“You may have a passport, Mr. Tarkovski, but I’m sure Mr. Keretsky decides if and when you make the trip. You’re not really free to go, are you?”
Something changed in the Russian’s attitude. He assumed a distance. “Mr. Keretsky has been a good employer, Mr. Eekhaut. He has employed me for a number of years now, most of them here in Holland. I like it here, and I like my job. Amsterdam is a most pleasant city to live in. Winters are most bearable here, much different from Russia. People treat me with respect, even the police. Is there a problem?”
“Oh, there’s no problem. I just wondered if a Russian wouldn’t want to return to Moscow at some point. Or Saint Petersburg, in your case.”
Tarkovski shook his head. “You know nothing about the Russian soul, Mr. Eekhaut. Don’t assume you will ever understand the Russian soul. You do not even understand your own.” He sat up. “Can I help you gentlemen with anything else? Lists of people employed by our companies? You have a search warrant, I assume?”
“We’ll leave it at that,” Van Gils said. He rose. “Mr. Tarkovski. Thank you for your time.”
“No problem, Inspector. Return whenever you seem fit. But do call in advance and make an appointment. I’m always eager to help the Dutch police.”
“I’m surprised, though,” Van Gils said, “that at no point did you ask us why we were here. You didn’t seem interested to know the purpose of our visit.”
Tarkovski frowned again. “Really? I didn’t? Maybe I’m not interested in police business. I’m used to it. We’re foreign, and so the AIVD is always on our tail. It’s not a problem, though, gentlemen. You ask questions, I provide answers. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, Mr. Tarkovski,” Van Gils said, “that’s never enough.”
As they were crossing the street toward the car, Van Gils said to Eekhaut, “Arrogant little bastard. Laughing in our faces. I wanted to punch him. Really did. But I can’t, of course. I’d get in trouble with everybody: Internal Affairs, Dewaal, the director, maybe even the public prosecutor.”
“We didn’t have anything sensible to ask him, did we?” Eekhaut said.
“And even so, he had nothing interesting to say. But it appears you know nothing of the Russian soul, do you? And what else did he say? Why was he talking about your soul?”
“Russians,” Eekhaut said. “Always melodramatic. It means nothing.”
“It doesn’t? Then why do you look so preoccupied?”
17
“HE DIDN’T HAVE THE list,” Adam Keretsky said, in English. And then again, as if he feared he hadn’t been clear enough, in the same Cambridge English: “Parnow doesn’t have the list.”
Monet frowned. He had understood the Russian the first time. “And the young man?”
“Oh, he won’t be a problem anymore,” Keretsky said. “You can rest assured of that. But the list, that problem is not yet solved.”
“He couldn’t find the list?”
Keretsky consulted Parnow, in Russian. “He found the list,” he then said to Monet, “but the guy’s girlfriend returned unexpectedly and there was a fight, between her and my man here, and unfortunately she fled, taking the list with her.”
Monet considered this. “This means the problem is not yet solved.”
“It isn’t,” Keretsky said. “Well, it is solved in part. A main obstacle has been removed. The infamous and unfortunate young man is no longer a problem. That’s what you wanted, didn’t you?”
“We wanted the list back, Mr. Keretsky. That’s what the whole thing was about, as you may remember. We wanted to avoid the list getting into the wrong hands and in the newspapers. What happened to the thief was less of my concern.”
“I see,” Keretsky said, not without irony. “You are a businessman. As am I. Plans and contracts matter to us more than human lives. That makes us successful. Now, as I assess the situation, it seems to me the list is hardly important or harmful as long as there’s no believable messenger to back it up, so to speak. Are we not clear on that? No credible messenger to deliver this list to the authorities.”
“Or the press.”
“Or the police. I’ve had the police visiting me already. Some detectives from the AIVD. But not, it seemed to me, in connection with this affair. One of the detectives was very rude. He seemed unaware of the basic rules of diplomacy. Well, I’ll deal with that later. Now, about the girlfriend. The one that got away with the list.”
“Yes?”
“Parnow described her as one of those young people, so prominent in this decadent city, nurtured by godless anarchy and cheap drugs. She is, in simple terms, probably a junkie. Which makes her less than believable for, let’s say, the authorities or the press. Question: what do we have to fear from her?”
You’re an idiot, Monet thought. I have more to fear from imported upstarts like you than from a hundred girlfriends of Van Boer et al. You’re so shamefully careless because you assume nobody can touch you. You’re a big player in Russia, where the police and politicians are in bed with you. But the rules are different here. And they sure are different from us.
But he concentrated on the matter at hand. There was no point in getting angry at Keretsky. Keretsky had always been a problem, but of a different magnitude than the lost list. At some point he would have to deal with Keretsky, but that moment was not on the horizon yet. “So long,” Monet said, “as that list can fall into the wrong hands—any hands but our own, that is—and as long as thousands of hands can make thousands of copies for any newspaper here or abroad, we have a major problem. I had hoped your assistant would have solved the problem, but it seems he didn’t.”
“My … assistant will leave no stone unturned to find the young lady, rest assured, Mr. Monet. But if she copies that list today, as you say, and distributes it, there is nothing we can do. I remain convinced, however, that she is a junkie with an unlikely story and as such is hardly believable. If she goes to a newspaper, she’ll end up making a fool of herself and maybe finding herself in jail on a charge of libel. And that will be the end of your problem.”
“I can try to find out where she’s hiding,” Monet said. Over the years, he had established a network of corrupt police officers and low-level servants within the department of justice. An old network of obligations and promises and money well spent. Keretsky needed no explanation. He knew all about that kind of network.
Monet glanced at Parnow. The Russian kept his hands folded like a mortuary assistant. How apt, Monet thought. This man whom I wouldn’t even notice in the street shot a young man dead but couldn’t manage to subdue a girl.
But Parnow wasn’t his most pressing problem. His problem was the list. What would he do if it surfaced in a newspaper? He would deny its authenticity. He would call out leftist political parties trying to disrupt the prized political equilibrium. Trying to besmirch the business community, the backbone of Dutch civil society. He would threaten lawsuits for every last euro these newspapers owned.
There was one alternative, though. A risky alternative. He could point the finger at Van Tillo. He would incriminate Van Tillo and Vanheul and the whole PDN. Accuse them of blackmail, fraud, slander. He would deny ever having given a penny to the PDN. Nobody would find any trace anyway. There had never been any direct transfer of funds, not officially. The money had passed through a chain of companies and organizations, well hidden from view. Sometimes even through foreign banks. Occasionally, he’d even given cash. As far as he was concerned, there’d be no trace unless someone dug really, really deep.
There was only the list. And it didn’t prove anything.
So why was he worried?
Because his reputation would be harmed anyway. Because part of the press and part of the public would associate his name and those of his companies with right-wing parties and illegal political financing. However popular Van Tillo’s party was, financing it would not go down well with a part of Dutch society. People who mattered to Monet. People in circles where he wanted to appear ethical, as someo
ne who wasn’t averse to progressive ideas.
So by preference his choice was to cover up the existence of the list. He wanted a shot at being nominated as a board member in one of the big-seven Dutch companies at the top of the Dutch business world, but for that he had to remain untarnished. Even among people who, in private, were no strangers to Van Tillo’s political ideas.
But that was Dutch society for you: based on illusion and deceit.
“My people are at your disposal,” Keretsky told him. But it was clear the Russian wasn’t very happy with the situation.
“We appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Keretsky,” Monet said. And he wondered, Why can’t I find in Amsterdam, in the whole of Amsterdam, a single professional at least as effective as Parnow?
Of course, he could. There were enough shady characters around who would, for a handful of cash, help him get rid of any problem. But then his name would be implicated as a contractor, even if he found an intermediary. There was always a risk. Parnow wouldn’t spill the beans because of his relationship with Keretsky. Neither would the Russian. He was safe with both.
So they were going to have to solve his problem.
18
CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT DEWAAL WASN’T happy. “Pieter Van Boer, Ms. Van Tillo. This is his picture. Look at it. Taken in better times, I’ll admit. But I’m sure you recognize him, don’t you? He was murdered this morning here in Amsterdam. City center. He worked for you. Here, in these offices. And you tell me you have no idea who he is?”
Hendrika Van Tillo squinted at the picture. “Kees,” she said to Vanheul. “Kees, we do know this young man, don’t we? He works here, indeed, Chief Superintendent. He does. Or did, since you tell me he was murdered. I used to see him around here, but I didn’t know him personally. You know how it goes in an organization of this size, don’t you? There are a hundred or so people working here. Some just part-time. I know all their faces, but I don’t necessarily know them all personally. I’m out often, on the road, meeting people, attending all sorts of public functions. Ask Kees. Mr. Vanheul is better acquainted with the staff. He’s here more often than I. Kees?”
Vanheul leaned in, because his eyesight wasn’t good and he wasn’t wearing his glasses. “Van Boer? Yes. He wasn’t here yesterday. Nor today, I’ve been told. Seems to have vanished all of a sudden. His colleagues had no idea where he was. He left no note, no message, as to what his plans were. Didn’t call in sick either. Nobody was worried, because he’s—was—the … how shall I put it, the artistic type, who couldn’t always be bothered to show up on time, or even every day.”
“When did anyone last see him? Friday?” Dewaal lowered the picture. Eekhaut remained standing by the door of Van Tillo’s office as if he were merely a bystander.
“I guess so,” Van Tillo said. “I don’t remember seeing him at all last week. Can’t say I did. Like I said, Chief Superintendent, I’m not in this office that much.”
“Well, neither am I,” Vanheul said.
“And there was no reason why his absence would cause somebody to worry about him?”
“Not at all.”
Eekhaut was merely observing. But he knew they were lying, both of them, or if not really lying then not telling the whole truth either. Maybe just a very small portion of the truth. He kept his mouth shut and studied their body language. They felt more or less comfortable, not because they knew nothing or were innocent, but because they were sure the police had nothing on them. And would find nothing.
He finally decided on a change of role. He leaned in as if wanting to win her confidence and said softly, “Ms. Van Tillo, are you responsible for the death of Pieter Van Boer?”
Her head swiveled sharply in his direction, not unlike an antiaircraft turret on a battleship. Aiming right at him, hatred in her eyes.
Oh yes, he thought. Hatred.
Then she turned to Dewaal. “Chief Superintendent, could you explain to me why this individual is accusing me of involvement in the murder of Mr. Van Boer? Is he one of your people?”
Dewaal remained calm. “Chief Inspector Eekhaut is a new member of my team. He has been detached by the Belgian police to my department. So, ma’am, in that sense, yes, he is one of my people.”
“Does that mean, Chief Superintendent, that I have to answer his ridiculous question?”
Before Dewaal could reply, Eekhaut intervened. “I think I posed a simple and very clear question, Ms. Van Tillo. I’m a police detective, and if you have any remarks concerning me or the way I conduct an inquiry, I would ask you to address me in person. Are you responsible for the death of Pieter Van Boer?”
Van Tillo breathed fire. Or she would have done so if humanly possible and reduced Eekhaut to ashes. “Mr. Eekhaut, in this country, politicians are treated with respect by civil servants, including the police. I will let that slide, for now, on account of you being foreign. But the fact remains that you show considerable lack of tact and diplomacy. No, Mr. Eekhaut, we had nothing whatsoever to do with the death of Mr. Van Boer.”
He looked her straight in the eye and said, “Thank you, Ms. Van Tillo, for this clarification.”
Dewaal said, “We will have to talk to some of your colleagues. And we want to look at the office of Mr. Van Boer.”
“You’ll need a warrant for that, Chief Superintendent, as you well know. At least for the office. Kees will escort you and find Van Boer’s colleagues for you. Feel free to ask them any questions you want.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Dewaal said stiffly. She rose and gestured at Eekhaut to follow her.
Interviewing the colleagues gave them no new information. Van Boer was considered a quiet and hardworking assistant. Good with words but not engaged in social interaction. Nobody had expected anything like this. A murder? They didn’t know anything about his private life, but who would want to kill such a nice young man?
19
OUTSIDE AGAIN, ON THE Herengracht, and while walking all the way back to the car that was parked a few hundred meters down the street, Dewaal remained silent. “Come on,” Eekhaut finally said. “Get it out of your system. I know you want to.”
She stopped and turned to him. Angry. Really pissed off. He hadn’t expected otherwise. First with Keretsky, now with Van Tillo. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t remain silent, couldn’t keep his trap shut when he was faced with people he believed were lying through their teeth. He knew what would happen next: his boss would be angry with him. It had happened with all his bosses. And he’d given them plenty of reason for being pissed off at him. She wouldn’t be the exception.
“Is this,” she finally said, “some personal tactic, your way of getting on everybody’s nerves? And embarrassing your colleagues in the meantime? Twice in one day, that must be a personal record. Not for you, but for me.”
“Yes,” Eekhaut said, “that’s what it is, my successful personal method for making people like Keretsky and Van Tillo uncomfortable. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. The main reason, actually.”
Dewaal managed to contain her fury. “Keep in mind that I can send you back anytime I want. Tell me why I shouldn’t.”
“So you said earlier. But there’s little you can do. They don’t want me back. And they lied.”
“They lied? Who did?”
“Van Tillo and her secretary. They were lying.”
“Of course they were! That was clear even to me. They know something. I don’t need your Flemish genius for that! And even less your boorish manners!”
“So you know. When I put the question to her, I knew for certain. They know something about Van Boer they don’t want to share with us.”
“Do you really think you can accuse one of Holland’s most famous politicians of murder? Because they’re holding back on something?”
“Did I? Accuse her of murder?”
“You did.”
“Can’t remember …”
“You said—”
“I know what I said.” He turned his attention to the canal. A pas
sing postal van got in his way. Since his arrival, he had seen almost nothing of Amsterdam. But he had been here for only two days. Two days and already disliked by his boss. “I asked Van Tillo if she was responsible for the death of Van Boer, not if she killed him herself. I wouldn’t expect that. Can’t we have a drink somewhere? Corruption and lies make me thirsty.”
Dewaal wanted to object but changed her mind. “Let’s find a terrace. But no alcohol.”
He looked at her. “As you wish, ma’am. I’ll do with a soda.”
She looked up at him. He was nearly a head taller than she. Standing next to each other forced her to look up at him at all times. He found that interesting. She in her fashionable clothes and he in his much less glamorous suit.
“Or a sparkling water. Anything. Any kind of water without a fish in it.”
He followed her. They found a café with a terrace and sat down. A blond girl in jeans and a sweater asked them what they’d like to drink. Dewaal looked at the girl, then at Eekhaut, and all of a sudden started to snicker. The girl looked at her, surprised. Eekhaut intervened: “Two coffees, please. Or a cappuccino, Chief? No, just two plain coffees.”
The girl left. “Damn it,” Dewaal said, wiping tears from the corner of her eyes. “So much for my reputation. Damn you, Eekhaut.”
“That’s all right,” he said. He knew where that was coming from. The sudden hilarity. Nerves. Tension. And him on top of that.
She said softly, “Asking Van Tillo if she had something to do with that murder. You wouldn’t do badly on a talk show, confronting her like that.”
“I’ll pass if you don’t mind.”
Her smile disappeared again. Instead, she looked grim. “I don’t want you to tell the others about this. At the office. I’m very serious. Not a word.”
He knew what she meant. “Isn’t that what you ask a suspect, under these circumstances? If they’re involved in the matter?”
She frowned again at him. “Van Tillo isn’t a suspect until I say otherwise. Or till the prosecutor says otherwise. Till then, she is merely somebody we interrogate in relationship to an ongoing investigation. Only because Van Boer worked for her.”
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