Absinthe

by Guido Eekhaut

  They sat in a truckers’ restaurant along the highway. Three men in jeans and work shirts leaned against the counter over coffee and rolls. They were interested in nothing but their breakfast. Behind the counter, a woman of about forty in a dark blue outfit was occupied with a space-age coffee machine. Apart from them, the place was deserted. The sun was rising over the highway. A slight fog was traveling west, across some old and gray trees that looked as if they were made from ancient paper. The world itself looked old and discarded, mainly because the restaurant had known better times, in spite of the new coffee maker. It looked like a remnant from the 1958 World’s Fair and probably had been built in the fifties.

  “Holy shit!” Tarkovski said in Russian again. He would have used the name of the Lord, but normally he refrained from doing so, at least this early in the morning. He never talked to God or any other deity. He only believed in the stupidity of people and not in their illusions. “That went as badly as it could have,” he said. He whispered even though none of the people present would understand Russian. But he didn’t want them to hear the two men speaking in a foreign language. They were trying to keep a low profile.

  “Go to hell, intellectual,” Parnow said. He was clearly pissed off, although he didn’t sound as if he was angry. “Go to hell with your stupid ideas on how to run things. Next time we’ll wait for them in the street and shoot them. Clean and easy and without all that hassle.”

  “We won’t,” Tarkovski whispered angrily. “No way are we going to shoot people in the street. This isn’t Moscow. Nor is it Saint Petersburg. You don’t shoot at the police in this part of the world. And you don’t do that at home either. No longer.”

  “It’s the only language they really understand. Take it from me. I know how they think. You have to handle them my way. That’s what we did in Russia. Dutch police are kid stuff compared to Russians. You just have to show them you mean business.”

  “Tonight we went too far!”

  “You know nothing! Just because you speak Dutch and English and you’ve studied, you think you know about the world. The world means nothing. A strong hand is needed to govern the world. And violence is necessary if you want to prove you mean business. Otherwise, you are nothing and nobody.”

  Tarkovski leaned forward. Parnow had his weak spots, like everybody, probably without knowing them. They were hidden, but he had them. “I know enough about the world we live in,” he said. “More than enough to handle my life. The war is over, Parnow.”

  “This is not a war. This is a problem. We do not have the list: that’s the problem. And we came for the list.”

  “No, we didn’t get the list, and we’re not going to get it either, not this way.”

  “You have a better plan. I’m sure. I’ll listen.”

  Tarkovski didn’t have a better plan. He had no plan at all. He wasn’t into this sort of thing. And he seriously lacked experience in the field. He was like a cross between a lawyer and a diplomat.

  Parnow wasn’t going to let him get away with it. “Well? Do you have a better plan? I didn’t think so. So I say we catch them under way. On the road. They have to return to Amsterdam. While they are in the open, we’ll have our chance. I’ll call some friends, and we’ll wait for them.”

  “Some friends?”

  “Yes. People I can trust. Who know what to do in a case like this. Mr. Keretsky will gladly pay. A telephone call and these people come to help.”

  “Fuck, Parnow! What do you want? Start another war, on the road this time?”

  “Yes,” Parnow said. “If it has to happen, it will happen this way.”

  “You’re mad!”

  “Yes,” Parnow repeated. “I am mad enough for this sort of operation. But I get results. And you don’t. I make sure the work gets done. Yesterday evening it did not work. But it would have if we had gone into the hotel unannounced. But you wanted to play nice.”

  “You were the one who wanted to use the police card,” Tarkovski said.

  “Well, from now on we don’t play nice anymore. We play my way.”

  Tarkovski sat back. Piece of shit, he thought. But he knew he had no choice.

  46

  PRINSEN WAS SITTING IN the passenger seat of the armored black Mercedes, with Veneman at the wheel. Behind them was a second similar vehicle, with three more detectives from the Bureau. Both cars were in a parking area along the highway, pointing north, ready to go. They were waiting for a signal, Prinsen assumed, from Dewaal. The Belgian border was only ten kilometers south of them, in the opposite direction.

  Veneman stroked the steering wheel, almost lovingly. “Nice car, isn’t it? Aptly suited for the heavy work. But usually they stay in the garage. There’s little need for them. We occasionally use them to transport politicians and diplomats, or criminals we need to keep alive between prison and court. Beautiful machines. A bit of weight on them, three tons or so, but with enough power under the hood for speed. Can easily go up to hundred eighty kilometers an hour. That’s enough for a country this size.”

  He sounded proud, as if talking about his personal car. As if he had saved his money and bought himself this nice piece of technology. Prinsen had witnessed this attitude before with cops. They were usually unhappy about the way the organization was run but in awe of the equipment that came with it. It was probably a guy thing. And it was always their equipment. They were very possessive about it. Like these cars.

  “Where is Dewaal?” he asked. Someone had given him a plastic cup with very strong black coffee, strong enough to replace his feeling of drowsiness with one of nausea. But he was awake now, at least. “Is she in Belgium?”

  “We received a message,” Veneman explained. “We’re supposed to wait for her at the border. She’s bringing a witness and needs protection. Something happened in the hotel where they stayed last night, and she assumes more trouble will be ahead.”

  “And what happens now?” Prinsen sat against the door and longed for a second coffee. Or perhaps breakfast. Breakfast would be good. Breakfast would be most welcome. There was a shop next to the gas station where they were waiting, but Veneman kept everyone in the cars. “Do we just wait till we get a second call or what?”

  “We do,” Veneman said. “We wait. The life of a cop is nothing but waiting. And hoping you reach your retirement without anything serious happening to you. Like a bullet.”

  Prinsen admired the car’s interior. Tan leather, neatly stitched, and mock wood paneling on the doors and dashboard. A car like that was likely to be expensive. Someone would have to have had a considerable budget.

  “Sleep well?” Veneman asked.

  Prinsen failed to understand the question, simple though it was. “Did you sleep well last night?” Veneman repeated.

  “Oh. Fell asleep without taking my clothes off, it seems. But for how long, I have no idea.”

  “Sleep helps. Talking too. You have to talk about what’s bothering you. Important rule for any of us in this profession. If you see a colleague who stops doing that, talking I mean, then you know he’s in trouble. And trouble usually starts at home. Wife gets beaten, children run away or take drugs. That sort of thing. It leads to divorce, and the cop ends up alone. I’ve seen it happen too much. What about you?”

  “I’m living alone,” Prinsen said. He hoped it didn’t sound querulous. Or melodramatic and lost. Poor little boy alone in the world sort of thing. “I’m single and live by myself. Not much to show for it, but I’m taking care of myself.”

  “Alone. Well, I guess we’re all alone in the end, even the ones who’ve been married for twenty years. Who can tell?” Veneman didn’t take his eyes off the road in front of them. “We’re alone even when you need to trust others. Know what I mean? No lone wolves in this outfit. We can’t afford that. And you? No girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “You should get out more. Mingle with people, other cops if necessary. The lads say they never see you in the pub. They talk about that. Why don’t you join them o
n occasion? Drink a pint, smoke one of those awful cigars, celebrate some mate’s success? Be part of it all, that’s what matters.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Prinsen said. He tried to imagine Aunt Alexandra in a pub, holding a beer. He couldn’t. He could only see her in her official capacity, when she wasn’t a member of his family. Which was painfully ironic, since she was the only member of his family he cared about.

  A beep sounded from the dashboard.

  “They’re coming,” Veneman said. He started the car. Behind them, the engine of the second Mercedes came to life as well.

  47

  THE HOTEL STAFF HADN’T made any remarks, not during breakfast and not when Dewaal checked out, as if nothing at all had happened last night. As if the hotel hadn’t been turned into a battlefield, a room and corridor hadn’t been shot up, and guests hadn’t been rudely awakened by gunfire. The young woman behind the desk didn’t even seem aware of the nocturnal troubles, or else she was successful in hiding her curiosity.

  During breakfast, some of the other guests eyed them conspicuously and exchanged remarks, but Eekhaut and Dewaal ignored them. They fetched their rolls and coffee and fruit juice while one of them stayed with Eileen at all times and watched the surroundings. Eileen looked as innocent as before in her T-shirt and jeans. People would speculate about their individual roles in this little drama, as to who was the convict or whatever, but neither Eekhaut nor Dewaal cared much for what people thought.

  Dewaal—again in that nice suit of hers and very official looking—made two phone calls, but not when Eekhaut was around. He didn’t ask who she called. He had a vague headache, and that boded a difficult day ahead, so he was glad she didn’t share her problems with him.

  Then they left. Dewaal stopped at a gas station somewhere between Leuven and Antwerp and bought food and bottles of water and soda for all. It was obvious that she didn’t plan to stop again, given the risk of another assault. As the sun rose, they drove on toward Antwerp, having passed Brussels, braving morning rush-hour traffic. Eekhaut would have suggested using the siren and lights again, but perhaps discretion was the better option.

  After an hour, they reached Antwerp. Eileen remained silent, all by herself in the back of the car. As silent as both detectives. All three realized their enemies were still at large. Eekhaut and Dewaal each carried their guns, with two extra clips.

  Beyond Antwerp, traffic lessened. Dewaal sped up. She switched on the navigator but hardly looked at it. Her cell phone was on the dashboard, ready for use.

  They passed the border. She said, “We’re being followed.”

  Eekhaut didn’t look back. “Yes? What do you see?”

  “A black Mercedes followed by a black BMW model 3.” She pushed a button on her phone, but nothing seemed to happen.

  “Why don’t you use the siren and light?”

  “Why would I?”

  “We’d be able to go faster. See if they could follow us.”

  She glanced in the mirror and flipped a switch. “There we go. Sound and lights. Eileen, stay down. Walter, I’m going to the left lane at top speed.”

  She pushed the pedal. The Porsche immediately responded with a mighty purr. Eekhaut saw the needle of the speedometer climbing. Fast.

  “And?” he asked. But he knew what the answer would be.

  She looked in all three mirrors. “They sped up too. I see three cars chasing us now. A large silver four by four as well. A Land Cruiser.”

  “Shit!” he said.

  “No problem.”

  “No problem? Three cars? How many people is that? At least six. We don’t have that much ammo.”

  “This is an AIVD car,” she said. “We have enough ammo. We even have enough firepower. There’s a Heckler & Koch MP5 and a shotgun in the trunk.”

  He looked in the back, where Eileen was sitting. “We can’t get into the trunk while we’re moving.”

  She cast him a quick look. “So you think. Climb in the back.”

  “Can’t get there,” he said. But he managed, with some effort, to squirm between the two front seats and join Eileen on the all-too-narrow back seat. The girl smelled of sweat. She was afraid. Of course she was.

  “And now what?” he asked.

  “Pull down the middle section of the seat. There’s a strap.”

  He did. And uncovered a black and padded space behind the back seat, which probably was part of the trunk.

  “Now pull down the part of the back of the seat where you are,” Dewaal said.

  He complied, leaving even less space for him and the girl.

  Behind his seat, he found both guns, two extra clips for the machine gun, and a box of shells for the shotgun. “Your secret stash?”

  “This is an intervention vehicle. Those weapons are kept loaded at all times. What do you think our business is? Traffic control? Come back up front where I need you.”

  He managed to crawl back into the front seat with both weapons. “Which one do you want?”

  “Neither of them for the moment,” she said, concentrating on the road in front of her and on the pursuing vehicles. He noticed she was doing a hundred sixty kilometers per hour. Vehicles ahead hurried out of the way. He glanced back. Through the window, he saw the black Mercedes. It was almost on them.

  “Tailgating incurs a fine of five hundred euro,” she said. “The BMW is coming up on our right.”

  These were no more cars in the center lane. Only a few trucks on the right.

  The BMW closed in from behind them.

  Three, four shots were fired, with the Porsche hit in several places.

  Dewaal yanked at the wheel. Eekhaut bumped into her. Eileen cried out. The Porsche veered right. Behind them, the BMW braked hard, tires screeching. Dewaal hit the brakes as well. The Mercedes passed them on the left. Open window on the passenger side. A gun. Two shots that missed.

  “Let’s get off the highway,” Dewaal said.

  She opened both windows of the Porsche.

  “Use the shotgun first,” she ordered over the racket.

  Eekhaut aimed the gun out of the window and to the back, but there was no target he could see, except for an enormous truck close behind them. He could clearly see the angry head of the driver.

  He didn’t see the BMW.

  Dewaal hit the accelerator again.

  Eekhaut was thrown back in his seat. He pulled the gun back in again.

  The Porsche gained on the truck and went to the right lane. Behind them, the truck braked hard.

  Dewaal steered the car, much too fast, to an exit ramp and from there to a parking area. Lots of cars and trucks. People were looking at them.

  The Porsche passed the parked cars. Dewaal hit the brakes again at the other end of the parking area, where there was plenty of open space.

  “When I stop, you jump out and find cover. Use the shotgun. Leave the HK for me.”

  The Porsche came to a stop close to a small brick building.

  A family fled away from the approaching vehicles.

  Eekhaut slammed open the door and waved the shotgun around, looking for a suitable target. Eileen tumbled out of the car and fell behind him on the grass.

  The Mercedes came to a stop in a cloud of earth and dust, about thirty meters from where they were standing. The BMW followed and stopped close to the building. Men got out of both cars and opened fire at once, but randomly and without aiming too carefully.

  Eekhaut shot at them four times, forcing them to seek shelter behind their cars.

  He counted his shots. He had four shells left in the rifle, he assumed. Or was it only two? And there was a box in the car with more shells. On the front seat, where he couldn’t get at it, because he was flat on his belly in the grass, between the Porsche and Eileen.

  Where was Dewaal?

  There she was. On one knee, hiding behind the front of the Porsche at the other side, shooting single shots from the HK toward the black BMW.

  Shots fired back.

  These peopl
e meant business.

  Windshields were shattered. Tires punctured. Bullets penetrated car bodies and engine blocks. Some of these cars would not drive again anytime soon.

  He called to her. The silver Land Cruiser had probably missed the exit and now came driving backward from the other side. Its back door was open. A man with an automatic rifle started shooting at them. Eekhaut aimed his shotgun and fired three times. Dewaal followed with the HK. Two men jumped out of the Land Cruiser and ducked away. Eekhaut didn’t see the man with the automatic rifle anymore.

  He turned again. One of the men from the Mercedes was running in his direction. Eekhaut fired at him, forcing him to seek cover. He pulled his pistol.

  Eight bullets. And two extra clips.

  This did not look too good.

  He imagined crawling back to the Porsche and fetching the box with the shells for the shotgun. But he would be too much of a target if he did.

  Where was Eileen?

  He couldn’t see much. Sweat dripped into his eyes. There was movement from the Mercedes. He shot twice, more or less at random. He shouldn’t do that. He should make sure every bullet counted. He heard Dewaal’s HK again. At least she was still alive.

  Then she shouted.

  Two other cars approached at speed. Two black Mercedes. Blue flashing lights. They stopped, and several men and women jumped out of them.

  Eekhaut aimed his pistol but didn’t need to fire anymore.

  The cavalry had arrived.

  48

  “OUR VERY OWN MOBILE unit,” Dewaal said. “Two armored cars we acquired some years ago. A steal, at that price. Served with the Foreign Office in the past, but they weren’t using them anymore. Big-time criminals enjoy their ride to and from the court more in one of our rides. Safer, too. Bit of gas guzzlers, but they’re worth every nickel.”

  “And they happened to be around, just like that,” Eekhaut said.

  “I called Veneman this morning—oh, you haven’t met him yet—when it looked like we were going to be in trouble even before reaching Amsterdam. He started the thing, the procedure, the intervention. It’s more or less automatic. GPS trackers in our cars and a radio alarm on my phone. Fun, isn’t it? Technology? Especially when you don’t need to fill in forms in advance or wait for someone’s say-so before going into battle.”