Judas

by Astrid Holleeder

  “Fran, you’re right. I can only promise you it will be okay. I promised to take care of you. I promised your dad I’d look after you. Haven’t I always?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed.

  “Don’t I always keep my promises?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Well then, when I say I’ll make sure you’ll be all right, it means I will. You believe me?”

  “I do,” she said, softly.

  I looked at Sonja. “I can’t allow this to happen,” I told her, and she knew right away I was alluding to my interview with the Justice Department.

  “It’ll be fine,” I told Francis again, but I could see the fear in her eyes when I left her at the door.

  I drove back to Wim to reassure him that Francis wouldn’t talk.

  “I sure hope so, for her and her mother,” he said, still enjoying the terror he could impose on them.

  For that moment, it was resolved.

  But he always circles back. He really is a dog, a bad dog that should be kept away from children because it’ll bite.

  A bad dog has to be put down or kept in a cage for the rest of its life. Legally Wim couldn’t be put down, but locking him up in a cage was a possibility. I’d need the help of the Justice Department in getting it done, though. One day earlier, cooperating with them had still seemed like a repulsive idea, but after today’s events, I knew there were no other options. I had to do it for Francis, for ourselves, for all of us.

  The next day I texted my contact at the CIU. “Wednesday, same time, same place, same interviewers?”

  They replied, “Fine. Same time, same people. Have a nice evening.”

  The interview took place in the same location as before, and I had to go through the same nerve-racking ordeal to get there without being spotted by Wim.

  When I got there, I saw Michelle waiting for me and I walked straight through. We joined Manon, who was waiting for us in an upstairs hotel room.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

  This time around, I was almost happy to start the interview. The anxious look in Francis’s eyes was vivid in my mind.

  I was asked if I was willing to talk to the CIU officer about the ins and outs of an extraordinary witness trajectory. I would have to specify what subjects I could testify about.

  Up until then, I hadn’t told them what I knew about certain events. I had given some cryptic clues about Wim’s role in several liquidations, but I wouldn’t say which ones—or exactly what I knew. I preferred discussing this with their boss, the CIU prosecutor. I was extremely cautious about sharing my information.

  The women would let the officer know what I’d said and make an appointment.

  “I guess you’ll let me know when,” I said, and we parted.

  That evening, I expected Wim to appear on my doorstep, but it remained quiet.

  The next morning at six thirty, I sat waiting for him all dressed and ready to go, as I did every morning. Because of the constant risk of a raid, Wim always gets up at five a.m. and hits the road. He doesn’t like being surprised in his sleep, so he likes to set off extremely early. There are not many people he can go to at that time of day.

  I’m one of the few.

  I always made sure he wouldn’t find me still in my nightgown, because it takes me at least an hour to get dressed and I didn’t want to leave him by himself, as he’d use the time to go through my personal things. He does this with everyone he knows well. “It’s okay, right?” he’ll ask, seemingly surprised. “You’ve got nothing to hide, do you?”

  But that morning he didn’t come. Nor did he show up the following day, and the day after that I still hadn’t heard from him. Now I really began to worry.

  Paradoxically, not seeing him was even scarier than seeing him. I’d rather have him on my doorstep every morning at six thirty than not hear from him at all. If I saw him, at least I could gauge his reactions, see whether he knew anything and whether he still trusted me. If I didn’t see him, I lost that control and I had no idea what he was thinking or planning. Maybe he wasn’t around because he already knew I was talking to the Justice Department. Maybe he didn’t want to be around “in case something happens,” as he’d told me before.

  Then, the next morning at six thirty, the doorbell rang. Yes, he was back! I hurried downstairs.

  “Good morning, bro!” I said cheerily, because for a moment I was genuinely happy to see him after the days of tense waiting. I looked him straight in the eye so as to discern any distrust. I got the impression there was none.

  “Morning, sis, wanna take a stroll?” he asked.

  “Okay,” I said. “Long time no see.”

  “No,” he said. “I had things to do.”

  During our walk I observed him closely. I analyzed the tone of his voice, his expressions, his gestures, his reactions, and the things we talked about, trying to figure out whether he was onto me. He seemed to be relaxed and unsuspecting.

  Which meant that the women I’d talked to hadn’t leaked anything yet. I’d survived a second interview with the Justice Department. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but they seemed to be keeping their word.

  When I got home, I got out the prepaid cell phone I’d bought for all communication with the CIU people. I didn’t make calls using my personal cell phone account, as the number was linked to my name. I wanted to leave a minimal trail. They were still the police, so I remained cautious.

  I saw they’d sent me a date and time.

  The appointment with their officer had been made.

  Rats

  MY APPOINTMENT WITH THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY MS. WIND WAS TO TAKE place this week, and ever since I’d set the date, all I could think of was something Wim had said to me when we were walking through the Amsterdamse Bos after his release: his rats were his trump card, the secret weapon he reserved until he really needed it.

  It sounded like he had someone in a high position, and I immediately wondered if this was the reason he’d been ruled out of every single liquidation trial.

  I’d already made a number of subtle attempts to find out who it could be. But it is impossible to bluntly ask; for Wim, asking a direct question proves you’re working with the cops. In my whole life, I’d only ever dared ask him one question. He would never tell me about his rats.

  I kept worrying about their identities, and as the appointment drew nearer, the uneasy feeling intensified. Who knows—it might be the district attorney I was about to meet!

  Wim texted me to come to the Gelderlandplein shopping center, which gave me an opportunity to make a last attempt at finding out who his rats were.

  The more useful I could prove myself to be to him, the better the chance that he might tell me. “On my way,” I texted back, and got the tiny device I’d found in my search for new possibilities to record him. It was small enough not to stand out. Because Wim is always going through my things, I’d hidden it inside the ceiling and I couldn’t get it back out easily.

  I was really hoping this new device would enable me to make a recording. I’d practiced in order to figure out where it could best be placed. Now it was stuck on the back of my bra strap, the safest spot I could come up with, presuming my brother wouldn’t suddenly grab at his sister’s bra. I put on an undershirt, a sweater, and a jacket to make it invisible. To be certain, I wore a large scarf, too.

  I had to hurry, because I couldn’t keep him waiting. He’d get angry, and I’d start our conversation at a disadvantage.

  Wim was sitting inside a coffee shop where we’d meet regularly. I went inside and sat at the table with him. Two guys entered the place. Wim and I looked at each other and, without saying a word, got up and walked out: undercover agents. We walked up to the corner and stood opposite each other.

  W: “Well, they sure enjoyed listening in.”

  A: “Yeah. Yet they also have some who don’t look like cops at all, all tattooed and pierced.”

  W: “Sure, but you know how you can tell? When t
hey pay the bill. They need the receipt or they can’t account for their expenses to their boss. Ha!”

  His eyes wandered to the height of my bosom.

  W: “Take that scarf off, you look like an idiot. It’s bloody hot.”

  He started tugging it and grasped at my bra strap. I was petrified and felt the device slip away. Where did it go? He might discover it!

  He kept going:

  W: “You look like an idiot, it’s fucking hot. Take that thing off!”

  It was true, it was the warmest day of the year so far, and I looked like an Inuit down in the tropics. I didn’t want to remove the scarf, though, for fear he’d notice the device under my sweater.

  I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been not to check the forecast beforehand. Next time I really had to keep that in mind, because this was the behavior that would raise his suspicions—the last thing I needed.

  I broke into a sweat, not because of the temperature, but from pure stress. How could I get out of this in a credible way?

  A: “No, leave it, I don’t feel warm at all. I feel sick and chilled to the bone. I think I’m coming down with the flu.”

  I chose to go on the offense; the best defense where he’s concerned. I went on:

  A: “If I’m embarrassing you, I can just go home. You should be glad I came at all.”

  W: “No, never mind. You’ll just have to make me look stupid. Let’s take a walk.”

  A: “Wait a minute. I need to pee first. I’ll be right back.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I walked toward the coffee joint’s restroom to look for the device. With shaking hands I groped across my upper body. Thank God, there it was! It had gotten loose and stuck between my trousers’ waistband and my undershirt. Thank goodness I’d tucked my undershirt inside my waistband; otherwise it would have fallen to the ground.

  I tightened my bra strap and put the device back. It was the best solution for now because I wanted to continue recording. Next time I’d have to glue the device to my skin. I hurried back out and we started walking.

  W: “Any news?”

  I started talking about the CIU connection I’d brought up with him, the man we referred to as This Guy. It was a subject that always interested him because it might be of use later on.

  A: “I attended this training session, and I met the man I sometimes talk to.”

  I lied to steer the conversation in the direction of playing the cops. I was hoping it’d get him started on his rats.

  A: “He said to me, ‘Call me sometime, maybe we could discuss a deal.’ I just said, ‘I’ll see.’ But I was kind of feeling like he wanted to tell me something. You know?”

  W: “If he wants to talk, you gotta go hear him out. You know that, right?”

  As intended, I’d aroused his interest.

  A: “Sure thing.”

  W: “You gotta go hear what he’s got to say.”

  That’s what he taught me: Always listen, never tell anything.

  A: “Yeah, I think it’s more about seeing if you have something to say.”

  I made it about him. I knew the only one he’s ever interested in is himself.

  W: “Either way, you gotta go hear him out. Say, ‘How are you?’ Be nice: ‘How are you? Yada yada, you wanted to see me? What can I do for you?’ That’s how it’s done. What I always say too is ‘What can I do for you?’”

  He instructed me on how to move forward with This Guy, “pulling information,” as we called it.

  W: “They’ll feel like they owe you something then, too.”

  It’s a manipulation tactic that has proved very lucrative for him. He’s always “helping the other person out”; that’s how he ties people to him, and once they’re tied down, he’ll take advantage.

  We continued our conversation, and what I’d hoped for happened: he started talking about the rats.

  W: “So you don’t say anything, just listen. I know for sure he’ll ask about the rats.”

  A: “Yeah.”

  W: “Know what I mean? He’ll ask about it, for sure.”

  A: “Sure, that’ll be it. Of course, it is still a big mystery.”

  W: “But, see, if he starts on that, tell him, ‘My brother is scared of them, because you can never be sure about these types.’”

  Damn, he didn’t tell me who they are. He just provided me with a reason why he “couldn’t” say who they are, which I should pass on. Then he explained his so-called fear.

  W: “See, because if they can give information, they can create information, too.”

  A: “Yeah.”

  W: “You get it? It’s like a game.”

  A: “Yeah, that’s it. You never know the truth, do you?”

  W: “Look, Assie, instead of paying to give out information, you can also pay to create information.”

  A: “Sure thing.”

  W: “You see?”

  A: “In other words, the rats can’t be trusted, either, even if they pretend to collaborate with you?”

  W: “Dirty rats, they can sell information or have it created for cash, either way. You could say ‘Just write down he’s the one and this and that.’”

  A: “Ah, that’s what you mean. From this side.”

  W: “Yeah, everybody can do that, you know.”

  He was saying every criminal could steer information in the direction he wanted suspicion to go. Apparently, though, not every rat was equally flexible, and Wim distinguished between them.

  W: “The rats who are dirty can take it really far. You know what I mean?”

  A: “Yeah.”

  I realized I didn’t want to be sent to This Guy, because I wasn’t even in touch with him anymore, and I backed off.

  A: “I’ll see if I hear anything. Should I be calling him?”

  Now that I’d been in for a penny, I had to be in for a pound.

  W: “Yeah, you should call him for sure. You should say, ‘How’s it going, what can I do for you?’”

  This got too hot for me, and I came up with an excuse.

  A: “You know, I get the feeling I’m caught up in some sort of game where you can never tell what the truth is.”

  He felt the same.

  W: “Don’t do it then, leave it. It’s not so smart if they find you out. You know what I mean. Then don’t, love—let them sort it out themselves. If he’s got something to say, he’ll come to you anyway.”

  The lesson was, Don’t go to them, they’ll come to you. The cops come to you only when it’s in their interest.

  W: “He won’t come to warn me. He won’t come to say, ‘Your brother should watch out for this and that.’ You see? He just won’t.”

  I understood he was talking about a liquidation.

  A: “Why not? That would be something, wouldn’t it? If something is up, shouldn’t they warn you no matter what?”

  W: “No, they’ll do it through the CIU. He won’t do it himself.”

  A: “Right.”

  Wim didn’t think he was useful after all.

  W: “He won’t talk about an investigation, either. He just wants to hear stuff. It won’t work. So far, they’ve given me shit. They wanna have it all, and I already know what they’ll say: ‘Won’t he talk?’”

  I agreed with him, and we changed the subject.

  We’d talked about rats, but I hadn’t managed to get him to say who they were.

  That night, I couldn’t get to sleep. The dark evoked one ghost after another. Talking to the police—what had I gotten myself into, and where would it get me? Luckily, in the morning, most of the ghosts had vanished. Everything looks different in daylight. I decided I should just let it go and take things as they came. I’d rely on my intuition and end things with the CIU as soon as I got a weird feeling about it.

  The time had come.

  Michelle picked me up at the elevator again. Her presence had a quieting effect on me; she seemed sincere. Manon was waiting in the room, greeting me as soberly as she’d done previously. A female district a
ttorney got up and shook my hand. “Hello, my name is Betty Wind. We’ve seen each other around, haven’t we?”

  Indeed, I’d seen her before but had never spoken to her; I’d always kept my distance from public prosecutors because I couldn’t be sure they weren’t “sent” by the Justice Department to infiltrate my family through me.

  “That’s right, we’ve seen each other in court,” I said.

  With Wim’s remarks from yesterday still in my mind, I immediately thought of his “trump” and who it might be. It hit me she was kind of his type: pretty, thin, well-dressed. At the same time, I knew this didn’t have to mean anything; Wim would shag a troll if it was to his advantage. Betty Wind asked me what I had to say.

  “I can tell you the truth,” I said, “but after spending an hour with him, you’ll be convinced the reality he’s holding out to you is the actual truth. You’ll be thinking, These two sisters are out of their minds, the poor man hasn’t done a thing.”

  Betty said calmly, “I do know him. He acts extremely charming in court, as well. I’ve noticed all of that.”

  She appeared to see through Wim’s naughty-boy act in court and knew it didn’t match his reputation. It seemed like I’d found a prosecutor who might finally see right through him. This was a must. Anyone else would get lost in his maze of conspiracies and never get to the truth.

  Michelle and Manon had told Betty about the picture I’d painted of Wim’s personality, and this, too, sounded familiar to her, though she’d never expected him to treat his own family the same way he treated his victims.

  “I get that,” I said, “but that’s because you couldn’t know our family has been victimized by him for such a long time. We can’t say anything negative about him, for he won’t accept it.”