The Tulip Virus

by Danielle Hermans

“To tell the truth, we don’t really know if he was the one who put something in there,” Alec said. “Maybe it was somebody else.”

  “Well. Let’s take a look.”

  Wolters slid tweezers deep inside the opening he had made. A moment later, he carefully pulled them out.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  In October and November, flights out of London City Airport were often canceled due to fog. Coetzer had spent five hours in the small, crowded departure hall. When he decided he’d had enough, he went up to the check-in desk and convinced the booking agent that his wife in Holland was about to give birth. With great difficulty, she booked him on a flight out of Gatwick.

  Eight hours later, he was at Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport, standing in line at passport control. He knew where Alec had gone. All he had to do was find out where this friend of his lived.

  The odor of the woman in front of him made him nauseous. She was standing too close, and he couldn’t move back; there was someone else behind him, almost touching him, invading his space. He stepped to one side. The stinking bitch had a child, who was staring at him like an idiot. He snarled, and the boy turned back to his mother in fright. Insolent, filthy little worm.

  “Sir?” The passport officer looked at him inquiringly.

  Coetzer presented his passport to the young man. The officer typed in a code on his computer.

  “Are you here for business or pleasure?”

  “For pleasure. I’m visiting friends.”

  “Enjoy your stay.”

  He made his way through the busy concourse to the car rental desk.

  Coetzer slowly turned into the narrow driveway. The bright headlights lit up the front of the building. The yellow walls looked freshly painted, without a trace of graffiti. He reached for the bag on the backseat and stepped out of the car.

  “Welcome to our hotel, sir. Do you have a reservation?”

  “Yes,” he said gruffly, handing his car keys to the valet.

  “Do you have any luggage, sir?”

  “No, just the bag.” He waved the man away. “I’ll take care of it.” He strode into the hotel and to the reception disk.

  “Good evening, Mr. . ..”

  “Lancaster,” he said, placing his passport on the counter.

  “Ah, Mr. Lancaster. Welcome. Have you stayed with us before?”

  “No,” he said impatiently, “but I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I don’t need anyone to show me the way.”

  “Very well, sir,” the receptionist said, unruffled. “You’re staying for one night, is that correct?”

  “I might stay longer. I’ll get back to you.”

  “That’s fine, sir, but would you please let us know as soon as possible? We have very few vacancies at the moment.” He returned the passport. “Could I have your credit card? And would you do me a big favor and fill in this form? Thanks so much.”

  Coetzer grumbled and handed over his credit card.

  “Have a very pleasant stay, Mr. Lancaster. Your room is on the second floor. You can take the stairs if you want, of course, and the elevator is over there.”

  Coetzer retreated to a quiet corner of the lounge and tapped a number into his cell phone. “Yes, it’s me, I’m in The Hague. Did you find that address? Okay, and the house number? Got it.”

  As he walked down the recently renovated corridor to his room, a smile played on his lips. Oh, the irony. Could it really be a coincidence? Right before his eyes were two rows of enormous tulips, extending from the wainscoting almost to the ceiling, their green leaves curling coyly toward their slender stems. The most beautiful tulip varieties the world had ever known were painted on the walls of his hotel.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Clamped in the jaws of the tweezers was a piece of paper.

  “What have we here?”

  Wolters walked over to the light box at the end of the table. He switched it on and laid the paper carefully on the glass plate.

  It was about six inches long and four inches wide. The edges were worn in places, and the faded writing was almost illegible.

  “What on earth is that?” Alec asked, frowning at the capital letters in old-fashioned script.

  “I have no idea,” Wolters said.

  He took the tweezers and prodded the paper into the center of the glass pane. “My guess is that it’s old, perhaps as old as the book. But what is this all about?”

  They stared at the letters.

  YYHK PNKY DQHT MBPI ALNL PWUH

  XLOQ KIGY MMPU MSDP TWBF

  WZTM TCYA AUFV PZXN ZCYB

  WILM TTKE KMSZ XNXO YBXL

  LBPQ HAPI VMCS XGAM GANA FAIUL

  “Thanks a lot, Frank,” Alec said. “A coded message. That’s just what we need.”

  “Yes, but what kind of code is it?” Damian looked at Wolters, who slowly shook his head.

  “Don’t ask me, that’s not my field. I’ve seen old codes before, but I really don’t know the first thing about them. It looks like a job for our cryptologist. First I’ll see whether it’s authentic, then she can get to work. I hope she’ll be able to decipher it for us. Do I have your permission to pass this on to her? I’ll get in touch with you as soon as we’ve figured it out.”

  “Do you think that’ll be this afternoon?” Alec asked.

  “I’ll do my best. The question is whether she has time, and whether she can crack the code, of course. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “I feel like we keep taking one step forward and two steps back,” Alec said, as Damian pulled out of the parking lot.

  “I agree, we still haven’t gotten anywhere. I’m pinning my hopes on Simon. Has he said why he wanted to talk to you?”

  “No, he hung up so fast I didn’t even get to say good-bye.”

  “Does he know I’m coming with you?”

  “No, he’ll see that for himself. I tried to tell him, but he kept cutting me off.”

  “Did you talk to Simon at the funeral?”

  “Not really. He must have shaken my hand at some point, but I don’t even know that for sure. It was all such a blur. Anyway, the last time I saw him was at least twelve years ago.”

  “Frank saw a lot of him, right?”

  “Yeah, but they always met in Holland.”

  “Or at Lake Como.”

  “Apparently.”

  Damian merged onto the highway, joining a long, slow procession of cars.

  From the Aston Martin, they looked out at the stately building, which was whitewashed and overrun with ivy. Vines circled the pillars by the entrance and trailed down from the canopy like jungle plants.

  “I don’t think he’s home,” Damian said, peering at the windows by the front door. They were dark, as were the ones on the upper floor.

  “Yeah, that’s strange. But look, the gate’s open. I’ll ring the bell, just to be sure.” Alec got out of the car. “If nobody’s home, I’ll leave a note, and if anyone answers, I’ll come and get you.”

  “Sure. I’ll wait over there.” Damian pointed to the nearest parking space, some distance away.

  Alec walked up the drive to the front door. Just as he put out his finger to ring the bell, the door swung open. Before he had time to react, a hand reached out and grabbed his sleeve, pulling him into the house.

  Inside, it was pitch-black. All Alec’s senses were on the alert. He crouched and held out his arms, preparing to fend off an attacker. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he whirled around, grabbed the wrist, and squeezed it hard.

  He heard a cry of pain and released his grip in surprise. He was standing so close to her that he could feel her ragged breath against his face.

  “Were you followed? Did they see you?” she whispered.

  “Followed?” he asked. “See me? What are you talking about? I’m here to talk to—”

  “I know who you’re here for,” she said. Her words were broken by a sob, and her hand tugged sharply at his jacket. “Did you watch out on the way here, and when you came to the do
or? Did you take a good look around?”

  “Of course not. Why would I do that?”

  “Come with me.” She grabbed his sleeve again and pulled him farther into the hall.

  “Wait a second, what—?”

  She turned to him. “You have to help me.”

  He could hear that she was crying, and now that his eyes were adjusting to the dark, he could see her face glistening with tears.

  “Come upstairs with me. I have to show you something.”

  He took her by the shoulders. “Stop. Hold on. What’s going on here? Who are you? Listen. I didn’t come alone, I brought a friend. He’s—”

  She froze. “What?”

  “He’s waiting in the car, just down the street.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Know what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Later, all right? Follow me now, please, there’s no time to lose. I have to show you something, then you’ll understand.”

  “No. I’m not moving until you tell me who you are.”

  She sighed. “I’m Tara, Simon’s stepdaughter, remember? Now, are you coming or not?”

  She ran upstairs, and he followed her. Halfway up, she stopped and turned to him, towering above him.

  “I’ve been staying here for a few days. This afternoon I went out, just for a couple of hours. Simon always takes an afternoon nap, so when I got back and the house was silent, I thought he was still asleep. But at five o’clock I went upstairs to wake him.” She paused. Then she said softly, “I’m so glad it’s you. When you came to the door I thought . . . I don’t know what to do. You have to help me.”

  She grabbed the collar of his coat and pulled him after her. Taken by surprise, he stumbled, but caught hold of the bannister just in time.

  “Tara, be careful.”

  She took his face in her hands, pulled him close, and pressed her lips to his ear: “Maybe this is your chance to do something meaningful for the first time in your sheltered little life.”

  Before he could respond, she let go, so abruptly he almost fell over backward. Cursing, he clutched the railing as she turned around and made her way upstairs.

  In the hallway, she stopped at one of the closed doors. As soon as he caught up with her, she turned the knob and entered the room.

  The curtains were closed. There was a strange odor in the room that Alec couldn’t identify. He sniffed and looked at the shadowy contours of the bed that Tara was standing next to. She leaned forward slightly and turned on the bed lamp.

  Alec stared open-mouthed at the bed. From where he was standing, all he could make out was a bloody mass. Tara was looking at the body, drawing labored breaths. He slowly stepped over to her.

  The man was lying on his back. His arms were at his sides with the palms facing up in a gesture of surrender. His face had been smashed with such force that it seemed to spill out onto the pillow. At first glance, the rest of his body looked undamaged. Alec’s gaze swept over it, then stopped short. To the left and right of the hips, there were two footprints on the bedsheet. Someone had stood over the man to deliver the fatal blow. Alec looked up. The ceiling was spattered with blood, and the wall behind the headboard was streaked with red. He turned to Tara, who had draped her arm over the head of the bed and buried her face in her sleeve.

  “Simon?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded. “That’s how I found him.”

  She reached out her hand and stroked the bloodstained scalp. A tear fell from the corner of her eye. “At first I could hardly bear to look. But I stayed with him. I couldn’t just leave him.”

  She wiped her eyes, smearing Simon’s blood onto her cheek. Suddenly her whole body started to tremble.

  Alec stroked her back. “Take it easy, now, come on.”

  The trembling gradually subsided and she started to breathe more regularly.

  “Thanks. I’m okay now,” she said. Then she pointed to the wall behind the head of the bed. “Did you notice that?”

  It was as if a child had dipped three fingers into a jar of finger paint. When Alec realized what it was, his breath caught. He looked at Tara. She nodded and said, “You see what it is?”

  “A tulip.” Alec’s voice wavered. “What was his connection to tulips?” When she shrugged, he said, “Tara, he asked me to get in touch with him. Do you have any idea what was going on, or why he needed to talk to me so urgently? It had something to do with Frank’s death, I’m almost sure of it.”

  Tara nodded. “Right, my condolences.”

  She said the words flatly. Alec couldn’t help thinking that even Wainwright had put more feeling into them.

  She went on, “It sounds like you don’t know a thing about it.”

  “About what?”

  Without responding, she turned to walk out of the room. But before she reached the door, Alec grabbed her arm and spun her toward him.

  “A thing about what, Tara?”

  She looked cold and remote. But an instant later, there was fear in her eyes.

  “Take me with you. We have to get out of here.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  His grip made her wince with pain. She wrenched her arm free. “I’ll tell you after we get out of this place. Come on! First they killed Frank, and now Simon. Do you really believe we’re safe here?”

  She turned and ran out of the room. Alec raced after her. Downstairs, she yanked her jacket off the coatrack and snatched up a travel bag. Warily, she opened the front door and peered outside. Then she reached back and took Alec’s hand, pulling him after her.

  “Where’s the car?” she asked when they reached the front gate.

  “Over there, on the left.”

  They ran toward it. Tara pulled the door open and clambered in.

  “We have to get out of here, fast.”

  Damian looked at her in astonishment, staring at the red streak of blood on her cheek.

  “Hurry up, start the car. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Alec? Where’s Simon? Did you talk to him?”

  Alec climbed into the backseat. “She’s right, Damian. We should go. Simon is dead.”

  Damian turned around. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Just drive!” Tara shouted.

  Damian turned toward her. Her hands were clenched in her lap. She was breathing heavily and looking around anxiously. He started the car.

  Alkmaar

  1665

  He could hear something in the distance. Someone was calling. Was that his name?

  Slowly, he opened his eyes. Light pierced his head like a knife, and he closed them again. He heard mumbling. There was someone walking in the room. He could sense the light growing dim, and the sharp pain in his head gradually eased. He felt hot, so hot. He ran his tongue over his cracked lips.

  “Water.”

  Was that him? Was that his own voice he heard? High and soft, like a woman’s? In his mind, his voice sounded very different, clear and strong.

  A hand slid under his neck and lifted his head. He felt a cold, hard object pressed to his lips. Liquid ran into his mouth and dribbled over his chin. Someone wiped it away with a cloth.

  He tried to say something. He could tell he was moving his lips and tensing his vocal cords, but the only sound that emerged was a faint groan. A cool hand stroked his forehead.

  “Quiet now, take it easy. Everything’s all right.”

  All right? He couldn’t even talk. Nothing could be farther from all right. Who was this idiot? He opened his eyes a little. Someone was standing over him. He strained to see. Little by little, the room came into focus. When he saw who it was, he relaxed and managed to lift his hand in greeting.

  “It’s me, Father. The whole family’s here.”

  Then it started coming back to him. The agonizing pain in his left arm, like a dagger thrusting toward his heart. His body, toppling to the ground outside his house. He’d been conscious but utterly helpless. He couldn�
��t do anything, couldn’t move a muscle or speak a word. All he could do was look and listen. He heard voices. People cried out, and someone started tugging at him. He felt warmth spread through his lower body and smelled his urine. His eyes filled with tears, not of pain but of shame. To think that people were looking on as he relieved himself. He could remember nothing more.

  Now, Willem Winckel looked into the face of his eldest son. He wanted to smile at him, reassure him, but he couldn’t. He was growing weaker by the moment and could feel the life ebbing out of him.

  Maybe everything really is all right, he thought. The work my father began has borne fruit.

  In total secrecy, Willem had continued that work and had managed to keep it secret from his family all these years. That whole time, he’d been afraid. Yes, looking back, he saw that he’d lived in fear most of his life. A fear he could share with no one.

  His heart swelled with pride when he looked at his son, Wouter, who resembled his grandfather Wouter Winckel so much it was almost frightening. It was as if, along with the name, the boy had inherited his grand-father’s traits. The young man had the same build, the same bright blue eyes full of hope and life. His personality too was eerily familiar.

  Willem turned his attention to the blurry forms behind Wouter, gradually bringing them into sharper focus. There were his four daughters, standing by the wall with their arms around each other. They looked at him with fear and sadness.

  He gestured to his son, who brought his ear to Willem’s mouth. Willem felt the boy’s hair brush his face, as soft as down. It smelled like fresh air, like forest.

  “I want to have a word with you, alone.” His voice cracked and wavered. “Let me take leave of the girls first. It’s time.”

  Wouter beckoned to his sisters. One by one, they kissed their father on the cheek and left the room, sobbing.

  Wouter sat on the edge of the bed and looked at his father with a frown.

  “What is it, Father?”

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to give you for some time. Fortunately, it’s not too late. Would you fetch my pouch?”

  “Here it is,” Wouter said, picking it up from the chair beside the bed.