CHAPTER NINE

Tom sat on a bench, huddled against the cold in his long wool coat, and looked out over Prinsengracht canal to consider his options. The sweet, tempting aroma of the local pancakes drifted to him from a stand twenty yards away, reminding him that it was almost three in the afternoon and he’d not eaten since an early breakfast.

He had half a mind to call off the search for the day and just be a tourist for a few hours, maybe stand in the long, snaking line to get into the Anne Frank House, which was close by. But his feet hurt, and shuffling along for an hour before even getting in did not sound like fun.

Hugo ought to be here helping, he thought. He’d know what to do next. And he wouldn’t have broken into the wrong room at the hotel.

That had been a mistake. And one he was lucky not to be arrested for. He sat back to think but was interrupted by the gentle ring of his phone. He didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway.

“This is Tom.”

“Hi, Tom. Brendon Fowler here.”

“Bren, you find something out?”

Fowler had been a colleague of Tom’s at the CIA. A tall, muscular redhead with a law degree from Duke, he was a man you could count on in a pinch, even if you no longer worked for the Company. The only odd thing about Fowler was his appetite—he ate pizza and only pizza for every meal of the day. No one had ever seen him eat anything else, and he admitted it was what he consumed on the way into work every morning.

“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Fowler was saying.

“Fuck, you drew a blank?”

“Not what I meant,” Fowler said. “It’s bad news for you.”

“How’s that?”

“You told me he was a smart guy, if I remember rightly.”

“Not that I’d admit it to the bastard’s face. But yeah.”

“What he’s doing isn’t smart.”

“So you did find something,” Tom said.

“Most definitely.”

“And you’re going to make me beg and plead to get it out of you, I see.”

“Nah, you already promised me a pizza coupon, so I’ll just tell you. He used his dead brother’s passport.”

Tom let that process for a moment. “That’s actually pretty clever. Obvious, and yet I didn’t think of it.”

“Right? I thought the same thing at first, but let it sink in,” Fowler said. “Think about what it really means.”

It dawned on Tom, probably the same way it had on Brendon Fowler. “Shit,” Tom said. “It’s clever but also obvious. He’d have known that the minute he was suspected of being here, the authorities would flag any passport with the name Cofer on it.”

“Right,” Fowler said. “Fake passports are almost impossible to get away with these days, but if you do manage to create one, you can stay under the radar. He didn’t go that route.”

“But using his brother’s passport . . . There’s no way he can make it back home without being caught, and that’d be a violation of his parole.”

“Which, in turn, means . . .” Fowler prompted.

“He has no intention of going back to the States, let alone back to prison. This is a one-way mission for him.”

“Right. And, as an aside, we also now know he’s not staying at a hotel.”

“Because they make a note of guests’ passports,” Tom said. “He may be on a mission to hell, but he’s not ready to be found that easily.”

“Right. And this makes him so much more dangerous, Tom. Seriously, you need to think about getting the authorities involved, officially.”

“I can’t. We’ve had barely a glimpse of him, and some lazy cop somewhere will say that just because his dead brother’s passport is being used means nothing. Someone else could’ve purloined it.”

“And yet that’s not the reason you won’t be calling for help, is it?”

“This problem needs to go away permanently,” Tom said. “Not back to prison for a few years.”

“That’s my point. He’s already fixing to go away permanently. The thing is he’s planning to take you with him.”

Tom thought for a moment. “What I don’t know is, does he want just me? Or will he go after Hugo as well?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Either way, he’s suicidal.”

“If he’s also going after Hugo, then he’s not suicidal yet. Unless Cofer’s planning to haunt him to death.”

“Well, let me know if I can help,” Fowler said. “Whatever you need, official or unofficial.”

“I will. And thanks, Bren, I appreciate it.”

“Just do me one favor, will you?”

“Sure,” Tom said. “What is it?”

“Stay alive.”

Tom gave into his senses and bought a paper plate loaded with Dutch pancakes, juggling with them back to his bench. As he sat facing the canal, a duck flapped onto the bank and ventured toward him, quacking quietly. It fell silent as it got close, but its beak stayed open slightly, and Tom assumed the wee feathered fellow was used to tourists, and maybe locals, sharing their spoils.

“Careful, little man,” Tom growled. “This is mine, all of it. And you might want to consider your own place on the food chain. In Paris, Hugo would be eating you alongside a plate of fries.”

The duck ignored him, but it flapped its wings and backed away when Tom reached for his buzzing cell phone. Brendon Fowler had sent him a text: He just checked into the Rijks Hotel on Sint Nicolaasstraat. BE CAREFUL.

A hotel? Tom thought. Why would he risk making himself visible like that? Carelessness, or a trap?

Tom sent Fowler a thumbs-up emoji and looked up the hotel on his phone. It was located in the heart of Amsterdam, and looked to be on a tiny street right where the action was, where the prostitutes and sex shops vied with the smoke shops and marijuana cookie sellers for the attention of the wide-eyed tourists. Tom had spent more than a few hours on those streets and knew what a rabbit warren they could be. An advantage for a local, maybe, but not for Tom. Although he had to assume that as a recent arrival, and recent convict, Rick Cofer knew that area even less well.

Tom looked at the duck, which had turned its attention to a family nearby, and smiled. Speaking of Hugo. . . He dialed his friend’s number, wanting to update him and ask a question that was bothering him, but the call went straight to voicemail.

“Marston, you ass. You’re supposed to have called me back, like five times. I’ve confirmed that the bastard is here, one hundred percent. He’s at a hotel in the red-light district, which I happen to know reasonably well, which will surprise you. I’m gonna check it out. And, yes, I’ll be careful. When you get this message, call me, jerk.”

He checked how far the hotel was from his location, hoping it’d be far enough away to justify a taxi. He groaned when his phone assured him it was a mere fifteen-minute walk. He got to his feet, found a trash can for his plate and the few crumbs he’d not inhaled, and set off.

The wind seemed to pick up as he walked, blowing into his face and sending angry ripples through the canals that he crossed. He wondered how to approach the hotel, or whether to at all. Cofer, he had to assume, would be looking over both shoulders all day every day, and using the internet as best he could to find out about Tom, and maybe Hugo. Tom had no idea whether Cofer knew of his time in the CIA. It seemed unlikely, since Tom was invisible, non-existent, on the internet, and the Company hardly publicized its employee list. But if Cofer had found out somehow, he’d be even more twitchy. And be more sure that Tom would be looking for him, and able to discover his location.

Shit. I should assume he does know, and is luring me there, Tom thought.

But he went back and forth because he knew that was a stretch. The meathead had just gotten out of prison, and there was no logical way he’d been tracking his and Hugo’s careers from behind bars. And yet he’s here, presumably looking for you, pal. Which means he knew you were here, or would come.

Tom quickened his step, annoyed with himself and the puzzles running in circles inside his head. Around him, people drifted through the chilly afternoon with their heads down, wrapped up in wool coats and scarves, oblivious to anything except getting where they were going. The questions kept poking at him, and he wished Hugo would call him back. As much of a stiff as his best friend was, his mind was unique, and his advice, while frequently annoying and safe, was invaluable. Without slowing, Tom called him again, again going to voicemail.

“One thing I want to know. Just text me if you know the answer, you don’t even have to talk to me. Why the fuck did Cofer come here and not Paris?”

That was the biggest question he had. Why Amsterdam?