took a left off the exit road and entered the small fishing village of Marken. He had seen windmills in Amsterdam and along the road during the drive, but Marken itself was like a Disneyland version of Holland. Everywhere he looked now he saw women dressed in pinafores. Most obvious of all were the Dutch clogs, the wooden shoes that had captured the imagination of the entire world. It seemed that there was a store selling them on every corner.
“Damn,” Paxton said, sitting forward in his seat. “I didn’t know people really wore those things anymore.”
“They don’t in the cities,” the Executioner said. “But out here, yeah. Particularly since it’s the town’s leading industry besides fishing.”
“I’d think they’d hurt your feet,” Paxton said.
“Well,” the Executioner came back as he drove slowly on down the street. “You can find out for yourself if you’re really interested.” He slowed the BMW, then pulled into an empty parking space under a sign which read Klompenmaart. “We’re meeting the informant inside here. It’s the shop of a custom wooden shoemaker.”
Bolan killed the engine and both men got out. The Klompenmaart was roughly halfway down a small shopping strip, and from somewhere in one of the stores classical music came piping out. On the sidewalk, men, women and children all walked expertly past in the wooden shoes, chattering happily away in Dutch.
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