Columbus by Derek Haas Read Free Book Online Page B

in the tight confines of a Brussels apartment corridor.
    No, the preferable strike points are one of two places. The groin is excellent, on both men and women, and with enough impact, a single strike can sap the fight out of even the roughest of giants. But Brueggemann is swinging wildly, and the hallway isn’t all that well lit and I don’t want to miss his crotch, so I go for the second option.
    The little light available in the hall reflects off the fleshy white skin of his neck and I quickly duck his arm and pop him with everything I have square in the throat.
    The results are immediate, the keys go flying and he collapses to both knees, clutching his gullet while he sucks desperately for air. His face turns crimson, his eyes roll back and fill with tears, his breath sounds like a cat mewing.
    I just wait.
    Finally, he’s able to get some air back into his lungs and he looks over at me, defeat sweeping across his face like a bitter wind. He shrugs, still on his knees.
    “What . . . do you want?”
    “I want you to take me to Doriot. I want you to lead me to your boss where I can get to him and I don’t want him to know I’m coming. Do you understand?”
    “Yes.” And inexplicably, a small grin creases his face, revealing that big gap between his front teeth.
    We stand in Lantin, about 60 miles west of Brussels, outside of the jailhouse. It is a blocky building, one of those holdovers from the sixties that were made with little imagination.
    Brueggemann has his arms folded across his chest.
    “When?”
    “Three weeks ago. The police stormed a restaurant he was dining in. . . . ”
    “Where were you?”
    “He said he needed to be alone.”
    “Convenient.”
    “Yes.”
    I look over at the bodyguard, who keeps a smug expression on his face. “You think he wanted to be caught?”
    “He didn’t pay me enough to think.”
    I shake my head. It is frigid outside, but my face feels warm, flush with blood.
    “You speak to him since?”
    “Not a word.”
    “Goddammit.” I look at the prison, shaking my head.
    Brueggemann speaks up. “You will let me go now, yes?”
    I nod, and he doesn’t wait for more. He spins and marches back in the direction of the town without a backward glance.
    Carrots or sticks.
    I stand against a wall in the prison yard in Lantin, waiting for Doriot to come out. I am dressed in the yellow jumpers assigned to all Belgian prisoners, my hands in my pockets, my toes numb from the cold. Mostly, the night is as black as coal, but occasionally the moon makes a brief appearance before ducking back to safety.
    Often in doing what I do, there is information I need, or travel arrangements I must have, or access to a building I must be granted. I can’t do it alone; I rely upon strangers to get me the things I require. And so I have to decide in each instance which avenue is the best to get me where I want to go: the carrot, or the stick? A bribe, or a threat?
    I didn’t want to take too long to get to Doriot. That bearded man is still hunting me, and the way he worked over Ryan suggests he got ample information before he shot him in the back. I own a home in Positano along the Amalfi coast of Italy, and I imagine the man who flushed me in Naples surely went there next.
    An official visitation with Doriot would’ve been insufficient. Three feet of bulletproof glass separating us would render any threat moot. I had to get inside where I could work him close.
    It didn’t take me long to find out which bar the Lantin guards frequented. A place known simply as “The Pub” featured television screens showing rugby, soccer, and cricket, with taps that served Stella, Jupiler, Hoegaarden and Leffe. I stood at the bar and mumbled to a waitress in English and watched the shifts change and the prison guards mope in for three straight days. I didn’t know Dutch and only minimal French, but I’ve found reading faces is as important as speaking. I wanted a sap, a guy with the most hang-down expression