The Public Prosecutor

by Jef Geeraerts

  “But then I’ll have to write another cheque.”

  “Whatever…”

  He glared reproachfully at his mother, and pursed his lips as his grandmother had done in the portrait.

  She returned to the salon, sat down at a bridge table, tore up the cheque and produced another.

  “Forty thousand,” he commanded.

  His abruptness surprised her. “But Didier—”

  “Forty thousand.”

  She stifled a groan and scribbled the amount. He took it from her without saying a word, slipped it in his wallet and looked at his watch.

  “Here,” he said, breaking the silence, and he handed her an envelope.

  Amandine looked at him.

  “The dentist’s bill.”

  She nodded and stuffed the envelope into her handbag, aware that candidate numeraries were expected to submit themselves to a thorough dental examination.

  “I’ll order a taxi,” she said.

  He nodded stiffly.

  There was a telephone on the bridge table and she called a taxi.

  “Come, it’s time we got moving…”

  She looked back into the salon for a moment, as if she had forgotten something, and sighed.

  They walked down the marble stairs in the vestibule. Didier opened the door, stepped outside, stood at the edge of the pavement, looked at his watch and started to chew the nail on his little finger, or what was left of it.

  On Saturday 5 June at three thirty in the afternoon, an impressive Honda CBR sports bike stopped in front of Sacco’s junk shop on Antwerp’s Falconplein. The man in black leathers astride the fiery red machine took off his helmet, dismounted, looked around and made his way into the shop, his legs stiff, his back arched. He was small and wiry with pitch-black hair, a moustache and a handsome brown pockmarked face. A portly man with a heavy moustache was leaning on his elbows at the counter. He recognized the motorbike rider, gave him the thumbs up and pointed to the floor above. The man left his helmet on the floor, opened a door and headed upstairs.

  When he returned to the shop roughly an hour later, he took a seat at a table in the corner. Moments later, the portly shop-keeper appeared with a kebab sandwich and a glass of tea on a tray. They exchanged a few words and the man started to eat.

  His name was Mehmet Alia and he was thirty-four years old. He was a distant cousin on his mother’s side of Ramiz Shehu and worked for his uncle on a full-time basis as a messenger and money launderer. He flew every week to Sofia with a case full of dollar bills, which he transferred into the account of an international criminal organization using an import-export firm as a front for trading in expensive stolen cars. He had managed to save enough in three years to buy a house in the old city, which he was renovating with a couple of family members. The Honda was worth at least half a million francs.

  Before coming to Belgium, he had done his apprenticeship as a “hit man” in Istanbul. This had nothing to do with contract killing. He had an ordinary day job with a private collection agency, visiting debtors and using violence where necessary to make them pay up. The incredible inertia of the Turkish courts tended to encourage this method as the only way to ensure payment. Mehmet Alia was known as a hard man. He had fled to Belgium in great haste after crippling someone for life with an iron bar.

  He was prepared to do anything Shehu asked of him. He called his uncle aga, an old-fashioned form of respect borrowed from the Turkish occupiers of Albania, which had fallen out of use and been replaced by the simple baba or father.

  They had just discussed the “hit” he was to carry out the following Monday at three in the morning in a village called Overbroek roughly twenty miles from Antwerp. He had already made an exploratory visit.

  22

  Monday, 7 June. Paul Hersch and the detective from Marlowe & Co. waited side by side in the same Volkswagen Passat used by Materne the week before to shadow Albert on his way to Sint-Job-in-’t-Goor. The man at the wheel was an old hand, fifty-five years of age, plenty of experience, and able to remain calm in difficult circumstances.

  Hersch, on the other hand, had barely slept the night before and was as nervous as a kitten. He was dressed in a dark suit and wore the same hat as he had done in Kortenberg. He hadn’t said a single word during the journey and his shirt was soaked with sweat. They drove into Overbroek’s sodium-lit high street. The village was sound asleep. He looked at his watch: 2.55.

  Albert waited in the shadows at the side of the church, where he had an excellent view of the square. He could see a urinal against the wall of a café. He had parked the BMW on a country lane roughly five hundred yards from where he stood. He was wearing a denim jacket, jeans and trainers. The CS gas spray was tucked away in his trouser pocket. He was holding a package made to look as if it contained 1,000-Swiss-franc banknotes. In reality, it was stuffed with pages from a marketing magazine folded to size. The package had been taped shut using what appeared to be an entire roll of tape. Albert was nervous and angry. He looked at his watch: 2.55. A car appeared from nowhere and stopped on the other side of the street. He presumed the driver had let it roll for fifty yards or so with the engine off. The car reversed into a side street, its headlamps dimmed. A man stepped out.

  Mehmed Alia had pushed his Honda CBR Blackbird to its maximum 120 mph on the motorway between Merksem and Brecht, slowing down moments later to what he called his cruising speed of 100 mph. He was aware of the risks - make a mistake at 120 mph and it’s over - but he couldn’t resist. The rush of adrenaline left him shaking. When he rode the bike he felt like an ülkücü, a Turkish samurai, a warrior with the courage of a lion. He had learned the ülkücü doctrine from his Turkish-born uncle Gunca Us, who was known for his heroism in the struggle against the Serbian oppressors and for his leadership role in the Black Malissors. His uncle had disappeared without a trace one day and had never been seen since.

  He took the exit for Brecht, tilting his machine to the limit in the sharp bend, and ripped through Sternhoven crossroads at 110 mph, slowing down abruptly when he reached Overbroek high street. The four cylinder 1,100 cc engine purred gently in second gear and was barely audible.

  Alia got off his bike at the same discreet spot, roughly one hundred yards from the church, from which he had observed the Belgian gentleman’s last meeting. He glanced at the Honda’s digital clock: 2.55 precisely. He took off his gloves, placed his helmet on the saddle, opened a metal box at the rear of the bike, and removed what looked like a length of gas pipe, but was in fact a telescopic truncheon with a leaded tip, a weapon he knew how to use. He crept silently towards the church.

  The bell of Saint Willibrord’s church sounded three. At that moment, Paul Hersch wandered onto the square. Albert immediately recognized the heavy-set man with the short legs and the dark hat. He came out from the shadows at the side of the church, walked towards him, handed him the package and told him in a muffled voice that he should count it (the sign agreed with the Albanian). Paul Hersch started to remove the tape with difficulty. Albert looked around and was thinking that the Albanian had failed to deliver on his promise, when a figure in black suddenly appeared and hit the man with the hat on the head with a short baton. He fell to the ground and the Albanian set about his task.

  The man tried to avoid the blows and started to shout for help at the top of his voice. The sound echoed through the entire village.

  A light went on in the café next to the church and a man opened a ground-floor window that looked out onto the square. “What the fuckin’ hell is goin’ on?” he yelled. The man with the black hat had grabbed the man in black by the ankle with both hands. The beating continued but he refused to let go. His cries for help sounded like the squeals of a pig in an abattoir.

  The man at the window turned around and shouted: “Bruno! Attack!”

  A dark-brown Doberman leaped through the window with amazing agility and attacked the man in black, who stopped beating the man on the ground and took his turn at screaming for help. The Do
berman had dug its teeth into his arm and was refusing to let go.

  The animal’s owner had dialled 101 in the meantime, the number of the local gendarmerie. His name was Jan Vissenberg and he was owner of a café, The Pigeon Fancier.

  The detective, who had timed the whole incident (it had lasted exactly seventy-two seconds), drew the appropriate conclusions. His client had apparently dug himself into a hole without telling the firm the truth about the nature of the assignment. He was also fairly certain the police would be on their way.

  Marlowe & Co. regulations prescribed immediate departure from the scene in such circumstances. He did not hesitate for a single moment. He drove out of the side street with his headlights dimmed - once he was on the main street he switched to full beam and hit the floor.

  The Brecht gendarmerie appeared at 3.14. Chief sergeant Verhaert was accompanied this time by his apprentice, twenty-year-old sergeant Peeters, who had been awarded his first stripe a month earlier. The crime scene they encountered on arrival included Jan Vissenberg with a shotgun poking the chest of a man on the ground. The Doberman sat close by, its ears pricked up, determined not the let the man out of its sight. A second man was lying unconscious on his back, his arms spread out like Jesus on the cross. He had lost his hat and his bald head gleamed like ivory in the neon light.

  “Hey, Jan. What’s been goin’ on?” said Verhaert, who had known Vissenberg for years.

  “Let me think: I couldn’t sleep, and had just put out a cig when I heard someone outside squealing like a pig. So I open the window and what do I see? This dirty Moroccan bastard laying into a bald guy with a one of those special truncheons. I’ve got it here…” Vissenberg handed Verhaert the telescopic truncheon.

  “Where’s the Moroccan?” said Alia in a thick Antwerp accent. “I’m Albanian!”

  “OK, the dirty Albanian bastard laying into the bald guy with one of those truncheons,” Vissenberg repeated. “I set Bruno on them and he put a stop to it in no time, eh boy!”

  The Doberman wagged its short tail a couple of times.

  “And the other gent?” enquired Verhaert, who had the habit of referring to everyone not in the force as a “gent”. He checked to see if Hersch was still breathing and examined the telescopic truncheon, but said nothing.

  “He’s been well taken care of, if you ask me,” said Vissenberg. “One of his legs is broken. That brown fucker was like a madman.”

  “Nothing else?” asked Verhaert.

  “Wait a minute. Yes! There was a car parked in the street next to the girls’ school. He drove off without lights when the bald guy started to squeal. I’m pretty sure it was a Volkswagen.”

  “And you? Where’s your bike?” Verhaert asked Alia, pointing to his leathers.

  “Back there, not far,” Alia answered, pointing in the direction of Sternhoven.

  “Cuff ’im, Jos,” Verhaert ordered, “and see if you can find his bike.”

  “Right away, boss,” Peeters answered, skilfully cuffing Alia and disappearing towards Sternhoven.

  “Let’s get the whole shebang on paper,” said Verhaert, “and maybe we should call an ambulance for the bald gent.”

  “Fancy a pint?” Vissenberg enquired.

  “Never been known to say no…” said Verhaert.

  He made his way over to the police van, switched off the blue rotating lights, grabbed a pile of official statement forms and brought them to the café, where Vissenberg had switched on the lights.

  Verhaert sat down at one of the tables, removed his cap and placed it next to the pile of papers.

  Vissenberg arrived with a couple of pints. They clinked glasses and Verhaert said: “Can I see your ID card? Just a formality…”

  “No problem,” said Vissenberg, and he disappeared behind the bar.

  “Shit! That bloody ambulance,” said Verhaert. “Let’s see if the bugger’s come to…”

  He made his way outside. The Albanian was on the ground with his hands behind his back; the bald gent hadn’t budged an inch.

  “These cuffs are too tight,” Alia complained.

  “Shut it, Mustafa!”

  Verhaert returned to the police van and called St Joseph’s hospital in Westmalle.

  Vissenberg reappeared in the café with a blanket under his arm.

  “Shouldn’t we get the bald guy inside?” he asked. “I brought a blanket.”

  “Not a bad idea,” said Verhaert, emptying his glass in one go.

  As they were carrying the wounded man into the café, Vissenberg noticed something on the ground: a brown paper package, sealed with sticky tape. He pointed it out to Verhaert.

  “We’ll take it along for evidence,” he replied formally.

  The man regained consciousness when they laid him on the blanket. He started to groan and grabbed at his right arm, which appeared out of joint.

  23

  On Wednesday 9 June around quarter past eleven, Baron Hervé van Reyn readied himself for an unusual event: a têteà-tête with His Majesty’s private secretary, Baron Pierre van Peers de Grâce, known to those who did not appreciate him as “the viceroy of Belgium”. He was a man of tradition in every respect, and his family had enjoyed political and economic influence since the time of Leopold II. Several members had been associated with the Société Générale de Belgique since the birth of the Belgian state and many of them held senior military and diplomatic ranks. The van Peers had a long-established reputation for tremendous piety, extreme conservativeness and, unusually among the aristocracy, acute intelligence.

  Pierre’s wife, Baroness Charlotte Drieu de la Rochelle, had been responsible for the civil list for a considerable number of years in the Royal Household of King Boudewijn. None of his family had ever married a “commoner”, as the nobility disdainfully described it. He had no direct connections with Opus Dei, although he taught Forestry Law at the Université Catholique de Louvain, Belgium’s Opus Dei stronghold, and the Institut Catholique des Hautes Études Commerciales in Brussels. Although he was supportive of Opus Dei, Baron Pierre belonged to a sect established in Belgium by Cardinal Suenens - The Catholic Charismatic Movement - which preached a strict interpretation of the Gospel, with an emphasis on the power of the Holy Spirit. In terms of ethics and religiosity, he was more or less on the same wavelength as King Boudewijn. Queen Fabiola also appeared to have been over the moon with the appointment of such a devout personal secretary. Her husband the King lived in fear of the Lord, was a furious opponent of abortion, and was not afraid to declare paedophilia, prostitution and woman-trafficking to be sins crying out for revenge. Baron Pierre still joined Fabiola, Albert, Paola, Lorenz, Astrid and Filip every week for prayer and praise in the palace chapel at Laken. He was also Crown Prince Filip’s “spiritual director”. There was little doubt that he had personally inspired King Boudewijn to refuse to ratify the law on abortion.

  Baron Pierre, who was a secret admirer of Machiavelli and Baltasar Gracián, must have taken great pleasure in his influence on the King. Infiltration and intrigue were in his blood. He openly idolized Baldassarre Castiglione and his book Il libro del cortegiano, and had learned lengthy passages off by heart: “The perfect courtier must use his accomplishments to win the heart and appreciation of the prince in such a way that he is able and determined to tell him the truth in everything he should know without fear of displeasing him; and if he is aware that the prince is of a mind to do something wrong, he should have the courage to contradict him and make use of the favour won by his accomplishments to rid his mind of every false intention and keep him on the path of virtue.”

  He had only three arch-enemies: freemasons, Marxism and the supporters of liberalizing abortion. He had two nicknames. The humanists called him Saint-Pierre and the leftist fanatics Rasputin. He never gave the slightest hint of his rancour towards everything related to free-thinking or secularism. The smile of the perfect courtier was a permanent feature, no matter what the circumstances. He also possessed an aristocratic talent for correctly
gauging the amount of affability one should display. He was considered a “Grand Commis de l’Etat”, a nobleman who exercised power behind the scenes, someone with a blind devotion to his origins, an obsession taken to be a proper respect for the past. Such individuals find life difficult to grasp and tend to take refuge in formalism instead.

  A black court Mercedes, registration number 31, pulled up in front of the restaurant Comme Chez Soi at twelve o’clock sharp. The chauffeur, in dark-grey uniform and cap, opened the rear passenger door, and a balding man in a dark-grey suit stepped out. He was short and thickset, with a heavy ball-shaped head and a stubby neck. He was wearing glasses with thick lenses and looked for all the world like a church verger or a complaisant Civil Servant. He looked anxiously left and right until he caught sight of Hervé van Reyn hurrying towards him. He smiled and held out his hand as they exchanged the customary high-pitched “Mon cher Pierre, mon cher Hervé”. Van Reyn had sent Baron Pierre the de Vreux file in an envelope marked “Strictly Personal”, and the Baron had managed to review it in a short couple of days, something van Reyn considered “ominous, in the third sense of the term”, in other words: promising.

  The King’s private secretary was known to enjoy veiling himself in a cloud of mystery. Van Reyn, on the other hand, was barely able to control his curiosity. They descended the stairs into the restaurant, where they were warmly greeted in French by a female manager wearing a multicoloured silk outfit decked with jewellery. She led them into the “salon royal”, which was reserved for the royal family and a few select non-royals. While they relaxed in one of the salon’s comfortable armchairs, a waiter appeared with two glasses of orange juice on a silver tray. When the waiter, whom they completely ignored, had left the room, they sipped their juice and stared at each other with wide innocent eyes, as if they had met for the first time.