Floodgate

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘Before I speak, gentlemen, have any of you any comment to make?’

  Van Effen said: ‘I have.’

  ‘Lieutenant?’

  ‘Mr Riordan has been surprisingly reticent about one thing. He hasn’t said why he wants all British influence removed from Northern Ireland. If we are to negotiate on his behalf I think we should have the right to know something of his motivation, his intentions. It may be that his intentions are so awful, so appalling, that we would risk any disaster to our country sooner than comply with his wishes. We have, of course, no reason to believe that Mr Riordan will tell us the truth.’

  ‘The point is well taken,’ Wieringa said. ‘Well, Mr Riordan?’

  ‘There’s no point in swearing that I’ll tell the truth, because any liar would say the same.’ Riordan had again risen to his menacing height, he seemed to find talking easier that way. ‘I have talked about the ninety-nine point nine per cent of good and decent people in that war-torn country who are utterly dominated by the point one per cent of those maniacal killers. Our sole objective is to eliminate this point one per cent and enable the people of Ulster to resolve their own future in an atmosphere of calm and peace and quiet and hope.’

  ‘Elimination?’ Wieringa said cautiously. ‘What precisely do you mean by that?’

  ‘We will exterminate the evil bastards on both sides. We will excise the cancer. Is that blunt enough for you?’ Riordan sat down.

  ‘It sounds like a high purpose,’ van Effen said. He made no attempt to disguise the contemptuous disbelief in his voice. ‘Noble and humane. Let them resolve their own future. Hardly ties in, does it, with your earlier statement that Northern Ireland will never be governed by representatives of the two communities? Has it not occurred to you that if the most conceivably rabid IRA leader were sitting in that chair he would talk exactly as you are talking now, in order to achieve the same end as you are seeking—to get the British out of Northern Ireland at all costs. What assurance do we have that you are not, in fact, that rabid IRA leader?’

  ‘You have none.’ This time Riordan had not risen from his chair and his voice was remarkably calm. ‘I can do no more. If you cannot see that I detest the IRA and all its manifestations, you must be blind. I am so appalled at the suggestion that I cannot easily find words to counter it.’

  There was another and even longer silence, then Wieringa said: ‘I believe one calls this an impasse.’

  ‘Impasse, as you say,’ Riordan said. He was still seated, the time for rhetoric had apparently passed. ‘But surely there are certain salient factors that should resolve the impasse. Oostlijk-Flevoland, for instance. Leeuwarden. The Noordoost polder. Wieringermeer, Putten, Petten, Schouwen, Walcheren and others. And I did mention that we have the Royal Palace mined?’

  ‘The Palace?’ Wieringa said. He didn’t seem particularly overcome.

  ‘Tonight’s little demonstration was just that. A little demonstration. Just to prove how pathetically easy it is to circumvent your alleged security precautions.’

  ‘Save your breath, Riordan.’ Wieringa’s voice was curt. No ‘Mr’ this time. ‘The time for threats is past. Only moral considerations remain.’

  ‘Fifty-fifty,’ van Effen said.

  Wieringa looked at him for some moments, then nodded.

  ‘My way of thinking, too. Thank you, Lieutenant. It is difficult to decide to drown one’s country on the basis of a gamble.’ He looked at Riordan. ‘I am empowered to make decisions. I will call the British ambassador. He will call the Foreign Office in London. We shall make a radio announcement—worded in a suitably cautious fashion, you understand. Those three things I can promise. The outcome of the negotiations, of course, are not for me to predict or influence. That is understood?’

  ‘That is understood. Thank you, Minister.’ There was no hint of triumph, not even satisfaction, in Riordan’s voice. He stood. ‘Your integrity is a byeword throughout Europe. I am content. Good-night, gentlemen.’

  No one wished him goodnight in return.

  After the departure of Riordan and his associates there was silence in the room until Wieringa had put through his telephone call. When he had replaced the receiver, he sipped delicately from his brandy glass, smiled and said: ‘Comments, gentlemen?’ He was a remarkably calm man.

  ‘It’s outrageous, disgraceful and dastardly,’ Dessens said, loudly and predictably. Now that the need for action and decision-making was over, he was all fire and fury. ‘The good name, the honour of the Netherlands lies in the dust.’

  ‘Better, perhaps, than that its citizens should lie under the flood-waters,’ Wieringa said. ‘Colonel?’

  ‘You had to consider the balance of probabilities,’ de Graaf said. ‘Your decision, sir, was not only the correct one: it was the inevitable one.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel. Lieutenant?’

  ‘What can I usefully add, sir?’

  ‘Quite frankly, I don’t know. But, according to the Colonel—and it is, I must say, a most handsome admission on his part—you are closer to those villains than anyone else in Amsterdam.’ He smiled. ‘I do not, of course, use the word “closer” in a pejorative sense.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’d hoped not.’

  ‘You’re not really very forthcoming, are you, Lieutenant?’

  ‘A certain uncharacteristic diffidence, sir. I may be the senior detective-lieutenant in the city, but I’m pretty junior in this exalted company. What do you want me to be forthcoming about, sir?’

  Wieringa regarded the roof and said, almost inconsequentially: ‘I had to make a pretty important decision there.’ He dropped his gaze and looked at van Effen. ‘Did you believe Riordan?’

  Van Effen picked up his glass and considered it without drinking from it. He was obviously marshalling his thoughts. Then he said: ‘Four points, Minister. There are two things I believe about Riordan, one point I’m not sure whether to believe or disbelieve and a fourth where I definitely disbelieve.’

  ‘Ah! Hence your cryptic remark “fifty-fifty”?’

  ‘I suppose. First, I believe he is definitely not IRA.’

  ‘You do, Lieutenant? In that case, am I not entitled to ask why you pushed him?’

  ‘Confirmation. But I was sure before. That speech of his—that impassioned and violent denunciation of the IRA and all its methods. You’d have to be an exceptional actor to get that amount of hatred into your voice: but you’d have to be an impossibly good one to have a pulse beat like a trip-hammer in your throat.’

  ‘I missed that,’ Wieringa said. He looked at de Graaf and Dessens. ‘Either of you gentlemen—’ He broke off at their mute headshakes.

  ‘Secondly,’ continued van Effen, ‘I believe that Riordan is not the leader, the driving force, the man in charge. Why do I believe that? I can’t give a shred of evidence, of proof. But he’s too fiery, too unbalanced, too unpredictable to be a general.’

  ‘You wouldn’t fight under him, van Effen?’ Wieringa was half-smiling, half curious.

  ‘No, sir. There’s someone else. I’m certain it’s not Agnelli. I would take long odds it’s not O’Brien—he’s got sergeant-major written all over him. I’m not saying it’s Samuelson. He’s an enigma, a mystery. But his presence is totally unexplained and when any presence is as inexplicable as that then a very big explanation would seem to be called for.

  ‘Where I’m uncertain whether to believe his story or not, is about Northern Ireland. Riordan said his only aim was to eliminate the monsters. His voice did carry what might have been regarded as the authentic ring of sincerity and, as I’ve said, I don’t believe he’s all that good an actor.’ Van Effen sighed briefly, shook his head and sipped his brandy. ‘I know this is all rather confusing, gentlemen. Let me put it this way. I believe that he believes what he says, but I don’t believe that what he believes is necessarily true. It’s one of the reasons why I’m convinced he’s not the king-pin. Two things. He was caught outright in a flat contradiction yet appeared to be unaware that any s
uch contradiction existed. Then he seems to be unaware that there could be three sets of fanatics around—the extremist Protestants, the extremist Catholics and the Mediators. That’s them. The Mediators could be the most irresponsibly dangerous of all. To achieve the final solution, the Mediators are prepared to drown a million. One could imagine what the final solution would be like in Ulster. No. Let me rephrase that. I can’t imagine that.’

  ‘The same thought was in my mind.’ Wieringa spoke very slowly. ‘The very same. Although not so clearly formulated. In my mind, I mean.’ He smiled. ‘Well, that should be enough for a day—but you did mention that there was something you didn’t believe.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I don’t believe his threats. His immediate threats, that is. His long-range threats are a different matter. But the ones he mentioned here tonight—and the ones outlined to Colonel de Graaf earlier this evening—I do not believe, with the exception of the threat to Helystad in Oostlijk-Flevoland. The rest I believe to be bluff. Especially the threat to destroy the Palace.’

  ‘If you say that, Lieutenant,’ Wieringa said, ‘I’m damned if I don’t believe you. Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I don’t believe they have any mines laid inside the Palace. They were concerned that the explosion inside the Palace tonight would be heard over a considerable area to convince you that they had, indeed, the ability to carry out their promise.’

  Wieringa regarded him with a puzzled expression. ‘You sound fairly sure about this, Lieutenant.’

  ‘No, sir. I’m certain.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I have inside information.’

  Wieringa looked at him in a speculative fashion but said nothing. Not so Dessens. He had been totally out of his depth all evening but now he thought he was on secure and known footing and that it was time to assert himself.

  ‘What were the sources of your information, Lieutenant?’

  ‘That’s confidential.’

  ‘Confidential!’ Whether the source of Dessens’ immediate anger was due to the reply or the fact that van Effen had omitted the mandatory ‘minister’ or ‘sir’ was difficult to say: he probably didn’t know himself. ‘Confidential!’

  ‘I’m trying to be discreet, sir, that’s all. I don’t want to divulge my sources because it may cause acute and unnecessary embarrassment. Surely you can understand that—it’s so commonplace in the police world that it’s hardly worth the mentioning. Why don’t you just take my word for it?’

  ‘Understand it! Commonplace! Take your word!’ Dessens’ mottling complexion was rapidly assuming the hue of a turkey wattle. ‘You arrogant—you arrogant—you—’ He made a visible effort to ward off the onset of apoplexy. ‘I would remind you, Lieutenant’—he put a heavy accent on the word ‘Lieutenant’—’that I am the Minister of Justice’—he put a very heavy accent on that, too—’whereas you are only a junior officer in the force which I personally—’

  ‘That’s unfair, sir.’ De Graaf’s voice was impersonal. ‘Next to me, van Effen is the senior police officer in the city of—’

  ‘Keep out of this, de Graaf.’ Dessens tried to let ice creep into his voice but his temperature control had slipped. ‘Van Effen! You heard me.’

  ‘I heard you,’ van Effen said, then added ‘sir’ almost as an afterthought. ‘I know what I’m talking about because I’m the person who placed that charge in the cellars of the Royal Palace.’

  ‘What! What!’ Dessens’ complexion would now have made any turkey-cock look to his laurels. ‘Good God! I can’t believe it.’ He was halfway out of his chair. ‘My ears deceive me!’

  ‘They don’t. Sir. I was also the person who pressed the button that detonated the explosives.’

  Dessens said nothing, not immediately. The shocked horror of this threat to the safety of the royal family, this dreadful lèse-majesté, held him in thrall. Van Effen returned to his brandy and made no attempt to keep his opinion of the Minister of Justice out of his face.

  ‘Arrest this man, de Graaf,’ Dessens shouted. ‘This moment!’

  ‘On what charges, sir?’

  ‘On what charges! Have you gone mad as well as—as well as—Treason, man, treason!’

  ‘Yes, sir. This raises problems.’

  ‘Problems? Your duty, man, your duty!’

  ‘Problems, sir. I’m the city’s Chief of Police. All other policemen in Amsterdam are junior to me.’ Every century of de Graaf’s aristocratic lineage was showing. ‘Nobody in Amsterdam has the authority to arrest me.’

  Dessens stared at him, his anger gradually changing to bewilderment. He shook his head and said nothing.

  ‘What I mean is, sir, that if Lieutenant van Effen is to be locked up on a treason charge, then you’d have to lock me up, too, because I’m as much a traitor as he is.’ De Graaf considered. ‘More, I would say. I am, after all, his superior; moreover, I personally authorized and approved every action the Lieutenant has undertaken.’ Inconsequentially, it seemed, but probably to give Dessens time to readjust, de Graaf turned to van Effen and said: ‘You forgot to tell me that you personally had detonated those explosives.’

  Van Effen shrugged apologetic shoulders. ‘You know how it is, sir.’

  ‘I know,’ de Graaf said heavily. ‘You have so much on your mind. You seem to have told me that before.’

  ‘Why have you stepped outside the law, Colonel?’ There was no reproof in Wieringa’s voice, only a question. Wieringa had remained remarkably unperturbed.

  ‘We did not step outside the law, sir. We are doing and have done everything in our power to uphold the law. We—Lieutenant van Effen—have gained the entrée—and a highly dangerous entrée it is—into the ranks of the FFF. I think it is more than dangerous, it’s close to suicidal. But Lieutenant van Effen has persuaded me—and I most reluctantly agree with him—that it’s our last best hope. Our only hope.’

  Dessens looked at the two policemen dazedly but his mind was beginning to function again, at least after a fashion. ‘How is this possible? Van Effen’s face must be known to every criminal in Amsterdam.’ He had forgotten how junior van Effen had been only moments ago.

  ‘It is. But not the van Effen you see before you. His appearance, voice and personality have changed to such a remarkable extent that I’d wager my pension that neither of you would recognize Stephan Danilov, which is the pseudonym he has temporarily and conveniently adopted.’ He might have wagered something else, van Effen reflected; de Graaf was so wealthy that his pension was a matter of total indifference to him. ‘Whether the FFF have uncritically accepted Stephan Danilov at his face value, we have no means of knowing. It seems incredible to me that, so far, they appear to have done. If they have not done or will not do so the city of Amsterdam will be requiring a new senior detective-lieutenant. They will also be requiring a new police chief, which the Lieutenant will probably regard as a trifling matter, because I shall have to resign. The Netherlands, of course, will be looking for a new Minister of Justice, because you, Mr Dessens, are also a party to this. Only Mr Wieringa can look forward to a safe tenure.’

  Dessens looked stricken. ‘I haven’t said that I’m a party to anything.’

  Wieringa took him gently by the arm. ‘Bernhard, if you would, a word in your ear.’ They walked away to a distant corner of the lounge, which was fortunately as large as it was luxurious, and began to converse in low terms. Wieringa appeared to be doing most of the conversing.

  Van Effen said: ‘What weighty matters do you think our revered cabinet ministers are discussing?’

  De Graaf forgot to reproach van Effen for his unseemly and unconstitutional levity. ‘No prizes for guessing that. Mr Wieringa is explaining to Mr Dessens the principle of Hobson’s choice. If Dessens doesn’t go along, the Netherlands is still going to be looking for a new Minister of Justice. If Dessens hadn’t forced you to divulge your confidential information he wouldn’t have found himself in the impossible situation he does now. Hoisted, to coin a phrase, on h
is own petard.’ De Graaf seemed to find it a moderately entertaining thought. He settled himself comfortably in his chair, sighed and reached out for the brandy bottle. ‘Well, thank heaven everything’s over for the day.’

  Van Effen considerately let de Graaf pour himself some brandy and sip it before producing Agnelli’s shopping list. ‘Not quite complete, I’m afraid, sir. There’s this little item.’

  De Graaf read through the list, his face stunned, then read through it again. His lips were moving, but at first no sound came. He had just got around to muttering: ‘This little item, this little item,’ when Wieringa and Dessens returned. Wieringa looked his normal imperturbable self, Dessens like a Christian who had just been given his first preview of the lions in the Roman arena.

  Wieringa said: ‘What little item, Colonel?’

  ‘This.’ De Graaf handed him the paper, put his elbow on the arm of his chair and his hand to his forehead as if to hide his eyes from some unspeakable sight.

  ‘High explosives,’ Wieringa read out. ‘Primers. Detonators. Grenades. Ground-to-ground missiles. Ground-to-air missiles.’ He looked at van Effen consideringly but with no signs of consternation on his face. ‘What is this?’

  ‘A shopping list. I was going to ask the Colonel to get it for me.’ Dessens, who had adopted precisely the same attitude as de Graaf, made a slight moaning sound. ‘As you are the Minister of Defence, the Colonel would have had to approach you anyway. I’d also like to borrow an Army truck, if I may. With a little luck I may even be able to return it.’

  Wieringa looked at him, looked at the paper in his hand, then back at van Effen again. ‘Balanced against this shopping list, as you call it, the loan of the odd army vehicle seems an eminently reasonable request. All this I can obtain without any great difficulty. I have heard a considerable amount about you, van Effen, and I have learnt a great deal more tonight. I would hesitate to question your judgement.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I think I would question my own first, so I don’t question yours. No doubt it’s just idle curiosity on my part, but it would be nice to know why you require those items.’