dispose of the Wallenstein.” Her voice was almost regretful as she said this. “Then we can go anywhere, anywhere you want. Just one more day, Maarten. One more day!”
One more day, he repeated silently. That thought almost made him retch with excitement and fear. But then another thought crossed his mind, something suspicious that made him feel guilty even for thinking it.
“Perhaps… perhaps…”
She looked at him, her eyes hard, cool emeralds. “Yes?” she asked curtly.
“Perhaps I should take… it with me.”
She laughed, a harsher sound this time. “What? You think I’m going to disappear with the Wallenstein? Oh, yes, how sensible of me. One phone call from you and Interpol will be looking for Karla Pietersen.” She seemed to fume at the thought but then she raised her hands in the air. “Okay, if you don’t trust me, take it. Go on.” She lowered her arms once more and pushed the case towards Maarten. He cringed back in his seat as though a snake had threatened him.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “Forgive me.”
She stared at him for a few moments, then her eyes softened. Reaching forward, she patted his hand gently, making his skin prickle at the warmth of her touch, his senses rising as he smelt her perfume.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I understand. You’d never get through customs.” She smiled warmly at this. “One look at you trembling and dithering and you’d be dragged to one side instantly. It’s better this way. Look, if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll be caught and you know nothing about it —absolutely nothing. I’m doing this for your sake, Maarten.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, lowering his head so he wouldn’t have to look at those deep, green eyes.
“I understand,” she said, standing. “Let me put this somewhere safe. Then I’ll get you a drink and call a taxi. You have your passport, don’t you?”
He nodded, dumb and miserable.
As she walked away, he sat there for a couple of moments. Then his eyes caught sight of her phone lying on the table, next to where the briefcase had been moments before. He felt sick again, but he couldn’t resist leaning forward to pick it up. It was sleek, elegant—just like her. It was also unlocked: she’d forgotten to set that when she’d taken the Wallenstein away.
Resisting the urge to look through her messages (knowing that he wouldn’t have time), instead Maarten quickly began to download something, his heart beating faster as the small app’s loading bar stretched across its icon. He was sick with love —and sick with fear—but Maarten Kropp wasn’t utterly stupid. He should trust Karla, and he hated that he didn’t, not completely. This would just be a little extra insurance, he told himself, hiding the icon and then placing the phone back down on the table. Just some extra insurance on Karla Pietersen and the Wallenstein diamond.
Chapter Five: Hayden
Hayden was in his safe house.
The building itself was nondescript other than the fact it had, to all intents and purposes, been condemned by the authorities. Abandoned for several years, signs outside indicated in Dutch that no-one should enter. The few who tried—kids mainly—were surprised to find that beyond the rotten front door was another, steel-lined entrance that was impossible to get through.
Because of its state and uncertain demolition, Hayden had been able to purchase it cheaply enough through a front, though making it suitable for his purposes had cost him a lot more. While most of the house remained decrepit and semi-derelict, at its centre he’d had a small living area refurbished and then he’d installed the kit he required himself so that no-one else would know what he was planning. That indeed had cost him another fortune. It was worth it, however, not least because it lay on the other end of a dense, urban knot of old houses that contained a maze of passages leading to Boeckman’s itself.
He’d been
One more day, he repeated silently. That thought almost made him retch with excitement and fear. But then another thought crossed his mind, something suspicious that made him feel guilty even for thinking it.
“Perhaps… perhaps…”
She looked at him, her eyes hard, cool emeralds. “Yes?” she asked curtly.
“Perhaps I should take… it with me.”
She laughed, a harsher sound this time. “What? You think I’m going to disappear with the Wallenstein? Oh, yes, how sensible of me. One phone call from you and Interpol will be looking for Karla Pietersen.” She seemed to fume at the thought but then she raised her hands in the air. “Okay, if you don’t trust me, take it. Go on.” She lowered her arms once more and pushed the case towards Maarten. He cringed back in his seat as though a snake had threatened him.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “Forgive me.”
She stared at him for a few moments, then her eyes softened. Reaching forward, she patted his hand gently, making his skin prickle at the warmth of her touch, his senses rising as he smelt her perfume.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I understand. You’d never get through customs.” She smiled warmly at this. “One look at you trembling and dithering and you’d be dragged to one side instantly. It’s better this way. Look, if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll be caught and you know nothing about it —absolutely nothing. I’m doing this for your sake, Maarten.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, lowering his head so he wouldn’t have to look at those deep, green eyes.
“I understand,” she said, standing. “Let me put this somewhere safe. Then I’ll get you a drink and call a taxi. You have your passport, don’t you?”
He nodded, dumb and miserable.
As she walked away, he sat there for a couple of moments. Then his eyes caught sight of her phone lying on the table, next to where the briefcase had been moments before. He felt sick again, but he couldn’t resist leaning forward to pick it up. It was sleek, elegant—just like her. It was also unlocked: she’d forgotten to set that when she’d taken the Wallenstein away.
Resisting the urge to look through her messages (knowing that he wouldn’t have time), instead Maarten quickly began to download something, his heart beating faster as the small app’s loading bar stretched across its icon. He was sick with love —and sick with fear—but Maarten Kropp wasn’t utterly stupid. He should trust Karla, and he hated that he didn’t, not completely. This would just be a little extra insurance, he told himself, hiding the icon and then placing the phone back down on the table. Just some extra insurance on Karla Pietersen and the Wallenstein diamond.
Chapter Five: Hayden
Hayden was in his safe house.
The building itself was nondescript other than the fact it had, to all intents and purposes, been condemned by the authorities. Abandoned for several years, signs outside indicated in Dutch that no-one should enter. The few who tried—kids mainly—were surprised to find that beyond the rotten front door was another, steel-lined entrance that was impossible to get through.
Because of its state and uncertain demolition, Hayden had been able to purchase it cheaply enough through a front, though making it suitable for his purposes had cost him a lot more. While most of the house remained decrepit and semi-derelict, at its centre he’d had a small living area refurbished and then he’d installed the kit he required himself so that no-one else would know what he was planning. That indeed had cost him another fortune. It was worth it, however, not least because it lay on the other end of a dense, urban knot of old houses that contained a maze of passages leading to Boeckman’s itself.
He’d been
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