The Public Prosecutor

by Jef Geeraerts

  “Et comment va Brigitte?” van Reyn enquired.

  “She’s in Tuscany with a friend who cultivates the most exclusive roses in the world. La contessa della Gherardesca…”

  “Aha, I met her once with Prince Aquaviva.”

  The King’s private secretary did not only speak with a high-pitched voice, he was also exceedingly nervous, a characteristic he put down to his high IQ. He was a member of an international club of extremely gifted individuals, many of whom were inclined to babble at a rate of knots without listening.

  “Mm… Tuscany is one of the most magnificent places I know, especially in the spring. In July and August… pff,” scoffed van Reyn, who never took his vacation in the tourist season.

  Van Peers agreed wholeheartedly, gestured stereotypically with his limp wrist, his head to the left, his nose in the air. He wore his wedding ring and nothing more. The idea of a signet ring with the family coat of arms was pure ostentation. After all, everyone knew well and good who he was.

  “You and yours?” he enquired, with a noncommittal allusion to Opus Dei.

  “Procurator Pla y Daniel is particularly pleased with the Belgian prelature.”

  “Did I ever tell you, mon cher Hervé, that I once received a blessing from his great uncle, the primate of all Spain, on the Feast of the Ascension 1963.”

  “In Toledo?”

  “No, in Avila. He was inaugurating a statue of some local saint or other.”

  “Is it true that he was the last to insist that people kiss his red slippers?”

  “I wasn’t aware of it.”

  Van Peers sipped at his glass and smiled charmingly in van Reyn’s direction. He had a knack for being able to transform his smile from run of the mill to broad in a second, a bit like switching an electric radiator on and off. He had indeed kissed the slippers of a senile old man in red who weighed more than four hundred pounds, but he preferred to keep it to himself.

  “Shall we?” said van Peers, glancing at his watch and abruptly standing up.

  “We still have a few minutes, I hope…”

  “I have an appointment at two, but the menu was agreed on the phone.”

  Van Reyn nodded and followed the private secretary into the small dining room next to the salon royal, where an oval table with a large candelabra had been set for two. He noticed that van Peers had no documents with him and this made him uneasy.

  They had barely taken their place at table when two waiters appeared with the first course - mixed salad with chunks of lobster. Spa mineral water was served in crystal glasses. The private secretary liked to give the impression that he was a teetotaller, although in private he was a keen drinker of wine and champagne.

  They looked at one another, made a synchronized sign of the cross, closed their eyes and prayed in silence. After a second sign of the cross they began to eat.

  “Mm…” both men droned after tasting their first forkful.

  “Nothing can beat Comme Chez Soi,” said van Reyn, who preferred De Karmeliet in Bruges, but knew that van Peers did not share his opinion.

  They ate in silence, tearing portions from an elegant bread roll, dabbing their lips after every sip of the glass, knife held like a paintbrush between thumb and middle finger, little finger stiff and upright.

  “So, how is our friend Paul Hersch getting on these days?” van Peers enquired without looking at van Reyn. He ate quickly without savouring his food, as if he wasn’t interested in fine cuisine.

  Van Reyn was taken aback. Had van Peers smelled a rat? After being informed by Marlowe & Co. on the telephone about what had happened that Monday night, he had reacted exactly as the Jesuits had done for centuries: he pretended there was nothing going on. Opus Dei’s Belgian prelature was thus prepared to leave its senior numerary in the lurch and would deny any involvement in blackmail. Van Reyn had made enquiries at Saint Joseph’s Hospital in Westmalle via a doctor - an Opus Dei cooperator - who informed him that Paul Hersch was in a bad way. He had spent twelve hours in intensive care with a double cranial fracture, a herniated neck disc, a broken arm and a host of bruises and contusions over his entire body. The doctors only realized at the last minute that one of his kidneys had been punctured and they had to operate to remove it. The surgeon had smiled and told him to look on the bright side: he could still live a normal life with one kidney. Fortunately, Hersch had been wise enough to offer no further details about his address, which was taken to be an ordinary apartment on Leuven’s Tervuursevest. According to van Reyn, the Marlowe & Co. detective had reacted adequately, ensuring the avoidance of any direct association between the crime and Opus Dei. If it were necessary (he had already consulted Pla y Daniel on the matter), they were even prepared to deny ever having known Paul Hersch. A barrister at the Public Prosecutor’s Office in Brussels and an Opus Dei supernumerary had already been informed of the affair. He had promised to keep a close eye on developments at the Public Prosecutor’s Office in Antwerp with the help of a cooperator who worked there. Appropriate measures would be taken in due course and he was prepared to intervene if necessary, although convention disapproved.

  “Paul Hersch is on holiday,” van Reyn answered indifferently. “He needed it.”

  “Mm… A relative of mine at the university has rooms in Arenberg Residence,” said van Peers, implying that he knew more.

  “Paul Hersch is a very capable director…”

  The waiters cleared the plates, although they were not yet empty, replaced them with soup plates, and served a particularly refined mouclade made with Breton mussels.

  Both men started to eat, slurping inaudibly from the side of the spoon, following the example of the British aristocracy.

  They left half of the soup in the plate, nibbled some bread, sipped some water, wiped their mouths… and finally van Peers de Grâce came to the point.

  “I think we’ve reached a reasonable compromise in the de Vreux affair,” he said stiffly.

  “Aha,” said van Reyn, “I’m pleased to hear it.” His mouth went dry.

  “Eh bien… As far as we are concerned, and as a matter of principle, the father’s name should not be related in any way to an aristocratic title.”

  “Understandable,” van Reyn concurred. He tried to contain his nerves. He knew from experience that van Peers was not to be trusted completely. He was a master of the oblique.

  “The name de Vreux enjoys an impeccable reputation and the family has served its country and its Royal House for centuries. After talking the matter over yesterday with His Majesty, we think the following solution to be opportune.”

  “Mm,” van Reyn mumbled, his nerves quivering.

  “Bearing in mind that the family de Vreux has been part of the country’s nobility for several generations, I suggested to His Majesty that it might be better to make an abstraction of the name Savelkoul and adjoin the title baron to the name de Vreux, clearly warranted by Didier’s status as a numerary and by the Department of Foreign Affairs’s glowing report on Geoffroy’s diplomatic career.”

  Van Peers had said what he had to say in a single, well-formed and syntactically correct sentence.

  “Did you say baron?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Van Reyn closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply in and out to alleviate the tightness in his chest. He could barely contain the urge to fidget with excitement, his usual reaction to good news.

  “An excellent compromise indeed, mon cher Pierre,” he rasped.

  “We had to avoid putting them on the annual honours list at all costs, of course, otherwise His Majesty would have been obliged to include the father when he dishes out the titles on 21 July (Belgian Independence Day), which would have been inopportune for a variety of reasons. We simply extended an existing and long-standing title. A brief visit to the Heraldry Office and Foreign Affairs and there won’t even be any need to publish it officially or let the press get wind of it. Voilà!”

  “And what if Public Prosecutor Savelkoul
refuses to accept the procedure?”

  Baron van Peers de Grâce stopped smiling. It was impossible to tell if he was annoyed at van Reyn’s naivety or simply at the very suggestion that such a thing could happen.

  He narrowed his lips and said: “Then we’ll just have to appeal to his common sense. We certainly cannot accuse Savelkoul of being short of ideas.” His voice seemed much deeper than before.

  “Baron Didier’s inheritance has also been taken care of,” said van Reyn, without going into detail.

  “I know, mon cher Hervé, but the internal affairs of your organization are really none of my business. I’ll pretend you said nothing about it. Just be grateful that the Belgian prelature has another nobleman in its ranks. I’m sure Foreign Affairs will feel the same, although Geoffroy is a tad more… er, more liberal than his brother.”

  “Please accept my gratitude for this service in the name of Opus Dei.”

  “We do what we must, mon cher Hervé.”

  Van Reyn nodded elatedly. “Shall I inform Baroness de Vreux?” he asked. Probably a tactical mistake, he thought, but nothing could have been further from the truth.

  “As you please,” van Peers answered with a smile.

  He gestured towards the door and the two waiters responded immediately.

  The soup plates were cleared and, much to van Reyn’s surprise, the maître d’hôtel brought the bill. He was familiar with the private secretary’s lifestyle, but he had at least expected a main course and a cup of coffee. This is a superb example of Sacred Brazenness, he thought with some degree of admiration. Few of us could do better. He took it as a matter of course that the bill would not be settled in the restaurant. The Royal Household would take care of it in due course, within the year if they were lucky.

  The manager reappeared and thanked them for their custom. Baron van Peers took the opportunity to praise the quality of the food.

  The chauffeur opened the rear passenger door of the Mercedes. Van Reyn thanked the private secretary once again and took his leave.

  He waited until the court limousine had disappeared and asked the restaurant’s parking attendant to call him a taxi.

  Baron van Reyn fidgeted with nervous excitement in the back seat of the taxi as it made its way to Ukkel. Beyond every expectation, the operation against Public Prosecutor Savelkoul had been a singular success. Opus Dei had acquired almost seventy million Belgian francs worth of property, shares and obligations, Baroness de Vreux’s two sons had bagged an aristocratic title thanks to the ingenuity of the King’s private secretary and Savelkoul’s whore had disappeared from the scene. Paul Hersch lay alone and abandoned by his Opus Dei confrères in Saint Joseph’s Hospital, but van Reyn didn’t give him a second thought.

  He gave in immediately to a sudden urge, something he considered sinful and usually did everything in his power to suppress.

  He flipped through his address book in search of Baroness de Vreux’s telephone number and grabbed his mobile.

  He was greeted by a guttural yet evidently female voice: “Huloo.”

  “With whom do I have the pleasure?” he enquired.

  “The Public Prosecutor’s housekeeper.”

  “Is the lady of the house at home?” van Reyn asked, with an air of superiority.

  “I’ll connect…”

  “Allô, oui,” a high-pitched female voice interrupted.

  “Madame de Vreux?”

  “Oui.”

  “Hervé van Reyn speaking.”

  “Ah, mon cher Hervé…” she answered with little enthusiasm.

  “I have news…”

  “Mm…”

  “Good news.”

  “Mm.”

  “I just had a meeting with His Majesty’s private secretary.”

  “Mm, and is he well?”

  “Very well. He spoke recently with His Majesty about Didier and Geoffroy, and the matter has been settled.”

  “What do you mean, ‘settled’?”

  “They will soon be granted the title of baron, but on one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “That they change their name from Savelkoul to de Vreux.”

  “Oh, good news indeed. Have you informed Didier?”

  “Not yet.”

  “May I call him?”

  “I would prefer not. Blessed Josemaría’s Saying 639 says: ‘Remain silent, and you will never regret it, but speak, and you often will’.”

  “Pax.”

  Hervé van Reyn was surprised at this unexpected reaction. “Let me continue,” he said abruptly. “We offer our felicitations on the distinction acquired by your sons and we hope that you, as supernumerary and mother of a numerary, will remember us each month…”

  “Pax.”

  Van Reyn hung up and rolled his mobile back and forth in his hand. He then did something he hadn’t done for years: he enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Brussels as he started to devise a brand new plan to relieve the Public Prosecutor of his five million francs. The stupidity of others had lead to the failure of the previous endeavour, in spite of Opus Dei’s considerable investment in terms of time and money. The pleasure he derived from this “spiritual exercise” was equal to the thrill and excitement of the city streets, and he took this to be a good sign.

  Baroness Amandine locked the door of her boudoir and prostrated herself on the floor in front of a porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary. She spread out her arms as she had done the week before in the crypt of Opus Dei’s mother house in Rome in front of the tomb of blessed Josemaría. She said three Ave Marias slowly, paying close attention to every word, struggled to her feet, organized her clothes and returned to the table with the telephone, where she had just received incredible news from Baron van Reyn. She put on her glasses and started to flick through the telephone book, smiling from ear to ear.

  She noted the number of a travel agency and dialled it.

  “I would like some information, please,” she said in reasonably correct Dutch.

  “How can I be of assistance, madam?”

  “Is it possible to book an international billet de train with your agency? No, one way… Yes, second class. I’ll call you back later with the name and destination. Merci.”

  Without wasting any time, she called Canon Zwaegermans of Antwerp Cathedral.

  “Ah, Reverend Canon,” she said, once again in reasonable Dutch. “I would like to ask you a favour.”

  An elderly male voice answered: “Madame la Baronne, how could we ever refuse you?” A parrot-like giggle followed.

  When Baron van Reyn arrived at Avenue de la Floride in the best of moods around two o’clock that afternoon, a piece of paper was waiting on his desk asking him to call a certain number urgently. He knew the number by heart: the office of Barrister-General Deweerdt at the Palais de Justice in Brussels, an Opus Dei cooperator. Good news, Deweerdt informed him. He had finally managed to get hold of the Hersch dossier via a friend at Antwerp’s Court of First Instance. But there was a problem: he was morally bound by his position not to pass on the documents he had at his disposal, but he was prepared to read a few excerpts, which he believed might shed some light on the matter.

  Van Reyn raised an eyebrow, grabbed a notepad with a contemptuous sneer, and started to write down Deweerdt’s dictation, telegraph style: Mehmet Alia. Albanian national. Refused to say a word up to now about the incident. Remanded in custody in Antwerp. Appeared before the examining magistrate on Monday 7/6. Grievous bodily harm. Art. 398,399,400 of the Criminal Code. Telescopic truncheon (???) A brown paper package 12x8x2 containing folded newspaper, sealed with tape. Partly opened. Albanian drove to the scene on a powerful Honda motorcycle. Address: Zirkstraat 56, Antwerp. Lives alone. Occupation: mechanic. Unemployed, on the dole (!!!). Immobilized by a dog until the gendarmes arrived on the scene (???) Paul Hersch: room 242, Saint Joseph’s Hospital, Westmalle. Questioned by Antwerp CID after kidney operation. White-collar: Rumpus Ltd, Tervuursevest 123, Leuven. Serious skull fracture. Broken arm.
Bruises. Doesn’t know how he got there or why he was there. Probably drugged in advance. No vehicle found.

  “Voilà,” Barrister-General Deweerdt concluded, “that’s all we have available for the moment. Is that enough, cher ami?”

  “Un grand merci,” van Reyn answered mechanically, dissatisfied with the inadequate information, which wasn’t of much use to him.

  “You’re welcome, au revoir, cher ami.”

  Hervé van Reyn folded his hands and stared vacantly into space. His cheerful mood slowly subsided. He was the type of person who needed to have everything go according to his wishes, otherwise he could make life a misery for those around him. His poetry teacher, a priest at a boys-only school for the wealthy in Loppem, once said: “Hervé, you are a genuine absolutist.” He was still proud of the fact, convinced it was in his blood, as it were. His family had cultivated a considerable nostalgia for the historical absolutism of the French Bourbons.

  He reflected on the situation. The package full of newspapers intrigued him most. Didn’t this prove that Savelkoul was planning to con Paul Hersch? The whole affair was riddled with inconsistencies. Had Savelkoul even shown up in the first place? The only person who could answer this question was Paul Hersch, but he preferred to uphold Opus Dei rules on the matter and stay out of his way for the time being. And what the hell was the Albanian doing there? Was he trying to bag the cash? How did he find out about the meeting? And the dog? Wasn’t it all a little over the top?

  Frustration was beginning to rattle Hervé van Reyn’s nerves. The entire affair had escaped his control. He couldn’t find a plausible explanation for the facts and there seemed to be no logical connection between them. His right leg bounced nervously, a quirk he had picked up when he was at school, but then the cause had been quite different. In those days he used it to suppress a sudden urge to urinate. It was strictly forbidden to go to the bathroom alone during classes. The real reason for this rule was never made public (the temptation to sin against purity was twice as intense in an abandoned WC). He had once wet himself in class, and the laughter of his teacher and classmates still resounded in his ears from time to time during what he called his school nightmares.