Sidney Sheldon: If Tomorrow Comes

“It's impossible,” Jeff declared flatly. “Tracy —”

But Tracy was not listening. She was busily figuring out how it could be done.

Amsterdam's police headquarters, at the corner of Marnix Straat and Elandsgracht, is a gracious old five-story, brownbrick building with a long white-stucco corridor on the ground floor and a marble staircase leading to the upper floors. In a meeting room upstairs, the Gemeentepolitie were in conference. There were six Dutch detectives in the room. The lone foreigner was Daniel Cooper.

Inspector Joop van Duren was a giant of a man, larger than life, with a beefy face adorned by a flowing mustache, and a roaring basso voice. He was addressing Toon Willems, the neat, crisp, efficient chief commissioner, head of the city's police force.

“Tracy Whitney arrived in Amsterdam this morning, Chief Commissioner. Interpol is certain she was responsible for the De Beers hijacking. Mr. Cooper, here, feels she has come to Holland to cgmmit another felony.”

Chief Commissioner Willems turned to Cooper. “Do you have any proof of this, Mr. Cooper?”

Daniel Cooper did not need proof. He knew Tracy Whitney, body and soul. Of course she was here to carry out a crime, something outrageous,. something beyond the scope of their tiny imaginations. He forced himself to remain calm.

“No proof. That's why she must be caught red-handed.”

“And just how do you propose that we do that?”

“By not letting the woman out of our sight.”

The use of the pronoun our disturbed the chief commissioner. He had spoken with Inspector Trignant in Paris about Cooper. He's obnoxious, but he knows what he's about. If we had listened to him, we would have caught the Whitney woman red-handed. It was the same phrase Cooper had just used.

Toon Willems made his decision, and it was based partly on the well-publicized failure of the French police to apprehend the hijackers of the De Beers diamonds. Where the French police had failed, the Dutch police would succeed.

“Very well,” the chief commissioner said. “If the lady has come to Holland to test the efficiency of our police force, we shall accommodate her.” He turned to Inspector van Duren. “Take whatever measures you think necessary.”

The city of Amsterdam is divided into six police districts, with each district responsible for its own territory. On orders from Inspector Joop van Duren, the boundaries were ignored, and detectives from different districts were assigned to surveillance teams. “I want her watched twenty-four hours a day. Don't let her out of your sight.”

Inspector van Duren turned to Daniel Cooper. “Well, Mr. Cooper, are you satisfied?”

“Not until we have her.”

“We will,” the inspector assured him. “You see, Mr. Cooper, we pride ourselves on having the best police force in the world.”

Amsterdam is a tourist's paradise, a city of windmills and dams and row upon row of gabled houses leaning crazily against one another along a network of tree-lined canals filled with houseboats decorated by boxes of geraniums and plants, and laundry flying in the breeze. The Dutch were the friendliest people Tracy had ever met.

“They all seem so happy,” Tracy said.

“Remember, they're the original flower people. Tulips.”

Tracy laughed and took Jeff's arm. She felt such joy in being with him. He's so wonderful. And Jeff was looking at her and thinking, I'm the luckiest fellow in the world.

Tracy and Jeff did all the usual sightseeing things tourists do. They strolled along Albert Cuyp Straat, the open-air market that stretches block after block and is filled with stands of antiques, fruits and vegetables, flowers, and clothing, and wandered through Dam Square, where young people gathered to listen to itinerant singers and punk bands. They visited Volendam, the old picturesque fishing village on the Zuider Zee, and Madurodam, Holland in miniature. As they drove past the bustling Schiphol Airport, Jeff said, “Not long ago, all that land the airport stands on was the North Sea. Schiphol means 'cemetery of ships.' ”

Tracy nestled closer to him. “I'm impressed. It's nice to be in love with such a smart fellow.”

“You ain't heard nothin' yet. Twenty-five percent of the Netherlands is reclaimed land. The whole country is sixteen feet below sea level.”

“Sounds scary.”

“Not to worry. We're perfectly safe as long as that little kid keeps his finger in the dyke.”

Everywhere Tracy and Jeff went, they were followed by the Gemeetepolitie, and each evening Daniel Cooper studied the written reports submitted to Inspector van Duren. There was nothing unusual in them, but Cooper's suspicions were not allayed. She's up to something, he told himself, something big. I wonder if she knows she's being followed? I wonder if she knows I'm going to destroy her?

As far as the detectives could see, Tracy Whitney and Jeff Stevens were merely tourists.

Inspector van Duren said to Cooper, “Isn't it possible you're wrong? They could be in Holland just to have a good time.”

“No,” Cooper said stubbornly. “I'm not wrong. Stay with her.” He had an ominous feeling that time was running out, that if Tracy Whitney did not make a move soon, the police surveillance would be called off again. That could not be allowed to happen. He joined the detectives who were keeping Tracy under observation.

Tracy and Jeff had connecting rooms at the Amstel. “For the sake of respectability,” Jeff had told Tracy, “but I won't let you get far from me.”

“Promise?”

Each night Jeff stayed with her until early dawn, and they made love far into the night. He was a protean lover, by turns tender and considerate, wild and feral.

“It's the first time,” Tracy whispered, “that I've really known what my body was for. Thank you, my love.”

“The pleasure's all mine.”

“Only half.”

They roamed the city in an apparently aimless manner. They had lunch at the Excelsior in the Hфtel de l'Europe and dinner at the Bowedery, and ate all twenty-two courses served at the Indonesian Bali. They had erwtensoep, Holland's famous pea soup; sampled kutspot, potatoes, carrots, and onions; and boerenkool met worst, made from thirteen vegetables and smoked sausage. They walked through the walletjes, the redlight district of Amsterdam, where fat, kimono-clad whores sat on the street windows displaying their ample wares; each evening the written report submitted to Inspector Joop van Duren ended with the same note: Nothing suspicious.

Patience, Daniel Cooper told himself. Patience.

At the urging of Cooper, Inspector van Duren went to Chief Commissioner Willems to ask permission to place electronic eavesdropping devices in the hotel rooms of the two suspects. Permission was denied.

“When you have more substantial grounds for your suspicions,” the chief commissioner said, “come back to me. Until then, I cannot permit you to eavesdrop on people who are so far guilty only of touring Holland.”

That conversation had taken place on Friday. On Monday morning Tracy and Jeff went to Paulus Potter Straat in Coster, the diamond center of Amsterdam, to visit the Nederlands Diamond-Cutting Factory. Daniel Cooper was a part of the surveillance team. The factory was crowded with tourists. An English-speaking guide conducted them around the factory, explaining each operation in the cutting process, and at the end of the tour led the group to a large display room, where showcases filled with a variety of diamonds for sale lined the walls. This of course was the ultimate reason visitors were given a tour of the factory. In the center of the room stood a glass case dramatically mounted on a tall, black pedestal, and inside the case was the most exquisite diamond Tracy had ever seen.