I desperately wanted to call Katherine, but I knew I’d regret it in the morning. So I did what any lovesick, stoned-out artist would do.

I took a pen out of my pocket and began sketching her face on a place mat.

I HAD ROUGHED out the portrait of Katherine when a group of about a dozen college kids piled in. They were loud, American, and drunk. A few of them pushed tables together while one guy with a wispy blond beard and a Duke University Blue Devils T-shirt leaned over my shoulder.

“Whatcha drawing, dude?” he said.

“Looks like I’m drawing a crowd,” I said.

My cannabis-infused wit escaped him. “How much to do a picture of me?” he said.

“No charge if you’ll pose nude,” I said.

He gave me the finger and joined his friends.

The waitress brought me another double espresso and a bottle of beer.

“I didn’t order these,” I said.

“They’re my treat,” she said. “Would you like to drink them outside, where you don’t have to put up with these dickheads?”

“Thanks,” I said and took a swig of the beer. It was definitely the better of the two beverages.

“We artists have to stick together,” she said. “My name is Anna.”

“Matthew.”

She picked up my coffee and carried it outside. The entire three-story building was bathed in an eerie green light. “The owner loves it,” Anna said, “because it’s the color of grasshoppers. Pretty ugly, right?”

“Not to another grasshopper,” I said.

There were at least forty tables, all empty. Anna set me up in the corner farthest from the noise and only ten feet from the canal. A street lamp cast a soft yellow light on the table. Anna excused herself, then returned a few seconds later with about twenty clean white paper placemats.

“We’re all out of sketch pads,” she said.

“Thanks again.”

She looked at my drawing of Katherine. “She’s pretty. Who is she?”

“Nobody,” I said. “I’m over her.”

“I get off work in an hour. You want to come up to my apartment, look at some of my paintings, drink some wine?”

Anna had a lithe, athletic body, blue eyes, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a heavenly smile. So it took me a solid five seconds to answer the question. “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m kind of tired.”

Anna was not the kind of woman men say no to, so she looked a little surprised when I turned her down. But she shrugged and laughed it off.

She took another look at the sketch of Katherine. “You’re not as over her as you might think.” She turned around and walked back inside to deal with the rowdy college guys.

I took a long pull on the beer, picked up my pen, and started to work on a second drawing.

“I guess that’s the last I’ll be seeing of table service tonight,” I said as Katherine’s face began to emerge from the page. “I know you don’t approve of my job, but at least give me some credit for not jumping into some other woman’s bed.”

The sketch came to life quickly. I don’t know if it was the pot or the pain I felt from losing her, but it was the best drawing of Katherine I’d ever done.

Sometimes the difference between a piece of art and a piece of crap is the artist’s ability to know when to stop. I worked furiously. And then I set my pen down. I had labored over hundreds of sketches of Katherine since we met, but this one had poured out of me in minutes. It was not only finished, it was inspired.

I sat back and stared at her face. I wanted her in my life forever. I promised myself I would do whatever it took to get her back.

And then I felt the cold steel on the back of my neck.

“It looks like Ms. Sanborne doesn’t like this life you lead, does she, Mr. Bannon?” a female voice with a thick German accent said. “Don’t worry, you still have me.”

I sat there frozen.

“The party is over, pretty boy,” Krall said. “Now, tell me, where are Mr. Chukov’s diamonds?”

My assassin’s playbook of options ran through my head. I’d been in life-or-death situations before. There’s always a way out.

But at the moment I couldn’t come up with a single one. I was that stoned.

“I’LL REPEAT THE QUESTION,” Marta said, digging the muzzle of the gun into the back of my neck. “Where are the diamonds?”

“I’m stoned,” I said, “not stupid. If I tell you where they are, you’ll kill me.”