couldn’t take a chance I’d go to jail for something I hadn’t done.”
“That’s a sad story, Ben,” said Levon.
“Yep. And you know how the story turns out. I moved to L.A. Got a job at the
Times.
And I wrote some books.” “You’re being modest,” Barbara said, and patted my arm. “Writing is what I do, but it’s not who
I am.”
“And who would you say you are?” she asked.
“Right now, I’m working at being the best reporter I can be. I came to Maui to tell your daughter’s story, and, at the same
time, I want you to have that happy ending. I want to see it, report it, be here for all the good feelings when Kim comes
back safe. That’s who I am.”
Barbara said, “We believe you, Ben.” And Levon nodded at her side.
Like I said, Nice people.
Chapter 24
AMSTERDAM. Five twenty in the afternoon. Jan Van der Heuvel was in his office on the fifth floor of the classic, neck-gabled
house, gazing out over the treetops at the sightseeing boat on the canal, waiting for time to pass.
The door to his office opened, and Mieke, a pretty girl of twenty with short, dark hair, entered. She wore a small skirt and
a fitted jacket, her long legs bare to her little lace-up boots. The girl lowered her eyes, said that if he didn’t need her
for anything she would leave for the day.
“Have a good evening,” Van der Heuvel said.
He walked her to the office door and locked it behind her, returned to his seat at the long drawing table, and looked down
at the street running along the Keizersgracht Canal until he saw Mieke get into her fiancé’s Renault and speed away.
Only then did Van der Heuvel attend to his computer. The teleconference wasn’t for another forty minutes, but he wanted to
establish contact early so that he could record the proceedings. He tapped keys until he made the connection and his friend’s
face came on the screen.
“Horst,” he said. “I am here.”
At that same time, a brunette woman of forty was on the bridge of her 118-foot yacht anchored in the Mediterranean off the
coast of Portofino. The yacht was custom-made, constructed of high-tensile aluminum with six cabins, a master suite, and a
video conference center in the saloon, which easily converted to a cinema.
The woman left her young captain and took the stairs down to her suite, where she removed a Versace jacket from the closet
and slipped it on over her halter top. Then she crossed the galleyway to the media room and booted up her computer. When the
connection was made to the encrypted line, she smiled into the webcam.
“Gina Prazzi checking in, Horst. How are we today?”
Four time zones away, in Dubai, a tall bearded man wearing traditional Middle Eastern clothing passed a mosque and hurried
to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant down the street. He greeted the proprietor and continued on through the kitchen, aromatic
with garlic and rosemary.
Pushing aside a heavy curtain, he took the stairs down to the basement level and unlocked a heavy wooden door leading to a
private room.
In Hong Kong’s Victoria Peak section, a young chemist flicked on his computer. He was in his twenties with an IQ in the high
170s. As the software loaded, he looked through his curtains, down the long slope, past the tops of the cylindrical high-rises,
and farther below to the brightly lit towers of Hong Kong. It was unusually clear for this time of year, and his gaze had
drifted to Victoria Harbour and beyond, to the lights of Kowloon, when the computer signaled and he turned his attention to
the emergency meeting of the Alliance.
In São Paulo, Raphael dos Santos, a man of fifty, drove to his home at just past three in his new Wiesmann GT MF5 sports coupe.
The car cost 250,000 U.S. dollars and went from zero to sixty in under four seconds with a top speed of 193 miles per hour.
Rafi, as he was called, loved this car.
He braked at the entrance to the underground garage, tossed the keys to Tomás,
“That’s a sad story, Ben,” said Levon.
“Yep. And you know how the story turns out. I moved to L.A. Got a job at the
Times.
And I wrote some books.” “You’re being modest,” Barbara said, and patted my arm. “Writing is what I do, but it’s not who
I am.”
“And who would you say you are?” she asked.
“Right now, I’m working at being the best reporter I can be. I came to Maui to tell your daughter’s story, and, at the same
time, I want you to have that happy ending. I want to see it, report it, be here for all the good feelings when Kim comes
back safe. That’s who I am.”
Barbara said, “We believe you, Ben.” And Levon nodded at her side.
Like I said, Nice people.
Chapter 24
AMSTERDAM. Five twenty in the afternoon. Jan Van der Heuvel was in his office on the fifth floor of the classic, neck-gabled
house, gazing out over the treetops at the sightseeing boat on the canal, waiting for time to pass.
The door to his office opened, and Mieke, a pretty girl of twenty with short, dark hair, entered. She wore a small skirt and
a fitted jacket, her long legs bare to her little lace-up boots. The girl lowered her eyes, said that if he didn’t need her
for anything she would leave for the day.
“Have a good evening,” Van der Heuvel said.
He walked her to the office door and locked it behind her, returned to his seat at the long drawing table, and looked down
at the street running along the Keizersgracht Canal until he saw Mieke get into her fiancé’s Renault and speed away.
Only then did Van der Heuvel attend to his computer. The teleconference wasn’t for another forty minutes, but he wanted to
establish contact early so that he could record the proceedings. He tapped keys until he made the connection and his friend’s
face came on the screen.
“Horst,” he said. “I am here.”
At that same time, a brunette woman of forty was on the bridge of her 118-foot yacht anchored in the Mediterranean off the
coast of Portofino. The yacht was custom-made, constructed of high-tensile aluminum with six cabins, a master suite, and a
video conference center in the saloon, which easily converted to a cinema.
The woman left her young captain and took the stairs down to her suite, where she removed a Versace jacket from the closet
and slipped it on over her halter top. Then she crossed the galleyway to the media room and booted up her computer. When the
connection was made to the encrypted line, she smiled into the webcam.
“Gina Prazzi checking in, Horst. How are we today?”
Four time zones away, in Dubai, a tall bearded man wearing traditional Middle Eastern clothing passed a mosque and hurried
to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant down the street. He greeted the proprietor and continued on through the kitchen, aromatic
with garlic and rosemary.
Pushing aside a heavy curtain, he took the stairs down to the basement level and unlocked a heavy wooden door leading to a
private room.
In Hong Kong’s Victoria Peak section, a young chemist flicked on his computer. He was in his twenties with an IQ in the high
170s. As the software loaded, he looked through his curtains, down the long slope, past the tops of the cylindrical high-rises,
and farther below to the brightly lit towers of Hong Kong. It was unusually clear for this time of year, and his gaze had
drifted to Victoria Harbour and beyond, to the lights of Kowloon, when the computer signaled and he turned his attention to
the emergency meeting of the Alliance.
In São Paulo, Raphael dos Santos, a man of fifty, drove to his home at just past three in his new Wiesmann GT MF5 sports coupe.
The car cost 250,000 U.S. dollars and went from zero to sixty in under four seconds with a top speed of 193 miles per hour.
Rafi, as he was called, loved this car.
He braked at the entrance to the underground garage, tossed the keys to Tomás,
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