‘What programme were you there for?’
‘We were doing an item for the eight o’clock news,’ Tom said. ‘After you went to the hospital, we carried on filming and did a couple of interviews and a few mood shots.’
‘Would you like us to stick around, or would you rather watch it on your own?’ Sander asked, after opening the first video file.
Farah liked these men. Judging by the photos in the studio they had travelled half the globe, but hadn’t lost their consideration for others. Of course she wanted them to stick around.
‘Yes, please,’ she replied. ‘Kind of you to ask.’
Sander pressed play and soon after she saw herself walking alongside Parwaiz on the sun-drenched Haagse Plein. She shuddered. She’d last seen him in the mortuary this afternoon. It felt like a cruel reunion, like a macabre trick.
‘Please pause a moment,’ she said, as tears rolled down her cheeks again. She took a large sip of her caipirinha, swallowed the wrong way and felt Tom’s hand gently patting her on the back.
‘Potent stuff, right?’ he chuckled. She knew what he meant, then nodded and gestured to Sander that she wanted to carry on watching.
This time she was better prepared. When the frozen image of Parwaiz moved again, she noticed that even at that stage he hadn’t looked at ease. She also saw herself. It was shortly after she’d seen the large flying portrait of Malalai and she’d felt so happy. When she spotted the camera she smiled at it, a naive smile, it seemed to her now, the smile of a woman captivated by her own happiness and oblivious to what was really happening around her.
The camera swerved, wobbled a bit and jerked about in search of faces in the crowd which had thronged together in front of Parliament.
‘This is the rough material,’ Sander said.
‘Unedited, he means,’ Tom clarified.
Farah saw smiling as well as serious faces. The camera closed in on a girl eating an ice cream. The band on the square was clearly audible in the background and suddenly she heard Tom, off-camera, yelling something at Sander, at which point the camera instantly panned 180 degrees. Now she saw Parwaiz from the back as his knees buckled. The camera jerked closer and registered how she caught him gently, almost as if they’d rehearsed this move together. She saw Tom’s sound boom plunge across the picture, but the camera remained focused on her. She saw herself bent over Parwaiz.
Suddenly, the camera swerved again and she saw herself staring at the back of the Bentley, which drove at a leisurely pace past those championing the general pardon and the tourists on the square, none of whom seemed to realize what had just happened. Then it looked as if the camera itself was dropped and the picture went black.
She drained her glass in one gulp.
‘Can you show me the end again?’ she asked numbly.
Sander rewound the image extremely fast to the shot of the girl eating ice cream, and then everything unfolded again. Holograms re-enacting the same events time after time. Bizarre how quickly you get used to it. Now she understood why photographers and cameramen in war situations managed to keep registering everything despite the horrific events taking place right in front of their eyes. Peering through a lens gives you the illusion of safety.
Once again, she saw Tom running towards her and Parwaiz and kneeling down. She knew what she would be seeing when, shortly, the camera would pan, and when she saw it she immediately yelled, ‘Stop!’ She pointed to the Bentley in the distance.
‘Could you enlarge this?’ she asked.
‘It’s digital,’ Sander said. ‘It can be enlarged until there’s nothing left but pixels.’ He began tapping away at his keyboard, creating a frame around the Bentley which he then magnified.
‘What are you looking for?’ Tom asked.
‘The number plate,’ Farah said nervously.
‘Cool,’ Sander said with a grin, and created a new frame around the number plate which he enlarged until it filled the screen. Halfway through this process the digital pixels emerged, rendering the number illegible.
‘Hang on,’ Tom said as he walked off. Before long he was back with a magnifying lamp which he placed in front of the screen, so when Sander reduced the size of the number plate the letters and figures were just about readable.
‘Write this down,’ Tom said as he peered into the lamp and read out the number.
It was quiet after Farah had jotted it down. She stared at the collection of figures and letters and softly repeated Parwaiz’s final words.
‘Mi-ka-lov.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s what my uncle whispered right before he died,’ she said.
‘Let me guess what you’re thinking,’ Tom said, grinning. ‘You think that figure in the back seat of the Bentley is a certain Mr Mikalov. Am I right or am I right?’
She smiled feebly.
‘Would you like another caipirinha before we all start Googling? Tom asked, clearly up for a challenge.
‘Not just yet,’ she said. ‘Could I make a phone call in the other room?’
‘Go ahead, we’ll keep ourselves occupied,’ said Sander, who had already typed Mikalov into his laptop.
Farah walked over to the studio next door. When Joshua answered, she told him straight out, ‘I need your help, Joshua.’
His ensuing silence annoyed her.
‘Joshua?’
‘Help with what?’
She outlined the afternoon’s events in The Hague as briefly as possible. ‘It looked as if he saw a ghost,’ she concluded.
‘And that “ghost” was sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven car? Why didn’t you tell the police?’
‘Because it struck me as too absurd for words. I simply couldn’t believe there might be a connection.’
‘But you do now?’
Farah hesitated. ‘I still believe it’s absurd, but I keep thinking about it. How could he just have a heart attack? Something had to bring it on, right?’
‘Do you know the expression “if looks could kill”?’ Joshua asked. ‘It’s a figure of speech. Looks can’t kill. A secret US military unit had men stare at goats till they dropped dead. But looks can’t kill. So someone in the back seat of a car can’t stare someone else to death, do you understand? Even if you manage to identify the man, what do you think you’ll achieve?’
‘I don’t know. But I still want to know who it was.’
Joshua was silent. She heard his breathing in between the pounding of her own heart. ‘Okay, give me the number,’ he said with what sounded like a note of resignation in his voice. ‘But let’s get one thing straight: if you’re planning to write about this, we never had this conversation.’
‘It’s known as source protection, Joshua,’ she said to reassure him and immediately texted him the licence plate number.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said in a business-like tone, and hung up.
She returned to the caravan in the studio where Tom and Sander had started Googling frenetically.
‘You don’t want to know how many hits we’ve got,’ Tom chuckled. ‘Here we go: Doctor Abraham Mikalov, boob-job doctor, I mean breast specialist in Ohio. But then there’s also Lauren Mikalov, editor of the Rockland Jewish Reporter.’
‘And how about this?’ Sander turned his screen to show her a video of a singer belting out ‘Doom, da da-di da-di, doom, da da-di da-di’.
‘Mika – ‘Love Today’!’ Sander exclaimed enthusiastically.
‘Then there are the Mikalofs with an “f”,’ Tom said. ‘Have a look: 10 Historical Documents & Family Trees for Mikalof.’
‘A myriad of Mikalovs,’ Sander joked.
Farah’s phone rang. It was Joshua, still sounding all business-like and detached.
‘The Bentley with the number you gave me is registered to Elite Drive, which leases chauffeur-driven limos.’
‘That doesn’t get me anywhere,’ Farah said. ‘I want to know who the company leased that car to.’
‘Of course you want to know th
at, but I’m not going to tell you. Not now. Not over the phone.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s more. Can you come to the Sky Lounge at the DoubleTree Hotel? It’s by the river. In fifteen minutes?’
Farah sighed. ‘I’m on my way.’
Tom and Sander had become completely absorbed in their digital quest. They barely seemed to hear when Farah said she had to go.
‘Does that mean you’ve got no time for a second?’ Tom asked, holding up an empty glass.
‘Not now, but I know where to find you,’ Farah said with a smile.
‘Do you mind if we carry on for a bit?’ Tom asked solemnly.
‘Of course not,’ Farah said. She walked over to him and gave him a hug. ‘Thank you for everything.’
‘Okay, lass, chin up and stay in touch.’
She could tell he was touched.
‘Can we have your email address?’ Sander asked as he escorted her out, past the perpetually turning film reels and down the lane of artificial trees. ‘In case we find something significant.’
Farah gave him her office email and held out her hand to him. After a slight hesitation, he shook it. She got in her car and drove off. In her rear-view mirror she saw him standing there. With a broad smile and two big thumbs-up. She stepped on the brakes, turned around, drove back, got out and gave him a kiss on each cheek. Then she sped off again.
20
Joshua Calvino stared past his own reflection in the large plate glass window separating the DoubleTree Sky Lounge from the darkening sky above downtown Amsterdam. On Wednesday evenings he was a regular here: in this post-modern glass structure with its magical incandescent lighting, where you could eat a trendy lunch or brunch or have dinner among other trendy types. The glimmer of lights was an effective way to soothe a lurking depression.
He cherished the rituals that he used to give meaning to his life. The certainty of weather forecasts. The conviction that by taking a sip of spring water every fifteen minutes, he’d preserve the sixty per cent water make-up of his body. The confidence that he could always steer his emotions in a positive direction as long as he kept smiling. The certainty that he would always be able to solve the most difficult of cases as long as he continued to keep his mind sharp. Despite all the rampant negativity in the people and the cases he investigated, Joshua was still convinced that he had a soul. And deep within, he longed for the presence of Farah Hafez – wanted to solve the mystery that was her.
She sat down and with a brief ‘I don’t have much time!’ shattered Joshua’s illusion.
‘I understand, you’ve been through a lot today,’ he said, sounding as if he could read her every thought.
‘Why am I here?’ She said, impatiently waving an approaching waiter away.
‘I wanted to warn you.’
‘What?’
He pulled out a printed list of vehicles Elite Drive had rented out that day, complete with chauffeur. The Bentley Farah had seen in The Hague was circled. He gave her a knowing look and read aloud the name of the firm that had hired it.
‘AtlasNet. A Russian energy conglomerate which annually delivers 3.8 billion cubic metres of natural gas to the Netherlands. They recently opened an office on the fourth floor of the De Bazel building, the former office of the Netherlands Trading Society here in Amsterdam.’
‘Why the Netherlands?’
‘A number of reasons. AtlasNet is interested in a depleted gas field in North Holland: to convert it into one of the largest gas storage facilities in Europe. But the Provincial Commissioner who represents that province is blocking the plan. Such a Russian multinational firm is of course viewed with great suspicion. People immediately think of mafia practices and black-market money. An official business address in a prestigious location in our nation’s capital never hurts.’
‘You said there were a number of reasons?’ Farah asked with irritation.
‘Yes. There’s also the tax-related reason. The Dutch tax system makes it possible for international players to channel their profits to the Cayman Islands, St Maarten or other tax havens via trust companies in Amsterdam. AtlasNet will of course benefit from this construction too.’
He pushed the paper towards her.
‘Such a company doesn’t appreciate a journalist digging around in their backyard, if you know what I mean.’
‘Hmm. You don’t know who was in the car?’
‘Undoubtedly one of AtlasNet’s hotshots.’ He caught her angry gaze. ‘You seem disappointed.’
‘Joshua, after everything that’s happened today, you ask me to come all the way here so you can hand me a piece of paper with the name of a Russian natural gas company … you could’ve just told me on the phone?’
‘I could have done that, yes. But I also wanted to see you.’ He thought he saw her gaze soften a bit, or at least it felt like there was less distance. ‘Let me get you something to drink.’ He gestured to the waiter without waiting for her reaction.
She ordered a mint tea and he another dry white wine.
‘Can you come to the station tomorrow?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘Tomorrow I have a funeral in The Hague,’ she replied impersonally. ‘Muslims, as you know, have to be buried within twenty-four hours.’
‘Why don’t you tell me more about what happened today?’
‘Not now, Joshua. Didn’t you see today’s newspaper?’ From his questioning look, she realized he hadn’t. ‘There’s an article about that couple you and your utterly charming partner arrested yesterday. They went to the hospital this morning, photos were shot, now everyone knows where the boy is being treated and in less than an hour, Danielle Bernson is going to elaborate on the story in The Headlines Show.’
‘Sorry, you’re way ahead of me,’ he said, surprised.
‘Maybe you should get up to speed then. Because right now I don’t have time to give you a blow-by-blow account of this afternoon while that boy’s life might be in serious danger. Isn’t it possible to post a police guard outside his hospital room?’
‘Possible, but difficult if there’s no specific threat.’
‘The boy was purposely run down and left to die! Isn’t that specific enough?!’
The din of voices at the tables around them stopped for a moment and inquisitive glances were thrown in their direction. Joshua ignored them. He stared at Farah and realized to his dismay that she was right again. Tomasoa had already said it: the boy probably witnessed a liquidation, and the fact that he was still alive meant that his life might be in danger. Why was everything happening so slowly? How was it possible that Farah Hafez was always one step ahead?
She’d found the earring that led to the investigation at the villa. That investigation had brought about a breakthrough. Now she was insisting here in the Sky Lounge that the boy needed protection. He should be grateful to her, and he was – somewhere deep in his mind – but more than anything he felt annoyance because she’d portrayed him as a typical civil servant instead of the incisive detective he wanted to see himself as.
‘What else did the investigation uncover?’ Farah asked eagerly, blowing on her hot tea to cool it down.
Joshua sighed. ‘You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.’
‘C’mon, Joshua, I helped you, now it’s your turn to help me. You know how that works.’
‘No, actually I don’t know how that works, why don’t you enlighten me.’ He felt hurt and needed to give her some of her own medicine.
‘Tell me how big the case is,’ she said compellingly.
‘Big. The villa is owned by Armin Lazonder’s Dorado Group. In fact, very big. In any case, so big that the investigation now falls under the MIT.’
‘The same team investigating the station wagon case?’
He nodded.
‘So there’s a connection?’
‘I’m not free to say, Farah.’
‘Yes or no, Joshua?’
He took a sip of wine, gently put down his glass and looked at h
er, determined this time not to fall into her seductive trap. She answered his action by standing. The murmur of the tables around them quieted once more.
‘When am I going to see you again?’ he asked as neutrally as possible.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What does it depend on?’
‘A lot of things. Too many to mention now. Why can’t you tell me what you’ve found out?’
‘I can’t tell you about an ongoing investigation,’ he repeated.
‘Then it looks like we’re done talking for now.’
Her eyes misted over. He didn’t know if it was because of what she’d been through or if he was the reason. Perhaps it was a combination of both.
‘Then I suppose we are.’
Out of the blue, she leaned towards him and stroked his face.
‘Don’t’ he said. ‘Just don’t.’
He couldn’t shake the image of the boy. There was something elusive about the entire case. Just when you thought things were coming into focus, the shadows in the background moved, clouding over or distorting the overall picture again. He’d underestimated the boy’s case from the start. Even now that there was a clear connection to the station wagon murders and the boy was a potential material witness. He simply hadn’t realized how vital it was for the boy to be given protection.
Lost in thought, Joshua crossed over a bridge without paying attention to the traffic and was almost run down by a woman speeding by on a bike. In a flash he thought he recognized the blonde doctor from the WMC.
21
Detective Elvin Dingane had slipped into Paul’s room at St Helen Joseph Hospital and poured him a glass of water, while Paul was studying his black-and-blue swollen face, partially covered with bandages, in a hand mirror.
‘Water bearer, what a noble profession,’ Paul whispered as he took the glass from Dingane. ‘They who quench the thirst of the screaming needy in the desert – those who are never heard.’
‘Maybe you’re needy, even difficult, but you’ll certainly be heard,’ Dingane said with a smile.
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