She’d given him her trust, he realized. But before he became giddy with joy, she added, “But I want you to work together with Van Gils on Breukeling. He was one of us, corrupt or not, and we don’t let criminals murder one of our own.”
“There are some other cases I have to—” These last few weeks he’d been investigating cases of human trafficking from the Balkans to the United Kingdom and Ireland. The many ways of the Lord were inscrutable, but it seemed those of traffickers were even more obscure.
“You can work on your other cases whenever you have some time left. This case gets full priority. If we cannot protect ourselves, how then can we protect others?”
Prinsen found it difficult to refute that argument.
14
THE SANDWICHES AND SALADS turned out to be of excellent quality, the coffee quite satisfactory. No buttermilk. No meat croquettes. No junk food. None of the clichés concerning Dutch food served at company meetings and at parties proved to be true. Clichés never are. They only tend to move about in packs and they are most often found where tourists congregate.
Eekhaut folded his paper napkin and made a mental note that he would have to ease up on the food intake during lunch, here in the Bureau’s lunch room. He was no fan of sports—certainly not as a participant, and in spite of the choices of activities his former public employer in Brussels provided—and he had to be careful about his weight. Otherwise, he’d get fat and get in trouble with the cardiologist.
Two of his new colleagues walked past, offhandedly acknowledging his presence and sitting down at another table. The lunchroom was large enough for the two score people who worked here, airy, with pleasantly decorated tables and real plants. Two large TV screens adorned the walls but were not in use. Probably only when football was on. Some tables and chairs were arranged in cozy niches, as if people found it necessary to eat in secret.
He sat alone. And would be sitting alone for a while yet. He knew the unwritten rules of law enforcement units everywhere. You became one of the team only when you were one of the team. Or never at all. Few professionals were as exclusive as police officers were, and they had to be, since the man or woman sitting next to you could one day make the difference between life and death in a dangerous situation. So you were picky about making friends.
He was the newcomer. At his age! But at his age, he had more experience than most of the regulars here. Nobody looked over forty.
Alexandra Dewaal showed up, accompanied by a cultured yogurt and a small bottle of grape juice. He assumed she worked out. Or played tennis every day. Or whatever. Hours on end at a gym. Worried every day about having gained a pound. Religiously watching the scales every morning. Afraid of coronary problems.
She sat down at his table, alert and professional. “Walter,” she said, “I see you have gotten acquainted with our amenities.”
He smiled. Her choice of words. “There was a line. And I followed. The rest is history.”
She grinned. He suddenly liked her more. He liked women with a sense of humor, above all other qualities. Did she have a sense of humor, or was she just being polite?
“You’ll notice that cases will find their way to your desk easily enough. But don’t assume you’re here for the paperwork alone. We work at ungodly hours, often enough, like any police unit. And we go into the streets as often as not.” She glanced away from him for a moment. “We’ve had our share of trouble this morning. You probably heard: one of our team members was killed last night. By a bomb attached to his front door.”
“That’s …” What was he going to say? Terrible? Fucked up? He couldn’t find the appropriate reaction. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, feeling dumb.
She shook her head. “It’s complicated. The whole affair is a mess. We found out he stole material from us, which he probably sold to another party. And that same party didn’t want to leave any traces.”
“Are you saying that—?”
“I am. A traitor. Dramatic, isn’t it? It means I’ll have a lot of explaining to do to Internal Affairs and to my director. I’ll have to explain myself in more than one report. They’ll be all over me, and over us, for weeks if not more. The gist of it is that we’ve lost the recording of the conversation between Adam Keretsky and an associate of his, Monet. That’s a hell of a setback, but it also proves we’re easily corrupted, at least some of us. And there isn’t anything I can do about that. It means I’ll have to watch the members of my own team.”
“Even the ones that have been here for a while?”
Her cell phone vibrated. “Dewaal,” she said. And listened. “The local police?” she asked. “Text me the address. You’re sure it’s him?” She listened again and then pocketed her phone. “I’m afraid I’ll have to go. You’re coming along? Finished?”
He wiped his mouth. “Finished. What and how?”
She frowned.
“What happened?” he clarified.
“A body. Shot dead. A neighbor stumbled over it. This morning.”
“And you’re concerned why?”
“I’m concerned because the body belongs to a rather well-known young dissident. Leftist circles, busy with sensitive material, extremism, and that sort of thing. Occasionally wrote pieces for radical papers.”
“I see.”
“I doubt that. His name is Pieter Van Boer. Thirty. Radical left wing, hated by anyone of the opposite persuasion. If someone like that is found dead and with a bullet through his head, we’re interested. The local cops know it. They have my number. They’ll probably be all too happy if we take this crime off their hands.” She rose. “I’ll have to get you a gun.”
“I can live and function without a gun.”
“I can’t. And I can’t live with the idea of sending my people out in the streets unarmed. The AIVD management has a different policy concerning packing weapons, but this is my department, so I do as I damn well please. Before we go see the corpse, we have something else to do as well. We have an appointment with the Big Man himself.”
The Big Man? Capitals? Eekhaut wondered who that could be. Some important politician or a minister? A cabinet member? “Who?” he asked.
“Adam Keretsky. Who else? The man responsible for you being here. Are you eating that or can we go?”
Fifteen minutes later, he sat in the passenger seat of a black Porsche Cayenne. He had a brand-new SIG Sauer in a tactical holster on his right hip and two extra clips. Enough ammo for a small war. He felt uneasy with so much firepower. He also had a new police card in his wallet, which allowed him to operate on Dutch soil. Pretend to be a real police officer.
“Your card is a more important tool than the gun,” Dewaal said. “And you’ll need it more often, I hope. Otherwise, if the inverse proves to be true, we’ll get in trouble with those bureaucratic assholes farther up the ladder who want a form filled out for every bullet you fire.”
He too hoped he wouldn’t have to use the gun. His last weapons training was four years ago, and he’d never fired a gun like this.
She drove through narrow streets, along canals, past bicycles, trams, and vans, past a gloomy church. Then she parked the car carelessly in a chaotic street, across from the entrance to the Renaissance Hotel.
“Can you behave?” she asked.
Eekhaut shrugged. “Isn’t that what is expected of me?”
“You’re here as the official representative of—” She shook her head. “Forget it. You have any ideological objections? Against Russians?”
“What’s the difference between a Russian capitalist and a Dutch capitalist?”
She didn’t answer that. He guessed he hadn’t scored well with that remark.
Careful, Eekhaut.
A receptionist smiled at them, but he wasn’t going to be impressed by a woman wielding a police card. “You have an appointment with Mr. Keretsky?”
“Yes,” Dewaal said.
“I’ll ring,” the man said. After a short telephone conversation, he said, “You’ll be esc
orted. In a minute.”
“We’ll find our own way,” Dewaal said. “What room?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. House rules. Mr. Keretsky’s secretary will be along in a minute. He’ll accompany you to Mr. Keretsky’s suite.”
Dewaal didn’t want to cause a scandal, as that wouldn’t be conducive to the relationship with Keretsky. A moment later a young man appeared. “My name is Tarkovski,” he said. “Chief Superintendent Dewaal, ma’am, if you would care to follow me?” He spoke Dutch with a slight accent.
“You’re Russian?” Eekhaut asked.
They stepped into the elevator, and Tarkovski slid a plastic card through a reader before pushing a button. “I am. Is it that obvious?”
“Not in the least.”
Five floors up, they stepped out and found themselves in a corridor with thick dark blue carpeting, wooden paneling, a slightly vaulted ceiling, and discreetly concealed indirect lighting. The décor told Eekhaut this was not a floor for ordinary tourists. Not even for rich, ordinary tourists.
“Mr. Keretsky can spare you twenty minutes,” Tarkovski said.
“Mr. Keretsky will have to oblige me by answering all my questions, no matter how long that takes,” Dewaal said.
The young Russian did not reply. He held open the door to a suite. Keretsky waited for them in front of the large window. He wore a conventional gray suit but no tie. He stepped toward them and shook their hands. “Adam Keretsky, ma’am,” he said. In English.
Dewaal introduced herself and Eekhaut. “Our visit and its purpose have been announced to you, Mr. Keretsky,” she said. “Through regular channels.”
“That is correct, Chief Superinendent. It should, however, be noted that I am complying entirely out of my free will. My visa is in order, customs has had nothing to complain about, I pay all my bills, and have committed no crimes in the Netherlands.” He offered them a seat.
“We’re aware of all that, Mr. Keretsky,” Dewaal said after they’d sat down. “The question we want to put to you concerns your financial dealings in this country. That much has also been explained to you in our written memo.”
“My financial dealings. And more specifically concerning—?”
“The reason for your visit to Amsterdam at this time.”
“I’m a newly minted shareholder of Fabna Bank, Ms. Dewaal. That’s no secret. The details have been covered thoroughly in the press. Quite thoroughly, actually. That’s the price I pay for being somewhat infamous and wanting to do business in your country. Andreï, do bring coffee and tea. And please, madam, do proceed with your questions. I have no secrets, as I said.”
“Thank you. What exactly are your plans as a shareholder of Fabna?”
Keretsky produced a winning smile. “I have money, of course, and I want to invest it. As does anyone who has money to spare. Some deposit it into a savings account, or they buy a yacht, but I want a piece of a bank. It seems a sound investment, even in these troubled times of bank failures. And their shares are a bargain.”
“You’re hardly anyone, Mr. Keretsky. You own considerable interests in many large Russian companies. Your name is connected with a number of takeovers and mergers and participations, some of which involve Western companies. You are now an important minority shareholder of Fabna. Yet you declined a seat on the board. Why?”
“It meant I would have to travel to Amsterdam once a month. I cannot spare the time. I have too many obligations elsewhere. I’m assured that the other members of the board are quite capable of running their bank, without me. Mr. Prins and his colleagues have my complete confidence.”
“You’re also involved in companies in several other sectors …”
“Of course I am. I spread my assets and likewise spread my risks. As any good Russian family man would do with his fortune.”
Eekhaut leaned forward and deposited his cup on the salon table. “But,” he said, ignoring Dewaal, “you do plan on influencing the policy of Fabna Bank?”
The Russian’s attention was on him now. “In what sense, sir?”
“That should be obvious. Fabna is one of the largest Benelux banks. It’s a considerable player in Europe as well. A stable and healthy company. Money is probably not your most urgent worry.”
“Investing, that’s what I do,” Keretsky said.
“What my colleague has in mind—” Dewaal said, but she was interrupted again by Eekhaut. “What I mean, Mr. Keretsky,” he said, “is this: let’s assume that you might be in possession of funds of dubious origin. What better than a reputable Western bank to change the color of your money to something more agreeable?”
“Are you accusing me of money laundering? Of illegal activities?”
“I merely state a theoretical possibility,” Eekhaut suggested.
Dewaal intervened. “Of course, this is not an official line of inquiry, Mr. Keretsky.”
“Your colleague implies it is,” Keretsky said.
Dewaal hesitated a moment too long. Eekhaut said, “It would be a perfect opportunity, would it not? A sizable chunk of a bank in your pocket and nobody would want to investigate your dealings with too critical an eye.”
“Is that,” the Russian said, “where this conversation is headed, Ms. Dewaal? In that case, this meeting is over.”
“My colleague was simply stating a few possible developments, Mr. Keretsky—” Dewaal said.
“I take that as an insult.”
“—while we have no intention of assuming any wrongdoing.”
“And I must ask you to leave my suite, madam. I have out of my free accord consented to this conversation, but you are clearly misusing this opportunity.” He rose. Suddenly Tarkovski stood at his side. Without coffee.
Silent and fast, that boy, Eekhaut thought. Like a rapacious animal. Or a shadow.
Dewaal said, “I am sorry if we —
“So am I, Ms. Dewaal. I had hoped for a civilized conversation with civil servants.” Keretsky pronounced the last word with some clear disdain.
Servants, Eekhaut thought.
A few moments later, they found themselves in the elevator again. Tarkovski didn’t shake hands when they left. The elevator door closed on him.
“If you want to chew me out,” Eekhaut said, “I’d prefer you do that in the car.”
Dewaal looked at him, surprised. “Do you think I expected anything else from you? With your reputation?” She proceeded toward the exit. He followed her. She remained silent, got into the car, and started the engine.
“Not even a reprimand?” he commented. “That’s annoying. I try to live up to my reputation, and I don’t even get reprimanded. How can I live with that?”
“I’m not going to reprimand you,” she said. “I’m going to think about sending you back. But not right now. We’re not finished. We still have a body to look at.”
She drove off, a bit too fast. Maybe she was frustrated. He got the city tour again: canals, exotic shops, streets with bicycles, a few cafés, and restaurants. At last, she parked the Porsche behind two VW Golfs in police colors. Three uniformed officers were guarding the entrance to a house. Dewaal addressed one of them. Then she waved Eekhaut in. “Upstairs,” she said.
The stairs were narrow, and a man in white coveralls tried to pass them, but he had to shuffle back. “What can you tell me?” Dewaal asked, showing him her card.
“Caliber nine mil, probably a silencer,” the man said. “Two bullets. From no more than two meters. Killed instantly. No signs of forced entrance. Doors open, as far as we can see. No robbery either. Nothing of value was taken, although there is not much of value in places like these. There’s a laptop, which a common thief would not have left behind. We’ve recovered the bullets, and I’ll get them examined.”
“Witnesses?”
The man shook his head and continued down the stairs.
The apartment was a mess. Clothes, books, newspapers, and some old furniture, probably bought secondhand. A sour smell. And something else too, something Eekhaut was fami
liar with. Death. The very particular smell of death.
The body lay on the bed, covered with a sheet. Blood on the bed and against the wall. Two uniformed officers, two men in coveralls, two plainclothes police officers. Too much of a crowd for such a small room. Dewaal addressed one of the detectives. “Joop, what do we have here?”
“And a good morning to you, Ms. Dewaal. Is this one from your archives?”
“If it’s Pieter Van Boer, it is, yes.”
“It’s him all right. We’ve identified him.”
“And?”
“He got an unwanted and unannounced visitor this morning. Two bullets, nine millimeter. Nobody heard the shots. They heard some racket, but that’s about it.”
“He defended himself. That sort of racket.”
“No, he didn’t have time to defend himself. There must have been someone else around.” Joop pointed at a paper bag with breakfast rolls and croissants on the floor, next to a yellow number tag. “Somebody got him breakfast. His girlfriend, probably. Lived here with him, so the neighbors tell us. We’re now looking for her. She probably walked in on the murderer, there was a fight, and we assume she managed to get away. Otherwise, we would have found two bodies.”
“Who is she?”
“Eileen Calster. Twenty-one. From Groningen. Studies at the university. Lived here for a year or so. Do we contact his family?”
“Yes. And circulate a search warrant for her. If they hear from her, we want to know right away. Is there anything you can tell me about the killer?”
“Nothing. Nobody saw anything. Not in this neighborhood. People come and go. Nobody locks his door. Crazy, isn’t it? In the center of Amsterdam? People not bothering to lock their doors? You wonder what sort of world they think they’re living in. Not my world anyway. I always lock my front door.”
“Nothing to steal,” Eekhaut said. He looked around. Some things would be worth stealing, though. Drugs, for one. There would be drugs in a place like this.
“So it seems,” Dewaal said. “Now it’s our problem. No murderer and no motive.”
“And why are you here, Dewaal?” the detective asked. “Because the kid was a member of the CPN and read Marx? He had quite a collection of Marxist literature. But that’s hardly illegal. Not yet.”
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