Minister Van Gerbranden eyed the police chief suspiciously and then concentrated on Dewaal again. “I won’t deny there is reason for concern, but maybe the whole thing is merely a matter of . . . bluffing.”
“Bluffing?” Dewaal was astonished. Had the man not been listening?
Van Gerbranden didn’t seem to notice her reaction. “Maybe this, uh, cult . . .”
“The Society of Fire,” Stuger said.
“Yes, this cult or sect or whatever, maybe they want to pressure the government into . . . whatever.”
He’s an idiot, Dewaal thought. Nothing said here today would change her ideas about politicians and police chiefs.
“They haven’t yet, nor have they ever, contacted the government or the press with any demands, sir,” she said. “On the contrary. In the past, all of their sacrifices remained unclaimed.”
“So-called sacrifices,” Van Gerbranden said. “I’ve read the files. There was never any proof this society, or church or whatever, was ever implicated.”
“We have information to the contrary, sir,” Dewaal said.
“From an anonymous informant! And from people who were members of this church long ago and thus were themselves implicated in those assumed crimes.”
“And what about the men you arrested in connection with that . . . the girl that was abducted?” Stuger asked.
“They were contracted through criminal channels, sir,” Dewaal explained. “We can eventually figure out who’s behind the contract, but that will take us . . . much too long, anyway.”
“We need to get this thing cleared up, gentlemen,” Mastenbroek intervened. “Even if we’re not convinced there will be an attack of any kind, we still have to take measures. I suggest all security forces be put on alert, also the fire brigade and civil defense and the hospitals in the larger Amsterdam area.”
“I’m on the same page as the chief here,” Stuger said. “Not doing anything is going to put us in a very difficult position if something happens.”
“Let’s do this, then,” Van Gerbranden said. “We’ll be on full alert without having to paralyze the city. Are we all agreed?”
Dewaal didn’t feel the need to comment.
Van Gils was drinking a large mug of coffee—spiced with some other liquid from the small canteen in his office. He raised the mug in a mock toast when Eekhaut walked in. “Did you lose Nick on the way?”
“I drove him to the hospital,” Eekhaut said. “That’s the very least I could do for him, wasn’t it? How’s the girl?”
“You know, she’ll be all right. Feisty little thing, she is. Would be nice to have her as a daughter.” Van Gils kept his attention on his mug. “You know, she didn’t for one moment doubt he would come and save her. Isn’t that a nice story? She knew Nick would save her. If anything good comes out of this whole fucking operation, then at least there’s that.”
Eekhaut had nothing to add. “Where’s the chief now?”
“Defending her case—and ours—with the bigwigs at the ministry.”
Van Gils drank his coffee and got up from the stool, with some difficulty. “Let’s call it a day, Walter. There’s nothing more we can do, not till tomorrow. Actually, there won’t be a thing we can do tomorrow either. Except when there’s the emergency we hope won’t happen. Anyway, I was thinking about going to see the soccer match with Veneman. If we’re needed, we’ll hear about it.”
“Have fun. Hope you don’t get called in.”
“Probably nothing will happen. These people, they’re warned off, is my guess. They store the tanker and the gas and wait for better times.”
“What will you do after the game?” Eekhaut asked. “You won’t come in?”
“On a Saturday? I don’t know. Maybe. I have a wife who wants to know why I need to work on a Saturday.”
Van Gils left Eekhaut alone in the cafeteria. Eekhaut considered having another coffee but finally decided against it. The rest of the team wanted to go out for a bite, but he wasn’t in the mood. The whole operation seemed so useless now. He would see Linda and take her out.
Thea De Vries came strolling in, by appearance already in weekend mode, followed by Siegel.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “I thought we’d be the only ones here by now.”
“The colonel is still around somewhere,” Siegel said. “And the surveillance people, but otherwise the place is deserted.”
“How’s Nick doing?”
“Well, under these circumstances. Got his girl back, so . . .”
“And what about tomorrow?”
“There will probably be a general alert, I guess,” Eekhaut said. “Which will keep a lot of people on their toes for the weekend. If nothing happens, we’ll all be back here Monday and start over. Hunting for Maxwell and so on.”
De Vries looked around the empty floor.
Siegel said, “Well, I guess we’re off then.”
Eekhaut was left alone. He returned to his office for a moment, scanned a few news sites, then closed the laptop.
50
TOON, THE RETIRED POLICE officer who lived one floor down from Eekhaut, greeted him as warmly as ever. “I haven’t seen you in a few days, Walter. Pressure, as always? No time for a drink?”
“I’m always in between things and obligations, Toon. My girlfriend returned from Africa earlier than expected. I’m going to see her now.”
“Ah, always difficult to catch up on things in life, I know,” Toon said. His old face full of wrinkles spoke of the many years of experience in personal relationships. “Talking to each other, nothing as important as that. Africa, is it now? No place I would go to. Where exactly?”
“Somalia.”
“Oh, Somalia. I read about that unfortunate country. Worst place to be in. Cursed continent, too. Worst country in a cursed continent.”
“It’s not all that bad, Toon. There’re many places in Africa where democracy and peace have been around for quite a while.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. I might be behind on my reading. But still . . . No drink, then?”
“No, Toon, not this evening. Like you say: gotta keep her company.”
Wrapped up against the cold, Eekhaut made it to Café De Engelbewaarder on Kloveniersburgwal, with its barred windows on the basement floor and the main floor, where the actual café was situated. Inside he quickly shed his winter coat. Linda was waiting for him at a table with what appeared to be a glass of water. “I’m sorry about this morning and having to leave,” he said.
She smiled at him as if she would forgive him anything. He ordered one of the Belgian unfiltered beers for both of them and calamari, spring rolls, and sausages.
“I often catch myself looking over my shoulder,” she admitted.
“People are following you?”
“Not really. It’s just a feeling I have.”
“Afraid African spirits will come after you? Did you get in trouble with a local shaman or whatever?” But he noticed she was serious.
“I saw a sort of . . . magic. Or perhaps something akin to that. A cult that made a habit of burning people alive. And then I discover the same thing happened here.”
“It’s complicated,” he said, not willing to go into the details of the case. “It used to be a worldwide cult, and now they are performing the old rituals. It’s ignorance coupled with irrational fear. I’m glad you’re back.”
“I don’t want to be treated as a victim,” she said. “Don’t treat me as one of those people you need to protect. I can’t bear to belong to the ones in that corner.”
He took her hands in his, but perhaps that wasn’t the most appropriate gesture. This wasn’t just about something she had experienced in Somalia. “I rarely, if ever, have had to deal with the victims, Linda. They’re all dead.”
“Things have . . .” She lowered her head. “I don’t know, Walter. Coming back here . . . Things are so much different.”
“They don’t have to be. Not between us.”
He felt as if
he were losing her.
There was no reason he should feel that. And still, there it was: a growing distance had already manifested between them.
“Did you feel threatened at any point? By the—”
“I know now I should never have gone there. That by doing so, I created a gap between us. And all because I needed time to contemplate our relationship. While doing so, I was explicitly distancing myself from you.”
“And then you came back.”
“I was forced back. Nothing happened because I wanted it. Or maybe that’s exactly the problem, I wanted that distance. I needed it. And now, well, I feel as if there’s nothing but distance.”
Her glass was empty. “I’m an alcoholic,” she said, as if suddenly realizing a terrible truth.
He had never seen her drink too much. She wasn’t an alcoholic.
“You needed some time alone,” he said. “I mean, time without me. I understand. You left because of that. I don’t mind. I don’t mind being by myself a bit longer. I had taken that into account, you being away for, what, three months? Why don’t you take a vacation? France, perhaps. Or Belgium. I can arrange something for you in Belgium, where you’ll be on your own. And you can call me anytime. I’ll be over there in no time. But only when you want.”
“We haven’t talked about you yet,” Linda said. “I’ve been talking only about myself, my feelings.”
“My feelings are simple. I love you. I want to live with you. I’m not a complicated person in that regard. But I understand.”
“I’ll think about a vacation,” she said.
Eileen had said, “Neutral ground.” Which meant not in her apartment and not in Prinsen’s either. Neutral ground. He donned his sweater and his parka, walked to the pub she had mentioned, and found her at a table in a quiet corner where they wouldn’t be overheard. There weren’t many people around anyway. A quiet evening in the center of Amsterdam. In the middle of winter.
“They’ll probably close early,” she warned him.
“Mmm?”
“I don’t know . . .” she started. And then fell silent again, lacking the right words. She had been discharged from the hospital less than an hour after being admitted, as the doctors could find nothing wrong with her. There was the announcement of a general alert, and the medical staff needed as many free beds as possible.
“I’m sorry you got involved in this, Eileen,” Prinsen said. “It should not have happened.” This was the only thing he could do: apologize. Although nothing was his fault, he blamed himself.
“It had nothing to do with you,” she said. But she realized what she was going to say next would sound harsh. “But I know, Nick, I know having a relationship with you will always involve some risk. I will be in bed, every night, and if you’re not there, if you’re out doing this work you do, I’ll be worried. I’ll be terrified by the idea that one day you won’t return to me, and two of your colleagues will come knocking at our door.”
“These things happen only rarely, Eileen.”
“How often do girlfriends of police officers get abducted, Nick?”
She had a point. She had a damn good point. It had happened once. It could happen again. Or something much worse.
“I can’t make any demands on you, Nick.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I really can’t. I know where you came from and what price you paid to get here. About your parents and your home and everything. I know what you left behind. So you’re not going to sacrifice all that for me. I can’t expect you to do that, and I won’t ask. And I know all that because I’ve been there, Nick, where you have been. So, there we stand.”
“You’re wrong, Eileen. It’s not a matter of choice. I’ve chosen in life what I want to do, and whom I want to be with. I’ll be with you, and I’ll be a police officer, and things will turn out fine for the both of us. We both have left one life behind us. We will live the new one together.”
“And what if—”
“If what? What if you, Eileen, cross the street, here in the middle of Amsterdam, and some idiot in a car, driving too fast or not paying attention, kills you. Kills you there, on the street. Should we make decisions about what we want, based on that assumption? On the assumption that, yes, some idiot will kill you in some stupid accident that could as well happen in that village of yours or mine?”
“This is different. Don’t do this. Don’t reduce the problem to simple assumptions, mere speculations.”
“You’ll be dead just the same. And I will tell myself: if I had let her go back to her folks, she’d still be alive. But you know what’s the difference?”
“What?”
“That we’ll have shared part of our lives. If only for weeks, months, years, maybe even decades. If the accident doesn’t happen, if I don’t get shot by a criminal, then we’ll have all that time together. And nobody is going to take that from us.”
“Nick . . .”
“That, Eileen, is why I want to stay with you, and I want you to stay with me.”
Meanwhile, nobody had taken notice of Colonel Al-Rahman. Surely, the colonel himself would not complain about this lack of interest. It allowed him to remain unobtrusive while around him the drama evolved. He had assessed the strengths and weaknesses of each of the members of the Bureau, had evaluated their capabilities, understood their mutual relations. He knew which of the detectives were most passionate about their job. He tried to understand what they talked about among themselves, even when he couldn’t understand what they said. He relied on his extensive and specialized training.
He was back in his hotel room now and had just taken another shower. He turned toward the mirror in the bathroom. What he saw taught him nothing new about himself, except that he was getting older. As in a fantasy, he felt a cool evening breeze, smelled the sharp, bitter smoke of wood fires the street vendors used to grill beef on iron skewers, as they had been doing for centuries. The intoxicating aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingered in his mind, and his wife’s hand touching, barely, his arm. They would sit on the couch and eat delicious sweet cakes, which he had bought for her.
None of this was real, not here in Amsterdam. In this large and overly decorated hotel where he slept with British executives, German technical engineers, French wine merchants, and Italian shoe designers in the adjoining rooms.
Today he had learned a few things, the least of which was how the Dutch police were organized. About human nature he had, however, learned nothing new. Like everywhere, men protected the women they loved but were less concerned about the well-being of people they did not know. People worked hard to better themselves, but this betterment was almost exclusively seen in terms of material gain and influence and only seldom as a way of attaining spiritual wisdom. Chief Dewaal was one of those who concentrated mainly on extending her circle of influence.
Colonel Al-Rahman dressed in the bathrobe provided by the hotel. Underneath, he was naked. The heating in the room was on high, but he would soon turn it off, allowing him to sleep in a cooling room. He didn’t favor artificial heat, but as this was a cold country, he had no choice. From his time in the United Kingdom, he recalled the drafty rooms, the insufficient heating system, and the watery beer. All prejudices, of course. The Dutch beer wasn’t any better.
Of course, as a Muslim, he wasn’t supposed to drink beer.
He sat down at the table and opened the leather portfolio his wife had bought him for his birthday three years ago. “Every time you open this portfolio,” she told him, “you will be reminded of me.” And now he thought of her, picking up his pen and writing her a letter. He often wrote her letters, preferring the old artisanal communication over email, even if it meant the letters had to go through official channels.
The mission was almost at an end, he wrote her. Tomorrow he would mail her the letter. It would arrive in a few days. He was going home soon. It was still a matter of finding the serpent, and he could leave that to the Dutch.
But finding the serp
ent was only part of the mission. The serpent also must die. There was no doubt in the mind of Colonel Al-Rahman. His mission would only be completed when the serpent could no longer do harm.
He hesitated for a moment, glancing at what he had already written. He was sure the letter would be read by other people as well. Nothing in his life was private. Or at least very little. Still, he continued writing.
SATURDAY
51
DEWAAL HAD GATHERED THE entire team into the large open office space on the second floor where, under normal circumstances, only Veneman, Van Gils, Prinsen, and three other officers worked. A persistent fog covered most of Amsterdam. During the morning, the team had gone through Maxwell’s computers and phones with no significant result. They’d found quite a bit of intel on the workings of the society, but that would hardly land anyone in jail. However, they found nothing on the final sacrifice, whether on the event or its imminence.
All in all, Eekhaut counted eighteen people present, including the unavoidable Colonel Al-Rahman. Even the technical staff was busy. Everybody’s input was appreciated. But both Van Gils and Veneman were absent, a fact that had enraged Dewaal. “Fucking unbelievable,” she had said on arriving and finding the two men missing. “They can’t be bothered to turn up while we’re living under the threat of a terrorist attack?” Eekhaut would have liked to make an excuse for them, but he knew better than to pipe up.
“There will be consequences,” Dewaal said. “I’m not kidding. There’s no excuse for their absence. You wanted to add something, Walter?”
Eekhaut might also have warned her about too much excitement, rising blood pressure and so on, but he kept his head down for this one. He declined to respond.
“Chief,” one of the other officers said, “as long as we don’t have any certainty about whether or not there’s a real plan and where something might happen, there’s no sense in being here. It’s not like we’ll find anything in this heap of shit.”
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