its allocated slot.
Two more years and he found it expedient to quit the pressures of the capitol. At the urging of a Scottish girlfriend he bought the pair of them a house in Edinburgh. Eventually she moved back to London but Hollis stayed, thoroughly captivated by the sheer elegance of the place. He moved house regularly as a matter of routine security but never strayed far from the city.
By then he could pick and choose from the offers which appeared out of the blue, and was frequently astonished at the way his reputation quickly spread far beyond the boundaries of his adopted homeland. In recent years he had found it convenient to only accept commissions outside the UK; it was little enough, but it helped to have a base where he was not being actively sought by the security agencies. Although technically murder investigations were never declared closed until an arrest had been made.
And so the years had passed, almost unnoticed. Nowadays his fees were so high that contracts were infrequent. But that wasn't a problem; there were ample funds tucked away in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. Now in his late-forties, Mike Hollis had just about convinced himself it was time to call it a day.
'What is the purpose of your visit to Norway?'
'Business meeting.'
'Enjoy your stay, Mr Sperring.' Another meaningless stamp in a meaningless passport. This, too, was routine security. Gojo had been heard to call it paranoia but Mike Hollis was still alive when many others in his trade were long dead. The Oslo flight had been the first out of Edinburgh after his arrival from Inverness. It took but moments to check the times of the next Amsterdam connection. Fifty-five minutes. He would buy a ticket immediately before departure time, as he had done in Edinburgh. For now, some coffee would be welcome.
It was mid afternoon when Hollis emerged blinking into the bright sunshine from the comparative gloom of Amsterdam's Central Station. The rail link from Schipol was impressively fast, with only three stops, taking just twenty eight minutes to deliver it's cargo of tourists to the delights of the bustling capitol city. Jabbering excitedly in half a dozen languages the crowd seemed to spread out into the streets from the station entrance like a tide, and abruptly were gone: absorbed effortlessly into the thousands already there.
The station taxi's were being rapidly decimated too, but Hollis had been here before. He crossed one of the myriad of bridges into Prins Hendrikkade and walked west for a hundred metres to the cab rank alongside the stretch of dirty water known as Open Haven. 'Rijnhotel on Stadhouserkade.’
At ten o'clock the following morning Mike Hollis left his hotel, walking south past the endless offices, terraced houses and hotels. The rendezvous with his contact was at twelve o'clock, plenty of time. Plenty of time to make sure neither of them had picked up any ticks. At Constantijn Huygens Straat he turned right and counted fifty paces before abruptly turning around and heading back the way he had come. No-one took a sudden interest in a menu or felt the need to tie their shoe laces.
Arriving at Van Lennep Kanaal he turned left along the footpath, walking until he came across a wooden bench with a tarnished metal plaque on it. He sat there for fifteen minutes, checking the environment and paying particular attention to the blue Opel that cruised past twice in the same direction.
Paranoia.
Yes, all right then, so we're getting a bit twitchy in our old age. Better than not having an old age.
Another ten minutes but it didn't appear again so he got to his feet, moving along the canal footpath away from the city centre and started counting bridges. By the time the sixth one came up the seemingly endless city had given way to peaceful semi-suburbia and the only noise Hollis could hear came from his own footsteps on the gravel path. This was the appointed place sure enough.
There were still twenty two minutes to wait but
Two more years and he found it expedient to quit the pressures of the capitol. At the urging of a Scottish girlfriend he bought the pair of them a house in Edinburgh. Eventually she moved back to London but Hollis stayed, thoroughly captivated by the sheer elegance of the place. He moved house regularly as a matter of routine security but never strayed far from the city.
By then he could pick and choose from the offers which appeared out of the blue, and was frequently astonished at the way his reputation quickly spread far beyond the boundaries of his adopted homeland. In recent years he had found it convenient to only accept commissions outside the UK; it was little enough, but it helped to have a base where he was not being actively sought by the security agencies. Although technically murder investigations were never declared closed until an arrest had been made.
And so the years had passed, almost unnoticed. Nowadays his fees were so high that contracts were infrequent. But that wasn't a problem; there were ample funds tucked away in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. Now in his late-forties, Mike Hollis had just about convinced himself it was time to call it a day.
'What is the purpose of your visit to Norway?'
'Business meeting.'
'Enjoy your stay, Mr Sperring.' Another meaningless stamp in a meaningless passport. This, too, was routine security. Gojo had been heard to call it paranoia but Mike Hollis was still alive when many others in his trade were long dead. The Oslo flight had been the first out of Edinburgh after his arrival from Inverness. It took but moments to check the times of the next Amsterdam connection. Fifty-five minutes. He would buy a ticket immediately before departure time, as he had done in Edinburgh. For now, some coffee would be welcome.
It was mid afternoon when Hollis emerged blinking into the bright sunshine from the comparative gloom of Amsterdam's Central Station. The rail link from Schipol was impressively fast, with only three stops, taking just twenty eight minutes to deliver it's cargo of tourists to the delights of the bustling capitol city. Jabbering excitedly in half a dozen languages the crowd seemed to spread out into the streets from the station entrance like a tide, and abruptly were gone: absorbed effortlessly into the thousands already there.
The station taxi's were being rapidly decimated too, but Hollis had been here before. He crossed one of the myriad of bridges into Prins Hendrikkade and walked west for a hundred metres to the cab rank alongside the stretch of dirty water known as Open Haven. 'Rijnhotel on Stadhouserkade.’
At ten o'clock the following morning Mike Hollis left his hotel, walking south past the endless offices, terraced houses and hotels. The rendezvous with his contact was at twelve o'clock, plenty of time. Plenty of time to make sure neither of them had picked up any ticks. At Constantijn Huygens Straat he turned right and counted fifty paces before abruptly turning around and heading back the way he had come. No-one took a sudden interest in a menu or felt the need to tie their shoe laces.
Arriving at Van Lennep Kanaal he turned left along the footpath, walking until he came across a wooden bench with a tarnished metal plaque on it. He sat there for fifteen minutes, checking the environment and paying particular attention to the blue Opel that cruised past twice in the same direction.
Paranoia.
Yes, all right then, so we're getting a bit twitchy in our old age. Better than not having an old age.
Another ten minutes but it didn't appear again so he got to his feet, moving along the canal footpath away from the city centre and started counting bridges. By the time the sixth one came up the seemingly endless city had given way to peaceful semi-suburbia and the only noise Hollis could hear came from his own footsteps on the gravel path. This was the appointed place sure enough.
There were still twenty two minutes to wait but
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