Choke Point by Ridley Pearson Page A

with the anxiety of having included him, there is an underlying sense of comfort that he’s likely nearby.
    Outside the station, she crosses with pedestrians and turns left to the ferries. Electronic signs announce the Noord destinations and the countdown to departures. Grace slows, but does not stop completely on her approach. Uninterested in the destinations, it’s the numbers painted on the ferry pilot cabins that register with her: 55, 59, 71 . . . There’s an enormous two-level barge tied up to the wharf that contains thousands of chained and locked bicycles. It’s a bicycle parking lot for commuters who use Centraal Station. Sight of it stops Grace and she chastises herself for appearing the tourist.
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    The dock’s electric timer counts down from 3:46. Bicyclists and scooter drivers push into a tangle on the right of the vessel. Pedestrians enter through doors to the left and move forward in a knot as the clock is down to under two minutes and there’s a final rush to board. It’s jammed, only inches separating people. There’s the smell of humanity—perfumes, soaps, sweat, tobacco and wine breath. The stern gangway raises automatically and the ferry’s under way. She is stalwart in her refusal to scan the faces of the passengers, to search for a man studying her. She doesn’t want to spot Knox breaking promises. She can’t allow anger to poison her. She must remain calm and objective. A low-level EU bureaucrat following up on something she’d rather not.
    The crossing is fast. Five minutes, tops. The air fills with blue motor oil vapor as the scooters start. The cyclists and pedestrians mix. It’s an orderly off-loading. People fan out. Bikes are mounted, backpacks slung on. Grace joins a flow of pedestrians walking straight ahead on a wide, tree-lined artery with pavement for cars, a substantial bike lane and a sidewalk for pedestrians. The transition to pastoral from the concrete of downtown is immediate. Lawns. Freestanding homes with wrought-iron fences. Birdsong. The air tastes cleaner. A different city, five minutes from Centraal Station.
    Still no contact.
    “We will turn around now,” speaks a male voice from behind. “I will take your phone.”
    Grace hesitates. It’s like handing over her weapon.
    “I’ll put it in airplane mode but there is no—”
    “Shut if off.” His voice is sharp and icy, causing the opposite reaction in her: a spike of heat. He reaches for her. She pulls away.
    “Easy!” she barks. The phone powers down. She shows it to him.
    He holds out his hand, expecting its delivery. “No phone, no discussion,” he says.
    “Such cloak and dagger,” Grace says.
    He pockets her phone, turns her toward the ferry dock. “Walk.” He stays at her side, a quarter-stride behind. In the distance, two electronic ferry signs.
    She has yet to get a decent look at him. In profile, he’s strong-featured, tall and unshaven. His left eye is swollen and he’s sporting three stitches above the cheekbone. He has lost a layer of skin. Confident this is finally the Fahiz she’s sought, she doesn’t allow herself a sense of satisfaction. His preparedness is a warning. If he wants to come across as an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances, he has failed.
    Since a young age she’s been drawn to the irrepressible overconfidence and swarthy looks of Turks. She finds their penetrating eyes hypnotic and their words carefully chosen. Appreciates that, as with Italian men, there’s no ambiguity about what it is they are after. Conquest is all that matters to them, and she controls them because she controls access. She’s never slept with a Turk. Can’t say the same about Italians.
    Is Knox watching?
she wonders.
    The walk back to the ferry takes only a minute. The approaching vessel is mid-river and closing fast.
    Several cyclists arrive and queue up, standing alongside their bikes. It takes her a moment to recognize the man wearing the beret. His bike has to be twenty years