Ms. Simson looked up. “Thank you, Dottie. I’ll be fine.” Dottie left the room again, carefully avoiding the furniture. She had served in this household for something like seven decades, since she was a young girl, in this same house where the masters of the church had come and gone. This house, where in her lifetime no less than three generations of masters had plotted and schemed. Dottie had always been there with tea and cookies and the occasional kind remark about small and insignificant things, never taking part but always observing. She also knew all there was to know about Amsterdam, having many contacts in the extended neighborhood. The masters would occasionally consult her about restaurants or people with specific skills who could be trusted. These days, and for some years now, she seldom went out because of her rheumatism and her failing eyesight. She was, however, still the living memory of the church.
Dottie had served the old masters in the days of the traditional rites and sacrifices, in the days of hope and fire. She would have seen the letters exchanged between groups, probably written in code, but she would have known what sort of instructions these letters contained. And she read newspapers, fully knowledgeable of these terrible, terrible disasters that befell humanity. She had never uttered so much as a word in defense of the victims, never gone against the will of the masters. She was a mere servant girl who knew little of doctrine and politics.
Although at night, alone in bed, she wept because of the children.
Dottie had also survived the schism in the church. The old guard had disappeared, most of them too old to act and some of them suddenly dead in bizarre accidents. The new masters had discontinued the old ideology. No longer would people have to die. The change had not affected her position in the house. She was as loyal to her new masters as she had been to the old. Maybe she was relieved no people would be killed anymore. Maybe she no longer cried in her bed. But she never shared her thoughts on the matter.
“Oh, Dottie,” Ms. Simson said before Dottie could fully disappear into the corridor. “When the visitor calls, admit him to the salon at once. And, Dottie, he does not speak Dutch.”
“That’s not a problem, ma’am,” Dottie said. She spoke several languages other than Dutch.
Simson hoped the visitor wouldn’t notice Dottie’s hands trembling. Ms. Simson thought, We’re all getting on in years. Our generation will soon be gone. With us, whatever is left of the old church will disappear. Hopefully. We once were introduced into the church as it was then, a vengeful and terrible cult. And then, too horrified to continue the ways of the elders, we revolted and we changed it. But our enemies prevail. Those who still believe in the purification by fire, those still in the service of that cruel God, have treated many of us cruelly. If things go their way, we will be exterminated.
This was a war, and there would be only one winning side.
The visitor was of a much younger generation. His name was Saeed Al-Rahman, and he was an Arab. He was one of those who would continue the new tradition of the church, and at the same time he was a devout Muslim. There was no contradiction in this. He was one of those Ms. Simson hoped would be the new masters of the church. He would honor the rituals of the new church once the elderly members were no longer able to uphold them. He was sent here by an old friend of the church, a senior Arab officer who had introduced Al-Rahman to the ritual years earlier.
It might not matter much what Johanna Simson and the other members of the church planned. The end of times was near. These were the last years of humankind and the universe. Then everything would return to the Creator. All sins would be forgiven to those in His service.
But still, it would be a good idea to make sure the church would function beyond 2020, in case the prophecy failed. As it had failed before. The end of this world had been predicted many times, as often as not by the masters of the church. The world was still here.
Who would, in the end, be the chosen ones? Not the heretics who were still murdering innocent people. Not the billions outside the true faith. Not the masses who never spared a thought to their place in the universe.
Dottie closed the door behind her. She would go prepare fresh tea for the visitor. Mint tea with lots of sugar. Johanna Simson remained alone in the salon.
Simson tried to meditate and think of nothing. She had not read the Holy Book in a long time, knowing large parts by heart. Having its message in her head.
We are all the children of the book, she thought. That’s what the Arab general had said over the phone. How long ago had that been? A couple of weeks? He had spoken slowly and had used simple English sentences because he knew she wasn’t familiar with the language. They shared the same convictions. The same fire burned deep in them, across the gulf of cultures and languages. The same certainties enlightened their paths.
“I will send help,” he promised. But not right away, he regretted. Sending someone at once would arouse suspicion. All had to be prepared carefully. But suddenly, a suitable if dramatic opportunity presented itself. He would send her a man who would help her. Who would help her deal with Baphomet. The general spoke comforting words to her. We will survive, he told her. We will attain the eternity we are longing for. It will happen.
The bell rang. Johanna heard Dottie shuffling toward the front door. She heard her voice but could not understand the reply. Then, after another moment, the front door closed again. Dottie walked into the salon, a man behind her. Simson got up. The man was younger than she had expected. Mid-thirties at the most. This was a good thing, but she wondered if he would be strong enough to see this through. On his face, however, she saw the determination he would need to confront their enemies successfully.
She addressed him in English, as best as she could. “Gratefully we welcome you into our house, brother,” she said, somewhat stiffly. A sentence used many times before, like an incantation. The language lent itself perfectly to formalities. She loved it, remembering having read the classics in that language.
Saeed Al-Rahman lowered his head respectfully. “It is an honor to be welcomed by you,” he said, his voice like wind through summer corn. “I heard you have problems.”
“There are many things bothering us,” she acknowledged.
Dottie arrived with the fresh tea. Simson and the colonel sat down while Dottie poured two new cups.
“I arrive here not by coincidence,” he said, glancing at the old woman for a moment, then returning his attention to Simson. “My presence is the result of numerous events we do not fully control.”
“We’re aware of that. Our mutual friend, whose sensible judgment we appreciate, has done a good job. You know about our problem. We share the same enemies. I hope you can deal with them. The hour of the last day is approaching.”
“Ah, it is,” Al-Rahman smiled and drank his tea. “This is why I am here.”
“We rely on the younger generation to . . . sustain us during these end times,” she said. She wasn’t familiar enough with the language to precisely express her feelings, but he understood.
“We both know,” he admitted, “that the prophecy doesn’t refer to an exact date, despite what many seem to think. It is a rough indication of the End of Times, which will come at some point, but perhaps not right now. There is still time, time for a new advent of the church.”
She hadn’t expected him to start a philosophical discussion about the basic concept. But then, she had probably misunderstood his intentions and those of the man who had sent him all along. Anyway, she felt there was no time for discussion about fundamental issues, with the society hot on their heels.
“But then, all this might not be a pressing issue,” the colonel continued, unaware of her confusion. “We must convince all members of the church to follow the new line set out these recent decades. The Society of Fire is now our main enemy, not the rest of humanity. We must destroy the society or none of us will be saved.”
This will happen, Ms. Simson thought. This is what is going to happen.
36
EILEEN WAS SU
RE SHE couldn’t escape from the room. She had explored every corner of it by the dim electric light coming from the corridor through a small cobwebbed window in the wall above the door. She had cried and begged, but there had been no reaction from her captors. There was an equally cobwebbed narrow horizontal window high on one of the other walls, but she couldn’t reach it, and it would be too small for her to crawl through. She assumed nobody would be around to hear and help her either.
Finally, bleak morning light crept through the window. The room was chilly and damp, and she assumed it was partially underground, the window just barely above street level. Street? There seemed to be no street around, no noise of any kind, no people who would hear her scream for help. She had wrapped the blanket around her for comfort and for warmth but had not slept much. In addition to the cot, there was a small wooden table and a chair, both under the window, both old relics of better times. She would not try to stand on the table; it would not hold her weight.
Why was she here?
It wasn’t about money. Nobody was going to pay her abductors anything. Maybe they would sell her off as a sex slave or something. Russia? One of the Arab countries? She knew it was stereotypical, but even so, it might be true.
She had awakened earlier, feeling vaguely nauseated and light-headed after having been sedated. She had been lying on the bed, the blanket over her, noticing the world was cold and still. Since then nothing had happened. She still wore her clothes, including her jacket, but her kidnappers had taken her purse, phone, keys, and everything else. On the table had been a large bottle of water, from which she had already drunk half. Soon she would need to go to the toilet. Then what?
A sudden knock at the door startled her. Why would a kidnapper knock? Two men entered, dressed in black, each wearing a balaclava. That was a good sign. They were keeping their faces hidden from her. At some point, they expected to let her go.
The second man carried a steel tray with a china plate, a mug, a glass, a battered steel coffeepot, bread, cheese, salami, and a bottle of fruit juice. In her current situation, all of those were luxuries. She was hungry. She could refuse the food, but that would be foolish.
“Why am I here?” she asked. She managed to keep her voice down and nonaggressive. She preferred to be seen as a victim.
The second man deposited the tray on the table, the first remained by the door. Neither of them seemed inclined to reply.
“Eat,” the first man said. “Then we will let you clean yourself up.” He sounded like he came from South Holland. Both men were white, she noticed. They didn’t bother wearing gloves. Their hands were large, but not calloused.
“What’s going to happen to me?” she demanded. Not that she expected an answer.
“It won’t be long,” the first man said. The second retreated to the corridor. It seemed nearly as dark and humid as the room. “Don’t worry. Nothing bad will happen to you.” He sounded cultured, not the sort of man you’d expect to kidnap a young woman for sadistic purposes. But then, she had no experience with that kind of man.
But that, of course, was not entirely true.
The first man left too and locked the door. She sat down at the table and inspected her breakfast. They had even brought her hot coffee. Not what you’d expect from ordinary kidnappers. She knew she would need energy. Against the cold. And against boredom. She ate, and she drank the fruit juice and coffee.
What could she do? Should she try to escape? There seemed no immediate way out. Not through the window. And the door looked sturdy. The funny thing was, they’d given her potential weapons: the tray, even a knife, however dull.
But the men had looked strong and confident.
She would wait this out. For now.
37
ALEXANDRA DEWAAL HAD ASKED several officers from the Bureau to gather in the small conference room next to her office. The room offered a view toward the back of the building, showing windowless brick walls of surrounding office blocks and, further on, a bleak landscape of chimneys, steel, concrete, and tiled roofs of some of the older early nineteenth-century houses. No one had ever been seduced by the view, and most of the people present in the room ignored it. The windows didn’t open, not to prevent people from jumping out, but because it had been cheaper to build and easier to secure.
Prinsen and De Vries were seated in a corner with their laptops. On the table at the far end, white cardboard boxes from the Vlaamsch Broodhuys* offered croissants, éclairs, chocolate rolls, and small fruit tarts, all introduced by Eekhaut weeks earlier and since then appreciated by the on-duty officers. Everyone present looked serious, thoughtful, waiting for the chief to arrive. Some whispered together about family matters, sports, political events, the financial crisis. Some gossiped or complained about the weather. They looked like an informal gathering in any sort of business. The walls were bare, no AIVD posters. Nobody carried a weapon, none wore a badge. Not even their conversations identified these people as police officers.
Dewaal walked in and closed the door behind her. She glanced at the dozen people as she would have observed a soccer team of twelve-year-olds. That’s basically what they are, she often thought.
“Good morning,” she said and sat down in the one unoccupied chair. “This meeting is about the Church of the Supreme Purification and its breakaway sect, the Society of Fire, as it’s aptly named. We don’t yet have a code name for this operation because only the people present are working on it so far. That means all of you. And I have no inspiration for a suitable name either. I refer you to the briefings you received yesterday or this morning and which all of you read immediately. We have reason to believe the threat posed by the society is much more serious than the one or two collective murders we’ve seen so far. I’m referring, of course, to what occurred in the Ardennes a month ago and the recent death of a Saudi prince and three women here in Amsterdam. Because of the nature of these crimes and the assumptions we’re making, we decided to expand from the original small team. And that’s where all of you come in.”
She ignored the growing murmur. “So far, we have very few leads, except for one particular and rather alarming item. What else we have is mostly based on assumption and a few witness statements or tips. One of the victims of the Ardennes is a young man named Adriaan Basten. He worked for InfoDuct, dealing with financial matters.”
She glanced at Eekhaut, who ignored her. “Some people with a similar profile disappeared around the same time Basten did,” she continued, “coinciding with the Ardennes event. They may have been among the victims. We’re looking in particular at two men, Brecht and Desmedt, who both worked for another company, TransCom, a company related to InfoDuct. We spoke to their boss, Jan Pieter Maxwell, who did not seem too concerned about their fate.”
“Because he’s a capitalist swine,” Eekhaut added morosely. “He’s not interested in his employees, couldn’t care less what people who work for him do.”
Dewaal ignored him. “We can’t identify either man as one of the victims. But it’s clear now that both of them had discovered certain, let’s say, dealings by Maxwell, unsavory financial dealings. That may be a motive for their killing. As for the other incident, the Saudi prince, we have good reason to assume there is a link to the Ardennes: motive and modus operandi, mostly. The primary motive for that event may be that the Society of Fire is eliminating members of the church because of profound religious differences. But this could be partly combined with Maxwell’s personal motives, to want to eliminate people who know too much about him and his finances. All of this, however, is still speculation.”
“And of course,” Eekhaut added, “everyone is waiting for the apocalypse.”
“Yes,” Dewaal said carefully, “let’s not forget the apocalypse. Chief Inspector Eekhaut won’t let us forget that. For those new to the subject, there is complete background information on all elements of the investigation—including the, ah, apocalypse theory.”
“And there’s the tip Van Gils received,” Eekhaut
urged her on impatiently.
“Coming to that. It’s the thing that has us worrying the most. Van Gils received a tip about a previously unknown company, Real Estate Technologies, which recently acquired a tanker filled with five thousand gallons of highly explosive liquefied gas. We have reason to doubt a legitimate reason for this transaction.”
“The strange thing is,” Van Gils explained, “the company bought both the transporter and the gas itself.”
“What’s more,” Dewaal continued, it’s especially alarming that Real Estate Technologies is in fact a full subsidiary of TransCom.”
Veneman, from the other side of the table, said, “What about that gas, Chief? What can it be used for?”
“Whatever it’s normally used for, it’s not something we want to see in the hands of people who have a penchant for mass killings,” Dewaal said.
“Shouldn’t we bring in this Maxwell and have a long conversation with him?”
“We have nothing substantive on him,” Dewaal said. “We can’t link him directly to the tanker or the Ardennes.” She looked around the table. “At this time, we’re not arresting anyone. We observe, we delve deeper into their affairs, we try to find people who can provide us with more information. We stay aware of the ticking clock. The problem is, we don’t know how urgent our problem is.”
“And what does the prosecutor have to say concerning a feasible strategy?” Eekhaut inquired. “Because that’s what seems to be lacking: a strategy.”
“I conferred with her this morning, and she agrees with our strategy.”
“And what about Baphomet?” he continued.
“Baphomet?”
Eekhaut turned around to where Prinsen sat. “Remember, Nick, Johanna Simson talking about Baphomet as the leader of the Society of Fire all the way back to its inception twenty years ago? The man has a problem, and an old one, with the church and its new doctrine.”
Purgatory Page 22