Ridley Pearson - Choke Point

Smiling, the woman calls after him on his way out, “God be with you.”

He can’t stop that blessing from ringing in his head as he closes in on the coffee shop.

A police patrol diverts him. He enters a dress shop, where even he knows he doesn’t belong. A giant of a wet man holding a laptop, his windbreaker bulging improperly. He doesn’t try to explain himself. Looks for a back door. Finds a narrow staircase, ducks his head and ascends, arriving into a kitchen where an elderly woman is smoking an unfiltered cigarette while drinking from a demitasse.

“Toilet?” he says in English.

He might as well be from the moon, and she, chiseled in stone. He retreats down the staircase, where he’s met by a silent but incensed shopkeeper. He leaves. The police car has moved on, allowing him to cross the street.

Something catches his eye, nearly stopping him mid-street. He doesn’t know what it was. Arriving at the curb, he surveys the buildings’ facades—the store names, windows, doors. What stopped him? What was it he saw?

He can’t spend time so exposed. He enters the crowded coffee shop, wishes he could order a beer, but settles for a straight coffee, no adjectives. Turning on Grace’s laptop is like stepping into a cockpit. He clicks on the browser. He uses her password for a second time and is presented with a stable browser frame offering a search window.

He calls up an interactive map of Amsterdam and begins plotting the locations from the GPS. Nearly simultaneously he uses Grace’s interoffice mail system to send Brian Primer a message about the likely arrest of Dulwich and Grace, the schedule of the jet transportation and an appeal for assistance.

He has decided on a course of action: he’s going to ring every ounce of information from Gerhardt Kreiger concerning Fahiz and leave it to Brower to mop up what’s left.

For a moment, he’s not sure if the coffee is too strong or if he’s actually thinking clearly. He knows firsthand the aftereffects of shock and trauma. In a hallucinatory vision he’s able to see not only the light at the end of the tunnel but what’s beyond the light. He stands, leaving Grace’s laptop on the table and moves automatically to the shop’s door. He moves outside, through the parked cars and nearly into the oncoming traffic as he surveys the shop facades. Something here stopped him and he has a sense of the answer, though he does not know what he’s looking for.

And there it is: an address plate. A small tin rectangle above the shop to the left of the coffeehouse: 3 . There’s a bird on the gutter looking down, mocking him. It tells him he’s stupid for having missed this.

Back inside, he cuts a direct line to his table and Grace’s laptop. He does not go unnoticed, his size and determination nothing to mess with. His work is clumsy, his fingers too big to type easily. He pecks out a website address, lays down the list he copied from the stolen GPS.

It must be the coffee: his heart rate is palpably quickened and sharp, painful. Is this how Grace lives each day? he wonders. He feels high. The possibility he might be right drives him like a whip. These few minutes are wildly exciting for him, parked in a chair in a coffeehouse. Of all things. It’s impossible. Yet it’s not going away.

He enters the latitude/longitude for the GPS location labeled 3. His middle finger hovers over the RETURN key. He knows this is right; he’s no longer searching, he’s merely confirming. It’s a foregone conclusion.

The blue pin drops onto the Google map. Knox gasps aloud, drawing attention to himself. He saves the map to the computer’s desktop.

Swift movement approaching.

He has the grace of a gymnast as he takes hold of the chair, raises it and lowers it onto the head of the policeman coming up behind him. The chair doesn’t splinter; it thuds like a club. The cop falls to his knees. People scream as they jump away. Coffee flies.

Knox blocks the cop’s attempt to reach for his hardware belt; blocks him from taking hold of Knox’s leg. Doesn’t want to hurt the guy, but Knox is mechanical, robotic. He drives his knee forward, stomps down hard and a gush of surprise erupts from the onlookers. Two blows: the cop is down.

The laptop folded shut, his note stuffed into a pocket, Knox heads out the back, away from the cop car parked out front.

From behind the counter, a barista dares shout out for him to stop. Knox keeps walking. He feels surprisingly good, the brief confrontation helping to release some of his pent-up excitement.

The train is out. He’s closed that door on himself. Taxis are no good because of Fahiz’s network.

He’s chosen a ubiquitous VW Passat. Dark blue.

Knox heads for the airport, adjusting mirrors as he goes. The car’s ceiling is too low, but he’s used to it. As in all European countries, the Netherlands traffic cams report registration plates in real time and are searchable. From the moment the stolen car is called in, Knox is driving a time bomb. The highway to the airport will be lousy with traffic cams, less so on the surface streets. So he takes the slower route, paralleling the highway where possible, keeping it available if he’s pursued. He does all this without a second thought, again marveling at what he’s become. Would he have known to do this two years earlier? If he’d known, would it have been so automatic? Dulwich has shaped him, has gotten what he wants. He’s turned him into an adrenaline junkie who’d rather outrun cops in Amsterdam than go on a shopping spree in the Cambodian jungle. He resents it, but doesn’t resist it. Drives on, his eyes ticking from one mirror to the next, ready for anything thrown at him.

—

KNOX MAKES THE CALLunder an overhang outside the KLM Jet Center. He parked the stolen car in a long-term lot a half mile away, walked here in a light drizzle, but still keeps a weather eye for police cars or anything unusual. Having the Dutch police after him is less than reassuring. He knows European security to be swift and efficient. He must stay a step ahead and never linger in one place for too long.

“Brower,” the man answers.

“John Knox.”

A brief pause. Knox can picture the man signaling his subordinates to trace the origin of the call. Knox keeps track of the time on his wristwatch. He’s giving himself thirty seconds. Twelve are behind him.

“Get yourself to the nearest constabulary and turn yourself in. It will go far easier for you.”

“I have a deal to propose.”

Knox ends the call, switches out the second of the three SIM cards that fit this phone. Calls back.

“Brower.”

“I give you a human trafficking ring, complete with kidnap victims and a person responsible. In all likelihood that person gives up the ringleader of the knot shop. You put my friends on a plane, no charges, no hidden agendas.” He adds, “You’ve got fourteen seconds.”

He waits.

“Seven seconds,” he says. “No more calls.”

“Done.”

Knox ends the call, throws his head back and steps out so the rain strikes his teeth.

He has spent time before in the waiting areas for private jets. The jet centers spoil their corporate customers or anyone waiting for them. Knox gets a catered meal, more coffee and a shower. Pays cash.

He calls his brother, but wakes him and promises to call back later. The clock grinds slowly toward three P.M. Much of the time—all of the time—is spent with pieces of a plan spinning in his head, coming together only to separate and refuse to bind like same-pole magnets. There’s much to accomplish.

Grace’s laptop comes to his aid repeatedly. He watches live video of Gerhardt Kreiger’s empty office as he navigates into the man’s contacts list. It takes him nearly thirty minutes to locate what he’s after, primarily because his written Dutch is so poor, and the online translators so confusing. But even this piece comes together for him, and he’s beginning to sense the tide has turned; losing Fahiz, the arrest of Dulwich and Grace, all marked the crest of the wave breaking. Now he rides calmly to the beach without need of paddle or sail.