Splinter Cell

Bolan glanced quickly toward the other man, frowned, then turned back to the highway. “I’m surprised the court didn’t put you both in foster homes,” he said.

“I’m sure they would have if they’d known about our situation.” Paxton chuckled. “But we both kept quiet and slipped through the cracks. That’s probably when I first began to develop such great respect for bureaucracy.” His last sentence dripped with sarcasm. But when he went on, his voice was lighter again. “The folks had the house already paid off, and Phil and I both got jobs after school to pay the utilities and other bills. We didn’t do any high-rolling. But we got by.”

Ahead, the Executioner saw an arrow pointing out the exit to Marken. He let up slightly on the accelerator.

“Anyway, when I graduated I got a full-time job working construction,” Paxton continued. “Stayed home until Phil hit eighteen and they couldn’t take him away if they found out. He’d always shown a great interest and aptitude in all the sciences, and he wanted to go to college. I didn’t. So I went off into the Army and he headed for Yale on a scholarship.”

Bolan slowed even more as he took the exit, nodding for Paxton to continue if he chose to do so.

The Army Ranger did. “So Phil and I are closer than most brothers, I think. Sort of like the guys you go through a war with. It’s like we survived a different kind of war together, and neither of us could have pulled it off without the other one.”

Bolan knew what the man meant, and said so.

“Maybe I am too close to this whole thing to be objective.” Paxton paused again momentarily, then said, “But I’m going through with it anyway. I’ll leave it up to you to tell me if I’m letting my emotions get in the way of my thinking.”

“Don’t worry,” Bolan said. “I will.”

Paxton laughed. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” he asked rhetorically. “Anyway, that’s enough on the subject.” He closed his mouth.

Bolan took a left off the exit road and entered the small fishing village of Marken. He had seen windmills in Amsterdam and along the road during the drive, but Marken itself was like a Disneyland version of Holland. Everywhere he looked now he saw women dressed in pinafores. Most obvious of all were the Dutch clogs, the wooden shoes that had captured the imagination of the entire world. It seemed that there was a store selling them on every corner.

“Damn,” Paxton said, sitting forward in his seat. “I didn’t know people really wore those things anymore.”

“They don’t in the cities,” the Executioner said. “But out here, yeah. Particularly since it’s the town’s leading industry besides fishing.”

“I’d think they’d hurt your feet,” Paxton said.

“Well,” the Executioner came back as he drove slowly on down the street. “You can find out for yourself if you’re really interested.” He slowed the BMW, then pulled into an empty parking space under a sign which read Klompenmaart. “We’re meeting the informant inside here. It’s the shop of a custom wooden shoemaker.”

Bolan killed the engine and both men got out. The Klompenmaart was roughly halfway down a small shopping strip, and from somewhere in one of the stores classical music came piping out. On the sidewalk, men, women and children all walked expertly past in the wooden shoes, chattering happily away in Dutch.