Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [59]
“Yitzchak,” he said, shaking my hand.
“Diederik,” I responded. We were obviously now on a first-name basis.
He looked around the room. “This is an inspired place to meet,” he said. “Crowded, but nobody will bother us, and we can enjoy a nice leisurely dinner while we do business.”
You’re so full of shit, I thought. “I’m so glad you like it,” I said.
“How did you come to think of it?” he asked.
“My late wife and I took this same dinner cruise along the canals fifty years ago,” I said. “I’m only in Amsterdam for a brief time, and I couldn’t leave without coming back here.”
“A sentimental diamond merchant,” he said.
“Guilty as charged,” I said.
It was partly true. In an uncharacteristic fit of sentimentality I had transferred the diamonds to a small Adidas sports sack. Zelvas’s doctor bag had changed my life, and I wanted to hang on to it as a memento.
“But I’m also practical,” I said. “Let’s get down to business.”
I set the bag of diamonds on the table.
De Smet took it, then passed his much larger duffel to me.
I opened it and looked inside. It was filled with purple five-hundred-euro banknotes.
“Would you like to count it?” de Smet asked.
“Yes,” I said, and stood up. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. That should give you time to inspect the stones. I won’t be far.”
The men’s lavatory was at the opposite end of the dining room but still easy to see from where de Smet was sitting. He didn’t plan on letting me out of his sight. I took the bag into the lav and locked myself in a stall.
I had no plans to count the money. Now that de Smet had the diamonds in his hands, I wouldn’t have time. I set the duffel bag on the floor and climbed over the divider into the empty stall next to it. I stepped onto the toilet lid and crouched down.
Twenty seconds later, through the crack between the stall door and the wall, I saw de Smet’s two heavies walk in.
They looked at the two stalls, ignored the one that appeared empty, and leveled their guns at the one with the locked door and the duffel bag on the floor.
They pumped half a dozen suppressed rounds right where they expected me to be sitting counting the money.
One of them kicked open the stall door. I bet he was real surprised to find it empty. But I never got to see his face.
I stood up on the toilet lid in the adjacent stall and fired a bullet straight down into his skull. Then I shot his partner.
I jumped down and retrieved the duffel bag, which was sticky with blood. I stepped over the bodies and walked to the bathroom door. I opened it a crack. I could see de Smet sitting at his table, waiting for his men to bring back his seven million.
I pulled out my cell and quickly sent a text. I had a partner—and we had a plan.
Then I bolted through the bathroom door and ran for the deck.
De Smet saw me. He jumped up and followed in a big hurry.
Most people were in the dining room, but there were a few couples strolling along the deck, oohing and aahing at the illuminated bridges and the brightly lit houses along the canal.
I crashed into them, knocking down one poor guy. De Smet was right behind me, the bag of diamonds in one hand, a gun in the other.
He began firing on the run, not even bothering to aim.
Glass shattered and wood splintered. My fellow passengers screamed and ducked for cover.
I raced down the deck like a broken-field runner dodging tacklers, only I was avoiding bullets.
De Smet was right behind me. “You’re way out of your league, old man,” he yelled. “Give me the bag.”
“And then what? Are you going to throw me over the side?” I said as I climbed onto the rail on the port side of the boat. “Why don’t I save you the trouble?”
And I jumped overboard.
I landed on a pile of rafts that a friend of mine named Kino had tied together to break my fall. I had just texted him from the bathroom. He was my partner for this getaway.
“Well, look who dropped in,” he said as he gunned the engine and a sleek Stingray Cuddy/Cruiser barreled down the canal.
Within seconds, the lights of the cruise ship and the outraged screams and wild gunshots