Ghosting - A Katla Novel: Amsterdam Assassin Series, #4

AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES

Ghosting

[A Katla Novel]

By

Martyn V. Halm

Pushdagger Publishing Limited

Ghosting - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series)

ISBN: 9789491623080 (ePub)

ASIN: B016QVMPP4 (mobi)

Copyright: Martyn V. Halm

Published: December 1st, 2015

Publisher: Pushdagger Publishing Limited

Cover design: Farah Evers Design

Editor: P.K. Editing Services

The right to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by Martyn V. Halm in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

Please do not circulate this book in any format without express consent.

Assassin Katla's sabbatical year turns out to be her biggest challenge yet…

After her narrow escape from the intense investigations by combined intelligence forces, freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes takes a sabbatical to thwart the relentless scrutiny by the authorities.

But there's no rest for the wicked.

An unexpected pregnancy, a brother in peril, a secretive consultant, and an assiduous infiltrator conspire to force Katla to renege on her vows and once again do what she does best: solving problems in her own unparalleled way.

Ghosting is the fourth novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series.

With authentic details and brisk action against the backdrop of the notorious Dutch capital, featuring a devious heroine and a supporting cast of singular characters, Ghosting gives a rare glimpse into local Dutch culture, Jamaican gangs, computer hacking, forensic sciences, martial arts, foreign intelligence services, the psychology of social engineering, and the brutal efficacy of disciplined violence.

This e-book features a glossary.

For my Muse.

For Tycho Thelonious and Nica Hilke, thankfully still too young to read my work.

Ghosting:

A form of cheating in online games where ‘dead’ characters still impart information

A form of identity theft, using the identity of a deceased person

Repeatedly moving a prisoner through different institutions to avoid scrutiny

Ending a (romantic) relationship by cutting off all contact and ignoring the former partner’s attempts to reach out

A photography effect resulting in semi-transparent objects in a stitched panorama image. In most cases these are persons who or vehicles which were moving while the different single photos were being taken.

Also available from this author:

AMSTERDAM ASSASSIN SERIES:

Novels:

Reprobate

Peccadillo

Rogue

Ghosting

KillFiles:

Locked Room

Microchip Murder

Fundamental Error

Aconite Attack

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Click this link and fill out your email address to stay up-to-date.

JAMAICA

RUNNING FLAT-OUT gained Daniel Catadupa some distance on his pursuers as he ran down the dusty Negril forest road towards the coast. Just his rotten luck the bloodclot car had broken down along West End Road.

Still, Cain’s dive shop was not far. He might be able to make it on foot if only he could take a short break. The only living soul between West End and the coast was Mama Benga—an old witch living in a ramshackle old shed where she let her goats roam free. Maybe he could take a breather there.

Daniel burst from the forest at breakneck speed and ran around the house. No place to hide, except—

He dropped on the hard-packed dirt, flattened himself on his belly and slipped feet first under the cracked wooden porch. Pushing refuse out of his way with his shoes, he crawled backward into the darkness, the smell of rotting vegetation trying to invade his nose.

While he tried to get his panting under control, the running footsteps came closer, slip-sliding around the corner, and the three men came to a skidding stop. Daniel stopped crawling. He was still under the porch, not in the deep darkness under the house proper. If he was lucky, none of them would figure out where he was.

"Rass! the leader exclaimed. Bone, go there, Reggie, go there."

The men sped off in different directions, but the leader stayed where he was. Lying motionless, Daniel looked at the mud-splattered tip of the gleaming ebony cane next to the gnarled feet, the soles thick with callouses from decades of walking barefoot.

He shivered.

Barefoot Duke didn’t carry the cane to support himself. He could run as fast as men half his age. No, that black cane was a symbol of his authority, and most people feared his cane more than the machetes of his henchmen. With Duke after him, Daniel knew he’d fucked up royally, although he was still clueless about what he was supposed to have done.

Overhead the wooden boards creaked and an old voice spoke. Duke, is that you?

It is I, womahn. Go back inna dem house.

Who you be looking for? The old woman coughed, hawked up phlegm and spat on the floor. And what him done now?

No business of you, womahn. Go inna tha house now.

Wetness moistened his cheek and Daniel glanced up at a glistening string of phlegm leaking through the warped floorboards. He gagged, but remained motionless.

The gnarled feet came closer and the cane rapped the floorboards. You deaf, womahn? Inna tha house. Now.

You no catch him, Duke. He could hear the sarcasm in her voice. Him run like the devil be chasing.

You see him then, Duke said. Which way him run?

You think I help you catch dem poor boy? The old woman spat again, the gob of phlegm hitting the dirt between Duke’s bare feet. You play at mystic mahn all you wants, I know you when you was a raggamuffin boy scrounching for scraps.

Betta shut dem big mouth.

You betta respect elders, raggamuffin boy. You think you scary with your scowl?

Duke’s feet moved closer and the floorboards sagged as he stepped onto the porch. I respect elders, not scummy old scabs with potty mouths.

I no invite you on my porch, ragamu—

A sharp crack was followed by a heavy thump right overhead and Duke whispered, Told you, old hag.

Daniel turned on his back, staring up through a crack in the floorboards. He could see the wrinkled greyish skin of Mama Benga’s arm. Above it floated the scowling face of Duke. His pinprick eyes seemed to look straight at Daniel and his face was contorted in rage. Mama Benga moaned and Daniel watched in mute horror as Duke lifted his cane over his head and whacked the old woman’s body, over and over again.

Blood seeped through the floorboards and splattered his face and something broke inside him. Like a frightened animal, Daniel scrambled away to the back of the house, no longer caring about being silent.

As he crawled out from under the house, Duke came running around the corner, screaming his name in fury. Without thinking, Daniel scooped up a handful of mud and threw it at the older man. The mud hit Duke right in the face and open mouth. Seizing the moment, Daniel charged, his body-check slamming Duke against the ramshackle shed. As the man fell, Daniel spun away, but not quick enough. Duke’s ebony cane whacked him in his side and Daniel felt something snap. Fear gave him an adrenaline rush and he leaped into the bushes, blindly crashing through the foliage.

"Catadupa! Duke bellowed in rage. You a dead mahn!"

Daniel ran through the forest, branches sweeping into his face and tugging his dreads. Duke and his henchmen ran behind him in hot pursuit, close enough to hear them cussing as they used their machetes to clear their way. He was still ahead, but they seemed to be closing in. Pain stitched his left side where Duke’s cane had whacked him.

Suddenly he was clear of the forest, but the situation had not improved. His blind panic had led him straight to the cliffs. He sprinted along the edge of the cliffs, not looking at the ocean slamming into the rocks below.

From the frying pan into the fire.

Something whistled past him, followed by the crack of a gunshot.

Fresh adrenaline flooded his body and he ran like the wind, ignoring the pain in his side. Running like the devil was chasing him, as Mama Benga had put it. She was an old woman and Duke had beaten her to death for insulting him. Daniel had no doubt that his fate would be worse if they caught up with him.

Something tugged at his clothes and sliced the skin of his hip, but he couldn’t stop. Another gunshot came from his left. Instinctively he swerved to the right, not realising his mistake until he ran out of land.

At the edge of the cliff, Daniel whirled around.

Fifty yards away, Duke strode towards him, his trademark scowl visible as he bridged the distance on his long legs. Like eager puppies, his henchmen flanked Duke, but a few steps in front of him. As if he wanted to prolong the moment, Duke’s stride seemed to slow to a leisurely stroll. Panic froze Daniel until Reggie pointed a gun at him. Duke whistled sharply and the henchman lowered his arm, his grin a white flash in his dark face, but the spell was broken.

Daniel looked behind him. The ocean crashed into man-sized rocks that looked like pebbles from this height. He took a few steps towards his pursuers, then turned and sprinted to the edge. Duke yelled and gunshots cracked as Daniel closed his eyes and whipped his arms forward into a dive.

For a moment, his body seemed suspended in flight, and he heard the voice of his old physics teacher. The problem is not that humans cannot fly, but that they cannot land.

Gravity returned and Daniel plunged down, his clothes flapping in the wind that tore the tears from his closed eyes.

Jah, be merciful.

Dark death embraced him in her cold arms and squeezed the breath from his body.

AMSTERDAM

THE BELLS OF the Westertoren struck eleven times as Katla Sieltjes rode her dented silver Vespa sedately over the damp, uneven cobblestone road along the Prinsengracht canal. She halted her motor scooter at the traffic lights with the Raadhuisstraat and took deep breaths of the cold winter air while she waited for the light to turn green. Above her, the overcast sky was festooned with bloated clouds gliding low over the ancient city.

After crossing the street, Katla continued along the canal to the Nine Streets. She halted on the bridge over the Lauriergracht and looked over her shoulder.

Asian Arts & Artefacts was gone, replaced by an Italian pastry shop.

On impulse she parked her Vespa, unfolded her cane, and limped to the shop. She didn’t really need her cane anymore, but running counter-surveillance would alert the DEA and Homeland Security that she was indeed who they thought she was.

Easier to keep up the pretense.

Katla gazed into the pastry shop. The formerly dark interior was now bright yellow with a mural depicting a Tuscan landscape. A slender man with hipster glasses stood behind an illuminated glass counter where Dolfijn’s cubicle used to be.

She entered the shop, which felt like stepping into summer after the grey weather outside. The warm air that embraced her like an old friend smelled deliciously of cookie dough, coffee beans, and chocolate.

The bell chiming overhead brought back memories. In her mind’s eye, she could see the obese gallery owner, pinned to his swivel chair by one of his own swords for his betrayal of the yakuza.

Hipster Glasses tilted his head. Can I help you?

Katla blinked and the image was gone. So many ghosts…

She smiled back at him. "Six dolci, please."

Would you like me to pick a variety or do you have any preferences?

You can pick them.

While Hipster Glasses selected the small pastries, Katla walked to the back of the store and halted in front of a white cabinet with espresso beans in silver bags.

She remembered rooting through the sword cabinet that had been here, in the same spot where Bram had surprised her and shown her the first inkling of his martial arts abilities.

Their first meeting seemed longer than eighteen months ago. She wondered if those months would’ve been as turbulent if she hadn’t allowed Bram’s blindness to prevent her from doing what she usually did to witnesses. If she hadn’t been looking at the world through rose-coloured glasses, she probably wouldn’t have accepted the Menendez contract and a whole chain of events wouldn’t have happened. On the other hand, she might’ve taken the Schiphol contract, and without Bram’s strategies she would’ve ended up behind bars.

Hipster Glasses finished wrapping up the box with the dolci, which she stored in her backpack. She limped outside, where the cobblestone quay had become slick from the rain.

Katla always looked forward to lunch at Bianca’s luncheonette, but her pleasant mood soured as she parked her Vespa on the Berensluis. Large plate glass windows allowed her to see right into the luncheonette, where Bram occupied his customary table. She’d hoped he was alone, as usual, but a trim woman with carefully coiffed red hair sat at his table, her left hand resting in the palm of his hand.

Deborah Stern, liaison officer for the Drug Enforcement Administration.

Katla’s appetite dwindled and she quelled the urge to stomp into the diner and drag the bitch out by her flaming mane. She took a deep breath to calm down. They looked intimate, but that was deceptive. Bram often held hands with people to read their responses. And he had assured her that he wasn’t attracted to Stern.

Seeing how his blindness prevented him from being impressed by the redhead’s appearance, Katla tended to believe him. So she swallowed her bile, unfolded her cane and limped casually to the diner.

The bell fixed to the top of the door tinkled above her head as she entered. Bianca checked her out in the mirror above her sink before she looked over her shoulder, shot her a quick smile and cast a hooded glance in the direction of the redhead. Katla nodded imperceptibly and limped over to Bram’s booth.

At her approach, Stern leaned against the high backrest, her green cat’s eyes checking her out as if Katla were a crumpled newspaper blown in by the wind. Your girlfriend is here, Bram.

You look chummy. Katla looked at the manicured fingers resting in Bram’s hand. Putting the moves on my boyfriend, Stern?

Stern looked at her hand and smiled. As you can see, he’s holding my hand, not the other way around.

Bram opened his hand and tilted his scarred face up at Katla. Deborah, you are in Katla’s spot.

The redhead smirked and got up from the bench, pushing herself up with her left hand. There was no cast around her right wrist anymore, but compound fractures didn't heal that fast.

I see your wrist is still bothering you.

Not at all, Stern said, keeping her wrist close to her body. But thanks for asking. How’s your leg?

Stiff from inactivity. I could kick your ass, get the blood flowing.

The redhead tilted her head. If you’re looking for action, you could always resume your job.

Ladies, Bram said. I’d like to enjoy my lunch without bloodshed.

Stern mimicked clawing at Katla like a cat while she carried her cappuccino to a table across the aisle, sitting close enough to Bram’s booth to overhear their conversation.

Two months ago, Stern and her DEA colleagues tried to pin a string of murders on her. They’d failed, but not for lack of trying. And they were determined to keep pestering her in the hope that she’d slip up.

Still, anyone who could connect her to the BKA killings was dead. And the sabbatical she’d promised Bram prevented her from taking any contracts for a whole year. Her extended inactivity would make it difficult for them to keep up their current level of scrutiny. Her absence would cost her a few assignments, but that couldn’t be helped.

Katla sat down in the cloud of perfume Stern had left in her wake, and scooted across the bench until she sat against the wall, where she could keep a peripheral view of the DEA agent. Stern was half-Dutch—so they couldn’t assert their privacy by speaking in their native tongue—although Katla wasn’t prone to discuss important issues in public anyway. She looked at Bram’s empty plate, waved her hand in front of her face and said, I wonder how you can eat in this chemical cloud.

Stern only looked at her with scorn.

I ate my lunch before Deborah entered, Bram said. I take it you won’t be having lunch?

"No. I bought some dolci, Katla said. At the Lauriergracht. It’s a deli now."

Bianca came over and put a hand on Katla’s shoulder. Espresso doppio?

And a glass of water, please.

Coming right up. Anything to eat?

No thanks. Katla smiled up at Bram’s sister. Not your fault, Bianca, but it smells in here like someone skipped a shower and marinated in perfume instead.

I understand. Bianca smiled back at her. If you want, I can open the door and turn on the ceiling fans.

Ladies, Bram said. Can we please cease the hostilities?

What hostilities? Katla looked at Stern, daring her to protest. We’re just helping the olfactory-challenged.

Stern ignored them and looked outside, but the colour riding high on her cheeks was evidence enough that she had heard every word. Bianca winked at her and walked away to the counter.

Zeph is looking for you. Bram finished his tea. He got a letter from Jamaica and needs your input.

How did they know where to send it? Zeph lived illegally on a houseboat near the Zeeburg peninsula, where the Rastafarian supplemented his gigs as a session musician by growing organic cannabis. I thought nobody knew where he lives.

No, but the Dutch Rastafari community is tight-knit, so the letter was hand-delivered by one of his friends.

Katla tilted her head. Must be important.

Pretty important to Zeph, anyway.

But you’re not going to tell me.

It’s private. Bram shrugged. Zeph will tell you.

Fine. I’ll swing by the Mojo later.

Bianca brought her double espresso and slipped into the booth next to her brother. Did you tell Katla yet? About Anouk?

Bram held up his hand. Not yet.

Bianca didn’t pay any attention to the hand and blurted, Anouk is pregnant.

Katla widened her eyes. Pregnant?

Yes! Bianca beamed at her. Almost thirteen weeks.

That made her next question moot, but Katla smiled back and said, Who is the father?

Only Anouk knows. Bianca leaned forward and whispered, She’s not telling, though.

Katla leaned forward too, mimicking her conspiratorial posture. She’s not seeing anyone, is she?

I don’t think so. She’s still seems hopelessly in love with my brother.

Bram gave her a jab with his elbow.

Bianca pushed him away. It’s true, Bram. You don’t see how she looks at you.

A customer entered the luncheonette and Bianca got up and hurried to the counter.

Katla put her hand on Bram’s wrist. How long have you known? And when were you going to tell me?

I was going to, Bram said. Bianca beat me to the punch.

Katla leaned over the table and whispered, What are you going to do, Bram? She’s not getting an abortion, is she?

She’s having the baby. Do we need to talk about this now?

She glanced at the redhead. Stern still pretended to look outside, but clearly studied them in the reflection of the huge plate glass windows, a punchable little smile on her lips.

Katla ached to break her other wrist too. I’ll come over tonight.

I have an aikido class at seven. You can come over any time after nine.

We’ll talk later. She drained her cup of espresso. And I hope you don’t have more surprises for me.

No, Bianca more or less spoiled the big one.

Katla got up from the booth, kissed the top of his head and limped to the door.

Leaving already? Bianca came around the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. Sure you don’t want to torture her some more?

We call that ‘special coercion techniques’ now. Katla gave her a friendly hug. Too bad you can’t give her food poisoning without damaging your reputation.

I’ll keep an eye on her, Bianca whispered in her ear. Take care.

Katla gave Bianca a final friendly squeeze and walked out, not looking back as she made her way to her scooter. At least one positive thing had come out of Stern’s badgering; Bianca now loved her as a sister, their common enemy creating a bond.

Katla leaned over the bridge railing, looking at the dark water of the canal that formed a perfect mirror for her thoughts.

Pregnant. How fucking marvellous.

Katla donned her helmet, wiped the seat with her sleeve, and straddled her Vespa. With nothing better to do, she might as well go over to Zeph and check out the letter that caused him so much anxiety.

Deborah Stern watched Bram Merleyn as Sieltjes left the diner, but despite the obvious tension between the couple, he didn’t show agitation. As usual, Merleyn seemed unperturbed by whatever happened around him.

Still, Sieltjes seemed disturbed by her presence, as intended. Keeping the assassin off-balance—while trying to drive a wedge between her and Merleyn—was only a means to an end. Jerome still needed tangible proof that Sieltjes was indeed involved with Loki Enterprises, the organisation responsible for a whole slew of professional assassinations, both in the Netherlands and abroad. Sieltjes was a virtuoso at deception, though, which had allowed her to walk away from a blatant murder at Schiphol Airport.

The Dutch seemed to have ceased their investigation in her involvement, but Deborah and her colleagues were not fooled that easily. Their efforts at gathering information were thwarted by Sieltjes catching on to their attention and alerting Merleyn to their presence.

Ever since their return from Japan, the couple seemed to adhere strictly to their roles. Merleyn played his saxophone in the street whenever the weather allowed. Sieltjes visited the office of Sphinx Shipping occasionally, but spent most of her time with Merleyn, or visiting museums and libraries. They’d hacked her library account, but Sieltjes rarely checked out books. The ones she did check out were non-fiction books on such innocuous topics like marine flora and fauna, architecture, psychology, and art.

Diligently following Merleyn only narrowed down the location of Sieltjes’ possible domicile being somewhere in the Kadijken area, but the neighbourhood was a warren and her apartment was definitely not in her name. Despite his blindness, Merleyn managed to shake off pursuit like a lotus flower repels water.

More often, though, Sieltjes went to the Society of the Eternal Blossom, the Japanese club where Merleyn lived in the basement.

Another place where their actions couldn’t be observed.

Laure Cohn of Homeland Security had been inside and confirmed that Merleyn lived in the basement and trained in martial arts in the dojo on the top floor. Entry to the Society was restricted to Japanese ‘businessmen’ and dojo students.

Bishop had hinted about a Japanese undercover agent being groomed to infiltrate the Society of the Eternal Blossom, but he’d been reticent about the implementation.

Deborah got up after finishing her lunch and stopped by Merleyn’s booth. He tilted his face in her direction. She barely noticed the horrific facial scarring anymore. Instead, the scarring seemed to enhance the character in his face—his hawk-like nose, his patrician cheekbones, and his sensual lips with the soul patch underneath.

Leaving already? Merleyn said. Back to the grindstone?

Yes. Think about what I said earlier, Deborah said. We don’t need reservations, so just give me a call and I’ll pick you up.

It sounds interesting. Shall I ask Katla to come along?

No, Deborah said. I figured you would enjoy it because of your martial arts background, but she probably wouldn’t be interested. And they’d frown if I came with more than one guest.

Merleyn gave her a wicked grin. You want me all to yourself.

Of course, Bram. You’re irresistible. You got my number, right?

His fingers tapped out a pattern on the tabletop. If you haven’t changed it.

Nope. I’ll see you around.

Bianca skirted past her with a glass of tea that gave off a tangy smoke scent and placed it in front of Merleyn, who sniffed the air and smiled.

Deborah went to the counter, paid and tipped Bianca handsomely. The girl put the tip in the jar, but didn’t thank her. Despite her best efforts, she had failed to convince Bianca that she was not interested in seducing her brother.

After she left the luncheonette, Deborah glanced inside at Merleyn blowing the steam from his hot tea. She hoped he’d call soon. Spending time with him without his sister or his girlfriend hovering around could be interesting.

Bram was seething, but he was careful not to show his emotions to his sister as Bianca sat down across from him. He should’ve told Katla about Anouk’s pregnancy right away, instead of biding his time and having Bianca break the news. Now it looked as if he’d been hiding the pregnancy, which he hadn’t. At least, not consciously.

So, Bianca said. When will you and Katla try for a baby?

We haven’t talked about that.

I could tell she was really happy about Anouk’s pregnancy, Bianca said. But she looked a bit sad too. I think she’d love to have a baby of her own.

He smiled softly in Bianca’s direction, while his hands ached to throttle his sister. In a sense, it was gratifying how some people’s blindness superseded his own, but sometimes Bram wondered if he and Bianca really had the same parents. Usually he didn’t mind her ignorance and impulsiveness, but this latest indiscretion went beyond annoying and into the realm of truly irritating.

Despite the debauchery commonly expected of musicians, Bram hadn’t indulged in casual sex in the years between breaking up with Anouk and his current relationship with Katla, so he rarely concerned himself with contraceptives. Katla used some kind of implant and with Anouk he had more or less relied on her common sense.

It’s not because you’re blind, is it? Bianca said. Because I think you’d do great.

He turned his face in her direction. Eh?

What we’re talking about, Bianca spoke with an irritating tone of patience, as if he was the one who was slow on the uptake. I think you’d be a great dad. You’re great with kids.

Other people’s kids, Bram said. I’m also good with pets, but I don’t want a dog.

Are you comparing kids to dogs now?

No, little sister. I’m comparing temporary attention to permanent responsibility.

What do you mean? You don’t want children?

Bram finished his tea, then said, I’ll probably make an interesting uncle for your future children, but that doesn’t make me fit for parenthood.

I think you’re selling yourself short.

Bram thought about changing nappies and wiping bottoms, stepping on their toys strewn around the room.

I’m sorry about blurting out the good news to Katla, Bianca said. I didn’t think about you.

About me?

She’s your ex, Bianca said. Maybe you wanted to tell Katla yourself.

Doesn’t matter much to Katla, I think, Bram said. But it would’ve been better if Anouk had told Katla the news. Not you. Or me, for that matter.

Bram grabbed his saxophone case from under the table.

Bianca waited until he’d slung the flight case on his back and gave him a hug. I think it’s great that you’re all such good friends.

Yes, he said. It’s great.

See you tomorrow?

Probably. Bram kissed her forehead. Unless I’m busy.

Bianca held on to his jacket. "You’re not going with her, are you?"

Easy, sis. He gently pulled her fingers from his jacket. She just wants—

She’s not on the level, Bianca said. Music reporter, ha! If she’s a music reporter, I’m—

Relax. We’re just friends. Nothing more.

She’s a snake, Bram. And I’m not talking about Chinese astrology here.

Thanks for the warning.

Bram gave her another kiss and left the luncheonette.

He wondered if he should alert Anouk that Katla knew about the pregnancy. Or maybe that would put Anouk on edge—she loved Katla almost as much as she loved him. Maybe it would be best to leave it be.

LETTER

ZEPH’S HOUSEBOAT WAS berthed in the bay south of the Zeeburg Peninsula. An old river barge, the hull painted the Rastafari colours, with the name Mojo in bold blue letters, the O’s made into peace symbols. Next to the gangway was a pole with a ship’s bell. Anyone foolish enough to ignore the bell and walk up the gangway would be met by Shaitan, a guard dog that took her job seriously.

Katla rang the ship’s bell. Ding-ding pause ding-ding pause ding-ding. Shaitan appeared, looking at her as if the Rottweiler didn’t remember her from all the times Katla accompanied Bram when he was taking care of her. Or maybe Shaitan did remember, but just didn’t like her. Either way, Katla waited patiently for the Rastafarian to appear.

Zeph showed up huddled in a warm coat, a spliff hanging from the corner of his mouth as he waved her up, patting the Rottweiler’s broad head with his other hand.

Zephaniah. She moved through the cloud of cannabis to kiss his cheek. How are you doing?

Irie, he said. Good of you to come, sista. Bram tell you?

He told me you got a letter you wanted to show me.

He nodded. I got a letter from Cain. I-man older half-sibling.

Sibling? Katla followed Zeph to the pilot house, the Rottweiler trailing her and sniffing her calves. He’s your blood, but not one of your brethren?

He is not Rastafari, no. He shivered and looked with reproach at the weeping sky. And him have the same mother, but different father.

They went inside while Shaitan stayed on deck.

Zeph’s living quarters were small but neat. He’d clearly been expecting her. No dirty plates stacked in the sink, his bed made. The place even looked recently vacuumed.

Katla sat in one of his hammock chairs. You don’t sound too thrilled to hear from him.

I have no heard from them in a while. He looked thoughtful. Ten years.

Them?

Cain and Daniel. He gave her a hesitant smile. I-man baby brother.

And now they wrote you a letter.

Cain write me a letter. Zeph went into the kitchen and took two bottles of ginger ale from the refrigerator. Cain and I never got on. That one of the reasons I left. He popped the caps. The island is not big enough for the both of us.

What about Daniel?

He want to come. He shook his head and Katla wished he would turn around so she could see his face. I be seventeen when our mother die. Cain be twenty-two and Daniel nine. I work as a deckhand on a freighter going to Europe, but I could no take Daniel along.

So Daniel stayed in Jamaica and Cain took care of him?

Cain screwed up. He turned around and handed her a bottle. Maybe you better read the letter.

If it’s not too private.

It not that kind of letter. He went through the pockets of his jacket. Here it is.

Katla smoothed the blue airmail paper. Looks like it’s written by a girl.

I know. Zeph took a gulp from his ginger ale. Cain is dyslexic, so him dictate it. Probably to a girl at the post office. I think she coach him too.

She looked the letter over. Where?

He jabbed the paper with his index finger. Putting ‘Dear’ in front of I&I name is not his idea.

I see, she said, and read, ‘Dear Zephaniah. I hope this letter finds you well. Daniel is in trouble. He doesn’t talk to me, but I hope he’ll talk to you. If this letter reaches you, please contact me as soon as possible. I don’t have a phone, but you can call Alice at the post office.’ Followed by an international phone number. The letter continued, ‘If you need money to get here, let me know and I’ll send it to you. Respect, Cain.’

Money to get here? She folded the letter. Airfare to Jamaica?

I think so.

So, did you call the post office yet?

Zeph shook his head, the beads in his dreads tinkling.

Katla handed him the letter. You want to take him up on his offer?

It not be an offer, sista. He took the folded letter and stuffed it in the pocket of his sweatpants. Cain screw up. Now I have to bail him out.

Katla got out of the hammock chair. Let’s not assume, but verify.

She assembled one of her prepaid cell phones. Zeph watched without commenting. She had explained to him how even switched off cell phones could be traced and he probably figured she was quirkily paranoid.

Katla dialled the number in the letter and put the phone on speaker while Zeph fidgeted by her side.

Revival, Westmoreland Parish Post Office, a girl answered. How may I help you?

We’re calling from Amsterdam, trying to contact Cain Catadupa.

Dupree, Zeph murmured. Him last name is Dupree.

Sorry, Katla said. Cain Dupree.

Is that Zephaniah with you?

Zeph took her wrist and pulled the phone closer to his mouth. I is here, sista.

This is Alice. Cain needs you here, Zeph. Daniel has disappeared.

Do you think Daniel is in danger? Katla asked. What can we do?

Who are you?

A friend, Katla said. Alice, is Daniel in danger?

Cain thinks so, Alice said. Daniel has fallen in with a bad crowd. Cain can’t talk to him no more.

What bad crowd? Katla asked. Criminals?

Sista Someday, Alice said. Yardies. You have to come. Daniel talks about you, Zeph. You have influence.

Influence? He snorted. I been away more than ten year.

You stayed true to the path. Cain is deemed a collaborator. You know what I mean.

What do you mean? Katla asked. Collaborator?

Zeph knows. Daniel is your brother. Will you please come and help him?

It no that easy, Zeph said. I can no pack up and leave.

We can look after your dog, Katla said. He’s your little brother. I can give you airfare if that’s holding you back.

He bit his cheeks. Alice, tell Cain we come and sort this mess.

He pressed the red button on her telephone.

We? Katla said. You mean ‘you and me’?

I hope you come along.

As a lightning conductor? She’d meant it as a joke, but Zeph nodded and looked down at his feet. Cain like to live up to him name.

People change. You haven’t seen him for ten years.

Some things no get better with age.

I don’t want to get involved. Katla disassembled the phone. Take Bram. He’s good with people.

He not be the travelling type. Blind people travel in their minds.

She shrugged. He liked Yokohama.

Yokohama be a city. And you be with him constantly.

I still think we should ask him. Katla drank her ginger ale. And I have a business to run.

Zeph tilted his head. Bram say you on a sabbatical.

Not from everything, Katla said. Maybe you should ask one of your Rasta brothers to come with you.

Dem not like you. You a fighter.

Why would you need a fighter? Katla tilted her head. This is not just about Cain, is it?

Zeph hugged himself. Dem people are Yardies. Nothing to lose.

Yardies?

Government yard, Zeph said. Slums.

I’m not from the slums, Katla said. Why do you think I—

Zeph held up his hands. "Dem are not