Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [60]
“How’d it go?” Kino yelled over the roar of the three-hundred-horsepower dual prop.
“I got paid; he got what he paid for,” I said. “Seems incredibly fair to me.”
“Sounds like a perfect evening,” Kino said
“It was, but then it got wet. Very wet,” I said.
Kino shrugged. “Shit happens.”
“Yeah, it does,” I said.
I reminded myself not to explain it quite that way to Katherine when—that was, if—I ever saw her again.
Chapter 71
WHAT CAN I say about Kino? My buddy is an ex-Marine who left the service with a chest full of medals, got engaged to the daughter of a millionaire real-estate developer in Hong Kong, and could have spent the rest of his life in Fat City. But he missed getting shot at.
So Kino went back into combat, and over the next eight years got wounded five times, each one for a different foreign government.
I’ve never met anyone happier about his work.
He’s five foot four and a hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle—though he swears that at least five pounds of it is shrapnel.
“You won’t have to bury me when I die,” he always says. “Just take me to a salvage yard.”
He’s worked in dozens of hot spots around the world but decided to live in Holland because “it’s the most tolerant damn country on the whole damn planet.”
As soon as the cruise ship was out of sight, he slowed the Stingray down to a safe, respectable canal speed.
There was a compact little sleeping cabin below the deck, where I shucked my clothes, peeled off my old-man face, and washed up. My Red Oxx Sky Train bag with my clothes was waiting for me, and I put on jeans, a clean shirt, sneakers, and a Windbreaker.
I went back up on deck. Kino had pulled into a dock and was tying the boat down.
“Abandon ship,” he said.
I grabbed my Red Oxx and the duffel bag, and we walked to his car.
“Where to?” he asked.
“There’s a bank on Vijzelstraat. I have a deposit to make.”
“It’s almost nine p.m. Good time to avoid the crowd,” he said, laughing, as we headed out. “So how’s your old man?”
“I spoke to him the other day,” I said. “He said something about wanting grandkids.”
“Did you explain that’s not something you can do on your own?”
He made small talk as we drove, never asking me what went down on the cruise boat or what was in my duffel bag. It’s something you learn in the corps. Respect the other guy’s personal boundaries.
The bank was next door to an Indonesian restaurant on a wide, busy street. Kino parked directly in front. “I’ll wait here till you’re inside,” he said.
“You don’t need to do that,” I said. I thanked him for his help, unzipped the duffel, and pulled out a stack of bills.
He waved me off. “What do I look like, a mercenary?”
“I came into some serious money,” I said. “I want to spread it around.”
“Put it in a college fund for those grandkids,” he said.
“Thanks.” I opened the car door and got out.
“Semper fi, bro,” he said.
“Right back at ya,” I said.
The lobby of the bank was well lit, and I walked up to the double glass doors and rang the after-hours bell.
A young man in khakis and an open-collar shirt unlocked the door.
“I’m Matthew Bannon,” I said.
“We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Bannon,” he said. “I’m Jan Schoningh. Come on in.”
The bank was twenty-first-century techno architecture—mostly steel and glass—and completely devoid of old-world charm. But they still adhered to that old-world banking tradition that states, “We’re always open late for a guy who shows up with a shitload of cash.”
I expected Schoningh to escort me to a private office where I’d meet some venerable old guy in an expensive suit, but I guess these days it’s the young bankers who get to stay late and service the late-night clientele.
There was a cashier waiting to count the money.
“This is Katje,” Schoningh said.
Katje was blond with a knockout smile and a no-nonsense approach to handling seven million bucks.
She dumped the money on a table, unbanded the packets, and ran the bills through a machine.
Then she ran them through a second time.
The total came to $7,024,362.18. The exchange