“Park the car in a side street,” he told Dewaal. “This is Bayostraat. Park here, where it’s less visible. There aren’t many cars around here with a Dutch license plate.”
Dewaal parked. They walked around the corner to Vanderlindenstraat. A silver Ford Focus was parked halfway down the street. The man behind the wheel opened his window. “Hello, partner,” he said to Eekhaut.
“Appreciate this,” Eekhaut said to the man. “This is Chief Superintendent Dewaal of the Dutch AIVD.”
“Good afternoon, Chief,” Albert said, still from behind the wheel. “Come and join me.”
They joined Albert. Dewaal sat in the back, Eekhaut in front. He showed a picture to Albert. “Eileen Calster. Have you seen her yet?”
“No, don’t think so. Nobody has entered or left the house since I arrived here. This happens to be my day off, by the way, partner. Just so you know. Doing you a big favor—so you know that too.”
“There’s never a day off for a dedicated policeman, but I appreciate your efforts,” Eekhaut said.
“Never a day off for a policeman?” Dewaal cracked. “I’ll certainly remember that when you ask me for a vacation, Walter.”
Albert glanced in the mirror. “What’s all this about?”
“Murder,” Eekhaut said. “Break-in, theft, conspiracy to commit. Political, all of that. You can easily imagine the mess we’re in.”
“Arrest warrant?”
“Not yet. We can’t arrest the girl. She doesn’t have to know that, however. We prefer—”
“You’ve already been working too long for the Dutch, mate,” Albert said. “No offense, ma’am.”
“We prefer,” Eekhaut continued, “that she’ll return with us out of her own free will.”
“But you don’t have that piece of paper. Be careful,” Albert said.
“I’m always careful.”
“Yeah, that’s why you were so popular with everybody.” He glanced in the mirror again. “But maybe I’m saying too much.”
“I’m aware of his reputation, Albert,” Dewaal said. “I know what he’s worth. Nothing you say can surprise me anymore.”
“This isn’t about me,” Eekhaut interrupted. “Thing is, what do we do? We don’t know if Eileen is coming here.”
“But that was your bloody idea,” Dewaal said. “You were sure she would come to her loving sister in Leuven.”
“And you could have involved my colleagues,” Albert insisted. “Even without your prosecutor backing you up.”
“We’re not supposed to operate outside of the Netherlands,” Dewaal said. She looked out. “Who’s that?”
A girl was coming down the street. She was blond, slender, in jeans and a sweater. She carried a white canvas bag. She stopped at number eight and opened the door with a key, went in, and closed the door again.
“Annelies?” Eekhaut asked.
Albert shook his head. “No idea. I noticed there’re four bells on that door. You don’t have a picture of her? You have no idea what she looks like? Does she resemble her sister?”
“We don’t know.”
“Then we’ll have to wait. I can’t stay here, though. My wife will wonder what I’m doing on my day off.”
“We’ll take it from here, Albert,” Dewaal said. “I’ll park our car here so we have a better view.”
“What, with the Dutch tags?”
“Can’t be helped.”
“Good thing your emergency lights are invisible. They would completely betray us.”
“And so Albert can still enjoy the rest of the day,” she said. She got out and went to the Porsche.
Eekhaut said goodbye to Albert.
“Peppy little lady you got there,” Albert said.
“She sure is.”
“Better than your previous boss?”
Was she? Better than any of his previous bosses? Teunis, for one? Yes, he was sure of that already. She could handle a Porsche Cayenne in heavy traffic. She endured him, had done so for several days already. A good start.
“We only just met,” he said. “The thing is, she’s already aware of my reputation, and she has seen what I’m capable of.”
“But still … Holland!”
“My opinion wasn’t asked, Albert. They told me to get as far away from Brussels as possible. Even so, new people, new challenges.”
“As if you still need challenges. Couldn’t you just spend those last years in some rustic village, as the local cop or whatever?”
“Nothing was working anymore for me,” Eekhaut said. “Certainly not Brussels. Not with the social diseases I saw there. And local politics being worse than anywhere else. They offered early retirement, what could I do? Spend the next twenty years or so in my apartment? There are only so many books you can read. Holidays? Soaking up the sun in some third-rate holiday resort, with what pension I would get?”
The black Porsche parked behind them. “Yeah, partner, I understand,” Albert said. “There’s your boss now. I’ll leave you to it then. Success. And you have my number, in case you need help. You know you can call me. You do, don’t you?”
“I do. Thanks again. I owe you one. Here, or in Amsterdam.”
Eekhaut changed cars. He was glad the Porsche wasn’t the sports version. That would have been a bit too cozy, he and Dewaal in a small sports car.
She was on the phone. She listened. Then she said, “Nothing can be done about that, I’m afraid. I’ll be back by tomorrow evening at the latest.” She listened again. “Yes, very well then.” She closed the phone. Eekhaut didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to talk about her personal problems.
“We’ll need food and something to drink,” she said. “You know the neighborhood. Can you get us something? Sandwiches, that sort of thing?”
“There’re a few places in Naamsestraat where we can have a bite. It’s only a few streets from here. But that’s mainly student territory, so I’m not sure if the culinary standard is high enough. Or do you want me to get something to eat in the car?”
“Yes, Eekhaut,” she repeated. “This is what we specialists call a stakeout. One of us stays here. The other fetches food and coffee.”
He shrugged. He wasn’t in the mood for irony. And perhaps Eileen would not show up, or not right away, so they might have a long night ahead.
“Take your time. I’ll call you if anything happens.”
He got out again and walked in the direction of the beltway. Then he went downhill toward Naamsestraat. What would she want to eat? Choices were limited. A sandwich bar and a pita restaurant. He chose sandwiches. Having no idea of her preferences, he took two large sandwiches with cheese and ham, two cans of soda, and four bottles of water. He took everything with him back to the car.
“Ham and cheese,” he said. “Hope you like it.” He deposited the water on the back seat. Dehydration was sometimes a problem during long stakeouts. “No coffee?” she mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. “We must get coffee as well. I have an empty thermos in the trunk for occasions like this.”
“There’re a few pubs around, but I’m not sure if they’ll sell me bulk coffee,” he said. “I’ll give it a shot.”
36
“YOU PISSED SOMEBODY OFF big time,” Veneman said. The officer filled the doorway with his presence, and this was a larger door than most—this was a hospital, where doors were large enough for beds to pass through. Veneman wore a navy-blue suit but no tie. The suit seemed a bit tight around the shoulders. He looked and talked like a police officer, as if each word were expensive.
“Yes,” Prinsen said simply. Yes, they had pissed somebody off. But was that sufficient reason for an attack on two police officers in the streets of Amsterdam? Did they really piss somebody off that much? This was the stuff of movies. Not something that happened regularly to Dutch cops.
But Prinsen knew that organized crime had become more ruthless over these last few years, as much in Holland as anywhere else. The smallest provocation warranted an all-out reaction, with exc
essive violence. These people were mostly short-fused and would not be fucked with.
He had already been warned at the police academy. Organized crime was a hotbed of psychopaths and freaks, and most came from areas of conflict or countries with a strong antisocial tradition. The Balkans, Russia, Georgia, Serbia, Middle East, South China, Korea. Mostly—but not entirely—people who had known only repressive regimes and poverty. Dutch criminals had always been bad enough. They fought over lost territory, over a missed opportunity, over matters of personal honor. But they also talked to each other. They made deals, divided the territory. Divided the business. Occasionally somebody got wasted, maybe spectacularly. But that was the exception. Now some veterans had left the business because it had become too bloody.
“Van Gils will be all right,” Veneman said. “He’d be dead if they had wanted. A couple of small holes that can be fixed.”
Van Gils had been in surgery for some time now, or possibly was still in recovery, Prinsen didn’t know. He had driven his partner directly to the hospital, at full speed, sirens and all. With a car that had more holes in it than the man did.
“They got the pellets out of him, gave him blood, gave him tranquilizers, and now they’re sewing him up. Tough guy, that Van Gils.” Veneman was rarely in the office because he usually worked on the Bureau’s legal affairs. Not in the streets, but in the courts. “And don’t let your aunt say different,” he continued. “There’s a whole generation of policemen, people like Van Gils, who made the force what it is today. Even the Bureau. And they, well, they’re wary of young people like yourself, with academic degrees but no street cred.”
“She never said otherwise,” Prinsen said. “I’m sure she has nothing but respect for him.” As if he could know what Dewaal really thought. But he wanted to appease Veneman.
Veneman entered the room. “Let me tell you something about Van Gils. When he was still working as a detective with the Amsterdam force, he was in the office when a patrol brought in two Moroccan boys. Real dickheads, the worst. Sociopaths up to their eyeballs. They had stabbed an old woman after they’d taken her handbag. Stabbed her just for fun and laughs. There was no need for that, they already had her money. See the sort of animals I’m talking about? So Van Gils and a colleague question them. ‘What do we care about the old bitch,’ one of the boys said. Van Gils jumped at him and whacked him over the head. One blow. You know the size of Van Gils. So, broken jaw, concussion, hospital, a lot of fucking trouble, of course. Even a lawyer. Team leader covered up the whole thing. Suspect had tried to escape. Who believes a kid like that anyway? Van Gils sat at the woman’s hospital bed for three entire days, made sure her cats got taken care of. Even organized a fundraiser for her medical expenses. But maybe nothing of this means anything at all to you, I don’t know.”
“Is that what all of you liked best? The beat? Working the streets? Old women and Moroccan thugs? Stabbings? Vandalism?”
Veneman shook his head, a bit sadly, it seemed. As if he regretted having to be here, in a hospital room with a colleague in surgery while criminals roamed the streets. “We knew nothing else, at that time. It was useful work. Keeping the scum off the streets. But things evolve. Van Gils understood soon enough. Crime changes and so does the police. We both transferred to AIVD because they needed hardened cops like us. But the new chief has never known the sort of situation we came from. I’m sure she understands and appreciates us, but she’ll never have that same relation with crime that we do.”
“I’m sure she appreciates Van Gils.”
“Oh, she does. But at some point, she wanted to get rid of him. Talked to him about taking an early retirement and all that. Well-meant, I’m sure, but not what Van Gils needed. He didn’t want anybody else to decide when he was going to leave. And maybe he can’t go yet. Has a daughter in college. Maybe, after this—”
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“You’ll be working with me for a couple of days, I guess,” Veneman said. “There are three people working on the incident. You and Van Gils made enemies, that’s for sure. Which is unavoidable, given the current climate. These criminals know who you are, what you look like. Between crooks and cops, it’s a small world, even at our level. The advantage is that we’ll soon know who they are as well. Did you have a clear look at one of the assailants?”
“Black ski mask, I’m afraid. And things happening much too fast.”
“And what about the three men you saw earlier? They could have been the same men.”
“I don’t know. Why would they first show themselves and then shoot at us? Makes no sense.”
Veneman inspected his hands and then observed the place where Van Gils’s bed had been before he was taken to surgery. “You woke somebody up, that much is certain. With your questions, with your presence. This much violence means that somebody really took offense. Russians, I’m sure. These new Russians, very unlike the ones that have been here for years and kept quiet. Different ethics, new rules. Perestroika-capitalism. This is taking an ugly turn.”
“But why shoot at us? Van Gils and me?”
“You came too close, I guess. They don’t fear regular police, but they know we’re their real enemy. You show your face in the neighborhood, and they’ll react. We can expect more of this to come.”
Prinsen remained silent.
“And what happened to you today,” Veneman said, “is going to affect you much more than you can imagine, kid. Van Gils got hit, but in a way so did you. Not by a bullet. You were shot at, and you escaped unharmed, but it’s going to be in your head for a long time.”
“Of course it will.”
“And you’ll ask yourself, why was Van Gils hit and not me?”
Prinsen looked at his hands. They were stable. Had been for the whole time. He was all right. He was going to be all right.
“And your weapon? Did you give it to the tech boys?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Get it back right away. Get another one if you can’t get it back soon. You shot twice at the assailants, even if you don’t remember. But you did. You used your gun in a street, in public. You probably hit the Mercedes, because we didn’t find any impacts. But you may not remember. That’s all right. That’s shock. No, your hands aren’t shaking, but it’s in your head. You need to deal with that.”
37
PARNOW AND ANDREï TARKOVSKI drove the black BMW all the way to Leuven. Traffic had been dense. Parnow, at the wheel, didn’t utter a word, didn’t complain, didn’t object. He stared in front of him and occasionally at the side mirrors, focused on driving. A machine driving another machine, that was Tarkovski’s impression. A machine that had been given an order and executed that order without deviating for one moment from the preprogrammed path. Not even thinking about the sense of it all.
Exactly the sort of people Keretsky needed for special operations like this. Ah, Tarkovski thought, special operations. As if that meant anything other than more murder.
That would be the jargon Parnow’s companions used in his former military units. Tarkovski couldn’t remember all that much about Afghanistan; he had been too young then. But he assumed Parnow had gotten familiar with the local population on a very intimate level. Presumably from behind an automatic weapon. Like all Russians, Tarkovski knew about the shameful retreat of the Russian army. That had been under the Soviets, but it remained a stain on the uniform of many military. Like the Americans in Vietnam.
Was Parnow really just an intelligent killing machine? Tarkovski suspected not. There had been moments of hesitation, short ones, but still. The man’s eyes sometimes seemed to express emotions that contradicted the cliché of the cold, dead soldier. But finally, when it came down to it, Parnow would do exactly what was expected of him. And Tarkovski knew full well that included killing in cold blood.
He dozed off against the side window and woke with a sour taste in his mouth. He wanted something to drink. He wanted to freshen up. He couldn’t help dozing off, although it ann
oyed him. But he had never signed on for operations like this. He was supposed to be behind a desk, managing Keretsky’s affairs, not going on a search mission with a murderer. He was a diplomat, not a special forces commando.
They passed the border and continued toward Antwerp and then on to Brussels. Finally, they arrived in Leuven. It had taken a seemingly endless four hours.
Tarkovski inspected the piece of paper with the little map he had drawn himself, based on information given him by telephone that morning. He had then consulted Google Maps for a map of Leuven. He guided Parnow into the city. Finding the right street didn’t take them long. Parnow slowed down and wanted to turn onto Vanderlindenstraat, but stopped the car at the intersection. He nodded toward the street. A black Porsche Cayenne was parked halfway up the street. With Dutch tags.
“Police,” he said.
38
ANNELIES WAVED GOODBYE TO her friends and crossed Ladeuzeplein. It wasn’t cold, thanks to a weak sun. The square in front of the university’s main library was no longer the student gathering place that it was during spring and summer, when they mostly sat on the low, long stairs and talked and ate. There were some tourists now, gaping at the impaled giant beetle on what looked like a magnified needle—an artwork by Jan Fabre—but they didn’t stay long. Most people were just passing by. Annelies sort of liked the beetle, a postmodern work of art that had so many locals scratching their heads when it was installed. It was, she found, sort of ironic.
She was on her way to the Appel, where she would drink another coffee. After that, she would walk back to her room, eat a sandwich, and study. There had been a couple of parties the last two days, parties she couldn’t avoid, and she was now behind with her work. Too much fun in Leuven, too many occasions for not working. A city filled to the brim with seductions. For students away from home, some for the first time in their life, this was a recipe for disaster. Too much freedom. Few were able to ignore these seductions.
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