The Harbour Master

by Daniel Pembrey

  I did.

  ‘And it’s my army weapon,’ he added mournfully.

  ‘It’s time to say goodbye to the evidence of To˝zsér’s shooting.’

  ‘You’re trying to lay the blame on someone else? Is that the point of including the reefer?’

  ‘I’m just directing blame for the firebombing where it belongs. Look, we’re wasting time. Please just get over there as soon as possible.’

  ‘There may still be fire crews at the scene.’

  ‘I hope so. That way they’ll find the case quickly. They’ll be scouring for clues. Be careful how you go about it but I know you can make this work. God’s speed, Johan.’ I ended the call before he had a chance to quiz me further.

  The motorway lights hypnotised me for a few minutes, calming me a little. My speed had hit 150 kilometres per hour. That was OK. But why hadn’t Petra called? I tried her number to no avail, then Stefan’s.

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Outside the offices of East–West Trading – or what’s left of it. I didn’t know who you wanted me to find, so thought I’d just come here to await further instruction.’

  ‘You did the right thing. What can you see?’

  ‘The fire’s out but smouldering. There are a couple of fire crew members… and a couple of guys on bikes –’

  ‘OK Stefan, stand down. I need you to go somewhere else, down at the docks.’

  ‘What address?’

  I gave it to him.

  ‘But that’s Frank Hals’s boat, right?’

  *

  I no longer doubted Lottman’s word, but waiting for Petra’s call was agony. Somewhere past Rotterdam I caught sight of a two-car convoy approaching on the other side of the central reservation: big vehicles, the red and blue lights of the lead car flashing past. I dropped my speed.

  Johan called again.

  ‘OK, it’s goodbye to the Sig Sauer P225. And a very good reefer, by the smell of it.’

  ‘Good riddance,’ I said. ‘To the gun at least.’

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘Meet me down at the harbour, would you?’ I gave him the address of Hals’s boat. ‘You’ll find one of my guys there: Stefan. I’ll join you both soon.’ I was still thirty minutes from Amsterdam.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Fireworks, if the plan holds.’

  ‘Count me in.’

  Finally, my phone rang again and it was the number I’d been waiting for.

  ‘Petra?’

  Pause.

  ‘Petra, are you there?’

  ‘Henk.’

  She sounded normal, thank God.

  ‘Where are you? I’ve been beside myself with worry.’

  ‘These gentlemen wouldn’t let me use the phone till now. How on earth did you find them? I must say, they are quite fine specimens of manhood. Which was a damn good thing, given the look of those bikers back there! No shortage of news for the neighbours to gossip about, anyway.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On my way to Brussels. Where are you?’

  ‘Heading back to Amsterdam.’

  Had I just passed her in the convoy?

  ‘Henk! You promised me a trip to Brussels. Will you turn around again?’

  ‘Small matter to attend to down at the docks.’

  ‘As always.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said, ending the call.

  I hung up and began navigating my way onto the Amsterdam ring road – heading towards the harbour.

  27

  THE BATTLE

  ‘What are we looking at?’

  I’d scrambled quietly alongside Johan and Stefan, in the dark shadows behind a couple of dinghies. There was a slight mist in the sky, obscuring the stars. The air was still, the water too.

  ‘Hals has unmoored his boat,’ Stefan said.

  I’d noticed that. The gangplank was gone. The vessel sat four or five metres away from the harbour wall. He must have done it some time before, given the stillness of the water.

  ‘He’s prepared for trouble,’ Johan said in a low voice.

  The boat was almost totally dark. Just the occasional shadow moving across a porthole. The hoarse bark of a large dog – a guard dog – came across the water.

  ‘The bikers got here five minutes ago,’ Stefan whispered, pointing down the harbour wall.

  There, a row of motorcycles glinted.

  I was still seeing the sodium lamps of the motorway sweep past but, as my eyes adjusted, I caught sight of one of the bikers who’d ridden up to the police station that afternoon. He was still wearing his dark glasses. Another biker emerged from the shadows.

  ‘Looks like they got the message at the scene of the fire,’ Johan said.

  ‘Indeed.’ I patted him on the shoulder, congratulating him on his work. ‘You did well too, Stefan,’ I added. ‘I don’t imagine the fire crews stood a chance of taking that gun case away for examination, once these boys caught sight of it.’

  The distinctive marijuana in the reefer had led them straight to the black hull in front of us, but how would they gain access, now that it was floating free? Doubtless that’s what they were conferring about, the murmur of their conversation indecipherable. Their air of calm suggested they had a plan.

  At that moment, the low trundle of an engine rounded the corner of the dock. A boat came into view, cutting a wide ‘V’ in the dark water. I recognised the metal shape and dim livery immediately: it was an old police boat, decommissioned. Through the reinforced windows of the bridge, I could just make out Malek’s determined expression, bathed pale-green in the light of the boat’s instrumentation.

  ‘Where the hell did he get that from?’ Stefan wondered aloud.

  The boat had an open deck at the back. As Malek pulled up to the harbour wall, the bikers began clambering in, passing down y-shaped objects: Kalashnikov rifles, with their distinctive curved clips.

  ‘Shouldn’t we call someone?’ Stefan asked.

  ‘Who?’ Johan said.

  ‘The station? Tactical firearms? The KLPD?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I whispered.

  Johan was frowning at his mobile. ‘Reception’s not good in these farther reaches of the harbour.’

  Stefan held up his smartphone. ‘Mine’s fine –’

  ‘No it isn’t.’ Johan took the phone and tossed it. It landed beside one of the fibreglass dinghies in front of us with a soft plop. I was only glad it hadn’t hit the small, metal outboard motor.

  Stefan was too startled to speak.

  ‘That’s a new iPhone,’ he finally managed.

  ‘Was,’ I corrected him. I was glad his call history and location records had disappeared with it.

  ‘You’re better off without it,’ I assured him. ‘We’ll get you a new one, don’t worry.’

  All were now aboard the ex-police boat, and it was puttering over to the larger vessel. I noticed a figure crouching above deck on Hals’s boat.

  The bikers didn’t get within twenty metres of the figure before he stood.

  At first, I thought he was carrying a musical instrument – some kind of strange horn. Then I recognised it to be a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, held over his arm. The RPG was pointing directly at the ex-police boat.

  The man taking aim must have faced harder shots than this.

  Malek’s boat engine thrummed, the water around it churning white as it manoeuvred itself side-on. The bristling barrels of the Kalashnikovs pointed up protectively, like cactus spikes.

  Frank Hals appeared on deck beside the man with the RPG launcher. Clutching his side, he looked a little like Napoleon, only in shorts.

  ‘You’ve interrupted my supper,’ he called out, his voice cl
ear over the water. ‘You should leave now, before I really become upset.’

  ‘You burned down my office,’ Malek countered.

  ‘Of course I did. I don’t know who the hell you are or where you’re from, but there are ways and means of going about business here.’

  Malek was silent. I could almost sense his anger pulsing through the night air.

  ‘There are protocols to be observed,’ Hals continued.

  Still Malek was silent – contemplating a negotiated solution? Heaven forbid…

  ‘Do you have your Zippo?’ I hissed at Johan.

  He looked confused.

  ‘Stefan,’ I said, ‘you don’t need that scarf around your neck.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It’s about to get a lot warmer around here. Hand me your scarf.’

  They did as I asked.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Johan said.

  ‘Back in the Anglo-Dutch wars,’ I replied, unscrewing the cap of the fuel tank on the dinghy in front of us, ‘do you know how we really gained advantage over the English?’

  I stuffed most of Stefan’s cotton scarf into the opening. Both men awaited my answer.

  ‘Hell-burners,’ I said, draping an end of the scarf behind the stern. ‘Fire ships, that is. Here, untie that rope.’

  As Johan set the dinghy adrift, I flicked the Zippo and held the flame beside the straggling end of the scarf, checking the disposition of the bigger boats one last time. The scarf was already damp with petrol and it lit with a little whoosh, the orange flame dancing in the darkness but thankfully hidden from view behind the dinghy’s stern.

  ‘Help me with this.’ The interior of the dinghy held a few centimetres of water, providing crucial ballast. ‘Let’s get this party started,’ I said with a grimace; we gave the stern a good shove, careful not to topple after it into the stagnant water.

  Across the water, Malek was saying in broken English: ‘So maybe we talk.’

  Hals was quiet, apparently considering Malek’s suggestion. Perhaps he was impressed by Malek’s show of force. At any rate, he wasn’t focusing on the dinghy gliding towards the two boats…

  ‘Maybe,’ Hals said. ‘But at a time and place I choose. Not now.’

  It reminded me of the way he’d left things with me, saying he couldn’t tell me more about that stolen painting till the following morning. Always mañana with Frank. Malek’s head was turned towards him, trained on him, or perhaps trained on the RPG launcher beside him – as were the barrels of the Kalashnikovs.

  For a second, I thought the fuse I’d lit had gone out. I could only see a speck of orange. It was very quiet, none of the men were speaking. Surely they’d caught sight of the drifting boat by now. The human eye is too good at picking up peripheral movement, especially in times of peril.

  The dinghy didn’t make it as far as the larger vessels. The whole scene brightened as it exploded, a ball of orange leaping high into the air; I caught the startled faces of the armed bikers, even the one wearing sunglasses.

  Burning pieces of fuel tank rained down as the Kalashnikovs crackled into life. There was a hiss as the RPG’s white vapour trail snaked across from Hals’s boat to Malek’s; the windows of the old police boat blew out and fire engulfed the frame, smoke hurrying blackly skywards. There was yelling, and more shooting, and general confusion, and then the whole scene shone a dazzling yellow-white.

  I could feel the oxygen rushing past my ears. The police boat’s much bigger fuel tank had exploded.

  I remembered my dad telling me once about the Allies bombing Dresden, and how the bomber crews would become mesmerised by the colours of the fires burning below.

  ‘Well, you certainly pushed the boat out this time,’ Johan said. Greens and rich mauves rippled across his face.

  There was laughter from Hals’s boat as a loud crack split the air again. Something whistled low and very fast over the water, missing the molten metal of the ex-police boat but smacking into the harbour wall. We felt the impact from our hiding place.

  He’d fired his old cannon.

  But Hals’s fun didn’t last long. The force of the police boat exploding had pushed the burning dinghy towards his hull. I swore I could see Hals, reaching for his hosepipe once more, through the flames now licking up the side of his wooden vessel; the fire caught hold in several places as more men emerged on deck. The old clipper was soon listing, and one of the men leapt into the burning water. His shrieking dissuaded the others from joining him.

  ‘Maybe this is the end of Frank Hals, too,’ Stefan said, perhaps thinking about the Holendrecht case we could never crack…

  ‘From your lips to God’s ears,’ I said.

  Blue lights flickered in the distance. The drone and dull thudding of a helicopter approached low over the skyline: a police chopper, its spotter light slicing through the thick smoke. The pungent smell was unmistakable – Hals’s prized cannabis crop, thirty years in the making, was crackling away, the sparks jumping high into the air.

  ‘Let’s take off,’ I said.

  Stefan had already done so.

  Perhaps it was disappointment more than the fire itself that got to Hals in the end. Evidently he didn’t abandon his vessel. I never found out what he’d planned to share with me the following day about the stolen Verspronck.

  But I got a pretty good idea from elsewhere.

  *

  Joost’s call came in as expected. ‘Jesus Christ, Henk, what just happened down in the eastern docks?’

  The same old Joost. It appeared he knew nothing of my discussions with Rem Lottman that evening.

  ‘You wanted a result with Hals,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t authorise you to bring the bloody Battle of Medway to Amsterdam!’

  I couldn’t help but be impressed by his knowledge of naval history. The seventeenth-century battle had seen the Dutch fleet trounce England’s Royal Navy in the River Medway, near London.

  ‘Multiple suspects dead,’ Joost went on. ‘Two firefighters passed out, the fumes were so potent!’

  ‘Come now,’ I said. ‘There are worse ways for a firefighter to wind up on paid leave.’

  ‘There was also a very valuable painting aboard Hals’s boat!’

  ‘That’s a problem,’ I said, suddenly seeing the bigger picture. ‘You got Hals’s crew to steal the Verspronck back and harbour it for you? Only… he wouldn’t then give it up?’

  ‘These are absurd allegations!’ Joost yelled down the phone.

  So that’s why Joost had been so intent on me getting the goods on Hals.

  The cornered animal is the most dangerous they say, and I wasn’t about to give any intimation of the enquiry coming Joost’s way. That news needed to arrive from Rem Lottman.

  I wondered how much blame Joost would try to push down onto Bergveld.

  I thought too of Lucy Channing-West: it looked like her Lloyds syndicate would have to get used to their loss. But I didn’t feel any regret. That Girl Dressed in Blue had come from nowhere and gone nowhere; there was always the one in Rijksmuseum for everyone to appreciate.

  Lars Pelt, the Norwegian diplomat killed in the re-theft of the painting, was another matter.

  For that, and for the woman beaten into unconsciousness at the Royal Hotel, Joost would have to hang.

  But first, I wanted to see my family.

  28

  GRAND PLACE

  Petra and I strolled in the evening sun towards the old main square of Brussels, past the food and drink shops that led to it – the chocolatiers, the biscuitiers and sucrecuitiers. The locals had devised a fine way of trying to kill themselves, with their diet of rich chocolate, strong beer and giant waffles.

  ‘Oh Henk,’ Petra said as we entered the Grand Place itself. It was like something out of a Brothers Grimm fairy tale: all intricate stonework and glinting gold, the
ornate rooflines in sharp, warm relief thanks to the sun’s low rays.

  ‘We should have stayed at the Amigo,’ she said.

  The five-star Amigo was situated just off the Grand Place. But the prices there hadn’t been so friendly. Lottman had offered to pay but it didn’t feel right. Besides, I liked the Metropole – five minutes’ walk away – with its Belle Époque heft.

  I was less appreciative of Lottman going radio silent on me. It had been two days since the Energy Summit and the events at the harbour; my three calls in the meantime had gone unreturned.

  We entered the square and joined the other tourists in pointing, photographing, sauntering. ‘When are we meeting Nadia again?’ I asked.

  ‘Nadia and Sergei,’ she corrected me. ‘In five minutes. Here, at the Brasserie de L’Ommegang.’

  It was a stone-fronted building with window boxes and a large carved goose over the front door.

  Had I somehow killed the golden one – my relationship with Rem? The enquiry into the Amsterdam police that I’d pushed for… had it somehow engulfed Lottman too? What was going on? Why wasn’t he in contact?

  ‘There they are!’ Petra said. I could make out our daughter, sat holding hands with a well-built, fair-haired man who looked several years older than her.

  My phone was ringing.

  PRIVATE NUMBER.

  ‘This could be Lottman,’ I said.

  ‘Hallo?’ the voice on the phone said.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Thierry. Immigration, Antwerp Airport.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, disappointed. ‘Now’s not a good time.’

  ‘Then I’ll be brief: Lesoto left for London yesterday. One-way ticket.’

  ‘Add him to the list,’ I said. The list of foreign diplomats and dignitaries to be detained for questioning upon arrival at any Benelux or Dutch airport. Already on it was a certain sheikh.

  ‘Look, I can tell you’re busy,’ Thierry said. ‘Is there someone from your team I should coordinate with?’

  ‘Actually, there is.’

  I gave him Stefan’s name. I’d moved Stefan out of front-line policing, back into station operations and surveillance. It was better for him and the team. This was management: deciding which pieces fitted where on the chessboard.