by Pieter Aspe
21
PRECISELY A WEEK HAD PASSED since person or persons unknown had blown up the statue of Guido Gezelle. The day after the mayor’s melodramatic TV interview, Flanders’s right wing was up in arms and the newspaper headlines were as plain as the nose on your face. No more shilly-shallying: the annual transfer of billions of francs from Flanders to Wallonia had to stop. The Flemish authorities held emergency consultations, and a variety of organizations threatened concrete action. Flanders was a powder keg, and one stupid statement had lit the fuse.
“Moens just farted,” Versavel observed with undisguised sarcasm. “The system’s gone haywire.”
Van In put down his newspaper and lit a cigarette. “The Flemish are a hardy bunch,” he said resignedly. “They’ll swallow almost anything. But if you touch their historical patrimony, they lose it big-time.”
“And why now?” said Versavel. “The bomb attack was last week, and it hardly made the news. Now they’re rolling out the heavy artillery.”
“Odds on, the news editor is from Bruges.”
“What do you mean?”
Van In tore a sheet of paper from a notepad and scribbled in jagged letters: “Vandekerckhove / Zeebrugge / billionaire–Bostoen / Bruges–State Security–Creytens / Bruges / investigating magistrate–X / Bruges? / press.”
Versavel studied the names. “What connects them?” He grabbed the telephone directory for Brussels from his desk and looked up the TV station’s number.
Van In stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and lit another.
“Mr. Lanssens isn’t in his office? Can I reach him at home?” Versavel fiddled with his moustache, his pen at the ready. “It’s extremely urgent,” said Versavel. “It’s about yesterday’s broadcast. We’re following a new line of inquiry, and I’m certain Mr. Lanssens—”
Versavel nervously tapped the edge of the receiver with his fingers.
“No, I need to talk to him personally.” It took a full minute, but then Versavel gave the thumbs-up and started to scribble Lanssens’s details on the back of a piece of scrap paper.
“I have the number of his car phone,” Versavel beamed.
In less than five minutes, the National Records Office computer coughed up an answer to the sergeant’s question.
“Lanssens is Bruges-born and -bred. He moved to Brussels in 1968. Before that, he was a journalist with the Bruges Trade Journal.”
“The man who wrote the series of articles on our man Scaglione. I should have guessed,” said Van In enthusiastically. “Long live the chaotica.”
Versavel nodded pensively. The commissioner’s loopy theory was sounding more plausible by the minute.
The telephone interrupted his musings.
“Hello, Sergeant Versavel speaking.”
Van In lit a cigarette and smiled when Guido tried to respond in French.
“C’est très gentil,” he heard him say. “Oui.”
A silence followed and Versavel plucked nervously at his moustache. “Bien sûr. Je vous donne le commissaire Van In.” Versavel handed him the receiver with a scornful smile. “They found a file on Scaglione,” he grinned.
Hannelore had never been to police headquarters before, but no one asked for her ID. A young officer accompanied her to room 204.
“Au revoir,” she heard Van In say as she walked inside.
“That was Neufchâteau, sweetheart,” he said, upbeat. “The Scagliones have a bit of a reputation. Our friend Luigi retired to Sicily in the seventies; his son Enzo still lives not far from here. There’s no such thing as coincidence.”
“I’ve got news too,” she said. “On Saturday, March 11, Fiedle rented a Learjet from Abelag Private Jet Leasing. According to the flight plan, it took off at four-thirty p.m., destination Nice.”
“The bouillabaisse,” Van In roared.
Both Hannelore and Versavel were dumbfounded.
“Bouillabaisse?” they echoed.
Van In grinned like an adulterous woman who had just witnessed a judge hit her husband with a massive alimony schedule.
“Tub gurnard and zander, the fish they typically use in Mediterranean fish soup. Fiedle had bouillabaisse in his stomach.”
“But you can eat bouillabaisse anywhere in Europe,” Versavel observed dryly.
“Of course you can,” Van In said. “But don’t try to tell me this isn’t right up our alley.”
Hannelore took off her coat and sat gracefully on the edge of Van In’s desk.
“The jet was on standby until four-thirty a.m., and then it returned to Belgium with a single passenger.”
“Vandekerckhove?”
“The pilot described the man as elderly and heavyset. I faxed him a photo of Vandekerckhove.”
“And?”
“Nothing. The passenger was wearing a scarf over his face and didn’t say a word to the crew.”
“Now we know at least that Vandekerckhove lied,” said Versavel. “The nocturnal trip makes him very suspect.”
“I presume it’s enough to have him arrested,” Van In mused. “A DNA test would certainly simplify matters.”
Hannelore nodded. If Creytens refused to cooperate, she would go directly to the public prosecutor.
“So you think Vandekerckhove killed Fiedle,” she said bluntly.
Van In was aware that he couldn’t give a flippant answer to her question. If the test was negative, Hannelore would look like a fool, and young magistrates were very vulnerable beings, especially at the public prosecutor’s office.
“Actually, I don’t,” he said unexpectedly. “I can’t imagine Vandekerckhove busying himself with the dirty work, and certainly not right in the middle of Bruges.”
“What are you planning to do?” she asked in despair. “Surely you don’t think he’s going to volunteer a DNA sample.”
Van In tried to order his thoughts. There were so many elements he had to account for.
“Give me a minute. I think it’s time for another little chat with Tjepkema.”
The Groningen commissioner had been just about to call Van In when his phone rang.
“Hello, Jasper. Pieter here.”
“Talk about telepathy,” Tjepkema grinned. “The results of the autopsy arrived just fifteen minutes ago.”
“And?”
“Frenkel died from a blow to the skull. The fire was to get rid of the evidence, as you thought.”
“The blood group?” said Van In impatiently.
“A-positive. Is that any help?”
“No, Jasper. The skin under Fiedle’s nail was O-negative.”
“Shame, Pieter. It looks like you’re going to have to wait for the results of the DNA test.”
“Thanks anyway, Jasper.”
“Perhaps this might help,” said Tjepkema, trying to be optimistic. “According to a couple of locals, someone came asking about Frenkel on Thursday evening. One of them referred him to the holiday house.”
“Do you have a description?”
“We certainly do,” Tjepkema beamed. “Male, thin build, five-ten or thereabouts, thirty to thirty-five years old, straight black hair, trendy dresser with a southern European look.”
“Scaglione,” Van In whispered.
“What was that, Pieter?”
“You’re a star, Jasper.”
“My pleasure, Pieter. I’ll call if I have more news. ’Bye.”
Hannelore was fidgeting with her blouse, and Versavel stared at Van In with bated breath.
“Vandekerckhove’s off the hook,” said Van In, “unless he’s O-negative.”
“Maybe they used a hired killer,” said Hannelore matter-of-factly.
“Who’s ‘they’?” Versavel appropriately wondered.
“No idea,” Van In sighed. “I think I need to take time out for a couple of hours.”
&n
bsp; “Then I’m going with you,” Hannelore chirped.
The fire was still smoldering when they arrived back at the house. Van In adjusted the thermostat to 72 and tossed a symbolic log on the grate.
“Carton’s going to be looking for you later,” she teased.
“Then the luck’s on your side,” he retorted sarcastically. “Magistrates don’t need an excuse when they take a couple of hours off.”
“The courts aren’t soft on men who molest their pregnant wives,” she snapped.
“I almost believed you, Hanne,” said Van In wearily. “But I checked a couple of books this morning. It’s impossible to tell if you’re pregnant after a week.”
She walked to the refrigerator.
“Any pickles?”
“No, sweetheart. If you want gherkins, you’ll just have to buy them yourself.”
“Oh, how I wish I was Mrs. Van In,” she pouted.
“Please, Hanne. I came home to think.”
“Would Holmes like a jab of morphine, or shall I make a pot of coffee to stimulate the old gray matter?”
“There’s some cake in the cupboard,” he said resignedly.
When Van In stormed back in at six-thirty with two jars of pickled gherkins, Hannelore was sitting in the living room with an exceptionally pale young man.
“May I introduce Xavier Vandekerckhove?” she said with a gracious gesture of the hand.
Van In looked like a child who had just received a visit from ET. He recognized Véronique’s frail, slightly balding bag carrier immediately. This was Armageddon, he thought with a sigh. Hannelore seemed highly amused.
“Xavier can spare you a bunch of mental acrobatics; true, Xavier?”
The timid young man nodded. Van In put the gherkins in the refrigerator and poured himself a cup of coffee. A Duvel would have tasted a lot better.
“Good evening, Commissioner Van In. I suppose I’m the last person you expected to see.”
You can say that again, Van In thought, obliged to agree. He broke into a cold sweat.
“I’ve been in two minds whether to contact you, but circumstances compel me….”
Xavier spoke like someone who had just visited a speech therapist. He articulated every syllable.
“That’s very courageous of you, Xavier.”
Van In cast a desperate glance in Hannelore’s direction, but she was playing the Queen of Sheba.
The young man didn’t beat around the bush.
“I wanted to talk to you about my father and about Thule.”
Van In sat down and took in a mouthful of lukewarm coffee.
“Very few people know that my father has two sons. Ronald was always Daddy’s favorite. I’m the problem son. No one’s heard of me.”
Xavier was clearly having a hard time. His pointed adam’s apple bounced up and down in a frenzy.
“Father thinks I’m mentally unbalanced and refuses to let me be part of the business. But that doesn’t mean I’m retarded, you understand.”
“I’m already convinced,” said Van In in an optimistic tone.
“That’s why I asked Véronique to tell you about my father. He really was in Villa Italiana on March 11.”
Van In froze. “True, yes, that’s what she told me,” he said nonchalantly.
If Xavier coughed up any more details, Bruges would soon be one more unmarried mother the richer.
“Véronique’s a sweet girl. She goes with anyone and everyone, but that doesn’t bother me. No one knows that I’m in love with her.”
Xavier knew how to build up the tension.
“I thought you’d be able to solve the case on the basis of my hint, Commissioner. But I had no way of knowing that my father would come up with a watertight alibi.”
“Not as watertight as he thought,” said Van In. “We’ve already discovered some holes in it.”
“Thank God,” Xavier sighed. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The glow of the dancing flames gave his ashen complexion a yellowy sheen.
“But tell me something about Thule, the name you mentioned a moment ago,” said Van In.
He hoped that Hannelore wouldn’t notice how desperate he was to change the direction of the conversation.
Xavier nodded submissively. “Electronics is my hobby,” he said with a hint of pride.
Hannelore looked at Van In. He avoided her stare. They were both thinking the same thing: Xavier seemed far from balanced.
“Please be patient, Commissioner. I’ll get to the point in due course,” said the delicate young man, anticipating their surprise. “My father gave me free rein, and money was never an obstacle. But what started as a pastime turned into a nightmare.”
Van In lit a cigarette. Hannelore pulled up her legs and huddled into a corner of the couch. The young man’s story intrigued her immensely.
“In my free time, I installed listening devices in every corner of the house. You should know that I was never allowed to be part of anything. If we had visitors, I was always banished to my room. The listening devices gave me the feeling that I was joining in somehow. That’s how I discovered Thule,” he said with a weary smile.
“Does the name Thule have anything to do with Fiedle?” asked Hannelore.
“It certainly does, ma’am. You should know that the Thule Society is almost a hundred years old. It started off as a pan-German order of knights with branches in the business world and politics. Dietrich Eckhart, one of the order’s founders, is said to have confided in one of his friends in 1919: ‘We need a man who can bear the sound of a machine gun. Those bastards’—he meant the Jews and the communists—‘need the fear of God put into them. We don’t need a gentleman officer, we need working class with a loud mouth. He has to be vain and unmarried; then we’ll get the support of the women.’”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Van In grumbled. “It sounds as if Mr. Eckhart and his cronies got what they wanted.”
Vandekerckhove’s son concurred with an alert glance.
“According to reports, Eckhart was an adviser to Hitler for a time. He inspired him to write Mein Kampf and helped organize the Wannsee Conference when the Nazis adopted the Endlösing—the ‘Final Solution.’”
“A jolly little club,” Van In snorted.
Fascist stories like this gave him goose bumps.
“I found the information in an encyclopedia,” said Xavier. “According to the source, the Thule Society was disbanded in 1944.”
“Which is probably not true,” said Van In with an undertone of disbelief.
“I’m afraid you’re right, Commissioner. Thule has never been more active. But their tactics have changed. Now their goal is economic dominance.”
“A fascinating theory, Xavier,” said Hannelore. “But what does it have to do with Bruges?”
“Good question, ma’am.”
Van In got to his feet and shuffled to the kitchen.
“Beers all around?” he asked.
“A Coke for Xavier,” Hannelore shouted at his back.
Outside, the sun’s last rays disappeared behind a gold-rimmed cloud.
“Thule evolved over the years into an exclusive club of businessmen. Their only goal was to make money, and the end always justified the means. They have connections with the mafia and are trying to worm their way into the European Parliament.”
“Jeez,” Van In exclaimed. “And your father thinks you’re backward.”
Xavier sipped carefully at his Coke. The compliment clearly pleased him.
“Let me spell it out,” he said. “Thule wants to pocket Bruges and turn it into a sort of medieval Disneyland. Their strategy is very simple. They’ve been buying up property in the city for quite some time via my father’s real estate company, exclusive residences that they plan to sell later to a privileged few.”
“Jes
us,” Van In grunted. “That’s why Invest Bank was after my house.”
“My father is on the Invest Bank board of directors,” Xavier confirmed.
“The bastard,” Van In snorted.
Hannelore smiled. She was happy that she had been able to solve the house issue.
“But there’s a whole lot more. To achieve their goal, they need to eliminate Bruges’s shopkeepers and business owners and evacuate its inconvenient population. Locals just get in the tourists’ way. The traffic-circulation plan was a first step in undermining the confidence of the business people. By making the city inaccessible, they ruin hotel tourism and force the people living in the periphery to shop in the suburbs. The major shops and chains simply relocate and the smaller businesses go bankrupt. Their place is taken by the multi-national wage slaves who concentrate on selling ‘Belgian’ chocolates, lace, and sandwiches to day-trippers.
“The second phase is the creation of a bedroom community outside Bruges. The same idea was introduced in Venice decades ago. The city itself is an open-air museum and amusement park, and its employees live in Mestre, an artificial appendage to the city of the Doges.”
“The polders. Do you remember those photos of Fiedle’s?” said Van In, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand.
Xavier took more than a little pleasure in being able to surprise the commissioner.
“My father wants to reconnect Bruges with the sea. Agricultural labor law is squeezing out the farmers, and more and more of them are selling out. They plan to use part of the polders as a nature reserve to pacify the Greens. The rest is earmarked for residential estates. There’s a European consortium that has plans to build three thousand new houses along the Bruges-Zeebrugge axis.”
“That’s why they need Moens,” said Van In.
“According to Fiedle, the mayor constituted a serious obstacle and wasn’t to be underestimated,” Xavier concurred. “The city’s previous administration had already signed off on the project. ‘The Pride of the Polders’ would already have been a fact if the elections hadn’t tossed a monkey wrench in the works.”
“So the death threats and bombings were designed to force Moens to give his support,” said Hannelore, shaking her head.
