Purgatory

by Guido Eekhaut

  During these last few months, she and Prinsen had often talked over the phone. She had finally made up her mind and told her parents she was not staying in Groningen any longer.

  Now she would be back. She would be back in Amsterdam, and she would be back in his life, though she hadn’t said it in so many words. During their conversations, she hadn’t made any romantic overtures. They certainly had not talked of love. They were good friends, as things now stood. But this morning, in the tram, squeezed between the other passengers, it had felt like a bit of spring was returning to the city.

  The tram clattered over Utrechtsestraat and stopped at the bridge over Prinsengracht, where the florist shop was closed for winter. Prinsen looked up. He’d been daydreaming, as he often did, and had almost missed his stop. He wriggled quickly from between the other passengers and stepped out from the musty, oppressive interior of the tram into the fresh air.

  He pushed Eileen from his thoughts and made room for his job. The day before he had been going through files sent over from the local police in Alkmaar, concerning a criminal organization active in that town with contacts all the way to Norway and Sweden. The files included the usual suspects: right-wing activists, anti-immigration networks and bunches of shady but dangerous neo-Nazis. He couldn’t understand why people were opposed to immigration. He lived in the most culturally diverse city on the continent. Most of these people’s ancestors had immigrated to this country. If Amsterdam could exist with its scores of minorities, then the rest of Holland and Europe could too.

  But a lot of people choose to think differently. Mostly those too young to remember the Occupation and the Holocaust.

  More and more people advocated restricting immigration. Or even halting it completely. Some wanted to return non-native residents to where their ancestors had come from or some stupid idea like that. Third- and fourth-generation immigrants, citizens of the Netherlands and culturally part of the country, returning to . . . ? Or only those refusing to integrate? And then what about the large number of Dutch living and working abroad who didn’t care to use the local language or adapt to the local customs? Would they have to return to Holland as well?

  The idea was preposterous. He wasn’t about to participate in any discussion of the issue. He found it to be a matter of prejudice and unfounded opinion, not based on anything sensible. The whole of Dutch society seemed bogged down in personal views and opinions, not bothering with real information and knowledge.

  Opinions, not dialogue.

  And with social media, things weren’t getting any better.

  He entered the building in Kerkstraat, the discrete location of the Office of International Crime and Extremist Organizations, or OICEO, which was part of the General Intelligence and Security Service, the AIVD. Nobody called it the OICEO. It was the Bureau for all concerned. And although it was part of the AIVD, it was physically separated from the central organization. And as such, in the minds of all concerned, a somewhat independent organization as well.

  When he had started working there in late summer, the building had been almost cozy. But now, in the gray winter light, it had lost its charm. It had lost its charm as a place of employment as well. He felt like those anonymous worker bees that flocked from the railway station or tram stop toward offices in the morning and back again late afternoon. The building itself didn’t give any inkling of what went on inside or what sort or organization it housed. No mention on the doors or facade of the AIVD. Discretion was the Bureau’s hallmark. The Bureau chose to operate with utmost discretion and out of sight of the public.

  The automated access system was as whimsical as it had been for the past few months. It flashed at him Verification Failed as he walked past the detectors. It added, not without malice: Biometric Data Not Found. For weeks now AIVD technicians tried to get the system back online and operational, but it remained buggy. How exactly it functioned was a deep organizational secret, and it seemed even the specialists couldn’t find their way around it. The members of the Bureau had nicknamed it Basil because just like Basil Fawlty (of the famous British TV show), it possessed an erratic temperament. It constantly needed the intervention of a human guard. “Excuse me, sir,” the one on duty today said, “but Basil is having one of his off days again.”

  Prinsen still had no private office, unlike Eekhaut who had been assigned one of the four enclosed spaces. Prinsen had his desk in the middle of the open space on the second floor, away from the window. Van Gils had taken the desk by the window, along with Veneman, another of the veteran officers. They had seniority, and one of the perks was a view over the small park outside, Amstelveld. Prinsen knew they had a problem with Eekhaut getting one of the offices. Dewaal explained that the Belgian possessed the status of the international contact.

  International contact. It meant Eekhaut kept in touch with other European security agencies and wrote reports about the recent Bureau activities. And he had been involved, dramatically, in at least one major investigation.

  Prinsen quite liked the Belgian. They had worked closely together these months since his arrival, and Prinsen knew him as straightforward and outspoken. The man was fluent in several languages and was quick-witted, even when confronted with complex issues. Dewaal—Aunt Alexandra to Prinsen—was convinced Eekhaut could be trusted slightly more than the older veterans of her team. Veneman and Van Gils were all right, but she knew she couldn’t trust any of the other twenty officers and technicians in the building.

  The feelings were entirely mutual.

  “Eekhaut is here because he was getting on the nerves of his superiors in Belgium,” she explained, a month after the Belgian had taken up residence. “I read his file, so I knew what to expect. His own methods, his own ideas, and he couldn’t care less if they clashed with official policies.” She wasn’t saying she approved of what she’d heard about Eekhaut, but she didn’t voice disapproval either.

  Prinsen appreciated that she seemed to be confiding in him. She didn’t have to, but she was. She wanted to make it clear he could trust Eekhaut as much as she did. But also that he needed to be careful in how he approached the other Dutch officers.

  Upon entering, Prinsen looked over to the window of Dewaal’s office. She was talking to Eekhaut. These last three weeks they had almost constantly been working on one case. He was almost relieved they hadn’t included him. People burned alive at the stake as if this were the Middle Ages all over again. Ritual murders. He could do without them. It is the stuff nightmares are made of. He strongly preferred ordinary cases, like financial fraud or illegal arms trafficking.

  Van Gils sat at his desk, looking out. He was eating a pastry out of a box from the Vlaamsch Broodhuys, a traditional Flemish bakery conveniently situated in the western end of Kerkstraat. On his desk sat the usual stack of folders. He hated paperwork nearly as much as Veneman did. Old-fashioned detectives, they preferred working with people, not with documents. That’s where Prinsen came in. He enjoyed reading through thick stacks of reports, interviews, background information, even legal documents. As far as both the seasoned detectives were concerned, however, he still was the rookie who would have to work hard to deserve their respect.

  And in this field, among people of this profession, respect was everything.

  “Are they still in conference?” Prinsen inquired of Van Gils, while taking off his overcoat and hanging it on the coatrack. Van Gils and Veneman both preferred to ignore the investigation of the Ardennes incident as much as they could get away with it. They were concentrating on the financial affairs of a large import firm that employed a number of shady but well-known characters from certain parts of Amsterdam. Money had found its way into the deep pockets of police and customs officers, who consequently ignored the dealings of the firm.

  There had been a couple of late-night confessions, but the directors of the AIVD had decided to keep the whole affair away from the public. This didn’t sit well with Van Gils and Veneman, who were frustrated with what they saw as a cover-
up. Bringing the illegal dealings of powerful economic players to light. this was their primary mission in life.

  “Are they still in isolation?” Prinsen inquired.

  “There’s a lot of things us common folk aren’t supposed to know about,” Van Gils said, eyeing the two officers in the closed office. “A lot to discuss, I guess. The results of the forensic team have been disappointing, to say the least. They haven’t made much progress.”

  “There’s the corpses,” Prinsen said.

  “The corpses. When you set something on fire and make it burn fast and hard, there’s not going to be much left for forensics to work with. Cremating people is an art, actually. Most experienced criminals know that. So do we after finding a corpse in an oil barrel.”

  “So, whoever did it was experienced enough to—”

  “I’d rather not think about it,” Van Gils said, grimacing. After thirty years on the job, mostly in the streets of Amsterdam, he had seen arson with human victims aplenty, but not people tied to stakes.

  3

  HER HANDS PLANTED FIRMLY on her hips, unconsciously taking possession of the African landscape, Linda seemed surer of herself than she felt as she overlooked the scenery. After three weeks, this scenery should have been familiar, but it still was very different from what she imagined it would be.

  Still, it wasn’t an unfamiliar view. Documentaries and photographs had prepared her for this landscape. The desolate, nearly empty expanse of the African savanna was turning into a desert with frightening speed. This might have been the original landscape her very distant ancestors had experienced, looking up at the murderous sun, and at night at the staggering number of unexplainable stars.

  But what photos and documentaries hadn’t shown was the way she would be engulfed by the landscape, from which there was no escape, and how this experience obliterated inner dimensions. It felt like she was standing on the surface of an immense table, as if the earth was flat and the horizon would go on forever. This landscape took over all her imagination.

  She also knew she would never be part of this continent. The shape of her face and the color of her skin told her that much.

  At night, the landscape could not be more peaceful. There was never complete quiet, but only rarely did something move. Occasionally, a nocturnal animal cried out or chattered with sounds that were more amusing than threatening. The camp itself was asleep soon after dark because there was never enough energy to keep the lights on. In the evenings, there was little else to do but sleep. Whoever still roamed around ran the risk of being intercepted by patrolling soldiers. There were few of them around, but they were more than efficient.

  It was a good thing these soldiers were present. She had counted about a hundred, led by a lieutenant and three sergeants. Kenyans, sporting the blue helmets of peacekeepers. A small part of the African peacekeeping force in Somalia, which was supposed to protect the camp where a few thousand refugees had found shelter against rebels, looters, murderers, rapists, and kidnappers. And, if needed, against nonhuman carnivores. Maybe a hundred weren’t enough, but the Kenyans acted professionally and with respect toward the refugees, and they were all headquarters could spare.

  Perhaps their zeal exceeded expectations, because two officials of the United Nations were left in the camp along with a dozen members of Doctors Without Borders, including Linda. She knew, at some point, the guards would need to guard the guards. But she was willing to give the Kenyans the benefit of the doubt. The lieutenant assured the doctors that he and his men were paid sufficiently for this dangerous mission and that criminals would not stand a chance.

  She had been brewing tea and now drank a cup. It didn’t amount to much, just reheated water with a slight mint flavor. There was no milk or lemon, and she drank it because little else was available. Supplies were difficult to come by, and the refugees constantly teetered on the brink of starvation. Some people were digging a fourth well because the other three were not sufficient to provide water for the camp. The stock had dwindled rapidly. The supply trucks had not come in over a week. Everything reminded her this was still a war zone.

  The region was a war zone. Yesterday these people had been plagued by war, exactly like the days and months before, and there would be war tomorrow. They had been on the run for most of their lives. Or had stayed, however temporarily, in camps like this.

  The camp began to wake up. Fires were started to make some sort of porridge in large iron kettles. Officials wanted to exchange the iron kettles for steel or aluminum ones, but the doctors had argued that even the small amounts of iron that would end up in the porridge would be a dietary advantage for these disadvantaged people.

  “Mrs. Weisman,” a civilized voice behind her said in a formal English Linda hadn’t heard in a long time. She turned around. Lieutenant Odinga stood behind her in his dress uniform as if he would, at any moment, be inspecting his troops on the parade ground in Mombasa. He insisted the Kenyan flag be hoisted every morning and lowered again every evening, and no one objected. Except for the two members of the UN, nobody was going to disagree with him. The few village elders in the camp and some priests regarded the Kenyans as a necessary evil, since they had been cut off from their traditional social structure anyway. Lieutenant Odinga was the highest authority in the camp, by virtue of his troops, a position he didn’t seem to appreciate. The UN officials merely advised him, and he was willing to listen to them, but at the end of the day, he made all the decisions. As long as no rebels overran the camp, nobody objected.

  “Lieutenant,” she said, also in English. “You know I’m Miss Weisman, don’t you?”

  He smiled, showing all too perfect teeth she was instantly jealous of. “It is better people understand you have a steady partner, even if that partner is not currently present. That is why I shall call you ma’am. Do not underestimate the prejudices of the local people. A woman on her own without a man in her life, that’s not a good idea. They foster very traditional preconceptions about a woman’s place under the sun. We are not going to talk them out of it. We are here to protect them. That’s all we do. To us, however, they are barbarians that have not yet seen the light of true civilization.”

  She didn’t know how to react. Surely, she couldn’t rebuke the lieutenant. She was the one on unfamiliar ground, not he. Her characteristic Dutch levelheadedness would come in handy when dealing with him, but for a long while she would continue to be challenged by the inexplicable newness of this continent.

  No, this was not about Africa. She could handle the alien landscape. It was fierce and wild, but after these first weeks, it no longer presented a challenge. The people, however, turned out to be the true unknown factor, especially those skeletal ones who shuffled day in and day out past the tents of the medical team. These people, who avoided her gaze when standing close and didn’t speak to her for lack of a common language. These people had lived experiences she couldn’t even imagine.

  “From where do you originate, ma’am?” he asked, with an engaging smile. “I can’t remember if anyone has already told me.”

  “The Netherlands,” she said, hoping that would ring a bell.

  “The Netherlands,” he repeated, looking thoughtfully into the distance as if expecting to see a glimpse of that mythical country, maybe have an epiphany. It would be, he assumed, a place for rich, white people, with sufficient medical facilities, where an African would be an outcast but could perhaps become rich quickly.

  “In Europe,” she added. The six-foot-four lieutenant was an impressive sight, even standing beneath her on the incline. He had regular features, a fine nose, and high cheekbones. His hair, cropped short, was already graying at the temples. She estimated he was about forty but was probably wrong.

  “Oh,” he said, almost cheerfully as if amused by her needless explanation. “I know about your country, ma’am. I had my military training in the United Kingdom. You know what the United Kingdom is, do you? So, I am aware of the Netherlands and of Amsterdam. My friends and
I managed to spend more than one weekend there. Terribly noisy city, drugs everywhere, the stench of addiction in the alleys, the women almost naked in the windows. We’ve seen it all. Yes, I know about the Netherlands and Amsterdam. Ma’am.”

  She kept quiet. She wouldn’t start an argument with the only man who stood between her and Somali rebels, rapists, and killers.

  “You’re a long way from the Netherlands, ma’am,” he continued. “I did not want to offend your country. We, here in Africa, are aware of the good things Europeans do for us. You sell weapons to our armies and you sell weapons to the rebels, and when a war breaks out, you provide doctors and relief supplies for the civilians. Your help, as such, is always appreciated.”

  “Don’t misunderstand my intentions, Lieutenant,” she said. She wanted to say more, argue with him about some of his points, but she couldn’t. He was right, in that imperturbable way of his.

  “Ma’am, I don’t have the slightest intention to interpret your intentions the wrong way. You are here because you want to help people. You are most welcome. You have noticed this country is poor and in need of everything. That is why we all are here. But our intentions are misunderstood as well. Are we in Somalia because Kenya wants to be the local superpower? Are we here to annoy Ethiopia and Tanzania? No doubt all that is true. But I don’t care. I’m not into politics. I follow orders. The general says, ‘Lieutenant Odinga, you are going to keep the peace in that part of Somalia, you and hundreds of your men because the United Nations pays your wages, and they give you that nice blue helmet to wear, and because the Kenyan government gets a few million dollars for its involvement.’ So, I come here and make sure there’s peace and people don’t kill each other.”

  “Because you see this as your duty?”

  He glanced sideways at the landscape as if on the lookout for his duty. “I have nothing whatsoever to do with these Somalis. Our mutual ancestors waged war with each other. We still wage war, and again with Somalians. But not these people here. With Muslims, we hate Muslims.”