“He didn’t have a gun,” Siegel said. “You can’t pin that one on him.”
“Whether he used a gun or not isn’t clear at the moment, counselor, and the technical report isn’t complete as yet, but we’re holding him on that point as well, to be sure. There are sufficient indications.”
“When the report is finished, Ms. Dewaal, you will see that my client didn’t handle a gun, nor did he own one. He was present in a car with criminals, but he was the involuntary witness to a crime. That’s as much as you will get with him.”
Dewaal snorted. “At the very least, he ordered the assault on police officers and the abduction. We’ll get him for the murders as well. Don’t hold your breath, counselor.”
“You have no reliable witnesses, only malicious gossip.”
“Yes, we have witnesses, even if they’re not talking yet. But they will. They’re looking at ten or fifteen years in prison. And you of all people should know how easily people start to talk with such a prospect in mind.”
“You can hold my client for a very short time, and you’re running out of time now.”
“Did you bring a release form?”
“I deposited it with the prosecutor’s office. By the book, ma’am. Tomorrow morning my client will walk out of here a free man. I hope he’ll be spending a comfortable night in one of your cells. Now, can I speak with him, if it isn’t too much to ask?”
“It is too much to ask, counselor. We’re not the regular police. You know that. We have special privileges and powers. Keeping a suspect in isolation to safeguard the inquiry and all that. Also by the book.”
Siegel grinned maliciously. “Yes, ma’am, I am aware of your privileges. Tomorrow then, let’s say at ten sharp?” He cast a quick glance at Eekhaut and left the office.
Dewaal remained silent, but it was a meaningful silence. She probably had expected how the conversation would turn out.
“Let’s sleep on it,” Eekhaut finally said. He left the office.
He looked at the time. It was still early, but he had worked overtime on the previous days, so he felt he was allowed some time off. He left the building. He still needed to stock his fridge, but again he had other things on his mind. He walked to the Bijenkorf department store and bought a pair of tan chinos, two blue shirts, underwear, and two white T-shirts. He admired a dark blue woolen sports jacket but didn’t buy it.
He then walked along Kalverstraat and entered the American Book Center, where he bought three hardcovers of authors he knew by name. Only then did he buy groceries. He stowed everything away in the apartment and made something to eat. A microwave dinner, actually, but he didn’t care. He read a newspaper while eating but skipped the local crime section.
59
THIS TIME EEKHAUT ASKED for her phone number. In case he couldn’t make it next time, although she probably wouldn’t wait for him. “I’m afraid I’ve let you down,” he apologized.
“Is this a sort of friendship we’re experiencing here?” she asked, not without glee. She tore a page from a small planner, wrote down her number, and handed it to him. “And I want your business card. Which I will then show to all my friends.”
Friendship. “I only have one of the cards issued by the Belgian police, I’m afraid,” he said. “The cell number is still valid, though. You should be aware that it’s a foreign number for you.”
“Well, why not?” she said. His card went into the planner after a quick glance. “You told me last time you were, like, corrupt.”
“In a special sort of way. Not in the real meaning of the term. At least I hope not.”
“In that special sort of way, a lot of people are corrupt.”
“Because I’m not able to stop evil. But like most people, I don’t do it on purpose. I just … well, I let it happen.”
“Evil,” she said. “Capital letter. Sounds good. Cool, the kids would say, because they don’t know what evil means. What it brings about.”
“It doesn’t have to be anything big. It could be all sorts of little evils, mini-evils, small daily corruptions. People who evade taxes, undeclared work-time, faked invoices, petty theft, all the casual forms of corruption that make us immune to the bigger frauds. The things the really rich do, and companies and government as well.”
“While we all pay the bill for corruption. Society ends up paying the bill for any sort of fraud.”
“Oho,” he laughed, “the role of cynic has already been taken—by me. I’m the cynical policeman. That’s me. Drinking in a bar, approaching an innocent lady. And trying to forget whatever there was between them the next morning.”
“Oh? Will you have forgotten me by morning? I hope not.” She was teasing him, but it sounded like she was also worried about him.
“No,” he said, “I won’t forget you. But I’ll regret that I may have been too frank.”
“I’ll accept that,” she said. “Imagine I’m a good fairy. A green fairy, which would be appropriate, considering what we’re drinking here. Please feel free to share your troubles with me.”
“Let’s keep the roles clear, Linda. I’m the alpha male policeman, and I help you out of trouble. That’s the way things work best.”
“Now, I don’t know about that. Tell me, since you’re the alpha male, what happens to people who, within the framework of their job, are forced to go along with … I mean, have to assist in Evil? I’m being a bit over the top now, I know, but I mean—”
“What?” This sounded interesting.
“I mean … imagine you’re doing a job you like. You assume you work for a decent company. And suddenly you discover improper dealings of some sort. Things that are immoral and even criminal. Your company and your boss are, well, immoral.”
“Depends on what you call immoral.”
“Things you cannot condone personally. Worse: actual crimes. You’re not involved directly but are in the background … and you’ve been a witness to these criminal dealings.”
“You could go to the police,” he said. “As long as you haven’t committed a crime yourself.”
“And what if you’re, I mean, implicated?”
“I don’t know, Linda. I’ve dealt with hundreds of people who wouldn’t have wanted to commit a crime, but they still did. They didn’t want to sin or go against their moral principles, but at some point they crossed the line. On only a few occasions have I met someone who knew perfectly well he was committing a crime. And did so knowingly, without any remorse. And, of course, there are the psychopaths, but that’s another story.”
“I see. No, I don’t. Not completely.”
“Is there a reason you ask?”
“So, it’s all about people making choices,” she said. “Isn’t it funny: we met here some evening, just passing time, now we’re talking like we’ve known each other for ages.”
“At least we’re not discussing the weather.”
“That would be a less dangerous subject.”
He said, “But then we wouldn’t get to know each other, either.”
She sat up. “I’d like something else to drink. Who drinks this stuff, actually, unless it’s out of curiosity? Can I have a fruit juice?”
“No problem.” He got her a fruit juice and a Canada Dry for himself.
“And your job?” she asked “How about that, accepting the unavoidable corruption?”
“I have to look people in the eye who I know are guilty, but I have to function within a framework that sets these same people free as soon as possible. I’m not saying we need an American system of social punishment. But too often, I meet with the parents of murdered children, family members of a rape victim, and the victims themselves, and I wonder about a system that lets psychopaths run free again after, what, five years? And without treatment. And then there’s major economic crime, which often goes unpunished.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, no, I don’t, but I get it.” She touched his arm. “I’m here to comfort wounded policemen, Walter. I’m the green fairy. I see a p
olice officer between alcohol and his dreams. What a dreary little cliché. How about your future?”
That made him smile. “You’re right. I need to leave my work at the office. Sleep the sleep of the innocent, even if other people can’t. May I see you again? Can we have dinner soon?”
“No. I’m a fairy. I’m enchanted. Without these bottles of absinthe, I turn to flesh and blood.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
SATURDAY
Amsterdam
60
“THE PROSECUTOR ISN’T LIKELY to share your enthusiasm,” Dewaal said the next morning. A chilly morning announcing the new season, the inevitable onset of winter. People had started wearing leather coats and scarves, but still casually, as if they weren’t afraid of the cold yet. “We need a new prosecutor, Walter. One who doesn’t shit his pants every time he gets a call from a politician. One with balls.” She watched Eekhaut with glee. “You’re not supposed to take that literally. I would welcome a female prosecutor anytime.”
“Is some powerful politician we won’t name responsible for the lack of enthusiasm?”
That got her worked up again. “That kind of talk will get you crucified, Walter! I’m warning you. Don’t take this too far.”
The morning hadn’t started well. Not with a prosecutor who wasn’t going anywhere with the Tarkovski matter. And the weather had gotten to Eekhaut as well. It had been raining earlier, and he wasn’t keen on spending fall and winter in Amsterdam. He was glad his apartment was close to the office. He would walk anyplace else only if strictly necessary.
“What are our plans with young Tarkovski?” he asked.
“He can expect an elaborate indictment.”
“And Monet? What will happen to him?”
Dewaal shook her head. “I’m not sure I know who that is,” she said, in mock confusion. “Let me see … Monet. No. No one by that name figures in the files.” She looked at him intently. “And I’m sure I don’t need to warn you not to show any personal initiative concerning this person.” Her expression told him she was more than serious.
He leaned toward her. To hell with that, he thought. We’ve been shot at and nearly killed. We risked our lives for this. We deserve this. “We’re civil servants,” he said, although he wanted to say something different. “And we serve the people. Don’t we always?”
“I know what you’re going to say, Chief Inspector. I know what your little speech will be. I’ve heard it often enough, here in this same office. You’re not the first one to appeal to my conscience. But I’m not going to be dragged into that discussion. Not with you. I avoid having ideological discussions with my colleagues. I talk tactics and I talk procedures. Leave politics to politicians.”
Oh yes, he thought. Politicians. They’re well suited to dealing with conscience. “I try to do the right thing, Alexandra.”
“I know. Eileen Calster’s parents, Eileen herself, Van Boer’s family, I know. They all need the truth to come out. And we owe that to Pieter Van Boer as well, though he knew the risks.”
“There shouldn’t have been risks. Not even for him. Citizens have the right to know what their politicians do. That sort of information doesn’t have to come with capital punishment attached.”
“All right,” she said. “All right. So I arrest Monet on what we have today. Which is next to nothing. I arrest Van Tillo and her secretary on what we don’t have today. Then their lawyers arrive. An army of lawyers. And they drag the prosecutor and the minister and other politicians in with them, because we touched people in their own class. A lot of problems for all concerned, but especially for us. I’ll get fired. The Bureau will be shut down. The files burned. Van Tillo will be even more popular afterward, because this boosts her public image. Eileen Calster will have to move to Argentina and end up in a community of devil worshippers. Tarkovski will go to jail for ten years, where he’ll be raped on a daily basis by addicts and maybe commit suicide. You’ll be fired and live in a cabin in the Ardennes with a gun under your pillow. That’s how the story plays out. Is that what you want?”
He knew she was right. She was right in every single detail. He didn’t want to end up in the Ardennes with a gun under his pillow. And he didn’t like the rest of the story either.
And because she was right, he was angry. He was angry because, after so many years, he still had to play along. Here, in Brussels, everywhere he went he had been obliged to play the game. Often enough he hadn’t, but then he’d paid a personal price. And nearly as often, he had seen innocent people on their way to prison.
“You’re not to make any sort of deal,” she warned him.
“A deal? Me?” As if she’d accused him of beheading baby chickens with his teeth. Him, a deal? As if he’d do anything without her knowledge and agreement.
“Yes, you. I know how you tick. You don’t like the way things turned out, and you want Van Tillo and Monet behind bars. I respect that, and I want them behind bars too, but I accept reality.” And then she said, “My hands are tied.”
He sat up. “And mine aren’t, you mean.”
She shook her head. “Yours too. Of course they are. I must see to it that you follow procedures. By the book, again. Our book. Our Dutch rules. Make you fill in the correct forms and get permission for every step along the way. That sort of thing. And if you don’t follow these procedures, you get a slap on the wrist. From me. Actually, there is little else I can do to you other than slap you on the wrist.”
“You’re not completely in control, you mean.”
“I’m not?” she inquired.
“No, you aren’t. To mention one detail: I’m still paid by the Belgian government. So you can’t fire me. You can send me back, but that’s all you can do.”
“No, not really. I can’t send you back. That would mean a hell of a lot of red tape, as you yourself pointed out recently. And nobody wants red tape. What’s more, they don’t want you back. Again, as you were so kind to point out to me. Remember, Walter? You’re so unpopular that I seem to be stuck with you indefinitely.”
“Too bad,” he said. “Red tape. We must avoid that by all means.”
And he knew he had made a decision. Or, better: decisions.
61
HE SIGNED IN AT the safe house. Wrote his name in the book, filled out a form, walked up the stairs. As far as he was concerned, this would be his last visit to this place. Because he had made his decisions.
Eileen stood by the window. Her upright posture told him she wasn’t going to be defeated. Good for her, he thought.
She leaned against the windowsill. “I am going mad in here,” she said. It didn’t sound desperate. It sounded like she was challenging him. She wore a short skirt of brown cotton, white sandals, and a yellow top, as if it were still summer. It had stopped raining, but water was dripping nearby, an annoying sound. A Chinese water torture.
“They’ll let you go soon,” he promised.
“And where do I go? I can’t go anywhere. Can I return to the apartment? Pieter’s apartment? I’d like to, for just a little while. I want to collect my things.”
“I assume you can get your things. But do you still want to live there?”
“No, I don’t. I’ll leave Amsterdam and go back to Groningen. What else can I do with my life?”
“Finish college?”
She shrugged.
“You’re disappointed,” he said.
She sat down on the bed. Skinny, but well-muscled. Pale, lacking sun, lacking a healthy lifestyle. She clearly wasn’t the sort of girl who would spend summers on a beach. In the library, maybe. “Yes, of course I’m disappointed,” she said, “but that word doesn’t even begin to convey my feelings. Pieter has disappeared from my life. People want to kill me. What will happen now?”
He sat down on a chair. She could be your daughter, a little voice told him. The little voice that influenced many of his decisions. The little voice he tried to overrule with his rational mind. More disappointment was coming for Eileen
Calster. Life would see to that. Because nothing would ever compensate for her loss. Because life would treat her badly later on. She expected justice, which she wouldn’t get. In the end, she would turn into a cynic. A bit like him. Maybe too much like him. If he could, he wanted to help her avoid that.
So he was going to help her. By finding justice.
He took the folded sheets of paper out of his jacket pocket.
She frowned deeply.
Already, he thought, there is mistrust. She mistrusts even the people who are committed to her.
“It’s a copy,” he explained, “and it’s not supposed to exist. We weren’t allowed to make copies. Not even for our own files. But, you know, today, there are copying machines everywhere. It’s unavoidable. Someone makes a copy of everything at some point.”
“And you expect me to run off to the press with—”
“No,” he said, softly. “No. I don’t want that. Because you’ll be in danger again. Someone might come after you again, maybe just out of spite. And there might be nobody to protect you this time. I won’t be there to protect you.”
He tucked the list away again.
“Who knows of this?”
“You. And me. That’s enough. For the moment, it’s enough.”
“But they’ll suspect—”
“Yes. Of course. They will have suspicions. But it’ll be too late anyway.”
“You can’t take that risk.”
“Of course, not,” he said. “Of course, I can’t take that risk. Neither can you. The difference between us two is that I’m in a better position to run the risk than you. But I have to be careful. That’s why I’ll wait.”
“For what?”
“Till you’re safe in Groningen. Till I get a postcard with a picture of some local landmark and your personal message. At least that.”
Absinthe Page 28