Prinsen eyed his desk. It was a desert landscape. Unlike most of his colleagues, he lived by the desert principle: clean desk every evening, the files stored away in the drawers, and the laptop secured in the cabinet.
Van Gils wasn’t aware of that principle, or he couldn’t be bothered. Van Gils lived by the notion that chaos had to be created in order to foster creativity, or some such idea. Prinsen allowed for the idea but not when it concerned his desk.
“Aren’t we expecting that Belgian today?” he asked.
Van Gils glanced outside, watching a bunch of children, probably on their way to school. “Officially, yes. But I expect him to turn up only tomorrow. The chief will have a talk with him first, over lunch somewhere, and he will want to get his apartment in order. So we’ll probably see him tomorrow. He came in by train, from Brussels.”
“Does he speak French?” Prinsen wasn’t at all fluent in French. Always found it a difficult language. He had fewer problems with English and German. Speaking French assumed total control over tongue and lips, much more than in Dutch. If the Belgian turned out to be Francophone, there would be a problem.
Van Gils shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Not that I’m worried. Any news from the observation post?”
“The thing is up and running since yesterday. Breukeling is at the spot right now. You want to go as well?”
“In a moment,” Prinsen said. He looked at his watch. “Mr. K is now en route in his plane. He’ll arrive at Schiphol Airport in a few minutes. I’m curious what the audio will teach us.”
It hadn’t been easy to install a listening post at the Renaissance Hotel. They had needed a warrant from the prosecutor, and even then the hotel management had protested against this invasion of privacy. They had practical objections too: they didn’t like having electronic equipment installed in their meeting rooms because things might get damaged. But most of all, they feared for their reputation if the story leaked.
The story wouldn’t leak, Breukeling had promised, waving the warrant at them. He didn’t have to bother with excuses, but it was better to keep the hotel management firmly on their side, especially because the wireless mics had to be installed during the night, without witnesses, which wasn’t easy in an international hotel of that size. The Bureau had its own dedicated team for that kind of job, so in the end things went smoothly.
Prinsen was convinced the story would leak anyway, though. He had already learned that much in six months.
Adam Keretsky, he thought. Mr. K. Businessman, a big player in the new Russia. You would have a considerable diplomatic incident on your hands if the story got out that the Dutch secret service had listened in on conversations between Keretsky and local businesspeople.
He opened his locker with his key, retrieved the laptop, and sat at his desk. Took the files he had been working on from his briefcase. Got his fountain pen from his jacket pocket. All these routine acts were soothing to him. He needed the reassurance of orderly daily routine. He switched on the laptop and started sorting through new messages.
5
ADAM KERETSKY EXPERIENCED NO difficulties at all with customs at Schiphol Airport, and he hadn’t expected any. He had all the visas he needed, and if any problems had arisen, he could easily have phoned some minister or high-ranking civil servant. In life, it was important to have friends, preferably friends at the top of the social ladder. Below you on that ladder, you had no friends, only colleagues.
On top of that, he looked impressive, not the sort of man a customs officer would want to rub the wrong way. He was nearly two inches over six feet and powerfully built without being fat, his hair still dark brown, with the high cheekbones of his Slavic ancestry and pale blue eyes. He clearly was not the sort of man you would want to subject to a lengthy passport control just for the hell of it. He wore a discreetly expensive suit, white shirt, and dark red tie, telling you he had power and money. The gold Rolex around his wrist confirmed the story.
Adam Keretsky didn’t lack for highly placed friends, neither here in the Netherlands nor in Russia. Thanks to those friends, he had been treated in a special burn trauma unit in Belgium, arranged for him by the country’s minister of defense. That had been two years ago, after the accident with his Aston Martin in Paris. It had nearly cost him his life, but the Belgians got him the best possible treatment, better than anywhere else, even in Russia. That’s when friends mattered. The whole deal had led to a Russian contract for helicopter parts with a Belgian company. And he had paid all the expenses for the treatment, including the wages of two specialized nurses.
Keretsky walked toward the main terminal’s exit and waved at a man in a black uniform carrying a card that said FABNA. He had asked not to display his name in Schiphol. “Mr. Keretsky,” the man said. “Your car is ready and our people have taken care of your luggage.” This was the sort of service he paid for. That and a first-class plane ticket. He spent a lot of money on service, but he also kept things discreet. When you have many enemies, discretion is a defensive tactic.
“Excellent,” he said, a word he had come to use more often than before. In the West, small compliments were always appreciated, even by members of the staff. In Russia, he didn’t need to be so polite. Over there he had a reputation to maintain, of cool calculation and absolute power. Here, in Holland, he wore velvet gloves while handling people and their feelings.
That’s what the people of Fabna Bank would soon come to experience: the feeling of velvet gloves. And the power of his hands, deft at slowly strangling unsuspecting victims—so to speak.
The car, a silver Bentley, hurried through dense traffic toward the center of Amsterdam. The driver was experienced and didn’t need to be concerned about speeding tickets. The interior was soft, beige leather. There was even a small bar. Keretsky glanced at the collection of English-language newspapers that came with the car. The news cheered him. The price of crude oil was up, as were those of other commodities in which he had invested. He had bought real estate in London and Berlin, where prices rose yearly by some 8 percent. There was trouble ahead in Pakistan, and oil production in Iraq was down again. All good news as far as he was concerned. Russian oil was an even more interesting investment, as was Russian gas. These were the sorts of industrial activities he had bought into. The world showered him with gifts, which he was eager to accept.
The car slowed, went past Central Station, and stopped at the entrance to the Renaissance Hotel. Keretsky had hardly glanced outside during the trip from the airport while he concentrated on the newspapers. Now he flung them aside and got out. He walked into the hotel and checked his aging Blackberry, which he refused to part with. His appointment was in an hour and a half. Ample time for a shower and a coffee. “Has my luggage been delivered?” he asked at the desk.
“It is being delivered right now, Mr. Keretsky,” the man behind the desk affirmed. He was around fifty, and he wore a spiffy uniform, but unfortunately, his tie had loosened slightly. His English was also a bit careless, which irritated Keretsky, who had studied at Cambridge. Why couldn’t these Dutch learn to speak proper English, like everyone else?
“Get me my room at once,” he ordered.
“You have a suite on the eighth floor, Mr. Keretsky.”
He received a white plastic card. Like any tourist. Next time he would look for a hotel with more personal service. Maybe Amsterdam was in need of that sort of hotel. Maybe he’d invest in a group that would build such a hotel rather than go through bloody bankers.
But today he would have to talk with bankers. And after that with members of the local business community. And maybe with some politicians too.
Let’s not forget the politicians, he thought. They’re the glue that holds this society together. They create the suitable environment for entrepreneurs. Without them, the entrepreneurs have to play that damn democratic game themselves. And they stink at it.
Two men approached him. “Is everything to your wishes, Mr. Keretsky?” the first man in
quired in Russian. His name was Andreï Tarkovski, and he was Keretsky’s representative in the Netherlands. Originally from Saint Petersburg, as was Keretsky. Now he was in charge of the small staff in Amsterdam. Late twenties, a pale, narrow face, and slightly uncertain hands. His hair was thinning, and he kept it combed back to cover his incipient baldness. The other was in his late forties, a squat and muscled henchman. Both men had been busy these last few weeks arranging all sorts of things for Keretsky. Tarkovski was the one who had straightened the path for Fabna. The boy showed promise and talent, as Keretsky had noticed previously. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have chosen him to lead the Amsterdam operation.
He had done so against the advice of some of his older lieutenants and against the wishes of his correspondents in Rotterdam. Keretsky frowned at the use of that word. They called themselves correspondents, as if they worked for a newspaper. Which wasn’t the case. And why was it that Tarkovski posed a problem for them? Like them, he’d grown up in Saint Petersburg—in the wrong neighborhood maybe. Nonetheless, Keretsky had silenced them.
“This is Parnow,” Tarkovski said, introducing the henchman. Parnow had the cold eyes of an ex-military man who had seen too many corpses. He had probably been responsible for most of those corpses himself. Afghanistan and Chechnya after that, Keretsky assumed. Good. This sort of person would prove useful after dark. When things got out of control. When dead people had to be disposed of in a hurry, and discreetly.
“Make sure my things are delivered in my room at once, Andreï. Meanwhile, I’ll take a shower. Parnow will make sure, again discreetly, that I am not bothered.”
“Certainly, Mr. Keretsky.”
He took a hot shower, and when he walked out of the bathroom, his luggage had been deposited on the bed. He unearthed a small silver vial from one of the pockets in his suitcase, unscrewed the lid, and shook some of the white powder it contained over a small mirror.
Forty-five minutes later, he stepped out of the Bentley and into the Fabna building. Andreï accompanied him, carrying his briefcase. Keretsky knew little about Amsterdam and wasn’t interested in the city. Other people were assigned to drive him from one spot to another and to cater to his needs. Local geographies weren’t his concern. He knew only Saint Petersburg, where he’d lived for most of his life. Where he’d killed a man for the first time. Where he’d made his first million. Dollars, not rubles. Nobody measured wealth in rubles. Not even today. In euros, yes, and in dollars. Cities didn’t mean much to him. Only people mattered. Cities were handy because many people lived in them and they could be easily reached. They were like concentration camps for consumers.
Mr. Prins, the Dutch banker, approached him, hand extended. In his fifties, neat silver hair, slender in his dark blue suit, a gray tie, and white shirt. One banker started to look exactly like any other banker after a while. Keretsky spoke English with the man. “How was your flight?” Prins inquired. “No trouble at customs, I assume? We’ve prepared a small lunch, Mr. Keretsky, in one of our meeting rooms.”
Keretsky smiled. The velvet approach. In the way he smiled, in his handshake. You created goodwill only because you expected goodwill back tenfold. That much he had learned since he’d begun to work on his social skills. Previously, a strong will and unlimited support from the authorities—on his payroll of course—sufficed. It sufficed to have a couple of bodyguards around who could explain to the other parties, in clear terms, the new rules of the game. Keretsky’s rules. After that, business was conducted properly. That’s how it went down in Russia. Not anymore. The rules had shifted somewhat, and why not? He’d become respectable. His empire had become respectable.
Here in the West, another approach had been needed from the start. These businesspeople and bankers were intelligent and driven, and keen on proper form. They were, however, no match for the typical Russian oligarch, no match for any of the new breed of Russian entrepreneurs. People like himself, who had learned the trade in the latter days of the Soviet empire. When chaos allowed for anything, as long as you had enough funds and no mercy. Westerners still thought in terms of diplomacy. Keretsky and the new breed had only war in mind.
An hour later his affairs were concluded, contracts signed. He, Adam Keretsky, was now one of the major stakeholders of Fabna Bank, even if he had only 4.5 percent of its stock in his hands. A controlling minority, and he would do the controlling. He could have a seat in the board of directors if he wanted. He wasn’t interested. He could influence the board’s decisions even without being a member. He did control the price of Russian crude for one thing. That gave him enough leverage.
Mr. Prins smoothly wished him a further pleasant stay in Amsterdam. He looked content, having secured a very much needed capital injection for his bank.
“The next meeting, Andreï?” Keretsky said, after they had been left alone.
“Monet,” Andreï said.
“Isn’t he that entrepreneur who’s the spokesperson for a group of businesspeople?”
“A social club, more or less, Mr. Keretsky. Among them, they control a number of important industrial projects in the Netherlands, but they hardly form a unified group. They work on very diverse projects in different industrial sectors. Highway construction, oil, international shipping, textile import, insurance. Hardworking, all of them. Conspirators.”
Keretsky smiled in a fatherly way. One of his Western smiles. “An industrious people, these Dutch, Andreï. Don’t you forget that. Historically speaking, they influenced the development of Western society and of Russia too. You of all people should know that, coming from Saint Petersburg. The Dutch stood at the cradle of the Russian shipping industry. Therefore, we should treat them with respect. Respect, Andreï! With égards.” He used the French word.
“Certainly, Mr. Keretsky.”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, you’re too young to know much about history, Andreï Vladimirovitsj,” he said, using his patronymic. “One day you’ll remember this conversation. Now, back to the present. Where do we meet this infamous Mr. Monet? A bit odd, this French name of his, isn’t it? A painter, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Possibly, sir. I am not aware of his hobbies. I can try to find that out, if you wish. We have rented a meeting room at the Renaissance. No lunch, this time.”
“Two lunches on the same day, that would be too much, even for a Russian. Did you provide the vodka, Andreï? We could use a glass of vodka. What have we to offer?”
“Stolichnaya and Streletskaya, Mr. Keretsky.”
“Streletskaya is for women, not strong enough. No Yat?”
“No, sir. Not sold around here.”
“Another opportunity, Andreï. You need to think as I do. Looking for opportunities. In three months, these Dutch will all be drinking Yat and even Dovgan vodka.”
The Bentley drove them back to the Renaissance Hotel but not without some delay. “Difficult city, Amsterdam,” Tarkovski apologized. “Not suited for cars. Too many bikes, too many tourists. No parking space, certainly not for a Bentley. The streets are generally too narrow and there are too many of those useless canals.”
Keretsky didn’t reply. He consulted his Blackberry. Stock prices danced across the screen. As long as they danced to his music, he was happy. And today he was. Not only because of the stock prices.
The car arrived at the hotel. Tarkovski went in first. They took the elevator to the sixth floor, where the meeting room was prepared. The man on the couch had short blond hair. He rose and shook Keretsky’s hand. In English, he said: “Mr. Keretsky, how do you do?” A slender brown-haired woman in her mid-thirties stood by the window. She held a leather folder and a writing pad. Two other men, both younger than Monet, were introduced to the Russian, who promptly forgot their names.
“Linda will keep notes, if you wish,” Monet said.
“That will not be needed, Mr. Monet,” Keretsky replied. “There is nothing wrong with my memory yet.” He snapped his fingers. Tarkovski brought vodka and coffee. “Dutch coffe
e is superior to Russian, Mr. Monet,” Keretsky said. “The inverse is true of tea. Maybe Holland should import Russian tea? How many tons would you care for? And vodka? Have you ever considered taking some vodka off our hands? Are we in business?”
The woman left the men and disappeared behind a discreetly closed door.
“We would have no problem finding distributors for your tea and vodka, Mr. Keretsky,” Monet said. “No problem at all. But we prefer to hear about oil. Oil is more important to us than tea.”
Keretsky grinned. “Certainly. Oil. The whole world runs on oil. What will we do when the oil runs out? Currently, this is the most important problem mankind is facing, and nobody has an answer.”
“Cars will use hydrogen in the future. Or Russian natural gas.”
“Natural gas runs out as fast as oil does. Hydrogen? The idea is far from new. Is that what the West hopes for? That their energy needs will be solved by hydrogen? An idea that has been under consideration for twenty years or more? And in which no one has made any serious investments?”
Monet was visibly ill at ease. He drank from his coffee and took a sip from the vodka, not a good idea in his case. At least not if he wanted to stay alert. “Not only the West, Mr. Keretsky. Not only the West. The whole world is faced with similar problems. Everyone is searching for solutions.”
“Would you want a few containers of tea?”
“Yes, but only when we can cooperate in other matters. I can’t make money on tea alone.”
Keretsky nodded and drank his coffee. Then he said, “I heard, Mr. Monet, that your business deals have been less than satisfactory recently. Are you having trouble with politics again?”
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