Purgatory

by Guido Eekhaut

  Silence fell over them all. They had all been thinking the same, but even Eekhaut wouldn’t have said it aloud. Not again, at least.

  He knew Dewaal needed the support of the veteran detectives, whether she liked them or not. Whether she trusted them or not. She didn’t, actually, and that was now the main problem. It would have to be solved, but only after the current crisis.

  He noticed Al-Rahman turning to Prinsen, probably because he needed translation.

  “The tanker truck still hasn’t been found,” De Vries pointed out. “Although there’s a nationwide alert out for it.”

  “Hidden somewhere,” Eekhaut suggested. “They didn’t have to drive it out into the country after they bought it—another indication that whatever happens will happen here in Amsterdam. No more news from your informant, Chief?”

  “I told you already, Walter, if he doesn’t talk to me, he doesn’t talk to me. Maybe he’s dead, as far as I know.”

  “That right there’s a problem with his reliability, Chief,” De Vries said.

  “He was reliable when he told us where to find those bodies.”

  “We need him now more than ever,” Eekhaut said. “But nobody seems to be talking. Not your informant. Not even Johanna Simson.”

  Colonel Al-Rahman listened to the brief explanation Prinsen was giving him, but he’d only get the general drift of the conversation from Prinsen. Eekhaut wondered why he stuck around.

  “If we brainstorm long enough,” one detective said, “the whole day will have gone by, and Van Gils and Veneman will be the only ones to have done something worthwhile.”

  Eekhaut let his gaze wander out the window. The fog was lifting just a little, and the skeletal trees in the square were becoming visible again. He could even see the houses to the left of the square.

  While gazing, he realized there was an idea in the back of his mind. Why haven’t I thought of that before? The thought had been skulking and prowling among a collection of cast-off scenarios, presumptions, premonitions, and theories. Occasionally, it would raise its head and wink at him, but all this time he hadn’t really taken notice of it.

  A terrorist attack. A tanker filled with highly explosive gas. A mass sacrifice. This ghost of an idea—of a solution—trying to catch his wandering attention.

  And now it stood there in full light, and he knew how the details connected.

  He lowered his head and groaned involuntarily.

  “What’s wrong, Walter,” said Prinsen. “You all right?”

  That got everyone’s attention.

  “Is he ill?” the colonel inquired.

  Eekhaut lifted his head again. “The ritual,” he said. “Think about their tradition. The tradition of the church. Los Alfaques. The Innovation department store in Brussels, the Tenerife plane crash. All those accidents we assume the church was responsible for. Killing hundreds of the unworthy. Unworthy: which means anyone not belonging to their cult.”

  “That’s such a broad definition, it can apply to—” Prinsen said.

  “As many victims as possible. The maximum. Here, in Amsterdam.”

  “Oh God,” De Vries said. Frightened.

  “The Amsterdam ArenA,” said Prinsen.

  “The most important soccer match of the year . . .”

  Everyone started talking at the same time.

  “What’s the expected attendance?”

  “When does the match start?”

  “We have to contact Van Gils and—”

  “Maybe the underground train station—”

  Dewaal raised both arms for silence. “All right, everybody!” she shouted. Order returned almost at once. “Is this really the site we’ve been looking for?”

  “If the gas tanker is somewhere on the premises,” Eekhaut said, “and its contents are ignited, there’ll be thousands of casualties. No one has ever carried out a more extensive sacrifice in the church’s history. Anything before this was like a dress rehearsal.”

  “Are we sure this is it?”

  “If it isn’t,” Eekhaut said, “then what else could it be?”

  “Someone tell me when the match starts,” Dewaal said. “Come on, all you soccer freaks! And text both Van Gils and Veneman!”

  “Three o’clock,” Binnendam said.

  “Less than an hour from now. I’ll call the police chiefs and the ministry. Eekhaut! I want the whole team outside of the building, in the vehicles, with weapons and vests and ready to leave!”

  “You heard the boss,” Eekhaut said.

  52

  THE SIX UNMARKED POLICE vehicles drove to the Amsterdam ArenA, the flying saucer–like soccer stadium south of the city that had been, since its opening in 1996, the largest of its kind in the Netherlands. Large enough for a crowd of some 52,000 people, it had been home to international soccer matches and pop concerts by the likes of U2 and the Rolling Stones. Now the two main Dutch soccer teams were playing an eagerly anticipated match, attended by the combined armies of their respective fans.

  Stadium security staff and stewards had been alerted that the officers were coming. About three-quarters of the spectators were inside the stadium. Many others were waiting in line outside, but were kept from entering by stewards and members of the riot police. Supporters of both Ajax and Feyenoord booed the arriving officers. Because of the rivalry between the clubs, the atmosphere was heated and would quickly turn openly hostile.

  The black BMW with Dewaal, Eekhaut, Prinsen, Siegel, and the colonel stopped in front of a small building outside the perimeter that had been set up by the police. The other Bureau vehicles parked alongside. Eekhaut surveyed the area where more police vehicles were arriving—official ones with more officers in riot gear. Off to one side, two large Mercedes Saloons, each with a uniformed chauffeur and tinted rear windows, stood waiting. He also noticed a trio of equally black SUVs driving by, parking further on. It seemed a lot of important people intended to get involved, although Eekhaut would have preferred that they create distance between themselves and the ArenA.

  A gaunt, gray-haired man stepped out of one of the Mercedes and approached Dewaal. “Mastenbroek,” Prinsen whispered to Eekhaut. “He’s the chief commissioner.” Dewaal stepped forward, meeting the commissioner. They talked while surveying the area. More men in uniform and in suits gathered around, some of them talking on phones, others on police radios.

  Mastenbroek nodded to Dewaal and talked into his phone. Further on, a riot police officer with a megaphone shouted directions at the waiting fans. They shouted back at him, and Eekhaut could tell they weren’t pleased, even without understanding what they said.

  Dewaal beckoned Eekhaut. “There’s thirty thousand people inside,” she told him. “We can’t evacuate them all at once, and we can’t tell them how serious the threat is. It’s going to be difficult. And we must get them away from the ArenA. Much farther away.”

  “And we don’t know whether the truck is actually inside or when it might explode.”

  “If at all,” Dewaal said. “But let’s assume the truck is there, and if there’s a timer, then it will go off anytime during the match.”

  “Less than forty minutes. Where would the truck be?”

  “There’s a large underground garage. Stadium security just told Mastenbroek there are no CCTV cameras in the area. They wanted to have a look themselves, but he told them that’s our job. Actually, there’s the possibility some members of the society were left behind to make sure nobody could intervene. And they could be armed.”

  “We have to get in and find out,” Eekhaut agreed.

  “The bomb squad hasn’t arrived yet,” Dewaal said. “I’d want them with us, even if we aren’t sure about the truck yet. We don’t have much time.”

  “We have our own explosives expert,” said Eekhaut.

  “Do we?”

  “The colonel. He told me he worked with explosives when he was in the army.”

  “You sure?”

  “Best we can do for the moment, Chief.”


  “Go get him.”

  Al-Rahman was standing with Prinsen. “We need you, Colonel,” Eekhaut said.

  “I can help?”

  Eekhaut took the colonel to Dewaal. “Do you know anything about explosives, Colonel? Bombs, IEDs, that sort of thing?”

  The colonel glanced quickly at Eekhaut, then said, “I was at one time quite familiar with them, Chief, yes.”

  “We need you in there.”

  Al-Rahman eyed the ArenA. “I suppose,” he said, “as Prinsen told me, you cannot evacuate within a reasonable time frame. So you need to disarm the bomb, whatever it is.”

  “We don’t know what we’ll find there, Colonel. We’re still guessing.”

  “I’m with you, Chief,” the colonel said.

  “Right,” Dewaal said. “Eekhaut, Colonel, Prinsen, Siegel, Binnendam, and myself.”

  “What about Van Gils and Veneman?” Prinsen asked.

  “We haven’t located them yet, and they’re not answering their phones or their messages. Let’s move, people. And I need to see the supervisor for this building’s maintenance, whoever’s in charge of it.” She made a gesture toward the ArenA.

  Several officers around them all at once drew their phones and started typing or talking.

  Moments later an older man in dark blue overalls was brought forward. He seemed confused, uncertain about what all these people wanted from him. Yes, he had worked in the ArenA since it had first opened, did general maintenance of technical installations, and of course knew his way around.

  “Underground area? Yep. Large enough for several trucks. The pop groups that come to play drive under the field and unload. How else could they set up their equipment? But it isn’t being used now, not when there’s soccer.”

  “We need access to it at once,” Dewaal told him.

  “I’ve got the keys,” the man said. The six members of the team followed him, with Dewaal ignoring Mastenbroek’s advice to take a larger and more heavily armed contingent of police personnel with them. Meanwhile the evacuation was proceeding, but only small groups of fans were being escorted through the exits. This would take hours, Dewaal assumed.

  The technician opened a double door and led them into a musty-smelling concrete-walled hall, switching on lights as they went.

  “Careful,” she said. “They might be waiting for us.”

  They walked hurriedly behind the technician, guns drawn.

  “And remember, no shooting near or at the tanker,” she added.

  The technician frowned and eyed her suspiciously. They all went down a winding corridor, down a ramp, and then down steel stairs. Dozens of pipes and cables, coded in striking colors, ran along the ceilings. Everything else was painted a dull gray. The area smelled of oil and disinfectants.

  “Still far?” Dewaal asked.

  “It’s a big building, ma’am,” the technician said.

  He stopped at a door, no different than the ones they had passed. This one sported a number: XT554, white on gray.

  “This is it?”

  “Behind it there’s an access to the large parking area beneath the field, ma’am.”

  “Open the door, but slowly.”

  The technician pressed a lever, but nothing happened. The door didn’t open.

  “What’s the matter?” Dewaal asked.

  “It won’t open.”

  “God, man, don’t you have the key?”

  “There’s no key, ma’am,” the technician said. “Someone on the other side blocked the door.”

  “Come on, guys,” Dewaal told the officers. “Give it a push.”

  They tried, but the door didn’t budge.

  “Seems like they locked themselves in,” Prinsen said.

  “Is there another entrance?” Dewaal asked the technician.

  “There’s another door, down the corridor, and there’s the main gate itself opening into the garage, for the trucks.”

  “Let’s move on then.”

  The next door didn’t move either. Then the technician led them to a twenty-foot high gate, which also remained shut when he engaged the mechanism to open it.

  “What options do we have left?” Dewaal asked the technician. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

  “There’s a technical passage, where the cables run into the parking area,” the man said. “It’s a tight fit, but you could use it.”

  “Show us.”

  The technician led them to a row of steel plates on the wall. He turned a lever, and one of the panels moved sideways. Behind it was a passageway from which hundreds of cables of all sizes and colors disappeared into the dark behind them.

  “What are they for?” Eekhaut asked.

  “Everything,” the technician said. “High-tension energy supply, data transmissions, alarm systems. Everything runs through here.”

  Dewaal pressed forward. “We’ll skip the guided tour. It’s just straight in or what?”

  “Into the dark,” the technician said.

  She drew her gun and climbed into the passageway. There were only a few feet between the wall of the passageway on one side and the cables on the other. Eekhaut went in second; the others brought up the rear. The narrow space was cramped for Eekhaut. He felt uneasy, and it seemed difficult to breathe. But what he felt most was fear—of the immediate danger from the bomb and of a potential welcoming committee.

  Dewaal had turned on her flashlight and was guiding them. In front of her was the corridor. She stopped.

  “What you waiting for, Chief?” Eekhaut asked.

  “We have to assume they’re familiar with the layout of this building,” she said.

  “Perhaps not in detail.”

  “This Maxwell is crazy.”

  “Undoubtedly. In many senses of the word. And?”

  “He’s probably paranoid. But he’s no idiot.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Eekhaut said, whose thoughts lingered on a ticking timer of the bomb.

  “He will assume we might find this access after we’ve found the closed doors.”

  “They might be waiting for us, you mean?” Prinsen said, behind Eekhaut.

  She scanned the corridor with her flashlight and found what she was looking for. A small black box with a blinking LED. Hard to notice if you weren’t looking. And to the left, no cables ran. Not part of the building’s security’s system.

  “A sensor,” she said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Don’t know. Might set off an alarm or a bomb. Let’s turn back and see if there’s another entrance.”

  They climbed out of the niche again. She approached the technician. “There’s also a ventilation duct,” he said. “Runs over the ceiling. Ends in the main garage.”

  “Let’s try that.”

  By the time they got to the ladder leading up to the ductwork, everyone was sweaty and dusty. “I hope this duct will hold us,” Dewaal said.

  “It’s supposed to, ma’am. It’s for cleaning and installing new filters,” the technician said.

  “All right then, up the ladder, everybody.”

  This time Prinsen led the way, and soon the six of them crawled through the ductwork. Al-Rahman went in last. The technician remained in the hall behind them.

  Eekhaut, like the others, was trying to keep his flashlight focused ahead as they crawled through the ventilation ducts. There wasn’t much room in any direction, so progress was difficult. Finally, Prinsen found a hatch in the bottom of the ductwork, carefully opened it after the others had killed their lights, and peered through it.

  He went, feet first, through the hatch. The others followed, landing on a steel passageway high above the floor of the underground parking space. They squatted and scanned the large open area. A tanker truck, the size of a dinosaur and as conspicuous in the empty garage, hulked in the middle, under the harsh lights.

  “I see no one,” Prinsen whispered. Siegel and Binnendam slowly moved toward the end of the passageway. Prinsen got up and leaned over the railing.
/>   A loud bang echoed through the hall. Metal and concrete fragments sprayed over Prinsen, who ducked down again.

  “Gun!” Dewaal whispered, although there was no longer any need for silence. There was no cover. They had to get off the passageway as soon as possible. Two ladders, each in a different corner, led to the floor. Eekhaut had seen them as well. Siegel and Binnendam moved toward one, the others hurried toward the other.

  Three more shots rang out, but they continued anyway, hurrying down the ladders and spreading out in the garage, looking for cover. The shooter remained well hidden.

  A shot came from the other end of the garage. Al-Rahman aimed his pistol and fired three times in rapid succession. Eekhaut moved to the left, followed by Dewaal. Prinsen stayed with the colonel.

  More shots came from the end of the garage. They saw muzzle flashes of at least one gun.

  “Mind the tanker,” Dewaal repeated.

  She and Eekhaut avoided the vehicle.

  They stopped behind a pillar. Eekhaut looked for possible hiding places.

  “Keep your head down,” Dewaal warned him.

  “I will. I’m rather attached to it,” he said.

  Shots came from the other officers and, farther off, another gun. Then, at last, there was silence.

  “Give it up, whoever you are,” Dewaal shouted.

  There was no response.

  She stood up, behind the pillar. “We’ve got to move, Walter. We can’t just stand here.”

  And she ran. He followed her and saw Al-Rahman and Prinsen at the other side of the garage, running, hiding, and running again.

  They reached the hiding place of their opponent. A man in a black and yellow tracksuit lay on his back in a puddle of blood, with a pistol next to him. Dewaal kicked it away and quickly felt the man’s pulse. “He’s dead.”

  The other officers spread out, but the man had been alone.

  “Colonel!” Dewaal called. “Defuse the bomb.”

  Al-Rahman moved toward the tanker, inspected the tractor, and, covered by the other officers, climbed inside the cabin. Eekhaut opened the other tractor door. Against the dashboard, on the passenger’s side, a dozen cables in different colors led from a rectangular black box toward what looked like a large package wrapped in plastic foil.