“We have learned to live with politicians.”
“Really?” Keretsky said. “I think I heard otherwise. I seem to remember hearing that tax inspectors visited you, Mr. Monet. That must have been very painful. And one of your partners encountered a problem with—”
“We live in a democracy, Mr. Keretsky. Sometimes to our disadvantage. Newspapers tend to write unfavorably about us, whenever they can. And the government is more of a hindrance as far as free trade is concerned. They want to flex their muscles, these politicians, certainly when elections come along. You’re familiar with the problem.”
“I see what you mean. You need a politician like Putin. He has no beef with entrepreneurs such as yourself. And they have no problems with him. All good friends under the same banner. And all are successful in what they do. Even the people are content, except for those foolish and misguided former communists.”
Monet smiled. “Putin.”
“You consider him a dictator? He is far from a dictator, Mr. Monet. More than any other politician, he understands clearly the needs of the Russian people. The whole of the Russian population, Mr. Monet. Holland is certainly in need of such a leader.”
“We are not Russians, Mr. Keretsky. Whatever may be possible in your country can’t happen here.”
“Well,” Keretsky said, “it will soon come to pass. Maybe long before we all run out of oil.”
One of the other Dutchmen said, “But Russia’s reserves are large enough, surely? For another thirty or forty years or more?”
Keretsky shook his head. “You forget China.”
“Chinese oil production isn’t going smoothly,” said the Dutchman. “They need modern installations, and only the West seems able to provide them. The Chinese—”
“I wasn’t talking about their production, sir, but about their consumption. Every Chinese wants his own car. Within ten years, half of their population will own a car. Oil will be more expensive than gold. There will never be enough oil for all, and at some point, the wells will run dry. Where do you get your energy then? This seems beyond the grasp of politicians. Russia has many other things to offer besides oil.”
Monet nodded. “Nuclear energy.”
“Yes, nuclear energy. Cheap nuclear power stations that can produce a lot of electricity cheaply, directly to your doorstep.”
“Local politics wants to get rid of nuclear energy. It is not popular with the population at large.”
“A Dutch nuclear project has never been sold well to the public. They’ll eventually beg for nuclear energy when their heaters, the ones that run on oil or whatever, stop working and the electricity bill rises as never before. They’ll beg for nuclear energy. But by then it will be too late.”
Monet shook his head. “If Russia wants to become part of Europe, it will have to limit its own nuclear program.”
“Maybe Europe will want to be part of Russia soon,” Keretsky said. He emptied his vodka. “Doesn’t that seem like a more realistic future?”
Monet remained silent.
“I see you’re worried. Not just about energy?”
Monet said, “We have another matter to discuss, Mr. Keretsky. Something embarrassing, for both of us.”
“Embarrassing? Really?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. You have in the past donated considerable sums to one of our political parties.”
“Parties? There are many parties in the Netherlands … ah, I seem to remember Ms. Van Tillo. Of course. A very nice lady, who thinks along the same lines as we do. How is she? Am I supposed to meet her this time? Andreï?”
“No, Mr. Keretsky,” Monet intervened. “You are not supposed to meet her this time. We have a problem. An unfortunate indiscretion. The list with your name on it, the list with contributors for Ms. Van Tillo’s party, has gone missing. Probably stolen. Last night.”
Keretsky leaned back. “I’m surprised, Mr. Monet.”
“Ms. Van Tillo is very much shocked on account of this unfortunate incident.”
“Oh, I’m sure she is,” Keretsky said. “I’m certain that Ms. Van Tillo is very much shocked on account of this very unfortunate incident. I personally, Mr. Monet, am shocked as well, by the carelessness Ms. Van Tillo and her staff exhibit when dealing with sensitive information. As if nobody would care to know how much I myself, and you, contribute to her party. In Russia, Mr. Monet, I’m able to contribute considerable funds to the reelection of Vladimir, and the Russians applaud my largesse. But here, in Holland, I’m a foreign intruder, a threat to every Dutch citizen. And that’s why, Mr. Monet, I can’t allow such an indiscretion to exist. And I’m sure you won’t allow it either. Even less than I, because you live and work here.”
He looked at the three Dutchmen. “And what, gentlemen, are you going to do about it?”
“We must figure out who the thief is,” Monet said.
“Really? And you will ask him nicely to return the list?”
“Well …”
“I understand perfectly, Mr. Monet. I think I clearly understand the situation.” Keretsky rose. “Andreï, would you be so kind to ask Parnow in? Then, and in my absence, discuss with Mr. Monet what measures have to be taken to retrieve the said list. Russian measures, if you please, Andreï. The real deal. And in my absence.”
Andreï nodded and stepped outside.
6
PRINSEN BICYCLED TO THE Renaissance Hotel, passing his own apartment. It was half past ten, and the city was now fully awake, including the tourist population. They managed to get in the way of the cyclists constantly, not aware of the existence of bike paths, not aware of the clearly marked separation between the different users of the public space. They might have heard about the curious freedoms allowed in this city—drugs, prostitution, the gay scene—and assumed this laxness on behalf of the authorities extended to traffic as well. But taxi drivers, tram conductors, and local cyclists begged to differ.
He left his bike across the street from the entrance to the hotel, chaining it to a fence. Then he walked inside. He walked past reception. Nobody paid any attention. He took the elevator to the fifth floor. Took his smart phone from his pocket and pushed two buttons. Room 404, he noticed. He walked down the corridor and found the room. He knocked.
Movement inside. Someone glanced through the peephole and opened the door. “I would like a cup of coffee,” Breukeling announced. He was a sturdy man, in his forties, with the agile hands of an experienced technician and the ready wit of a true Amsterdammer. As far as Prinsen knew, he always wore the same brown suit.
Prinsen held up a brown paper bag. “And donuts,” he said. “Can’t say I’m neglecting you. I don’t want that reputation.”
“Excellent,” Breukeling said. “I’ve been here since six this morning. Would have been better off if I’d slept here last night. Although the wife would have suspicions if I did.”
“She still is suspicious?”
Breukeling shrugged. “Even I can’t say she’s wrong.” Something had been going on between Breukeling and his wife. Prinsen never knew what exactly. As the youngest of the team members, he wasn’t allowed into their inner and private circle, the one where marital problems were discussed. But nevertheless, he’d heard things. Breukeling had been all over a junior female employee of the Bureau. Had been away from home too much. And had been seen around seedy hotels in the wrong part of the city.
The room looked like any other room in a four-star hotel, anywhere in the world. Two carefully made-up beds. A wardrobe, a frame for suitcases, a desk, two chairs. Carpet on the floor. Two reproductions of paintings by Bruegel. Indirect lighting. The door to the bathroom ajar. The room looking out over the inner court of the hotel, curtains open.
The only thing that set it apart from other hotel rooms was the electronic equipment on a large folding table by the window: a radio receiver that captured the signal from the mics and a laptop for storing the recording. The setup wasn’t very impressive. But Prinsen had seen pictures of the sort of material the
AIVD had used in previous decades, unwieldy receivers and reel-to-reel audio recorders and mixing tables. The equipment in this room would fit into two briefcases, and it could easily be carried by one person. Soon, they wouldn’t even have to rent a hotel room in situations like this.
Even now, the room was superfluous, he assumed. You stowed the stuff in a car and parked it in front of the hotel, after having set up the microphones. So why was Breukeling here?
He knew why. The prosecutor’s office paid for this affair. The people who approved of the surveillance and paid the bills had probably never seen this setup. They thought in terms of hotel rooms. So the Bureau rented a hotel room.
It didn’t matter to Breukeling. He preferred working out of a four-star hotel room, not a car. He could have a rest on the bed. Use the toilet, drink coffee brought by room service or Prinsen, and eat his donuts. A car was small and narrow and uncomfortable. As far as he was concerned, the prosecutor was welcome to foot the bill anytime.
“What about the chief?” he asked. “Is she at the office already?”
“She’s meeting the new guy,” Prinsen said. “Lunch at the Krasnapolsky later.”
Breukeling shook his head gently. “Have we ever been invited to the Krasnapolsky? By Alexandra? Ms. Dewaal? Never, as far as I know. We’re allowed to wait in stuffy hotel rooms for a Russian, who may or may not turn up. We eat donuts and drink mediocre hotel coffee. We watch the scenery from the window and wait for a sound from the meeting room downstairs. That’s what we do, kiddo. No Krasnapolsky.”
Prinsen wanted to reply but finally considered silence as the better option.
Breukeling glanced up. “I understand you don’t want to comment, Prinsen. New guy on the block and all that. Still finding your way. Take it from me, this Bureau has its own traditions, most of them dating from before Dewaal. But she brings in new ideas. So we adapt. But some of the older officers—which means almost anybody—have a problem with that, the whole new thing. We have a problem with managers.”
“I have no opinion on the subject,” Prinsen said.
“No,” Breukeling said. “Because you’re family. I’ll just say it out loud, kid. Everybody knows about it. It wasn’t even a secret. I don’t know if you’re going to spill the beans to … your aunt, isn’t she? You’re her nephew?”
“She’s my mom’s younger sister. But that has had no bearing on the …” He couldn’t avoid blushing. He was annoyed by the fact that he had to explain his family relations time and time again.
“Don’t apologize. We know about your background. You did very well at the police academy. You’ll go far in the force, even if it weren’t for family relations. Question is: did you have to get drafted into this unit? Really? The AIVD is a big operation, with a lot of interesting jobs. Did she specifically ask for you?”
The small speaker on the radio receiver coughed. The laptop started up promptly. “Aha, something’s happening,” Breukeling said. He had defects and qualities. One of his qualities was being able to concentrate at once on the task at hand. Someone had entered the meeting room where the microphones had been hidden. Prinsen could avoid explaining his personal situation, for the time being.
Two voices were talking in Dutch. They debated the items that would be discussed during the meeting. How many people were expected. When coffee would be served. They seemed to be looking at documents but got no wiser.
“Nothing that concerns us,” Breukeling said. He switched off the speaker but followed the conversation through his headphones. “This is the annoying side of these stakeouts. Marking time. Observations, for days on end. I’ve been through it all. You’re on a stakeout for days and nothing happens. You get tired, concentration is slipping. You want something to keep you occupied. And when something really important happens, your attention is elsewhere. You’re fucked. Had it happen to me. You miss what you weren’t supposed to miss.”
“Shit happens,” Prinsen said.
“But the chief won’t understand. She’s never done stakeouts. Doesn’t understand why you can’t keep your attention focused.” He glanced at Prinsen. “You’re bound to go far, kid. I can see that. I hope you remember that people are merely people and sometimes fail in doing their job, even if it’s not their fault.”
He took a few bites of his donut and drank coffee. Prinsen sat down on the couch. He looked for something to read but found nothing. Breukeling read no books. He read newspapers but not the kind Prinsen read.
“Mmm,” the older officer said. “These are really good donuts. Where did you get them?”
“There’s a little bakery down Haringpakkerssteeg,” Prinsen said. “You like them?”
“Coffee’s good too,” Breukeling said. He hardly listened to the sound from the microphones anymore. “Who wants this recording?”
“The prosecutor insisted on it.”
“And AIVD gets to do the dirty work. Does this have anything to do with an ongoing investigation? I’m just here for the fieldwork, kid, that’s all. They never tell me anything. Not in cases like these. They tell me: keep watch on the material, but I don’t see why there should be two of us here. Maybe they want you to get an idea of how exciting this is.”
“I guess so.”
“It’s simple, really. A child can do it. The technicians install the whole thing, including the computer, and the detective watches because some living being has to be there. There has to be a detective present, for legal reasons, I guess. You just push a key and the computer does the rest. I’m sure your generation has learned to push the right key.”
Suddenly, Breukeling sat up and listened. “There they are,” he said. He knew Prinsen was excluded from the conversation in the meeting room. For the best, he thought. The kid had better stay out of this.
He heard Russian voices first. Then Dutch. Speaking to each other, then switching to English with a strong Russian accent. If they wouldn’t mind waiting for just a moment? Mr. Keretsky would be along soon. The meeting with the bank had gone on longer than expected. Wouldn’t be long now. A cup of coffee?
The Dutch voices didn’t sound amused. Far from it. But they agreed to be patient. For ten minutes, nothing happened. Then new voices entered the room. Breukeling listened intently. A woman was dispatched. Then the conversation took a turn. Real business was conducted. Stuff that could get people in trouble. After the conversation had ended and everybody seemed to have left the room, Breukeling switched off the machine. “Seems we got the whole thing on tape,” he said. “Some heavy stuff. Can be used to prove conspiracy and maybe even murder.”
Prinsen felt frustrated because he’d heard nothing. “Where do we deliver the recording?”
“I’ll have to make a call,” Breukeling said. He took his cell phone and punched a number. “Sir,” he said, “Breukeling. We’re clear with the Renaissance recording. Am I supposed to bring the recording to our offices?”
He listened. Then he said, “Are you sure? Was that the idea?”
He listened again. He didn’t seem to like the instructions. “Sure,” he finally said. “We’ll arrange that.” He didn’t sound pleased.
He ended the call. “They want the recording on a memory stick, and I have to deliver it to the prosecutor’s office. The original recording must be wiped from the hard drive.”
“What purpose would that serve?” Prinsen asked. “The prosecutor? Can he insist that a recording be wiped? That doesn’t sound right to me.”
“I’m just the messenger boy. And you’re not even supposed to have a say. You’re in training.” He sat working on the laptop. “Sorry you’ve been kept out of this,” he said. “But that’s the way things drift.” He switched off the laptop and pocketed the stick. “I just do whatever is asked of me.”
“Do you send Dewaal a written report?”
“I’m not supposed to. Orders of the prosecutor, the man on the phone just said.”
Prinsen didn’t comment. The whole thing felt wrong. He knew little of how the Bureau opera
ted yet, but even so. A prosecutor intervening in a surveillance operation was unusual. However, police officers had little choice but to comply. “Aren’t we supposed to tell Dewaal about this?” he asked. Because to him it seemed they couldn’t do anything their chief didn’t at least know about.
Breukeling nodded and phoned again. He didn’t reach his party, though.
“Looks like we’re going to do whatever the prosecutor orders us,” he said to Prinsen. “Let’s get going, then.”
The stowed the equipment in two bags. A few minutes later, they walked out of the hotel. “Fancy a drink?” Breukeling inquired. “I could use one.”
Prinsen looked at his watch. “We’re still on duty,” he said.
“Ah, kid, who cares? An officer of AIVD is always on duty. Can he never have a drink?”
7
“LUNCH?” ALEXANDRA DEWAAL PROPOSED.
“Why not?” Eekhaut said.
She eyed his fruit juice. “No aperitif? A decent drink before we eat?”
“Well …”
She flagged down a server. “I’ll have a martini,” she said. “And you?”
“Me too.”
“You are …” She hesitated. “You arrived this morning?”
“Yes.”
“And they found you a nice apartment to live in, I assume?”
“It’s all right,” he said. Not committing himself yet. He eyed her slender hands, the sleeves of her wine-colored jacket, her naturally blond hair, the efficient but discreet makeup. Thirty, maybe thirty-five, he assumed. “It’s in the center of Amsterdam, as I asked.”
“I don’t care much for the center of Amsterdam,” she said. “Too crowded, every hour of the day. Never a moment of peace and quiet and no gardens. I live in Zaandam, where there’s a lot of green and trams don’t drive by your door at all hours of the day and night.” She consulted the menu. He considered himself warned. Zaandam was far superior to Amsterdam. There would be no discussion over this matter. “What shall we have?”
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