Absinthe

by Guido Eekhaut

  She clearly wasn’t in a great mood. “Of course, right away,” she told him. “What did you expect? Keep up, Eekhaut. This isn’t Flanders. We have a reputation to maintain. We like to be punctual. I’ll always expect you to be ready at any time. And I keep an overnight bag in my car. You?”

  An overnight bag? As if he would be carrying an overnight bag with him, and clean underwear. He didn’t even have a car. Not here. “I have an apartment in Leuven where I keep some things. Would that do?”

  She looked at him as if he had just committed an unforgivable faux pas. A suggestion not appropriate for their formal relations. But that couldn’t have been the reason for her mood. Something else was going on. “I have a spare bedroom,” he said. “You can sleep there if we don’t make it back in time.” As if he could have meant anything else.

  She ignored his remark. “We’ll take my car. It’s in the parking lot.”

  He closed his computer, rose, and followed her. Suddenly, he wasn’t looking forward to a quick trip to Belgium. He had reconciled himself to his exile, however temporary. And with the exile, he’d been granted time away from his former problems.

  She strode down the corridor, looking different from the day before. She took on an aggressiveness in the way she spoke and held herself. She bore a distinct purpose, and people had better get out of her way. She didn’t look back to see if he was following her. He could have simply ignored her, let her go by herself. But that didn’t seem like such a good idea.

  They took the elevator in silence. The underground garage was a steel and concrete affair, with the smell of ozone and new cars. It was essentially a nineteenth-century building, but he assumed AIVD had enough money to convert any building into a modern fortress. Perhaps with deep subbasements, safe rooms, and passageways to other government buildings.

  But before they reached the garage, there was a door, probably reinforced with steel. Dewaal stopped in front of it. A voice said, “Identification, please.”

  “What?” he said. Nobody was around.

  “Identification, please,” the voice repeated. “First warning.”

  It came from a small grille in the doorframe, under a small red light.

  “Oh,” Dewaal said, “that’s Basil. He guards the perimeter of the building. Does a full-body scan and reads your card as well.” She stepped back and waved her card in front of the grille. “Dewaal,” she said. “And one visitor.”

  “Identification complete. Unidentified visitor noted. Please use your access card.” The door slid open.

  “Will comply, Basil,” she said. She grinned at Eekhaut and motioned him into the parking area.

  “Basil?”

  “Yep. Basil Fawlty.”

  “What?”

  “Fawlty Towers. The British TV comedy. Never seen it? God, you’ve never watched Fawlty Towers!”

  “Oh, yes. I did.”

  “Good. Well, remember. Basil won’t let you in without your badge and a full-body scan. We’re very serious about security.”

  “I’ll think about that.”

  The Porsche Cayenne awaited them, black and shiny, as if straight from the showroom. She got in, he slid into the passenger seat, and they drove off. She switched on the navigator, which showed them a map of the surrounding area. “Punch in the destination,” she said. He did, although he knew exactly where they were heading. She wanted the reassurance of technology, he assumed.

  “There will be a lot of traffic,” he warned her. He had driven to Amsterdam and back a couple of times, as a tourist. He had parked his car somewhere around the RAI, close to the terminus of Tramline 4.

  There they were, in the middle of what looked like the whole of the Dutch nation driving on the highway between Amsterdam and the south.

  “Why don’t we contact the local police in Leuven?” he proposed. “We wouldn’t have to drive all the way.”

  She ignored his request. Stubborn, he assumed. She wasn’t going to deviate from her plan, not because he had other ideas. “What do we know about this matter?” she asked. “The identity of the fugitive but not of the murderer. We assume we know where the girl went, but it’s just your guess. If you’re wrong, we’ll be back in Amsterdam by tomorrow. Empty-handed. It isn’t fun, but I’m willing to take the chance.”

  “Call the local police and ask for protection. For the girl’s sister,” he repeated. He couldn’t envisage going to Leuven and not involving the locals.

  “I spoke with the prosecutor just before we left. He mocked the idea. No proof of anything, he said. Where would this murderer have come from? Who would have sent him? Why would the girl be in danger? We’re chasing ghosts, that’s what he implies. Somebody’s been talking to him. Somebody told him he shouldn’t bother.”

  “Somebody? Who?”

  “Jesus,” she said, angry now, “you’re slow, aren’t you? Is this the famous and feared detective from Brussels? It’s a given that the prosecutor and certain high-level members of the political class occasionally have dinner together. Members of a right-wing political class. Need I fill in names, Walter? It’s the same politicians you like to offend.”

  “Oh,” Eekhaut said. He was slow all right. But he knew nothing of this particular prosecutor’s leanings, did he?

  “Which is the main reason this particular prosecutor slammed the door in my face. And the door will remain shut. He’ll be on the phone with the interested other party, and he certainly will tell them we’re going to Leuven. I was careful enough not to mention any names, but rest assured the other party isn’t stupid and can connect the dots.”

  “Shit.”

  They drove slowly along the ringway, with trucks in a long row to their right and two cars in front of them, not making any speed. They had several hundred kilometers ahead of them. “Yes,” she said. “Shit. We have to hurry, and we’re not allowed to involve local police. If we were the FBI or whatever, we’d be in a chopper all the way.” They’d reached the exit to the highway toward Rotterdam, which had three lanes instead of two, and Dewaal accelerated at once, steering the Porsche to the left lane. “And so we drive. Nice car, isn’t it?”

  Eekhaut searched for his cell phone. “I’ll call somebody.”

  “No, you won’t. We keep this strictly to ourselves.”

  He could be as stubborn as she could. “I know a detective on the local force who can help us. Without making this official.” He dialed a number.

  She glanced at him but had to concentrate on the road and the traffic, with the Porsche now doing over eighty. Then traffic became congested again near Schiphol.

  Eekhaut’s call was answered. “Albert!” a tiny voice on the other end announced.

  “Alberto!” Eekhaut said joyfully. “Been a while. How are you?”

  “Eekhaut? You still alive? I assumed they’d buried you over there in Brussels. What’s going on, buddy?”

  “They tried to bury me but found out after a while they couldn’t shut me up even six feet under. I’m in Holland now, but that’s a long story.”

  Dewaal looked his way, ignoring the traffic just long enough to warn him with her eyes. He ignored her.

  “I need your help for a thing that’s both urgent and confidential,” he continued.

  “Aha. As if it would be any different. I assumed you didn’t call to ask about my health.”

  “I’m willing to discuss your health all right, and we can have a pint at the Domus when I’m in Leuven. But I have a name for you: Annelies Calster, C-A-L-S-T-E-R. She’s a Dutch student. She has a sister Eileen, E-I-L-E-E-N, who will most probably be traveling from Amsterdam to Leuven. And she’ll meet up with her sister. You need to keep an eye on both till we arrive. And this is a serious matter: we have good reason to believe both their lives are in danger.”

  “No shit! You just touched down in Holland and already you’re dealing with international human trafficking. And murder? Any good reason why you can’t talk to us officially?”

  “Local prosecutor—the one in Amste
rdam—refuses to do the paperwork.”

  “That’s annoying. Good, I’ll see what I can do. You got an address?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. But you can find her through your contacts at the university. Throw her name at the computer.”

  “Of course. And unofficially.”

  “That’s it. Nobody hears about this. There’s also politics involved.”

  “As it always is. Human trafficking. Dirty business. Count me in. I’ll jot down your number and call you back ASAP.”

  “Thanks, Alberto,” Eekhaut said, cutting the connection.

  “Can he be trusted?” Dewaal asked. “Because I don’t want any trouble with these off-the-books deals.”

  “Absolutely trustworthy.”

  “You seem sure.”

  “I saved his life once. That means something, I guess. And we worked together for a dozen or so years. Can’t do better than that. And if it’s enough for me …”

  Dewaal said nothing.

  The traffic got thicker. They hardly made any progress. “Shit!” she said. “I’m going to use the siren and lights.”

  “Why didn’t you do that before?”

  “Because of the speed cameras. I’ll be asked what the urgency is. And will have to fill out a bunch of documents that will have to be signed by four different civil servants.”

  “And what we’re doing isn’t urgent business?”

  She gave him a look, reached for the dashboard, and flipped two switches. Sirens and lights: suddenly cars started to make room for them. They advanced more rapidly but not yet at full speed. They drove along the Rotterdam ringway, after which they managed to speed up again. For a few minutes, another police car followed them while they were doing ninety in the left lane, but then it disappeared again.

  “They checked our registration,” Dewaal said.

  Eekhaut’s phone vibrated. Alberto again. “Walter. I found her address. Note it down: Vanderlindenstraat 8, Leuven. You know where that is?”

  “I think I do. Student rooms?”

  “Yes. I’m in my car down the street, and I’m keeping an eye on the house. Nothing to see at the moment. What does your Eileen look like?”

  “Short dark hair, punk, bit unkempt, skinny, tall.”

  “Like about half the female student population of Leuven. I see. This can’t be hard. When are you here?”

  “In another two hours, maybe three. We’re passing Rotterdam. And traffic is—”

  “I hear a siren.”

  “That’s us.”

  “Right. Well, I’ll stick around. See you later. What if your girl turns up?”

  “Follow her. We want to speak to her. And make sure that she isn’t already being followed.”

  “By who?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “You’re no great help, Walter. So I hunt for ghosts. Like in the good old days. Well, see you.”

  Thanks to the sirens, they managed to speed all the way to the Belgian border. Antwerp would be their next problem. Eekhaut checked his watch. Late afternoon. They had been on their way far too long. He calculated that they would need about forty-five minutes to Leuven. He was hungry, but there was no time to eat.

  Dewaal kept on speeding. She only slowed down on the Antwerp ringway. They took the exit to the E19.

  “Don’t go all the way to Brussels,” he said. “Too long a detour and too much traffic at this time of the day. Take the Hofstade exit and drive to Leuven from there.”

  She didn’t comment but followed his instructions. He switched off the navigation system. They drove the distance to Leuven at high speeds along a two-lane provincial road.

  Leuven, finally.

  It didn’t feel like coming home.

  But then, he had been away for only a couple of days.

  33

  “SHE HAS A BROTHER and a sister,” Monet said. “Did the brother enlighten us?”

  Andreï Tarkovski managed to keep his hands from shaking. They would shake not because he was confronted with Monet again but for what had happened during the last hour, which had been one hour too much in his life. He wanted to forget that hour, but couldn’t.

  He sat opposite Monet in the man’s office, deep in a labyrinthine old building close to Central Station. The vague smell of machine oil and decrepit electric machinery hung in the air. From a distance, the rattle and drone of trains could be heard. This looked like a temporary office, with hastily gathered furniture and new, expensive computer equipment.

  No secretaries in sight, no evidence of any administration, no security guards, and no windows. A day later, this office would again be a storehouse or an empty lot. A day later, this whole operation would have become virtual, a company consisting of nothing more than a mailbox and an internet site. Monet probably ran a number of these companies. Sometimes they would do something real, like exchanging money and spending money and in fact laundering money. Not that Tarkovski cared.

  Monet had given him the address of Eileen Calster’s brother over the phone. A little visit, he had suggested. Surprise the young fella with a little visit and listen to what he had to tell about his next of kin.

  “There was very little the brother could tell us,” Tarkovski admitted. His soul felt hard as ice. Monet expected a report. He got a report. He got words. What he did not get was the pain and the fear.

  “Let’s return to the heart of the matter,” Monet said succinctly. He didn’t want to be informed about the methods the two men had used to extract information from Calster. “Does he know where his sister is?”

  Andreï was reminded of Parnow. He thought about Parnow all the time now. Parnow’s face was in his mind all the time, his immobile face. He had wanted to stop Parnow, but he knew the man wouldn’t have let him. There was no way back. That much Tarkovski had understood. Parnow could have arranged for a way back, but he had closed off that exit the moment he put his strong, ugly hands around the boy’s throat.

  The boy hadn’t wanted to talk. He had a specific air about him, Tarkovski had noted, angry and careless at the same time. He didn’t seem to appreciate the urgency of the situation. “Where is Eileen?” Tarkovski had asked him. The question seemed to have no meaning to the boy. He could even have asked him—

  Oh, it didn’t matter anymore.

  And now he too, Tarkovski, was implicated in murder.

  A senseless, cruel murder. Because the boy had told them where Eileen was. Once he understood the question, he just replied.

  Parnow’s eyes. And his hands. That seemed to be the only thing Andreï remembered. The boy had died in silence. He had hardly resisted, as if he welcomed death. Strange boy, living in that cell-like room of his. Had died with no more fuss than a quiet sigh.

  “The other sister, Annelies, lives and studies in Belgium,” he said.

  “She must be easy to find.”

  “She is,” Tarkovski said. He did the brain work. Parnow would do the brute work. He was the one who asked the questions. He knew which of them was more esteemed by his Russian master. He had no illusions.

  “Why are you still here, then?” Monet asked.

  “Because I wanted to keep you informed.”

  “You could have done that over the phone while driving to Belgium.”

  “The phone might be tapped.”

  “So what? You don’t have to name names. Two words would have sufficed. Where’s the gorilla, by the way?”

  “Parnow? He’s waiting downstairs.”

  “And the Bentley?”

  “We had it brought back, along with the driver.”

  “Good. In the garage of this building, you’ll find a new 3 Series BMW. A black one. Clean and registered. Keys are in it. Paperwork is in the glove compartment. Take the car and drive to Belgium.”

  “To Leuven.”

  “Wherever she is. I don’t give a shit where you end up. Find Eileen Calster and bring the list back to me. Whatever you do with her is not my concern. But make sure she doesn’t talk about this anymore
.”

  34

  VAN GILS CURSED AND turned the wheel sharply to the right. The Mondeo came to a stop against a green waste container. Pedestrians stepped back. The Mercedes came to a screeching halt behind the police car. Prinsen threw open his door and rolled onto the ground. He thought of only one thing: how to draw his weapon as quickly as possible.

  Three, four loud bangs sounded in the street accompanied by other noises: breaking glass, screaming people, car alarms.

  And the stench of oil and guns.

  He got to his knees, drew the SIG Sauer from its holster and chambered a round in one smooth move, and pointed it upward. He took cover behind the rear of the Mondeo.

  They teach you a car won’t necessarily stop bullets but slows them down, and you stand a better chance of survival with a slower bullet, with less energy. He kept the car between him and the assailants.

  The Mercedes backed up again, wheels spinning and rubber smoking. A man wearing a ski cap hung halfway out of the rear passenger window. He held a sawed-off shotgun. He wasn’t looking at Prinsen. His attention was on the front end of the Mondeo, where he expected trouble.

  When he noticed Prinsen, he turned the barrel of his rifle in the direction of the detective.

  Prinsen fired. Two shots. He hit the Mercedes. The driver shifted gears. The heavy car spun round. The shooter lost his bearings on Prinsen.

  The vehicle disappeared from Prinsen’s sight. He rose. The Mercedes turned a corner. Other vehicles were halted chaotically in the street, with the drivers kept out of sight.

  He stepped around the Mondeo and opened the dented door on the driver’s side.

  Van Gils hung over the steering wheel. Glass and blood. This didn’t look good.

  Prinsen tucked his gun away and took out his phone.

  35

  VANDERLINDENSTRAAT WAS A QUIET street in the southern part of the city. Eekhaut was familiar with it, since he grew up around here. Even after thirty-five years, little had changed. The whole neighborhood had been built in the fifties and early sixties and consisted mainly of large multistoried family houses, occasionally interspersed with small apartment blocks that were added in the seventies.