‘So I believe.’ It seemed the wrong moment to tell de Graaf that it was he, van Effen, who had pressed the button. He shivered and moved to a less damp patch on the Esfahan. ‘I think I’m getting pneumonia.’
‘There’s brandy.’ De Graaf waved a hand at once indicative of preoccupation and irritation that one should be unaware of the universal specifics against pneumococci. ‘Schnapps, scotch—’ He broke off as a knock came on the library door and a uniformed policeman admitted George and Vasco who were, if anything, even more saturated than van Effen had been. ‘Two more advanced cases, I suppose.’
George said: ‘I beg your pardon, Colonel?’
‘Pneumonia. Help yourselves. I must say I wasn’t expecting you gentlemen.’
‘The Lieutenant said—’
‘I know. It just slipped his memory.’
‘I have a lot on my mind,’ van Effen said. ‘Well?’
‘We had a good look at them when they left the house to go to that small bus. Also had a good look at them in the Dam Square. Recognize them anywhere.’ George paused reflectively. ‘Seemed a very harmless bunch to me.’
‘Ever seen—or seen pictures of—the youthful assassins that made up the Baader-Meinhof gang? All they lacked were harps and haloes. When I said “Well”, that wasn’t what I meant.’
‘Ah! That. Yes. Well.’ George seemed slightly embarrassed. ‘When you left the house—we saw you go but didn’t approach you as you’d asked us not to in case you were being followed—you know you were followed?’
‘Yes.’
‘We waited across the street for ten minutes then crossed to the lighted window. The rain! Talk about standing under Niagara Falls.’ He waited for sympathetic comment and when none came went on: ‘Waited another ten minutes. We could hear music and conversation.’
‘I’ll bet you could. So then, overcome by the rain, impatience or suspicion, you moved in. Light still on. Long-playing cassette on a recorder. Birds flown by the back door. Hardly original. So we still don’t know where they’re holed up. Not your fault—Agnelli’s obsessed by security.’
‘Still could have done better,’ Vasco said. ‘Next time—’
The phone bell shrilled and de Graaf picked it up, listened for some time, said ‘Wait a minute, sir’ and cupped the mouthpiece. ‘Predictable, I suppose. Dessens. Seems the cabinet is a bit shaken about the palace explosion and are convinced that the Oostlijk-Flevoland dyke will go up at midnight. So they’re going to parley. They want me along and suggested 11 p.m. I’d like you to be there. 11 p.m.?’
‘Eleven-thirty possible sir? I have a couple of appointments.’
De Graaf talked some more then hung up. ‘You do seem to have a very crowded appointment book, Lieutenant. I can’t recall your mentioning any of this to me.’
‘I haven’t had a chance to. I have to be at the Trianon at ten o’clock to take a call from Agnelli. He’s a bit short of explosives and I’ve promised to supply him with some.’
‘Explosives. Of course. Naturally.’ De Graaf hardly spilled a drop as he poured himself a brandy. ‘Having already blown up the palace’—it was an exaggeration but a pardonable one in the circumstances—‘one could not expect you to rest on such trifling laurels. And where do you intend to find this explosive? I’m sure you won’t be wanting more than a few hundred kilos of TNT or whatever it is.’
‘Me? Haven’t the time. Haven’t the authority, either. But I thought, perhaps, sir, if you would care to use your influence—’
‘Me! The chief of police? To supply illegally-come-by explosives to a group of terrorists?’ De Graaf considered. ‘I suppose you would expect me to deliver it personally?’
‘Good heavens, no. That’s where George comes in. Sorry, George, haven’t had the chance to explain this or anything. Had a long talk this evening with Agnelli about you and Vasco. I’m afraid, Vasco, that I’ve blackened your character beyond all hopes of redemption. You’re a crooked cop, bent as a horseshoe, untrustworthy, unpredictable and only a couple of steps removed from a psychiatric ward. Agnelli was just that little bit too casual when asking questions about you. I’m certain he knows you are or were a cop. He comes from Utrecht too. Not that that should be any bar to his employing you—after we’ve made certain delicate alterations to your appearance and history—in the not-too-distant future.
‘George, you’re an arms dealer. Heaven knows there are enough of those around, but you’re something special. The king-pin. Mr Big. A Leopard tank? A SAM missile? Even a motor torpedo boat? George is your man. And being Mr Big means you’re important. You talk only to principals. No intermediaries, not even me. Face to face or no deal.’
‘I talk to this Agnelli?’ George smiled widely. ‘You want me on the inside?’
‘I have a feeling that I could do with a little help, sooner rather than later. I’ve no right to ask you, of course. There’s Annelise and your kids. Things might get a little difficult—’
‘A little difficult!’ De Graaf could put a nicely sarcastic edge to his voice when he had a mind to. ‘Difficult. I don’t say it’s crazy because nothing’s crazy if there’s a chance, but I don’t like it at all. It’s based on the assumption that they’re not on to you and that’s an unjustifiable assumption. Sure, they’ve gone along with you so far and you with them, but that’s only because, so far, it’s suited you both. But if they are on to you and they decide a time has come when you’re of no further use to them, then when the time comes to discard you it may be in a pretty permanent fashion. Have you the right to ask that of George?’
‘I’ve just done that.’
The phone rang again and de Graaf picked it up. ‘Ah. Lieutenant Valken…Yes, yes.’ De Graaf’s face became very still as he listened. ‘Never mind if you’ve never heard it before. Wait till I get a piece of paper and pen.’ De Graaf wrote down a few words, told Valken goodbye and hung up. He reached for his glass.
Van Effen said: ‘Julie, Annemarie?’
‘Yes. How do you know?’
‘Valken, your face, brandy. Bad?’
‘Bad enough. Phone call from the brothers. They say the girls are as well as can be expected which can mean anything or nothing. They also say they’ve sent a telegram of condolences to Rotterdam.’ He’d picked up the piece of paper he’d scribbled on. ‘To David Joseph Karlmann Meijer.’
Van Effen sipped his brandy and said nothing. George and Vasco exchanged glances of incomprehension. At length George said: ‘And who might he be?’
‘I forgot,’ de Graaf said. ‘You don’t know, of course. Anne’s—Annemarie’s—father.’
‘Yes,’ George said. ‘I mean no. I don’t understand, Colonel. What about Annemarie?’
De Graaf stared incredulously at van Effen. ‘You mean, you haven’t told them?’
‘I don’t believe I have.’
‘Good God!’ De Graaf shook his head. ‘The need-to-know principle, I suppose. One of those days, Peter, you’re going to forget to remind yourself of something and that will be the end of you.’ De Graaf looked from George to Vasco. ‘Annemarie and Julie—Lieutenant van Effen’s sister—have been kidnapped. The Annecy brothers.’
‘The Annecy brothers.’ George was silent for a moment. ‘Those murderous fiends. You put two of them away for fifteen years.’
‘Correction. Lieutenant van Effen put them away and the two that escaped have been threatening to get him ever since. They’ve gone one better. They’ve got Julie.’
‘I know Julie well. And what’s the significance of this message to Annemarie’s father?’
‘The significance lies in her father. You will find it hard to believe, George, but the father of that fearful frump who used to frequent La Caracha is one of the wealthiest men in the Netherlands. Maybe the wealthiest. And a very powerful man. He has the ear of the government. He’s in a position rather similar to Dassault, the plane maker, in France. There are some areas in which they don’t move without consulting him at first or, at least, listening to what
he says. He has power and wealth and a daughter and now they have the daughter and may well turn his power and wealth to their own advantage. Anne Meijer is any crim-inal’s dream hostage come true.’
Van Effen put down his glass and looked at his watch. ‘It’s time, George.’
‘God in heaven! I don’t believe it. You look at your damned watch and say it’s time to go. Doesn’t it occur to you to wonder how in the hell they got that information about David Meijer.’
‘Some sort of persuasion, I suppose.’
‘Persuasion! Torture. They tortured the poor girl!’
‘What poor girl?’
‘Are you all right, Lieutenant? Annemarie, of course.’
The shake of van Effen’s head was very positive. ‘No. Not Annemarie. The Annecy brothers—or at least the two we put away—never tortured without a reason, however twisted that reason might be. The reason was either revenge or to get information. Why should they revenge themselves on Annemarie—what has she ever done to anyone? And information—what information could they possibly get from her. They don’t know who she is, who her father is. Didn’t, rather. As far as they are concerned she’s only a friend of Julie’s and they took her along for no reason other than the fact that she happened to be there. If they tortured anybody—and I suspect it was only a threat of torture, to get information about me—it would have been Julie. My guess is that Annemarie volunteered that information about herself as a sop to the Annecys, to turn their minds to the thought of unlimited ransom money—maybe she even mentioned her father’s influence with the government although people like the Annecys would almost certainly have been aware of that anyway—anything to distract attention from Julie. Annemarie’s no fool—if she were, I wouldn’t have brought her up from Rotterdam. She knows that the Annecys of this world are above all pragmatists and that anything that would further their plans would be of a great deal more interest to them than hurting me by proxy.’
‘Cold-blooded fish,’ de Graaf muttered.
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘You could be right or you could be wrong. Damage both ways. If you’re right the Annecys’ hands have been greatly strengthened and David Meijer’s pocket almost certainly lightened, or will be in the very near future. If you’re wrong, you’re putting your head in that charming hangman’s noose that the Annecy brothers put on their postcards. If you’re wrong she’d have talked of many things, principally that Stephan Danilov is Peter van Effen. I can’t take the chance that you’re not wrong. My orders are that you are not to go through with this.’
George said: ‘Normally, Colonel, I wouldn’t dream of not complying with your wishes. But these aren’t normal circumstances. By refusing your request, I’m not stepping outside the law nor am I making the point that I’m no longer a policeman. I’m just going my own way.’
De Graaf nodded. ‘I can’t stop you. But I can—’
‘You can force him to go his own way, too,’ George said. ‘By resigning. You’d never forgive yourself, Colonel.’
De Graaf scowled, refilled his glass, sank into an armchair and gazed into the fire. Van Effen nodded to Vasco and the three men left the room.
Van Effen and George returned to the Trianon to find that the usual watch-dog was not in his usual place. But there was another and, if possible, even more insignificant character seated some distance from the desk and sipping beer instead of jonge jenever. Van Effen had no doubt that this was a replacement from the same stable. The manager called to them as they passed the desk.
‘This message has just come for you, Mr Danilov.’ He handed van Effen a slip of paper which read: ‘May I see you in your room? Two minutes.’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’ Van Effen folded the paper into his pocket and led George to the lift. The promised two minutes later the manager arrived in van Effen’s room. He closed the door behind him, looked doubtfully at George and seemed to hesitate.
‘No problem,’ van Effen said. ‘My friend here is on the side of the angels. George, Charles. The manager. Charles, George. George is police.’
‘Ah. A word of warning, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t use the back entrance tonight—somebody, a stranger to anyone round here—has taken up more or less permanent residence by the back door. He’s in an old DAF. And you will have noticed that your old looker-after in the lobby has been replaced by an even more obvious one. There’s another man who has just started a meal in the dining-room. He’s seated conveniently by the door so that he can see anyone who crosses the lobby. He knows the new shadow. No words exchanged, just a brief look and an even briefer nod. No risk in that, they must have thought—they have no reason to suspect my interest in them. That’s why I waited two minutes, to see if either of them made a move. No disappointment—our dining-room friend was at the public phone almost before the lift doors closed behind you. I waited until he finished his call to whatever person he was reporting your arrival. I was watching them from the mirror as the diner left the booth. Brief nod again, no words.’
‘When you go bankrupt, Charles, apply to me any time. I’ll watch the bogeymen.’ The manager left.
‘So,’ George said. ‘We can expect that phone call any minute now. The man in the restaurant has tipped off Agnelli that Stephan Danilov has returned accompanied by George, the explosives expert and illegal arms supplier. One wonders what lions’ den or nest of cobras they’ve chosen for the rendezvous.’
‘I don’t wonder. There are no lions or cobras in Room 203, which is where we are. Charles tells us that Agnelli—it can only be Agnelli—has two other faithful but not very bright henchmen lurking around the place. Why? Surely it only required one stake-out, the one in the lobby, to advise him of our arrival. The other two are guards, parts of his insurance policy—don’t forget Agnelli has no reason to think that we know of their presence. There may even be others that Charles knows nothing about. This is the last place that we would think would be chosen as a meeting point—or so Agnelli must imagine—and so we wouldn’t think of arranging a reception committee here. And when he does call, you can be sure that he will announce that he will be here in a matter of minutes so that we can’t have the time to arrange one.’
Van Effen was right on both points. Agnelli called in person to say that they would meet at the Trianon and that he and his friends would be there in under five minutes.
‘He’s bringing friends, plural,’ van Effen said after he had hung up. ‘I don’t think Romero Agnelli trusts anyone.’
From the cordial, guileless expression Agnelli wore on his arrival, one could see that van Effen was wrong; here, patently, was a man one could trust anywhere. Agnelli had brought three men along with him. His brother Leonardo, looking, if that were possible, an even more genial member of the Mafioso than he had done the last time, and two others whom van Effen had never seen before. One of them, a burly, slightly florid, pleasant-featured character of indeterminate age—somewhere between forty and fifty, van Effen would have guessed, but it was difficult to be sure—was introduced as Liam O’Brien: from his accent, no less than from his name, he had to be Irish. The other, a handsome young man, dark and slightly swarthy, was introduced as Heinrich Daniken: he could have been of any nationality. Agnelli did not see fit to disclose what the function of either man was.
Introductions over, refreshments proffered and accepted, Agnelli said to George: ‘Do I call you George or do you have another name?’
‘Just George.’ He smiled. ‘I’m an anonymous person.’
Agnelli surveyed the vast bulk before him. ‘You, George, are the least anonymous-looking person I’ve ever seen. Don’t you find it rather a drawback in your profession? Whatever that may be, of course.’
‘Drawback? It’s a positive advantage. I’m a peace-loving man who abhors violence but when you’re as big as I am no one ever offers it to you.’ George, van Effen thought admiringly, was as consummate and convincing a liar as he’d ever known. ‘And, of course, everybody, or nearly everybody—I think particu
larly of those who are sworn to uphold the law—think that everyone who is as big, fat, cheerful and harmless as I am, must be able to get by very well without being able to think. It’s a kind of law of nature. Well, I’m no Einstein, but I’m not yet ready to be locked away in an institution for the retarded. But we haven’t met here to discuss personalities, Mr Agnelli, have we? Five questions. What do you want? How much or how many? When? Where? Price?’
The slipping of Agnelli’s good-humoured smile was so momentary that only the most alert or observant would have noticed it and even then it could have been as much imagined as seen. ‘You do get to the point rather quickly, don’t you, George? No time for the little business niceties, I see. Well, that’s the way I prefer it myself. Like you, I have no time for beating about the bush: like you, I regard myself as a business man.’ He produced a paper from an inside pocket. ‘Here’s my shopping list. Fairly comprehensive, is it not?’
George studied it briefly. ‘Fairly. Well within my limited capacities, I should think. Most of the items are straightforward, especially the explosives. The ground-to-ground wire-guided missiles—these will be anti-tank missiles, although you don’t say so—and the SAM ground-to-air missiles are also easily come by, as are the plastic mines, grenades and smoke-bombs.’ He paused, sipped some brandy and frowned. ‘Something here I don’t quite understand, don’t even like. I’m not talking about the fact that you seem to be preparing to wage a limited war, even although only a defensive one: that’s none of my business.’ He handed the list over to van Effen. ‘Comment?’
Floodgate Page 19