“Go to hell, Walter,” Prinsen said. But he would do as he was told.
Three beers later and Prinsen entered the pub again. Eekhaut enjoyed the way this job was turning out. No pressure, at least not at the moment. Time enough between whatever he had to do for Dewaal. Enough decent pubs in the central area of Amsterdam, with the right brands of beer.
That chat of Prinsen’s had taken nearly an hour. “That was quite a chat,” Eekhaut ventured.
“Nice colleague you are,” Prinsen said and beckoned the server. “I’ll have a pint too. She was all over me, that girl. Wanted a date. I had to promise I’d phone her soon.”
“You’ve made a new friend, that’s what counts in life. Friends are what make life interesting. What have you discovered while chatting with the poor thing, my faithful assistant?”
“She had a lot to tell. A lot of gossip. And time to spare. Anyway. There’s this: both Desmedt and Brecht worked in the audit department of the company.”
“That might be interesting.”
“And in recent months, before their disappearance, there was a lot of tension between their department and Maxwell. Angry phone calls, angry people. Lots of late-evening meetings. Lots of aggravation.”
“More detail?”
“Rumors of financial malpractice.”
“Malpractice,” Eekhaut said. “A word I treasure. Certainly, when it annoys the corporate suits. And it usually does.”
“Is this in any way helpful?”
“Maybe. Two men who might have found discrepancies in the company’s books. Let’s assume something like that happened. Then they disappear. Poof. Gone. Their boss isn’t concerned about their fate, their well-being. He doesn’t give a shit, actually. Because he knows what happened to them, and good riddance. I’ll talk to Dewaal about this, mentioning you procured this information while risking your life.”
“Go to hell,” Prinsen said again, still in a foul mood.
26
“I HAVE THE IMPRESSION, Chief,” said Prosecutor Apostel, “that your investigation isn’t going as well as we both might wish.” She brushed her hair back as she spoke.
Apostel was fiftyish, ash-blond hair, slim, tanned as a former Baywatch model, and wore no makeup. She never raised her voice but spoke softly, with unmistakable authority. She was the new chief public prosecutor in Amsterdam, a position she had reached after a number of high-profile cases. Four months into her new job, she wasn’t going to let anybody forget she had reached this lonely position all by herself, despite the old boys’ network. She would never be one of the old boys.
Dewaal felt a certain kinship with Apostel. They both had climbed through the ranks, on their own, despite male prejudices. They both respected the other’s professional qualities, without being friends. Or even allies.
But Prosecutor Apostel wasn’t going to make Dewaal’s life easy.
“And,” Apostel continued, “any moment now the press will be crowding in front of my door, with cameras and microphones and all, and they’ll be asking, among other things, why we kept this matter a secret for so long. I’ve never been comfortable with public attention. I don’t like finding myself in the middle of a controversy either. Certainly not when the press, and hence the public, assumes we’re covering things up.”
“The Bureau doesn’t function in public,” Dewaal said dryly.
“No? Are you for real, Chief? Must I remind you your wages are being provided through the generosity of the taxpayer? It is public money; you are a servant of the state. And that state is the public. Of course, you work in public. Maybe not concerning the details of the inquiry, but when members of the public are murdered, well, there’s a rather public side to that, isn’t there? People might want to be reassured. They need to know you and the rest of the police force are making sure such terrible things cannot happen again. Burning people alive? That doesn’t sit well with the man in the street.”
“We’re making sure those responsible will get caught, ma’am,” Dewaal declared coldly.
Apostel said nothing for a moment. Maybe she was considering her options. Or what she was going to say to the press. Finally, she asked, “You’ve been working on a strategy?”
“No,” Dewaal said. “Not as far as contact with the press is concerned. Not today, anyway.”
“You haven’t.”
“I asked a member of my team to work on a press release, but something . . . got in the way.”
“Something always gets in the way, Chief. That’s a common excuse, but in this case it won’t fly. Are you going to be talking to the press in a minute?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not.”
“Then it will be me telling them the Bureau, as part of AIVD, is not currently planning to issue a statement about the inquiry.”
“As you wish,” Dewaal said.
“No!” Apostel exploded. “That’s not what I wish! Drop the damn formalities, Alexandra! I never wish for anything. I want, and I need. That’s the way this will play out between us, between the public prosecutor and the different police forces. Including, yes, the Bureau. The AIVD may consider you some sort of, I don’t know, elite section, but you’re no better than any other branch of the police once you cross the threshold of my office. Is that clear?” She took a deep breath and continued in a somewhat normal tone. “And now that I’ve spoken my mind, Chief, I will state my case more diplomatically.”
Dewaal said nothing.
“The AIVD possesses a level of autonomy no other branch of the police enjoys.”
“The nature of my investigation—”
“Yes, yes, forget about that for a moment. I’m familiar with the myth of the AIVD. However, its autonomy has its limits. And as far as I’m concerned, that limit has been reached in this case. I know what people say about me. I’m from the province, and I don’t know how to deal with significant political issues in a city like Amsterdam. Let me tell you, politicians are the same all over. I know how to handle them, thank you. In that, I’m on your side, Chief Dewaal. At least until you either fuck up or leave me standing in the cold. Did either of those things happen?”
“No, neither did.”
“Good. Then we’re on the same page. But next time you come here, be prepared with a good story. A story I can use. One that sits well with public opinion. It’s important, in our line of work, public opinion.”
“I’ll make sure I have something interesting to tell next time,” Dewaal promised, choosing the easier path. Allies. On the same page. No need to make enemies here in this office. She was familiar with how political deals were made.
“What I want you to do, Chief Dewaal,” Apostle insisted, “is to walk out of this building, go have a cup of strong coffee around the corner, take half an hour to write your statement, and then come back. I need to talk this over with you anyway, but I have another appointment just now.”
Dewaal rose from her chair. “You want me to—?”
“Just stick around. I’ll have you called. And write that statement.”
27
EILEEN REACTED AT ONCE when two men attempted to grab her. She intended to turn around, collapse to her knees, and strike out with her right foot at one of the men’s ankles. Previous experiences with violence had sharpened her reactions, and she’d had some training as well. Urban defense for women. She had had a hired assassin after her, which definitely changed her view of the world. A small but intense part of her mind was always focusing on potential danger.
But these men were no amateurs. Their victim didn’t have a chance to react, or slip away. She had no time to scream. A strong hand in a leather glove was pushed over her mouth, and she was literally lifted off the ground. In one almost graceful collective movement, much like a dance, her abductors carried her off and into a large SUV.
An hour earlier she had phoned Nick to tell him she wanted to see some old friends. “Old friends” was a relative term, referring to the period of her life in Amsterdam before Pieter had been murdered and she
had to disappear. It referred to an innocent time, although she had left most of her innocence at home, up north. Back then, she hadn’t planned ever to return there.
Her childhood had been spent with her brother and sister in an old house and gardens near Groningen. She had known nothing about the rest of the world, living in the splendid isolation her family imposed on all its members. The outside world hardly existed, at least not during the first decade and a half of her life.
There had been Maarten, her brother, who was already showing the first signs of a slow-growing insanity, enveloping both of his sisters in a world of bizarre and sometimes downright sinister games and fantasies. Only later, almost as adults, did the girls understand the weak but stubborn and utterly alien intellect their brother had developed. He was weird in a world not prepared for weirdness.
Their parents were not at all equipped to deal with him and his resolute deviations from the rules they and their community imposed on all. He wasn’t a rebel. He was merely the Other. God had shaped his mind differently, and they could do no more but accept that difference. At some point, the girls were confronted with a universe of things previously hidden from them: the universe of everything. They went to school, finding themselves the butt of jokes for their strangeness. Quickly, they adapted. School became an intellectual hiding place. Later, they left and moved to Amsterdam. It was a common enough story. It wasn’t exceptional. Eileen and her sister became students, surviving on the little money their parents provided and semi-permanent jobs.
After Pieter’s death, Eileen had returned home in one last attempt to understand her parents and make them understand her. It didn’t work out. The only other place she knew was Amsterdam.
Where Nick greeted her with open arms. Although she intended to take it easy before committing to a relationship. A real relationship.
All this was far from her mind now, being abducted and all. This wasn’t a joke. It was serious. Two men for one slightly built girl. Why would anybody abduct her? Had they made a mistake? Had they someone else in mind? Nobody would pay a ransom for her.
In the SUV, the hand was lifted from her mouth. “Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?”
“Shut it,” one of the men said, carelessly threatening. He had a scarf over the lower part of his face, but she noticed he wasn’t young. Fifty maybe, judging by the lines around his eyes. The other seemed younger. Behind the wheel was the third man. The car sped through traffic, which wasn’t easy in Amsterdam. She couldn’t see anything because of the tinted windows.
The younger man pulled her arms behind her back and tied her wrists.
“Nobody’s going to pay you money for me,” she said.
“No ransom,” the older man said.
The man behind the wheel said, “Blindfold her.” A black cloth bag was pulled over her head. She thought she would get sick. But she didn’t. She felt a sting in her thigh, and then there was nothing anymore.
The voice through the tiny speaker sounded civilized, despite the message. A refined voice making a business offer but leaving no room for negotiation. “Eileen Calster,” the voice said. “She is currently our guest, Mister Prinsen. We know she’s a good friend of yours. Currently, we’re looking after her. There’s nothing wrong with her—for now. Don’t worry.”
Prinsen couldn’t think clearly. For a moment, he assumed this was a joke. Why would anyone want to abduct Eileen? Why did people get mixed up in sinister jokes like this? He had no friends who would play pranks on him.
“What do you want from me?” he inquired meekly. Because this was no joke. This was real. The man wasn’t kidding. And this was about Eileen.
“You want her back?”
“Of course I want her back. Nothing must happen to her.”
“Nothing will. As long as we agree on several premises.”
Premises, Prinsen thought. What is this? Who would speak like that? “What premises?” he inquired.
The voice over the phone quietly explained what he wanted from Prinsen. Nothing that seemed complicated. Or maybe it was.
What he wanted from Prinsen was complicated because Prinsen would have to forfeit some of his principles. But he listened. He made no comment.
He listened to the voice until that voice was finished, and the conversation was over. Prinsen knew what was expected of him. The man hadn’t made any threats. He hadn’t spoken of what would happen to Eileen if Prinsen was less than forthcoming.
There was no need to make verbal threats.
28
DEWAAL FOUND HERSELF, FASTER than she had wished, back in Apostel’s office. There had been just enough time for a coffee and a quick visit to the bathroom. Twenty minutes, her watch told her. Then her phone had chirped with a message from Apostel. She was expected back.
“Shall we move on, Chief Dewaal?” the prosecutor said, letting Dewaal in. A man got up from one of the chairs, a neatly dressed Arab gentleman with slick black hair and deep dark eyes. Or maybe Indian, Dewaal wasn’t sure. For a short moment he observed her carefully, then extended his hand. “Colonel Saeed Al-Rahman of the Mutaween,” he said pleasantly, in perfect Oxford English. “I am here, Chief Dewaal, by agreement with your own Ministry of the Interior.”
“And we will extend all due courtesies toward Colonel Al-Rahman,” Apostel added, also in English. As a warning to Dewaal.
“I am a member of the religious police, not just the secret service,” Al-Rahman added, not without a certain irony. “In my country, this is an important distinction.”
“I’m aware of that,” Dewaal said. “Colonel.”
The Mutaween. She knew what that meant. Or not. She had no idea why the colonel was here. Unless, of course, it was because of her investigation.
Mutaween, indeed.
“We will talk about the presence of the colonel in a moment, Chief,” Apostel said, and continued in Dutch, “I told him we would have to discuss a few things between ourselves, but he didn’t mind being present. So just ignore him.”
“Of course, he doesn’t understand Dutch.”
“I assume not. There’s a thing I need to warn you about: you have a mole in your organization. I mean, in the Bureau. How else can you explain how the news leaked to the papers?”
“From the beginning, dozens of people have been involved. I’m surprised things didn’t leak earlier.”
“Even so . . .”
“I know there must be a leak, ma’am,” Dewaal said. “One of my people, or maybe not. Someone walks into a pub and shoots off his mouth, and there happens to be a journalist present, and when you mix alcohol with—”
“I don’t want excuses. I want action,” Apostel said.
“I can hardly dismiss the whole team,” Dewaal said. “Maybe there used to be a problem with screening officers when siphoning them toward the AIVD and the Bureau. I don’t know. The rot was always there in the force. We both know that. Too many corrupt officers, veterans usually. Give me a year to figure it all out.”
“That’s mighty long, a year,” Apostel said.
“We might be talking about two or three people. I can trust only a few of the team. I have already taken certain measures. I’ve taken this up with the directors.”
“I’ll need to keep the minister informed. Anyway, now to the other issue. The colonel is here because a countryman of his has been killed here in Amsterdam.” She looked at the colonel and continued in English. “We now come back to you, Colonel, with my apologies for this interruption.”
“No need, ma’am,” he said.
“I explained to the chief how a citizen of the Saudi state arrived in Amsterdam two days ago and met his unfortunate end,” Apostel said.
“Is this something for us?” Dewaal inquired, also in English. “We don’t get involved with murders, even when the victim is a foreign national.”
“This is not just any citizen of our state, ma’am,” said Al-Rahman. “This is Prince Abdullah Ibn Faisal Ibn Saud. The name tells you why I’m here. He
was killed in a villa just outside Amsterdam. It was rented for him by our government. He was here on official business, of course.”
“This is highly unfortunate for the prince,” Dewaal diplomatically said, wondering how the colonel felt about having to negotiate with two women. Or was she prejudiced? As if she cared about the sensitivities of the colonel. He looked sufficiently Westernized anyway. He might have left his sensitivities at home. “But I still fail to understand why we should be concerned.”
“The colonel didn’t just drop by to see us,” Apostel said. “He arrived by military aircraft. His government is taking this very seriously.”
The colonel kept his attention on Dewaal. “There are two major concerns in the affair,” he said. “First, the Prince was killed in a most gruesome manner. He died in a fire, tied to a bed. Madam prosecutor seemed convinced that you would be interested in this modus operandi.”
“I might,” Dewaal said, not entirely ready to commit herself or her service. “And the second issue?”
“The other people present died an equally gruesome death, but in particular the fact that they were present disturbed my government highly. Disturbed the members of the royal household even more. And here we enter a delicate part of the story.”
Dewaal said nothing.
“His Highness,” the colonel proceeded, “was in the presence of three young Western women who had been paid to entertain His Highness, ma’am. This might not be something surprising to you, here, in this country. But in my country this significant detail will be extremely disgraceful to the entire royal family. There will be dire consequences if this becomes public.”
“The prince was the second cousin of the . . . of the Saudi king,” Apostel added.
“I understand,” Dewaal said. “What you need most is discretion.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the colonel said. “The whole thing should not see the light of day, as the expression goes.”
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