A State Of Sin Amsterdam Occult Series Book Two Read online

  A State of Sin

  Amsterdam Occult Series Book Two

  Mark Hobson

  Harcourt Publishers

  Copyright © 2021 Mark Hobson

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9798724812566

  Cover design by Ken Dawson at Creative Covers

  To Sophie, Emily, Jacob and Leo

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  INTERLUDE

  South Africa

  PART 2

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Author’s Note

  Real-Life Terror in Amsterdam

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Books by Mark Hobson

  WOLF ANGEL

  PART 1

  ABDUCTION

  Chapter 1

  The Afrikaner

  Following the narrow hiking trail, Johan Roost slowly wound his way down from the high mountain pass. The steep, switch-back course zig-zagged back and forth, its descent marked by huge slabs of rock. To his left a waterfall fell in narrow ribbons, throwing up a fine white mist, and he paused momentarily to enjoy the cool water droplets.

  Shrugging off his small backpack, Johan found a spot on the nearest boulder and sat down with a sigh, taking the weight off his tired legs. Today’s hike had been a long one, about fifteen miles, much of it over rough terrain and through the high mountain pass at a height of over 3000 metres, and even though he had lived in this region of South Africa for most of his life, those kind of altitudes were starting to take their toll on him these days. After all, he was in his late fifties now, and although still physically very fit and well-toned, the thinner air was bound to have an effect.

  Reaching into his backpack, he took out his water bottle and took a long swig, and then chewed on the last of his biltong, turning to look up at the mountain range behind him.

  The Drakensberg Mountains. In Zulu, they were known as uKhahlamba, or Barrier of Spears, and the name was apt. The range stretched from horizon to horizon, an immense grey wall that separated KwaZulu-Natal from Lesotho, and they dominated the region for hundreds of miles around. The view never failed to bring a lump to his throat even though he saw it every single day from his lodge on the outskirts of the tiny community of Elandskop. And in the midday sun in early December, the height of summer, they looked especially magical.

  Johan turned his gaze downwards, past the fast-moving stream, towards the smaller hills below, their smooth shapes stretching away eastwards in a series of green waves. He could just make out his home where the land flattened, the lodge perched above the cultivated pastures of his farm.

  His family had owned land here for the best part of two hundred years, ever since the Great Trek of 1836-38 when his Dutch ancestors, the Boers, had descended through these very mountain passes in their search for new land away from British rule. It was hard to picture their journey, travelling as they did in small covered carts and wagons pulled by teams of oxen and mules, their passage blighted by disease and injury, by thunderstorms, flood and drought, travelling through a hostile land. Their journey, and the subsequent struggle they had endured ever since, was what had shaped the Afrikaner mentality over the centuries. And although the modern world was changing, the Dutch descendants of those original trekkers were still a hardy bunch to this day, with a few diehards – like himself – still refusing to drop their old values and ways. The political landscape may have changed in South Africa, but here, far from the big cities of Pretoria and Johannesburg, the old Boer dominance, like the geography, was constant and untouched by the twenty-first century.

  Johan remained sitting on his rock for another five minutes, romanticizing about the past, and then packed up his few things and readied himself for the final leg of his hike. It was all downhill from here and another hour, or two at the most, should see him back home.

  Just as he was about to push on a faint noise came to him. His keen ears filtered it out from the natural sounds, and he turned his head, trying to pinpoint its source. It came to him as a faint pulse, almost a thrumming of the air, which gradually grew in volume and pitch, becoming deeper the louder it became. Then it echoed down from the mountains behind, bouncing in a concussive wave, and Johan spun in time to see what had caused it.

  The helicopter flew directly overhead, its rotor blades slapping at the air, and although it passed a good fifty or so feet above him, he involuntarily ducked and cringed. He watched as it flew on, the pilot probably unaware of him just below, now dipping lower and hugging the hills, sometimes seeming to skim the tall grass at head height.

  Johan followed its course, the engine noise becoming a faint high-pitched tone that gradually faded away, and he soon lost sight of it in the summer haze.

  He scowled heavily and kicked at the ground, a dejected feeling weighing him down.

  Johan headed home.

  It was mid-afternoon with the sun past its blazing peak by the time he reached his lodge. Walking along the dusty track that led around the side of the main building, Johan stopped dead when he saw the chopper parked in the empty paddock beyond the fence. The pilot was still seated inside, ear mufflers clamped over his head and wearing aviation sunglasses, looking smart in his freshly-ironed white shirt. He turned to look at Johan briefly, before turning back to his instrument panel, so Johan marched around the corner and stomped across his front lawn.

  Dalton, his head gardener, made a beeline for him, shuffling along at his side but with his eyes cast down. “Mister Roost, you have a visitor,” he informed him somewhat needlessly.

  “Yes, so I see.”

  Johan glanced up at his veranda, seeing the figure of a person seated in one of the wicker chairs, their features indistinct under the shaded roof. Not that he needed to see them clearly to know who his visitor was.

  “Fetch me a beer will you, Dalton?” he instructed, before clomping his way up the wooden steps.

  At the top, he paused and looked directly towards his surprise guest.

  The beautiful young lady looked straight back, holding his gaze with her steady, brown eyes. She smiled, and said, “Hello Uncle Johan.”

  Johan Roost simply grunted and continued to stand there unmoving.

  The lady flicked her blonde fringe out of her eyes and crossed her legs, her summer dress showing off her immaculate figure. A twinkle glittered in her eyes, all mischievous and playful, and he couldn’t help but feel himself relax a little. His niece always had this effect on him, no matter how hard he tried not to let it. He had a soft spot for her, there was
no doubt about that.

  Removing his backpack, Johan lowered himself into another one of the chairs, and slowly shook his head. “You still like to make a grand entrance don’t you, Charlotte?” he told her.

  Charlotte Janssen tilted her head. “Of course. You know me.”

  “Nothing like keeping a low profile eh? Surprising, after all of the trouble you’ve been causing. I thought you’d have wanted to avoid attracting attention.”

  “You’ve heard then? About my spot of bother during the spring?”

  “I think the whole world heard all about it.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, swatting at the air, “it was all so exaggerated by the media. Blown out of all proportion. But someone like me can only lie low for so long before I get bored - and restless.”

  “So you thought you’d pay me a visit? A little trip to see the family? Out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “You’re the only family I have left, Uncle. I’m guessing you know about mum and Bart?”

  Johan was silent for a few moments, and then he glanced away, looking out across the lawn. During the lull, Dalton arrived with his glass of beer, which he placed on a side table, before making his way back to the garden. He took a sip, savouring the cool liquid as it glided down his throat, then he turned back to Charlotte.

  “Yes. Famke, your mum, she was a bitch when we were little, so I can’t say I’m sorry. But Bart, now that was a shame. He was a good lad at heart, just troubled, that’s all. People led him astray, corrupted his mind because they knew he was weak and easy to manipulate. People used him for their own ends, and he was too stupid to see that. Your silly little scheme cost him his life Lotte, and for what? What did you gain? What did you achieve, except to make you the most hunted woman in the whole of Europe? Ahh, silly girl!”

  Lotte said nothing, just shrugged her thin shoulders demurely.

  “And now here you are. Paying me a surprise visit. The first time I’ve clapped eyes on you in years.”

  Johan put his glass to one side and leaned forward in his chair, his strong and muscular forearms resting across his knees. He looked at her with hard eyes, ignoring the pleasant smile, now getting directly to the point.

  “What is it you want? Because if you’re looking for somewhere to hide, somewhere to keep your head down, then you can get straight back on that helicopter and fly right back to where you came from. The last thing I want is the police, or fucking Interpol or whoever, coming sniffing around here. You know the set-up I have going, and I don’t want you messing it up for me.”

  “Don’t worry Uncle, I have no intention of staying. It’s too hot, the place smells, and there are too many flies. I’m a city girl, I like my creature comforts.”

  “Then what are you here for.”

  This time it was Lotte’s turn to lean forward. Whispering, she said: “I have a job for you.”

  “I must be fucking mad,” Johan had replied, after she’d told him exactly what this ‘job’ entailed.

  As the afternoon wore on and the shadows lengthened across the lawn, they had retired to his inner office at the back of his lodge.

  Johan was seated in his leather swivel chair behind his large mahogany desk. The desk surface was strewn with papers and notepads, a pair of synched laptops, pens, pencils, a telephone, a small printer/scanner, as well as a number of hunting trophies. One of the laptops was on and currently downloading a long movie file – Lotte saw it was called Monks Cowl to Spitsberg # 12. One of Uncle Johan’s hunting videos, no doubt.

  Behind the desk the blinds covering the room’s only window were pulled down and closed, blocking out the evening sunshine and stopping prying eyes, and the door was locked from the inside.

  Covering the walls were several framed photos and certificates. Lotte strolled around, looking at them, seeing most were of groups of people, mostly men, holding high-powered rifles with telescopic sights. On each one, at their feet, lay a dead animal shot through the forehead; sometimes an elephant, perhaps a springbok or a kudu or a Mountain Reedbuck, even a giraffe on one. She moved from picture to picture, her face impassive and her thoughts private.

  Sitting in his chair, Johan watched her silently. Not for the first time, he asked himself how she had become the person she now was? Although he had had very little to do with her and her brother’s upbringing, from what he knew they had led a relatively normal – if privileged – childhood. They had spent several summers here with him in South Africa, their mother, his sister, Famke accompanying them, probably to escape the freezing winters they had in Amsterdam. They had seemed carefree as teenagers, Bart the oldest at about eighteen being a young man, and his sister Lotte six or seven years younger. Yet even back then, it had been apparent to Johan how much Lotte had dominated her big brother, how she had him wrapped around her little finger, the lad already overweight and soft from eating too much junk food. Johan had tried to instil a bit of masculinity in him, giving him jobs around the farm, taking him hunting – what a disaster that turned out to be – and hoping to draw him out of his shell, out from his sister’s shadow, but it had been to no avail. The young man was too weedy, big and strong, yes, but totally lacking in fibre or initiative. Always traipsing around after his sister, doing anything she asked. Was he gay? Johan had wondered, or retarded? Certainly that was a possibility, especially considering who his grandparents had been and the lunatic DNA he must have had slopping around in his genes. Which also, now that he thought about it as he sat in his chair watching Lotte, might explain the way she had developed in her adult years. He shook his head, too weary to think about it too deeply.

  And now here she was, with her crazy offer to him – with its crazy financial reward!

  His reverie was interrupted just then, when she glanced back over her shoulder.

  “How’s the hunting these days?” she asked.

  “Lucrative.”

  “I should imagine it is. These people in the photos are seriously rich, I’m sure I recognize one or two from TV.”

  She’d paused in front of one particular framed image. He knew the one. It showed a guy holding a rifle, the stock resting on his thigh and the barrel pointing skyward, his foot resting on the young buck he had killed. A young homeless man from the township.

  “Isn’t he that American politician? A Senator, right? Jeez, how much did he pay for that?”

  Johan cleared his throat. “Half a million dollars.” Half of what she had just offered him, he thought to himself.

  Lotte whistled between her teeth, shaking her head. “You certainly do have a good thing going here, Uncle. You must be building yourself quite a reputation amongst the rich and famous who go in for this kind of thing?”

  “A reputation built on discretion,” he corrected her, “and trust.”

  “For you and your clients surely? Considering what it is you and they are doing? By its very nature, it guarantees their silence.”

  She reached up and touched the photo, running her fingers over the image of the dead man.

  “How did you persuade them to let you photograph them?”

  “It’s part of the contract. My insurance, you could say.”

  Lotte giggled, her back still to him.

  Johan sighed and pushed himself back from his desk, his patience growing thin.

  “Listen, this job - one million you said, paid in bitcoins, right?”

  His niece turned and sashayed across, and sat in the chair opposite. She nodded. “The transfer could be in your account by this evening.”

  “And where is it?”

  “Amsterdam of course.”

  “Shit, it’ll be freezing there at this time of the year,” he grumbled.

  Lotte shrugged, her small white teeth showing as she grinned impishly. “Amsterdam is pretty at Christmas time. You’ll enjoy it.”

  Johan rose, now his turn to stroll back and forth, thinking hard. Which was a bit pointless he knew, for his decision was already made. He was simply trying to convince himself he�
��d made the right choice. He glanced across at his niece, seeing her waiting quietly, watching him go through this pretence. For some reason, this annoyed him even more.

  “And you’ll get everything prepared? The whole thing set up?”

  “Yes, events are already in motion, as they say. The whole thing should take just a few days. Before you know it, you’ll be on a plane flying back home.”

  “And the target? This man? You can guarantee that he’ll be exactly where you say he’ll be? I don’t like last-minute hitches, especially when I’m working in a foreign country.”

  “Don’t worry Uncle. I have it all worked out. Everything will run as smoothly as clockwork.”

  Johan gave a short, humourless laugh.

  “I’ve learned from my past mistakes,” Lotte added, an edge now in her voice and a small frown of irritation on her brow, which made him feel uncomfortable for some reason, and so he averted his gaze.

  He paused in his nervous walking and lifted a part of the window blind to peer outside. Across in the paddock, the pilot was now having a snooze, his head leaning against the glass cockpit of the helicopter.

  “The other stuff, all of that weird shit you do, I want nothing to do with that crap you understand? I had enough of that nonsense from your mother when we were growing up.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” she replied, her tone now softer again. “You just do what you specialize in, and I will do likewise.”

  Johan Roost turned back from the window and looked her square in the face.

  “In that case, you have a deal.”

  Chapter 2

  A foggy night in Amsterdam

  He drove the specially-converted black delivery van slowly along Vondelstraat, the engine humming quietly and the headlights penetrating the swirling December fog. At just after 7pm at this time of the year, this quiet and exclusive suburban street was all but deserted, the residents of the large, gated townhouses safely inside their homes, perhaps sitting down to enjoy their evening meals or watching the TV news.