Back at the hotel Wall switched on the TV and went immediately to CNN. It appeared to him that the name "Def-Con City' had taken on a life of its own. According to the TV reports the whole city was now in panic and people were leaving in their masses. As far as he was concerned everybody was still there, and there was no obvious sign of panic on the streets anywhere. They showed a map of the Vondelpark, situated near where the killings occurred. They called it Needle Park. According to the reports it was extremely dangerous day and night, and all the junkies in Amsterdam would meet there to get high and deal drugs.
He had been to the park a couple of times when he first arrived in the city and had never seen anyone drug dealing. In fact, there were no tramps to be seen, even sleeping on the benches, and no one begging for money. In fact, since he came to Amsterdam he realized he never saw one soul with a paper cup in their hands begging for a dime.
Back home the homeless, the hobos, the losers and the junks would be hanging out in subways, outside supermarkets, or corners of the more affluent shopping areas with a paper cup. Since he arrived he had spotted only a couple of buskers on the Leidseplein, and that was it.
Lying on the bed he zapped through the other channels, and felt his belly rumble. He had nothing to eat since early this morning, which he put down to watching Bakker with the pizza.
The hotel restaurant was an option, but he enjoyed the city, the atmosphere and the adventure of finding new places to eat. It was time for another walkabout.
He remembered the Chinese restaurant just up from the Hill Street Blues coffee shop. He did like the street. It had a buzz to it not too many of the other streets had. The mix of tourists, students and locals, and the fact that little or no cars could drive there did the trick.
Wall walked down to the Concertgebouw and caught the number five tram towards central station. He checked the location of the Chinese restaurant on his iPhone, and the tram route. The best way to get there was just to ride it out to the end of the line.
The tram had the usual mix of tourists and locals and felt relaxed. No would-be pickpockets, handbag snatchers, drunks or junkies, which was just the way he liked it.
Within fifteen minutes he arrived at Central Station. The large grand red brick building looked more like a Dutch museum then a train station; with gray stone carvings embedded into two towers each side of the front facade. The square tower on the right-hand side had a clock on the front while the left tower had a clock with only one hand. Wall realized it was a North, South, East and West dial face and the hand moved to indicate the wind direction. Why would you want to know the wind direction in the middle of a city, he thought.
The atmosphere around the station was relaxed and easy with people coming and going from the station at a laid-back pace.
He checked his iPhone map app once again, then knew which way to walk; over the bridge in front of the station then take a left. He crossed over at the traffic lights in front of the station then left again and over a second canal. Checking his map app, it guided him exactly in the direction he needed to take. It was only a short walk down a narrow street before he came to the Warmoesstraat on the right.
Just like the last time, the bicycles were out in force. There was a small sidewalk to each side of the narrow street and he decided to use it. At least he would not need to continuously be on the lookout for oncoming bicycles.
After about three hundred meters, just before he reached the Hill Street Blues coffee shop, he saw what he was looking for. On the opposite side of the street was the Chinese restaurant he remembered. As he entered he was greeted by a beautiful woman, in her early twenties, wearing a typical black waitress uniform. She said something in Dutch, then quickly changed to English when he did not give a direct reply.
"With you like to sit there?" She said as she pointed to a table halfway down the restaurant. Wall immediately asked for a table at a window in Chinese. The waitress was surprised and smiled and bowed her head in acknowledgment then indicated to the only table next to the window. His Chinese was not great, but he had learned enough from his mother to get by.
His parents met in high school and had been together for thirty-four years before his father died five years ago. He would not say he was fluent, but could hold a conversation and understood it perfectly. He realized he should have told Hendrik Pastoor, who probably then would have shut up gloating about how many languages he knew.
When he was young, his mother brought him regularly to see his Chinese relatives in and around New York. She was always close to her family, unlike his father, who had no contact with his whatsoever. It was one of the reasons his captain put him to work as often as he could in Chinatown. There they got a kick out of the tall black American who could speak and understand Chinese. They called him "he suto ka chumkoa," which basically meant big black Chinese.
Although it was a large table for four, there were only places set for two. The waitress removed the knives and forks and placemat for the second person and came back with the menu, which was in a large brown leather cover.
The menu was split into three sections covering three languages. Dutch, English and German. Some of the dishes were familiar, but not all. This was probably due to the Dutch influence of its former Indonesian colonies.
He chose prawns in sweet and sour sauce with lemongrass. She asked him if he wanted fried rice or steamed, he chose fried, and a large beer to go with it.
As he waited he checked his iPhone for messages. There were none. Not that he received many, but usually one or two a week. He used to have a Facebook account which was only visible to friends, but dropped it when a criminal gang hacked into it and began to follow his movements. Going out for meals, or to a film, or any event gave them too much information about his private life. He wondered if Bakker had a Facebook account, but at the same time he did not think he would like to see it. It would probably gross him out.
Wall looked up from his iPhone and out of the window at the street in front.
Strangely he recognized the face of a man who walked by. He immediately thought it was virtually impossible since he hardly knew anyone in Amsterdam. He had got to know some of the hotel staff, but that was more of a hello and goodbye acquaintance, and not much more. Someone at the station? The only person he ever talked to for any length of time in the city was Bakker.
He could not place the man's face. He was accompanied by a woman in her early twenties, which he reckoned was roughly half the man's age. She did not look too happy. He was talking, and pointing his finger at her, and she was on the verge of tears. Within ten steps they were gone out of view.
At that moment the waitress returned with his order. He could get up and follow them but she seemed so pleased to be serving him, it would have been the biggest insult if he left. Wall thanked her in Chinese and settled into the meal, still trying to remember where he first saw that face.