bottle of whiskey you might need to bribe an official.
He has never gotten caught. Not yet, anyway. His freckled Frisian farm boy good looks make him appear above deception, and like me, he has a good nose for danger.
“Who's your new butler?” I ask.
“Oh, him? That's Alfons, a bomb maker from Sweden. He was dropped in last week. I'm helping him. What's up?”
I'm dying to know more, but I am in a hurry. I tell Pim I need a van for tonight. “Only for three hours. I have a package to pick up.”
“I can get you a newspaper van—” he turns off the high intensity work light and pushes back from the table “—if you can get it back to De Waarheid by midnight, so they can load up for delivery.”
“I just pull into the lot?”
“Yup. We have two guys on the loading dock. They sometimes add fliers to the papers,” he adds, grinning.
“I always wondered how those got in there.” The Islamic Council goes crazy whenever they discover retractions have been delivered with their propaganda rags. Printed on pink newsprint, the fliers tell readers what's really going on. So far, the Islamic Council hasn't caught anyone.
“Just be sure to leave a full tank,” says Pim.
“No problem.” It's my turn to smirk. I have my own contacts for gasoline. “One other thing.”
“What?” Pim arches an eyebrow and his mouth pouts. “Oh—” he slumps when he guesses, in mock despair “—you need a driver.”
“Yes,” I say smiling. Pim may hem and haw, and make any number of excuses, but I know eventually he'll agree to go with me. I need him because women aren't allowed to drive.
“I can never say no to you,” Pim says. “Where to?”
“Enkhuizen.”
He tilts his head for a moment, then nods. “That might work. I can stop at Hoorn on the way back and pick up a case of Akvavit. My contact just got a new shipment.”
“A case? What for?”
“We can always use Akvavit, ” he says, grinning. “A delegation from the United Nations of Islam Council of Guardians is arriving on Friday. They'll be staying at the Grand Hotel Amrath Amsterdam. We'll need a few bottles to bribe our way in.”
“To plant bugs?” I always wonder how he knows these things.
“That and more. I'll fill you in tonight.”
Pim has a way of making everything sound easy. No more dangerous than a housewife picking up the laundry, retrieving her kids from soccer practice, then stopping to buy something for dinner.
For a moment, I imagine the life I might have had, the little Dutch girl I once was. It seems like someone else's life. Would she have grown up to be kind and compassionate? Comfortable in her pleasant Dutch life, a husband and career, hobbies and children? An avid sailor like her childhood idol, Laura Dekker? Taking weekend jaunts to Greece or the Canary Islands? With Facebook friends all over the world? But then I would never have met Pim.
“Are you okay?” Pim asks.
He knows me too well. Throwing out a line to pull me back.
“Sure.”
I kiss him on the cheek, tuck my hair under my hijab , and head down the stairs.
Two, May 2010
Centrale Bibliotheek Amsterdam
Katrien Brinkerhoff skips beside her father, over the bridge from the train station. Eight years old, a tepee of long curly dark brown hair bouncing down her back. She drops his hand, dashing ahead to peer over the side of the boardwalk into the gray-green water. A white swan makes a speedy retreat; a triangle of six goslings, sputtering and spinning and bobbing to change direction, flutter their feet, trying to keep up. Delighted, the girl claps her hands, makes a little hop, then runs back to her father. She wraps all her fingers around his thumb, and pulls him toward the library.
The library has its own island, a castle of red brick, granite, and glass. The biggest public library in Europe, 28,000 square meters, 600 public access
He has never gotten caught. Not yet, anyway. His freckled Frisian farm boy good looks make him appear above deception, and like me, he has a good nose for danger.
“Who's your new butler?” I ask.
“Oh, him? That's Alfons, a bomb maker from Sweden. He was dropped in last week. I'm helping him. What's up?”
I'm dying to know more, but I am in a hurry. I tell Pim I need a van for tonight. “Only for three hours. I have a package to pick up.”
“I can get you a newspaper van—” he turns off the high intensity work light and pushes back from the table “—if you can get it back to De Waarheid by midnight, so they can load up for delivery.”
“I just pull into the lot?”
“Yup. We have two guys on the loading dock. They sometimes add fliers to the papers,” he adds, grinning.
“I always wondered how those got in there.” The Islamic Council goes crazy whenever they discover retractions have been delivered with their propaganda rags. Printed on pink newsprint, the fliers tell readers what's really going on. So far, the Islamic Council hasn't caught anyone.
“Just be sure to leave a full tank,” says Pim.
“No problem.” It's my turn to smirk. I have my own contacts for gasoline. “One other thing.”
“What?” Pim arches an eyebrow and his mouth pouts. “Oh—” he slumps when he guesses, in mock despair “—you need a driver.”
“Yes,” I say smiling. Pim may hem and haw, and make any number of excuses, but I know eventually he'll agree to go with me. I need him because women aren't allowed to drive.
“I can never say no to you,” Pim says. “Where to?”
“Enkhuizen.”
He tilts his head for a moment, then nods. “That might work. I can stop at Hoorn on the way back and pick up a case of Akvavit. My contact just got a new shipment.”
“A case? What for?”
“We can always use Akvavit, ” he says, grinning. “A delegation from the United Nations of Islam Council of Guardians is arriving on Friday. They'll be staying at the Grand Hotel Amrath Amsterdam. We'll need a few bottles to bribe our way in.”
“To plant bugs?” I always wonder how he knows these things.
“That and more. I'll fill you in tonight.”
Pim has a way of making everything sound easy. No more dangerous than a housewife picking up the laundry, retrieving her kids from soccer practice, then stopping to buy something for dinner.
For a moment, I imagine the life I might have had, the little Dutch girl I once was. It seems like someone else's life. Would she have grown up to be kind and compassionate? Comfortable in her pleasant Dutch life, a husband and career, hobbies and children? An avid sailor like her childhood idol, Laura Dekker? Taking weekend jaunts to Greece or the Canary Islands? With Facebook friends all over the world? But then I would never have met Pim.
“Are you okay?” Pim asks.
He knows me too well. Throwing out a line to pull me back.
“Sure.”
I kiss him on the cheek, tuck my hair under my hijab , and head down the stairs.
Two, May 2010
Centrale Bibliotheek Amsterdam
Katrien Brinkerhoff skips beside her father, over the bridge from the train station. Eight years old, a tepee of long curly dark brown hair bouncing down her back. She drops his hand, dashing ahead to peer over the side of the boardwalk into the gray-green water. A white swan makes a speedy retreat; a triangle of six goslings, sputtering and spinning and bobbing to change direction, flutter their feet, trying to keep up. Delighted, the girl claps her hands, makes a little hop, then runs back to her father. She wraps all her fingers around his thumb, and pulls him toward the library.
The library has its own island, a castle of red brick, granite, and glass. The biggest public library in Europe, 28,000 square meters, 600 public access
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