The two detectives left the office and closed the door behind them. “Put him through,” Dewaal said.
“Chief Commissioner,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “I’m calling you because of the Church of the Supreme Purification. As you may recall, this is not the first talk we’ve had on the subject.”
“No, Your Excellency. That’s correct. We also talked about the society—the infamous one we spoke about a few days ago.”
“And today again I want you to tell me about your case. I keep getting anxious calls from my colleague in Foreign Affairs. He belongs to another political party than me, and, well, he is all too keen to express his discontent with the way things are run here. He’s proposing, no, threatening, to express his opinions to the press. His impression is that we’re not really doing what it takes to solve one particular crime.”
Dewaal gazed up at the ceiling of her office. “We’re currently investigating a number of very promising leads, sir. We’re making progress, but the case is complex. It’s linked to other cases I mentioned earlier. And we must proceed with a certain caution so as not to alarm the public. Or the adversary, for that matter.”
“This is not what I need to hear from you, Chief. There are always leads, isn’t that how it is supposed to work? It’s a sort of Holy Grail with you people. When this goes public, I need something a lot better than leads. I want names, faces, and above all, arrests.”
“Oh, names and faces we might have, Excellency. But we have no proof to link them to the crimes in question.”
“In other words, you have nothing. You haven’t been able to stop the killers from killing some more, including an important Saudi diplomat.”
“And three Dutch girls,” Dewaal added brusquely. No longer trying to sound amiable.
“Nobody, really nobody cares about three whores, Chief,” the minister said, hoarsely. “They found themselves where they weren’t supposed to be, doing things they weren’t supposed to do either. Whatever. The Saudis, Chief. They’re angry because we seem to be sitting on our hands. And for reasons you might better appreciate, I do care a lot about their feelings.”
“With your permission, sir,” Dewaal said dryly, “I personally don’t care about the Saudi royal family or their diplomats. If their horny, adulterous nephew couldn’t keep his dick in his pants—or whatever he was wearing at the time—and needed three underage girls at the same time, then his worried relatives should have given him adequate protection. Maybe kept him at home. They have whores there, don’t they? Probably not: they want to retain their sanctimonious . . . Well, whatever, sir. At this precise moment, my only real concern is the safety of the Dutch people. Because what we know right now sir, or what we don’t know, is that the Society of Fire might be planning some big event, a major-scale barbecue perhaps, one that might eclipse all previous sacrifices they’ve organized.”
“Commissioner!”
“It’s Chief Commissioner, actually, sir, with all due respect. If Your Excellency is really concerned about his political career, you would do better to let us do our job. Otherwise, Your Excellency will soon need to explain to the rest of the Netherlands why the government failed to prevent a disaster of truly apocalyptic proportions.”
She slammed the phone down. Now there’s my career going down the drain. Whatever.
The minister didn’t call back. He was a politician. He would hate her for this, but he would be too cautious to risk his own hide.
He would wait this out. If things went south, it would be the commissioner’s fault. Chief commissioner. Former chief commissioner at that point.
But in the end, even if things were resolved without too much damage, she would come up for evaluation, and she would pay the price for her insubordination.
She opened the door. “Eekhaut, Prinsen, in my office.”
They hurried inside.
“I need everybody and I mean everybody,” she said, “in here early tomorrow morning. We’re going to screen Maxwell and his companies to the bare bones. I’ll ask Apostel for search warrants. And, if we need it, for an arrest warrant for Maxwell himself. But discreetly. No press. Clear? And as far as Eileen is concerned, Nick, we will find her.”
39
“HOW MANY PEOPLE WILL be available?” Maxwell spoke to himself in the full-length mirror, a precious heirloom that had belonged to his great-aunt, of whom he knew little other than that she had been vain. He repeated the question but with slightly different emphasis. “How many people do we have available?” He grinned broadly at his reflection. “How much people?”
He shrugged. It didn’t come out well. It sounded like he was talking to the board of directors of one of his companies. He sounded like a manager asking for employment figures.
Which would be all right in front of board members, but not here. Not under the circumstances he had in mind. The Society of Fire was not a business. Its foundation was a spiritual one, based in faith and faith alone, not a desire to turn a profit.
He tried again. “About how many supporters do we have at our disposal, Courier?” He raised his head somewhat more, thrust his chin forward. That looked better, more commanding. “How many supporters shall be willing to help us, Courier, in these dire times?”
No, that came out even worse. It sounded overacted. Not authentic enough. Why would these so-called supporters merely be willing to help? This was a serious matter, a matter of obligation. This was, after all, their guarantee of a catharsis that had not been made possible before. They should all come running, being given this ultimate chance for redemption. He, Baphomet, offered them an entry to eternity, and why would they not grasp that chance? They would, of course.
Perhaps the question would be unnecessary. He should simply assume all members of the Society of Fire would follow him, without reservation. When he explained the project to them—the project that had been set in motion some time ago and to which he was adding the final changes. They would follow him unconditionally, without asking questions. They would simply know it was to be grandiose and historical.
He grinned again at his reflection in the mirror. A world out there would be subordinated to the mercy of God, while he and his troops stormed the final hills on their way to eternal salvation. Stormed them without mercy.
Nothing would stand in their way.
No one would come between him and the certainty that he was one of the very few chosen ones. So much had already been achieved and in such a short time. He was not going to wait much longer to make sure he was attaining the most advanced degree of purification. In light of what the church in its former incarnation had achieved, he was still a minor figure, but that was soon going to change.
He stepped back from the mirror to better see himself. Then he walked to the door that opened into the hallway. He switched off the lights in the room behind him. Cold light fell on him from a few dimmed lamps in the hallway and from the garden. He walked down the hallway and opened another door to a larger room with sets of doors leading to other parts of the building.
He called out, “Metagogeus!”
The man appeared as if magically summoned from the shadows. “Baphomet,” the man said.
“Is anyone there?”
“Yes, Baphomet, they all are.”
“And where’s Courier?”
“He’s in the garden too. He seems to have a penchant for frozen plants.”
“Oh, does he now? Well, I always expected something poetic from Courier. Can’t blame him. We’ll give him some leeway, and perhaps we should admit more poetry into our lives as well. Come on, let’s join them all.”
They walked into the garden, where torches and candles made a faint attempt at chasing the resident shadows. The smell of burning charcoal hung in the air, a special touch Baphomet had arranged. He needed the atmosphere to be right on this special occasion. These people needed to be impressed with the atmosphere, the light, the smell. That was why he used an almost archaic language when he addressed them. It wa
s part of the tradition.
“Courier,” he called out. All present looked up at him.
Courier stepped forward. He wore a simple wool suit and a sweater underneath. “Baphomet?”
“Will all true believers follow us?”
That, he was now sure, was the correct phrasing. Those who did not follow him would not in any sense be true believers. They would, as of today, be excluded from the future. They would spend eternity in the darkness of some personal hell, as would those who had doubted him openly in recent months. With some of those, he had dealt appropriately already.
A sacrifice was all the more sensible when you simultaneously deal with your opponents.
“All true believers will unconditionally follow you, Baphomet,” Courier said stiffly. “Precede us, and all will follow. Enlighten our path, as you have done for so many years now.”
That’s exactly right, Baphomet mused. Enlighten their path. Courier knew exactly what that meant, and he knew the appropriate things to say under these circumstances.
“Friends, companions of the fire!” Baphomet called out. “All those present here will, as of the day after tomorrow, possess the certainty they will finally be cleansed. As such, they will be properly prepared for the final stage, without fear for the choices God will make at the end of times.”
A few of the companions glanced at each other, but none commented.
“We have planned a great sacrifice for the day after tomorrow, companions,” Baphomet continued. “It will be unprecedented. It will be the last and most definitive catharsis we have been waiting for. A sacrifice that will bewilder and horrify the world but that will take us up to the lowly place on the right side of God. And when the final hellfire descends on the whole of humanity, very soon, we will be the only ones saved from eternal damnation.”
“But how does Baphomet know,” the blond woman inquired, “that this one sacrifice will be enough? Does Baphomet have a direct link to God? Enlighten us further, Baphomet.”
He had known dissidence would be unavoidable. He had expected it from her. She looked tense, afraid, but determined to question his authority. Determined, out of fear, or perhaps out of stupidity.
“No one dares to speak the words of God or claim to be a speaker in his name, sister,” Baphomet said loudly. “But I reflect solely on the tradition of the former church, a tradition we are continuing. We all know and recognize the importance of the ritual in that tradition. All the past sacrifices have been, in many a sense, limited in scope. Often, if not always, the outside world was unaware of our involvement, and our predecessors kept it that way to avoid detection. The situation has changed. We step into the open, and our message will be heard by all. We can only attain the highest goal by exploring our possibilities to the fullest. This is what is happening now. Within this context, I urge those of faith to follow me.”
Several of the companions cast angry glances at the woman. But, stubbornly, she would not back down. “I think,” she said, “we should all have a say in this.”
“A say,” Baphomet repeated. “It sounds like you want to interpret the message I am conveying to you all. We do not interpret messages of a divine nature. We act upon them. We implore the mercy of God, and as such, we are merely his children, begging for His forgiveness. For acting as such, we will be redeemed.”
Several of the companions spoke up and silenced the woman’s reaction.
Baphomet stretched out his arms. “But if these companions deem, we should postpone the sacrifice . . .”
Several of the companions now cried out: No! No!
Baphomet addressed the woman again. “Sister, do you lack faith and courage to participate? We will then release you from your obligations.”
The woman looked stunned. “No, Baphomet, that is not what I had in mind. I merely wanted to have a discussion about certain fundamental principles.”
She was again drowned out by angry reactions.
Baphomet raised his arms to quiet them down. “Brothers and sisters, Companions of the Fire. In two days, all your doubts will vanish. Will we take that final step in unity?”
All cried out in agreement.
After the faithful had gone inside where sandwiches and wine were served, Baphomet had taken Courier aside. “I am tired of ignorant dissidence,” he said. “This woman is not an asset to our cause. Keep an eye on her, and make sure she doesn’t cause us trouble. Both inside and outside the society.”
“I might suggest a more definitive solution,” Courier said.
Baphomet shook his head. “I am fully in favor of such solutions, but time is short and we have other and more pressing concerns. Planning has reached its final phase.”
“Metagogeus has acquired the passes needed,” Courier said. “We have some faithful working security on the premises, which made things easy. Tomorrow we’ll arrange the technical details, after which all is ready for the sacrifice.”
“Nothing must go wrong,” Baphomet insisted. “There’s only this one opportunity.”
“Nothing will go wrong, Baphomet. I will make sure of that.”
40
SOME NINE HUNDRED MILES south of there, Linda sat on an uncomfortable chair in her hotel room. The room was dark. She had opened the curtains and looked down on the moving lights of Madrid, thirteen floors below her. The improbable, intangible glow of the metropolis seemed to her like the virtual projection of a world that had no right to exist. It was a strange, almost alien vertical world, estranged from nature. She had been living in its opposite—a wild, dry, horizontal planet.
She brought her right hand to her forehead, where too many thoughts fought for her attention. This had to stop, but it wouldn’t. Although she would have to arrive at the airport early tomorrow morning, she didn’t want to lie down and sleep. Not yet at least. There was too much to think about, and these thoughts wouldn’t go away.
There was the African project. The whole team had been evacuated by the Kenyan soldiers. In a hurry, as if they feared all would be swallowed by the sands and the desert. Lieutenant Odinga had refused to give any explanation. Orders, he said. Orders to evacuate everyone.
And what about the Saudi gentleman? Who was he? Odinga didn’t know or didn’t want to say.
No real explanation had been given as to the reasons the whole project had been abandoned. But she had seen what remained of the camp after the storm, with a few hundred people, too old or too sick to move, left behind after the exodus of the able-bodied and young. These people still needed help, but most of the equipment had been lost. One of the doctors observed, “We’re no longer useful here,” and he left it at that. The troops were no longer staying either, since there was no use for them. Perhaps they would be moved to other camps.
A single storm had erased so many hopes.
She was stunned by the efforts undertaken to get the whole team out of the desert and out of Somalia. They had been picked up by an aircraft on what remained of the airstrip close to the former camp and were flown directly to Mombasa. At that airport, on their arrival, air-conditioned habitations—refitted shipping containers—had been placed at their disposal, with real showers, real toilets, a café, and a pizzeria.
She tried to remember how long ago she had left behind such luxuries.
Little time was allowed for her to acclimate. A short while later she was on a flight to Madrid in clothes provided by the military. She had almost no luggage left, just an extra set of clothes and underwear. Nothing material seemed to matter anymore. She could have bought things in Madrid but didn’t. She wanted to get back home, to Amsterdam, as soon as possible. Everything was confusing to her right now. A hotel room high over the city. A shower with hot water. Room service. A room in which thousands of people had lived previously and many more would live afterward. A city that didn’t need sleep. A world connected by airplanes and internet. It had only been a few months since she had left all that behind, and already she felt estranged.
She hadn’t turned on the televis
ion, knowing she wasn’t ready for this world.
She was thinking about Walter. She was thinking about her impulse to create some space between them. Space and time. She had needed both to appraise their relationship. She wanted to find both space and time in Somalia, but things turned out differently. She could ask for another assignment but realized she no longer wanted to postpone a decision about Walter. About her and Walter.
What sort of relationship did they have? It had been based not on passion but rather on curiosity. It had been based on respect. He was old enough to want to take any relationship slowly. She was curious about him but still knew so little. They had never really spoken about what this relationship meant. Was he in love with her? Perhaps he was, in that strange and almost boyish way of his. Was she in love? Not really. Although she wasn’t sure what exactly her feelings for him were.
Walter hadn’t asked for anything other than her presence. They had frequented the Absinthe bar, had been to movies, took walks in the center of Amsterdam with autumn turning into winter. They had talked about books but hardly about family and even less about his career or hers. They had talked about a lot of things but seldom private stuff. It was a sort of relationship, and yet it was not.
Then she told him about her opportunity. Doctors Without Borders. Somalia. Leaving her job.
It had seemed like the most natural thing to do—put their relationship, such as it was, on hold and move out for a while.
He didn’t try to talk her out of it. She wondered about that.
Now, she was on her way back. Sooner than expected. Sooner than she had expected. She had no idea what his expectations were.
And Madrid was surely not going to provide any answers.
41
VAN GILS HAD GOTTEN it. Unobtrusive, the chief had said. Walking the streets and into bars, but discreetly. She confided in him. None of the other detectives knew about Eileen’s abduction except for Prinsen and the Belgian. And it was supposed to stay that way.
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