“Do I sound sentimental? Or just plain desperate?”
She smiled. “Both, really.”
She broke the spell by looking at her watch. A small, elegant, and clearly expensive watch. A gift from a friend? “I have to go, Walter. Will you be here tomorrow?”
“I might,” he said.
And then, a few moments later, he was back in the street.
He wasn’t drunk but he felt a bit dizzy. Probably on account of the long day. At his age, he needed to be careful with too much stress. Shoot-outs on the highway, things that would get him in the papers and on TV. His life was supposed to be boring. Boring wasn’t good, but it would be better for his health. He was supposed to be working at a desk. Doing research, for one thing. Not shooting at people and—even worse—being shot at.
He had drunk four or five absinthes. And he had spoken to a most attractive woman. He would see her again. Now he walked along Utrechtsestraat, careful, avoiding objects and people. The alcohol meant nothing.
Arriving at his apartment, he looked into the store for the punk lady, but the shop was closed. Of course, it was late. Inside, Toon showed up. It seemed the man had been waiting for him. “A drink,” Toon offered. And then he said, “You look terrible.”
“An accident,” Eekhaut said.
“Two drinks then, to forget those troubles I see behind your eyes.”
“Best not tonight, Toon. What I need is rest.”
Toon looked at his clock. “Twelve thirty,” he said. “I hope you’re not coming directly from work? What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a detective with AIVD. Today we had—”
“On the highway! You were on the news. Tell me all about that!” Toon ushered Eekhaut into his apartment. “A colleague,” he said, and he sounded delighted. “Small world. What is a Belgian doing with the AIVD?”
This was going to be a long night.
Tears of the Bride, he noticed. A new bottle.
He made a mental note to buy his own bottle of the stuff. For Toon. As a gift. The man would run out, one day. “Because they wanted to get rid of you,” Toon concluded after hearing Eekhaut explaining his personal exodus. “Not surprised. Same with all these management types everywhere. They can’t have people thinking for themselves, can they? But if anyone ought to think for himself, it’s a detective, isn’t it?”
“Probably so,” Eekhaut said. Toon had filled his glass with Tears of the Bride again. Things were getting worse. He had never drunk as much as he had tonight. Not in a long time, anyway.
“You look like you were once married, but you obviously aren’t anymore.”
“That’s correct. And you?”
“Never crossed my mind to take the step. Saw what happened to the colleagues. Children and all. All well if you climb that ladder quickly and can avoid street duty and nights out. I mean, sitting behind a desk and ordering people around allows you to have a decent family life. Otherwise … well, anyway, here I am. To love!” They toasted. “Because without love there’s no marriage that can hold.”
“My wife died,” Eekhaut said. “Ten years ago.”
“Oh,” Toon said. “That’s bad. Maybe it had … was it a good marriage?”
Was it a good marriage? Eekhaut needed to think that over, even now. Stolen glances at young female team members at his office, some attempts at seduction on his part, furtive talk, but never anything serious. He suspected she had had a lover at some point, and vice versa. There had been good years and bad months. He fought evil because she was in the same world as that evil, and he needed her to be safe. That was more or less his metaphysical excuse for working long hours. He had lacked attention. He had lacked feelings for her. He saw children being exploited and killed by family members, even by their parents. He saw addicts committing unspeakable acts of cruelty upon vulnerable people. He saw old folks tied up and beaten to death for a bit of money.
Esther couldn’t have understood. And he didn’t want to explain the persistence of evil in the world around her. He wanted her to remain ignorant of all that.
It took her time to understand, but by that time, a distance had come to separate them. And then another kind of evil started to spread in her body. One he couldn’t fight.
FRIDAY
Amsterdam
52
EEKHAUT’S MIND WAS STRANGELY clear when he woke up the morning after. Even after four drinks with Toon.
Though it wasn’t easy to get out of bed, take a shower, and fix breakfast. Breakfast was a hastily bought box of cereal that he finally decided to eat, with added soy milk, coffee, and some biscuits with jam.
Man’s wealth is mirrored by the extensiveness of his breakfast, still supposed to be the main meal of the day. In his case, he made do but didn’t care much.
Anyway, he would have to buy groceries and stock his kitchen. But when? In between chasing criminals, protecting witnesses, and arguing with Dewaal? Not likely. Not that he would have trouble finding food in this part of Amsterdam—although there seemed a distinct lack of supermarkets or greengrocers. Everybody seemed to cater to exotic clients, hungry tourists, and the hurried office slaves. Later today, he promised himself. And he would stay in his apartment tonight, although he had made some sort of promise to Linda.
Although not really.
While his mind was in perfect working order, his body seemed to refuse service. Joints aching, soft bluish spots on his arms and legs. He had to shave and did, but even that proved difficult. He combed his hair. Discovered more aesthetic damage, but nothing that wouldn’t fix itself naturally.
Dewaal had said she wanted him in the office at ten o’clock. She had left him a bit of a margin, maybe because she knew she would have to fix herself up in the morning as well. Ten o’clock. Did he have anything to report? The case solved, or nearly? Pieter Van Boer’s murderer caught and tried at the same time? There would be more reports to file and forms to fill out.
Entering the Bureau’s offices, Eekhaut was greeted by the guard. But a problem arose when he tried to open the door with his card.
“Biometrics unsupported,” the tinny voice from the speaker said with a sort of triumph, as if it didn’t expect his biometrics to be in order. “Entrance refused.”
“He’s been doing that all morning,” the guard said. He seemed to be resigned to the problem.
Eekhaut was taken aback. “What are you talking about? What biometrics?”
The guard indicated some abstract space behind him with a slight movement of the head, as if his dark alter ego was in attendance. “Basil.”
“Basil? The security system?”
“Even the boss wasn’t allowed in at first.”
“What did she do?”
“She proposed pulling the plug. She said that loud enough.”
“And then?”
“What do you think? Basil got really mad. He hermetically sealed off all entrances. We almost had a nationwide alert.”
Eekhaut couldn’t suppress a smile. “Really? What then?”
“Boss called tech support. They came right over. They’ll cart him off to the garbage dump if he does that again.”
“Second try,” Basil announced.
“Can I get in or not?”
The guard shrugged and pushed a button. Nothing happened. He pushed the button again. “Manual override, you idiot,” he called. Not at Eekhaut.
“Control delayed,” Basil said, reluctantly. Eekhaut wasn’t sure where exactly the voice came from. The system was probably all over the building. But now at least he was granted access.
“Andreï Tarkovski isn’t talking,” Dewaal said. She was drinking her coffee black. Four detectives had spent all night interrogating the men they had captured the day before. “The other three assailants pretend to speak only Russian. That was last night. An interpreter was called in—in the middle of the night, mind you—but they kept mum. Maybe they only speak a very rare dialect, an almost forgotten language. Or they’re keeping their mouths shut
because they know what’ll happen if they talk. Whoever ordered this whole thing must be someone with a lot of power. You can’t bring together an army like that if you’re not a heavyweight.”
Eekhaut glanced to his right. The young detective, Prinsen, sat in the other chair in Dewaal’s office. He kept his distance as if he didn’t trust Eekhaut yet. He, too, was drinking coffee from a plastic cup. He didn’t look like he’d had a good night’s sleep recently.
Dewaal continued, “I had a chat with the minister. Yesterday evening.” It didn’t sound as if the conversation had been a pleasure. Eekhaut knew why the man had wanted to talk to her right away. The disaster on the highway had been front-page news in the papers and had been on the late-night TV news as well. When that happened, the minister of the interior couldn’t avoid having to give a press conference.
“Yes,” Eekhaut said. “Ministers.” He knew about them. Politicians. Always ready to criticize the police if that gained them votes. He had no illusions concerning the political class. “And what did His Excellency tell you?”
“He was delighted—his words—the team solved the case—as if he had any idea what case we were working on—but he was disappointed we had made such a show of ourselves. Discretion, he mentioned. Something about being more discreet. And, of course, he mentioned the list. Told me he hoped it would be restored to its rightful owner without any delay.”
Eekhaut frowned. “In other words—”
“You understood me perfectly well, Walter. You’re not even allowed to make a copy of that list. It has become something like a state secret, and we’re supposed to give it back to Van Tillo.”
“That tells us a lot about who’s playing games with whom.”
“Bugger off with your games. Our reputation and autonomy are at stake here. I want you to get that into your head. Public displays like yesterday are bad for our reputation. Discretion, Walter.”
She leaned back, and Eekhaut noticed she avoided looking at Prinsen.
Who had not yet said a word.
“Is it my fault …?” But then he stopped. Because he had nothing to add. The presence of the young detective annoyed him. He tried to remember what Dewaal had said the day before about Prinsen, who was now part of the investigation.
He looked at Dewaal again. She wore a long skirt and gray blouse and a pearl necklace. Not the same woman who had braved a bunch of killers yesterday. “No,” she said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m not happy with having to hand over the list either. I badly want to catch the people behind this matter. Parnow wasn’t operating on his own. Neither was Tarkovski, who is on the payroll of an infamous Russian oligarch. But beyond Tarkovski, we have no real proof of any involvement.”
“Can’t we question the Russian on that involvement?”
“Tarkovski?”
“No, his employer. Can’t we bring him in?”
“Keretsky? Are you mad? The man who needed one signature to become one of the main shareholders of Fabna Bank? Imagine the influence he has and his impact on the economy, Russian or otherwise. You’re not going to question such a man concerning organized crime. Anyway, he’s in Russia again. Don’t expect the local police to help us.”
“We wait till he returns to Holland.”
“That could be a long wait, and it won’t change his situation or ours. He remains untouchable. Walter, I want you to have a look at Tarkovski’s things. Two technicians are working on his apartment right now. They’ll bring back anything that seems important. His computer, documents, whatever.”
Prinsen said, “We can do something about that. Keretsky, I mean. We have his local representative in jail on charges of conspiracy, maybe even murder, and a few other things we can pin on him. Either Keretsky needs a new man or he’ll try to keep Tarkovski out of jail.”
Eekhaut said, “I’ll wager he’ll return to Holland soon.”
Dewaal shook her head. “Even then we can’t touch him. Didn’t you hear what I just said? The man is like a diplomat. He can’t be touched.”
“Because the minister will intervene if we try anything,” Eekhaut said. “And you’ll get a slap on the wrist for being a naughty girl.”
“Something like that. And I have the whole of the AIVD on my back, on account of the war we waged yesterday. I have to report about everything: use of firearms, number of bullets fired, damage to external property, overtime, pathology exams on the victims, and so on. Two other people and I will have nearly a full-time job on our hands for a couple of days.”
Maybe I should have taken my coffee black this morning, Eekhaut thought. Black and strong. To rinse my mouth. Get rid of the disappointment. He glanced at Prinsen, who seemed calm as he slurped his coffee. As if he weren’t concerned.
“What are the plans for Tarkovski?”
“We try to get something useful out of him,” Prinsen proposed. “A confession. That would be something at least.”
“He speaks Dutch?”
“A little. A lot, actually, but he refuses to speak it. Seems to have forgotten it, suddenly. We use English. Neat trick though: later he can always pretend he was misunderstood.”
“And he’s not talking?”
“Nothing so far,” Dewaal said. Her phone vibrated. “I have to take this. Yes, Dewaal.” She listened intently. “I’ll come over right away. Yes. Yes, at once. I’m in a meeting.” She sounded annoyed and closed the connection.
“Duty calls,” Eekhaut said. “And it always calls very loudly.”
She eyed him angrily and shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Family problems.” A quick glance at Prinsen, communicating something that Eekhaut couldn’t make out.
He knew they had a previous history.
“Oh, family,” he said.
She got up. “That’s it for now. Do follow up on Tarkovski, will you? Take over if needed. We need to know who paid for the murder and the kidnap. I’m not interested in the boy himself.” She let her gaze drift for a moment. “Another thing. We haven’t told Eileen her brother is dead. I don’t want her to hear that by accident. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get psychiatric help for her.”
“Really? A shrink? Can’t we—”
“No, Eekhaut,” Dewaal said. “You can’t.”
He rose and walked back to his office, where he opened the window that looked over the buildings behind the Bureau. The air was moist. He had a lot to think over. Dewaal. Family. Tarkovski. Calster. And Prinsen. Then he took out his phone, looked at a piece of paper he had been given, and punched a number. He got a man on the line. Good, he thought, so there’s a guard present at least. “Chief Inspector Eekhaut,” he said, for once using his official title. “How is Miss Calster?”
“She doesn’t speak much, sir,” the guard said, “but she’s safe in her room back here.”
“I’ll come around,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Eekhaut pushed his gun in his belt holster and locked his office behind him. Tarkovski could wait. Eileen Calster was the victim, and he was more interested in victims than in criminals. Victims had their own story to tell. Often it was a fascinating story. But the details were too often overlooked by other people. He had always made it his business to listen to victims. They needed a good talk with an understanding police officer.
Eileen had been tucked away in a safe house a few hundred meters down the same street. A house with cameras and other extensive security measures. On the ground floor was a desk with a female officer. On the second floor were another desk and another officer. Both armed, both wearing vests.
Calster had her own room in the house. For now.
He signed the register after having his card checked. He also filled out a form titled Use of Quarantine Facilities. An extensive administration would be required to deal with all these forms. It didn’t add to the real police work, however.
He knocked on her door. She opened it and let him in, almost casually, as if he were a visiting uncle. As if nothing had happened the
day before but a pleasure trip to Belgium. Her bed was made up, and clothes hung over the chair.
“Did they bring you new clothes?” he asked. She wore white cotton slacks and a sleeveless blouse she probably had not chosen herself.
She nodded. “Yes. Not my style, but I have other things to worry about.”
“You’ll have to stay here for a while. Till we’re sure you can safely walk the streets again.”
Which would be, in his opinion, not soon.
“They caught Pieter’s murderer, didn’t they?” She stood by the window, waiting for her life to start again.
He remained by the door. The room was like a prison cell. On the wall hung a poster of a Swiss mountain landscape, snow and all. The window was open, but there were bars. And there would be some sort of alarm. She was safe but not from the police, and not from whoever controlled the police. There were a lot of people who would make her life hell. This hadn’t happened yet because she didn’t seem to know anything about the PDN or Van Tillo, about Pieter’s intentions, the Russians, or criminal money. She knew a few things but not the whole picture. She was still alive because of her ignorance.
“They have caught the murderer,” he said. “But not the people for whom he worked. So you’re not in the clear yet.”
She acknowledged the problem only with a slight nod. He hadn’t come here to warn her. He came to avoid an intervention by a shrink. He was going to tell her the bad news herself.
“Something I have to tell you, Eileen,” he started, knowing that there was no right or wrong way to do this. “About Maarten, your brother.”
“Maarten? How do you know I have a brother?”
“We didn’t, but the people who wanted that list knew it, apparently. I’m sorry to bring you bad news, Eileen, but Maarten is dead.”
He looked her in the eyes while saying that. Nothing in those eyes seemed to change, but neither was she still the same person anymore. She had been annoyed, angry even, and now those feelings were wiped away. Then her face changed. The expression in her eyes changed. Her features tensed. She brought her hands up, covering her mouth, covering a cry. Then she closed her eyes, and a single tear rolled down one cheek.
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