Hard Rain

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "Oh, yes," the consul said. "I did that in Warsaw, but the corpse I hid behind was my older brother, and my rifle malfunctioned. I had to scurry away like a rat in a sewer."

  "That's how Izzy was living here, when my policeman son Simon found him," Mrs. Cardozo said.

  "We have better rifles now," the consul said. "Good machinery helps. Our airplanes strike anywhere. It's not good, but it's better."

  "Machines!" wailed Izzy, looking around the room.

  "Izzy tells us he had shellshock," Cardozo said, "after the battles. He fired a bazooka into a tent."

  "The kids that came running out," Izzy whispered, "were afire, like my grandfather's beard."

  "Then Izzy got transferred," Cardozo said.

  "That was worse," Izzy said slowly. "The flying machines informed my machine and I helped to compute the data and my machine programmed drones and the drones zoomed over the desert and were killing kids again. The kids were dots on my screen. My machine penetrated into the enemy's machines and made them turn around and kill more kids, and set the Old men's beards afire. I did that." Izzy pulled frantically at his tie.

  "So Izzy came back here," Mrs. Cardozo said. "Now he has no papers. He lives in fear. I can't cure him unless you help."

  Mr. Rosenblatt buried his fingers in his beard.

  "You have a beard too," Cardozo said kindly.

  The consul nodded. "My beard flows in freedom. I'll defend yours for you. So Izzy no longer is a freedom fighter?" He looked at Izzy. "Please give me your full name and army number."

  The consul fingered one of his keyboards. "Let's see what we know." The Teletype clicked. It kept clicking after Mr. Rosenblatt stopped touching his keys. He read the answer that lit up on the screen. "Yes, that's right, we are looking for you, but we may have found you already. Let me try something else." He moved his hands to another set of keys. The screen came alive again. The consul looked at Izzy. "Ezechial Sanders? Illegally employed by the Banque du Credit? Residing in Mad Nun's Alley?"

  "Yes," Izzy whispered.

  "We can't arrest you here," Mr. Rosenblatt said sadly. "It would be better for you if you gave yourself up. I'll have you flown back to Tel Aviv and you can explain your reasons to the court. If you had battle fatigue before, you'll probably be forgiven and your guilt will take wing and fly back to hell."

  "There's nothing to forgive," Mrs. Cardozo said. "Izzy fought the wrong fight. You won your wars, now treat the enemy with respect."

  "It's not so easy," Mr. Rosenblatt said. "There are rules. Izzy broke them. He also betrayed us. The Banque du Credit finances surreptitious activity, buys illegal oil, lends the profit to the enemy, helps them to buy more arms."

  "You won't give Izzy a letter to the Dutch authorities." Mrs. Cardozo asked, "so that he can apply for a passport here again and live a useful life?"

  "No," Mr. Rosenblatt said.

  "Mother?" Cardozo said. "There's a nice garden outside. Take Izzy for a walk. Let me talk to Mr. Rosenblatt for a minute."

  "You see," the consul said, "I can't just give. There's no end to giving. We'll give it all away and I'll be behind my brother's corpse again, in a Warsaw alley, and my rifle won't work, the rifle we gave money away for so that a crook could make a profit."

  "Exactly," Cardozo said. "Mother, please take Izzy for a walk."

  "Come along, Izzy," Mrs. Cardozo said. "I saw some weeds in the garden, we'll go and pull them out, for free, as our gift."

  "Now," the consul said to Cardozo. "You're a policeman? How did you meet with Izzy?"

  "I agree with you," Cardozo said. "I fight the good fight too. My department now battles the Banque du Credit. I met Izzy there. He has changed, but I recognized him as my brother Samuel's friend. I thought I could use Izzy."

  "You don't want to save him?"

  "My mother will save Izzy," Cardozo said. "She flies in heaven. I grovel in the dust."

  Mr. Rosenblatt read his screen. "We were aware that Izzy worked at the Banque du Credit, but didn't worry too much. Izzy got to the bank through the drug trade. He must have met other Israeli deserters who have started coffee shops here and sell hashish and maryuana. Their accounts are with the Banque du Credit. Izzy has good computer training. The bank must have hired him without papers because that way he would owe them. They have a grip on him because they could give him away to us."

  "So remove Izzy's fear," Cardozo said. "Then he can help me better."

  "To do what?" the consul asked.

  "To bring the bank down."

  Mr. Rosenblatt pressed buttons. The screen faded and then filled up again. "The Banque du Credit is owned by Willem Fernandus. Fernandus also runs that phony Society for Help Abroad that controls the semiofficial canteens that are set up by the city to keep unemployed youths off the street. The canteens sell drugs. The drugs are partly Arab. There's a lot of money made and it certainly does not go to the needy abroad. The Society also exploits a sex club and brothel that caters to the high and mighty."

  "A mess," Cardozo said.

  "Run by powerful men," the consul said. "Here are more names. Baron Bart de la Faille, Martin IJsbreker."

  "IJsbreker is dead."

  "Yes," the consul said. "I have that here too. A suicide."

  "With two bullets?" Cardozo asked.

  "I see." The consul smiled at Cardozo. "What department are you with?"

  "Homicide," Cardozo said.

  "Isn't there some reorganization scheduled at your Headquarters?" The consul switched off the screen. "I hear your commissaris was relieved of his duties."

  "And I'm on vacation," Cardozo said, "and the adjutant and the sergeant who work directly under the commissaris are respectively on sick leave and suspended without pay. The team is complete and active. We have other support."

  The consul scratched his beard. "What's your rank?"

  "Detective constable first class."

  "Not so high," the consul said.

  "The commissaris is under surveillance," Cardozo said. "He doesn't know about my angle yet. I want to surprise him. Could you look at your screen again?"

  "What do you want to know?"

  "How good Izzy is with computers."

  "I just checked that," the consul said. "Lieutenant Sanders was second in charge of a mobile center that broke into the enemy's communications. Izzy must be very good."

  "Write that letter," Cardozo said. "It's a small thing. You have the authority to clear him."

  "Why was IJsbreker shot?" the consul asked.

  "I think Fernandus wanted him out of the way," Cardozo said. "There was a struggle for power. Three junkies were killed, after they removed IJsbreker's wealth."

  "So they're that ruthless?" The consul got up and looked out the window. "Your mother is weeding our garden in the rain."

  "What is Izzy doing?"

  "He's being useless," the consul said. "Sitting on a rock. Talking to himself."

  "A letter from you will uncrazy him," Cardozo said. "Then he'll be useful again. That bank is an enemy fortress; we can blow it up."

  "My specialty," the consul said. "I blew up a lot of buildings. I got shellshock too, and was transferred to diplomacy. I saw a dead Arab who looked just like my Warsaw brother. The Arab was killed by a device that I placed."

  "We'll do all the work cleanly," Cardozo said, "for mutual profit. Just write the letter."

  "What if you went away?" the consul asked, "you and your dear mother?"

  "And Izzy?" Cardozo asked.

  The consul's lips became a pink nipple that pushed itself from the gray curls of his beard.

  "The kiss of compassion?" Cardozo asked. "All is forgiven and forgotten?"

  "Forgive we don't," the consul said.

  "All right," Cardozo said, "forgetting is fine too." He pointed at the files strewn about on the tables. You have quite an administration here. In administrations, much is forgotten. Forget your charges."

  "Well?" Mrs. Cardozo asked in the garden.

  "It's okay,"
Cardozo said.

  "He said that?"

  "He did not say that," Cardozo said. "And he has lost something now, his administration is a shambles."

  "What?" Izzy asked.

  "His charges against you, it seems," Cardozo said. "When I left he had stopped looking. Apply for your Dutch passport. I don't think this consulate will object."

  \\ 18 /////

  "IS SHE BEAUTIFUL?" THE COMMISSARIS'S WIFE asked, watching how her husband arranged his new pale blue tie, standing very straight in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway.

  "Yes," the commissaris said.

  "Whowho?" asked Carl, swaying his unbalanced body into the hall. "That's a nice tiehie."

  Mrs. Jongs dragged the vacuum cleaner behind her. "Bob also sees other women. He has three at home, and me, I'm his wife."

  "Who?" the commissaris's wife asked. "I thought your womanizing was over now. All this gallumphing about is getting you into trouble, Jan. You need a much stricter routine. I wish you could go back to work."

  "She's part of my work," the commissaris said. "She's my secret agent and she's young and beautiful, so I put on my new tie."

  "Secret agent indeed," his wife said, brushing his sleeves. "And I polished your shoes. Is she the secretary you're sending to the whorehouse?"

  "Where are my car keys?" the commissaris asked. "I've got to go. I'll be late. I had them here on the table."

  His wife patted his pockets. The keys rattled. "Here they are. You're seeing Miss Antoinette?"

  "She has volunteered for the job," the commissaris said. "We've discussed my relationship with Miss Antoinette at length, Katrien. I never sent the poor girl anywhere. It's Willem again, he made the immoral suggestion."

  "But she's doing it for you," his wife said, buttoning his jacket. "That's the part I don't like. I wish you would understand women a little better."

  "We does it all for them and they never understands," Mrs. Jongs said. "Can I clean here now? Carl, is this yours?" With the vacuum cleaner's snout she touched scraps of wood stacked in a corner of the hall. "That's Tuhurtle," Carl said, "me and the co-hommm ..." He waved his hand furiously, trying to trip the word off his jaw.

  "We found the pieces together," the commissaris said. "Last night when we were out for a walk. Don't you like the head, Mrs. Jongs? The State Detection sergeant found that for us. He came along, he can't drive his car in the park. It's a champagne cork."

  "That's Tuhurtle's foohoot," Carl said, "the other cohork is his heahead, the one with the men-metal still on."

  " 'Bye," the commissaris said. His wife followed him to the door. He kissed her cheek. "I'm not a dirty old man."

  She kissed him back. "I know, Jan, but it isn't fair. Older women can never find lovers, and all that old men have to do is put out a hand." The commissaris put out his hand. She held it between hers. He retrieved it gently. " 'Bye, Katrien, got to go now."

  He walked to his car. The Corvette parked across the road started up. The commissaris waved at the driver. He got into the Citroen and wound the window down, waiting for the Corvette to make a U-turn and come alongside. "Morning," the commissaris said. The sergeant's companion sat up straight, rather awkwardly, for the Corvette's seats were luxuriously tipped back. "Morning, sir."

  "I don't want you two to know where I'm going today," the commissaris said, "so I thought of a special trick. We'll have some fun, okay? See if you can catch me. Back up a little, please, so I can get out of here."

  The Corvette backed away obediently. The commissaris maneuvered the Citroen out of its tight parking place and swung the large car into traffic. He drove as far as the Rijksmuseum without doing anything spectacular, the Corvette following close behind. The commissaris grinned into his rearview mirror and said, "Now." Cyclists were all around him, heading straight for the gateway through the museum's main building reserved for two-wheeled traffic only. The commissaris switched on his left-turn indicator, swerved a little to the left, turned the wheel back, then made the car jump dead ahead. The Corvette followed, forcing protesting cyclists to the side. "Very well," the commissaris said. "Thought this was it, did you? Tried to lose you and I failed? Good. Now watch this." He turned right and drove parallel to the center lane reserved for trams. A tram appeared and slowed down for the tram stop. The commissaris slowed too, staying abreast of the tram. Passengers filed in and out. The tram's doors would close any moment now. "Hurrah!" the commissaris shouted, and stopped, shifted his car into neutral, and pulled on the emergency brake. He jumped out of the Citroen and into the tram. The tram closed its automatic doors and clanged its bell. The traffic light ahead had changed to green. The commissaris looked back and grinned. The Corvette was blocked by the stationary Citroen. The State Detection constable, resplendent in his polished leather suit and hennaed hair, had left the Corvette and was running after the tram. The commissaris waved. The tram turned left and made use of its clear lane to accelerate.

  The commissaris left the tram at the next stop and waved a cab down. "Prince's Island."

  "Sir," the cabdriver said, and put up the flag that activated his meter. The commissaris checked his watch. Five to ten. Too early to smoke cigars, a little too late for his meeting with Miss Antoinette. She would wait.

  She got up as he walked into the café hardly limping; perhaps the sudden leap from car to tram had disturbed the pattern of his usual morning pains. "Dear," Miss Antoinette said, "I did so worry about you."

  The commissaris nodded to the skeletal barman. "Morning, Bert."

  Miss Antoinette skipped up to the bar, displaying a long perfect leg through a split in her tight skirt. "A jenever, please, nice and cold, and a vodka and tonic with ice for me." She carried the drinks back, put them down, and whirled on the gleaming floorboards. "Do you like my outfit? Aren't I realistically wicked now? Like the short skirt? Don't you just love the low blouse?" She bent down.

  The commissaris looked away. "Splendid, dear."

  "Do look," she whispered. "The bra is transparent. Willem bought me lots of clothes yesterday, it took forever trying them on. Do you think this is my true self?"

  The commissaris looked. He coughed discreetly. "Most attractive."

  She bobbed her head. "You like my hair too?"

  "Wonderful." The commissaris raised his glass. "Your health. Should you be drinking in the morning?"

  "I can do anything now," she said breathlessly, "I am a spy. I bring you information. Nobody followed me here. Willem trusts me." She pouted. "I don't know whether the news is so good."

  The commissaris sipped his drink, shuddering at the impact of alcohol dissolving into his blood. "News is neutral, dear, it can be used either way. First tell me what you had to do to gain Willem's trust."

  She laughed. "So easy. Men are vain. I flattered him. I said he impressed me, that I had heard so much about him, that my work with you was boring, that I wanted to see his gorgeous club. He came and picked me up."

  "Did Willem drive his Daimler?" the commissaris asked. "A large low green car?"

  "A Daimler?" Miss Antoinette asked. "I think it was a Rolls-Royce, old-fashioned, square and black, with a uniformed driver."

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "You liked that? Then what did you have to do?"

  Miss Antoinette thoughtfully tinkled the ice in her glass. "Oh, nothing much. I thought it would be like that book O. Have you heard about Lady O? The beautiful young lady who surrenders to evil? And the evil men pick her up in a Rolls-Royce and she has to take her panties off and swear she will never wear them again, and she has to sit on the cold leather seat? I love that story, but Willem just talked about what I would be earning. Ten times my police pay, and in cash, tax-free. He gave me a lot of money straight off."

  "There are no free lunches," the commissaris said. "He put his hook in you. Did Willem take you to his brothel?"

  "Later," Miss Antoinette said. "First he took me to his home. He has such a beautiful antique house. I'm staying there now. Do you know he collects
rare works of art? And that he has wines a hundred years old?"

  "You drank old wine," the commissaris said. "What were you wearing?"

  "My office suit with the starched blouse. I wanted to look demure. Willem is stealing me from you. I wanted to look like your property."

  "You're not my property," the commissaris said.

  "I still am," Miss Antoinette said, "but Willem doesn't know. I had to call him Willem and he calls me Toine. You want to call me Toine too?"

  "No," the commissaris said. "We have a formal relationship, Miss Antoinette."

  She touched his leg under the table. "We do? In my new role?" She tried a low giggle that came out well. "I'm a vamp. I vamped Willem. It was really quite easy. I don't even have to work in the Society's club and he keeps promising things. We're going to stay at some castle in Spain and I get to fly to Calcutta."

  "What's in Calcutta?" the commissaris asked. "That's one of the hellholes of the earth. Smuggling, maybe?"

  She bent toward the commissaris again. "Yes, isn't that exciting? Willem says he can deal with the customs here, but first he has to take care of you. He's really scared of you, you know. That's the bad news. He wants you out of the way."

  "But I am," the commissaris said.

  "He doesn't trust you," Miss Antoinette said. "He believes you're still active, but he isn't sure. I think he'll try to kill you if he feels you haven't given up."

  The commissaris grinned. "And the castle in Spain? That must be Ten Haaf's place. Have you heard about Ten Haaf?"

  She shook her head. "Shall I ask?"

  "No," the commissaris said. "Don't solicit any information. Ten Haaf fancies himself a master criminal, now retired. Willem and I knew him when we were still students. Another silly man. I think Guldemeester went to Marbella."