Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [51]
“Will do.”
“I don’t want to know where you’re going, but is there anybody you want me to give your regards to?” he said.
That was code for I do want to know where you’re going, but don’t say it on the phone. Spell it out for me.
“Yeah, say hi to Adam, Mom, and Sarah,” I said. AMS. Airport code for Amsterdam.
“Safe travels,” he said.
“Thanks. I love you, Dad.”
“Semper fi, boy.”
My father is old school. That’s as close as he ever gets to I love you.
Chapter 61
JUST AS MY father had said, there was an ancient nun outside track 7. She sat on a folding chair with her head bowed, but she looked up to thank anyone who tossed a coin in her basket.
I dropped in a one-hundred-euro note. Her head came up fast. “Grazie mille.”
“It’s from Colorado,” I said.
“Ah, Signor Colorado. Nice man.” She studied my face carefully. “You are the young Colorado, sì?”
“I’m his son,” I said.
She beamed and touched a bony blue-veined hand to her heart, much the way I imagined she would have if she’d been in the maternity ward thirty years ago when my father announced, “It’s a boy.”
“Where are you going?” she said.
I hesitated. “I’d rather not say, Sister.”
She lowered her head and peered at me over rimless glasses. She smiled, amused at my lack of trust. The deep-set, watery eyes and crinkled-paper skin put her somewhere north of eighty, but her teeth could not have been more than a few years old. Straight, white porcelain dentures that were so perfect, I imagined they could only have been the generous gift of a devout Catholic dentist.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You can tell me. I will pray for you to Saint Christopher.”
I trusted my father, so I trusted her. “Amsterdam,” I said.
She took my hand, closed her eyes, and mumbled a prayer. Then she opened her eyes, flashed another dazzling smile, and said, “Vai con Dio.”
I said good-bye, not sure if my father was paying her back for past kindnesses or buying me some travel insurance.
I got my answer when I arrived in Amsterdam. The train ride had been uneventful, but as soon as I stepped up to the taxi stand at the station, a man called out, “Colorado.”
I turned, ready to fight.
The man held up both hands. “I’m a friend of Sister Philomena’s,” he said. “You don’t want to take a taxi. They remember every passenger and write down every destination. I remember nothing.”
My father had been long retired, but his network was still open for business.
My driver’s name was Harold, and my ride was a spacious black Citroën that still smelled factory fresh.
Harold was a professional. He asked no questions and spoke only when spoken to. He negotiated expertly through the midday traffic, and after driving me to the Zeedijk neighborhood, he handed me a business card that had nothing on it but a phone number.
“Anytime,” he said. “Day or night.”
I reached for my wallet, but he wouldn’t take my money.
I got out of the car and did a slow three-sixty, scanning the area. I hadn’t been tailed. I silently thanked my father and watched as the wheelman he had sent turned the car around and disappeared into traffic.
Chapter 62
THE ZEEDIJK REMINDED me of Times Square in New York—part trendy, part seedy. I checked into the Bodburg, a hotel on Beursstraat that was also a little of both.
The Bodburg should have been called the Bedbug. The elevator was out of order, the fire hose in the hall leaked, there were rat droppings in my room, and my only window looked out onto a sex shop. It was the ultimate comedown after the Danieli. But it was perfect. Hardly the kind of place you’d go if you were looking for a guy with a bag of diamonds.
Now all I had to do was sell them. Matthew Bannon might not know how to unload millions of dollars’ worth of blood diamonds, but the Ghost did. And my main contact was right here in Amsterdam.
When you think of organized crime in the European