43
SAEED AL-RAHMAN DIDN’T WANT to imagine how life would be if he had to stay in hotels all the time, as some of his colleagues in the diplomatic service did. He didn’t care to envisage such a life. It was bad enough he was obliged to stay in hotels from time to time. Getting dressed alone and then having breakfast with strangers wasn’t the sort of habit he enjoyed. Waking up in the morning without the familiar smell of his wife, without another human being next to him, was unbearable.
He had sacrificed enough for his country, more than enough. He shouldn’t be obliged to endure this life anymore. He wasn’t planning to share this reflection with his superior, though. Colonel Saeed Al-Rahman was first and foremost a high-ranking officer in the police force of the House of Saud and only secondly a citizen with a personal life.
But he had always known what was expected of him. At seventeen he left his home, not to study medicine like his parents wanted, but to join the military. The military needed bright young men, especially when they had a talent for foreign languages. And if they proved to be God-fearing and hardworking and attended Koranic school regularly, their career would be guaranteed. Saeed walked from cadet school right into active service and became a lieutenant in five years, graduating in the top ten of his class.
This is not Iran was his observation when the professor of international history confronted his students with world affairs. If this had been Iran and not Saudi Arabia, the young lieutenant might have been killed on the battlefield during that long and cruel war against the Sunnis of the tyrant Saddam, who was supported by the Americans for the wrong reasons. This was Saudi Arabia, the cradle of Islamic civilization, where eventually every Muslim would return.
His family had found him a suitable wife, and they were married three weeks after his graduation from the academy. His first assignment took him to Jordan, where he advised the local security forces. He was a young lieutenant without any experience, but he soldiered on, stubbornly, quickly acquiring a reputation as a passionate and headstrong officer. He learned how to work with weapons and explosives and how to make people talk about things they wanted to keep hidden. He learned how to use pain—of others—as a weapon. People always, in the end, talked when they expected more pain.
For four months, he had lived apart from his young wife. They communicated through letters. They weren’t allowed to make phone calls because he wasn’t officially in Jordan. He admired her love and affection for him, a man she barely knew and hadn’t seen before her marriage.
He would no longer be separated from her, not for long anyway. After the job in Jordan, he got another assignment in Rihad. They lived there together and had three children. Terrorism, wars, espionage, and civil unrest occasionally drove them apart, but not for long periods.
All this happened before he had the conversation with the general who was an old friend of his family. This current assignment was simple, without personal risk. But he’d needed to go abroad again, first to Somalia, then to the Netherlands. Al-Rahman at once saw the necessity for this operation when it was explained to him.
Both he and the general adhered to the same faith, which was not Islam. Although both were strict followers of Islam.
He was standing in the bathroom, shaving. The general had discussed the future with Colonel Al-Rahman. The veteran officer could, within two years, likely join the palace guard. That would be a special honor, and it meant more money and a larger house for the colonel. The colonel had been flattered, although he preferred real work. And what about his eldest son, Ahmed, who wanted to study in America? This seemed more important than a larger house. Al-Rahman knew the government annually allowed a limited number of students to study in the United States, and most of them would be children of the House of Saud. Exceptions would be, well, exceptional.
“I have no authority there,” the general had said. “I will file a request for your son, but of course, one way or another, this will have no impact on your zeal.”
“Of course not, sir,” Al-Rahman had said.
44
VAN GILS PHONED DEWAAL early in the morning with the information he had gotten from Sjaakie. “Westerdok?” she said. “Is that where they’re keeping Eileen, you think? Are you sure your source is reliable?”
“No reason I should doubt him, Chief. He’s been very reliable in the past. We need to get out—”
“I can’t spare the manpower, Van Gils. Not this morning. I know this is important to Prinsen. It’s important to me too, but we’ll have to deal with this later, after . . .” She hesitated. “I’ll see you at the Bureau, Van Gils. I need you to be discreet for a little while, until we’ve arrested Maxwell. After that, I promise, we’ll see about Eileen.”
Most of the team was already present when Van Gils arrived on the second floor. He poured himself a coffee. “Are you coming with us to the ArenA or what?” he pressed Veneman, whose expression almost formed a question mark. “Just asking,” Van Gils went on, “because last week you said you wanted to see the match. It’s tomorrow, remember? if you don’t go, I’ll sell the ticket to someone else.”
“Told you I’d come,” Veneman said. “I already said it twice.”
“What about you, Eekhaut? You can come if you want. We’ll find extra tickets. The opportunity of a lifetime to see decent soccer. Dutch soccer—best in the world. You know about Ajax, I guess? A completely different class than those Belgians whose names I can’t even remember.”
Eekhaut, who was staring outside, wondering if the thaw had already set in, looked surprised. “Soccer?” His thoughts had been elsewhere.
“An internationally admired sport played on a large field by twenty-two participants from two opposing teams and a leather ball as a prop.”
“I have absolutely no interest in sports,” Eekhaut said.
“No sports?” Veneman responded, horrified.
Siegel, closing his laptop, chuckled. “A Flemish police officer who doesn’t like sports? Not even cycling?”
“What? Spending hours watching a bunch of grown-up men running behind a ball, or other men biking around the same circuit time after time? And then wasting more time discussing strategies, like we’re experts on something? I’ve got better things to do than waste my life that way.”
“All right!” Van Gils said defiantly. “Didn’t expect you to feel that way.”
“While those same people, having wasted their energy watching and commenting on sports, let themselves be exploited by their bosses, by politicians, by the rich! You’d think they’d be more, I don’t know, more critical about their working conditions?”
“People like to relax now and then,” Veneman said mildly. Although he cared little for Eekhaut’s opinion of sports.
“Relax?” Eekhaut said with a grimace. “Yeah, that’s what they do, all right. Using the time they could spend educating themselves so they’d no longer be vulnerable to lying populists with agendas. But the same critical thinking they apply to sports, they abandon once their real life is at stake and they have to think about society and their future. They let themselves be lied to, exploited, misguided.”
He knew better than to go on like this. They didn’t want to hear what he had to say.
“What do you want, Eekhaut?” Van Gils replied. “That’s how people are. Most are too stupid to think for themselves. Can’t even differentiate between opinions and facts. Yes, we know, politicians, or at least certain kinds of politicians, are deceitful, narcissistic psychopaths at worst, or interested only in their personal priorities at best. You gonna change that by denying people their sports events?”
“Maybe you should go into politics yourself. Back in Belgium,” Veneman chimed in.
“It’s nothing personal, Van Gils,” Eekhaut said.
“Wasn’t going to assume it was. I like soccer. So, tomorrow, I’ll be joining thousands of like-minded idiots in the ArenA, unless Dewaal really is going to make us work seven days a week.”
“Saturday is a sacred day, Van G
ils,” Veneman said. “Ajax is playing Feyenoord: the game of the year. There’re going to be a lot of people to see that.”
Dewaal marched into the common area while the others were chattering. She wore black pants with lots of pockets and a sort of combat jacket over a black T-shirt. She held a gray parka over her arm. Eekhaut was becoming somewhat paranoid about the varying manifestations he had witnessed of Dewaal so far. When she dressed differently, she acted differently. Today he wouldn’t risk having an important discussion with her. Not the way she was dressed.
“Good morning,” she said firmly. “Are we all here?”
The detectives gathered around her. Most brought their cups of coffee.
Several photographs decorated the whiteboard. Dewaal had written names under each: Maxwell, Basten, Desmedt, Brecht, Simson. All players in this infernal game. Some of them victims.
“These are the people that matter to us,” Dewaal said. “The main players, although some are dead. We’re convinced everything revolves around this man.” She indicated Maxwell. He looked rather harmless in the somewhat out-of-focus picture. “Jan Pieter Maxwell, scion of an almost extinct family, whose grandfather made them all rich. He was—the grandfather—a classic patriarch like the ones who only live in novels. Children in and out of wedlock. He lived in Dutch India for years and made his fortune there, went into politics afterward. Not much of the family is left. Not much of the family spirit either, it seems. Jan Pieter is the exception: manager of several businesses, some partly owned by him, others by his less intellectually inclined relatives.
“What we suspect about Maxwell is that he’s the leader, or at least one of the leading figures, of the Society of Fire, though we can’t prove it. We don’t have enough for an arrest, but we can get a search warrant, which might, just might, provide some evidence of his association with the society. I’ll question the man myself, knowing that without decent proof we’re obliged to release him within six hours after his arrest.”
“Let’s get him then,” Van Gils said. “Let’s get him off the streets.”
“Which will happen very soon now,” Dewaal said. “Apostel isn’t happy with the way things are going, but at least she got us the warrants. Including for his offices. We’ll raid them all, along with local officers from Amsterdam-Amstelland CID. Six of his offices in all.”
Eekhaut’s attention was drawn to a movement to his left. Colonel Al-Rahman had appeared at his side. The man seemed to possess magical powers, in his country’s tradition. The Saudi police officer leaned toward him. “Could you inform me what is happening here, Chief Inspector?”
Eekhaut tried to keep his attention on Dewaal and gestured to the colonel to be patient.
“I want everybody to carry their weapon,” Dewaal continued. “Local police will be in uniform, but this is not a raid. We will not force doors. We ask nicely to be let in, show the documents, and that’s it. And we have a warrant for Maxwell only, remember. Everybody clear?” She opened a folder and passed some documents to the officer standing closest to her. “Pass these out. Partners and cars and destinations. Radio contact at all times. And an emergency frequency. Remember Maxwell belongs to a group that has killed in the past and will do so again. We’re leaving in fifteen. And remember, follow the plan. This is a coordinated action.”
The detectives started to leave the room.
“Are things progressing now?” Al-Rahman asked Eekhaut, who was studying the document.
“That’s correct, Colonel. And it seems we’re still joined at the hip.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“We’re assigned to the same vehicle and destination. You come with me. To Maxwell’s house. And along with Dewaal herself. Seems we’re in the main group.”
“Is there cause for amusement?” Al-Rahman inquired, puzzled. “Being in the presence of one’s chief is a matter of trust, but one has to be extra careful not to make mistakes.”
“We try to avoid mistakes at all times, Colonel,” Eekhaut said. He wondered if the colonel was being ironic, but clearly not. “We’ll pick up a prime suspect, even without decent evidence, and bring him in for questioning.”
“Ah,” the colonel said. As if his deeper suspicions had been confirmed about the methods of the Western police.
“Exactly. I don’t know how this works in your country, Colonel, but here it means we can grill him for six hours without a lawyer present. At the end, we have enough to indict him, or not, in which case he walks.”
“That seems rather undemocratic, Chief Inspector,” Al-Rahman said. “Without a lawyer being present? Under Sharia law having a third party present is a solid human right.”
Eekhaut wasn’t sure how to comment. He knew almost nothing about the way police worked in places like Saudi Arabia. “Well,” he said, “such is the law in this country.”
“And of course, the law is always right,” affirmed Al-Rahman.
Eekhaut was sure the colonel’s royal family would work around any law if the potential murderer of one of theirs was picked up and made to confess. What would they do if it turned out Maxwell was responsible for the death of the prince? What would the Dutch government do? Extradite? To a country with a death sentence? A Dutch citizen? That wouldn’t happen.
And the colonel probably knew it.
“Sharia is not a cruel law,” he said, following Eekhaut downstairs, toward the underground parking garage. “It is a law concerned with what is right under all circumstances. It evolved in times of hardship, times much different than now. People were vulnerable, as was society itself, with greater personal risks. Psychology and so on have evolved, of course, giving us a better insight into what drives criminals or the insane, but these laws were written long before that.”
“Hands no longer chopped off?” Eekhaut inquired. But at once he regretted that remark. It was a stereotype, although it still happened in countries where Sharia was applied. As did stoning and hanging. “Incidentally, Colonel, I assume you have your weapon with you?”
The colonel opened his coat and showed Eekhaut a black nylon holster and a semiautomatic pistol.
The detectives gathered around the vehicles. It was cold in the parking garage.
“Everybody ready?” said Dewaal. “Now, one last thing: Van Gils has a lead on the whereabouts of Eileen Calster. We’ll see what we can do with that information after the raid.”
The detectives took their places in the cars. The vehicles left the parking garage and drove in different directions. Eekhaut was in the front seat of a BMW 7 next to Siegel, who was driving, with Dewaal and Al-Rahman in the back. Siegel drove with lights flashing and siren at full blast. Even then, in the narrow streets of the city, they didn’t move fast.
“We are going to arrest the main suspect?” Al-Rahman inquired.
“That’s the idea,” Dewaal said. “According to our most recent info, he’s still at home. That’s where we are going now.”
“On suspicion of murder?”
“On suspicion of a lot of things, including multiple murders and incitement to commit murder.”
“Ah,” the colonel said as if this explained everything.
The BMW sped up once it had left the center. Why hurry? Eekhaut wondered. Either we find Maxwell at home or we don’t, and then he’ll surface somewhere else. But Siegel seemed to enjoy the speed. Eekhaut would never have driven a car that fast in an urban area, not even in Brussels.
“Kill the siren,” Dewaal said, with the car now traversing a long, straight street in one of the more expensive suburbs of Amsterdam. Siegel turned right and then left, led by the GPS, and finally parked the vehicle in front of a house that was perhaps a bit larger than the surrounding properties. Eekhaut assumed the better part of middle-class Dutch society lived in houses like these, in a country where extravagance of any kind was frowned upon, at least by the older population. Most of the houses were early postwar, all surrounded by extensive gardens, which even now, in winter, looked green.
The stree
t itself was empty. No strollers, no kids, no cyclists. Maybe even pedestrians were frowned upon.
“Number thirty-three,” Dewaal said, checking her phone. “This is the one.” They all got out. Dewaal spoke a few words into her phone. At the same moment, the other teams all around and in Amsterdam would take action.
Dewaal walked toward the small gate that separated the sidewalk from the garden. It wasn’t closed. Siegel followed. Eekhaut had Al-Rahman in tow somewhat behind them. He expected a sudden volley of shots coming from the house, eliminating at least two of them. But nothing happened. Dewaal rang the doorbell.
The house seemed deserted. Nobody was going to answer the bell.
“Let’s not waste time, gentlemen,” Dewaal said. “Siegel?”
Eekhaut expected the man to use a crowbar or another heavy object and apply it to the door, like in American movies. But Siegel turned out to be a specialist in picking locks using only a small tool. The lock yielded at once.
Dewaal noticed Eekhaut’s surprise. “Why destroy a door when almost any lock can be picked?”
The house seemed deserted. No alarm, no one coming downstairs. “Police!” Siegel shouted, loud enough for anyone to hear him. “We are entering the house.”
“Eekhaut, Colonel,” Dewaal said, “search the ground floor. Siegel and I will take the upstairs.”
They spread out. Eekhaut noticed the colonel had drawn his gun. That seemed unnecessary. Eekhaut kept his weapon in his holster. Maybe the colonel had had nasty experiences with searches like this. Eekhaut assumed he might have had to confront terrorists.
The house was empty.
“He probably left early this morning.”
Eekhaut wondered about that. Why had Dewaal, experienced as she was, assumed Maxwell would still be at home? A busy businessman like him, at home after ten in the morning? That made no sense at all.
Why were they here?
“He seems to live alone: bed made up, no breakfast on the table.” Dewaal spoke on her phone. She got replies. When she talked again, she seemed angry. “He’s nowhere to be found. Even his secretaries—plural—don’t know where he is.”
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