‘So he drowned?’
‘The river goddess let him drown.’
‘A cruel thing for a goddess to do.’
‘Yes, but it was the only way for them to be together.’
Lavrov gestured invitingly to the Mies van der Rohe sofa. ‘Would you say that the moral of this story is that the end justifies the means, however cruel they are?’
‘On the contrary,’ Farah said. ‘Rather that love flourishes in the underworld.’
They were sitting close together. Keep talking, she reminded herself. Don’t allow any silences.
‘You’re aware that the figure used to be in the National Museum of Kabul?’
‘No, I didn’t know that. I bought it off a private collector. Where did you get that information?’
She fell silent, lost for words.
‘I beg your pardon, I forgot to ask: would you like something to drink?’ He rose to his feet.
‘Mineral water, please,’ she said, somewhat relieved.
Lavrov ordered mineral water via the intercom. Then he paused briefly in front of the statue before he sat down again. ‘As you probably know, I’m working on an energy project in Indonesia that should make the country self-sufficient.’
‘No,’ she said, surprised. ‘I didn’t know that.’
They were interrupted by the arrival of the receptionist who put down a tray with two glasses of water.
‘To our collaboration,’ Lavrov said. The clinking of their crystal glasses resonated in her ears.
‘How long has it been since you were in the country of your birth?’ Lavrov suddenly asked.
Farah was startled. She wanted to ask how he got that information, but immediately realized he must have done a background check. Nobody entered this space without having been properly screened.
‘It’s been so long I barely remember it.’
‘But you do remember the statue.’
‘The river goddess?’ she said, trying to stay calm. ‘Yes, I remember it. I was very young at the time. A child.’ She looked at him, feeling exposed, stripped bare. She was naked beside a man in a suit of armour. ‘But we’re not here to talk about me, Valentin. Let’s discuss the art supplement.’
‘Of course. Shoot,’ Lavrov said. He leaned back, provocatively relaxed.
‘Six times a year our paper publishes an international, high-end luxury lifestyle magazine, with prominent guest editors determining both form and content. In consultation of course.’
‘A very Dutch way of doing things, the consultation bit.’ He produced a stiff smile.
‘The idea is that you’ll select a few topics with a clear emphasis on contemporary art and lifestyle. Your choices. We’ll provide assistance.’
‘When’s the publication date?’
‘In six weeks’ time.’
‘That’s quite soon. We’ll definitely have to include the opening of a very special exhibition at the Pushkin Museum on the occasion of your prime minister’s visit to Moscow the day after tomorrow.’
‘Talk about soon,’ Farah commented.
‘A couple of contemporary Russian artists have created impressions of Dutch classics, including The Night Watch, The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch and Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring. I insist that you come to Moscow as soon as possible, Farah. At my expense, of course. Or does that jeopardize your objectivity as a journalist?’ he asked with a sly smile.
‘When it comes to art, you can never be objective. You either love it or hate it. Needless to say, I’ll have to consult with my boss first. In a very Dutch way.’
‘When in Rome …’ He put down his glass. ‘If you’ll excuse me now, I have another appointment.’ He said it calmly enough, but underneath she sensed a sudden urgency to bring their talk to an end.
‘Of course,’ she said, and got up. Too fast. She felt dizzy.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked out of politeness.
‘Yes. But tell me, Valentin …’ She looked at him as if she’d suddenly remembered something. ‘Is it possible that I saw you in The Hague yesterday?’
‘The Hague?’ He regarded her suspiciously.
‘In a silver-coloured Bentley, I believe.’
Feeling uncomfortable under his piercing gaze, she took a step back.
‘I’d have to check my diary, Farah,’ he said with a forced smile. ‘I’ve been out and about a lot in recent days.’
‘Of course,’ she said. She allowed herself to be escorted to the door. Once there, she turned to face him.
‘Oh, and one other thing.’
‘Something that can’t wait?’
‘There’s a remarkable resemblance.’
‘Resemblance?’
‘Between you and former commander Grigori Michailov. I’ve seen a photo of him from 1989. You’re his spitting image.’
Although he was standing close to her, she was acutely aware of the icy distance.
‘Imagine, Farah, that Alexander the Great’s young soldier from your charming story had been able to take a picture of his river goddess. And imagine I’d seen that photo. In that case, I’d undoubtedly have thought that Sharada herself had just walked into my office.’ He shook her hand. ‘Please let my PA know as soon as possible when you’re coming to Moscow. She’ll arrange everything.’
‘All right,’ Farah said, feeling tense. ‘Thank you for meeting me.’
‘No,’ Lavrov replied. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes weren’t. ‘Thank you, Farah.’
Just as she was walking back to the lobby, the cannon fired a bright-red paint bullet against the wall. It was hard not to interpret it as a warning sign.
14
Dimitri was thoroughly fed up with Amsterdam. As far as he was concerned, the three Xs in the municipal coat of arms stood for Small, Crowded and Dirty. On the canals, countless small boats got in each other’s way, in the street cyclists were intent on knocking down disoriented tourists, the taxi drivers were all Arabs who fleeced their passengers and the tram drivers acted like they drove tanks. He could see the towering WMC building rising up in the distance. Thank God.
He was the Angel of Death and not a soul knew he was coming. They wouldn’t know what hit them until he was gone again. As he stood on the plaza in front of the hospital, he saw an ink-black rain front advancing from the west. A medevac helicopter landed on the roof. Sauntering people, acutely aware of their mortality, looked up in awe. Typical, Dimitri thought to himself. The minute they feel death snapping at their heels, people suddenly invest all their hope in heaven.
Something was bothering him. A premonition. But he couldn’t put his finger on it. It wasn’t because this was his first ‘baby’. His uncle had taught him to think objectively. It wasn’t about lives, however young they were. It all revolved around a higher purpose. Eliminating targets to achieve objectives. And objectives didn’t benefit from emotions.
Beside the enormous revolving door stood a huge rent-a-cop with an afro wearing an earpiece. Talk about conspicuous security, Dimitri thought. Why not plant a Royal Guard’s fur hat on his ’fro and tell him to parade up and down with a fake gun. The looming fellow was a preposterous piece of window dressing.
Smiling broadly, Dimitri held out his arm to an elderly lady, who was trundling along with a stick and a tatty bag. The woman took his arm and started babbling nineteen to the dozen in that weird guttural language they spoke here and let him carry her bag. The rent-a-cop with the earpiece smiled at them. Dickhead, Dimitri thought. Once inside the lobby he callously left the woman to fend for herself again.
He hated hospitals, especially the smell, that foul, sickly stench of sweat mixed with antiseptic. After scanning the signs with indecipherable lettering he ducked into a side wing, walked through a few swing doors and ended up in a staff toilet. There he stuck a flesh-coloured plaster on his scar, fastened a thin moustache to his upper lip and donned nerdy specs. Efficient actions, resulting in an instant metamorphosis.
15
Danie
lle had walked around her house for hours that morning with the slums of Port-au-Prince swimming in her thoughts. She pulled her favourite T-shirts out of the wardrobe, along with her underwear, jeans, and the little make-up she owned. Every item she picked up and packed made her in turn feel confused, sad, relieved and anxious. A whole range of emotions: apparently part of the most primal form of self-preservation. Fleeing.
Then the birds, which thank goodness had been quiet all morning, screeched again. The voice of her superior at the hospital sounded stern. An urgent meeting was in order. Could she come to the WMC immediately? Of course. But she’d visit for an entirely different reason. The last things she threw into her suitcase were her flip-flops. She stuck the airline ticket at the very bottom of her handbag.
With a moment of silence, she bid her house farewell.
She was about to knock on the Head of Trauma Surgery’s door when she saw Detective Calvino approaching her in the corridor.
‘Thanks for coming so quickly.’ He seemed nervous. When he shook her hand, he noticed something was up. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I slept badly.’ Without thinking, she ran her hand over the painful bump on her head. ‘How’s the boy?’ she asked anxiously.
‘I’m told he’s stable, medically speaking. I can’t say more now. We’ll discuss it in a moment,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘Shall we go?’
As they entered the room, Danielle’s immediate supervisor Alexandra Plein came out from behind her desk. She was tense. ‘I’ll keep this very brief,’ she said curtly. ‘As you may know, Danielle, immediately after the broadcast of The Headlines Show last night, Detective Calvino arranged a police guard for the boy. But of course the issue is: if there hadn’t been an article in the newspaper, and if you hadn’t appeared on TV this wouldn’t have been necessary.’
‘I understand,’ said Danielle. She wasn’t intent on defending her actions.
‘Listen,’ said Alexandra. ‘I know how passionate you are about your work. But it isn’t a reason for an MMT doctor to single-handedly start operating on a victim of a hit-and-run without consulting anyone. The MMT was out of service for an hour due to this. Then you forced your colleague Dr Radder to stand idly by in the OR instead of allowing him to do what he does best, namely trauma surgery! And I haven’t even mentioned the fast one you pulled on the ICU head nurse by whisking a few TV celebrities inside for a quick visit. And last but not least, you didn’t consult with hospital management before bandying words about on that dodgy talk show.’
Danielle heard Detective Calvino cough.
‘If I may interrupt you, Dr Plein? I didn’t come here to listen to a staff reprimand. I’m here to inform you that the threat to the boy has become much greater than previously assumed. The boy is in immediate danger. We’re working on moving him to another hospital as quickly as possible.’
‘But … you can’t put this all on me?’ Danielle said, taken aback. ‘I saved his life.’
‘Saving lives is your job, Danielle. That’s what we pay you to do. Not to launch media campaigns!’
‘Dr Bernson,’ Calvino said in a soothing tone. ‘I’d like you to keep doing your work as well and as uninterrupted as possible. And I don’t doubt your professionalism. But I hope you realize that by seeking publicity you’ve seriously compromised this boy’s life.’
‘Hospitals are not supposed to be the focus of media attention,’ added Alexandra Plein in an irritated tone. ‘Under no circumstances. We’re here to make people better, not to make them celebrated causes.’
‘That wasn’t my intention,’ Danielle curtly replied.
‘Whatever your intentions were, you’ll have every opportunity to explain in an upcoming hearing. Until further notice, Danielle, you’re suspended.’
She hadn’t expected this. What she’d done, after all, had been justified. She’d thought about it. Everything she’d done, she’d done for a reason. But she’d overshot her mark. Apart from the fact that she hadn’t actually come to the hospital to have this talk, there was no point in protesting Alexandra’s decision or entering into any further discussion with her.
‘Is it possible for me to see him for a moment? If the boy is going to be transferred, I’d like to say goodbye to him.’
‘Only ICU staff are allowed into the room since last night,’ Alexandra said coldly.
‘I can assure you,’ Detective Calvino said apologetically, ‘that the boy’s in good hands and that you don’t have to worry. Hopefully that’s some comfort.’ Before leaving the room, he shook her hand, glancing at her a bit too conspicuously. Was there more going on? Danielle wondered. He’d been so formal to her during the talk, it hardly seemed genuine. Ill at ease, Danielle stood in front of Alexandra who attempted to steer her out of the office with a misplaced casual tone. ‘Take it easy. Go away for a while.’
I’m certainly going to do that, Danielle thought as she walked into the corridor.
Detective Calvino was waiting for her a short distance away. ‘Dr Bernson, can you keep a secret?’ he whispered in a conspirational tone.
16
By chance, Dimitri discovered a storage room with wooden shelves stacked with neatly folded workwear. A minute later he was wearing a hospital coat and walking past tumble driers and washing machines so big you could fit in at least two rent-a-cops. He routinely grabbed one of the metal carts with clean linen and calmly wheeled it away. He followed some women in rumpled white outfits into the staff lift, where he recognized the letters ICU alongside one of the push buttons.
At the entrance to Intensive Care a security guard rummaged through the contents of his linen cart. Like he’d be stupid enough to hide something there. Why don’t you frisk me, you prick? Dimitri thought. Let’s see who pulls the Zastava first, you or me. But the man waved him through without so much as another glance.
In the corridor Dimitri spotted a policeman sitting in front of one of the doors like a pathetic museum attendant. Target located. But Dimitri didn’t like the look of things. The amateur security guards, the dozy policeman at the door, the figure behind the counter who looked up just a bit too long and appeared to be on duty for the first time – it all felt like they were expecting him. Or was he imagining things?
Still pushing his cart, he saw a wide door that opened on to a storage room. He went in, looked around and was pleased with what he saw. Uncle Arseni had introduced him to chaos theory, telling him that order and chaos are flipsides of one and the same coin. Chaos was apparent disorder. Apparent, because it was brought about in an orderly way, by a so-called attractor. And today Dimitri was the attractor. With his Zippo lighter, a cart full of linen and a battery of stored oxygen tanks he was about to create total chaos.
17
‘What just happened couldn’t be helped,’ Detective Calvino said apologetically. ‘I saw what you did for that boy. I’m happy to take you to him. After all, you saved his life.’
A moment later, Danielle was leaning over the child. Although she knew he couldn’t understand her, she still wanted to tell him he’d be safe, safer than if she stayed around.
‘I hope,’ she whispered, forcing a smile, ‘you have a long and healthy life and who knows …’ Then she faltered. She wanted to say something like ‘Who knows, perhaps we’ll see each other soon,’ but she knew there’d be no reunion. In place of him, there’d only be other boys and girls. Also uprooted, desperately poor and helpless. And they would be followed by others. Port-au-Prince wouldn’t be her last stop, not by a long shot.
As she gave him a kiss goodbye, tears fell on to his face.
‘We should go,’ Detective Calvino softly said.
They stood together in the lift, silent, staring at their shoes. Just before Detective Calvino stepped out on the ground floor, she gave him a quick kiss on his cheek. It was just as clumsy as the first time she’d kissed a boy in the playground. He hesitated for a second in between the open lift doors and turned towards her. She caught his surprised smile and then the door
s closed.
Her hand impulsively reached for the stop button. She saw the scene unfold: the doors opened again and she threw her arms around Calvino’s neck, told him everything that had really happened the night before. ‘Protect me,’ she whispered loudly. ‘Protect me.’
The lift doors opened. She stared into the neon-lit concrete car park. Didn’t move. Felt paralysed. The doors closed. Opened. Closed again. And then the fire alarm went off.
She was running through the dark: gunshots rang out, the rustle of knee-high grass along her legs, the screams of the children she’d left behind.
‘Protect me.’
She stepped into the car park, blinded by the neon light, pursued by the ringing alarm that worked on her nerves. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t go back. Fleeing was her only protection. Consumed by fear, in a panic, she waved her keys at every car she walked past.
The fire alarm clattered like a machine gun against her eardrums. She heard the screams of people running. Between two cars she leaned forward, terribly nauseous but unable to vomit. For a while she leaned against the bonnet of a convertible, then she took a few deep breaths and waved her keys in every direction again. She heard an unexpected click and turned. Her red Fiat was right behind her.
She got in as fast as she could. She started the engine, pushed down firmly on the accelerator and shot out of the parking space. A large car approaching from the left screeched to a halt. A black Volkswagen Touareg had nearly rammed her. Because of the bright lights, she could barely see the driver. She made an apologetic gesture. The Touareg blinked its lights to indicate she could proceed.
As she drove out of the car park, she saw that a heavy cloud cover had practically wiped out all the sunlight. It looked like the evening had fallen half a day too early. She had to turn on her headlights in order to see better. Leaving the hospital grounds, she passed three fire engines with their sirens blaring, but she was now breathing more calmly.
Butterfly on the Storm Page 33