A State Of Sin Amsterdam Occult Series Book Two, Mark Hobson [notion reading list txt] 📗

The IP address of the remote user logging in to the intercepted calls and messages.

Back on his mobile, Pieter opened up a secure app called FLASHFACE SCANNER 112 and entered his police password, and then ran this second IP address through the software.

Twenty seconds later and his phone chimed and he opened the file.

There, on the tiny screen of his smart-phone, was a postal address in central Amsterdam.

“Oops,” Johan Roost said to himself.

Lotte looked over. He was on the laptop again, using the IMSI software.

“What?” she asked.

“It looks like somebody briefly switched us over to a Wi-Fi network, and then straight back again.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means we’re about to get a visitor,” he told her.

He drove straight over. He couldn’t risk phoning HQ (for obvious reasons) and there was no time to head over to Elandsgracht for some backup as it wasn’t on the way, and the clock was ticking on this one.

Besides, it was time to take matters into his own hands, to be proactive.

The Begijnhof was one of the oldest courtyards in the city. Dating back to the 1340’s, it was built following The Miracle of the Host as a sanctuary for women to live lives of religious servitude, similar to a convent. It housed two churches, Pieter remembered from the few times he had visited, and consisted of a group of very old buildings clustered around a small green. There was a statue of Mary (or was it one of the Beguine nuns? – he couldn’t remember) and in recent decades was used as a women’s refuge.

There were two entrances, he recalled, and he chose the one leading off Spui Square.

By the time he pulled up the light was fading from the late-afternoon sky. Hopefully the place would be quiet, with the few tourists braving the snowy weather having drifted off back to their hotels.

Walking across the square towards the narrow arched entrance, which led down to a set of steps and into the enclosure, Pieter withdrew his service weapon and checked that the Walther P5 was loaded. The magazine contained eight rounds and he chambered the first bullet, the loud snap of the sliding barrel crisp and clear in the still air.

Moving to the side of the opening set in the high wall which surrounded the complex of buildings, Pieter edged nearer. He gripped the pistol’s butt in his right hand while he supported his wrist with his left hand, for although the weapon was small it still had a decent kick.

Passing around the edge of the wall and holding the gun out to his front he stepped smoothly into the entrance. There was a short, stone passage with six or seven steps leading down, and then another archway. Beyond this, he could see the snow-covered lawn in the dim evening light and no movement other than drifting snowflakes.

It occurred to him then that this was an ideal place for Lotte to have holed up in all of these months. The women who stayed here in their separate apartments preferred to remain anonymous, very seldom giving their real identities, for most of them were here to escape abusive relationships. The charity that ran the refuge asked very few questions. So it was a perfect location for her to hide away while the police had searched everywhere for her.

She was right under their very noses - if she were indeed here.

Pieter moved down into the courtyard, breathing rapidly.

To his left was a short cobbled path leading to a set of steps and a doorway. The windows to either side of the door were in blackness, so for the time being he dismissed this direction and instead turned to check out the area near the lawn.

The statue at the centre was almost obscured with snow. Only her face was visible, and her stone features stared back at him, sending a shiver down his spine. On the far side of the patch of white grass was the large edifice of one of the churches, and running along the length of the building was a narrow passage flagged with gravestones, again leading nowhere.

He remembered now. The majority of the courtyard, with the houses and apartments where the women lived, were beyond the large bulk of the church and not visible from this side. The entranceway he’d used was really the smaller side entrance. He cursed himself for coming this way.

Pieter looked around, taking in the quiet setting. There was a hushed beauty to the scene, he admitted, with the soft snow settling on the ground muffling all sound except for the crunching of his boots. A few lights were on in some of the apartment windows, and the old lanterns gave the courtyard a Dickensian feel, a picture-postcard Christmas ambience.

But there was also a tension in the air, a tautness to the descending night, and he felt icy and bony fingers caress his spine like an illicit lover.

Somewhere a cat called out loudly, and the sound broke through his musings, and so he stepped forward around the square lawn towards the church building.

Just before he reached the brick corner, a movement caught his attention, and his step faltered. Not a sound, more of a shifting of the air, and a half-second later the explosive report of a gunshot shattered the silence.

The bullet struck the stonework barely two feet in front of his face, sending a chip of masonry flying over his head, and Pieter ducked down and scurried over to the side of the church. He cursed and thanked God in equal measures.

The shot had come from beyond the church, confirming his fears that whoever was shooting at him – and it had to be Lotte or whoever else was working with her – were hiding out in that section.

He risked a quick peek around the corner, which drew a second gunshot, this one not as well-aimed; the round hit the statue behind him and then ricocheted away, taking half of the figure’s head with it.

Yet