Choke Point gc&jk-2 Read online

  Her eyes fill with distrust once again. Dulwich’s warning hits home: it’s doomed to fall apart. Grace’s bugging Kreiger’s laptop or the attack on her computer had better deliver. They need results. He needs to connect with Grace.

  He’s losing Sonia.

  “I’ll make the call,” he says.

  Having hacked Kreiger’s laptop and its built-in camera, Grace watches as her computer screen plays live images of the man at his desk. She turns the laptop to Knox.

  On the screen, Gerhardt Kreiger leans back in his desk chair. His necktie is loosened, and he’s either smoking a hand-rolled cigarette or a joint. His left hand is held to his jaw, suggesting a mobile phone. He speaks in heavily accented English.

  “It’s me . . . Ya . . . Two? This is good. Send them, please.” The “please” is an afterthought, a courtesy with zero conviction. “As to that other thing: yes, or no? It’s a big order. I thought you would want that. My customer is . . . anxious. No more dicking around, okay? Just give me a yes or no . . . Do you honestly think—? I’ve done business with him many times. He is for real . . . Just yes or no. A price and a date . . . I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is your problem, not mine . . . Okay, I’ll tell him. As to the two, I will get back to you when I have an offer. Send me the pictures. Ciao.”

  Grace aims her laptop’s screen at herself, steering it away from Knox, whose head is spinning from what he’s heard. He chose the meeting place, a wine bar on Keizersgracht open well past midnight. The atmosphere inside is controlled drunkenness, a notch or two above that of a brown café.

  “It may be possible for us—the office in Hong Kong—to get his phone records. If so, we will be able to identify the number he called. You get the point. We may have the dog by the tail. Short term it is a different story. I have been data-mining Kreiger’s laptop. One of the problems with machines like his is the large capacity of hard drives. Eighty gigs. Three hundred gigs. Could take months to read everything. So I focus on three components.” Grace sees Knox’s eyes glaze over and wonders if she’s causing his condition or if it’s the beer. She can see he’s not sleeping well, if at all. Wants to ask about the reporter, but she confines herself to her domain. She’s warming behind the effects of red wine.

  “First,” she says, continuing, “e-mails, of course. Second, browser history. Finally, off-Web social media: Skype, iChat, SMS messaging. Each represents a specialized activity and offers unique information and insight.” She can’t stop herself from sounding like a technical manual. Knox rocks his beer side to side, watching the bubbles surface. “Eighteen minutes after this call, he receives an e-mail.” She angles the screen only slightly, not sure he cares to look. Senses he’d rather be told than participate. Wonders if his distraction is purely fatigue; or is the reporter involved? “Two attachments. Photos, just as he requested.” She displays the photos side by side.

  Now Knox is looking. “He said to—”

  “Send them. Yes. ‘Two,’ he said. Then, at the end, he said he would get back to him about the two after he has an offer.”

  The screen shows the glum faces of two young girls. She waits for Knox to find his breath, knows what he’s going through. The girl on the right is Berna. The likeness isn’t perfect, whether the result of lighting or angle, or her swollen right cheek, but it’s Berna. Grace waits him out.

  “Less than five minutes later . . .” She types and moves the cursor. “It’s a social networking photo site called Shutter Shot. He has it administered under password-only access.”

  “He posted the girls’ photos onto the Internet.”

  “Here’s his scrapbook.” She pages through several screens of one, two or three girls’ faces. Some are in their late teens, early twenties, but the majority are just children. The names are fake, given that Berna is captioned as Cindy.

  “If there’s more of a connection,” Grace says, “I have not yet found it.”

  “More? Berna’s alive! They’re posting her for sale. She’s alive!” he repeats.

  “Bidding,” she says. “Your Mr. Kreiger is selling the girls, John.”

  He turns away from her use of “your.”

  “From what I can tell,” she says, “there are only seven people able to access this scrapbook. The ISPs for all seven are distributed among Thailand, Indonesia and Russia.”

  Knox shakes his head. Over the past year she has seen Knox display any number of emotions—he’s not shy when it comes to expressing his feelings. But never like this. The closest was a minute before they entered Natuurhonig. He doesn’t speak what he’s thinking.

  “Not yet,” she cautions. “Your Mr. Kreiger is useful to us.”

  “Stop calling him mine.”

  “Strangely enough, the phone call . . . his subsequent actions suggest he may not be directly involved in the knot shop. Just tangentially profiting by agenting their rugs and selling the castoffs. Berna is a liability. They mean to get her out of the city. We can be thankful they apparently have no plans to kill the girls.”

  “They might be better off,” he says.

  “No, John. You must not think so. As bad as this is, they can heal. They will heal.”

  “You can’t know that. None of us know that.”

  “Our focus,” she says strongly, “must remain on our objective. We will shut them down. I am not suggesting we overlook the more immediate concern for the well-being of the girls, but we must not allow ourselves to be distracted. One hand washes the other. We are close now.” She hears herself sound so clinical.

  She has lost Knox. He’s retreated inside himself.

  “Pressing Kreiger for information could backfire for a number of reasons.”

  “Who said anything about pressing?”

  “First, he may not know the identity of the person who called. Second, even should he know this person’s identity, he may be used as a firewall: by the time he gives us what we are after, the person is long gone. We do not know the structure of their defenses.”

  Knox broods, ready to take this out on her.

  “My suggestion would be to monitor Kreiger closely. I am privy to all of his communications. If we learn of more dealings with the girls, of course we act. Presently, we continue to close in on the knot shop. Ultimately, getting Kreiger will not contribute to the endgame. It may, in fact, prevent it.”

  “Shut up. Spare me the ‘Human Trafficking for Dummies’ speech, would you? Jesus! Listen to you! Is there a human being anywhere inside there?” He glares. He seems ready to strike her.

  It is as if he has pulled the batteries out of her. Grace the robot winds down. Her eyes flicker once and shut tightly. She fights back the need to cry; she will not give him that.

  “I’m sorry. That was . . . I didn’t mean that. I’m upset.”

  She manages to nod.

  “Seriously. I didn’t mean—”

  “The next step,” she chokes out, clearing her throat, “is to trace the e-mail containing the photos—”

  “An underling,” Knox says. “You don’t actually believe this guy would be sending the photos himself?”

  “The routing may help us. They could have been taken with a mobile phone, for instance.”

  “So?”

  “So that would do it. With Hong Kong’s help, that might do it. Might lead us back to the nest.”

  “The older girls?” Knox asks.

  “One would assume it has to do with what we saw at the coffee shop. Kreiger’s stable at Natuurhonig. Perhaps we have it wrong about Kreiger.”

  “He’s not putting them up for adoption,” Knox says cynically.

  “They are experienced labor. We don’t know absolutely that they are destined for the sex trade. Perhaps we have that wrong.”

  “Yeah. When are you ever wrong?” He intends it as a compliment, but it stings her just the same. Runs his hand through his hair. Upends the beer and gulps.

  She lays a hand on his forearm, having no idea why she’s doing so. “It is progress, Jo
hn. Think of it as progress.”

  He looks down at her hand and she removes it.

  Knox isn’t ten meters out of the wine bar when he hears, “I’ll take my phone.”

  It’s Sonia’s voice.

  Grace stops and turns to glance back but is smart enough to keep walking.

  Knox doesn’t move, his mind on damage control. He processes Sonia’s request. There are a dozen things bad about this. No good can come of it.

  He pats the various internal pockets of the Scottevest realizing that she beat him fair and square—which makes it all the more humiliating. He finds her iPhone zippered into one of his many pockets.

  “I underestimated you,” he says. He underestimated the slyness of the wily reporter. Was sucked in by their intimacy and partnership, something that clearly escaped her.

  At the purse museum she must have slipped her phone into Knox’s jacket. She then used its lost-phone app to follow him to the wine bar. She has observed him with another woman, and she will know by the way they interacted it was not romantic, but professional. That has triggered a dozen alarms in her.

  “Have you interviewed her already? Is that it?” he asks. The one way he can see clearly to get around this.

  “My phone.” Her hand extends. She’s not taking the bait.

  By doing so, she gives him his hold on her. He grabs the phone more tightly.

  “That was clever of you.” He wags the phone.

  Her hand begins to tremble. Nerves, or fatigue? “Please.”

  “The woman—this woman—has replaced the murdered EU worker.” He pauses. “That’s why I thought you might have already interviewed her.”

  Her eyes twitch—at least he has her thinking.

  “She has been nosing around herself. Has heard of someone who’s come in trying to make competition for these guys. Have you heard about that?”

  “I’m not going to fight you for it. You’re a pig.”

  “Interview her yourself!”

  She gives him her backside.

  He calls out. “Here!” He extends the bait, hoping to lure her back.

  Her disgust calves off her. She can’t look at him.

  “What you’re thinking; it’s not right.”

  “Shut it.” She reaches for the phone and he acquiesces. She slips it into her purse. “You could have told me the truth the first time.”

  “I am not a cop.”

  “You . . . and I . . .”

  “Sonia—”

  Her eyes glaze over. She purses her lips, shakes her head, discouraged. “Shit.”

  “You’re at risk. I can protect you.”

  “You probably arranged all that, didn’t you? Set me up so I needed you.”

  “Not true.”

  “I thought I’d seen it all.”

  “You’re at risk!”

  “You’re a liar.”

  And she’s gone. Words dance on the tip of his tongue, words he must swallow. She turns back. “If I see you . . . at any distance, I will have you arrested—if that is even possible.”

  He lets her go. As long as her phone is left on, Hong Kong can, and will, track her. He arranges it with a call to Dulwich, who, in a rare moment of compassion, doesn’t rub it in. It’s Dulwich’s lack of condemnation that leaves the taste of crow. But there are other tastes that linger as well, ones he savored and is sorry to lose. He wants her back. Wants the knot shop closed down, Berna found and peace restored. A week with Sonia in Berlin or Bruges.

  She’ll go to the houseboat and clear out what few belongings she’d collected. Or maybe she’ll avoid it altogether. If she returns to her apartment, he’ll have to intervene, but he assumes she’ll have the sense to find another houseboat, or a friend’s place.

  He is reminded that women bring a heavy heart, that he avoids investment because he can’t tolerate the interest. That the weight of Tommy can’t handle any more piling on. That he knows better. But Sonia’s gotten to him. He pays for it in anger and frustration and shame. A self-loathing and self-pity that wells up in him like a toxin. He is poisoned. God help the next person to cross him.

  He finds a bar and rediscovers single-malt amnesia. Anesthetized, he works through his phone chips, checking for messages.

  “We should meet.” Kreiger’s heavily accented voice does not identify itself. Just the three words, but in an assertive tone that implies paragraphs. Knox knows too much because of Grace; he’s reading too much into it. Impatience, determination, suspicion. He cycles out that chip, replacing it with the original. How long has it been? Five minutes? Thirty? But as the next SIM card logs on to the Dutch mobile carrier, there’s already a message waiting.

  The number is “UNKNOWN.”

  He slurps another Scotch down. Scarfs some bar nuts and chases it all with a beer. It’s all so easy now—his throat doesn’t fight it. An elixir. It pulls an opaque curtain across the past few hours, adds a dash of humor where none was possible. It allows him to acknowledge the babe at the end of the bar who makes eyes every few minutes. Doesn’t know why he does it. Can’t figure out who’s doing this from inside him. He’s possessed. He can blame it on the Scotch. He can blame it on Sonia. But he knows better.

  The babe isn’t interested, adding insult to injury. Or maybe she’s on the meter and figures him light in the wallet. No matter.

  Can’t bring himself to retrieve the message. It’s either Dulwich or Sonia. Painful, no matter what. But Tommy and Daniel have this number as well as others. It can’t be ignored. He touches his shot glass, ordering number five. He’s a big boy, he tells himself; he can handle it. He and everyone else leaning over the bar barely moving.

  “For what it is worth,” says the recorded male voice, “I did not expose you. Out of professional courtesy. She is a celebrity here. You must know that. It was not so difficult to make sense of it, Mr. Steele, but you might have—”

  Knox hears nothing past the mention of his cover. It’s Chief Inspector Brower’s voice. Only now does it register. It’s the confluence of two worlds, a Twilight Zone moment. Only Sonia calls him by that name. She is a celebrity here . . .

  He drags the iPhone’s blue time line back to listen again. “—you might have warned me. I allowed her to monitor the interview of Demir. Unseen, of course. One-way glass. Her taking off like that. Most unprofessional. I expected some courtesy. I believe we had an agreement to work together, did we not? I would appreciate your sharing whatever it was he said that triggered that hasty departure. I believe you owe me that much. I am on the graveyard. Call me. Please.”

  He bumps the Scotch, nearly spilling it, while going for his wallet. “How much?” In Dutch. The single malt is insanely expensive. He overtips the moment he sees the first of the five shots ring up on the register. Does the math in his head. Is out the door.

  The bitch! The Scotch speaking. The Scotch working at his temples and his knees like an invisible kickboxer. Calls Brower back. Demir’s interview was videoed. He’s on his way.

  Risks a series of trams. Feels a million eyes on him. Wonders how much is the liquor. Breaks his own rules. Hopes she has more sense than he.

  Calls her from the third tram. It goes straight to voice mail. Calls Dulwich.

  “I need a real-time fix on her, pronto. Code red, Sarge.”

  “Copy.”

  The call ends, Knox marveling at Dulwich’s self-control, his not throwing a punch. Dulwich is the closest thing he has to a real friend, which is somewhat depressing. He fits Grace into that equation, but doesn’t know how to assign value. She’s more of a fixed variable. Dulwich is the common denominator.

  Middle of the third tram ride, his phone vibrates.

  “No joy,” Dulwich says. “Device is disengaged or destroyed. No signal.”

  Disengaged, Knox thinks, ruminating on the word . . . or destroyed. Sonia is AWOL.

  “On my way to Brower,” Knox explains. “He may have something for us.” He holds back from admitting the reporter has scooped him.

  �
��Progress here,” Dulwich says.

  “Keep trying, will you?”

  “You’ll hear if I do.”

  Knox tucks the phone away. Takes a moment to look out a window. Catches his agonized reflection in the glass. Turns away from it.

  —

  BROWER COOPERATES, suggesting he’s expecting a quid pro quo. It tells Knox that Demir’s interview was inconclusive and that whatever drove Sonia from oversight of the interview is now the carrot they both seek.

  Knox buries the ask, out of gamesmanship. No way Brower is giving him everything.

  Finally, the opportunity comes around. “Maybe if I saw the interview tape . . . ?” Knox says.

  “But I tell you, there is nothing. Pfff. I am preparing to begin the interrogation, and there is one of my men asking for her recorder back.”

  “Her recorder,” Knox echoes.

  “Exactly that,” Brower concedes. “I never claimed to know how to run the damn thing. Every one of them is different. Is it not so?”

  “Every recorder,” Knox tests.

  “I had barely turned the thing on and she wants it back!”

  “Could I see?”

  “I tell you, there is nothing to see.”

  Knox is capable of being belligerent. Would rather not take it that far. Is warming up to it as Brower shrugs.

  “Why not?”

  The room smells of a cigarette veneer mixed with the acrid bitterness of electronics. Contrary to the state-of-the-art resources available to Rutherford Risk, this looks like a high school language lab. The video is low definition, though the sound quality is above average.

  Demir occupies a fixed chair with his hands cuffed to a chain between his legs. Given that pose, he’s doing everything possible to look bored and in control, but it’s a losing effort. The chains rattle; he lets go two deep sighs as he works to calm himself.

  “He’s been coached, or he’s been through this before,” Knox says.

  “Evidently.”

  “Does he have a record?”

  “Not within the EU.” Brower adds, “We are checking outside, including your FBI.”

  On the screen, the door opens. Demir is careful not to change his demeanor even slightly; he stares straight ahead like a man stuck in a long waiting line. Brower enters and sits down. He reads the suspect some legalese that pertains to his rights, pointing out that video and audio will be recorded and may be used as evidence. He slaps down a legal pad and proffers a Crayon.