you know about my dogs?”
“Rhodesian ridgebacks, weren’t they?”
He’d dyed his distinctive silver hair a stupid-looking black. As notorious as he was, it was unlikely that anyone in the sleepy southern Dutch city would recognize him, even if he hadn’t colored his hair.
Tourists—most of them Dutch themselves—stood in line for the boat tour of the Binnendieze.
Libby was bored out of her mind. She’d put on a frumpy denim skirt, a cheap tank top and ergonomic sandals and carried a canvas bag over her shoulder loaded with all the usual tourist paraphernalia. Her .22-caliber Beretta was tucked inside her foldable, packable, squishable traveler’s rain jacket.
If necessary, she could get to the Beretta, shoot Nick Janssen and be gone before anyone realized what had happened. If people didn’t expect him to be an international fugitive, they didn’t expect her to be an accomplished killer.
But she hoped violence wouldn’t be necessary. She had very big plans for her new relationship with her fellow American.
“I had to give the dogs away,” he said.
She’d almost forgotten she’d asked about them. “That’s too bad. Still, it wouldn’t be easy to be on the lam with two dogs, never mind ones as large as they were.”
“Samkevich shouldn’t have sent you here,” Janssen said tightly. “We should have met somewhere else.”
“That would have had its own risks.”
Vlad Samkevich, a Russian who lived in London, was a well-known arms dealer who also had an international warrant out for his arrest. But he wasn’t as rich or as desperate as Janssen, and Libby needed someone who was both.
Janssen stared at the tourists talking loudly to one another in Dutch. “Samkevich says you’ve done work for him. You look like a child. How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“You look younger.”
It wasn’t a compliment. She was small and wiry, and although her very short hair was prematurely gray, it still hadn’t added years to her appearance. It was her size and her cute face that made people think she was younger—always too young.
“I can do the job, Mr. Janssen,” she said. “Just give me your list.”
“I’ll need you to prove yourself.”
She was prepared. “I already have.”
He glanced sideways at her. “How?”
“I killed Vladimir Samkevich before I left London two days ago.”
No reaction from Janssen. Not shock, not respect, not anger.
Libby responded in kind and kept her mix of satisfaction and fear to herself. What if she’d guessed wrong? But she knew she hadn’t. The man next to her had no more feeling for the Russian than she did. “Samkevich wasn’t your friend. The authorities don’t have solid evidence on you. You were as much a victim in May as anyone else. You didn’t shoot the two marshals in Central Park or have the Dunnemores kidnapped in Amsterdam. Your guy had his own agenda.”
Janssen made a little noise at her mention of Stuart and Betsy Dunnemore, parents of one of the wounded marshals, friends of John Wesley Poe, the current U.S. president. Libby wasn’t sure she should have brought them up. Janssen had fancied himself in love with Betsy, his former college classmate, and tried to manipulate her into interceding on his behalf with Poe.
He’d thought Betsy would dump her elderly diplomat husband and marry him.
But Libby understood what it was to have unrealistic dreams, dreams everyone else thought were insane—not that most people gave a damn about anyone else’s hopes and dreams. Nick Janssen didn’t. He’d wanted a presidential pardon and let it be known he’d pay for one. He didn’t care who got hurt in the process. His blindness to the aspirations of others had backfired on him as well.
When he didn’t speak, she went on. “You had a guy use you in May for his own ends. The two men you sent to the States to clean up after him could have been a problem, too, but they’re dead. They can’t testify against you. They were two of your most trusted bodyguards, but who’s to say they wouldn’t have turned on you?”
“What does any of that have to do with Samkevich?”
“He could testify against you. The authorities were closing in on him. He knew it. He’d have cut a deal in a heartbeat, given them you in exchange for a lighter sentence.”
Janssen thought a moment. “You’re right, of course.”
She hid her relief. “I don’t want payment for him.”
“His body—”
“He won’t be discovered for a few more days.”
“You’re a very cold woman, Miss Smith.”
She tried not to bristle, but she wasn’t cold. Not at all. “I’m good at what I do.”
“This is a nice town,” he said absently. “I could have stayed here for a long time. I was on an island off the coast of Scotland for two months. Did you know that?”
“No,” she lied.
He seemed to like that, having one over her. “The food was terrible. Here…” He gave a wistful sigh. “I have other safe houses.”
“Of course.”
“I want to see my mother’s grave.” His words were soft and yet toneless, as if he’d said them so many times they’d lost their meaning, become an unattainable fantasy. “It’s within walking distance of where I grew up in northern Virginia. She died last winter.”
Libby squirmed. She’d gone to her father’s grave once, just so she could spit on it. “I’m sorry. Do you have your list?”
He looked at her again. “Yes. You really are very cold.” But he fished a white index card out of his shirt pocket and passed it to her. “Ten names. A hundred thousand dollars for each.”
She tucked the card into her canvas bag. “Excellent.”
“You didn’t look at any of the names.”
“There’s time for that. I’ll need a deposit of a hundred thousand dollars wired into my account.”
He nodded. “I’ll take care of it. Should I be arrested—”
“I’ll work faster and expect a bonus. Double.”
“That’s two million dollars.”
“You rich tycoons.” Libby smiled, hoisting her canvas bag higher onto her shoulder. “Always so good at math.”
She slid smoothly to her feet, noticing that Janssen didn’t so much as glance at her breasts straining against her tank top. Wrapped up in his own problems,
