leaves a credit card with the desk to pay for the call. An automated voice tells her to leave a message. She does so.
Twenty minutes later, she receives a call.
“Ms. Chu?”
“Speaking.”
“Fahiz, here.”
She reintroduces herself as an EU official investigating hate crimes. The police report implied he’d been beaten for something he may have said. She would like to speak with him, if possible.
“The police were not to share my information,” the man protests.
“I am afraid in instances such as yours they have no choice. Brussels is always notified in the case of hate crimes.”
“I was . . . It was a mistake. It was an attack aimed at someone else.”
“Yes. The man quoted in the newspaper article. Similar names. It is horrible.” He says nothing. She continues. “This man, this other Fahiz, has left the city, along with the other sources quoted in the article. It might be wise for you to do the same.”
“Impossible at the moment. I told the police, I want nothing more to do with it beyond being notified
prior
to whatever arrests may be made. Should they miss someone, I do not want to bear the brunt of their reprisals.”
“Then please, help us.”
“Please, do not call me again.”
Hearing his soothing and melodic voice, she’s reminded of fantasies she had believed long buried.
“I found you,” she says. “Others could as well. We should talk.”
A protracted silence results. “Are you there?” she finally asks. “A few minutes is all. A few questions and you are done with me.”
You called me back,
she wants to shout.
There’s a steadily approaching sound in the background of the call. At first, she can’t place it, but then she knows what it is: a tram. Fahiz is in the inner city.
“Hate crimes?” he asks. “To them, we all look the same.”
To
them
, she notes. Plural.
“Your attackers were Dutch? European?”
She expects he may have hung up. When she hears his breathing, she says, “A few minutes is all.” She gives him time to think. “You pick the time and place.”
A long silence hangs over the line. Finally, he says, “Number fifty-four ferry to Noord. Alone. If I don’t contact you onboard, then walk straight up the promenade. Stay on that road. The first departure after the top of the hour. You have forty minutes.” Fahiz ends the call.
Grace stares down at the screen of the phone, her thumbs poised to send Knox a text message.
Alone.
She follows through with the text ending in all caps:
Agreed to meet: #54 ferry to Noord. 40 mins. Alone! YOU CANNOT BE ON FERRY
She wishes she could trust Knox.
—
T HE N OORD DISTRICT, with its postcard villages of Ransdorp and Durgerdam is separated from the touristy central district by the brown turbid waters of the IJ harbor. Pedestrians, bicycle and scooter riders, as well as any commuters using Centraal Station forgo the various traffic tunnels, riding the three free ferries that roundtrip in ten minutes. The Venice of the Netherlands, Amsterdam is home to ferries, water taxis and myriad private canal boats, lending the city a romantic, historical seductiveness.
The easiest way to reach the Noord ferries is to cut through Centraal Station. It’s late afternoon—nine minutes remain until his deadline at the top of the hour—and the always busy station is bedlam. The coffee and news shops bulge with customers, choking foot traffic on the concourse. A woman’s voice over a loudspeaker grumbles train numbers and track numbers and times and destinations to where it sounds like a quiz show. There is every form of life here, from the stoned vagabond youth attracted by the city’s open pot cafés, to well-heeled businessmen and -women, mothers pushing strollers, gray-bearded seniors struggling to place their canes into the sea of shoe leather. Grace holds herself back to move with the pace of the crowd, not wanting to stand out. She wonders not if, but from where, Knox is watching. She hates to admit that along
Twenty minutes later, she receives a call.
“Ms. Chu?”
“Speaking.”
“Fahiz, here.”
She reintroduces herself as an EU official investigating hate crimes. The police report implied he’d been beaten for something he may have said. She would like to speak with him, if possible.
“The police were not to share my information,” the man protests.
“I am afraid in instances such as yours they have no choice. Brussels is always notified in the case of hate crimes.”
“I was . . . It was a mistake. It was an attack aimed at someone else.”
“Yes. The man quoted in the newspaper article. Similar names. It is horrible.” He says nothing. She continues. “This man, this other Fahiz, has left the city, along with the other sources quoted in the article. It might be wise for you to do the same.”
“Impossible at the moment. I told the police, I want nothing more to do with it beyond being notified
prior
to whatever arrests may be made. Should they miss someone, I do not want to bear the brunt of their reprisals.”
“Then please, help us.”
“Please, do not call me again.”
Hearing his soothing and melodic voice, she’s reminded of fantasies she had believed long buried.
“I found you,” she says. “Others could as well. We should talk.”
A protracted silence results. “Are you there?” she finally asks. “A few minutes is all. A few questions and you are done with me.”
You called me back,
she wants to shout.
There’s a steadily approaching sound in the background of the call. At first, she can’t place it, but then she knows what it is: a tram. Fahiz is in the inner city.
“Hate crimes?” he asks. “To them, we all look the same.”
To
them
, she notes. Plural.
“Your attackers were Dutch? European?”
She expects he may have hung up. When she hears his breathing, she says, “A few minutes is all.” She gives him time to think. “You pick the time and place.”
A long silence hangs over the line. Finally, he says, “Number fifty-four ferry to Noord. Alone. If I don’t contact you onboard, then walk straight up the promenade. Stay on that road. The first departure after the top of the hour. You have forty minutes.” Fahiz ends the call.
Grace stares down at the screen of the phone, her thumbs poised to send Knox a text message.
Alone.
She follows through with the text ending in all caps:
Agreed to meet: #54 ferry to Noord. 40 mins. Alone! YOU CANNOT BE ON FERRY
She wishes she could trust Knox.
—
T HE N OORD DISTRICT, with its postcard villages of Ransdorp and Durgerdam is separated from the touristy central district by the brown turbid waters of the IJ harbor. Pedestrians, bicycle and scooter riders, as well as any commuters using Centraal Station forgo the various traffic tunnels, riding the three free ferries that roundtrip in ten minutes. The Venice of the Netherlands, Amsterdam is home to ferries, water taxis and myriad private canal boats, lending the city a romantic, historical seductiveness.
The easiest way to reach the Noord ferries is to cut through Centraal Station. It’s late afternoon—nine minutes remain until his deadline at the top of the hour—and the always busy station is bedlam. The coffee and news shops bulge with customers, choking foot traffic on the concourse. A woman’s voice over a loudspeaker grumbles train numbers and track numbers and times and destinations to where it sounds like a quiz show. There is every form of life here, from the stoned vagabond youth attracted by the city’s open pot cafés, to well-heeled businessmen and -women, mothers pushing strollers, gray-bearded seniors struggling to place their canes into the sea of shoe leather. Grace holds herself back to move with the pace of the crowd, not wanting to stand out. She wonders not if, but from where, Knox is watching. She hates to admit that along
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