Purgatory

by Guido Eekhaut

  “What do you think, Serena?” Baphomet asked her.

  She was lost in dreams. Or deep in thought. “I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t imagine . . .” And she made a wide gesture that encompassed the entire underground complex and probably all the future victims. Clearly, the whole concept was too big for her.

  “I’m sure you can’t,” Baphomet said. “And you’re not supposed to. Let us deal with this. In the end, you’ll see why this is happening. For now, you must trust us. And I’m sure you do.”

  She smiled. “Of course, I trust you,” she said.

  Metagogeus joined them. “All is ready, Baphomet. Do you want to check the installation one last time?”

  “Courier will do that. Won’t you, Courier?”

  “At once,” Courier said. He walked over to the tractor and opened the cabin door. His upper body disappeared from sight.

  “Everything to my specifications?” Baphomet asked.

  “Exactly like you wanted,” Metagogeus said. “Things are ready to go.”

  “I still wonder . . .” Serena said. “I still wonder if this much is necessary to . . . achieve purification?”

  “These people,” Baphomet said, “are the unclean, and as such they hardly qualify as people. As humans. It is unfortunate we will end their lives, but they will serve a much greater cause than they would have served otherwise. In fact, these people are already dead.”

  “Will we ever be sure we’ve done the right thing?” she insisted.

  “Don’t you feel the grace of the Creator within you, Serena? Is there a sudden doubt in your mind now? Could it be you suddenly are less confident than before?”

  “I apologize, Baphomet,” she said. “I’m acting like a spoiled child. I’m humbled by the presence of my Creator. As I’m humbled by the presence of people so much more worthy than I could ever be.”

  “Now, child, do not despair. The Creator sees all intentions and will judge you with mercy and compassion.” Baphomet added, “Can you wait for us at the exit?”

  She knew she was being dismissed and walked away.

  “Courier,” Baphomet said when she was out of earshot, “keep an eye on her and make sure she talks to no one.”

  “Leave that to me,” Courier said.

  “Is there a problem with the girl?” Metagogeus asked. “Something we should be aware of? I seem to remember she’s one of our more recent converts. Do you have any reason to doubt your judgment about her?”

  Baphomet had always admired the younger companion, who now seemed rather nervous. That was not surprising, however, with all that was happening. But, he thought, we can’t afford to be nervous. Nervous people make mistakes. Too much at stake. No time for doubts either. The machine is set in motion and past the point of no return.

  “I see no problem with the girl,” he said. “I have taken her in on account of her passion. She is, of course, young and inexperienced. And Courier will keep an eye on her.”

  “Yes, about Courier . . .”

  “What about him?”

  “Can he be trusted sufficiently? He’s the one who saw to all the details. We’re putting all our trust in him.”

  “He is worthy of our trust. Is there anything in particular you are worried about?”

  “I’ve lost contact with the men in charge of Eileen Calster.”

  “And she is?”

  “The young girl linked to that police officer who’s providing us with information.”

  “Ah, him,” Baphomet said. “And what seems to be the problem?”

  “These men are supposed to report back to me after they’ve consulted with the officer. He’s supposed to keep them informed about the plans of the Bureau. I haven’t heard from them for quite a while.”

  “That is most worrisome, but in the end it will not stop us. Everything we need is here. The setting is secure. Soon all of us will be purified, and then we will prepare for eternity.”

  “I don’t have to worry about Serena, then?”

  “Sometimes it feels like you lack faith, brother. I’m sure that’s not true. Forget Serena. Forget that girl and her police officer. We will prevail. And we will make sure Serena will follow us into the moment of our own sacrifice. Until proven otherwise, she is to be trusted.”

  48

  IT WAS LESS COLD than the previous day, and Eekhaut was hoping for an early spring. But it wouldn’t arrive for another month or two, so he’d have to struggle through more cold days ahead. He pushed aside all concerns about the seasons and the cold and concentrated on Johanna Simson, at whose house he arrived with Prinsen. The house on the Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal seemed darker and more silent than before and more possessed by ghosts from the past—ghosts appointed to guard the church’s secrets.

  Before ringing the bell, he turned to Prinsen. “We’re only discussing her involvement with the church,” he said.

  “Sure. What else?”

  “Later, after this thing is over, I’d like to discuss with her some of the finer points of their tradition. About why so many people had to die, why so many sacrifices were made in the past.”

  Prinsen knew Eekhaut had certain hang-ups, and one was religion. More precisely, the madness of religious feelings and traditions—all superstition as far as he was concerned. Prinsen wasn’t planning to be present for the talk the Belgian would have with Ms. Simson.

  “Sacrifices and the like are also part of Christian history and tradition. Does it matter in whose name people are murdered?”

  “I don’t know, Nick. This is, or was, recent history. We’re talking about things that happened—what?—forty years ago? That isn’t ancient history, that isn’t the Middle Ages.”

  “What do you expect? A confession of guilt from her? That would be nice, but I don’t expect it. And neither should you. Let’s get on with it. I want to get back to Eileen.”

  Eekhaut rang the bell. An elderly woman opened the door, hardly surprised to see the two men. Eekhaut and Prinsen showed her their IDs. “Security services,” Eekhaut identified himself. “We would like to have another word with Ms. Simson.”

  “Ms. Simson is ill,” the woman told him. “Better come back on Monday.”

  “This cannot wait, ma’am. Ms. Simson knows who we are and what this is about. We need to see her immediately.”

  The old woman hesitated, frowning deeply. “Well,” she finally said, “I guess I’ll let her decide. Come in, gentlemen. What are your names again?”

  “Eekhaut and Prinsen.”

  “Please proceed to the drawing room. I will speak with Ms. Simson.”

  “Will she realize how important this is?” Prinsen said after the elderly lady had gone.

  “I don’t want to drag her all the way to Kerkstraat, Nick. She’ll have to talk to us. What’s the time?”

  Prinsen glanced at his watch. “Quarter to four.”

  “And another day lost.”

  “We’ve just begun, actually.”

  “No, we haven’t. This thing has kept us occupied far too long already. What’s going to happen tomorrow? We’re looking at a potential disaster, and we have no idea where it’s going to happen.”

  He was interrupted by Johanna Simson entering the room. The elderly woman assisted her. “Gentlemen,” Simson said, “I hope this is important. You’ll have to excuse me, I seem to have the flu.”

  “This will only take a short while, ma’am,” Eekhaut said. “All we need to know is the whereabouts of Jan Pieter Maxwell. He’s not at home, and we couldn’t find him in any of his offices. Do you know if there are other places where he can hide?”

  “You are asking me about Maxwell, Inspector? Really?” Simson grimaced. “That I, of all people, should know where he is?”

  “You understand a lot of things about him, ma’am,” Eekhaut insisted. “You know he goes by the name of Baphomet. That’s his moniker in the Society of Fire, isn’t it? And you have knowledge of many things, none of which you’ve shared with us.”

  She sat dow
n carefully. “And what are you going to do with all that information you assume I possess? If I tell you where he hides? What will happen? You send in armed police, and there’s a shootout with him and those faithful to him, and many people die. Because you will not catch him alive. He wants to die a martyr. That’s what they all want. All the people who ever believed they were the chosen. You should know that, if you’ve been following the news these last decades.”

  “We want to catch him alive. The lives of many innocent people are at stake.”

  “The number of hiding places the church once used is not infinite. But this is Amsterdam, Inspector. Ask your older colleagues familiar with the city. There is no city with more hiding places invisible to the outside world than Amsterdam.”

  “We’ll never catch him, is that what you mean?”

  “He will prove to be the most elusive man in police history, gentlemen,” said Simson. “I wish you good luck. On that, the whole church is with you. They are our enemies as well. They are much more our enemies than yours. What do you think will happen to all those remaining members of the church once a man like Baphomet has completed his purification?”

  “I have no idea,” Eekhaut said.

  “He is the serpent, deceiving mankind. You remember your Old Testament, I assume. He is the serpent. He will be a leader, and people will follow. He will tell lies, and people will follow. He will turn people away from the truth, from science, from common sense. And people will follow him. That’s who he is. And as such, this serpent must die before it can cause harm.”

  “There’s no longer a death penalty in the Netherlands, ma’am. But he will go to jail for a very long time.”

  Johanna Simson shook her head. “It doesn’t matter to him. His lies penetrate walls. There exists no prison that can hold him. You must kill the monster. A wise man knows what to do. Separate the head from the body. That’s the only way to be certain.”

  “Today, we’re concerned about one event, a terrorist attack we fear is in the making. He has the means, he has the people to do this. It will happen if we don’t intervene. We have no idea where.”

  “A sacrifice?”

  “Yes.”

  “He will need a whole lot of victims for this sacrifice, Inspector. If this is the ultimate event he is planning.”

  “That’s what we fear.”

  “His supporters are blinded by his apocalyptic reasoning, Inspector. He is a strong leader.”

  Eekhaut was becoming impatient. He’d had enough of this prophesying. Ms. Simson either knew nothing or wouldn’t tell.

  He had one last card. From his jacket pocket he produced a document. “There’s something I want you to read, Ms. Simson,” he said. “We found it earlier at a crime scene. It’s the text of something written on a wall.” It was the text he and Dewaal had found in the Ardennes.

  “Hand me my glasses, Dottie,” Ms. Simson said. She read aloud: “This world seems to take forever, but it is only the dream of a sleeper.” She looked up. “You want to know where this comes from?”

  “Borges?” Eekhaut said.

  “La vida es un sueño, you mean? Indeed, you know your classics. But Borges got the idea from another poetic master, the Persian Sufi poet Rumi, who lived in the thirteenth century. He preached tolerance and founded the whirling dervishes. Those are his lines.”

  “And what exactly does it refer to?”

  “I told you before of the Gnostics, Inspector. Where the tradition of our church originated.”

  “This Sufi tradition doesn’t teach you to burn people,” Prinsen said.

  “Which we realized much too late, indeed. We have tried to hide our past sins, adding sin upon sin. We have recanted. However, that will never bring these people back.”

  “As in a dream,” Eekhaut said. “Like in the text.”

  “It is, indeed, all a dream. Our traditions were perhaps not meant to survive the twentieth century.”

  “That’s not what a dogmatist like Maxwell believes.”

  “He can act as he wants because, in reality, he believes in nothing but himself,” Simson said bitterly. “He uses other people to better himself. Even in the spiritual sense.”

  “And yet you won’t help us catch this man. Even if he’s your worst enemy.”

  “I thought I already explained, Inspector,” she said. “There’s no way I can help you. This house is empty except for my old friend and myself. Everything we know belongs to the past. I’m tired, and the world will soon end. It will end when I die, becoming that dreamer. I have nothing to offer you.”

  She rose, with difficulty. Her petite elderly companion helped her out of the room.

  49

  CHIEF ALEXANDRA DEWAAL WASN’T easily disturbed. Not even now, sitting across from Van Gerbranden, the silver-haired interior minister. His office was as impressive as government offices came, including an original Rothko on one wall. Next to her sat the uniformed chief constable of the Amsterdam-Amstelland police region, Edward Mastenbroek, who kept at a strategic distance from Dewaal. On the other side of her, at an equally measured distance, was her own director-general, Stuger, in a conventional dark blue suit. This was the exclusive male company she preferred not to meet with too often.

  At the very worst, she thought, they would simply fire her. They would not, however, make her change her opinion or talk her into changing her strategy. Not these men. She had lost any trust in paternalistic father figures a long while ago, when she understood their position was maintained by a system of mistrust and repression. Men like these were often without any redeeming human qualities, narrow-minded and full of themselves as the great saviors of society. If she showed any weaknesses, they would hurt her. They would certainly humiliate her, and even cast her out, just because she was a woman. And a woman who wanted to be their equal. To her, however, they were as pathetic as they were vulnerable.

  “You ordered searches at different locations simultaneously,” Director Stuger said cautiously, as if he were still unsure whether he liked the idea or not. “Then you dispatched three detectives to another location. Shots were fired and members of the public were hurt.”

  “They weren’t members of the public, sir,” Dewaal said “They were criminals. They had abducted a young woman.”

  “So it appears. However, the three criminals apprehended at the scene have little or no connection to the rest of the operation. Which, by the way, resulted in exactly what? Nothing. None of the searches brought anything to light in this case.”

  “We’re still examining the material we confiscated,” Dewaal said, maintaining her calm.

  “The main suspect in your case, Chief, is still missing. You assume a terrorist attack is imminent, but you cannot tell us where this will happen, or even what will happen. All you have is an informant, who remains anonymous, and a vague plan by some even more vague religious sect.”

  At the very worst, she thought again, they would kick her out. She suspected they were already preparing their case against her. Destroying her investigation. If there’s no terrorist attack, then I’m screwed. And if there is one, they’ll blame me for not having prevented it. And I’m screwed anyway. So, they fire me. But first they’ll parade me in front of the press as a scapegoat. In either case. And when that happens, I’ll start my own independent security firm. Maybe I’ll employ people like Van Gils and Veneman, possibly Prinsen too, and Eekhaut, why not, because they’ll get booted as well.

  “There’s a real threat out there, Director,” she said. Warning him. Making sure all present had heard what she said.

  “We do not underestimate this threat, Chief,” Minister Van Gerbranden said. He had that look he always had, even in official pictures: a tight-lipped and characterless bureaucrat. He wouldn’t defend her. He would be the first to shove the blame in her direction. “And,” he continued, “if there is an attack of the size you, uh—”

  “Suggest,” Stuger suggested quietly.

  “Suggest,” Van Gerbranden continued, “
then we should alert all our security services. Nevertheless, it is impossible and unjustifiable—as you know best—to completely evacuate the whole of Amsterdam tomorrow, when we don’t even know anything will happen. What we could do is close the center to all traffic, increase the mobile patrols on the streets, and helicopters in the air, maybe alert the army . . . And we need a list of all large gatherings or events, so we can alert the organizers.”

  “Isn’t there any other evidence? Any other information that tells us more precisely what will happen?” Chief of Police Mastenbroek asked. “What sort of target these people have in mind? Because we’re in the dark here.”

  “All we know is there’s this truck involved, gentlemen,” Dewaal said. “Five thousand gallons of liquefied gas. If that goes off, there’ll be a big bang, a lot of casualties, and a lot of damage.”

  “What kind of impact would such a blast have if, for instance, it were to occur in the city center?” the minister asked. “Or anywhere else, for that matter?”

  “We haven’t yet had the opportunity to consult specialists, Excellence,” Dewaal said. “My estimate, and I’m just an amateur in this matter, is that most if not all buildings will be leveled within a radius of, say, a half mile. What this means in terms of human loss, we can only guess. It will depend on the area where the blast is located. If it explodes somewhere around Kalverstraat on a Saturday afternoon with all the shoppers, there would be thousands of casualties.”

  The three men sat in silence for a moment.

  Then Van Gerbranden asked, “Are there any other proposals, gentlemen?”

  “Could you contact your informant again, Chief?” Mastenbroek suggested.

  Dewaal shook her head. “I’m afraid that will not be possible. My contacts with the informant are one way only. He’s in a difficult spot. He only talks to me when it’s safe for him to do so.”

  “Too bad,” the police chief said. He knew about informants and how that worked. And he knew AIVD politics concerning them. Informants were an important aspect of police work. You didn’t trust them, yet you had to, to a certain extent at least. The point was that, in the end, no police officer was comfortable having to rely on informants alone.