James Patterson - Kill Me If You Can

“Of course,” he said. “You as well.”

“The cruise lasts two hours. When we get back to the dock, I will be at the front of the queue and get off first. You, my friend, will be at the very back of the line. By the time you will get off, I’ll be gone, and you won’t be tempted to follow me. Is that condition acceptable?”

“No problem,” de Smet answered. “All I want are the diamonds.”

I STEPPED OUTSIDE the Café Karpershoek, and the two men who were watching me from the bar followed. The Ghost could have lost them in half a minute, but it wouldn’t have been smart for old Mr. Ziffer to shake them like a pro. I’d have to make them think they lost me.

I walked across the street to the cab stand at Centraal Station. I got into the first taxi and told the driver to take me to the InterContinental Amstel Hotel.

“Drive slowly,” I said. “I want to enjoy the view.”

De Smet’s boys caught the cab behind me and had no trouble keeping up.

I knew the Amstel well. I had stayed there the last time I had a job in Amsterdam. It’s a beautifully restored landmark building — a grand old palace that sits majestically in the heart of the city, overlooking the Amstel River. It’s the essence of Dutch charm, elegance, and efficiency.

The cab stopped at the entrance, and a burly uniformed doorman with a handlebar mustache opened the door. I recognized him immediately.

“Rutger,” I said as he helped me out of the taxi. “My favorite doorman. Do you remember me from last summer? Yitzchak Ziffer. You took excellent care of me. Good to see you again.”

I put a hundred-euro note in his hand, and his eyes popped. He had no idea who I was, but that didn’t slow him down.

“So excellent to see you again, Mr. Ziffer,” he said. “Welcome back. Do you have bags?”

“No, I checked in last night. But if it’s not too much trouble, I need one small favor.”

He slipped the money deftly into his pocket as he helped me to the red-carpeted stairs. “Mr. Ziffer, whatever you need.”

“As you know, I’m an author, and I’m here for another book signing,” I said. “But some of my fans are more like stalkers. Do you see those two men who just got out of that taxi?”

He looked discreetly over at de Smet’s men. “Yes, sir. Are they annoying you?”

“They mean well,” I said, “but sometimes this famous-author business can be exhausting. Could you just delay them at the door for a few seconds so I can get upstairs to my room to take a nap without being accosted by any more autograph hounds?”

“You’d be surprised how long I can delay them,” Rutger said.

“You’ve always been so kind,” I said, toddling slowly up the stairs. “That is why I stay here.”

I walked through the front door as de Smet’s men were approaching the stairs. I caught a glimpse of Rutger spreading his arms wide and stopping them in their tracks. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Are you registered guests?”

“Out of my way,” the first thug said, shoving him hard.

But it’s not easy pushing a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound doorstop out of the way. Rutger pushed back.

The thug threw a punch. I darted into the lobby and looked back. Rutger was bleeding from the nose. But he wasn’t down. He wrapped both his arms around the attacker and started blowing his whistle.

A second doorman, two bellmen, and a parking valet jumped into the fray, and suddenly all the palatial grandeur and European civility of the Amstel Hotel had disintegrated into a brawl.

I didn’t stick around to see how it turned out. De Smet’s men wouldn’t be held back for long. I bolted across the marble floor of the lobby to the rear door and exited into the hotel garden.

From there I ran along the riverbank, turned right on Sarphatistraat, and caught a cab back to my little bed-and-breakfast in Chinatown.

I looked out the rear window as the Amstel faded into the distance.

Someday I’d like to come back here, I thought. I’ll bring Katherine. And a serious tip for Rutger the doorman.

DIEDERIK DE SMET was more treacherous than I had expected. I knew he would have me tailed, but the fact that his men beat up the doorman at the Amstel meant they had been ordered not to lose me. Their instructions had probably been to follow me to my room and grab the diamonds. So much for honor among thieves.

I took a cab to the Prins Hendrikkade dock at five-thirty — two hours before departure.

The excursion was a dinner cruise, so people were encouraged to come early — and buy lots of drinks. I bought a ticket and went on board. The entire dining area was enclosed in glass. Several couples had already commandeered the primo window-seat tables.

I spotted a tiny table right next to the swinging kitchen door, where the clatter of pots and pans and the constant waiter traffic would take most of the romance out of a dinner cruise.

It was perfect for me — in the corner, with a clear view of the dock, the gangplank, and the entire dining room.

I ordered a club soda from the bar and took a stroll around the boat. Most of it was under glass, but there was some deck space for people who wanted to fill their lungs with the fresh night air.

None of de Smet’s men had shown up yet. I was betting that two of them were still hanging out at the Amstel, waiting for me to come down from my room.

At 7:15 I spotted de Smet on the dock. He was wearing black jeans and a black leather jacket and had a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. I had no doubt that he would show me the money. But I was pretty sure he didn’t plan for me to get off the boat with it.

He bought a ticket but didn’t board yet.

A minute later, two of his men from the Café Karpershoek arrived. They bought tickets and stood a few yards away from de Smet, pretending not to know him, having a smoke and a chat.

Finally, the two punks who had followed me to the Amstel showed up. They didn’t buy tickets. One of them picked up a brochure and tried to look fascinated by it. Four brutes with a passion for dinner cruises? The rest of the passengers were all boy-girl couples. How dumb did de Smet think I was?

At 7:20 de Smet gave the signal, and his two hulks came on board. They stood at the front of the dining room and began eye-searching all the tables. As soon as one of them spotted me, he gestured to the other, who dialed his cell phone. I watched as de Smet took the call, smiled, and came on board.

AT 7:30 ON THE DOT, the boat pulled away from the dock, and de Smet slithered into the dining room. He caught my eye, then headed directly for my table, all smiles.

“Yitzchak,” he said, shaking my hand.

“Diederik,” I responded. We were obviously now on a first-name basis.

He looked around the room. “This is an inspired place to meet,” he said. “Crowded, but nobody will bother us, and we can enjoy a nice leisurely dinner while we do business.”

You’re so full of shit, I thought. “I’m so glad you like it,” I said.

“How did you come to think of it?” he asked.

“My late wife and I took this same dinner cruise along the canals fifty years ago,” I said. “I’m only in Amsterdam for a brief time, and I couldn’t leave without coming back here.”

“A sentimental diamond merchant,” he said.

“Guilty as charged,” I said.

It was partly true. In an uncharacteristic fit of sentimentality I had transferred the diamonds to a small Adidas sports sack. Zelvas’s doctor bag had changed my life, and I wanted to hang on to it as a memento.

“But I’m also practical,” I said. “Let’s get down to business.”