Doing Dishes with a Kingpin

What happens when you accidentally host a top criminal with your Airbnb startup.

I was 22 and running an Airbnb management company in Amsterdam. Huurfix, we called it. We handled everything: keys, cleaning, and guest communication. Property owners could collect rent without lifting a finger, and in those days, everyone wanted in. Airbnb was booming. Everyone wanted to list their place. Nobody wanted to deal with the guests. We managed dozens of apartments across the city.

One day, a guest cancelled last-minute. Two full weeks, suddenly available. The property was a cosy townhouse in Amsterdam-West, owned by a young couple who were travelling. I listed it that same evening. Last-minute availability, middle of the week. Not expecting much.

That same night, a booking request came in. A Chinese name. No profile photo. Brand new account. Zero reviews. He wanted the full two weeks, paid upfront.

Red flags? Sure. But here’s the thing about running a startup at 22: you need money. And a two-week booking is easy money. No turnover. No back-to-back cleanings. Just one guest, one check-in, one check-out. Let’s do it. I accepted. He confirmed instantly. Deal done.

The day before check-in, I did what I should have done before accepting. I googled him.

The first results made my stomach drop. The same name. Amsterdam-based. Connected to organised crime. Convicted of human trafficking. Recently released. On probation. Linked to the Holleeder network, the kidnapping and extortion ring that dominated Dutch crime headlines for decades. I stared at my screen.

Then I did what any rational person would do: I convinced myself it couldn’t be him. “It’s probably a common name,” I told myself. “There are thousands of them. What are the odds?” I also noticed something I filed away for later: he owned a chain of hotels. One of them was around the corner from the apartment.

I called my lawyer.

“I think I’m about to check a human trafficker into a family home in Amsterdam-West,” I said. “What do I do?”

He didn’t skip a beat. “The police already know where he is and what he’s doing. He’s on probation. You don’t have to do anything. Just act normal. It’ll be fine.”

I decided to trust that.

Check-in day. I arrived early to prepare the place, tucking away the couple’s personal items, making the beds, the usual routine. A normal Dutch townhouse. IKEA furniture. Family photos on the walls. Cosy.

The doorbell rang. One hour early.

I walked to the window and looked down at the street. A black stretched Hummer was parked in front of the house. Tinted windows. A large Chinese man leaning against the hood, arms crossed. My stomach turned. I buzzed them in.

Footsteps on the stairs. My heart was pounding. The door opened.

It wasn’t the man from the car. A slight figure stepped in. Maybe 1.60 metres tall. Soft handshake. Polite. Almost deferential. “Hello,” he said, and introduced himself. The same name from the booking.

I gave him the tour. Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. He nodded along. “Perfect, perfect.” I handed over the keys. “Thank you.” He walked back down the stairs, got into the Hummer, and drove off.

I stood there, alone in the townhouse. Was that really him?

Two weeks passed. I went back to the daily grind. Other apartments. Other guests. Other problems. I tried not to think about it.

Check-out day. I decided to handle this one myself. I wasn’t going to send a colleague into whatever was waiting in that apartment.

I rang the doorbell. Knocked. No answer. I took out my master key and turned the lock. The door swung open.

The floor was covered in packaging material. I bent down and picked something up. Dolce & Gabbana. Chanel. Louis Vuitton. Easily 10,000 euros worth of luxury brand packaging scattered across the living room. The dining table was buried under Chinese takeout containers. Grease everywhere.

I looked at the wall. Oil. Splashed vertically. Like someone had thrown an open bottle across the room.

I walked to the bedroom. Red liquid on the floor. My first thought: Is that blood? I stepped closer. Red wine. An overturned bottle. The white plaster wall was stained crimson. The floor was sticky with it.

The kitchen was worse. Every piece of dinnerware had been used. Pots, pans, plates. All coated in grease and grime. I stood in the middle of it all. What happened here? I didn’t want to think too hard about it.

I pulled out my phone and opened the Airbnb app. “Hey, I just arrived for check-out. Where are you?”

The reply came instantly. “Check-out? That’s today? Shit, I had no idea.”

I stared at the message. Then I started cleaning. The owners were coming back. I had no choice. This was going to take hours.

I was scrubbing the kitchen counter when the doorbell rang. I walked to the window. The Hummer was back.

My heart was in my throat. Someone ran up the stairs. He burst through the door.

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

“You need to pay for extra cleaning,” I said.

No. I’m not going to do that

He paused, looking around the apartment. At the oil on the walls. The wine stains. The mountain of dishes. His expression softened.

I’m very sorry. I will help you.

He wasn’t offering to pay because that would have been impersonal. Disrespectful, even. He wanted to fix what he’d broken himself. The honourable thing to do.

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing at the kitchen sink. He was next to me. Shoulder to shoulder. He did the soap. I did the towel. He mumbled apologies in broken English as we worked through the stack. “Sorry I left it like this.” “Very sorry.”

About an hour later, the apartment was presentable again.

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A 22-year-old startup founder. Doing dishes with a kingpin. In a cosy townhouse in Amsterdam. Owned by a young couple who had no idea.