Winnie or “Winn” George had arrived the night before and without too much difficulty decided that for dinner he would treat himself to one of his favorite meals whenever he was in Antwerp. There was a little Brasserie Restaurant right off the Groenplaats, or the Main Square that was well known by the locals and thought to have some of the finest mussels in town; they were served at your table overflowing in a large pot and drowning in a white wine, mussels and garlic broth along accompanied by the obligatory overflowing basket of pomme frites allumettes or french fries. This meal was best washed down with strong dark Trappiste beer, made famous by the Trappiste monks. It was the way he remembered it so long ago and now he found himself back in Antwerp, his old stomping grounds, where he had been posted for his first assignment. It felt like a time warp.
Rhune, by virtue of his position in the Port of Antwerp was privy to considerable commercial information of interest to Winnie was already waiting at the designated rendez-vous, sitting at a discrete side table, puffing away on an ever present Belga cigarette. Over the raspy sounds of some aged English rock star’s blaring from the jukebox, Rhune quickly briefed Winnie on recent arrival and departures of certain foreign merchant ships, along with their general cargo as well the comings and goings of persons of interest, Captains, First Mates, or anyone else. Rhune was one of Winnie’s first asset or agent that he had successfully recruited and trained. His agent had surprisingly remained in place because of his value as a deep asset; this despite Winnie’s unsuccessful attempt to argue up the chain of command from Brussels to Washington that it was time for a change. Meeting concluded, Rhune got up and left by the back kitchen door while Winnie finished his Stella then he went out the front door.
Outside business was brisk; the frites stands open 24/7 were serving heaping portions of French fries in paper cones and topped with your choice of mayonnaise to a line of late night hungry customers; across the street, tattoo parlors were busy, the noise of the electric needle patiently making its way down a girl’s lower back while her boyfriend watched in fascination; further along a few windows outlined in garish red, green and pink lights revealed young scantily dressed ladies sitting in armchairs looking bored, reading or knitting and patiently waiting for business to pick up again. A side door opened onto the street and music screamed out as clouds of smoke billowed out along with a few unsteady bar patrons from Le Tic Toc Club. As he made his way back to the hotel, Winnie could hear from somewhere the sounds of night club hucksters peddling their establishment and it’s unique special menu of dancers, attentive pretty bar girls, and other services available, at discount prices but only for tonight. It was all here in Antwerp, whatever you wanted whatever you desired; you didn’t have to look very far.
The 6:43 morning train to Charleroi, making several stops in Brussels, slowly glided out of the station passing over Pelikan Straat, or Pelican Street, one of the major diamond centers thoroughfares of the world. Winnie gazed down as he watched the street below him slowly come alive: a Hasidic Jew walking his child to school, another briskly walking carrying a bulging leather briefcase wanting to waste little time in reach his destination, most likely a diamond cutting and polishing establishment, other merchants were opening up for business as they slowly wound up the metal shutters, cabs were beginning to line up in front of the station. Winnie recalled an operation he ran in the diamond district many years ago. It had turned out messy. The train picked up speed as it left the Antwerp city limits. Winnie picked up his copy of Le Soir then settled instead for the sports section of the Herald Tribune.(to be continued)