“All the members of both the church and the society seem to go only by those sorts of names,” Prinsen said. “We don’t yet have real names to match them to.”
“I assume Simson knows Baphomet’s real name,” Eekhaut said. “She knows who he is. She knows much more than she wants us to believe. She reads the papers, and she probably has informers both inside and outside the church. She knows who’s behind these murders.”
“But she won’t tell you,” Veneman said.
“We have enough to confront her again—”
The office phone on the table buzzed. Veneman took the call. He listened, then said, “The chief? Yes, she’s here. We’re in a meeting. Who did you say?” He glanced at Dewaal, held the phone away from his ear. “There’s a Saudi gentleman at reception downstairs, Chief. A colonel something. Needs to see you.”
“Damn,” Dewaal said. She got up. “Another problem announcing itself. All right, let’s take a break. Have some coffee and a snack. I’ll be back after I’ve seen him.”
She walked down the hall, determined to ask the colonel not to interfere with the ongoing investigation. But she already knew he would ignore that. He had political support, and he would push his way in.
Colonel Al-Rahman was waiting at the reception desk. He was inspecting some of the posters on the walls, holiday posters with tropical beaches and views of the French Provence. They were purely decorative and had nothing to do with the AIVD. Dewaal had kept them. Sometimes people needed the illusion they didn’t work for a security service.
He wore a suit of dark wool and held a black overcoat over his arm, looking like a junior diplomat.
“Colonel,” she addressed him in English. “You wanted to see me? I’m in the middle of a staff meeting, and I’m afraid I cannot help you right now. Could you make an appointment for later today?”
“This is not a personal visit, Chief Commissioner,” he said confidently. “I have been instructed by my superiors, my very high-ranking superiors, to assist with and participate in your ongoing investigation concerning the Society of Fire and everything else connected with them.” He conjured a document out of his jacket pocket. “Of course, I have here permission to act on behalf of my government on Dutch soil. I am certainly not going to disturb whatever activities you have planned, so please continue as you see fit. However, since I do not speak Dutch, I will need a member of your staff to translate things for me, or at least give me a concise summary of the proceedings.”
She wasn’t going to let him participate in her investigation if she could avoid it. “I’m afraid, Colonel, none of my staff will be available for translating purposes. We’re short-staffed as it is, and we have more than just this investigation. This is the Netherlands, where public services are always understaffed.”
He smiled at her patiently, ignoring her objections. “I am not merely expressing my wishes, Chief, but also those of the head of AIVD, whose signature is at the bottom of this document. And that of the minister in charge. So I’m afraid I must insist. I can easily adjust to your organizational structure, as it seems to be less complicated than the agency I work for in my own country. I am a nuisance, I’m sure, but I will try to keep a low profile. I’m sure you do not want me around, but we both must comply with orders given to us, mustn’t we?”
She merely glanced at the paper. Whether she wanted it or not, the colonel was now a member of her team. Her extended team. What could she use him for? He would be nothing more than an observer. She couldn’t ask him to interrogate people. She wouldn’t even think of asking him for his opinion.
But she was stuck with him.
“Well, Colonel,” she said, “it seems you’re in, then. If you come along, you can meet the rest of the team.”
They took the stairs. When they entered the meeting room, a silence descended over those present. The colonel merely smiled, aware of being the cause of the silence. “Your attention, everyone,” Dewaal said, in Dutch. “This is Colonel Al-Rahman of the Saudi police.” She wasn’t going to complicate things by mentioning the Mutaween, religious police, secret service, or whatever department this colonel belonged to. Someone might take offense or something. “He’s here because of the Saudi prince, and he will be part of the extended investigation team. Eekhaut, can you give him a concise translation of whatever is said in here, and also later on?”
“Me?” Eekhaut said, surprised. “You want me to act as interpreter?”
She shot him a look, warning him not to take his objections too far. “You are, after all, our international liaison officer, aren’t you? Between the AIVD and foreign intelligence services. Isn’t that your job description? And your English is excellent. It would be a waste not to use one of your many talents.”
Eekhaut wanted to say something more, but she cut him off, still in Dutch. “And keep a lid on it now. Go and stand next to the colonel so he can hear you. Now, where were we?”
Eekhaut cast a glance at the colonel, who smiled at him. All right, I’ll play along, for now.
“You’re my interpreter, Chief Inspector?” the colonel asked.
“I am,” Eekhaut said, staying firmly on neutral ground.
“Delighted,” the colonel said, as if he meant it.
Not really sure about that, Eekhaut thought, but he kept that to himself.
“Sorry to embarrass you,” the colonel added.
“No, it’s not a problem. Just . . .”
“The prince had many interests and friends. Especially in Europe. I am here to make sure his murderer is caught. It is as simple as that.”
“So, they are sending a police colonel . . .”
“Actually,” Al-Rahman corrected, “I was an army colonel, and then I got a job at the police, retaining my rank.”
“Army?”
“Special units, operations, infiltration, weapons training, explosives, and so on.” He smiled. “The really interesting stuff. Counterterrorism and such.”
“Shall we continue?” Dewaal inquired.
“Fine with me,” Eekhaut said. “And with the colonel.”
Half an hour later the briefing ended. Dewaal stepped back into her office, along with Al-Rahman. The detectives had received their instructions and gone on their separate ways. Eekhaut had been keeping an eye on Prinsen, who had seemed absent all the time, his mind and attention elsewhere. He had hardly spoken. Eekhaut knew something was wrong.
Could it have been Prinsen who had leaked information to the press?
Prinsen got up from his desk and donned his overcoat. He left the building. Eekhaut watched him crossing the Amstelplein. This didn’t seem like a lunch break. It was too early for a lunch break. Something was going on.
He took his own coat off the rack and followed Prinsen.
* Literally, Old South.
38
“THIS IS TOTALLY INADEQUATE,” the voice over the phone said. The man sounded annoyed, as if Prinsen had failed his expectations.
And he had.
“That’s about all that was discussed,” Prinsen said. He stood in a drafty phone booth where every surface sported scabrous messages or colorful stickers advertising dope or porn. “Really, it was. We have to be vigilant, we need to go through the files again, we must be ready for action. That’s the drift of it. Then the colonel appeared.” He hoped the man on the other end of the line would believe him. Was he good at lying? At pretending? Did he sound convincing enough?
“What colonel?” At once the voice sounded suspicious. The voice of the anonymous man who claimed he had Eileen. “What colonel are you talking about? Where does he fit into all this?”
“His name is Al-Rahman, and he works for the Saudi secret service or something. He’s investigating the murder of the prince.” He assumed his caller would know what prince.
“You’re not all that well organized over there, are you?” the voice said, now with a trace of malign amusement. “But we need more cooperation from you, buddy. Your girlfriend is cold and hungry. She’ll stay th
at way, and maybe things’ll get worse for her if you don’t come up with better information. She’s counting on you, Prinsen. And so are we. You got that?”
“If you hurt her—”
“Oh, cut the stupid clichés. Nothing will happen to her. We’ve all watched the same movies, and we know what our parts are, right? Mine is to threaten you. Yours is to comply with our demands. Her role is innocent victim. Got it?”
“I can only tell you what I know. They don’t share everything with me.”
“Really? They don’t trust you? There’s a certain irony in that, isn’t there? Your chief doesn’t like you? You get the chores nobody wants? Cheer up, Prinsen. You’re young, and you’ll get far. Show some ambition, dammit!”
“They know about the gas tanker,” Prinsen said.
“The tanker,” the voice repeated, neutral. Not giving anything away.
“They know about the link between Real Estate Technologies and TransCom.”
“Do they now?”
“That’s all they know. The rest is guesswork. They wonder why Real Estate Technologies needs highly flammable gas in such amounts. And the tanker to transport it.”
“What else?”
“That’s it.”
There was a short silence. Then the man said, “You hear any names mentioned?”
“What names?”
“That’s what I want to hear from you, dummy.”
“No. No names.”
“Don’t fool with me, Prinsen. Think about the nice girl enjoying our hospitality.”
“That’s all I know.”
Suddenly, the line went dead. Prinsen, taken aback, glanced around. He had been absorbed with the call and hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings. He now felt as if someone were watching him. Frederiksplein, where he stood, was almost deserted. Which was unusual, even in winter. Apart from a few elderly pensioners dressed in many layers of clothing and a bunch of young people who apparently didn’t have to be in school.
Still, he knew someone was watching him.
He glanced around, but nobody seemed interested in him.
He hadn’t spoken the truth just now. Well, only part of the whole truth. He had to assume they—whoever they were—wouldn’t find out what he had kept from them. He was going to feed them bits and pieces, just enough to keep them occupied but nothing that would seriously jeopardize the investigation. He couldn’t risk that. Couldn’t risk them finding out, either. He was going to give them the impression that the criminal investigation wasn’t advancing in any meaningful direction.
But he was balancing on a tightrope. Eileen was in danger. He wouldn’t risk her life. He would sacrifice everything for her. Maybe he would even kill for her. He had no guarantee her captors would let her go, whatever information he fed them.
He left the phone booth.
They expected to hear from him again within a few hours. He had to sneak out of the office once more, which would at some point make him suspect. But they wanted him to use the booth, one of the last of its kind in Amsterdam, and phone a mobile number.
He turned around.
Eekhaut stood in front of him. Hands in the pockets of his coat and patiently waiting for a reaction from Prinsen. He knew. Eekhaut knew what Prinsen had been up to.
“Nick?” he said. “Is there something you need to share with me?”
They sat at a table in the back of Café Bouwman and drank coffee with a glass of brandy for medicinal reasons, at Eekhaut’s insistence. “After all, police officers drink,” he said. “It’s a well-known fact they do. A law of nature. And laws of nature cannot be skirted. Personally, I’d choose a beer anytime, but in this case, I guess you need something stronger. The coffee, by the way, is just an excuse.”
Prinsen stared at his now half-empty glass of brandy. “I’m sorry,” he said. And then he realized what he had said. Sorry? What did that mean? Sorry he was caught? Sorry he was betraying his fellow officers?
“Your regret means next to nothing under the circumstances, Nick,” Eekhaut said. “But please, do enlighten me. Who were you calling? And what exactly did you tell them? And why are you leaking information to the press? Don’t tell me it’s for money.”
Prinsen looked up, surprised. Eekhaut, taking this to be proof of his guilt, went on: “Aunt Alexandra isn’t going to forgive you, my friend. She hates it when the papers print stuff we want to shield from public view. What the hell were you thinking, Nick?”
“You’ve got it wrong, Walter.”
“Do I? You sneak out and use public phone to—?”
“Not to the press.”
Eekhaut sat back, sipped his brandy, and waited. “I’m waiting,” he said.
“I can’t tell you,” Prinsen said. Although he knew he had few options. None actually. But, still, Eileen’s safety was his primary if not his sole concern.
Eekhaut leaned toward Prinsen. “Nick, you have no choice. Well, you actually have two choices. Either you tell me what the hell is going on here, or I kick your ass all the way to Dewaal’s office and you tell her. What’s it going to be?”
“It’s about Eileen.”
“Eileen? What’s Eileen got to do with this?”
“She has been kidnapped.”
Eekhaut sat back again. He suddenly felt cold. This was any police officer’s nightmare: your family being threatened by criminals. Or the family of one of your colleagues. There used to be some sort of honorary agreement between cops and criminals, not to touch the family. This worked so long as both parties occupied a common territory. A city, for instance. Once outsiders moved in, the whole idea about honor went out the window. Eekhaut had seen it happen in Brussels and Antwerp, and he knew it had happened elsewhere as well. The old consensus between the law and the criminal world evaporated when the Russians arrived, or the Bulgarians, or the Koreans. They had their own codes of conduct, but their codes didn’t include the fair treatment of local cops and their families.
“Not the press then,” Eekhaut said.
“No,” Prinsen said. “She was kidnapped. By people who want to know everything, every detail of our case against the Society of Fire. They want me to keep them informed. On a daily basis if not more frequent.” He peered over Eekhaut’s shoulder, then fixed his gaze again on his fellow officer. His voice trembled. “A cult that burns people alive, Walter. What was I to do?”
Eekhaut was glad no one was around who could overhear them. Prinsen had tears in his eyes; he was desperate, which was wholly understandable. Eekhaut felt terribly sorry for the kid, but there was no time for sentiment. Some sort of action was needed.
“What have you told them just now?”
“As little as possible. That we found out about the firm buying the tanker and the gas. But I didn’t mention suspects’ names. They don’t know we’re trying to link Maxwell to the whole affair. I try to tell them as little as possible, but I can’t risk telling outright lies.”
“All right. So, they use you as a source of information.”
“That tanker and the gas, that’s probably some big thing for them. A main element in their plan. They have no reason to hurt her. She’s not the enemy.”
She’s not, Eekhaut thought. But neither were all those thousands of people the church killed over the decades.
An awkward silence hung, almost physically, in Dewaal’s office. Eekhaut told the story, while Prinsen remained silent throughout. Dewaal listened, not commenting at all. Not even a question. Not even a request for clarification.
Which, to Eekhaut, was not a good sign at all.
“There we are then,” he finally said. “That’s how it stands.”
“I’m not really sure,” Dewaal said, after a moment.
“You’re not really sure about what exactly, Chief?” Eekhaut said. “There’s no two ways about it. We cannot risk Eileen’s life. The kidnappers should be left in the dark about . . . well, about Nick informing us. And we need to keep providing them with selected and edited information.�
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“There are numerous problems that might arise, Walter,” Dewaal said. “For one thing, he might not be the only source they have inside our team. Have you thought of that?”
“No, I hadn’t,” Eekhaut admitted.
“So, we must be careful about what we feed them, while at the same time making sure Eileen isn’t harmed. And believe me, both of you, I want Eileen safe and alive as much as you do. But we will have to take several precautions.”
“They have all the cards,” Eekhaut said. “The only things we have so far are hypotheses.”
“Let’s take the war to the enemy, then,” Dewaal proposed. “Let’s turn Maxwell inside out and see what he’s made of. His personal life, the companies he works for, and those who work for him. Meanwhile, Nick will continue to provide his buddies on the other side with information, but only after the fact. He can concoct some story about being kept out of the loop, where certain things are concerned.”
“We might find nothing on Maxwell.”
“I don’t know about the urgency of their apocalyptic agenda, but they haven’t run the risk of buying a tank full of explosive stuff just to sit on it for months or even years. And when they’re in a hurry, they will start making mistakes. Actually, kidnapping Eileen might have been a mistake.” Dewaal glanced at Prinsen. “What’s the number you’re supposed to call?”
“It’s a prepaid number,” he said.
“Of course it is. And I would suspect these are pros employed by Maxwell and his ilk, not members of their own tribe. I’ll instruct Van Gils to dive into his contacts all over Amsterdam and see if anyone knows about—don’t shake your head, Nick. Van Gils might be a bit of a buffoon at times, but he’s good at what he does. And he knows the local lowlifes like no one else.”
“Chances are she was kidnapped by members of the society.”
“Probably. But I want to look at this from all angles. All right with that, Nick?” Dewaal’s desk phone buzzed. She picked it up and said her name. She listened intently. Then she said, “Just a second,” and to Eekhaut and Prinsen, “I’ve got the minister on the line. Get lost, both of you. He’ll tell me what kind of disgrace I am to the profession, and I don’t want you near me when he does.”
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