The martinis were served in tall glasses with lots of ice and lots of martini. This is going to be my undoing, he thought. Too much booze. He avoided alcohol during the day if at all possible. But now he couldn’t.
“The canard à l’orange is excellent here,” she said. She spoke French expertly, he noticed. Unlike most Dutch. “We don’t share the culinary culture of the Flemish,” she said, “but we’re catching up fast.” It was a common enough joke, but she said it as if it was a professional secret.
“I’ll follow your lead,” he said and closed the menu. Something was bothering him. Not the fact that his new boss was a woman—but that she acted and dressed as if she were meeting a man she wanted to seduce. And yet not, for that wasn’t really the outfit of a woman set on seduction. Along with the jacket, she wore a neat and uncompromising skirt and high-heeled shoes.
She didn’t fit his expectations of what his new boss ought to be. Female or not. For one thing, he could hardly imagine her interrogating a suspect in that ensemble or carrying a gun under that jacket. And she obviously wasn’t.
He could picture her in a business office of some sort. A legal firm. A bank.
Not with the police.
At least not the police he knew. But he knew nothing about her sort of police, the AIVD, the security services. The police officers he knew didn’t go to lunch in four-star restaurants. At least not with him. Except on one occasion, but that had happened a long time ago. And there never was a reprise.
“Two canard à l’orange,” Alexandra ordered.
In his mind, she already was Alexandra. If she had lunch with him, dressed like that, she ought to be Alexandra. In her official capacity, however, she still was Ms. Dewaal.
And he had to be careful with his private fantasies.
“And a bottle of Vieux Macon,” she added. As if that was what she did all the time—wining and dining with a certain largesse and considerable style. As if she frequented such establishments every day. And perhaps she did. What did he know about her anyway?
And then he wondered: was she doing this for the sole purpose of impressing him? Was this a bit of show? Why have you brought me here, Alexandra, on my first day with your team? Even before I’m on your team? Do you want to prove to the Belgian that this Dutch lady is also capable of living the Burgundian lifestyle for which the Flemish are so famous in Holland? Do you mean to prove me that you, the Dutch, have moved beyond the sandwich and buttermilk lunches for which you were so notorious?
Do you want to prove anything to me?
“Are you an officer in the federal police?” she asked.
Back to the real world. “I am,” he said. “Have been for twenty-two years. Before that, I was with the judicial police and local police earlier on. Different jobs, different functions.”
“Nobody should remain in the same place for too long,” she said. “I myself prefer a different assignment every four or five years. Keeps you fresh. Why have you come to Amsterdam?”
“Because I was asked to assist in your investigations. And because my boss wanted to get rid of me and my bad temper.”
She wasn’t surprised. Neither by the facts nor by his frankness. She knew who he was and why he was here. Of course, she knew. She would have read it in the report that very morning.
“Mmm,” she said. “I’d understood that much. ‘Opinionated’ was one of the terms used to describe you, as I seem to recall.”
“Oh, that’s the least they can reproach me for,” he said.
She sipped from the martini. “And ‘insubordination.’”
“Depends on the boss. Some bosses can be dealt with only with a mean dose of insubordination.”
“You have any experience working for a female chief?”
“Yes, my last commanding officer was a woman. And she suffered no permanent damage from having me on her team, I suspect.”
“I seem to have read that she was the one who used the term ‘insufferable’ most frequently.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“And ‘insubordination.’ That came from her as well.”
“I’m sure it did.”
The waiter arrived with the wine and uncorked it. He offered it to Eekhaut, who reluctantly tasted it. It seemed fine. Lunch was served. Duck, a bit of salad, and a couple of orange parts. The sauce was thick but clear.
“Am I now officially working for you?” he asked. “As of today, I mean?”
She smiled. “Not yet. Consider today a day of transition. Gives you the opportunity to move your things into your apartment. Take the day off, no problem. I expect you in the office by nine tomorrow. Then we’ll discuss the details of your assignment. You’re not married?”
“Widower. My wife died ten years ago.”
She said nothing to that. Lunch was excellent. If his salary permitted, he would lunch here on occasion, but he was sure it wouldn’t, as he’d seen the prices on the menu.
“Experience with street crime?”
“In Brussels? Certainly. Speaks for itself. And with intercultural problems, as they’re referred to today.”
“But you didn’t live in Brussels.”
“In Leuven. Provincial university town, twenty-five kilometers from Brussels.”
“You know we target organizations that threaten our democratic system,” she said. She held her glass, considering the wine. She had hardly eaten anything and didn’t seem to be interested in the food.
“That’s what you call it over here?”
“What?”
“A threat to democracy. We would call it something different.”
“What then?”
“Illegal radical organizations that maintain ties with terrorist and other dangerous entities.”
“Yes, that would sum it up too. We also investigate extremist political parties, even if they’ve been democratically elected.”
“That too. And we watch sects. Everything from extreme nationalists to Scientology.”
“Oh,” she said. “Scientology. Them too.”
“And I’m here to help you investigate the background of Adam Keretsky. And to strengthen the ties between Belgian and Dutch police forces, including the security services.”
“No,” she said slowly, “you’re here because Brussels considers you a hard-ass, and they wanted to get rid of you.”
“That would about sum it up, yes.” He’d worked his way through the duck. “Excellent food they have here.”
“I notice you fit in quite easily. That’s good. Amsterdam is going to grow on you, you’ll see. It’s not really a big city. Actually, it’s a provincial town that made too much money somewhere in the past. Pity, though, about the tourists who come here for the wrong reasons.” She drank her wine and refilled both glasses. “But don’t assume, Chief Inspector, that this is paradise. This lunch is the exception. This is a treat. Something I do to impress you. Starting tomorrow, it will be sandwiches and buttermilk all the way.”
“I’d expected as much,” he said.
“What do you know about Russia?”
Not all that much, he had to admit. A few things he’d read in the newspapers or seen on television. A few books he’d read about the country and the people. Very little, actually.
Dewaal nodded. “They managed to send me a criminal investigator,” she said, “and that’s what I have to work with.”
“What did you expect?”
She leaned back. “As to what we’re expecting of you, I want to be as broad as possible. Keretsky, that’s a low-level investigation. We know a lot about him. What we don’t know are his intentions. And the problem is precisely those intentions.”
“He invests in Western companies. Which isn’t against any law.”
“No, it isn’t. However, the question is: where does the money come from and what will he do once he’s bought himself into those companies? At Fabna, they’ll offer him a seat on the board of directors. But perhaps you need to be acquainted with recent Russian economic history? Th
ese Russian financiers have no problem buying into Western companies, but the inverse never happens. They even have the unhealthy habit of prosecuting their foreign partners if things don’t go their way. People are being extorted, threatened, and thrown into Russian prisons whenever they find themselves in disagreement with their Russian overlords. And boards of directors over here in the West are being thinned out and replaced by Russian henchmen. All too often, the name Keretsky comes up in this context. The Russians have large amounts of cash, oil, and gas, so they’re on the economic warpath. They don’t need the Cold War anymore, Eekhaut. They don’t need nuclear missiles and submarines. And they’re being led by an enlightened despot who wants his country to become the world’s leader. Meanwhile, it’s exporting the things it’s good at producing: oil and organized crime.”
“And your role here?” Eekhaut inquired.
She glanced past him for a moment. “Our investigations into Russian influence have stagnated. AIVD wanted to map Russian influence in Dutch industrial circles and financial markets. But that proved to be nearly impossible. These Russians have been deceiving their own government and security services for the better part of a century. The new elite know better than anyone else how to deal with officials. And then, after the fall of the Soviet Union, they grabbed the choicest pieces of industry, the banking world, anything worthwhile. All paid for with criminal funds. Then they dumped anything that weren’t making a profit or showing some sort of improvement, putting hundreds of thousands of workers and civil servants out of work. After that, they turned to the West for technological innovation and additional capital and any kind of know-how.
“New economic players emerged from the rubble of the Soviet Union, nominally led by the former nomenklatura who were the only properly trained managers during the Soviet era. But they were linked with organized crime—otherwise, they’d have been put out of work too. Russia is the new world player not because of its military force but for its economic power. You no longer need an army to invade other countries. Google and Amazon and Microsoft don’t have an army either, and look at their power. That’s the lesson the oligarchs learned from the West. They look abroad, count their money, and go shopping.
“And they’ve come to the Netherlands too. Interesting place to do some serious shopping, the Netherlands. Center of international trade. Rotterdam, one of the continent’s main ports. The world’s, even. The Russians want a piece of that cake. So they go shopping. And we Dutch offer them all the freedom to shop. It’s no trouble at all to start your own business in Holland. You start up your company, and that starts up another company, and so on. After a while, everything is connected to everything else, but nobody can figure out where the money comes from. The Russians are excellent accountants. Or they hire excellent accountants.”
“I guess this has been going on for a while now?”
“It has. But their attention is now shifting toward financial institutions. Ports are nice things to own when you need to move a lot of physical stuff around. But the really crucial game is played where the really crucial commodity is to be found. Money.”
“Easy to move,” Eekhaut said. “But difficult to intercept. And takes up no space at all.”
“Exactly. So now, Keretsky is dropping by in person. The interesting thing is that these Russians, even those at the top of the pecking order, occasionally have to show their faces. The Americans send an army of lawyers and managers. The Russians come in person. That’s their criminal ethics for you: when things need to be done right, you do them yourself. So you don’t get screwed. And today, Adam Keretsky is arriving here in Amsterdam, where he’s scheduled to meet with the board of Fabna Bank.”
“He’ll be given the premier welcome, I assume. Red carpet and everything?”
“And all that goes with it. He’ll become one of their major shareholders.”
“Don’t they have a problem with his background?”
“What background? As far as anybody who does business with him is concerned, he is a bona fide Russian entrepreneur who has lots of cash and even more influence. They kowtow to him happily.”
“And I’m here to …?”
Dewaal grinned. “Because your countrymen have as much interest in Fabna as the Dutch. Because some Belgians still consider the bank theirs. Although it isn’t, not after the merger. You’re here as the symbolic representative of Belgian haute finance. Aren’t you glad?”
“What exactly do you expect from me?”
“We keep an eye on Keretsky. We look at the people he does business with. We follow him around. As long as he’s legit, we do nothing. In any case, we do nothing, but if he goes off the reservation, we report it to the minister. Every time he pees in the wind, we report it to the minister. But we don’t clean up his piss—no, that we don’t do.”
8
FOR THE FIRST TIME since moving to Amsterdam, Prinsen was seriously considering using the tram instead of his bike. It wasn’t a matter of distances—it was that during the day you could barely bicycle through the city center anymore. The center was more crowded than ever. He didn’t like being around that many people.
The tram wouldn’t solve that, but at least the trips would take less time. Less time around so many people. And especially those rude young people who congregated from all over Europe. All the liberties Amsterdam offered attracted them like flies: the freely available soft drugs, alcohol, cheap hotels, and the adventure of everything that was illegal at home. They were drawn by the myth of the city, a free port for vices.
Most of the detectives were out the office. They usually worked in the field, observing suspects, doing research elsewhere. Not everyone needed a permanent work space all the time, so people often switched desks, except the ones who occupied the desks by the windows.
He mailed a concise report about his activities to Dewaal, including the fact that the recording had been sent solely to the prosecutor. He knew she had to be kept in the loop, even more so since he had doubts about the procedure. The prosecutor could hardly object to his initiative: he worked for the Bureau, and as such, he was required to report to Dewaal.
He wondered if Breukeling would file a similar report. To Dewaal. There had been some strife between her and the more senior members of the Bureau, who weren’t all too keen on the new procedures she’d introduced. Like direct reporting on everything they did. It curtailed their autonomy, they argued.
“Interesting experience?” Van Gils inquired. He was leaning against the window, his broad back offered to the outside world. To Prinsen, he was a profile backlit by the light from outdoors. A cutout in the form of a human being.
“Routine,” he said. He wasn’t going to tell Van Gils about the prosecutor’s interference. Breukeling could mention it if he wanted to.
Later, after work, he rode his bike back to Spuistraat and a pub where customers drank outdoors. Summer was past, but it was still warm enough. He managed to squeeze inside and order a beer. Five thirty in the afternoon, he noticed. He went back outside with his beer. High clouds were starting to form but still weren’t thick enough to obscure the sun. No one noticed him, a discreet and private young man with a beer. He wouldn’t return to his apartment right away.
9
“IF ANY OF THIS had happened in my own company, all of you would be out of a job right now, and you’d never find work anywhere else for the rest of your life!”
To say that Dirk Benedict Monet, owner and CEO of a midsize producer of industrial steel wire and other companies, was angry would be, well, an understatement. He spoke these words to Van Tillo and Vanheul in the small meeting room of his company’s headquarters, which was barely big enough to contain these three large egos. The steel wire had not been manufactured in the Netherlands for the last fifteen years, but in three more exotic countries where fiscal control meant as little as the value of employees’ wages. Monet was a tall and imposing man, with an equally imposing voice.
Van Tillo stood next to the exquisite antique b
ookcase that was Monet’s pride and joy. He kept the old leather-bound company journals there, some of them dating from the time of his father and grandfather. A company he—if his critics were to be believed—still ran with the same paternalistic drive as his forebears. The press seldom wrote about his management style simply because he managed to hide it from the outside world. In certain circles, though, it was known that in his world view, unions were a communist-inspired invention of the devil. Solidarity and social action were horrible concepts, not fit to coexist with capitalism. He was a proponent of Thatcher: each individual chose his own way toward success, or not, and should be rewarded accordingly. He encouraged competition among his employees, which had the effect of making them all the more vulnerable.
“What you’re saying, really, is that one of your own people, some latent hippie type, whom you know almost nothing about, has managed to infiltrate your pathetic little chickenshit operation, has been stalking around for a year, and finally managed to steal one of your most sensitive documents? Took it home, just like that? As if security just doesn’t exist, or only as a theoretical concept, but one alien to your organization.”
“He broke in last night,” Vanheul admitted. It sounded like the lame excuse it was.
“Oh!” Monet replied, raising his volume even higher. “He broke in. He got all dramatic about it and had to come back at night and make off with something he could just as well have stolen during the daytime. He broke in!”
“We regret this as much as you do—” Vanheul attempted.
“Oh no!” Monet shouted. “You’ll come to regret this much more than I do—because you’ll get me all over you, on top of losing that damn list. May I remind you, Mr. Vanheul, that that list of yours, the one that got stolen, contains all the names of … how many?”
“About three hundred,” Vanheul said.
“Of about three hundred—three hundred!—company chairmen, managers, board members, and other people of note from nearly as many companies. And they may not be the real big names in the Netherlands, not the absolute top, but nevertheless they’re important people who really matter to us, who’ve been willing to spend considerable sums on your organization, Mr. Vanheul. Money, really big sums of money. For which I personally have been the main intermediary.”
Absinthe Page 7