Mr. Miller

by Charles den Tex

  You never know. The internet is the medium by which you can track down coincidences and make contacts that are seemingly impossible. People who don’t know each other, who will never get to know each other, exchange messages as if they were neighbours. And they are neighbours. In the digital world, everyone is your neighbour.

  Van Waayen wasn’t there. He had slipped out for a talk. Rachel, his secretary, was busy dealing with reports and notes and answering the phone, which rang every couple of minutes. She gave me the address of the Ministry of the Interior, right next to Central Station in The Hague.

  ‘Taking the train at rush hour is a disaster,’ I said.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she answered without looking up from her notes or slowing her typing speed. ‘An earthquake is a disaster. Famine is a disaster. War is a disaster. Taking the train at rush hour is work, so watch your language.’ She turned to a stack of papers, pulled out one sheet and gave it to me. ‘Here, the briefing for tomorrow morning.’

  It was a short report of the conversation that Van Waayen had had with the Secretary-General of the Ministry of the Interior, A.W.J.M. Eberhuizen. Van Waayen had reduced it to a row of key words and supplemented it with standard advisory sloganizing to fit it into a recognizable context. The ‘complex environment’ had already been added as well as the ‘redefinition of strategic principles’ and a few other concepts that were meant to secure the work of the consultant at the highest level.

  I smiled. This was something I knew.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and began walking out of the room. When I reached the doorway I turned around. ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘Something else I wanted to know. That man who was here this morning …’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘That guy who was with Van Waayen when I was scheduled to meet with him.’

  ‘Oh, him. Mr. Breger, I think. What about him?’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  Rachel glanced at me with a look that could raise the ante to astronomical heights at a poker table.

  ‘No idea,’ she said. ‘Never saw him before in my life.’ She turned to her computer screen, and the next minute her fingers were flying across the keyboard.

  Our conversation was over.

  14 Ruud

  Munching on a cheeseburger, I looked from the car to the building diagonally across from me on the other side of the Admiraal de Ruyterweg. It was a large house split up into apartments. The home of Ina Radekker was on the second floor. Here, on a busy street in Amsterdam-West, was where she had lived. I had no idea how long she had lived there or under what circumstances, whether she had rented the apartment or had owned it. All I knew about her was what I wished I didn’t know. Drops of grease ran down my chin. The flavour and juice from the burger swam in my mouth. The instant gratification of food with global brand recognition.

  I had to find proof that she wasn’t on Crete, that she hadn’t just gone on vacation, because only then could I call on other people to do something about it. I was hoping that somewhere in her apartment I could find the name of her travel agent so I could call someone to ask whether she really had booked a flight, or a whole vacation package. And if she had, whether she had actually shown up. Or had cancelled the trip. Or not. Those kinds of things. I had to get started, I had to do something, because if she really had booked a flight and hadn’t appeared at Schiphol that meant she was missing and the police could be called in. That’s what I wanted to accomplish.

  I crumpled up the paper wrapping, wiped my mouth and hands and called her number one more time to see if anyone just happened to be there. The phone rang endlessly, but no one picked up. Finally I got out of the car and walked back and forth a few times in front of her building, looking at the front door, at the windows two storeys up and at the windows of the floor below. I didn’t see any movement anywhere. I walked to the front door and went up five steps, a bunch of keys in my hand. The door had two locks, a standard one and a deadbolt. First I opened the deadbolt, then I stood there fiddling awkwardly until I came to the right key for the standard lock. Finally I pushed the door open and soon found myself at the bottom of a narrow stairwell with a steep set of Amsterdam stairs going up to the first and second floors.

  There was a second front door that separated the residence from the rest of the building. I chose one of the remaining two keys, which turned out to be the right one. When I reached the top floor I cautiously entered the apartment. This was where Ina lived. This was where she had lived. Technically it was still her apartment. It was full of her stuff and her past, even though she herself would never live anywhere again. Detached thoughts about someone I didn’t know gave me an unpleasant feeling of emptiness.

  Once I got inside, the hesitation and fear vanished. As soon as the door shut behind me I felt safer, and my natural urge to stick my nose into everything rose to the surface.

  There was a bedroom at the back and a small bathroom. At the front of the apartment, the front room and a small side room had been combined to form a large living-dining room with an open kitchen. That was all. Opposite the front door, on the landing, was a narrow hall table with a large mirror above it. On the table was a small basket containing a number of items: a card for the video library, another couple of keys (probably for a bike), a bus and tram card, some hair elastics and some change. Next to the basket was a stack of envelopes, three blue ones from the tax authorities and some advertising leaflets. At the front of the table was a small drawer, not the place where someone would save information about their vacation, but I opened it anyway. Two pairs of gloves and a folded up scarf. Nothing else.

  I closed the drawer and went to the large front room. Near the kitchen was a round dining room table with four chairs. At the other end of the room was an arrangement of two two-seater sofas, a small coffee table and an enormous wall unit with space for a sound system, television, DVD player, books and much more. The wall unit covered a wall and a half, from the door through which you entered the room to the corner, and half the wall opposite the door. At the end of the cabinet was a sliding extendable desk. On the desk was a closed laptop: Datwell, the same model as mine. I quickly searched through the cabinet. I didn’t have to identify everything in it. I just needed to find something having to do with her trip. I could skip everything else. Someone who has booked a trip doesn’t usually store their travel information between literature and cookbooks.

  I opened the computer, and while it was starting up I continued searching the cabinet. It had everything in it—and nothing. Ina Radekker had drawers full of CDs (hundreds, mostly classical), lots of books, vases, candlesticks, dishes, a couple of porcelain figurines and photos in frames. Too much for such a small apartment, but too little to provide any kind of picture. I pulled over a dining room chair and sat down at the laptop. This was her home computer. It didn’t go to the office with her, and the log-in name and password were filled in by default. Here at home, the chances that someone else would look in her computer were so small that she didn’t need to keep her password a secret. I took a pen and a piece of paper from my bag and wrote down her log-in data.

  Then I quickly clicked to the web browser and the machine began connecting. As I waited, I looked under the desk. On the ground were two small dumbbells weighing two kilos each. They were made of one solid piece of metal: a bar in the middle and a small, massive steel ball at each end. I picked one up and did a few exercises with it. It was too light for me—I could hardly feel the weight—but for someone who sat behind a computer day in and day out and only moved her wrists, hands and fingers, it was just the right weight to give the muscles something to do every now and then.

  The computer made a faint noise, indicating that it was connected to the internet. I put the dumbbell back and clicked to the web history window in the hope of finding the site of a travel agency.

  A long row of websites appeared in the window. The names meant nothing to me, except for HC&P’s own site. I copied the list and mailed it to my own e-mail a
ddress. The computer was busy for only a couple of seconds, and during that time I tried to imagine where I might find information about Ina’s trip. If she had booked it using her office computer I’d never be able to find it. I was deep in thought and was unaware of what was going on. It wasn’t until the lock of the front door clicked that I realized someone else was in the apartment.

  Too late.

  There wasn’t a single place in the room to hide, so I went for the only defence left to me: offence.

  ‘Hey,’ I called out. ‘Who’s there?’ And with a look of indignation on my face I walked through the room towards the hall. But I never got that far. Before I could reach it, the doorway was filled with the frame of a stocky man in the ugliest shell suit I had ever seen. Gleaming yellow, orange, black, green and silver absolutely spattered from his arms and legs. His trainers were bright white. Hanging around his thick red neck was a gold chain with a gold nameplate—Ruud—written in cursive letters.

  Just what I needed.

  Ruud didn’t speak. He just stared. Not in order to understand but to make himself perfectly understood. He looked me straight in the eye without blinking. Then he glanced quickly to the left and to the right to make sure there was no one else in the room. From that moment on he only had eyes for me.

  I tried bluffing.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’ I asked, taking one step forward. Whenever I find myself with a group of men who feel the need to play Who’s Got the Biggest, I always play along. It’s what we do. It’s part of the male code.

  Ruud saw things differently. His immobile right hand suddenly shot forward and grabbed me by the throat. With no effort at all he pushed me backward over one of the sofas. I rolled and tumbled, and at no time did the pressure on my windpipe diminish. Ruud had a hold on me like a cat biting down on its prey. Flexible and strong, he slid across the sofa. I fell, he dropped to his knees. I rolled, he turned. I kicked and flailed with my legs, clutching at the hand around my throat. The less air I got, the more I panicked. Ruud was not playing a game. Ruud wasn’t interested in male codes. Ruud didn’t need to make an impression.

  He picked me up off the ground, let me go and pulled his hand back. Breath came shrieking down my throat. I saw nothing and I heard nothing. All I could feel was the overpowering need for air. Then, in an almost leisurely fashion, Ruud punched me. His fist hit me right in the middle of my chest. The air I had just inhaled with such difficulty was knocked out of me again with one well-directed blow. I doubled over, wrapped my arms around myself and tried to find a way out. More than the pain, it was the shock that paralyzed me. This was something entirely new. I had known bullies, assholes, ordinary fitness club types, street-corner delinquents and frat rats who were always up for a little rough and tumble, but this was new to me. Ruud was a different species altogether. He wasn’t interested in being educated or entertained. Ruud was out to show who was boss. Once and for all.

  He placed one hand under my chin, pulled my head up and tossed me back over the toppled sofa. I landed against the bookcase. Books and figurines and vases and knickknacks rained down on top of me. Ruud grabbed one of my ankles and dragged me from this mess to the centre of the room. There he placed a second hand around the same ankle, and I felt the two hands close in an iron grip. He set his feet wide apart, crouched slightly, bent his back and waited a few seconds. He groaned and exhaled. Then he took a deep breath, filled his barrel of a chest with air, pumped himself up, and with a rough jerk he dragged me through the room in a rotating motion like a windmill. My shoulders and head banged against the furniture, knocking over the dining room table and chairs. I felt a sharp stab in my cheek where the skin of my face was being scraped. In a panic, I stretched out my arms and grabbed the first thing I came across, the edge of the cabinet. My fingers found purchase on one of the legs of the wall unit, and I pulled with all my might, arms and legs together. Ruud threw his weight backward in response, and at that moment I let go and kicked along with him. With no counterforce Ruud fell backward, slammed against the doorpost and let go of my ankle.

  I was lying flat out on the floor. I scrambled away from him as fast as I could and tried to stand, but I wasn’t fast enough. Ruud sprang from the door to the sofa, pushed against the sofa back and dove on top of me.

  I blindly groped for something—anything—to defend myself with. I didn’t stand a chance with bare hands alone. Not only was he much stronger, but he also knew what he was doing. Ruud had experience, that was patently obvious. You could even see it in the way he moved. His body was his most important instrument. Not in my case, though. I was a brain worker who did a bit of fitness for the fun of it. My survival instinct was all in my head. If I couldn’t think better and faster than the next guy, I was done for. I could swoop and spin, sprint and strike, I could trip people up, back them into a corner and finish them off. With words. Ruud could too, but he didn’t have to open his mouth to do it.

  He kicked me to the edge of the room. I curled up tighter and tighter to ward off the jolting blows. The toe of his shoe pounded against my chest and stomach and grazed my face. Now there was a second wound, on my forehead. Blood ran across my eyes and down my cheek. Ruud paused for two seconds to take a breath, just enough time for me to roll under the extendable desk where the laptop was. He had to stoop down to drag me out, and just as he bent over I grabbed one of the little dumbbells and started flailing it around like a club. The massive steel ball struck him right across the jaw, and in an instant of unexpected silence I heard the bone crack. Ruud straightened himself up with a scream, striking the back of his head on the desk top above him. The impact sent the laptop flying through the room. It smashed against the bluestone windowsill. Ruud came stumbling back. Toward me. I took another swing, and this time I hit him in the middle of his forehead.

  Once.

  The steel ball left a dent just above his eyes and his gaze became glassy. I held the dumbbell with a trembling hand. Ruud twitched a couple of times. His eyes closed and opened again. He looked at me as if he no longer knew where he was or who he was, and then he collapsed. I lay on the ground, panting and shaking. I could hear my own frantic breathing in the sudden silence.

  I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I had two large swipes across my face. There was blood everywhere. I dabbed myself clean with a wet towel, carefully wiping off the blood stains. It didn’t seem too bad. The wound above my eye bled the most, and it took a while before I managed to staunch it. I found band-aids in the medicine cabinet and used one to bind the wound as tightly as I could, so tight that it pulled my left eyelid up in an expression of permanent bewilderment.

  I put another band-aid over the first one to make sure the whole thing stuck, cleaned up the mess in the bathroom, rinsed all the spatters of blood from the sink, stuffed the dirty towel in a plastic bag I found in the kitchen and left the rest as it was. Ruud was still lying motionless under the desk. Cautiously I knelt down beside him. His broken jaw could be fixed, but the dent in his forehead was probably there for good. It was hard to tell, given the position he was lying in. His power of speech wouldn’t be affected at any rate. Every other side effect was a bonus.

  I staggered down the stairs to the street and threw the keys to the building in a glass recycling bin further on. They fell among the shards with a jingle. I crossed the street and got into my car. For a moment I thought about calling 112 to report a wounded man at 753 Admiraal de Ruyterweg, third floor, but decided against it. Ruud certainly wouldn’t have called if it had been me. A son of a bitch with a dent in his head is still a son of a bitch.

  Vak Zuid was packed. The combined noise of people and music was intense. I was late but Gijs wouldn’t mind. In Vak Zuid everybody hung around until they found the person they were looking for. Somewhere in the middle of the cafe was a large group from HC&P. I squeezed my way through the crowd until I reached them. A glass of beer appeared out of nowhere, then a glass of white wine. I passed the wine on but polished off the beer in one long
draft and sent the empty glass back through the crowd to the bar. Thomas was the first one to see me. He asked with gestures whether I wanted another beer. I held my thumb and forefinger five centimetres apart and made a brief tossing-back motion. Thomas nodded, and soon a double vodka on ice appeared before me.

  ‘And?’ Gijs screamed suddenly in my ear in an effort to be heard above the pounding music. The bare concrete interior at Vak Zuid was an acoustic assault on every customer.

  ‘And what?’ I screamed back.

  ‘Has Uncle Walter called yet?’ Gijs leaned toward me and spoke almost directly in my ear. ‘I figured you have to have somebody who knows Dries, and he said he’d call, and usually when Uncle Walter says he’ll do something, he …’

  ‘Uncle Walter?’

  ‘Ministry of the Interior.’

  ‘You bet he called,’ I said.

  ‘Great.’ Gijs looked around absently.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Easy peasy,’ he said. Only then did he notice the band-aids above my eye. In the semi-darkness of the cafe, with such a tightly packed crowd, it was easy to miss the most conspicuous things. He pressed a finger carefully against it.

  ‘Difficult client?’ he asked.

  ‘No big deal,’ I said. ‘But it bled as if I had undergone some ritual treatment.’

  Gijs nodded. If I said it was nothing he’d believe it immediately and wouldn’t press me on the subject. That was fine with me, because I had no desire to explain. This wasn’t the place for it either. Vak Zuid was the neighbourhood’s corporate club, the place for hard-working and well-paid high potentials, account executives, product managers, marketing managers and consultants of every shape and size. Ambition and competitive spirit kept the energy level high until deep into the night. The acquisition of new assignments was celebrated here with gusto, and people anticipated the procurement of clients who didn’t even know they were about to be approached. Success was the magnet that influenced every compass. North, south, east and west were replaced by one almighty direction. The wind blew from only one quarter, and whether it was a headwind or a tailwind was carefully monitored here.