The door to the building shut slowly, cutting off the light. Footsteps echoed away into the maze of medieval streets, leaving Elise alone with the certainty that Étienne had died because he'd found something there. Something worth killing for.
But what?
The Hoveniersstraat hummed with its usual morning energy. Here, diamond cutters bent over their wheels, dealers conducted whispered negotiations in a dozen languages, and the soft clink of precious stones changed hands in transactions worth more than most people's homes. But beneath Antwerp's glittering heart, Eliseknewsomething deadly had occurred. However, she couldn’t prove anything. She had nothing to go on but the notes Étienne had left on his last article. She sat in Café Diamonds, nursing her third espresso of the afternoon and watching the Maritime Relief Foundation's headquarters across the street. The building looked legitimate enough. From the brass nameplate, well-dressed staff coming and going, to the charity posters in multiple languages filling the windows. But Étienne's final investigation had traced this address to companies in the Cayman Islands. Why? And how could she find out what those companies had to do with Maritime Relief? A search of the internet yielded no results. There were too many questions and no answers.None.
A sensation of being watched rolled over her. It was strong and undeniable. Elise’s hand trembled a bit as she set downher cup. The café's warmth seemed to leach away, replaced by the cold certainty that someone was watching her. She scanned the faces around her. There were clusters of tourists clutching guidebooks, local diamond dealers with practiced poker faces, and an elderly man readingHet Laatste Nieuws. No one seemed interested in what she was doing.
After paying her bill with cash, Elise slipped into the street, keeping to the shadows cast by the guilded houses ornate façades. She stopped and looked into a jeweler’s window, trying to see if anyone was following her. The movies made it look so easy, but she couldn’t see a damn thing in the reflection, so she turned and strolled along the sidewalk. The medieval city had always felt like a maze to her, but now it felt like a mousetrap, and she was the one with a long tail. She drew a breath as her imagination worked overtime. Now, every narrow passage was a potential dead end, every Gothic spire a watchtower for unseen enemies. Lord, Étienne would laugh at her if he knew how worked up she’d let herself become in this moment. She walked on, checking over her shoulder every now and then until the sensation that someone was watching her dulled. It was just her overactive imagination. She knew Étienne hadn’t died the way the authorities said he had. Sheknewit in her soul, and that belief was what made her paranoid.
The Port of Antwerp stretched endlessly under the gray afternoon sky, a steel forest of cranes and containers that processed more cargo than any port in Europe except Rotterdam. Elise stood at the Noordkasteel, where the old city met the modern harbor. She wandered along the railing, watching ships arrive from Hamburg, Miami, and São Paulo.
The wind off the Scheldt cut through her jacket, carrying the smell of something organic and unpleasant. Dead fish or perhaps rotting vegetation. She'd been following the paper trail Étienne had left for weeks now. Her strongest evidencewas shipping manifests that showed medical supplies bound for refugee camps. However, she had no way of knowing if the containers had been stolen, rerouted, or delivered. Hell, she didn’t even know why the manifests were important. But Étienne wouldn’t have them in his file if they weren’t. They meant something. And so did the flyer he’d saved about the Maritime Relief Foundation. Yet, she couldn’t access the records from the port authorities without a court order. The gala she’d attended under the guise of journalistic interest was nothing but dead ends.
Elise leaned against the fence and stared at the water rolling against the cement bulkhead.A plus B, Elise. What is A plus B?You can’t add them until you know their value.She could hear Étienne’s heavy French accent in her mind.
A is the foundation. She labeled the information mentally. Étienne’s notes mentioned it several times, and the flyer reinforced the importance of this fact. So, she would dig into A. Watching the building wasn’t getting her anywhere. There were no shadowy figures, no aid lines with homeless people she could interview, so she needed to go back to the basics.You can’t add them until you know their value.She nodded. She’d find out the old-fashioned way. News articles, public records, court documents. Research.
"Fräulein Serre?"
She spun, heart hammering. A man approached through the maze of people on the sidewalk. He was tall, weathered, and wearing the coveralls of a dock worker. But his eyes held an intelligence that suggested more than manual labor.
"My name is Karel Hendricks," he said quietly in heavily accented English. "I did some work for Herr Duval. He said if anything happened to him, I should find you."
Elise’s mouth went dry. "Étienne never mentioned anyone named Karel."
The man smiled grimly. "He wouldn't. But he left something for you. Something he couldn't trust to email or the post." Karel glanced around the industrial landscape, then gestured toward a maintenance shed hidden between two container stacks. "We need to move quickly. They might have people watching the ports."
Every instinct screamed that the man and the situation were nothing but dangerous. Still, Elise followed. If this man gave heranyinformation, it would be worth the risk. He took her elbow and escorted her down the street to an old shed that once had a purpose. He opened the door and pushed her inside quickly. The shed's interior reeked of diesel fuel, with old, decrepit motors cluttering the floor. She backed up and placed her hand on a steel pipe. Karel pulled an envelope from his pocket.
"He told me he discovered something, and I couldn’t give this to anyone but you. Only you should read this," Karel said.
Elise let go of the pipe and tore open the envelope with shaking hands. Inside, Étienne's familiar handwriting covered a single sheet: names, dates, codes. At the bottom, underlined three times:Getting too close. If something happens to me, trust no one in authority, only a Guardian. The corruption goes all the way up.
"When did he give you this?" she whispered.
Karel's expression darkened. "The night he died. I stayed low when I heard he was pulled out of the water. He told me to keep a watch out for you, that you’d come here eventually. I saw you today.” The man moved nervously. “Don’t follow this path, Fräulein. I’m a private investigator, and even with my contacts and resources, doors have been shut, questions are being asked, and people are watching.” He held up a hand. “I don’t think anyone saw me leave my office, not in this costume.”
The shed door creaked in the wind, and both of them froze. Footsteps approached on the concrete outside. Not casualwalking, but hurried running. From the sound of the shuffle, there were multiple people. Karel grabbed Elise's arm and pointed her to a low metal door at the back of the shed.
"There's a service tunnel that leads to the water treatment plant. Go now. Don't look back." His eyes held the desperate intensity. "And remember, in Antwerp, even the police cannot be trusted."
The shed creaked as Elise forced the warped door shut behind her. She heard Karel push the heavy motor in front of the door. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. The harbor sounds muffled. The sound of gulls crying, the low thrum of engines, the slap of river water against hulls all faded into damp silence as she descended the narrow stone steps. She pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight.
The corridor reeked of rust and saltwater, and the air was heavy with mildew. The smell clung to the back of her throat. She tripped and pointed the flashlight down. The floor was uneven, slick with condensation dripping from pipes overhead. Her shoes splashed lightly through shallow puddles where groundwater had seeped in. The walls were old brick, and when she placed her hand on the wall, the mortar between the bricks fell away in chunks under her slight pressure.God, this damn thing could collapse at any moment.
She drew a deep breath and pressed forward, too smart to go back but not wanting to go forward either. Like she had a choice. The flashlight on her phone illuminated the tunnel. Rusted iron supports groaned faintly when she brushed against them.Shit. Shit.She drew her arms close to herself.Don’t bump anything.Don’t bump into anything. The air grew colder the deeper she went, a stagnant chill that seeped into her bones.
Every sound was magnified. The rush of her breath, the scuff of her soles on wet concrete, and the faint patter of water dripping from overhead jarred her senses. She prayed therewere no animals down here. Shivering, she pulled her coat closer around her. As she advanced, she started going uphill instead of downhill.That has to be good. Up is good.Somewhere in the distance, machinery hummed, a low and constant sound that energized her steps.
The tunnel curved, then widened, and a massive iron valve loomed overhead. She held her flashlight and examined it, recognizing the city crest impressed on the metal. It was probably remnants of the old drainage system. The bolts around the pipes had corroded into knots of rust. Elise ducked under it, shoulders barely brushing cold metal, but her pulse raced faster.
“Don’t touch. No touching,” she whispered to herself because even the sound of her own voice was better than the sounds of the tunnel. She paused every thirty seconds or so to make sure she couldn’t hear anyone coming after her. The silence was deafening and not all that reassuring.
When the tunnel climbed sharply, the smell shifted. Less brine and more of a chemical smell that stung her nose. She suppressed a cough and pressed on. Ahead, there was a faint glow of light. The thought of a moth and a bug zapper flittered across her mind. Of course, she was the moth, wasn’t she?Not helpful. She batted the thought away.
At last, the narrow passage opened into a service corridor lined with gray tiles and pipes snaking along the ceiling. The air hummed with the sound of pumps and the scent of disinfectant. A yellow sign, written in both Dutch and French, warned against unauthorized entry.Thank God. She was at the water treatment plant.
Her nerves were on edge, but she kept moving, head down. She fumbled with her purse, shoving the letter Étienne had given her inside while pulling her notebook out.Be professional. Don’t act rushed. You belong here.She pressed the tablet to her chest and held it too tight. Stopping to orient herself, she took thechance to pull two deep breaths and steady herself. She spotted an exit. Marked by a lighted sign, it was a heavy metal door. Relief rushed through her veins.
