Amsterdam (KM 035), page 1
part #35 of Killmaster Series
Amsterdam (1968)
(The 35th book in the Killmaster series)
Version 0.9
Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
Chapter 1
Nick enjoyed trailing Amlie de Boer. The view was stimulating. She was a man-stopper—truly one of the Beautiful People. Eyes turned to follow the tall glow of her blondeness all through John F. Kennedy International Airport. They clung to her as she strode to the KLM DC-8 fan jet, admiring her bounce, the sleek white linen suit, the rich polished leather of her artist’s case.
Moving behind her Nick heard the ramp man murmur as his gaze followed the mini-skirt, “Who that?”
“Swedish star,” the checker hazarded. He read Nick’s ticket. “Mr. Norman Kent. First class. Thank you, sir.”
Amlie was precisely where Nick knew she would be. He had obtained the numbered seat beside her. He dallied with the pretty stewardess, giving Amlie a chance to settle and other seats to fill so that his appearance might seem logical. When he reached the seat he gave Amlie the boyish Carter smile. It was normal for a big, tanned, healthy-looking young man to be delighted with his luck. He said softly, “Good afternoon.”
Soft pink lips formed a reply. Her long slim fingers tangled with each other and untwined. Ever since he had picked up her trail outside Manson’s she had appeared tense, uneasy, but not wary. Nerves, Nick thought.
He tucked his Mark Cross case under the seat and sat down, lightly and neatly for such a big man, not jostling the girl. She gave him the three-quarter angle of the gorgeous, polished bamboo sheen of her hair as she pretended interest out the window. He had an antenna for such moods—she wasn’t hostile, just wrapped in worry.
The seats filled. Hatches slammed with less-than-solid aluminum thuds. The P.A. system chattered in three languages. Nick fastened his seat belt deftly, not interfering with the girl. She fumbled with hers. The fan jets whined and threatened. The big ship shuddered as it waddled to the line and growled viciously as the crew ran through the check lists.
Amlie’s knuckles on the seat arms were white. She turned her head slightly and the bright blue orbs of a scared animal appeared close to Nick’s own wide-open, steel gray eyes. He saw creamy skin, parted red lips, suspicion, fear.
He grinned, knowing how harmlessly pleasant he could appear. “Believe me I won’t bother you,” he said. “I could wait till drinks are served and use some conventional pitch. But I can tell by your hands that you’re uneasy.” The pretty fingers unclasped their grip, came together guiltily, then locked palm-to-palm in a tense position. “Is it your first flight?”
“No—no. I’m all right. But—thank you.” She added a tiny, sweet smile.
Still in low, tranquilizing, confessor tones Nick went on, “I wish I knew you well enough to hold your hands …” The blue eyes widened—a warning flash. “… for your peace of mind and my own pleasure. My Mother told me never to do that until introduced. Mother was a stickler for the correct thing. We were usually correct in Boston—”
The blue flash subsided. She listened. There was a twinkle of interest. Nick sighed, shook his head sadly. “Then Dad fell overboard during a race at the Cohasset Yacht Club. Near the finish. Right in front of the club.”
The perfect brows arched over the scared eyes—which were looking less scared. “But—I’m sure that happens. I’ve seen boat races—was he hurt?”
“Oh no. But Dad was such a determined man. He was still holding the bottle when he came up. And he tried to toss it back on board.”
She gave an explosive gurgle. Her hands relaxed with the laugh.
Nick chuckled quietly with her. “And he missed.”
She drew a deep breath and let it out. Nick smelled sweet milk and gin blended with the intriguing perfume. He shrugged. “So that’s why I can’t hold your hand till we’re introduced. My name is Norman Kent.”
Her smile belonged in a color spread in The New York Times Sunday Magazine. “I’m Amlie de Boer. It won’t be necessary to hold my hand. I feel better. Thank you anyway, Mr. Kent. Are you a psychologist?”
“Just a businessman.” The fan jets went to work with screams. Nick imagined the four throttles easing forward, recalled the intricacies of take-off, remembered the statistics—and felt like gripping the seat arms himself. Amlie’s knuckles were white again.
He said, “They tell about two men in an airliner like this. One is completely relaxed, dozing. He’s a regular traveler. Nothing disturbs him. The other is in a cold sweat, gripping the seat, trying to swallow and can’t. Can you guess what he is?”
The ship vibrated. The world raced past Amlie’s window. Nick’s stomach flattened against his spine. She looked at him. “I don’t know.”
“That man is a pilot.”
She thought a moment, burst out laughing, and for a moment of delicious intimacy the blonde head swayed onto his shoulder. The plane lurched, picked its toes off the earth after a stumble and climbed at the near-stall angle as the eagle-eye poured on coal and cursed the anti-noise orders.
They leveled off. The lighted signs changed. P.A. orators babbled. They unfastened their seat belts and Amlie said, “Mr. Kent—did you know that a commercial airliner is a machine that theoretically cannot fly?”
“No!” Nick lied. He admired the way she snapped back, wondered how much she knew about the mess she was in. “Let’s have a drink to the pilot’s health.”
Nick found Amlie delightful company. She drank martinis made Mr. Kent’s way and after three her nervousness vanished. They ate the marvelous Dutch dinner, chatted, read, dozed. After they snapped off the reading lights and settled down for naps, like overstuffed children of a lavish civilization, she rolled her head close to him and whispered, “I’d like to hold your hand—now.”
It was a mutual warming, an interchange of humanity, a doubling of strength, two hours of pretense that the world is not what it is.
How much did she know, Nick wondered, and was what she knew the reason for her early case of nerves? She was with Manson’s, the haughty jewel house, and she was used to flying between their New York and Amsterdam offices. AXE was reasonably certain that Manson’s frequent couriers were part of an unusually efficient espionage pipeline. Some of them had been thoroughly searched. They were clean. What would Amlie’s nerves do if she knew that Nick Carter, AXE’s N3—alias Norman Kent, diamond buyer for Bard Galleries—had met her not by chance?
Her warm hand tingled in his. Was she dangerous? AXE agent Herb Whitlock spent a year pinpointing Man-son’s as the prime espionage pipeline suspect. He had been fished out of an Amsterdam canal. An accident, it was labeled. Herb had insisted that Manson’s had developed such a foolproof, simple pipeline that the firm had virtually become an intelligence broker, the professional spy’s middleman. Herb had bought photocopies—for $2,000, so plentiful were they—of the U.S. Navy’s Mark 92 Fleet Ballistic Missile Weapon System, complete with schematics of the new four-channel geoballistic computer.
Nick sniffed Amlie’s delectable aroma. Charming. In answer to her murmured question he said, “I’m an amateur buying diamonds. It’ll probably be a disaster.”
“When a man talks like that he’s building the best business defense there is. Do you know the four-C rule?”
“Color, clarity, cut and carat. What I need are connections—and advice about cuts, rare pieces, reliable wholesalers. We have some wealthy customers because we’re very ethical. You can put our stuff under a ten-power glass and it’ll be perfect and flawless if we said it.”
“Well—I’m with Manson’s. I know something about the business—”
She talked about merchandising jewelry. His prodigious memory retained everything she said. “Norman Kent’s” grandfather was the first Nick Carter, the detective who introduced many techniques into what he called the science of law enforcement. A transmitter in a cocktail olive dummy would have pleased but not surprised him; he originated the telegraph set in a pocket watch. You plugged in by putting the nails in the heel of your shoe onto contacts in the floor.
Nicholas Huntington Carter III became N3 of AXE— the “unknown service” of the United States, so secret its existence haunts the CIA every time their name is spread out in the newspapers. He was one of four Killmasters with right-of-decision. AXE was committed to supporting his actions. He could be retired but not prosecuted. It was a lot of weight for a man to carry. Nick kept himself in the physical condition of a professional athlete.
He had given a lot of thought to Manson’s espionage pipeline. It worked beautifully. A bait diagram of a PEAPOD six-warhead missile, “sold” to a known amateur spy at Huntsville, Alabama, had arrived in Moscow nine days later. An AXE agent had bought a copy—perfect in every fine phony detail, and all eight complete pages! This in spite of the alerting of 16 U.S. agencies to watch, check and block. As a security test it was a full-dress flop. The three Manson couriers who moved during the nine days were given, “by chance,” complete searches. Nothing was found.
Now Amlie, he thought drowsily, involved or innocent? And if involved, how is it done?
“… the diamond market is artificial,” Amlie was saying. “If there is a giant discovery that can’t be controlled, kerslump go all values.”
Nick sighed. “It scares me. You not only can lose your shirt in the business it can collapse overnight. If your inventory of diamonds is big—zippo! What you paid a million for may be worth half that.”
“Or a third. I think that’s as low as the market would
“I’ve got to buy with care, I can see that.”
“Do you have introductions?”
“Yes, to several places.”
“Including Manson’s?”
“No.”
“I thought not. We’re not really wholesale, although like all the big houses we move lots now and then. You ought to meet our director—Philipine Laansma. He knows as much about the market as anyone outside the cartels themselves.”
“Is he in Amsterdam?”
“Yes. Today. He practically commutes to New York.”
“Introduce me to him, Amlie. Perhaps we can do some business. I need a guide until I learn the city, too. How about giving me a little escorted tour this afternoon and then being my guest for dinner?”
“I’d love to. Do you also have sex on your mind?”
Nick blinked. The surprising thrust slowed him for a second and he wasn’t used to it. His reflexes were supposed to be honed. “I didn’t—until you mentioned it. But it’s always interesting.”
“If nicely handled. With common sense and experience.”
“And talent. Of course it’s like a prime steak or a fine wine. You’ve got to have something to start with. Then don’t ruin it. If you don’t know ask … or get the book.”
“I think people are happier if they are perfectly frank. I mean—you can anticipate a nice day or a good meal but you’re not supposed to anticipate nice sex. Isn’t that true? Do you suppose it is our Puritan heritage or a Victorian holdover or what the hell?”
“Certainly we have gotten more—er, frank in the last few years. Personally I love life. And because sex is part of life I love it too. Sort of figuratively. The way you might say you love skiing or Danish cakes or Picasso’s work.” As he spoke he kept his bland, eyes on hers, wondering if she was putting him on. The blue sparklers were bright and guileless, the lovely features as innocent as those of a Christmas-card cherub.
She nodded. “I thought so. You’re mature. So many American businessmen are silent grabbers. Go to dinner, gulp drinks, listen to their bragging and get grabbed. Ugh! And they wonder why American women knock sex. And when I say sex I don’t mean jumping into bed all the time. I mean a relationship that’s fun and you’re strong friends and you can talk to each other. And if you get the urge and want to plan any special way to do it tonight you talk about it. When the time comes. You can communicate.’”
“Where will I call for you?”
“Oh.” She took an engraved Manson’s card out of her purse and wrote on the back of it. “About three o’clock. I won’t go back to the shop after lunch. When we land I’m going to meet Phil Laansma. Is anyone meeting you?”
“No.”
“Come with me. You can start your extra contacts with him. He’s sure to be helpful. A good man for you to know. Look—there’s new Schiphol Air Terminal now. Isn’t it gigantic?”
Nick looked dutifully out the window, agreed it was big and impressive.
He saw four big runways in the far distance, a control tower and buildings that looked ten stories high. Another of man’s impressive pastures for his winged steeds.
“It’s thirteen feet below sea level,” Amlie said. “Thirty-two airlines use it. Wait till you see the information system and the Tapisroulant moving carpet. See the farmlands? They are building soundproof houses for the farmers and cows.” She leaned over him in her enthusiasm as a guide. Her breasts were firm, her hair fragrant. “The Stedelijk Museum of Amsterdam will have a gallery—Oh, I’m sorry, perhaps you know all this. Have you been to new Schiphol before?”
“No, only to old Schiphol. Years ago. I usually fly into London or Paris.”
“Old Schiphol is two miles over there. It’s the freight terminal now.”
“You’re an excellent guide, Amlie. And I detect a love for The Netherlands—”
She chuckled. “Mr. Laansma says I’m still a stubborn Dutchman. My parents came from Hilversum, just east of Amsterdam.”
“And you found the perfect job. One that lets you travel to your old homeland.”
“Yes. It wasn’t hard—knowing the languages.”
“You’re happy with it?”
“Yes.” She tilted her head until the lovely lips were close to his ear. “You’ve been nice. I was uneasy, overtired. I’m not now. When you fly a lot the time changes bother you. Sometimes you get two ten-hour working days strung together. I want you to meet Philipine. He can guide you around pitfalls.”
It was a sweet speech. Probably she believed it. Nick patted her arm. “I was lucky to select this seat. You’re more than beautiful, Amlie. You’re humanly intelligent. That means real heart for people. The reverse, say, of a scientist who chooses his career—with nuclear bombs.”
“That’s the nicest and most complex compliment I’ve ever received, Norman. I think we should get on now.”
They passed through the formalities, recovered their baggage. Amlie led him to where a short youth had tucked a black Mercedes into a turnout near an unfinished building. “Our secret parking lot,” Amlie said. “Hi, Jacobus.”
“Hi,” the youth answered, and came forward and took their large bags.
It came then. A vicious, heart-speeding, anus-tightening snarl of sound that Nick knew well. He hurried Amlie to the car and pushed her into the rear seat as she asked, “What was that?”
If you’ve never heard a rattlesnake’s vibrato at your toe, the flutter-trill of an artillery shell or the nasty whrrr of a passing bullet—you’re just alarmed the first time. When you know what the sound is you’re alerted and you move. A slug had passed near their heads. Nick had heard no shot. The gun was well-silenced, probably a single shot. Had the sniper reloaded yet?
“That was a bullet,” he told Amlie and Jacobus, knowing that they probably knew or had guessed it. “Drive out. Stop and wait for me when you can, but don’t stay here.”
He turned and ran toward the gray stone cliff of the unfinished building. He jumped a barrier, took steps three at a time.
Along the front of the long structure several groups of workmen were installing windows and hardware. They did not even glance toward him as he jumped through the maw-like door opening.
The room was gigantic, filled with the fine dust-haze of construction, smelling of lime and curing concrete. Two men far to his right held the plow-like handles of terrazzo polishers, the big circular brushes making patterns of wet swirls. Not them, Nick decided. Their hands were white with wet dust.
He ran with great, light, bounding strides to a stairway which went up beside four ranks of unmoving escalators. Up, he thought. Assassins like height and empty buildings. Maybe he was reloading and didn’t see my rush. If he did see me, he’s running now. Look for a runner—
On the floor above something fell with a crash. As Nick burst into the open—actually two flights up because the lobby ceiling was high—a cascade of gray, cement-stained planks were tumbling through a crevice toward the floor below. Two men stood near him, waving their grimy hands and yelling in Italian. Far, far away the bulky shape of a man—a squat, almost simian figure—vanished downward and out of sight.
Nick trotted to a window in the front of the building. It overlooked the space where the Mercedes had been parked. He would have liked to search for a spent cartridge case but it wasn’t worth getting involved with the construction people or the police. The Italian masons were starting to yell in his direction. He ran lightly down the stairs and caught the Mercedes in a turnout where Jacobus pretended to be waiting for a pickup.
He climbed in and told a pale Amlie, “I think I caught a glimpse of him. Heavy, low-hung type.”
She had a knuckle at her lip. “A shot at us—me—you. Really? I can’t think—”
She was near panic. “One can’t be sure,” he said. “Maybe it was a bolt that blew off an air compressor. Who would want to hurt us?”
She made no answer. After awhile the knuckle was lowered. Nick patted her hand. “You might tell Jacobus to forgot this Iittle incident. Do you know him well enough for that?”
“Yes.” She chattered with the driver in Dutch. He shrugged and called their attention to a low flying helicopter. It was a new, giant Soviet model, carrying a bus slung in its gantry arms that looked like great claws.
