Each time he returned home, he was treated with more and more respect by his family and friends, but also with increasing distance. Despite the fact that he felt just as Moroccan as he had forty years ago when he’d followed his father to the Netherlands. From the plane, Marouan, an illiterate boy of seven, saw an expansive Dutch polder landscape appear beneath him. With excitement he’d stared at the neatly defined fields and all the patchwork shades of green. In the arrivals hall of Schiphol Airport, he ran into the waiting arms of his father in a state of euphoria. As if this foreign country had welcomed him home.
To understand everyone and everything as quickly as possible, he’d immediately started rattling off all kinds of Dutch words and sentences, similar to the way he’d memorized texts from the Koran in Morocco. So in no time at all he spoke Dutch without an accent and could recite lots of synonyms and sayings and could even quote Dutch poetry. But getting to know the people was a whole other story.
The less he understood them, the more his hatred of the Dutch grew. He hated the indifference and arrogance of others. Those in life who’d acquired wealth and the self-confidence that goes hand-in-hand with that. A hatred of people who ‘had it all’ and therefore assumed they could cover up any transgression. People like the Fabers.
In the breast pocket of his jacket, his mobile phone trilled, beaming him back to the harshness of reality.
‘Diva,’ said a man on the other end of the line mockingly. He spoke English with a thick Slavic accent. ‘What a festive tune I’m hearing. Is it because you’re happy to hear from me again?’
‘In your dreams,’ Marouan muttered and immediately switched off the CD player. ‘What do you want?’
He heard that arrogant laugh. ‘Have I hurt your feelings, Diva? Am I treading on your tender soul? Don’t act like a spoiled bitch! Though you do have the boobs for it.’
‘Why are you calling me?’
‘The boy. In the woods.’
For a moment, Marouan couldn’t breathe. ‘What does that have to do with you?’
‘Everything and nothing,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘How is he?’
‘None of your business.’
‘I’m asking nicely? How is he?’
Marouan took a few deep breaths. He had to say something. ‘Out of danger.’
‘Ah, good to hear! What do they say about the Prophet, my friend? That he’s the bearer of good news. And now you’re following in his fucking footsteps. Where is he?’
‘Who? The Prophet? In Mecca.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Listen, I’ve been officially assigned to this case.’
‘That’s exactly why I’m calling you, treplo. I’m asking you nicely, where is he?’
Marouan heard tapping on the windscreen. He looked up and saw the fresh-faced salesman, who stuck his thumb up in the air with his eyebrows raised questioningly.
‘I don’t want to know anything about your role in this,’ Marouan said as he waved the salesman away, ‘just leave that boy alone.’
‘Watch your mouth, Diva. I’m asking you – now pay attention – for the last time, where is he?’
Marouan felt an attack of heartburn coming on. He could feel his heart throbbing in his throat.
‘In hospital. The WMC.’
‘Where in the WMC?’
‘Intensive Care.’
The salesman was now bent over the bonnet and was gesturing to Marouan like a professional mime artist to find out what was going on.
‘And one last detail,’ the caller said. Marouan was silent. He wanted to start the engine of the C6, press down on the accelerator and with a speed exceeding two hundred kilometres an hour crash head on into the caller and kill him.
‘You’re going to sweep this entire business under the rug for me.’ His thick accent sounded slurred on the phone.
‘What business?’
‘What happened last night.’
‘What? Everything? Do you have any idea how many detectives will be assigned to just the case with the station wagon? Two dead bodies, damn it!’
‘Listen, friend. I’m only talking about the boy. Take care of it, you understand?’
Marouan thought of the journalist. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m telling you to.’
‘I’m not a miracle worker.’
‘No, but I’m not asking you to walk on water or multiply loaves of bread. But this, you can manage. And why? Because I know you always do your stinking best for me. Understood?’
The click of the call abruptly ending made Marouan’s ears ring and his head spin. He stepped out of the Exclusive and pushed the surprised salesman aside when he saw Calvino returning from the shop.
‘And?’
‘It’s a match,’ Calvino said, satisfied. And the Public Prosecutor had given them permission to arrest both Dennis Faber and his wife.
‘But the question is,’ Calvino grinned, ‘are we going in our tin can or in this beauty?’
Marouan ignored him. He strode out of the showroom and started the Corolla. He barely gave Calvino time to get in. Car wheels screeching, he raced off to the old Westergas complex where IRIS TV’s studios were located.
16
Farah was so preoccupied she almost missed the exit. Ten minutes later, she parked on a concrete platform alongside the IJ waterfront by a futuristic looking steel-and-glass building. The editorial offices of her newspaper, the Algemeen Nederlands Dagblad, had recently been relocated there.
She hurried across the bridge, into a glass lift that took her to the top floor. There she made a beeline for the office of her editor-in-chief.
Edward Vallent was standing with his back to her. His strapping body silhouetted against the cloudless morning sky made him look like a giant. The room smelled of espresso. He turned when he heard her enter. He was wearing beige wide-ribbed corduroy trousers and a charcoal grey sweater, and he had something of a beard. Edward was the sort of man who didn’t consider his appearance, simply because he couldn’t care less what others thought.
His steely blue eyes told Farah that something was seriously wrong.
‘Did you see this, by any chance?’
He went to his desk and held up the front page of the newspaper De Nederlander. The headline of the article in the lower right-hand corner was catchy enough: JOURNALIST FARAH H. ASSAULTS OPPONENT DURING MARTIAL ARTS GALA. The article was written by Cathy Marant and included a photo of the Russian woman, looking more dead than alive.
Farah snatched the newspaper from Edward’s hand and tossed it into the rubbish bin.
‘That’s where it belongs,’ she said angrily.
‘You’re too late, Hafez. By now the gullible readers of De Nederlander will have eaten up this piece of fiction. I’m not going to let that rag get away with this.’
Farah was too shaken to react immediately. She finally asked, ‘So what’s your thinking on this?’
‘Marant is on the warpath again. I want at least a rectification. And if they refuse I’m going after them for libel. But first I want to hear from you what went down.’
‘To be honest …’
‘Seems like a good place to start …’
‘I can remember everything up until the moment the referee pulled us apart. Before that she’d scratched open my arm, literally pulled the hair from my head, taken a bite out of my leg. You know, when you’re fighting, you’re so focused that your perception of pain isn’t the same as it normally is.’
‘Do you think we can convince people,’ Edward asked impatiently, ‘that your actions during that gala fight last night weren’t the actions of a woman who’d completely lost control and carried out –’ he plucked the newspaper out of the rubbish bin and read aloud ‘– “a ruthless act of revenge” or should we just go with what eight hundred thousand of De Nederlander’s trusted subscribers already believe?’
‘What can I say, Ed? I really don’t know.’
‘This afternoon I’m going to have a c
ouple of experts look at the fight footage, if that’s okay with you, of course? If they confirm my suspicions, I’m … no, I mean we … we’re going to go after them, agreed?’
Farah looked at him gratefully. ‘It’s a deal, boss. And now can we talk about something more important?’
‘More important than this? Go ahead … you’ve got exactly one minute,’ Edward said as he made a big show of looking through a pile of documents on his desk.
Farah dug into her pocket and then unfolded a handkerchief on his desk. Edward glanced at the bloodied, crescent-shaped earring.
‘Seems you’re missing one.’
‘The other one is in an Emergency Department plastic bag, which the police have together with a pile of blood-stained garments and other jewellery.’
‘So why do you have this one?’
‘I found it some thirty minutes ago in the Amsterdamse Bos. Close to where a boy of seven, perhaps eight, was hit by a car last night and left for dead. Nobody knows where he’s from or who he is. But one thing is very clear to me …’
In the meantime, Edward had gathered up all his files, intent on leaving the room. With a sweeping gesture of his arm he invited her to go first.
‘The boy was used for Bacha Bazi, Ed,’ she blurted out.
Edward froze in mid-step. Farah took this as an indication of interest.
‘I was at the hospital when they brought him in. He was wearing a traditional dancer’s robe, jewellery and make-up. As if he’d just been lifted out of a Bacha Bazi party.’
‘Bacha Bazi?’ repeated Edward. He sounded like he’d just been beamed to another planet.
‘A big party where the boy has to dance for his, uh, owner’s guests late into the night and then he’s auctioned off to the highest bidder for the remainder of the night,’ she explained.
‘I know,’ Edward mumbled, distracted. ‘But it’s been almost twenty years since I’ve heard those words. Not since Raylan Chapelle wrote about it.’
Raylan Chapelle.
Before she’d even started studying journalism, Farah had scrutinized every sentence, every word, every comma of his articles. Raylan Chapelle had a legendary oeuvre. Just like Albert Einstein was the father of relativity theory, Chapelle was regarded as the undisputed master of investigative journalism. It was Raylan Chapelle who’d proved as early as the sixties and seventies that the American government systematically deceived the American people about the war in Vietnam. Chapelle, an American by birth, spent years living in Kabul where he reported on the bloody coup in April 1978 that overthrew President Daoud’s government: the communists attacked the presidential palace with planes and tanks and killed Daoud and his entire staff. Farah’s father was among them.
Six months later Chapelle lost his life in Cambodia. The exact circumstances of his death never came to light. Rumour had it the CIA was responsible, in retaliation for his coverage of Vietnam.
Farah hadn’t thought about Raylan Chapelle for the longest time. There had never been cause to do so. But now that Edward had mentioned his name, suddenly he was present. Farah could picture him in vivid detail: the way he slowly bent forward and stroked her mother’s arm in the butterfly garden of the presidential palace in Kabul, almost thirty years ago …
‘Farah?’
She flinched.
‘Did you hear what I just asked you?’
‘Sorry, I …’ She didn’t finish her sentence. Her mouth was dry and she had to sit down. Edward tossed his papers back on the desk and got her a glass of water, which she drank in one gulp. Across from her, he leaned against the edge of his desk. Suddenly he seemed to have all the time in the world.
‘Should I be worried, or is it good news?’ he said with something of a grin. ‘And if so, does David know?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she mumbled. ‘I should have eaten something this morning.’
‘Still, with symptoms like these, you should see a doctor. Unless you think it’s normal to have the colour drain from your face and feel faint for no reason. But you didn’t come here for advice from your boss, especially since you don’t give a rat’s ass about his opinion. Why write a story about this boy?’
She stopped thinking about Raylan Chapelle, jolted back to reality. ‘Well, every year thousands of young Afghans are illegally smuggled into Europe.’
‘That’s nothing new.’
‘Maybe not. But they’re rarely as young as this boy, and they’re certainly not all tarted up like this.’
‘So you think he’s the exception that proves the rule?’
‘That’s what I suspect. And another thing, if it’s true and the boy was used for Bacha Bazi, what’s he doing here? I mean here in the Netherlands?’
‘Perhaps the market for these boys has gone global?’ Edward suggested. ‘An international network providing little dancing sex slaves? I mean, that lengthy war caused an Afghan diaspora of people fleeing to the West. Seems plausible that their traditions came right along with them.’
‘I want to look into this further,’ Farah said, determined. ‘I think this boy is just the tip of the iceberg. A few kilometres from where he was found last night, a car was set alight, a station wagon. They found two bodies in it. The detectives believe it’s a criminal retaliation. A whole team is being assigned to the case. You don’t do that unless you suspect it’s something big. This case is downright shady, Ed. If we can provide evidence of an international smuggling network that provides Afghan men in the Netherlands – and perhaps in other countries – with underage sex slaves, we will have exposed a worldwide crime ring.’
Edward looked at her long and hard. ‘Why this sudden interest?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve never looked into child trafficking and international crime before, so why now?’
‘Because it’s big. Because it hit a chord. I mean … I can’t get that boy out of my head.’ She paused. Edward waited for her to continue.
‘Something about the boy himself,’ she said with a melancholy tone. ‘Something about him. Perhaps not the best motive for an investigation like this, but I remember someone once saying that fascination is the best place for a discerning journalist to begin.’
Edward stood up. ‘Have you talked to anyone else about this?’
‘The two detectives investigating the case. I saw them last night at the crime scene. And this morning, when I was at the hospital waiting for the boy to come out of surgery. They want to keep the case out of the spotlight if they can.’
‘Makes sense, given they’ve just started their investigation.’
‘They’re coming here this afternoon. For the earring.’
Edward started to pace back and forth in front of the large window, casting ominous shadows in the room.
‘International child trafficking, sexual abuse of underage boys, two murders … and you have a hunch it’s only the tip of the iceberg?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Then we’d better determine our position, Hafez.’
Farah loved it when Ed called her by her last name. It meant that he saw potential in a story. That he was going to let her run with it: head, tail, legs, the works.
‘The question remains: do we conduct our own separate investigation alongside that of the police or do we try to cooperate with them?’ he said, running his hand over the stubble on his chin. He stopped in front of her. ‘That’s a tricky one, considering you’ve effectively already started your own investigation.’ He glanced at the earring. ‘I think you’re about to stir up a hornet’s nest around here, Hafez. Best to give me some time to consult with management and our legal department.’ He picked up the folders and marched towards the door.
‘Now, go ahead and get the hell out of my office!’
Farah gently folded the handkerchief around the earring and smiled as she scooted past Edward into the corridor.
‘Give me a call when they get here this afternoon to arrest you!’ he shouted down th
e hallway.
She raised her hand in acknowledgement as she headed towards the cafeteria where she bought a bottle of mineral water and a big salad and then wolfed it down outside in the roof garden.
When she leaned over the railing a while later and looked out over the IJ, she felt Raylan Chapelle’s presence again, very close at hand. Apparently, the injured boy was crying out to the spirits. Restless spirits who’d wandered the realm of the dead for years, and who would now seize the chance to reappear. She was afraid of such phantoms. But since last night she’d known that sooner or later she’d have to face them all.
17
On his better days, it filled Marouan with pride: knowing that even very important people were sometimes so off the mark that he, Marouan Diba, was just the man to expose their vile secrets. But now, on the way to arrest a national quiz show icon, only the Slav’s cynical contempt plagued his thoughts. Hearing his voice on the phone had unleashed something in Marouan.
Bloody hell! Who’d spent years taking all kinds of shit from his superiors? Who’d met the unreasonable demands of those uniformed bastards? Who would one day get back at those boot-licking, ass-kicking shitheads? And who, with brute Belmondo bravado, would one day settle the score with all of them?
‘DIBAAAH!’
Startled back to reality by Calvino’s frantic scream, he saw they were about to crash into the studio complex’s barrier gate with horrific speed. For a millisecond he felt the impulse to floor the accelerator, but the image of two headless detectives in a Toyota convinced him otherwise. They came to a standstill with the brakes screeching and smoking.
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