He threw the paper napkin and sandwich wrapper in the trash and sat up. He grabbed his keyboard and started typing. He googled the text they’d found on the wall of the cabin in the Ardennes.
The search engine told him there were no matches to be found. Not unusual when your search item is three whole sentences. There were a couple of suggestions Google made concerning parts of the text, but these all seemed to refer to self-help groups, religious organizations, pastoral care, aftercare facilities, and things like that. Perhaps some of those would be useful, but he would have to scan hundreds of pages. The separate words would yield hundreds of thousands of results. That was equally useless.
Most likely it wouldn’t be a biblical text, he assumed. It wouldn’t have a literal meaning. This was something a lot of these serial and hate killers had in common—a penchant for mystery, for the spiritual, for . . .
He pushed the keyboard away. He thought of Linda. He thought of Linda a lot. More than was good for him.
5
JAN PIETER MAXWELL HAD positioned his hands on his closed black leather portfolio. That portfolio contained no more than ten documents. That was all Maxwell needed for this meeting. Just a page with highlights and some short reports. All the information about this company and the way it functioned was in his head, like everything else that mattered to him.
He was a man who took care of his appearance. His clothes were meticulously pressed, his jaw and cheeks neatly shaven. There was not a gray hair on his head and no sign of fatigue. He was, after all, not that old. His résumé would say he was in his late forties, and if you listened to his mother, she’d tell you he was a bit over fifty. But official documents would assure you sixty was closer to the truth.
With an outward semblance of sympathy, he scrutinized the various members of the board as they entered the room and took their seats around the table. Their places were fixed. They sat down quietly. Planning and order: Jan Pieter Maxwell loved it. A clearly defined hierarchy of people and things. Only then, if this condition was met, would improvisation be allowed. That’s how he managed the company. He managed it with his mind and his heart, since this was his child, the company he had founded. One of the many he had founded. But this was the first, and as such the eldest in his family of companies. Which made TransCom stand apart. As it should. As the chairman, he would never miss a board meeting of TransCom.
He moved his left hand over the front of his jacket, enjoying the softness of the fabric. He always wore dark blue suits made by the best tailors in Amsterdam or London.
He enjoyed traditions.
He enjoyed order.
He also enjoyed leather portfolios, with their superfluous documents. He carried a portfolio to give the impression that even he didn’t know everything, that he was human after all. He liked mechanical chronometers and expensive pens and discreet but luxurious cars. He wasted no words; he rarely wasted energy.
“Shall we commence?” he suggested.
No one around the table disagreed. The TransCom board knew about his penchant for formalities. They knew that no more than a mere nod from them sufficed to have the meeting start.
“The first item on the agenda . . .”
An hour later the meeting was over. Meetings should not last longer than strictly necessary, that was his credo. After a while, concentration began to drop, attention waned, fatigue set in, stupid decisions were made. An hour was long enough. Explaining and arguing for an hour usually got him what he wanted. He occasionally had to force decisions. This way he could squeeze several meetings with different companies into a day, without having to work for sixteen hours straight. Sixteen hours, that would be a waste of energy.
The board members left the room, convinced as always that they had matters in their hands, an illusion Maxwell was all too happy to bolster. He followed them outside and felt his smartphone vibrate. He glanced at the screen and recognized the number. He retreated to his office at the end of the short hallway. All rosewood and copper—bookcases with glass doors, two paintings with ornate frames, a thick carpet, a humidor on the desk, and a small, expensive laptop.
He dropped the useless portfolio and answered the smartphone. “Courier!” he said. He had several other meetings planned, but if Courier called, there would be more pressing concerns—concerns of a very different nature.
“They found the scene of the ritual,” Courier said.
Maxwell didn’t react. He took a pair of reading glasses from the breast pocket of his coat and put them on.
“Are you still there?” Courier inquired. “Baphomet? Are you there?”
“Who found it, Courier? Who?”
“The police. The cops found the spot. Three weeks ago.”
Maxwell thought about that for a short moment. “Three weeks?”
“Yes. Apparently.”
“And I get to hear about it only now?”
“It was only brought to my own attention an hour ago. None of us went back to verify the place was still untouched. Now I hear from one of my professional contacts that the police discovered the location. There must be a full investigation already, although very discreet, since it’s been kept out of the press.”
“Investigation,” Maxwell said. He sat down on his straight chair, which felt uncomfortable right now. “And those contacts of yours, I hope they have no idea of your involvement with—”
“Of course not,” Courier said indignantly.
“And of course there’s an investigation, Courier. What did you expect? The cops find the scene and the bodies, things become interesting. Did you think they’d shrug it off and let the matter slide? Our problem, Courier, is will they find any answers to their obvious questions?”
“No, Baphomet, they won’t find anything. We didn’t leave anything out there that could give us away.”
“You seem very sure of yourself.”
“I am,” Courier said. “We’ve been extremely careful and thorough. Anyway, the fire destroyed anything we might have overlooked.”
“Don’t underestimate the technology available to the police. Experience has taught us to always hide our tracks carefully. Never allow anything to escape our attention. That’s what we did in the past and why we’ve always been successful in staying out of sight, under the radar. But technology evolves. Police work evolves. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you, Courier. The slightest trace can draw the cops to us. So my question is: will we succeed in remaining invisible?”
“I hope so,” Courier said.
“You hope so,” Maxwell repeated. “Then let me say this, Courier: I don’t have much faith—actually none at all—in what you choose to believe. For my peace of mind, I rely solely on absolute certainty. That’s how I tick. I want you to contact your friends inside the force, the AIVD, and find out everything we need to know about the investigation, about the people working the case, about what they already have. I want to know for certain if any evidence can be traced back to us. Because if that were the case, I’d be greatly disappointed. Very. Even more if any evidence led back to me personally.”
“I’ll do what’s necessary, Baphomet.”
“Of course, you will, Courier. Oh, another thing. Don’t call me again on this number. This is a business number. You ought to know that. You also know how to reach me discreetly, even in case of an emergency.”
“I just figured—”
“Sometimes you think too much. Too much thinking, not enough action. You need to know what to do under circumstances like these. Can you deal with that?”
“I certainly will, Baphomet.”
Maxwell ended the call. The smartphone was secure enough. It was secure against viruses and against government snoopers. No one would be able to listen in. But he couldn’t allow Courier or any of the others to just call him unexpectedly like that. He couldn’t allow that. Order and security were what he needed.
6
“COULD YOU SEND ME those results right away, doctor?” Prinsen inquired over the phone.
“So our lab can compare them with the data we already have.” He listened to the reply. “Thank you. We appreciate that.”
He got up and walked into Eekhaut’s office. “We’ll get DNA data from two of the three missing persons I mentioned. I’ll have it compared with the DNA we have from the victims.”
“Good,” Eekhaut said. “Let’s hope we get lucky. Get the information to the lab at once. We can expect a special effort from them after they took so long finding DNA on the victims.”
Prinsen returned to the common room where one of the younger female officers, Thea De Vries, new on the team, was handling incoming reports from foreign security services. This was the sort of routine stuff handled by junior officers. Which currently meant Thea and Prinsen.
Eekhaut picked up his phone—the desk phone, a suitably conventional one—and punched Dewaal’s number. “We’re making progress,” he said.
“Are you?” she replied. “And why are you calling me? I’m in the pigeonhole next to yours. Walk over.”
He felt ridiculous, hung up the phone, and stepped into her office. Her door was, as usual, open. “Your young nephew has managed to get DNA from a couple of missing people. He’s going to have it checked against our DNA.”
“And I assume that’s all we have to work with? Did those two have something in common?”
“The most general social profile. Same broad background. I’ve requested their full dossiers from the local judiciary, then we’ll know more.”
Dewaal sat back in her comfortable leather chair. “We’re counting too much on luck. I haven’t heard anything else from my informant. He could tell us more, but he’s not coming to the surface. The whole sacrifice might be an act of revenge. Members of the society getting rid of the competition. This doesn’t look random. At least not randomly chosen victims.”
“There’re still five others we probably won’t be able to identify.”
“So be it. I’m more worried about what this all means. It can’t be just some weird execution staged by a couple of insane religious zealots. There has to be a driving force behind a ritual murder like this, someone who inspires people enough to make them commit atrocious crimes.”
“Oh, history tells us there’re always plenty of people around when atrocities have to be committed.”
She slowly shook her head. He had seen that before—her denying the pure evil in man.
“In times of war, yes.” Dewaal said. “Civil war, that sort of thing. But this? This isn’t just a matter of blind hatred toward enemies or adversaries. There’s something deeper and more frightening beneath this sort of senseless violence.”
He thought, You’re in unfamiliar territory, Alexandra. You’ve never been in a similar situation. Neither had he, actually. Having to deal with international organized crime as he had done in Brussels, and she had done over here, meant they had all too often witnessed terrible things. Organized crime attracts a specific brand of psychopath, someone who has their dirty work done for them by other psychopaths. You ended up with body parts in oil drums, informers flayed alive, organs removed from living victims—that sort of thing. But religious motives never had been part of the deal. Mass burnings either. “Like you,” he said, “I’ve had my share of psychopaths, Chief. This is something, well—”
“I am familiar with what psychopaths can do,” she said, gazing outside. “And then of course there’s the circumstances when their sort let loose and drag others with them in a frenzy of—” She turned her head. “By the way, aren’t you supposed to be the cynic of the team?”
“Cynic? Me?”
“No? Then I seem to have misjudged your role so far. Weren’t you the one with an attitude problem toward hierarchies and people in general?”
“You do me great injustice, Chief. And you’re clearly confused about me. High time we adjourn to a pub and have a beer. I can recommend one in particular. A dark Belgian beer that has proven its positive influence on the working of the human brain. Even the famous Inspector Morse knew that, although he might have drunk another brand of beer.”
He noticed a subtle change in her demeanor. “Intuition—you know, that specific female secret weapon—tells me you already had your Leffe earlier today. And probably while on duty. But your secret is safe with me. As long as it was only one Leffe.” She got up and pushed her chair back. “But you’re right. We need something to drink. However, I’m the responsible police chief, and as such I cannot drink spirits or beer during the day. Let’s go somewhere nice where other sins are available.”
“Other sins? You don’t mean . . . ?”
They left her office, and she ignored his remark.
“What do you have in store for me next? Concerning the, eh, investigation?” he inquired.
“Why not visit a specific very nonofficial religion tomorrow?” she suggested. “It seems this is the right time to start looking more closely at a sect we’ve already had in our files for so long.” She noticed he seemed lost. “I’m talking about the Church of the Supreme Purification, Walter, what else? We could ask them if some of their faithful went missing recently. After that, we check the places where those two absentees used to work. By then we might know if there’s some kind of match.”
They left the building, their coats protecting them from the cold. He followed her toward Utrechtsestraat, where she turned right toward downtown. She headed straight for Patisserie Kuyt. Not the sort of place he would usually go—a coffee and tea house, serving the most delicious pastries and other frivolous stuff for those with an intense sweet tooth. The interior was colorful and fresh, with a large glass counter, clear plexiglass chairs, indirect lighting, several complicated coffee machines, and an abundance of patisserie, donuts, pastries, and tarts.
“It’s not a substitute for lunch,” Dewaal said, “but I assume it will do on this occasion. I’ll have a cappuccino, and I’m going to get me some of those éclairs and a little fruit tart as well.”
He got them both a cappuccino, and for himself, he ordered a cheese kroket that came with slices of bread.
“Any news of Linda yet?” Dewaal asked after they’d been served. “Did you manage to get in touch with her?”
“There’s a satellite phone in the camp for official use, but even then it’s difficult to get in touch. I didn’t really expect her to call me every day. She’s not the kind of woman who likes idle chat anyway. If something serious happens, I’m sure she’ll find a way to let me know.”
Dewaal carefully tasted the éclair, making sure not to spill the vanilla custard. “Things will turn out all right for her,” she said, around a mouthful. “How’s the relationship anyway? Not that I want to pry . . . but I must pay attention to the mental health of my people, not only their physical well-being.”
“I couldn’t talk her out of it, Alexandra,” Eekhaut said, assuming he could use her first name under these circumstances. She would have been Chief if someone else were around. “I couldn’t keep her here in Amsterdam against her will. You know how she quit her job and what a difficult time she has had. She wanted to give meaning to her life again. Her professional life. She wasn’t going to sit around in her apartment, waiting for the right job to come along.”
“So, when the offer came, she just—”
“Someone she knew from her university days was familiar with people at relief organizations, and they are constantly on the lookout for suitable employees. Doctors and nurses mainly, but occasionally they need people with organizational skills. Who speak several languages, if possible. Who have no problem with camping out in some absurdly remote part of the planet, far away from civilization.”
“Risking her relationship with you.”
“If our relationship can’t handle this,” Eekhaut said, finishing off his kroket, “then it’s in bad shape and shouldn’t be allowed to go on.”
“Was that your conclusion at the time? I mean, three weeks ago?”
“Yeah, pretty much so. And hers, of course. We didn’t exactly use
those phrases, but, yeah, that much was understood between us.”
“And what are the risks? Over there?”
“In Somalia? It isn’t like you can be repatriated when you’re in trouble, so you’re pretty much on your own. But there are people around, peacekeepers and all that. Soldiers from some other African country. Kenyans, I believe. A peacekeeping force. They’re responsible for the safety of the camp and for the safety of the foreign aid workers.”
“There’s a risk, then,” Dewaal concluded.
“Isn’t there for all of us?”
“I know you’re thinking about those people in the Ardennes,” she said. “But they’re atypical. They might have felt safe, in daily life, but at the same time they were members of a church with a very disturbing past. They made enemies.”
That brought them back to the reality of the investigation. Which he preferred over fretting about Linda, whom he wouldn’t be able to help if she were in trouble.
“If tomorrow things don’t work out as we expect, then what?”
“I don’t want to think too far ahead, certainly not when I’m at lunch, Walter. A thing I’m worried about, though, is we found one place where a complex ritual was performed that might have taken considerable time and resources to prepare. Will there be similar sites not yet discovered?”
“I prefer not, if you don’t mind.”
“Our wishes aren’t always granted. We must face certain facts. The doctrine of the Society of Fire, such as it is, assumes its members are supposed to deal with all those millions of unworthy people. That includes most of the population of this planet. That’s also you and me, Walter. As in the past, most future incidents involving people burned to death will have to be treated as suspicious. But why is it different than what happened in the past? Why did the society choose to set up the sort of execution that couldn’t possibly be seen as an accident? What has changed?”
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