John Ringo: Ghost

“Your phone call was intercepted by NSA,” Pierson said. “They were aware of the number before we were and traced the call to Amsterdam.”

“That’s nice,” Mike said. “The bomb’s scheduled to go off in about six hours…” He paused. “You want me to go to Amsterdam?” he added incredulously.

“Up to you,” Pierson replied. “The voice match was Assadolah.”

“Yeah,” Mike said thoughtfully. “I was pretty sure it was him. That English/Pakistani accent. But I’ve got to sit on the phone.”

“NSA has it covered,” Pierson said. “Calls to that phone will be transferred to your sat phone. And they can feed in artificial background noise from the event at Notre Dame. When a call comes in from the same phone, it will read ‘Assadolah.’ ”

“Gotta love modern technology,” Mike said sourly. “Bruce,” he continued, “about face. Charles DeGaulle. Step on it.”

On one level Mike loved Amsterdam’s red-light district. He’d stopped through on his European tour and sampled the wares, and lovely wares they were. But it was, in a way, just too “in your face.” As he walked down one of the narrow alleyways of the district, the curtain behind a plate-glass window moved and a very attractive young woman, a redhead wearing a green teddy and high heels, stepped out and reclined on the pillows in the window. She smiled at him as he passed and he smiled back distractedly. Pretty as she was, she wasn’t who he was looking for.

The street was lined with brothels, like the one he’d just passed, their “wares” casually presenting themselves in the windows, topless bars that doubled as brothels, brothels that doubled as bars, and “sex clubs” that were some of each.

“The call came from somewhere around cell tower 4793,” Colonel Fagan said. The colonel was another military attaché, in civilian clothes, but much less stuck on himself than Forester had been. With Mike’s haircut and build they just looked like two soldiers out for a good time. “That services the red-light district and some of the areas around it.”

“Assadolah’s into women,” Mike replied. “And the sounds that were behind him were from a bar, probably a topless joint from the music.” He paused at the first one they came to and shrugged. “What a horrible job we’ve got.” He paid for both their covers with a fifty-euro note, getting back forty euros in five- and ten-euro notes and a handful of one-euro coins.

The strip joint ran to form, dark with the only light coming from the three stages. In the middle of the room was the main stage, a long walkway with a pole at both ends and a swing in the middle. A blonde was dancing on it, down to nothing but her platforms and money-filled garter, doing a pole dance that Mike had to admit was spectacular. The women wandering around the room were equally spectacular, mostly blonde, long-legged with large breasts. You could tell the fakes from the real ones, even the very good fakes, and it was apparent that mostly they were real.

The two of them split up on either side of the stage, wandering casually to the back, then retracing their steps on opposite sides. There were two side rooms, one a “champagne” room where for probably a ton of money you could sit and talk to one of the girls while sipping champagne, and the other a “dance” room where for less the girls would perform “lap dances” for their “gentlemen friends.” When they got back to the front, Mike sat down in one of the chairs along the wall and shrugged.

“I don’t see him,” Mike noted. “But he could be getting a lap dance. Or a blow for that matter; it’s Amsterdam.”

“I’ll take the champagne room,” Fagan said, grinning. “But the U.S. government is going to have a hard time keeping up with my tab.”

“Uncle Sam can afford it,” Mike replied, handing over a wad of hundred-euro notes. “Keep an itemized tab and we’ll submit an expense report.”

He grabbed a passing blonde and smiled at her.

“Care to dance?”

The lap dance room turned out to have several curtained cubicles in it. Mike rather obviously twitched several aside, getting angry looks from the men in the cubicles, one of whom, sure enough, was getting a blowjob, and causing the girl with him to pull him along to an empty one.

“Sorry,” Mike said, sitting down in the chair. “I like to watch.”

“It is very much against house rules,” the girl said, sitting down next to him. The previous song hadn’t finished, so they had to wait for the next one. “I am Hanne.”

“Pleased to meet you, Hanne,” Mike said. “I’m Mike.” It made just as much sense to use his “real” name as a cover. The girl didn’t give a shit who he was.

“Is twenty euros for a lap dance,” Hanne said, taking off her halter top. “Is fifty euros for blow. That is two songs. If you don’t come by end of second song, well, I do my best.”

“I’ll just take a dance,” Mike replied. “Do I get to touch?”

“You can touch,” Hanne said gravely. “If you touch too hard, though, I will tell you to stop. If you don’t stop, you get sent out.”

“I can live with that,” Mike said as the previous dance ended and the next began.

The girl slid to her knees in front of him, spreading his legs and dragging her hair over his crotch, then slowly slid up his body, humming as she did so.

Mike slid his hands down her back and along her sides, then up her stomach to her high, firm breasts. She clearly hadn’t been dancing long, since they were natural and had hardly a hint of sag. He continued to run his hands over her body, gently, teasingly, as she teased him in turn.

“You are very good with hands,” Hanne said huskily.

“Maybe you should be paying me,” he replied, smiling into her eyes.

“Is very nice,” she whispered in his ear. “I like.”

“I’m glad,” Mike said, licking her ear lightly. “But all you get is one dance. I have to save my strength for all the other girls in the district.”

She giggled at that and slid her head back down, rubbing her face in his crotch. Then she slid back up and licked at his ear.

“I think maybe you wish you’d paid for blow, yes?”

“You’re very nice,” Mike said, nipping at her earlobe. “But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

The song finished and Hanne backed away slowly.

“Wooo,” she said, holding out her hand for the money. “That was more than usual fun.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Mike said, handing her thirty euros. “You take care.”

He walked back out to the main area and looked around for Fagan, but the colonel was nowhere in sight.

“Come on, man,” Mike muttered. “One dance is enough.”

When two more dances, six minutes more or less, had passed, Mike walked over to the champagne room door, a curtain rather, and tipped the bouncer to let him in without a girl.

“Fagan,” Mike said loudly.

“Coming,” the colonel replied in a strained voice.

He exited one of the cubicles a moment later, zipping his trousers.

“I don’t care what that comedian said,” Fagan noted. “If he thinks there’s no sex in the champagne room, he’s never been to Amsterdam.”

They had hit two more strip joints, where Mike very pointedly had the colonel go for a single lap dance while he took the champagne room, and were headed to another when Mike’s phone rang.

He stepped into an alley to cloak the street noise and hit the connect.

“Ay-yup?” he said.

“The technician is on his way,” Assadolah said. “All is well?”

“Turr’ble,” Mike replied. “Jist turr’ble. Been sittin’ here watchin’ the cops go by for the last few ahrs. Jist a wond’rin’ when that techie’d show.”