7Goose bumps rose along my arms. I’d underestimated van Hoof. He’d stopped me with brutal finality. I shivered, chilled by new understanding. If I tried to take control again, I had to succeed. Van Hoof wouldn’t give me a third chance.
We continued west toward Utrecht, passing canals and earthen dikes, the gray sky blending with the washed-out colors of the ground and the stone buildings to blur the horizon. The dismal landscape matched my dreary mood. The last time I’d found myself at such a miserable disadvantage, I’d been in Poland. It was during that awful week in April of 1986, following the US air attack on Tripoli. Stefan had vanished and I’d been threatened with death by Abu Nidal’s hired guns.
Frightened, I fled to the lake region northeast of Warsaw to hide. I evaded my pursuer
