Free Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) by Ruth Francisco

and four distribution sites.  By the time they get to checking with the managers, the van will be back in the lot.” 
    “It's too dangerous.”
    “If the van goes missing, our guys will get into trouble.  I have to warn them.  Their work area may get searched.  They need time to set things right.  And if I can't get the van, they'll have to come up with a story about it getting stolen.”  He opens the door to leave.  “I'm sorry, Lina.  You have a backup plan?”
    “Always,” I say more confidently than I feel.
    “Good luck, then.”  With that, he disappears down the alley.
    I walk back into the dressing room.  Six cots line the wall opposite the makeup mirrors.  The children, naked and wrapped in towels, dry their hair by the potbelly stove at the far end.  The mother has already changed into black slacks and a black turtleneck.  Not a costume.  Probably worn by stagehands for darting on and off the proscenium.  Her heavy abaya steams by the stove and smells like a wet horse blanket.
    “I have some beans and turnip bread,” Spook says.  He is spry, with rounded shoulders and a rim of white tufts below a bald pate.  I imagine him playing Richard III.  “You're lucky I didn't have other guests tonight.  You hungry?”  He sets bowls around the table using old theater programs for place mats.  A revival of Godspell.   I'm guessing the play wasn't a sellout. 
    I am starved, but I need to leave.   
    I thank him and tell him I'll send someone around with extra food coupons and money, which makes him happy.  I tug the father to one side.  “Who knew about the pickup?  Someone tipped off the Landweer.  Your host in Spakenburg?”
    “No.  Nobody.  Only the milkman who told us when to meet the fisherman.  Maybe someone on your end?”
    I know the “milkman,” a friend who goes by the name of Salie, which means sage.  One of our best operatives.  Not him.  I run through the list of people who knew about the pick up.  Me, Pim, Rosalie, Gerda.  Rikhart made the ID documents, but didn't know the time or place.  Someone might have followed our van from the De Waarheid, but Pim is a good driver.  He would never allow us to be followed.  I shake my head.  “I don't think so.”
    “There's always the fisherman.  The Landweer pay for tips.”
    I certainly hadn't liked the looks of the man in the boat, but it doesn't make sense.  “He has a good gig with us.  I don't think he'd risk it.  The people of Spakenburg support the Resistance.  He would lose business if anyone found out.”
    “You never know.”
    Precisely.  You never know. 
    I step out of the room for a moment to check a camera monitor of the back alley.  Stage managers once used it to help stars avoid paparazzi.  The alley is empty.  Nobody has followed.  I go back to the dressing room, and hand the father four sets of passports and internal identity papers.  “ La familia Caputi.  You are Italian immigrants from Calabria.  You live in Leiden.  You are Dutch citizens.  Burn your other IDs in the stove.  I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at seven.”
    Signor Caputi grabs my forearm, his eyes wretched, his hand trembling.  “What if you don't show up?  What then?”
    “I'll be here.  Don't worry.”
    “What if you aren't?  What do we do?  Are you going to leave us here to rot?”
    I understand his truculence.  He is frightened.  No man likes to appear powerless in front of his family.  I write down an address on a slip of paper and hand it to him.  “If I don't show up in two days, go to this address.”  He looks at the paper, grimacing as if in pain.  I suddenly worry that he caught a stray bullet.  Even a twisted ankle could prove fatal now, bringing attention to the family as they pass.  Then I realize he's trying not to cry.  “You must be strong,” I say.  He nods and drops his chin.  I put my palms on either side of his face and force him to look at me.  “Eat some food.  Get