The Amsterdam Chronicles: Def-Con City Trilogy Part 1 Read online

  At Schiphol airport, fifteen kilometers south of Amsterdam, crowds gathered around arrival gate number three waiting to greet family and friends. Among them company representatives held up signs with the name of their company or contact. Out of the arrivals door appeared a small group of freshly tanned passengers sporting sombrero's, T-shirts, and loose fitting shorts. They were greeted by an equally enthusiastic crowd waving Dutch flags and wearing winter coats, a mark of the depressing weather that held Europe in its grip for the last two weeks.

  Detectives Klaas Dop and Frans Kaps, looking tired and frustrated, stood next to the reps while Kaps held up a large board with the name Harvey Wall scribbled on it; the same board they took turns in holding up for the last hour and a half.

  "We're wasting our time here." Dop moaned. "His flight arrived ages ago from New York. I don't think he was on it."

  "The chief told us to wait. We wait." Kaps replied, steadfast and decisive.

  Dop shook his head in disagreement. "Everybody on that flight passed through customs more than a half hour ago. There is no way he could have passed us. He was definitely not on the flight."

  "We wait." Kaps commanded.

  Although they both held the same rank, Kaps always took the leading hand. Dop never rejected. His only interest was to let the day pass with as little trouble or exertion possible. The burger and fries he had while waiting eased the monotony, now he just wanted to get home and relax on the sofa with a beer and watch TV on his new high definition flat screen.

  "We're wasting our time. There is no point in hanging around any longer."

  "You just want to go home to a beer and watch TV right?"

  "Well there is nothing happening here, so I can't see the point."

  "You've got to be the laziest guy on the force." Kaps said, shaking his head.

  In a cafe a short distance behind the waiting crowds, right across from the arrivals gate, people relaxed with a coffee or beer while waiting for friends and family. Leaning against one of the pillars at the edge of the bar was a tall black American, Harvey Wall.

  He popped chewing gum into his mouth and smiled as he watched Dop and Kaps bitch at each other. A half hour ago he spotted them holding their trivial makeshift notice as he came through the arrivals door. They never noticed him, even though he towered over most of the other passengers. His welcoming party was too busy eyeing up a group of scantily clad women who just arrived from Mexico. It was then he decided to play his little game.

  He walked right past them and headed for a currency exchange counter where he exchanged dollars for Euro's, then relaxed with a drink in a bar before returning to watch them bickering. If these two clowns were typical Dutch detectives, then he definitely was going to have fun in Amsterdam. In fact, the fun could begin right now. Harvey Wall picked up his large sports bag and headed for the terminal exit.

  Outside the main building, a long row of taxis stood ready and waiting. First in line was a brand-new deep blue Mercedes. The driver quickly jumped out and placed his one piece of luggage in the trunk, then held the door open and closed it when he got in; a service cab drivers in New York would never dream of doing.

  The driver was young, middle twenties, had a quick smile, and judging by his enthusiasm not long on the job. Harvey knew the Europeans had a love-hate relationship with Americans. They hated their bragging and loudness but loved their tips. He glanced at the driver's identity card stuck to the dashboard. It was all Dutch but looked legitimate enough.

  "City Centre, Dam Square," he ordered.

  As the taxi raced away, Wall took his iPhone out of his inside jacket pocket and photographed the ID.

  Clearing the maze of roads around the airport took a few minutes before they got onto the motorway. Traffic seemed like rush-hour, bumper to bumper, but at a much higher speed than he was used to back home. The biggest difference was the smoothness of the ride. No bumps or potholes to cripple the suspension, or your back, in fact, the road was smooth and silky. If only they didn't drive up everyone's ass, then it would be the perfect ride.

  Half an hour later Harvey Wall stepped out of the taxi in Dam Square, right in front of the same palace Napoleon Bonaparte visited in 1811. One of the facts he read in the guide book on the flight over. The word Dam seemed to conjure up something hellish, but it looked different than it sounded. He didn't know what to expect, but impressive it was not. No parading guards in fancy uniform or ornamented railings like Buckingham Palace in London, one of the cities he visited on his whirlwind honeymoon tour of Europe ten years ago, a year later they divorced.

  The sandstone walls of the Palace were dark and stained from years of air pollution. A cleaning job might do the trick, or a serious makeover, shrubbery or a barrier along the front, maybe a tower on each corner, soldiers in full military regalia, stuff like that. But then again he wondered if it really would make a difference - its depressiveness would probably defeat any enhancement.

  ?Harvey Wall sucked in the air through his nostrils and shook his head disapprovingly.

  Too clean, no big city smell.

  The taxi driver placed his baggage next to him and looked up expectantly at the tall American.

  "Definitely not New York," he grumbled, then handed the driver two 50 euro notes and a piece of paper.

  "Take the luggage to my hotel. I wrote the address down there and keep the change." The driver seemed more than pleased at the size of the tip. He read the address then put the baggage back into the taxi.

  "Thank you very much, sir, no problem," he said, stuffing the notes into his wallet.

  Harvey had no time to check the exchange rate, but the driver did not complain.

  As the taxi sped away, he took another photo of the registration plate, then turned to watch flocks of pigeons jostling for space on the large cobblestone square in front of the palace.

  Hordes of tourists fed them with corn, bits of hamburgers, French fries, and other morsels while friends and family took photos of them perching on hands, shoulders and heads. "Rats with wings" he remembered the Dutch call them in his travel book on the Netherlands, mostly because of the diseases they carried. He wondered how many contacts these people would make with others before they washed their hair, hands or clothes again.

  He turned?and looked over at the large white marble monument on the opposite side of the square; again not exactly impressive. A white stone pillar to commemorate the Second World War, that was the only thing he remembered about it from the info he read. What really did stick in his mind was the information about the small street to the right behind the monument. It led straight into the red-light district.

  Hard to believe that a royal palace was just around the corner from the most famous prostitution neighborhood in the world. What would people say if the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue was situated within a couple of hundred meters from the largest prostitution area in the United States, and legal.

  He had no real interest in the history of the palace or any other palace, but that really caught his attention. To the left of the monument was a large department store, the Macy's of the Netherlands he remembered reading. It looked okay - like a regular department store with scores of people going in empty-handed and coming out with handfuls of expensive designer shopping bags. He counted three trams going in each direction on the edge of the square, along with the regular traffic, and an army of bicycles.

  So this is Amsterdam.

  To each side of the palace, crowds streamed out of the busiest shopping street in the city, the Kalverstraat. In the six-hour flight, he had plenty of time to study the maps and guidebooks. He knew exactly where he was, and which direction to take. Harvey Wall checked his wallet in his breast pocket, turned his back to the monument and the red light district and headed towards the shopping street to the left of the palace. Inching his way past the queues at the Rabo Bank ATM's on the corner, he submerged into the masses of shoppers and tourists in the Kalverstraat.

  Chapter Four