Which frightened her most of all.
11
“WE’VE FOUND A POSITIVE match between DNA samples,” Prinsen said, as triumphant as if he’d contributed to the landing on Mars or anything of equal historical significance. Or a cure for all sorts of cancer. Something in that order of magnitude.
Eekhaut took off his coat and hung it up to dry. It was snowing, and during the short walk from his apartment to the office, he had become quite wet. And cold. He would feel better after a decent cup of coffee. Not from the machine, god forbid. He had had his breakfast at Café Bouwman, toast and jam with one egg and a cup of real, freshly brewed coffee. For these past few months he had started to eat healthier and more regularly after discovering there were plenty of food shops around catering to the concerned eater. He kept his refrigerator full of good and fresh stuff and cooked regularly, preparing balanced meals for himself and occasionally for Linda. His apartment began to look comfortable and even cozy. He had been thinking about his apartment in Leuven, where he used to live before coming to Amsterdam, but had not yet decided what to do with it.
“The lab worked through the night,” Prinsen continued.
Eekhaut, like all seasoned detectives, recognized the need for decent forensic research, without which little progress could be made in many cases.
“They’ll bill us accordingly, which is going to displease Dewaal plenty,” he said. “We’ll have contributed to the emptying of her precious budget. Expect endless nagging.”
Eekhaut wondered exactly how early Prinsen had arrived in the office. He often was there long before the others, not bothered by the weather. He lived in Amsterdam, cycling ten minutes or so to get to work, but even then it looked as though the young man lived in the office. Eekhaut appreciated his zeal but would, at some point, need to warn him about burnout and things like that. But at least Prinsen was totally involved in the case.
“Even better,” Prinsen said, “we have one name that goes with the missing person in question.”
“We have?”
“Basten. Adriaan Basten. That’s his name. Or was his name.”
“Well done,” Eekhaut said. A name. They had a name. An ordinary and mundane-sounding Dutch name. Adriaan. A name one wouldn’t at once associate with criminal activities.
A victim who had been linked with a name became a real person, with a personal history, desires, aspirations. It was no longer merely a body from a crime scene. Not merely one of the bodies tied to a stake and burned alive somewhere in the Ardennes forest. The victim became a He, a real person with a background and relatives and friends. Which made things worse. As far as a detective was concerned, an anonymous corpse was easier to deal with than a victim with a name.
“You pulled his profile?”
“He worked as an information specialist for InfoDuct, a company based here in Amsterdam. Thirty-two, not married.”
“That saves us from having to inform a partner.”
“From a first impression, a clever but ordinary fellow. Two years of military service, athletic type, vacations, hobbies. His bio fits nicely on one page.”
All our bios fit nicely on one page, Eekhaut thought.
“Are we going to pay a visit to his office?” Prinsen asked.
Eekhaut frowned. “Eight in the morning, Nick. We’ll find very few offices open this early. Secretaries still in bed. Desk jockeys too. And managers. Maybe on the way to work at best. The city isn’t alive yet, except for people like us. You’re one of the lucky ones, Nick. And me. We’re early risers.”
“Raised on a farm.” Prinsen grinned.
“As if I would believe your stories,” Eekhaut said. “By the way, how’s Eileen doing?”
For a moment, it looked like Prinsen would blush, and Eekhaut wouldn’t have been surprised at that. He liked people who could still blush, showing real emotions. “She arrived in Amsterdam yesterday,” Prinsen said. “She has an apartment of her own now.”
“I assume you arranged that for her?”
Prinsen shook his head. “I didn’t. She did it all by herself. She tried to live with her parents again, but that didn’t work out.”
“Things will turn out well for her,” Eekhaut said. He knew Prinsen had eagerly awaited her return. He had dropped her name a few times, less than casually. Eileen Calster, an innocent victim in a sordid case of political corruption and multiple murders. Eekhaut felt inclined in this case to revert to clichés. Certainly when love was involved. Without clichés, life would become too complicated. There would be less fun as well. Risk-free clichés kept society afloat.
Prinsen wouldn’t tell him anything more about Eileen. So Eekhaut left it at that.
“Find as much background info about Basten’s company as you can, will you? What’s it called? InfoDuct? Sounds slightly ridiculous.”
“It’s a problem these days to still find original names. Same problem for car models.”
“Or you could just use numbers like BMW does.”
“Too complicated for customers,” Prinsen said.
“Let’s return to the subject at hand. InfoDuct.”
“I’ll get you all the info you need, Walter.”
Eekhaut retreated to his office but left the door open. He turned on his laptop, hoping for a message from Linda, hoping she’d found a way to email him. He had plenty of emails but none from her.
He consulted newspaper sites. Africa was almost completely absent. No massacre in Somalia, no aid teams threatened. But perhaps such incidents wouldn’t be important enough for the press agencies. Even with civil war and the occasional massacre, Africa only rarely got attention.
Dewaal passed by in the corridor. “Nick just told me you’ve identified one of the victims.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if this Basten turns out to be a member of the Church of the Supreme Purification.”
“We could try them and find out,” she suggested.
“I assume the church won’t be giving us a list of members.”
“They’re required to deposit a list with the Ministry of the Interior. Contact them and see what you can get.”
“What about privacy laws, then?”
She frowned. “Maybe you’re right. Not my territory, I’m afraid. But since they might be considered a cult or something, they might still be required to . . . I’ll try to find out.” She disappeared.
Eekhaut glanced at his watch. Eight twenty. He wanted to get things done. He wanted to kick in doors, put suspects under pressure. He wanted to confront government officials and require them to turn over confidential information. This had always been a problem in his career. Rules always held him back.
He got up and asked Prinsen, “When exactly can we go visit InfoDuct?”
The young man glanced at his computer screen. “Nine thirty, or so the website says. Opening hours for visitors.”
“How far is it from here?”
“On foot? Ten minutes, at most.”
“We’ll leave on time,” Eekhaut said, frustrated. He walked up to Dewaal’s office. “What does the law tell us about privacy?”
“Just a minute, Eekhaut. God! You’re a pain in the ass sometimes. All the time, actually. Can’t remember why I keep you. Here it is. Religious, political, and cultural organizations do not have to divulge their membership list unless they’re categorized as dangerous or are under surveillance.”
“That means they have to show us their membership list when we tell them they’re dangerous and under surveillance. A rather Orwellian arrangement.”
“Whatever,” Dewaal said. “The Church of the Supreme Purification isn’t listed as dangerous, which is weird. Anyway, we have no list of their members. And we won’t get one either.”
“While that same church is being investigated by us? They’re not considered dangerous?”
“Apparently not,” Dewaal said.
“And your informant? Can’t he just—?”
“No, he can’t.”
“And we still ass
ume those seven victims are connected with a not really dangerous cult?”
“We do. Or maybe we don’t. If you’re a victim of a terrorist attack, it doesn’t have to mean you’re an accomplice to the terrorists.” Dewaal noticed Eekhaut’s reaction. “This was no terrorist attack, and your comparison doesn’t hold water, Eekhaut. This was an execution. These weren’t random victims. Since there must have been an explicit reason they were killed, we can assume they were the victims of the feud between the church and that Society of Fire. Sound logical, no? Now when we dig deep into the life of this Adriaan Basten, we might find some link to the church. Do you need more help with that, Eekhaut?”
“I could use Van Gils, to speed things up.”
“Speed things up? I’d like you to solve this problem well before 2020, when we’ll be wiped away by the apocalypse.”
“Twenty twenty? That gives me plenty of time. So I get Van Gils?”
“Tell him it is my idea.”
“And I’ll have him doing what he prefers: contacting his local informants about Basten.”
He knew she didn’t much like Van Gils. She didn’t even trust him. There was a certain level of antipathy between the older detectives, the veterans, and the new chief, Dewaal. She had been dropped into this outfit because of a political move. Van Gils and perhaps even Veneman had probably hoped to get promoted, but that wasn’t going to happen, not with their background. It was an old grievance between former beat cops and the new intellectual elite.
And Dewaal had her own problems to deal with. Her mother, suffering from dementia, not even recognizing her own daughter and residing in an institution. Not much family left, either. No partner, no children.
He’d done better, socially. At least recently. There was Linda. But what else was there in his life? He’d be fifty-five soon. No children, hardly any relatives left. He’d sit in an old people’s home in perhaps twenty years, with nobody to visit him if the relationship with Linda didn’t work out.
In the end, he thought, we all are left alone. We die alone. Or we die, surrounded by our loved ones. He’d have to find a bunch of those.
12
WHEN THE PHONE RANG, Maxwell pressed a button but didn’t speak right away. He just folded his hands and waited, a model of composure. He knew people like Courier would become nervous when they heard nothing on the other end of the line. Especially since Courier knew Maxwell had picked up the call and didn’t want to respond. He and the others should have realized by now this was nothing but a power game. But as far as Maxwell was concerned, these people hadn’t learned anything. Nothing. They couldn’t grasp the concept of power games, certainly not when they were the victims. They couldn’t understand that he was playing with them and their innate fears. They were afraid of him. But primarily, they were afraid of Baphomet.
Of course, they had good reason to be afraid. Maxwell made sure of that. He would constantly feed their fears, make them worry endlessly. He played with them and their anxieties, ensured his dominion over them. Courier had learned to fear Maxwell ever since he had been witness to several of his sudden bouts of rage.
And, of course, he knows what happens to those unfaithful to me.
“Maybe we should intervene,” Courier said suddenly, having decided to speak first. But he didn’t seem convinced of his own argument. He sounded as if he were slipping away over a steep riverbank with black, cold water awaiting him. “Baphomet? Maybe I could—”
“You will do exactly as I tell you, Courier,” Maxwell said, using a rational but uncompromising tone. “I am, as you are aware, driven by the divine inspiration. Do you not feel divinely inspired in my presence? Then you will do what I tell you and nothing else. We will have no misunderstandings concerning this point.”
Courier had told him earlier the police were researching the identity of the seven victims. He had told Baphomet they knew about InfoDuct and had requested information about Adriaan Basten. Courier had excellent contacts, as far as Maxwell knew. That was not the problem with Courier.
“You promised me,” Maxwell said, “no traces would be found at the site of the ritual.” He spoke without emotion. He merely summed up the state of affairs. “You assured me not even the police would be able to find traces that would lead either to the victims or to us. That was what you told me. You would make sure. And yet, now, things seem to be different. This might put our sacred mission at peril.”
“I’m sorry, Baphomet . . .”
“You tell me the police not only found traces but have also identified one of the victims. Is that what you’re saying?”
“The detectives were lucky. That’s all, Baphomet. They went looking for people who went missing recently, and—”
“Pure luck,” Maxwell said.
“They searched their files for missing persons and at once found Basten. Metagogeus and I made sure there was nothing, nothing at all at the site, nothing that could identify the, um, chosen.”
“Pure luck,” Maxwell repeated. “Luck does not exist. Not in police work. There’s professionalism and diligence and hard work. Faith and trust and maybe intuition. We must remind ourselves of those principles. More specifically, we need faith and trust in what we, this society of ours, will accomplish. All these things exist in the world. Luck does not. It is an illusion, created to suit the stupid masses who believe sweepstakes will let them win big. Luck is for women who are certain the handsome postman is interested in them. You have underestimated the police and their methods. Metagogeus should know better. So should you.”
“I will try to find out—”
“Courier,” Maxwell said. And then he fell silent again because he didn’t want to know what the man was planning. He wasn’t interested in what plans Courier had. Courier’s effort would be without any merit since it would not remedy the situation. And in fact, Courier had to do nothing. In the end, there would be nothing that could associate him, Maxwell, with those bodies. In the worst-case scenario, the bodies would be tied to Courier and Metagogeus, and perhaps to others. But not to him. Maybe if the police dug really deep, they would find some connections, but nothing that could harm him. At least, he assumed.
The thing was, he hadn’t thought Basten or any of the others would be identified. But it happened anyway, making things more complicated. Making him just a bit more vulnerable.
Finally, he said, “The only thing we must keep in mind, Courier, is that we are on the eve of the ultimate catharsis. We need to take radical measures, if necessary, to protect our cause. Our interests.”
“Just the thing I had in mind,” Courier said. Probably glad to be off the hook for now.
“I can do without the things in your mind,” Maxwell said, suddenly feeling the need for a cruel remark. “I’ll tell you what you should do. What you should do is inform me about the police officers involved in the case.”
“They’re members of the Office of International Crime and Extremist Organizations.”
“Are they now? And what sort of thing is that?”
“Part of the AIVD, the Information and Security Service. Organized crime and such. War on terror. Homeland security sort of thing.”
Maxwell fell silent again. The AIVD. It seemed logical they would be involved. Ordinary cops wouldn’t cross borders and investigate ritual burnings. A potentially dangerous enemy, these people. Extreme measures would have to be taken to protect the cause.
“Do you have someone on the inside?” he inquired. “Someone who will keep us informed?”
“Not on the inside, no. But I know someone who is close to the AIVD. Close enough.”
Yes, Maxwell thought. I know who you are and what you do. He kept himself informed about all members of the society. “So, this is what you will do, Courier. You will collect as much information on the officers as you can. We are looking for their weak spots. We all have weaknesses, for sure. Cops are no exception. Then we make our move. We make sure their investigation fails. It’s as simple as that.”
�
�I’ll get to it right away, Baphomet.”
“Next time you call me, you will have results for me. But remember, you’re only to collect information. Nothing else, is that clear?”
“Certainly, Baphomet.”
For a while, Maxwell stared out the window of his office. He had a nice view over Amsterdam, desolate though it looked in winter.
He would have to eliminate them all, he thought. All the enemies of the society. These seven would be just the beginning. Seven, that was nothing. He had deemed it senseless to sacrifice only seven people. But Metagogeus and Tertullian and especially Courier had insisted. He had granted them some measure of freedom. It had also helped to get rid of some people who could damage the society. But it had resulted in a disaster—the unexpected and unwelcome interest of the security service, no less.
The plans he had were so much grander, so much more encompassing than just this one sacrifice. Maybe not everything could be accomplished. The clock was ticking. In the end, he needed to be ready, ready for the final moments. Ready for the greatest sacrifice the society could organize.
He considered the Church of the Supreme Purification their enemy, though before it became weak and meaningless it had accomplished great things. The spectacular, highly visible sacrifices people still talked about. Purification through fire. The breathtaking disasters with hundreds of people sacrificed, and nobody suspecting foul play. The church had been powerful for a long time, but then its leaders had mellowed, had retreated into a watered-down ideology. No more sacrifices, no more victims.
He, Baphomet, had restored the old order and earned the respect of a number of veterans and new adepts. Restored the old power. And he enjoyed that power.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He was old-fashioned and traditional in that way, obliging his staff to knock. “Come in,” he said. Nor did he care for the sort of technology that would only widen the gap between himself and his people.
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