Pause.
‘What time?’
Petra was shaking her head in exasperation. ‘See you then.’ She ended the call. For a second, nothing. Then: ‘I think she has a new boyfriend.’
‘Oh? What happened to Pieter the goth?’
‘Who knows? I don’t like the sound of this one.’
‘What time are we meeting her now, then?’
‘It’s not clear, but I think eight. She’s going to call back.’
‘Oh well.’ I patted my wife’s hand, which was still gripping her phone. My own rang again.
PRIVATE NUMBER.
‘Let me just get rid of it,’ I said, pressing accept.
‘Henk,’ my wife and the caller said at the same time.
The voice on the phone was Rem Lottman’s, now attaché for the Dutch energy minister in the Council of Europe.
‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘I’m enjoying old Rotterdam on my day off.’
‘Excellent! So much closer to Brussels. Can you come here? There’s something I’d like you to help with.’
I was about to refuse and end the call there and then, but I thought of the difficulties I was having at IJ Tunnel 3 with Joost (who was the new Amsterdam police commissioner), and how helpful some support from high up might be. ‘When did you have in mind? Late next week would be better if possible –’
‘Can you come now? It’s rather urgent.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
My wife looked on intently. The phone went so quiet that I thought I’d lost him.
‘Hello?’ I prompted.
‘Do you see Zsolt To˝zsér’s death as a joke now?’
The light darkened as if a cloud were passing overhead. I got up and walked away.
‘What?’ I asked quietly.
The suspicion among certain members of the Amsterdam police force – that I’d been involved in the shooting – just wouldn’t go away.
‘Don’t let this be about you and me,’ Lottman said. ‘Have it be about Holland, and Europe.’
I tried to make sense of his words but only saw Zsolt To˝zsér’s body in a dyke, bullets to the head and the heart. ‘How?’
‘By coming to Brussels. Now.’
*
We met at a restaurant not far from Brussels Central Station, a Michelin-starred place called Chez Moi. I’d realised that I could get to Brussels and back before Nadia was ready to meet us; I’d left Petra watching a highly acclaimed documentary film about the Ecuadorian cuckoo or something.
The short train ride to Brussels had given me a chance to think about the problems piling up at work again, and what help I might be able to ask for from Lottman. Ever since Zsolt To˝zsér was lost as an informant, IJ Tunnel 3 had been stretched thin in having to deal with rising levels of organised crime. That was the deceptiveness of Amsterdam: people rarely encountered crime (in the city centre at least). But when they did, they encountered it hard. Organised theft, smuggling and gun crime; too many goods moving through the ports, too much to keep track of. And I still only had Stefan and Liesbeth on my team.
‘Henk,’ Lottman greeted me.
He’d put on even more weight. It wasn’t hard to see why, in a place like this. Chez Moi had a discreetly art deco feel, and its warm, buttery tones conveyed an understated opulence. Clearly it catered to the bigwigs. Lottman was in his natural habitat.
The maître d’ eyed my bomber jacket as he showed us to a table in the corner. Lottman was wearing a single-breasted tent of a suit jacket along with a shirt and tie. He nodded his acknowledgements to other important diners. The maître d’ asked in Dutch whether the table was suitable and, after a moment’s evaluation, Lottman said that it was.
Once we were seated, he dropped his voice.
‘It’s good to see you, Henk. You’re looking well.’
His words caught me off guard. I found it hard to believe the compliment, and I couldn’t in all sincerity repay it. He was sweating, so much so that he had to use his white napkin to mop his brow.
The sommelier saved me.
‘We’ll order a bottle of the usual,’ Lottman leaned back to tell him before turning to me again. ‘Are you hungry? The veal here is always very good. The fried calf’s brain is exquisite.’
I could still taste the sourness of the cranberry brownie from earlier and opted for moules-frites. When in Rome…
‘How’s the team-leader role suiting you?’ Lottman asked.
‘It keeps me off the streets… and on them. How’s Bruxelles?’ I said, using the French pronunciation.
He snorted. ‘I’ve never known any institution that takes better care of its people. EU employees don’t pay tax, not even VAT, in the first year they work here. They have more-than-generous expense accounts, free meals and haircuts, and even their own bus lanes. Whatever the EU doesn’t pay for, the lobbyists do. It’s perfectly possible to stay here and not spend a single centime. And yet, no one seems happy.’
‘Maybe we’re born to struggle.’
‘Maybe we are. Have you ever been to Ghana?’
‘Ghana? In Africa?’
‘Yes.’
I paused. ‘No.’
My dad had spent time on the Dutch Gold Coast. At least, I think he had; he wasn’t around to ask about these things anymore. Maybe that’s why I tended to give Lottman, with his paternal presence, the benefit of the doubt.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘I was just curious. I thought there might have been a family connection, but maybe I am mistaken. Ah –’
The wine arrived – something red, French and no doubt extremely expensive. The sommelier poured a little; Rem swirled it in his big glass, then sniffed, tasted, and pronounced it satisfactory.
A frustrating silence followed as the sommelier decanted the wine, poured two glasses, removed others and generally fussed; finally, once he’d left, Rem continued in a confidential voice.
‘There’s a man arriving in town, a Mr Lesoto. Ghanaian diplomat. Quite important to our national business here.’
I had to remind myself what Lottman actually did in Brussels, apart from drink expensive wine in restaurants such as this one.
‘He’s been having a rough time of it with the authorities here lately. The Belgians can be pretty uptight when they want to be, you know.’
‘Having a rough time how?’
‘At the airport, apparently. Suspicion as to what he’s carrying in diplomatic pouches. Well, as I’m sure I don’t need tell you, that’s no one’s damn business but the Ghanaians.’
‘Agreed,’ I said slowly, wondering how I fitted in with any of this. ‘Are there any grounds for suspicion?’
‘No more so than with any other country’s diplomats.’
A curiously evasive phrasing.
‘It would be helpful if you could be here when he next arrives in the country,’ Lottman continued. ‘To ensure that everything’s handled appropriately. Just to be certain that his rights are observed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a friend of our country. And friends look after friends.’ He leaned in. ‘Do you know what I mean, Henk?’
‘Why on earth me? It’s not like I don’t have enough to do back in Amsterdam. And it’s not my jurisdiction.’
‘Why? Because I trust you. I’ll smooth things over with your boss. You’ll be in a better position when you go back.’
That much rang true. I could see the opportunity to interrupt the uncooperative pattern I’d fallen into with Joost.
‘Mr Lesoto is planning to make a trip to Amsterdam, via Belgium, I’m told,’ Rem went on. ‘You can act as a sort of chaperone. I know Belgium’s not your jurisdiction, but…’
‘Why don’t you just speak to Belgian customs? They’ll surely listen to you – or any member of
government here.’
He gave no answer.
Which was an answer: he didn’t want any direct involvement with the matter. That gave me pause for thought. But if I were seconded to Rem Lottman for a week or so, the resource and staffing issues at the station would surely gain visibility and urgency. Or so I told myself.
‘Let me get this straight. You want me to meet a Ghanaian diplomat on arrival here and make sure he has no problems. Then… what?’
‘Spend a little time with him. Like I said, he wants to visit Amsterdam, apparently. You might even have fun.’
He smiled. I think it was the first time I’d seen him do so.
‘Why doesn’t he just fly into Schiphol?’
‘Please, I don’t know. Try asking him when he arrives first thing on Monday. Ah, the veal!’
15
THE GHANAIAN STAR
Monday morning came around fast, as it tends to. I was standing in the arrivals area of Antwerp Airport – a small, single-terminal affair – full of questions. With me was Sammy, a driver from the Ghanaian embassy in The Hague and a man of few words. He held a sign: MR LESOTO. It bore a discreet, primary-coloured Ghanaian flag.
We were early. The flight was showing as on time.
‘Where are we going when he arrives?’ I asked.
‘Who knows?’ Sammy shrugged his slim shoulders. There was a bulge in his jacket, as if he were carrying a gun.
Unlikely.
I checked my phone.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ I needed to call in to the police station, get an update from Stefan.
Sammy shook his head. Diplomatic silence. That left me with all the more time to ponder.
Why Antwerp? It seemed a curious way to get from Ghana to Amsterdam. The flight was arriving from London – a connecting flight from Accra, surely.
I walked into the terminal’s dated-looking restaurant and ordered an Americano. The coffee came scalding hot. As I blew on its surface I wondered why a diplomat wouldn’t bypass the normal arrivals procedure. Or was that the point – had Lesoto been denied a diplomatic method of entry? It felt premature to track down an opposite number on the Antwerp police force, Rem Lottman not having suggested that I do so.
There was no sign of any arriving passengers.
I called Stefan.
‘Hoi,’ I said.
‘Boss.’
‘Good weekend?’
‘Could have been better.’
‘The Ajax game?’ I asked.
‘Indeed. A travesty. How about you?’
‘Much the same. Listen, I’ve been called away to Belgium.’
‘Oh?’
‘Not for too long.’ I thought about adding more, then decided against it. ‘I’ll be calling in regularly enough.’
Stefan was developing into a fine police officer, but it didn’t take much to throw him off balance. I could sense him trying to process the information.
‘Has there been any movement in the Holendrecht case?’ I asked. There had been a shooting in Southeast Amsterdam… drugs were involved.
He sighed. ‘I thought we had a taxi driver who’d give testimony, but no. Withdrew his witness statement. Can’t believe that bastard Hals.’
Frank Hals, the person suspected of running the drugs operation and a man widely considered untouchable, lived in a sizeable residence in our precinct. Hence our peripheral involvement in the case, which really belonged to the drugs unit of the National Police Agency.
So it went at IJ Tunnel 3. We were increasingly being pulled between the pickpocketing and other petty cases that couldn’t really justify resources, and the far bigger ones that weren’t ours to begin with. And all the while we were being assigned aggressive productivity targets. This was how our new commissioner wanted it. I’d be talking that over with Rem Lottman before long. Certainly before this Ghanaian odyssey was through.
‘Stay involved,’ I advised, ‘but don’t get too sucked in. Anything else?’
‘Liesbeth just went off to the Royal… a disturbance in one of the rooms there.’
Hmm.
‘Not the kind of place you associate with domestics,’ I said. The Royal, on the Amstel river, was one of Amsterdam’s most exclusive hotels.
‘No, it’s not,’ Stefan agreed.
Passengers were dribbling through in ones and twos. Mostly ones.
‘I need to go,’ I said. Sammy had stepped forward with his sign.
‘You hear about the death over in Willemspark?’ Stefan asked.
‘No.’ Another posh place – but not our precinct.
‘Diplomat found dead in his house there.’
That made me sit up and take note. ‘Which diplomat? How’d he die?’
‘Norwegian. Sounds like a break-in gone wrong.’
‘Try to find out more about that, would you?’
‘But it’s Bergveld’s case.’
Fuck. Of course. Sebastiaan Bergveld, my erstwhile nemesis, had been moved over to the cushier beat of Willemspark.
‘Whatever you can find out,’ I told him. ‘I really must go.’
‘Here!’ a voice boomed, a perspiring face bobbing above the others. He was smiling at Sammy’s sign. Mr Lesoto had landed.
*
He was a huge, square-shouldered man. Sharp-suited. He took my hand with a bone-crushing grip.
The whites of his eyes contrasted vividly with his dark skin. They had a yellowish tint.
Lesoto only had a roller bag. Two uniformed immigration guards were looking on, a sniffer dog sat obediently by their side.
‘Henk van der Pol,’ I said in English. Though Ghana had once been a Dutch colony, English was now its lingua franca. ‘I’m with the Dutch police,’ I added. ‘Rem Lottman asked me to drop by and make sure things are OK.’
‘Ah, Mis-ta Lottman!’ His eyes lit up. ‘So long as Mista Lottman is involved, everything is OK.’ He gathered Sammy alongside. ‘Come… Let us leave this most unwelcoming place.’
I glanced at the guards again. They stared straight back at me. Law enforcement types tend to ID one another fast.
Sammy led us through the concourse.
‘How was your trip?’ I asked Lesoto.
‘The flight was quite nice.’
‘You connected through London?’
‘Yes.’
Cooler, moist air hit us as we left the terminal building.
‘You’re just here on business?’
‘Business and pleasure. There must always be both in life. Yes!’ he added approvingly. Sammy had led us to a deep-maroon, four-door Bentley. Diplomatic plates. He opened the kerb-side door for Lesoto.
I jogged around in the drizzle to the other side. The door handle wasn’t obvious, but I managed to open it. Inside was another world. Rem Lottman’s stretch Mercedes was like a taxi minivan in comparison. The Bentley smelled of rich leather and had a profound silence. A paper box of tissues behind the rear headrests looked incongruously cheap.
Lesoto blinked a couple of times and breathed deeply. His eyes were heavy-lidded – jet lag no doubt. I heard the vague thunk of the boot, and it was only when the terminal building glided past that I realised we were moving, so smooth was the engine. Rainwater turned to beads on the windows.
‘Where are we going?’ I enquired.
‘To Amsterdam. But first, I must pick up a gift.’
Sammy didn’t react; apparently he knew the plan.
‘How do you know Rem Lottman?’
‘He is a good friend,’ Lesoto said with soft insistence.
I held on to the rail above the door with my left hand. We were snaking through the grey Antwerp suburbs, moving quickly. We flew by a dishevelled woman, pushing a shopping trolley beside the road. Homeless, surely.
‘Are your people happy?’ Lesoto asked me.
‘Which people?’
‘The people,’ he gestured outside the window at the world.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You’d have to ask them.’
‘Do you not all speak the same language?’
‘Some of us do.’
His eyelids drooped.
Those were all the words we spoke till we arrived, ten minutes later, in the centre of Antwerp. I was beginning to think that this was all a big waste of time, and was planning to report as much to Lottman, when we turned down Pelikaanstraat into the diamond district.
The windows of the shops sparkled. Behatted Hasidic Jews conferred among themselves; crowds of tourists flowed around them like shoals of fish. The place had a desultory, theme-park feel to it. We came to a stop outside an office.
I knew a bit about diamonds. Or rather my father had.
Lesoto leaned forward heavily and said something in his own language to Sammy, who nodded in confirmation. In the wet gloom I could make out the office’s nameplate: Cape Diamonds.
Sammy got out. The roller bag stayed in the boot. Sammy opened an umbrella and then Lesoto’s door, and off they strode to the building’s entrance, the smaller man reaching to hold the umbrella above Lesoto. What a couple they made.
After speaking a few words into the intercom, Lesoto was admitted. Sammy returned to the car and got in. As he did so, a gust blew open his jacket and I glimpsed a tan leather shoulder holster carrying a slim semi-automatic.
He’d kept the engine idling. That didn’t mean anything in terms of how quickly Lesoto might conclude his business; rather, it was simply to keep the interior cool.
What was Lesoto’s business?
Diamonds are dug up in Africa, Australia and Bolivia, and find buyers in Moscow, Geneva and Shanghai. Yet, somehow, over four-fifths of the world’s uncut stones make their way through Antwerp’s diamond district. And not just the financial arrangements for them, but the stones themselves. Even Amsterdam’s role in the diamond trade has all but disappeared – just a few polishers buffing stones for tourists. How had Antwerp held on?
By a mixture of lower taxes and tight regulation, I reasoned, thinking about those two immigration guards at the airport.
‘How long will he be?’ I asked Sammy.
The Harbour Master Page 10
