Ridley Pearson - Choke Point

Satellite maps and the jet center’s complimentary printer allow him to compile not only a plan of attack, but an atlas of pages with highlighted routes, notes about timing and Sharpie notations pointing to possible obstacles.

Brower will attempt to burn him—never trust an ambitious cop—making Knox’s job all the more problematic, demanding impeccable planning. He establishes relief valves and a time line that will invoke aborts. He projects three different competing perspectives, making a plan for himself, one for Brower and one for Gerhardt Kreiger. He looks for intersections and competition.

At last, he tries several times to channel Fahiz, wondering if he needs to be included. And again. But Fahiz hides behind a two-way mirror, impossible to see. Knox knows the unaccounted-for is what scuttles any op. Yet no matter how hard he tries, he can’t fully account for Fahiz, his knowledge of the man so limited as to be useless.

The plane has landed. Knox greets the captain at the door, a wiry man with flinty eyes and a soul patch who gives the impression of once having been a long-rifle sniper.

“The others are delayed,” Knox says.

“Wheels up, sixteen hundred.”

“One needs medical attention. It’s imperative she make the flight.”

“Which’ll work fine as long as she’s here by sixteen hundred.”

“I need twelve hours.”

“You need another plane.”

“You’re our plane.”

“I’m on a schedule.”

“Just put in the request for me. Can you do that?”

“There are rules. Hours aloft, hours of rest. Can’t be messed with. This crew is at the end of a run. We miss the wheels up, we don’t fly again before oh-four-hundred.”

“Twelve hours from now is oh-three-hundred,” Knox presses.

“What are you, my dispatcher?”

“Oh-three-hundred,” Knox repeats.

“You have any idea of the expense of parking the bird and the rest of us overnight? No way my dispatcher’s going for that.”

“Have her contact Brian Primer’s executive assistant. Give me two minutes to send an e-mail. Then you can make the call.”

“Is that right? And can I have your permission to take a dump while you’re sending your precious e-mail?”

“Works for me,” Knox says, straight-faced. “And take your time.”

He begs God: Give the man a hemorrhoid the size of a walnut.

—

“THE VEHICLE YOU WERE OPERATINGstruck and injured a man.” Chief Inspector Brower is fashionably dressed in a white Oxford button-down and a gray zip-neck sweater under a black corduroy sport coat. He looks remarkably well rested for a man who must not be. He drinks tea from a plastic travel mug.

“I lost control of the vehicle,” Grace says.

“It was captured on CCTV, you know? Coincidentally, you took down a man with a lengthy criminal record.”

Grace is unfazed by the attempt at a staring contest.

“You have a bullet wound in your thigh. We have blood stains at a perplexing homicide crime scene that I would be interested in testing against your own. Do you wish to explain your wound?” When Grace fails to answer, Brower continues. “One of two such homicide scenes.”

“I do not envy you your job. I am sure you are very good at it.”

“I am.”

“We all have our jobs to do.”

“And yours is?”

“I am employed by the European Union. But surely, you must know that by now.”

“It is a good cover. Very strong. I must compliment David.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. Cover? It is my job.” She adds, “My wound was a foolish mistake on my part during training. My colleague, as I am sure you are aware, was the victim of a bombing. I was given training in the use of a handgun, should the need arise. I was careless.”

“Then the blood at the scene will not match yours. I am sure you would be willing to allow us to take a swab.”

“My government will be wondering why I was treated like a common criminal. I cannot help but wonder how that will affect and influence your superiors. Their opinion of how you handled the case.” Despite her EU cover, she is a Chinese national, a fact she believes will help her situation if the worst comes. No one likes to upset Mother China.

“I have two staged homicides, a vehicle at the bottom of a canal, and a woman with a fresh bullet wound. All of this needs explaining.”

She knows that Dulwich gave Brower both the dormitory and the knot shop, that his star has risen substantially since Knox came along, that he can’t possibly want to muddy the waters. She expected the interview to be by the numbers, a video and report that could be filed away to cover his ass if the need arose. His persistence is a surprise to her. Dulwich would not sacrifice her. So it’s John he wants. Dulwich is willing to let Knox go if it means saving her. While that thrills her, it sickens her as well, and she wonders how far she’s willing to go, how much she’s willing to play along.

“I am sure you will make sense of it all.”

“You have the night to think about it,” he says. “I suggest you consider cooperating with the investigation.”

A continuance. The night ahead means something to Brower. And then she has it: the message intercepted that was sent to Kreiger—the date and time. Tonight.

She has to fight back a grin. Knox has sent them a message through Brower to give this time to play out.

He’s up to something.

The lat/long saved as “3” on the stolen GPS is due north, across the river. There is no easy or quick way to reach the remote waterfront location.

He knows the knot shop girls who have served out their usefulness are resold through Kreiger to Asian markets. Connecting the information they have, he assumes there are three rendezvous locations for the girls’ transfer. On this night, according to the message Kreiger received, it’s to be number 3.

Knox rides the motorcycle he left near the Keizersgracht houseboat several nights before. It feels much longer than that. He doesn’t dare go within half a kilometer of the desolate spit of industrialized waterfront for fear of forcing an abort. The roads become unpredictable once he’s off the major thoroughfare. Interrupted by water and bridges, dead-ending at piers and docks, Knox hangs a U-turn and seeks an observation point.

He finds it thirty minutes later: the Noorderlicht Café, a bizarre greenhouse affair on a dock in the middle of nowhere. It specializes in organic, farm-raised meats and vegetables that cater to the platinum-card set despite its docklands location. It couldn’t be better situated for Knox’s needs: it sits on the western bank of a man-made inlet across from the spit of sand and cranes indicated by the GPS’s coordinates. A five-minute swim, but at least a ten-minute motorcycle ride. The rendezvous location is so well chosen as to madden him. No way in or out without being spotted, and a long way from anywhere.

To make matters worse: the restaurant closes in an hour, leaving him with time to kill. One hundred meters inland, the canal is lined with trees on both sides.

His mind made up, he orders the skate with creamy polenta and a stein of lager.

The last supper.

—

THE NOORDERLICHT CLOSES AT TEN,an hour before the rendezvous. A kind waitress serves him a beer beneath an outside umbrella as the restaurant lights go out and the last of the kitchen staff heads home. The sky is broken cloud and light from a half moon. The flashing lights of jet aircraft play hide-and-seek up there.

Knox wasn’t made for stakeouts. Once he might have had the capacity for such boredom, but roadside IEDs and Tommy’s condition have advanced his path down the time line. He can handle watching the occasional football game with friends. But most television leaves him antsy and with the feeling he’s wasting his life. There are probably meds he should be taking. For now, the beer will have to do.