The Midas Murders

by Pieter Aspe

  Scaglione grabbed the Amaretto. Van In noticed that his hands were trembling. The circle was almost complete, he thought, his mood upbeat.

  “The question is: how did a gangster like Luigi manage to put the screws on a high-ranking magistrate?”

  “Gold,” Scaglione screamed. “Gold makes people crazy.”

  “I asked what Prosecutor General Creytens had to do with the case,” Van In stubbornly insisted.

  “Creytens managed to smuggle a senior SS officer out of the country after the war. The man took him into his confidence and told him about the treasure at the bottom of Lake Toplitz. He contacted Creytens again in 1966 and promised him and Vandekerckhove two million dollars if they successfully smuggled the gold to Paraguay.”

  “Why 1966?” asked Hannelore, joining the conversation for the first time. Scaglione paid little attention to her.

  “Thule was disbanded in 1944 and restarted in 1966 by a number of greedy industrialists. The new generation came to the conclusion that war had been too blunt an instrument. They concocted an alternative strategy. Saber-rattling was out of fashion. They planned to dominate Europe in a different way, and they needed money. Young Vandekerckhove grabbed the opportunity, and that’s how he came into contact with Creytens.”

  “So the neo-Fascists called in their little nest-egg,” said Van In cynically.

  History had revealed how the SS had managed to acquire their gold reserves.

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Scaglione concurred. “But transporting sixteen tons of gold turned out to be easier said than done. Vandekerckhove arranged to meet the manager of L’Etoile.”

  “The unfortunate nightclub boss,” Van In confirmed.

  “Correct. He dumped the gold on the black market.”

  “And got a little too greedy,” Van In guessed.

  “Precisely. My father didn’t like cheats and decided to teach him a lesson.” Enzo threw up his hands and heaved a deep sigh.

  “But you were only a child in 1966,” Hannelore observed, unable to conceal her skepticism.

  “That’s correct, ma’am. My father never spoke about his professional activities, but in our world every good story gets passed on from generation to generation.”

  “I think you’re crazy, Pieter Van In,” said Hannelore as she got into the car. “The man is clearly guilty, and you pretend there’s nothing wrong.”

  Van In lit a cigarette and blew the smoke against the steamed-up windshield.

  “In court, they never stop whining about evidence,” he said dryly. “Should I arrest Scaglione and watch him get released in twenty-four hours?”

  Hannelore swallowed the rest of her critique. Van In was right.

  “Scaglione will never betray the operation. Never,” said Van In as he started the car.

  “But surely he just did.”

  “All he did was identify the next target, the Belfort. But I’m convinced he knows more … the exact time, the identity of the bomber.”

  “He said Wednesday.”

  “True, that’s what he said.”

  When they reached the main road, Van In shifted from third to fourth and hit the gas.

  “Scaglione wanted the name of the man who killed his mother. He knows well and good that we’re powerless.”

  “But he didn’t really react when you named Vandekerckhove,” she said, still unconvinced.

  “He didn’t need to. As far as he’s concerned, Vandekerckhove is already a dead man.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked, finding him hard to believe.

  “He’s Sicilian! Lay a finger on their mother, sisters, wife, and you’re history.”

  “I don’t like it when you keep that kind of thing from me, Pieter.”

  Van In didn’t react. Half a mile along the road, he slowed and turned onto a narrow dirt track. Hannelore stifled her disappointment. She felt like a schoolgirl, ditched after a passionate three-week relationship.

  “Do we have to wait here much longer?” she asked after ten minutes.

  “Are you cold?” He started the car and turned up the heater.

  “Don’t be such an idiot, Pieter.”

  He tried to put his arm around her shoulder, but she pushed him back.

  “You are a self-centered bastard,” she said angrily.

  Van In tried to snuggle up to her.

  “Leave me alone.”

  He obeyed submissively and pulled back.

  “Don’t forget our marriage plans,” he soothed.

  “Think again.”

  The heater was on full blast, but it wasn’t enough to melt the ice that separated them.

  “You’re making me think I’m the enemy,” he said after a moment’s silence.

  “That’s your own choice, Pieter Van In.”

  “I love you, Hanne.”

  “Don’t think you can buy yourself out of this with that kind of talk,” she spluttered. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “I’ll tell you later,” said Van In obstinately.

  “Why not now?”

  “I don’t want to get you into trouble. If I confide in you now, I’ll be exposing my sweetest magistrate to serious professional error.”

  “As if that hasn’t happened already,” she snapped.

  “Not according to the law, my darling deputy.”

  He caressed her and she slipped a couple of inches closer.

  “Why are we waiting here?”

  “Because,” Van In whispered in her ear, “following a suspect is allowed by the rulebook.”

  She dropped her defenses, and their first argument as a couple was defused.

  “So you think Scaglione has somewhere to go.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Van In conspiratorially. “Did you notice the shoes he was wearing?”

  “Black loafers,” she answered, proud of her attentiveness.

  “Correct. And did you check the floor?”

  “Polished,” she said with a frown.

  “And the oil burner was at its lowest setting, in spite of the comfortable temperature.”

  “Please, Pieter, get to the point. This is killing me.”

  Van In pulled a face that would have made a professional clown jealous.

  “We were lucky. Scaglione was getting ready to leave the house. He had taken off his slippers and turned down the burner. Our visit messed up his plans.”

  She looked at him, unable to follow.

  “Next to the chimney … a pair of house slippers.”

  “So?”

  “Well, Enzo Scaglione was raised by his mother. She taught him to change into his slippers if he was in for the night.”

  “Pieter Van In,” Hannelore cautioned, “I don’t know where to begin with you. If you notice that kind of detail, then….”

  “Then you’re going to feel uneasy.”

  “Count on it,” she said. “A policeman who presumes someone’s planning to commit a crime because he’s still wearing his outside shoes at eleven-thirty is a bit of a….”

  “Genius?” Van In grinned.

  “Stop it.”

  Just as he was about to slip his hand under her blouse, the radio crackled. Versavel’s timing was beginning to get on his nerves.

  “Hello, Pieter.”

  “Hi, Guido.”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “Is he interrupting, Hanne?”

  “Sorry, Pieter, but this is something you need to hear.”

  “Okay, speak.”

  “Croos faxed a photo earlier this evening of a certain Nicolai. The man was observed and photographed by routine surveillance not far from the Belfort. Turns out our Nicolai is a notorious sneak thief.”

  “And Croos waits until now to let us know,” Van In sighed.


  “The boys in Ghent broke into his apartment and found a floor plan of the Belfort.”

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  Van In tried to keep his cool. If he sounded the alarm now and nothing happened, he would be making a complete idiot of himself. He first had to know what Scaglione was up to.

  “Nicolai’s off the radar. According to a neighbor, he trains three times a week at an indoor climbing wall in Courtrai.”

  “And they haven’t seen him?”

  “Negative, Pieter. I thought it was important to bring you up to speed.”

  “That’s good of you, Guido. If I have more information, I’ll contact the duty officer. Thanks, Guido.”

  “Sleep well, and say hello to Hannelore.”

  She grabbed the microphone. “’Bye, Guido.”

  At one-fifteen a.m., Enzo Scaglione drove out of the gravel track that led to his farmhouse and onto the main road. He was wearing a heavy gold chain around his neck, a gift from his mother for his twenty-first. There was a transmitter on the passenger seat, the kind you use to control model airplanes, the kind you can buy in shops. He had changed its frequency. The transmitter had a range of half a mile, and its frequency was now tuned to the detonators Nicolai would install in a couple of hours.

  23

  THE NIGHT WAS DARK AND mild, as he had predicted. Nicolai had kept a constant eye on the tower from midnight onward. A two-man police patrol did its rounds every twenty minutes, following the same regular trajectory: Market Square–Burg Square–Blinde Ezel Street–Dyver Canal, and back via New Street and Old Burg Street. Increased surveillance was annoying, but it wasn’t much of a threat. The police were checking windows and doors. Neither of them was interested in the Belfort.

  Nicolai timed their routine to the point of weariness and then positioned himself behind one of the pillars of the Pro Patria Gate on Kartuizerinne Street. He had swapped his sneakers for climbing shoes. The rope was under his track suit, coiled over his shoulder and across his chest.

  When the patrol turned out of sight into Halle Street, he started his stopwatch and attached the explosives to the outside of his rucksack. He crossed the street with the invisibility of a cat and sought shelter in the shadow of the massive walls at the base of the tower. He stopped halfway at a downspout. A quick glance was enough. The street was empty and there were no lights to be seen in the surrounding windows.

  The old market halls at the base of the tower form a closed square around an interior courtyard. The tower rises from the roof of the main building on the Market Square side, with Wool Street to the east, Old Burg Street to the west, and Halle Street to the south.

  Nicolai had opted for the Halle Street side because it was more or less uninhabited and its narrowness almost completely restricted any view of the tower.

  It took him less than a minute to climb the downspout onto the roof of the halls. He lay flat on his belly for a second, listening intently, and then scurried across the pitched and slated roof. Once over the crest, he was invisible from the street. His climbing shoes didn’t make the slightest sound. He reached the foot of the tower in no time at all. Now for the real climb, he thought to himself. He rubbed magnesium powder into his hands and pulled himself up with the help of an anchor plate. The wall between him and the corner turret was relatively rough-hewn. He covered the distance to the first parapet in less than five minutes, hid behind the balustrade, and took stock. A quick glance at Market Square was enough. It was traffic-free, a vision the city’s puritan traffic experts could only dream of. The silence was overwhelming, and every window was as blind as the eye of Polyphemus. In eleven minutes precisely, the police patrol would turn into Halle Street.

  Nicolai crept with caution behind the balustrade to the east side of the tower where he could make use of the down pipe that led directly to the bottom of one of the second-level turrets. The chances of being seen were slightly greater, but it was worth it for the time it saved.

  It took him three minutes. The balustrade, with its rounded arches that connected the four turrets, provided sufficient cover. As he waited for the police patrol to pass, he wandered like a wayward tourist to the west side of the tower. He waited a full ten minutes to be sure, and then commenced his climb of the northwest turret. Its enormous pinnacle provided plenty of handholds and footholds, and he was able to save a few costly feet by crossing the stone buttress to the tower wall.

  The final part of the climb to the belfry windows was smooth and vertical. Nicolai explored the wall. The tiniest irregularity was enough for an experienced climber. He was almost two hundred feet above the ground, and the cold cut into his fingers. He stopped searching for a moment and rubbed some warmth into them. He took a deep breath and tried again. He finally found an opening in the pointing, wormed a finger into the gap, and pulled himself up. His curved feet sought support against the wall. An enticing wall anchor was only six feet away. His head was now at the same level as his contorted finger. He knew he could only hold this position for a minute more at most. One more handhold and the anchor would be within reach.

  He carefully explored the surface of the wall. In spite of the cold, he started to sweat. His left foot searched every square inch. The seconds ticked past. The proud tower was putting up a fight, he thought, still determined to defeat it. Cramps in his arms finally forced him to let go. He lowered himself back to the top of the buttress. Two minutes later, he was back on the level of the balustrade.

  It was three-thirty and he was now behind schedule. His only option was to try the southwest side. To avoid running the slightest risk, he waited until three-forty. According to his calculations, the police patrol would be in Wool Street at that moment.

  Centuries of exposure to fierce rain had left the southwest wall in a much rougher state. Nicolai cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier. With the help of a protruding stone, he easily reached the first wall anchor, and from there it was a piece of cake. The anchors formed a sort of dotted black line all the way up to the belfry windows. It was three-fifty when he pulled himself onto the window ledge. It would only take him half an hour to place the explosives. Detonation was scheduled for five-thirty a.m., and by that time he would be safely ensconced on the first train to Ghent.

  Nicolai unrolled the cable and placed the explosives as designated. He then attached the wires to the detonators. He was done in less than his half hour.

  The descent was effortless. He abseiled to the street in three stages, using a double rope.

  Scaglione parked his BMW in High Street—ironically enough, right in front of the former police headquarters. Van In saw him brake, and turned into Ridder Street.

  “Keep an eye on him. I’ll call for backup.”

  Hannelore stationed herself on the corner of Ridder Street and High Street. The flash of a cigarette lighter confirmed Scaglione’s position.

  “Van In here.”

  He ignored the obligatory call ID.

  “Marc Vandevelde, I’m listening,” the officer responded with a drowsy voice.

  Van In jumped at the crackle of the radio and carefully closed the car door.

  “I want the center of Bruges evacuated … immediately.”

  “What was that, Commissioner?” Vandevelde was suddenly wide awake.

  “Evacuate all the residents of Market Square and the surrounding streets, on the double,” he whispered angrily.

  Van In understood Vandevelde’s sluggish reaction. He had almost given up himself before Scaglione had finally driven from his home to a local disco, where he downed cappuccinos till four a.m.

  “And contact the special intervention squad at the local police barracks. Tell them there’s a bomb attack in progress.”

  “Commissioner?”

  “Vandevelde,” Van In barked. “I want you to sound the alarm, code red.”

  Silence. Vandevelde had eighteen months of service
in front of him, and it wouldn’t be the first time Van In had caused a commotion for nothing.

  “Can you confirm, Commissioner?” he asked, still not quite sure how to respond.

  “Vandevelde,” Van In growled. “There’s a rumor going around that you just bought a boat and that you’re looking forward to causing trouble along the Belgian coastline, but let me make this one thing clear: if you don’t do what you’re told on the double, I’ll make sure you never meet the payments on that fucking boat of yours. Understood, Vandevelde?”

  The wailing sirens made Scaglione jump. Van In heard the engine of the BMW start and dragged Hannelore back to the Golf.

  “The bastard’s doing a runner. Why in Christ’s name do they have to make so much fucking noise?”

  Scaglione drove his car with one hand on the wheel. It was five-fifteen. He hoped the Walloon had finished on time. He ripped along Philippestock Street, his tires screeching, and turned into Vlaming Street. When he passed the city theater, he grabbed the transmitter and activated the signal. No explosion. He tried again. Nothing. Fuck, he said and hit the gas.

  Market Square was hermetically sealed and police vehicles with whirling blue lights were parked everywhere. Major Adam, commandant of the anti-terrorist special intervention squad quartered in Bruges, was standing between the two fast-food stands in front of the Belfort.

  The Belfort’s concierge, a thin man in an old-fashioned dressing gown, nervously opened the enormous doors. Twelve members of the elite squad covered Adam’s back. They were wearing military helmets and bullet-proof vests. Twelve Uzi barrels pointed ominously in the direction of the helpless concierge.

  For more than an hour, fifty police officers searched the halls. There was no sign of explosives. The security guard manning the switchboard in the Coach House insisted that there had been no break-in and no alarm.