One Minute Out
He’d not been at this for long before he heard the doorbell echo throughout his large modern home. He glanced over at the dedicated monitor for the front-door camera and saw a small woman in a neat black raincoat standing there, a purse over her shoulder, a hand on her hip. A sensible two-door rental was parked in the drive.
Meyer almost reached for his intercom button to ask the visitor who she was and what she wanted, but she couldn’t have looked any more harmless or nonthreatening standing there, so he didn’t bother. Deciding he wanted a closer look before he turned this stranger away, he stood and walked in his warm-ups and socks through his house, down his stairs, and into the foyer. Here he looked through the glass at the lady, who smiled right back at him.
She was young; she looked like she couldn’t be out of college, but her clothing was sophisticated. She had bright red hair, obviously dyed, and narrow features with small brown eyes.
To Meyer she seemed like a little boy in women’s clothes.
Instead of opening his door, he just leaned up to the glass.
“Can I help you?” he asked in Dutch.
The reply came in English, which Meyer had spoken fluently since childhood.
“Maarten Meyer? Hello, my name is Talyssa Corbu.”
She fumbled through her purse for a moment, then took out a leather credential folio. Opening it up, she pressed it against the glass, inches from his face.
He read the word in bold aloud. “Europol.” Making a face out of annoyance but not out of worry, he said, “All right, Talyssa Corbu, Junior Economic Crimes Analyst . . . what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk to you for a moment about a matter of interest to us both.”
Meyer looked around. He’d been arrested enough times to know how this worked. Europol didn’t send analysts to make arrests; they didn’t even send analysts out in the field. He saw no local or federal police, so he imagined this woman did simply want to talk.
Still, he said, “Call my lawyers.”
She shook her head, and he thought he noticed a little tremor in her throat. But with a strong enough voice she said, “Ten minutes of your time, and then I’ll leave. Trust me, you want to hear this from me, first, like this.”
He was intrigued. He let her in, then had her follow him into the kitchen, where he checked on his fish and began whipping up a lobster sauce from last night’s leftovers.
“You drove here from Den Hague, did you?”
“Yes, sir,” Corbu replied. “Just arrived.”
“And what would a junior economic crimes analyst want from me?”
“I want a partnership.”
He stopped whisking his eggs and looked up at her quizzically.
“What?”
* * *
• • •
The halibut was burned by the time he remembered to take it out fifteen minutes later. He’d spent the intervening period sitting across the kitchen island from the Europol woman sipping wine—he’d offered her some, but she’d declined—and listening to her spiel.
The gist of it was easy to follow. He was under investigation by international law enforcement, his future was bleak, but she could make his problems disappear.
She told him what she would do for him, and she told him what she wanted from him.
As she spoke, he began to see something in the woman. A weakness, or a set of weaknesses. She was terrified to be here in front of him, unable to stop her hands from trembling, fighting to keep authority in her voice that he doubted she really possessed.
With each passing minute this visit became stranger and stranger.
Finally he said, “So . . . you are telling me that in exchange for me breaking into online bank transfer records, illegally, that you will keep me apprised of the investigation into me, and do whatever you can to slow or stop it.”
Talyssa nodded but did not speak; he wondered if she was worried her voice might crack.
Meyer hesitated, but not for long. “As I said when you showed up at my door, I want to call my lawyer.”
“Sorry, Maarten. If you talk to your lawyer, then this deal is off the table.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the island, his eyes narrowed. “It’s already off the table, miss. I want no part in whatever criminal activity you are involved in. I am an honest man. All my work is aboveboard.”
She just stared at him.
“And,” he added, “if you don’t leave right now, then I will report you tomorrow morning to the authorities.”
She did not get up from her seat.
“Did you hear me?” he said again, his voice louder now. “Get out of my house.”
He saw that his powerful voice was taking a toll on her limited reserves. Her lips trembled and her voice cracked now. “I will not leave. You will do what I ask, or I will be forced to—”
She paused an instant, and Meyer took the opportunity to jump in.
“Forced to what?” When she did not answer him, he repeated himself. “Forced . . . to . . . what?”
She looked down at the island, then meekly she replied, “I’ll be forced to come back here with a friend and let him convince you.” Her eyes flashed up to his now. “Believe me, I’ve seen what he can do, and you don’t want that.”
Maarten told himself this woman was insane; she was threatening him, in his house, telling him she’d be back with a dangerous man to force him to commit a crime.
He looked to his right on the kitchen island, and he saw the knife block. He thought if he could just snatch up one of his large blades and hold it up, then he could threaten her right back. He wouldn’t hurt her, he’d never hurt anyone, but he could intimidate her right out the door with a little push. He’d be well within his rights, because he’d asked her to leave many times, and it was obvious she was herself operating illegally.
She wouldn’t run to the cops about him pulling out some cutlery on her.
She shouted at him now. “Just do what I ask! Please!”
Insane, he told himself again. Maarten Meyer decided to go for the knife, just to intimidate. But as he stood quickly he telegraphed his intentions by locking his eyes onto the block.
Talyssa Corbu was closer, and she launched to her feet herself. She looked down the path of Meyer’s gaze. “No!” she shouted in a panic, then reached out for the block and knocked it out of the Dutchman’s reach with her forearm, causing it to spill to the floor. All the knives shot across the kitchen, then skittered down into the sunken living room behind her.
All the knives save for one.