Now that he mentioned it, I vaguely remembered Stefan calling me while I was visiting Karremans’s place on IJburg…
‘I asked you how to approach Joost about a promotion I was considering putting in for,’ he prompted. ‘You were busy at the time.’
I remembered being cold and uncomfortable that afternoon on IJburg, and needing to get back to Driebergen…
Stefan went on: ‘Joost was approachable enough about it, anyway.’
‘What promotion?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. After chatting to him, I decided against going for it. He didn’t think it was a good idea. Said something better would come along. What have you got against him, anyway?’
‘Who – Joost? Why d’you ask that?’
He shrugged. ‘Just a feeling I get. That you blame Joost for things.’
If only Stefan knew.
‘Let’s change the subject,’ I said tersely. There was nothing I could tell Stefan now that might not get back to my nemesis, inadvertently at least.
We sat for a few moments longer, then returned to the station in silence.
*
I was feeling a sensation of slow-motion collapse as I returned home to the boat that night. Was it even possible to be demoted from bike theft? Policing litter, perhaps?
A discarded pack of Marlboro Reds sat beside the water’s edge on Entrepotdok. I kicked it in. A young neighbour out walking her dog shot me a disapproving look.
But back at the boat, things were looking up a little. Petra had cooked zomerse stoofschotel – summer stew with vegetables. A bottle of red wine stood open on the table.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ I asked, pouring two very full glasses. ‘Or are you feeling guilty about something?’ I arched an eyebrow.
‘Perhaps I was hoping we could pick up where we left off this afternoon,’ she said, sidling up to me.
I caressed her back, then helped dish up the stew.
We sat down.
‘Proost!’ Smiling, we raised our wine glasses, and began eating.
‘I met a woman this afternoon who you might find interesting.’
‘Who?’ Petra said, mid-mouthful.
‘She runs an urban farm out in Kolenkitbuurt, has her own –’
‘Tammy Goss?’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘I interviewed her last month.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she gave me an underlook, ‘it hasn’t featured on my blog yet – you haven’t missed anything.’
I smiled. ‘It got me thinking about things – how things were, back in the day. You know, how we really hoped to change the world… Where did all that go?’ I sighed and reached for my wine glass.
‘They have an expression in France, don’t they? Mettre de l’eau dans son vin.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Mellow.’
‘Hmm,’ I said, draining my glass. ‘I had in mind doing a couple of jenever chasers.’
Petra chuckled. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing we’re going to London.’ Then she made a bridge with her hands, resting her chin on it. ‘Things haven’t turned out so badly, have they?’
She was wearing a low-cut top, and the candle’s half-light revealed her cleavage to particularly pleasing effect. I was set on resuming where we’d left off earlier when my phone rang.
‘I’ll turn it off.’
But as I pulled the device out to do so, I saw that the caller was Mulder.
‘Actually, it’s the boss. Hold on…’ I pressed accept.
‘Henk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry to disturb you at night.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I just thought you should know that the national drugs team went to do a preliminary search of the nightclub in the harbour.’
‘The submarine?’
‘That’s right. They found MDMA.’
Why did he think that I needed to know this now?
‘They also found your daughter there.’
‘Nadia?’
Petra shot me a look.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘She just received a caution – this time. This is all off-grid.’
Off-grid?
‘We look out for one another,’ he added.
Neither of his last two statements was comforting.
‘I just thought you should know,’ he concluded. ‘Good night.’
23
CHOKE POINT
I grabbed my coat and my warrant card. My hand hesitated in front of the gun case. I’d had a large glass of wine.
‘Where are you going?’ Petra demanded.
‘I have to check something. I’m sorry, I’ll be back shortly.’
‘What’s happening? Why did you mention Nadia?’
‘It’s fine, I’ll be back soon.’
‘Tell me!’
I explained, and finally she let me go.
It wasn’t fine, however. As I walked down Entrepotdok towards the harbour, Nadia wasn’t taking my calls.
I paced through the darkness and soon came to the submarine, the slick-black shape contrasting with the glittering surface of the dark water. Its conning tower loomed stealthily. Velvet Revolution’s tour bus had gone.
A couple of people were milling around: frustrated club-goers, by the looks of it.
‘Tonight’s event is cancelled,’ announced a big guy at the mouth of the gangplank. Tied between the railings was police tape.
‘Who are you?’ I asked him.
‘Security.’ The man drew back to appraise me. He wasn’t Jurgen Straeffer. ‘Who are you?’
I showed him my warrant card. ‘I need to see yours.’
He showed me a card for a private security company. I didn’t recognise the firm, but it wasn’t uncommon for the police to outsource security to private contractors. ‘Drugs team told me to keep it secure,’ he said.
I nodded, then strode past him, stooping under the tape.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘show your warrant card again, I’d better note your name.’
*
The old Icefish-class submarine had been stripped down to its shell, with only essential piping and electrical wiring remaining along the highest circular point. It looked like the wiring had remained unchanged since the hippies inhabited it thirty years before. Gone was the artwork, though – dark fabric blanketed the walls. Metal flooring spanned the widest point, but the club still looked surprisingly small when empty. Down the sides ran plush leather seating, and directly ahead rose a DJ booth, like a pulpit.
Illuminating all was the submarine’s original red lighting, designed to encourage pupil dilation – enabling submariners to find their night vision fast after raising the periscope, thereby minimising the time that the periscope protruded above water. Everything about a submarine is designed for stealth.
There was no one remaining from the drugs team; I called out, and got no response. Beside the steel entry door stood a folding table. On top of it sat a clipboard with a register attached, a box of thin rubber gloves, and a separate box of bootees. I didn’t sign the register, but I did put on gloves and bootees.
After pushing the steel door closed behind me, I walked across the metal floor, past the DJ booth, and down a narrow corridor beyond. The doors had been removed, the cabins converted into VIP seating areas. The red light proved disorientating, so I reached for my phone and its white torchlight. There was no return call from Nadia – but no phone reception, either.
I stepped over a metal sill, through an open doorway and into the aft torpedo room. It, too, had been stripped. I noticed a light patch of decking where something had been standing until recently… a pill-making machine perhaps? It was impossible to say, but adjusting the angle of my phone’s light, I could make out whi
te splotches of powder – presumably from where the drugs team had tried to lift fingerprints – and also a bright-blue substance more immediately around the light patch on the floor.
I crouched down and dabbed my gloved finger into the blue substance, then touched it to my tongue: MDMA. The ‘precursor’ ingredient is sassafras oil, found in the jungles of the Far East – notably Indonesia, a former Dutch colony that these submarines were originally commissioned to protect.
The MDMA would have been cooked, or manufactured, somewhere other than here. This would be just a redistribution facility, supplying locals… including, apparently, my daughter.
I stood up, angrily remembering our bet.
As I did so, a loud clang resounded down the corridor.
‘Hello?’ I called.
There was a squeal, which I recognised to be the circular door-closing mechanism being wheeled shut.
‘Hello?’ I repeated. There was also a weird, vibrational echo.
A footstep sounded in the red-lit void, and then another. Someone had entered the submarine, and closed the door behind.
‘Come on out, Henk.’
As I rounded the corner, Hals was approaching me with a gun drawn. The red light had turned his pupils jet black.
‘Take a seat,’ he said.
In films – possibly in books too (I don’t read them) – people pointing guns seems quite commonplace. In real life, having the muzzle of a gun aimed at you forces a mental clarity like nothing else can.
‘You’re interfering with a crime scene,’ I managed.
His face was bathed blood red by the light. So too was his bull-like physique.
‘I told you that people were upset with your conclusions down in Driebergen, Henk. I took time out of my schedule to visit your home, and warn you about that. So why this, here?’
‘It’s a good question.’
‘Well?’
My heart kept thudding, my ribs hurting once more.
‘I guess I don’t know how to do that.’
‘What, keep away?’ He shook his head.
‘You think killing a police officer will help?’ There was the weird echo again.
He said, ‘That would be crass indeed, wouldn’t it? And unnecessary. Doubtless you’ve left a trail of petty insinuations with the likes of your wife…’
I tried to work out what the hell he was planning to do, if not fire the gun.
‘No, if ever this vessel is salvaged, I want people to find out exactly what you were doing here. What you did best: putting your nose in where it never belonged. Someone who simply couldn’t help himself.’
There was a dull groaning sound and a juddering movement. It sounded like the submarine’s ballast tanks were filling.
‘All things must pass,’ he said.
‘It’s a little late for destroying evidence, isn’t it? The drugs team has already been here. They’ve removed equipment, by the look of it.’
He took an incredulous step towards me. ‘You don’t listen, do you?’ I could feel his sharp breath through the still, stale air. The ventilation system had been turned off. ‘I warned you that I know people, who know people. Christ, you don’t even listen to your own words: the drugs team has removed evidence. Gone, for good. Don’t you see?’
The hull lurched. ‘So why sink the sub?’ I said, my heart hammering. ‘Losing one ship in the harbour might be considered careless. Losing a second vessel…’
He shook his head again, giving up. ‘It’s time to cut ties.’ He walked backwards. ‘There’s more legitimate money in this harbour now than there ever was in fringe activities, shall we call them. Reclamation, development, inward investment from our friends in the Middle and the Far East… we’re on the cusp of a new golden age, Henk. If only you were around to witness it.’ He paused. ‘You could have been part of that. You could have joined me, Pieter and the others…’
‘Which others?’
‘You could have made a killing.’
‘A legitimate killing? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?’ But my words didn’t even sound convincing to myself. Desperately, I tried to buy time. ‘Just tell me one thing, Frank: why go to all the trouble with the MDMA? The couriers, their mopeds?’
‘What trouble? Did you see me anywhere near the likes of young Tarek, or the woman whose scooter he borrowed?’
Jesus – he knew every last detail.
From Mulder? Or rather Stefan, via Joost?
The latter, I increasingly sensed.
‘We all have our personal indulgences, Henricus.’
A dreadful groaning sounded throughout the hull, causing the metal floor to tremble. The ballast tanks were filling rapidly. The vessel was designed to dive fast in the event of surface peril.
‘Shall I tell you, briefly, the best thing about Molly?’ He was using MDMA’s street name. ‘This will give you something to reflect on, during your journey down.’
How deep was this part of the harbour? Deep enough to berth the biggest ships in the world at one time…
‘It makes them all cuddly.’ He gave a childlike shake of his limbs. ‘There’s a reason Molly is called the love drug.’
I recalled Jan Stamms’s remark in prison, when asked about being force-fed cider at the Beau Soleil boys’ home.
It wasn’t cider, he’d corrected me.
‘You’ll never be right, Hals.’
‘Maybe. But I’ll be alive. I should disembark.’
I could hear the water thundering into the tanks, and also a muffled shout from outside; the sub lurched once more and so too did my stomach. I reached to the side for stability.
‘I thought I told you to take a seat?’ A steely timbre had entered his voice.
‘I still have a pain between my legs. Remember? From last time we met.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He laughed. ‘Well, you needn’t worry about that now.’
He was walking sideways, crab-like, towards the exit, the muzzle of his gun still trained on me.
Another lurch, and this time I reached for the roof above me. I grabbed as many of the overhead cables as I could and pulled, hard. The lights flickered, sparked and died, plunging us into darkness; I threw myself to the side as the muzzle of his gun flashed, the bang so loud it felt like my eardrums had been stabbed.
A dull ringing remained.
And darkness.
I already had my night vision thanks to the red lights, and Hals must have had his, too… but the blackness was total, crushing.
‘Shit,’ he uttered.
I reached up again and pulled at the different conduits, managing to detach a section of metal piping. It dropped to the deck with a clatter. Another muzzle flash, aimed at the source of the sound; sparks jetted off the decking, giving me just enough light to see the dropped piping. I reached for it, felt my fingers wrap around the end of it, then I slunk back as another bang blasted my ears.
Stunned by the force of the reports, I tried to circle around the back of him. As the next shot rang out, I swung the piping. I was swinging at clear air, but on the third or fourth attempt I felt it sink into something semi-firm.
A groan, from his depths.
I could tell from the direction of his noises that he was falling, or crouching, maybe; I swung again wildly, and again, and again, and the impact was softer (a hand cradling his skull, perhaps?). Still, it was a good connection. The noises from his mouth suggested he was down.
And then there was just the sound of my panting breath.
I felt the end of the piping with my other hand: it was wet, with Hals’s blood.
Suddenly I felt a weightless, swooping sensation – the sub was sinking. There was still a tinny ringing in my ears from the gunfire; I couldn’t register the pressure change. The ballast tanks were arranged to prevent the sub from rolling, but in my stomach I could feel
the vessel’s descent.
I pulled out my phone. Of course there was no service. I turned on the torch. Hals’s white-lit face was twisted into a death rictus. Part of his bludgeoned head appeared to be missing altogether. I waved the torch around and saw, in various places, water leaking in through old seals and flanges.
There was no way to force the main door open now, given the water pressure on the outside. That must have been Hals’s intent – to entomb me this way. And he’d managed to.
A booming rocked me and caused me to topple: the hull had met with resistance – the harbour floor? How far down were we? Every ten metres equated to another atmosphere of pressure.
I was operating at my limits of knowledge about these submarines, but felt sure that there would be an escape hatch. Had Hals known that? I clattered back across the decking into the corridor, frantically searching each dark space leading off it. The water was already up to my ankles and ice cold. Even if police frogmen were sent immediately, there would be nothing they could do from the outside. The only safe way to get me out of here would be to crane the sub back up to the surface – which would take days, if not weeks.
Unless I could find that escape hatch.
Had the hippies and club decorators left it intact? It wasn’t just an escape hatch I needed; the necessary precursor for any escape was a flood valve. I needed to flood the interior with water – only then would the pressure match that of the water outside. The escape hatch would be counterbalance sprung, I knew, enabling it to open outwards under its own force once the water pressure equalised. That was how these things worked at sea.
I waved the phone’s torch around, desperately searching the ceiling for circular shapes. The water was up to my wobbling knees, rising fast, as old metal and rubber gave way under the increasing pressure. I was already shivering with cold in my lower body and could feel a rising sense of suffocation through my chest.
My ears popped.
There was another factor to consider: my previously collapsed lung and still-healing ribs; every atmosphere of pressure shrinks volume by half, but the reverse applies. Meaning, if I took a breath down here and tried to ascend, the air in my lungs would double in volume every ten metres. I would need to breath out, all the while, if I were to avoid rupturing my lungs… yet not exhale so fast that I ran out of oxygen and lost consciousness.
Night Market Page 18
