Absinthe

by Guido Eekhaut

  But in the end, there would be exams. Now, at the end of September, the academic year hadn’t even properly begun, so there was still room for distractions. For now, she needed a few hours to wrap her head around a history text, and later she would go out again, not too late, but enough to feel part of the world at large.

  Yet nothing like that was going to happen, because Eileen just stepped out of nowhere, in jeans and a T-shirt and carrying a bag. She didn’t look happy. Something was wrong.

  “God, Eileen, what are you doing here, girl?! Why didn’t you—?”

  Her sister fell into her arms, weeping. Eileen, all skin and bones, her arms thinner than Annelies remembered. Eileen, always the strongest of the three. Now, however, she was a terrified, desperate little creature who held on to her sister as if they would never again be separated.

  “Hey, kiddo, what’s happening?” The last time they’d met, Eileen had been full of plans for a future with Pieter Van Boer. That had been ten months ago. Plans, ideas, adventures—everything seemed possible at the time. “Tell me, why are you here?”

  “Pieter is dead, Annelies,” Eileen said. She wiped her nose on her wrist. Her eyes were red. She had been crying and had missed sleep recently. And it looked like there was more to it than just Pieter’s death.

  “Come on,” Annelies said. “Let’s sit somewhere and have a drink, and tell me everything.”

  Annelies guided her sister to a table on a terrace in front of the library building and ordered two Leffe Blondes. Maybe not what Eileen needed, but it wasn’t going to hurt either.

  “Now, tell me.”

  “There was a man in our apartment, and he shot Pieter. Yesterday morning. Like that, with a gun. And he wanted to kill me too. But I ran away.”

  “You’re not serious! Why would anybody want to kill Pieter?”

  Eileen drank the Leffe.

  “Well?” Annelies insisted. “I know he was into politics, but people don’t get killed for that.”

  “He stole some documents from that party, Van Tillo’s party, where he worked. You know, I told you about that. That’s what the murderer wanted. Those documents.”

  “And that’s why Pieter had to die?”

  “Yes. Seems that way.”

  “Have you been to the police?” Which sounded like a stupid question, but Eileen was here. She was no longer in Amsterdam.

  Eileen shook her head. “No.”

  So, Annelies thought, not really a stupid question after all. “Why not?”

  “Pieter didn’t trust the police. He said there were too many right-wing police officers connected with PDN. And some of them were a bit too close with Van Tillo.”

  “But now we’re talking murder—

  “All the more reason not to approach them. And I have those documents!”

  “Documents?”

  “A list of names of people who donated money to the PDN. Pieter wanted to give the list to a sympathetic journalist, but that didn’t happen. I’m sure Van Tillo and her gang are behind the murder, but I can’t prove that.”

  “And now you’re here—”

  “Yes, with the list.”

  “Which means you’re in danger as well.”

  “I tried to disappear, Annelies. I tried to get as far away from Amsterdam as I could.”

  “You’re not safe here either. Not with that list.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Make it public. That’s what Pieter would have done.”

  “Make it public? Where? With whom? I don’t know who Pieter would have given that list to. He never told me any names. I know very little about the stuff he was doing. And I left everything, all his documentation, in the apartment.”

  “And you can’t go back there. I can give you a place to crash for a while. I have a room. Nothing grand, but we’ll manage.”

  “Just for a couple of days. Until I’ve worked out what I should do.”

  “You should go to the police, kid.”

  Eileen shook her head and finished the Leffe. It made her light in the head, what with not having eaten enough the whole day. And then the excitement.

  “As you like,” Annelies said. “I have no good advice to give you. But Pieter … dead!” She had met Pieter only a couple of times. To her, he seemed charming but absent. Older and experienced and a bit of a mystery. Too much of a mystery, as it now turned out. Annelies understood what her sister saw in him. She had seemed happy. Whatever it was they had, it had gone beyond mere infatuation.

  “Did you speak to Maarten?”

  “Maarten. Yes. I stayed the night in his room. Maarten hasn’t changed. He can’t help it. That’s why I came here. And I needed some distance between myself and Amsterdam. I shouldn’t have gone to him, but I had nowhere else to go.”

  “Nobody was following you?”

  “Don’t think so. But I’m not really sure.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “By train.”

  “Train. Good. Well, you can stay as long as you need. You have money?”

  “Enough for a couple of days.”

  Annelies went over the options. She couldn’t do much. “Money will be a problem. I’ll ask our parents …”

  “No. No way. Keep them out of this.”

  “Maybe I can find you a job.”

  “Yes. A job. That would be a good idea.”

  39

  “AND NOW WHAT?” TARKOVSKI asked Parnow. The BMW was parked around the corner from Vanderlindenstraat, out of sight of the Dutch car. The goddamn Dutch car that fouled things up completely for Tarkovski. It couldn’t be anything but a police vehicle. This was not some lost tourist. This was the Dutch police—and probably the AIVD, with a car like that—observing what could be Eileen Calster’s hideout. How did they get here? How did they find out? Why didn’t things go his way? The whole affair could have been settled with a kidnapping or just a retrieval of the list. He hated complicated situations.

  Parnow was impatient in his own fashion. He bit the nail of his thumb, something Tarkovski hadn’t expected he’d ever witness. Parnow was supposed to be the alpha male who could deal with any situation. Abduction, break-ins, a bit of rough violence. Whatever. And murder, Tarkovski thought. Let’s not forget murder.

  He should be the one biting his nail.

  Parnow turned to him. “What now, comrade?” It sounded ironic. No one used the term anymore. Except some die-hard communists, those who thought lovingly about Stalin. “Our assignment is to get the list. And we can do whatever we want with the girl, as I seem to remember.”

  Tarkovski shook his head. “Retrieving the list is enough, Parnow. I don’t want another murder on my conscience. I can do without that.” He could do without a stretch in a Dutch prison, that was for sure, which was where he was going to end up if things got out of hand. And he could do without a Russian prison even more. The things he’d heard about Russian prisons. He knew Keretsky would make sure nothing untoward happened to him, but he would be in prison nevertheless.

  But Keretsky’s anger, that would be worse than prison. They couldn’t afford to mess this up.

  “Hmmm,” Parnow growled. Almost literally. “Violence is unavoidable when you work for Keretsky, mate. You know that.” He glanced out of the side window.

  Tarkovski could physically feel the enmity. “I prefer not,” he said. “We keep strictly to the terms of the assignment.” And I make up the rules while we’re here, he thought. If that’s no longer possible, then we’ll drive back to Amsterdam. But he realized he had little say in that. He couldn’t overpower Parnow if it came to that.

  “We have nothing,” Parnow said. “No girl, no list.”

  Tarkovski considered the problem. He knew all too well they couldn’t return without results. But there it was—with the police around, it would be difficult to kidnap the girl.

  He needed fresh air. Sitting with Parnow in the confines of the car was suffocating. He opened the door and stepped out. Parnow didn’t react.
Tarkovski stretched his limbs. Four hours in a car. He needed room. The air was cold. The streets were quiet. A quiet neighborhood with large houses. Rich people, he assumed. He admired these Belgians. They lived in bigger houses than the Dutch did. They had more space to themselves, it seemed.

  Two girls approached from the other end of the street. They walked in the direction of Vanderlindenstraat. One of the girls was Eileen Calster.

  He jumped into the car.

  40

  “THAT’S HER,” DEWAAL SAID.

  “And probably her sister,” affirmed Eekhaut.

  The two girls walked down the street, hanging on to each other as if afraid of the walls or open spaces. Two frightened but equally spirited girls. Who together would take on the big, bad world by themselves, if need be.

  “What now?” Eekhaut asked. “Assume we pick her up for her protection. We assume she is in danger. We don’t need an arrest warrant for that. She won’t even resist, I guess.”

  “Yes, why don’t we?” Dewaal said and stepped out of the car. “But it seems highly uncertain that we can convince the prosecutor that she’s worth listening to. Oh, whatever. Let’s do it.”

  Eekhaut fell into step behind her. “I didn’t come here with the prosecutor in mind,” he said.

  “Miss Eileen Calster,” Dewaal called.

  Both girls turned. They eyed the well-dressed woman suspiciously. And then the less well-dressed older man.

  Dewaal produced her card. “Chief Superintendent Dewaal, Dutch security services. My colleague Walter Eekhaut. We’ve been looking for you, miss. Do you mind accompanying us?”

  “You can’t arrest me,” Eileen said. Defiantly.

  He sister held on to her as if she wanted to prevent Eileen being taken by force.

  “No,” Dewaal said, “we can’t. But we would like to protect you.”

  “I don’t want that!”

  “It’s for the best, Miss Calster. Other people are looking for you, and they may not have any favorable intentions at all concerning your person.”

  “Pieter didn’t trust the police. Why would I?”

  “Pieter is dead,” Eekhaut said, without mercy, just stating a fact. “And it wasn’t the police who did that.”

  Eileen looked at him. “We all know who ordered that murder. What are you going to do about it?”

  “We can only go after whoever ordered the murder,” Dewaal said, “if and when we have a clear-cut case. The information in your possession, Miss Calster, is important to our investigation. Either you come with us out of your free will or I’ll have you arrested for obstructing the investigation and withholding evidence.” It sounded professional and impressive, but she was bluffing. Eileen didn’t know that, though.

  Annelies said, “This isn’t your jurisdiction.”

  Smart-ass, Dewaal thought. “Let’s not get too technical, miss,” she said. “This is about the safety of people, not about legal details.”

  “I’ll scream if you touch me,” Eileen said.

  Eekhaut knew the situation warranted a very radical approach. He took two photographs out of his pocket and showed them to the girls. The pictures left nothing to the imagination, which was why he’d brought them. Sometimes—usually—photographs were more convincing than words. He said, “This is what remained of Pieter Van Boer after he was shot from close range with a 9mm pistol. It’s the kind of gun that makes for nasty wounds. Don’t you think so? And how will you look after the assassin has finished with you?”

  Dewaal shot reproachful glances at him, but he ignored them. She was predictable under these circumstances, and he made good use of that predictability.

  The girls looked at the pictures.

  Annelies said, “Fuck!”

  Eileen looked paler than before, as if she might faint. Annelies held her.

  Eekhaut grasped the girl’s arm. “It is entirely up to you, but there’s a choice to make, Eileen. If you want Pieter’s murderer to be punished, then you’ll come with us.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

  41

  IT WAS DIFFICULT FOR Eileen to say goodbye to her sister. They had a long cuddle, and there were tears and whispered words that weren’t meant to be overheard by the detectives. Eileen produced the famous list from her bag and unceremoniously gave it to Dewaal. For her, it was as if she were taking leave of her life, or what was left of it, as if she were giving the last part of Pieter away. Then the girl stepped into the back of the Porsche.

  “We won’t drive back to Amsterdam today,” Dewaal announced. “I don’t feel up to it. And the traffic isn’t getting any better, even this late. I propose we spend the night here, somewhere in Leuven, and drive back tomorrow morning.”

  “I can live with that,” Eekhaut said. He didn’t care. “Finding a hotel can’t be a problem.” He turned around, toward the girl. “Did you bring things for at least one night?”

  She nodded. On the seat next to her was the bag she’d brought from Amsterdam. Her face was still wet from her tears. She wanted to disappear into a corner of the seat. He was sorry for her—she had become involved in a conspiracy much larger than she could ever have imagined. She had been gulped down the throat of a very big and nasty whale. He’d known other people in her shoes. People to whom the same sort of thing had happened. And most of them were left with what little remained of their life. Except for those who were dead.

  “I’d like to freshen up,” she said.

  “Let’s go to the Novotel,” Eekhaut proposed. “Nice rooms, you can take a shower and then eat something. From there we have almost immediate access to the highway tomorrow morning. If we start early, we’ll be in Amsterdam by ten.”

  “You’ll have to explain to me where I can find that hotel,” Dewaal said.

  He pointed. “Take the beltway here, and just drive on. I’ll tell you where to turn off.”

  She followed his instructions. She didn’t notice the black BMW that followed them. She was used to seeing Dutch tags, and she had other things on her mind. Her mind was already in Amsterdam, where more trouble was waiting for her.

  They reached the hotel, opposite a large brewery. “There’s a parking garage on the left,” Eekhaut said.

  “Shall I let you out first?” Dewaal suggested.

  “No,” Eekhaut said. “We’ll get out once we’re in the garage. It seems safer. And less obvious.” He’d contracted the paranoia virus a long time ago, and it remained with him. You never underestimated your opponent. That was a major rule if you wanted to survive the virus. And you stayed one step ahead of your opponent. There would always be a conspiracy, invisible but all too real. And everyone was after you. Yes, you.

  Dewaal drove into the underground garage and parked the car. The parking spaces were narrow, suited for midget cars only. Midget cars, midget people, Eekhaut thought. But Dewaal nevertheless managed to slide the Porsche in between two other cars. They got out, with some difficulty. “I need toiletry things,” he said. “Maybe I’ll drop by my apartment.”

  “We’ll book the rooms first,” Dewaal said. This was her operation. She made the decisions. They took the elevator to the ground floor. “A twin room and a single,” Dewaal announced to the girl behind the desk. She produced a golden credit card. “For one night. Adjoining rooms.”

  The girl consulted a screen. “Second floor, ma’am,” she said. “Two rooms.” She started filling out forms. They were given their keys. Dewaal gave the single room key to Eekhaut. Looked at him. “What else did you expect?” she said. She seemed amused by his momentary confusion, as if she had caught him in a reverie about cohabitation with his boss.

  “Oh,” he said, “No.” His attention had been elsewhere. Things from the past. He had been here before, in this hotel. Had long conversations in the bar. With suspects and informants and other police officers. But also with a woman who at some point had confided in him, had told him—and only him—about her present and her past. She had clearly wanted more than ju
st a talk. That had happened when Esther was still alive. He had lunched with the woman in the restaurant on the ground floor but had made it clear that their relationship was not a relationship.

  “Can I take the car?” he asked.

  The woman had come by car, a bright red Italian sports model. It was a telling detail. It said too much about her temperament and her expectations in life. And her expectations of him. She was married, but it wasn’t much of a marriage, as she was keen on telling him.

  She wanted him as a trophy.

  He had pitied her, one way or the other, which was why he’d rejected her offer.

  Dewaal threw him the key to the Porsche.

  “We’ll sleep in the same room?” Eileen asked.

  “Yes, girl, we will,” Dewaal said. “I’ll stay close. Don’t worry. And I don’t snore.”

  The girl shrugged. She was in no position to complain. The presence of the self-assured and authoritarian police officer seemed to reassure her.

  “You want something to eat?” Dewaal asked.

  She nodded. “Please.”

  “And you?” Dewaal asked Eekhaut.

  “Not right now. I want to collect a few things. See both of you later.” While they went to their room, he took the elevator back to the garage and unlocked the car. He reached for his holster. Yes, he had his gun. He didn’t know if he was permitted to carry a weapon in Belgium, but he didn’t care—it seemed irrelevant.

  He started the car and drove off into town. Ten minutes later, he parked again, next to the building he had left only a few days ago. It seemed ages now. He glanced around. No, nobody was paying him any attention.

  His apartment was dark and quiet. His furniture was covered with plastic sheets. He had switched off the fridge. There was nothing to eat or drink in the place.

  He went into the bedroom and pulled the plastic from the wardrobe. In the drawers were his extra sets of underwear, a few shirts, razor blades, toothpaste, and two pots of the shaving cream he ordered from London. Things he hadn’t intended to take with him to Amsterdam and that he would need whenever he was in Leuven for a couple of days.