The Harbour Master

by Daniel Pembrey

  I shifted my weight between my feet, feeling the carpet sinking and springing back beneath me. ‘So you called the local police station?’ I asked.

  ‘Not straight away. I waited an hour and called his phone, only to hear it ring in the other room – he’d left it here.’

  The phone that the Brussels investigation team would have taken away for analysis.

  The phone with Johan’s number on it.

  ‘Then I waited a few more minutes,’ she went on, ‘and finally called the police. They came quickly.’

  ‘Can I ask why you assumed he’d been kidnapped?’

  She looked lost.

  ‘You reported it as a kidnapping,’ I prompted.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘he’d mentioned it just a few days before: his concern that he might be at risk.’

  ‘What exactly did he say?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She put a palm to her forehead. ‘I’m tired. I’ve already been through all this.’

  ‘I’m the one who should apologise,’ I said. ‘I can imagine how distressing all of this must be. I knew him too. I feel it as well.’

  There was a kindred concern in her voice as she asked, ‘Will he be OK? That photo, in the news…’

  She shuddered as though an icy blast had hit her. In reality, the room was like a greenhouse, the murmuring air conditioning ineffectual against the beating rays of the sun.

  ‘It’s hard to say.’

  I digested the new information she’d given me, especially Lottman’s voiced concerns. But what had prompted them?

  ‘He was very generous,’ Leonie said vaguely.

  I doubted she meant as a lover. It was hard imagining the two of them together physically, with Lottman’s size and her slenderness. But I didn’t sense that she meant it just in a financial sense, either.

  A phone rang somewhere in the apartment. I noted her exaggerated, startled reflex. She attempted to ignore it.

  ‘So he’d been afraid of kidnapping,’ I said. ‘Were there any other signs of him behaving differently of late?’

  She paused, adrift in thought. ‘He’d lost a little of his confidence. I think he was just a bit paranoid – with good reason, as things turned out.’

  ‘Did he seem depressed? Withdrawn?’

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ she replied. ‘I’m no longer sure how well I knew him.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how long had you two been together?’

  ‘Since he arrived here in Brussels. He took a big interest in my country, in the political changes in Ghana.’

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  ‘You’ve been following what’s happening?’ she asked me.

  I hadn’t, but I nodded all the same. ‘What’s your interpretation?’

  ‘The rebels need funds. But more than that, they need Edouard Tailleur back. You must know of him? He’s the one on trial in The Hague…’

  Ah yes, Edouard Tailleur. From the media coverage, you couldn’t ignore the man: a notorious warlord operating among the Ghanaian rebels in the remote borderland between Ghana and the Ivory Coast, going by the nickname Edouard Scissorhand – or alternatively ‘Scissor Man’ – owing to his alleged habit of cutting open his victims, alive, with an old pair of sewing scissors.

  ‘Could it be related?’ she asked, staring at me.

  I met her gaze. ‘Did you discuss this with the local investigators?’

  ‘No. I didn’t like their tone. I didn’t feel comfortable with them.’

  ‘Here’s my number.’ I pressed my card into her slender hand. ‘If anything comes to mind, please call me, at any time.’

  I walked towards the front door, then turned around. ‘One last question: has anyone from the media tried to contact you?’

  Her phone rang again.

  ‘I have a good lawyer, and injunctions ready,’ she said. ‘One of Rem’s gifts to me.’

  ‘Good. Don’t talk to any of them, if you can avoid it.’

  *

  As soon as I left Leonie’s apartment, I crossed the street towards the park and called Liesbeth. Waiting for her to answer, I caught sight of the primary colours of the Ghanaian flag – the embassy perhaps?

  ‘Ahoy there,’ Liesbeth answered.

  ‘What’s new?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve been researching Lottman’s family, as you asked.’

  ‘Found anything?’

  ‘Unmarried, one sibling living in Amsterdam – an older sister.’

  It broadly fitted with how I imagined Lottman’s family situation to be. ‘What about his parents?’

  ‘His father’s dead but his mother’s still alive.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Noordwijk aan Zee.’

  Noordwijk: Holland’s answer to the Hamptons. Freddy H had owned a villa there. He’d chosen Heineken-green tiles for its sizeable roof. It’s funny, the details that stick.

  ‘So, there’s Lottman family money after all,’ I said.

  An old-school kidnapping motivated by the promise of ransom appeared plausible again.

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘I’m heading to The Hague,’ I said. ‘It’s a short distance on to Noordwijk.’

  ‘Oh, I already arranged to meet with her. I’m on my way there now… or do you want me to turn around?’

  ‘No,’ I said, following a sixth sense. ‘Carry on, I’ll take the sister.’

  ‘Why The Hague?’ Liesbeth asked me.

  Another call was incoming.

  PRIVATE NUMBER.

  ‘Keep me posted,’ I said, switching over to the other caller.

  ‘Van der Pol?’ van Tongerloo said. ‘I thought I made it clear that your help wasn’t needed in Brussels.’

  Opposite Leonie’s apartment there was a black BMW. I cursed myself for not having noticed it before. Were there listening devices at her place? The secrecy afforded the police’s technical teams here meant that I’d likely never know.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘I’m leaving town now. Just one thing, van Tongerloo.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You may want to step up your protection of the girlfriend.’

  33

  ‘SCISSOR MAN’

  I left Brussels for Holland by car, calling Liesbeth again as I went.

  ‘On the road?’ she asked, apparently hearing the traffic noise.

  ‘How did it go with Lottman’s mother?’

  ‘It was brief, but I learned a couple of things.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The photo of her son – the one in the news – was physically mailed to her.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. The envelope was postmarked Tilburg.’

  So that’s why the investigation had moved there. Though it didn’t sound quite right. Wouldn’t a sophisticated gang have sent the photo by email, from an anonymous Internet café?

  Though, granted, whoever emailed it risked the IP address being discovered. An Internet café could be traced electronically, its cameras checked and staff questioned about who’d sat at which computer – just as a physical mailing location could be investigated… as it apparently was being.

  ‘What’s she like?’ I asked.

  ‘The mother? If I could use one word to sum her up –’

  ‘First one that comes to mind.’

  ‘Imperious.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I let that sink in. ‘How did you leave things?’

  ‘She was cordial, but made it clear that she didn’t expect to see me again.’

  I digested that too. ‘What else?’

  ‘What else about what?’

  ‘Mrs Lottman. It feels like you’re holding something back.’

  ‘No, not really. Well – I just wasn’t sure about my right to question he
r, that’s all. I mean, Noordwijk’s hardly in our precinct, is it?’

  ‘Let me worry about that,’ I said tersely, feeling the limitations of my reach ever more. It made my next question all the more difficult. ‘What’s the process for interviewing a suspect at the International Criminal Court in The Hague?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Liesbeth’s husband was a senior prosecutor. I’d never asked her something like this, and I hated doing it, but there was a first time for everything.

  ‘There’s a criminal from Ghana who may be relevant. Or not. I just need to check it out.’

  Liesbeth sighed sharply. ‘I don’t know. Is it even Dutch soil?’

  She made a good point. Would I be leaving Holland again so soon? Nothing in Rem Lottman’s world was straightforward.

  ‘I could ask Marc if you want, but –’

  ‘No, that’s all right,’ I said, changing my mind. Trying to interview the Ghanaian defendant in jail would only draw more attention to myself. It was a bad idea, and I had a better one.

  ‘OK then,’ she said, confused. ‘I’ll write up my report about the mother.’

  ‘Please do, and email it to me.’

  I hung up and turned the radio on: 3FM, the music channel, playing an annoyingly catchy 1980s track whose name escaped me. ‘Let’s Hear It For the Boy’? Thankfully, the music faded out for the half-hourly news, which mentioned the Lottman investigation moving to Tilburg, but not much more. The police spokespeople were keeping schtum – apart from to my wife, of course.

  *

  The International Criminal Court occupied a strange place, and not just because of the countries (primarily America) that still refused to recognise it. Rather, the physical juxtaposition: it was a white, modern structure that visitors like me approached via elegant old residences, pleasant greenery and other signs of civility, yet within its rooms sat some of the most vicious criminals on earth.

  Court One was hosting the trial of Edouard Tailleur.

  I parked near the visitors’ entrance, which was around the corner from the main entrance at 174 Maanweg. The court was a large operation – two tower blocks – its administrators still keen to demonstrate its purpose and workings to the world. Any member of the public could enter and observe court sessions (apart from those involving witnesses who required anonymity). The way in was beyond a cage-like structure, which jutted out into the street that ran down the side of the building. The cage was where defendants entered as they arrived from the nearby Scheveningen Penitentiary – the most heavily fortified prison in The Hague.

  I walked through the X-ray machine, which lit up like a Christmas tree. I held up my warrant card and the duty guard took my gun, phone and lighter, and then asked me to try again. He conferred with another guard; eventually the first one showed me to a security locker where I left my possessions.

  Court One was a small but high space, with a public viewing gallery behind the glass on the upper level. Arranged around the judges’ bench were desks and computer consoles for the prosecution, the defence, security staff, translators and other officials. My attention went immediately to the man behind a glass screen on the lower level.

  When you’ve done this job for three decades, you become aware of a certain energy that emanates from powerful, violent predators – like that of animals in an undisturbed habitat, I imagined. Tailleur was a large man, wearing an expensive-looking navy suit and tie. He sat slouched, with his headphones slightly askew, resembling a beast in repose. The only movement I could detect was his breathing.

  The moment I sat down, he looked up at me. What the hell have you got yourself mixed up in, Rem? I wondered. An eye for an eye? One man’s captivity for another’s?

  In the open dock stood another African man, wearing a beige military uniform.

  ‘Mr NaTonga,’ the gowned prosecutor was saying, ‘I wish to turn now to how your brigade selected their targets.’

  There was a pause as his words were translated.

  The prosecutor hadn’t yet finished the preamble that would eventually lead to a question before NaTonga replied.

  ‘We have to work from a philosophy… of survival.’ A soft, female voice translated his words. ‘The Ghanaian regime is – as everyone here knows – very corrupt. There is much bribery, there is much self-enrichment. This is the central history of our land, going back to the British and Dutch years.’

  The prosecutor was gesturing helplessly towards the judges, one of whom said: ‘Mr NaTonga, if I may intercede. You have been called as a witness in your capacity as a captain of the rebel army, not as a philosopher – though no doubt you have much to recommend yourself in that department. Could the prosecution please rephrase its question more precisely?’

  The prosecutor waved his hands in frustration. ‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ he said, composing himself. ‘I would like to explore how Mr NaTonga received orders – in his capacity as rebel-army captain – to attack and abduct villagers in the region to the west of Kumasi. If you look at the document distributed, you will see the map and the coordinates for the area in question.’

  Papers rustled through the courtroom microphones. Tailleur’s gaze lowered from me to NaTonga.

  The captain drew himself up, the gaudy medals of his uniform jingling. ‘I receive my orders from God. God understands the centuries-long struggle that my people have been summoned for – first with the invaders, the Dutch and British colonials, and now the puppet government they left in their place, which has led to where we find ourselves today.’

  The stenographer duly noted all.

  I folded my arms tightly.

  The captain continued: ‘God gives his blessing and benediction to the struggle to rid ourselves of the men who rape our land of gold and diamonds and oil, and rape our women too, and God must be our judge in the end. This is a struggle that has been going on for many generations of my people, and will continue for many more generations.’ The translator placed peculiar emphasis on the first syllable of ‘generations’, distracting further from the attempts to establish the chain of command between the captain and the man behind the glass screen.

  I suddenly saw why the Americans had such a problem with all this – giving a platform to terrorists. For ‘terror’ was the only word that could describe the coin of their realm.

  ‘Mr NaTonga!’ the prosecutor said, exasperated. ‘Could you please answer the question as to how, in a military, tactical sense, you selected your enemy targets?’

  ‘Our first target must be the corruption and bribery of the current regime,’ the translator continued. ‘The outsized payments its members and diplomats are receiving from countries such as Holland, for oil, and for the other fruits of our land –’

  I sat bolt upright. The man was referencing Lottman’s favours-for-energy scheme, surely? Tailleur was staring straight at me.

  There was a muted clack as one of the judges brought down his gavel. He was saying something about adjourning early for the day.

  I got up – feeling Tailleur’s gaze track me – and left the gallery. I strode through the atrium to the security entrance and the locker containing my phone and my gun.

  The guard helped me retrieve my possessions and I walked out into the fierce light, dialling Stefan as I went.

  ‘That Ghanaian diplomat who was gifted the big diamond…’ I said when Stefan answered.

  ‘Lesoto?’

  ‘Yes. Could you try to track him down? I’d like to ask him some questions.’

  ‘Didn’t he leave the country?’

  ‘You’re right.’ I recalled that now. ‘See if he tried to re-enter Holland or Belgium, would you?’

  ‘I can try…’

  ‘There were two guards at Antwerp Airport who were very helpful and should be able to assist, if you run into any difficulties getting the information. Check on Lesoto’s driver, too. What was his nam
e again?’ I rubbed the side of my head. ‘Sammy, it was. See if you can find out anything about the movements of either of them. Dig around.’

  ‘OK,’ Stefan said. ‘Leave it with me.’

  I’d intended to go back into the courtroom but decided against the rigmarole of handing in my gun and phone again, opting for a cigarette instead. The judge had said that they’d be adjourning early for the day anyway.

  I’d only just finished my cigarette when Stefan called back.

  ‘I thought you’d want to know, sooner rather than later –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The guards at Antwerp Airport said that one of the other names on that list tried to re-enter the country.’

  ‘Which one?’ I was distracted by a sense of activity in the cage of the prisoners’ entrance ahead, doubtless the prison transport arriving. ‘What are you talking about, Stefan?’

  ‘The list of foreign diplomats and dignitaries to be detained for questioning upon arrival at any Benelux or Dutch airport, remember?’

  ‘Which name?’

  ‘Sheikh Yasan.’

  The one who’d been staying at the Royal Hotel in Amsterdam, where the Ukrainian escort was beaten up.

  A van swerved past me, at speed.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was denied entry. He turned his private jet around and flew on to Switzerland.’

  ‘Huh. Stefan, see if you can –’

  A dazzling white flash blinded me. My hearing went tinny, as though I were underwater.

  I groped for my dropped phone among pieces of hot tarmac.

  An alarm horn sounded in staccato blasts.

  The scene in front of me was one of smoke and twisted metal – where the cage had stood. Next to it, the knotted chassis of a van sat in a shallow crater.

  In the midst of all the warped, blackened metal was another vehicle – or rather the remnants of one. The smell was ghastly: scorched plastic; human flesh. I staggered towards the wreckage as uniformed men streamed in from different directions, vivid blue light flickering across their torsos.

  Someone held me back and helped me, coughing, to sit down by the side of the road.