Purgatory

by Guido Eekhaut

  “Timing device,” Al-Rahman said, pointing at the box, and at the package, “Explosive charge.” He slid a multifunctional tool from his jacket pocket. “Let’s see how much time we still have.”

  He screwed open the box, peered inside, ran his fingers over some cables.

  “How long?” Dewaal asked.

  “One minute twenty,” Al-Rahman said.

  “Fix it,” she said.

  “It’s in Allah’s hands now.”

  “It’s in your hands, Colonel,” Dewaal insisted.

  The colonel pushed the tool between the cables. A click, a snap. He sat up.

  “Why do you doubt Allah’s will, Chief?” he asked, looking at Dewaal.

  “I wouldn’t dare, but I prefer the dirty work here on Earth be done by soldiers and police officers.”

  “Well,” he said, “in this case somebody made sure we’re all safe.”

  She looked nonplussed. “Why is that?”

  “The clock was ticking, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t connected to some other charge, so I disconnected it from the detonator. But the link between the timer and the rest of the contraption was already severed. There would not have been an explosion.”

  “We’re no longer in danger then?”

  “No, ma’am. We never were. Not after somebody sabotaged the whole thing.”

  They all got out of the cab. “I’m calling the bomb squad anyway, to make sure,” Dewaal said. “Too many things around that can blow up by accident.” She walked away from the truck to phone the others.

  “The question is, who intervened?” Eekhaut said to Prinsen.

  He shrugged. “Did us a favor.”

  “Maybe it’s her informant, working on the inside. And all the while the chief claims not to know who he is. At any rate, it’s a man she’s talking about.”

  Colonel Al-Rahman approached Eekhaut while Prinsen and two other officers inspected the surroundings. “Do you know what the origin of the name Baphomet is, Chief Inspector?”

  Eekhaut was surprised the colonel for once wanted to share information. “I have no idea, actually.”

  “It originates from the French, as it was in use many centuries ago. It was the name Christians used for the Prophet Muhammad. They struggled with the pronunciation of many names and words of Semitic and Oriental languages, which is why you are still talking about Avempace or Averoës. And Mohammed, or Mahommed, was corrupted to Baphomet.” The colonel smiled. “Although the story might be apocryphal, like so many stories from older times.”

  “Is it not ironic that this name was chosen by an apocalyptic cult for the name of their leader? The name of the prophet?”

  Al-Rahman agreed, glancing at the tool he was holding. “This is most ironic, indeed. But irony is not just a Western quality. The thing is, Chief Inspector, that both our cultures are plagued by the same problem, too little information about the other. “

  “I’m sure that’s true.” Eekhaut wondered why the colonel was suddenly becoming talkative. A sign of improved relations between Christian and Islam cultures? Or a reaction to the tension?

  “Many people in the Arab world see the West as greedy, shallow, devoid of spirituality, imperialist, obsessed with sex and violence. You might be aware of our clichés. But strangely enough, so many people in the Arab world admire your scientific and technological achievements and your popular culture.”

  “Except what is forbidden.”

  “Yes, but depending on the specific country, the Sharia is interpreted differently. Of course, the Wahhabites are stricter in their interpretation of the Quran than the Sunni brothers. But even in Saudi Arabia and in the Gulf States, private religious practice is allowed, although not the public practice of any religion other than Islam. But the West, these days, has become so . . . careless with its intellectual and historical values. This is not a matter of religion itself, but of morals and ethics. Both are lacking profoundly in Western culture. At least, that’s how a lot of people in the Islamic world perceive it.”

  This, Eekhaut realized, was the colonel’s longest speech. And though he knew these arguments, he felt a freshness in Al-Rahman’s approach.

  But then, he wondered, what sort of role was the colonel playing?

  Why was he here?

  Surely not for the sake of some all too evident cultural disparities between Islam and the West?

  He noticed Dewaal walking back toward them, still on the phone. “Would you repeat that,” she said, loud enough for the others to hear. She made a writing motion. Eekhaut found his pen and notebook and handed her both. She crouched down and began writing, keeping the notebook on her leg. “How long? Hello? Hello?”

  She shoved the phone back into her pocket. “Disconnected,” she said.

  “Who was that?” Prinsen wanted to know.

  “My informant. Could not talk long. Baphomet and some others seem to have gone into hiding.” She handed Eekhaut his notebook back. “That’s where they are at the moment. But probably not for long.”

  He saw an address.

  The other officers had finished their tour. “Strange as it seems, Chief,” Binnendam said, “there’s no one else here. Maybe they found only one aspiring martyr.”

  “All the better,” Dewaal said. “We have another appointment with these people. Eekhaut, show everyone the address. Let’s move out at once, gentlemen. I want this scum behind bars as soon as possible.”

  “Bomb squad will be here in a moment,” Binnendam said.

  “We’ll leave someone to guide them. Did you manage to contact Van Gils and Veneman?”

  “Texted them again. They’re outside, waiting for us.”

  While heavily armed police and a squad of special forces entered the area, the officers went out and found both missing colleagues. Dewaal ignored them. She asked Binnendam, showing him Eekhaut’s notebook, “You know where this is?”

  “Het Kleine Water? That’s in the Veluwe. A place for families to go on vacation in the summer. Swimming, fishing, boating—that sort of thing. An inexpensive alternative to the Canary Islands, I guess. Never been there myself. There’s a camping site and small family cabins. Remote, too. “

  “How far?”

  “Fifty miles, give or take.”

  “Five cars,” Dewaal ordered. “Van Gils, Veneman, you’re in as well. And armed assistance.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Van Gils said.

  “Where are we going?” Colonel Al-Rahman inquired.

  “The Veluwe,” Prinsen said. “Part of Gelderland Province and as far removed from Amsterdam as you could possibly want. Or not want. It’s part of the Dutch Bible Belt, mainly agrarian, very thinly inhabited. People who still strongly adhere to traditional Protestant beliefs, often against the values of the secular society.”

  “Yes,” Al-Rahman said. “I think I get the picture.”

  53

  COURIER STOOD BESIDE THE body, gun in hand. Nobody had heard the shot. He had used the silencer. Not that many people were around anyway. This was a spot that attracted few, if any, visitors and none outside the vacation season. Not in the middle of winter. The ponds were partially frozen over, no waterfowl to be seen. The banks were damp and cold, the woods almost dark, even though it was early in the afternoon. Nature had ceased to make sounds. The cottages were like silent nocturnal animals sleeping through winter. Only the largest of them was now in use and heated. This looked like the least hospitable place in the whole of the Netherlands.

  Courier glanced around. The kitchen was in the back of the cabin, facing away from the lake, next to the garden. Or what, during summer, would be a garden. He could drag out the corpse, and no one would notice. But then what? Drop it in the pond where it wasn’t yet frozen over? He couldn’t bury it, didn’t have the time, and the ground would be hard. The pond wasn’t deep, but if he weighted down the body, it would disappear for now. He didn’t care if it was found later.

  With his free hand, he felt the barrel of the gun. It was warm, not hot. He ha
d only fired once. He unscrewed the silencer from the barrel and let it slide into his pocket. Then he pushed the gun under his belt, behind his back.

  He knelt beside the dead man. The head was partially gone. A mess, but at least the man had been dead instantly. Courier found it comforting that he’d died without pain or regret. He had used a hollow point. The man had deserved a slow and painful death for his many sins, but Courier was merciful. Anyway, he had needed a quick and certain kill.

  He picked up the phone lying next to the man. The display was dark, and nothing happened when Courier pushed a few buttons. Perhaps the phone was damaged. It didn’t matter now. The man might have called the police earlier that day, but what could be done about it? Courier had heard him mentioning the name of this place. The police would be here soon.

  It was a question of finding another hiding place. Did Baphomet have an alternative?

  Courier rose when the door leading into the corridor opened. Baphomet stared at him, surprised. “I thought I heard something.”

  “You heard him falling down,” Courier said thoughtfully. “You could not have heard the shot.”

  Baphomet peered at the body as if he feared the dead man might rise again. “Is that Metagogeus?”

  “It is. Sorry about the mess I made. He was betraying us.”

  Baphomet didn’t even ask about the evidence. He trusts me. He knows I shot our fellow brother for a good reason. “Only problem is what do I do with him? He was calling the cops, told them where we are. We might have expected a traitor among us, Baphomet. But Metagogeus? Maybe I am too gullible, but I hadn’t suspected him. Nevertheless, he sold us out. The enemy will be here soon. We should leave at once.”

  Baphomet didn’t seem perturbed. “Now why would he do that, betray us, why would he do that, do you think, Courier?”

  Courier examined Baphomet carefully in the feeble light. The body didn’t seem to upset him much. Neither did the betrayal. “What do you mean?”

  “It is an obvious question, don’t you think?” Baphomet said dryly. “Why would someone like Metagogeus talk to the police? Why would he betray us? He’s as guilty as any of us, and he would have gone to prison for a very long time. There is no way he would be saved either if we cannot accomplish more sacrifices. He had a lot to lose, didn’t he, in betraying us. And what would he gain?”

  “He’s an informer,” Courier insisted. “Perhaps he was a police officer working undercover all these years. I don’t know, Baphomet. I have no idea.”

  “You know this is nonsense, Courier. I have known most of you for a considerable time, and I know how faithful you all are. None of you could be working for the police. Certainly not Metagogeus. For years, he’s been my trusted aide, my fellow traveler. His passion for the cause was without restraint. He did things—”

  “You mean I killed the man without a good reason?”

  Baphomet shook his head. “I imply nothing. I am only saying that you’re the one holding the gun, and he’s the one dead on the floor. The gun you used to kill an esteemed member of our society. This is what I see here. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “But he was calling the police and telling them where we are. I wanted to stop him.”

  “The evil clearly had been done, Courier. He had already called them if that is what he did. So, there would have been no need to kill him. He would have been more valuable to us alive. Maybe as a hostage.”

  Courier was becoming distressed by Baphomet’s stubbornness. Could the man not understand his reaction? Was he, Courier, now suspect in the eyes of Baphomet? “He was a traitor, Baphomet,” he insisted. “We have treated traitors like this before. We have treated them worse than this.”

  “Yes, Courier,” Baphomet said, “our tradition tells us clearly how to deal with traitors. But it also tells us not to carelessly decide about the lives of our own companions. We never take decisions too rashly. We think them over. We discuss. There resides our strength. And then, only after careful consideration, do we act. That’s how it was done in the past.”

  “I may have judged too quickly, Baphomet, and for that I’m sorry. But we are persecuted, and we must act swiftly.”

  “Persecuted? Of course we are persecuted. What would you expect? We have just organized and performed the greatest purification in history. Thousands of humans sacrificed in one event. We would already have heard about it, had we not been isolated as we are. And does this matter, this persecution? No, it doesn’t. Because very soon humanity will cease to exist, as was foretold, and even the universe might cease to exist. And then, we will be redeemed.”

  Courier didn’t react.

  “Now,” Baphomet continued, “the question you need to ask yourself, Courier, is this: is there a reason to continue fleeing, or should we wait for the police and accept whatever fate they have in store for us?”

  “We cannot expect anything good from captivity,” Courier said.

  “Of course not. We must remain free. Maybe the world will need more rituals still, and we are the only ones to provide them. Now tell me, dear Courier, was there any other witness to the conversation Metagogeus had with the police?”

  “No. He was alone, and so was I.”

  “No one.”

  “He stood here, in the kitchen, and I caught his words, and my conclusion was—”

  “You didn’t give him the opportunity to explain himself?”

  Courier said nothing.

  “And of course,” Baphomet concluded, “he no longer has an opinion to share with us. You made sure of that.”

  “Don’t you believe me, Baphomet?”

  Baphomet raised a revolver and held it to Courier’s head. “I am not,” he said, “inclined to believe you.”

  “There’s no need for that gun!” Courier exclaimed.

  “Are you afraid of guns, Courier? That is strange, since you just shot a man.”

  “This is going too far, Baphomet!”

  The door behind Baphomet opened. He glanced over his shoulder. Serena stood in the doorway and stared at both men. “What are you doing?” the girl said. Then she saw the body on the floor. “God! What happened?”

  “Our companion Courier claims Metagogeus was talking to the police,” Baphomet said.

  “And why would he do that?”

  “That’s exactly what happened,” Courier said. “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Then why are you keeping your gun to his head?” she asked Baphomet.

  “Because I do not believe his story. I don’t believe Metagogeus was a traitor to our cause. Maybe Courier was mistaken in what he heard. Or maybe Courier can no longer be trusted.”

  “We have to go,” Courier said. “Whatever your opinion of me, you know we have to leave.”

  “This place is isolated and more than an hour’s drive from Amsterdam. I assume the police will have much more to worry about than us, with thousands of bodies and half the city in panic. Anyway, where would we go? The number of hiding places at our disposal is limited.” Baphomet turned to Serena. “Go get the other companions.”

  Serena disappeared again. A few moments later, the other three members of the society stood in the main room, all of them young and willing to die for the greater cause, exactly why Baphomet had chosen them for this mission. He wasn’t going to take any of the older members along except for Courier and Metagogeus—who might have been a spy.

  “Jasper, Nemeth, there’s a body in the kitchen. Carry it outside and try to clean the floor as much as you can. Courier will help you with that.”

  “They will find him . . .” Courier said.

  “Let them find him, whoever they are. It will be too late anyway. We have come this far, and we have not been stopped. Do you care what happens to the body?”

  “You want to be arrested,” Courier said, his voice growing shrill. “You want to be arrested, don’t you, so the world can see you and admire you or loathe you or whatever. You want to laugh at them from your cell.”

  “Perhaps I
do,” Baphomet said. “The time has come to confront the world with our passion. And with our message. Too few people are aware of our message. Now, for the first time, we might have their attention. We might even gain many converts when people realize their sole hope of redemption lies with us.”

  “You talk too much about passion, Baphomet,” Courier said, exasperated. “You expect too much passion too. People are rational these days. They don’t tend to—”

  “No,” Baphomet said. “Look at the news. Look at people. The time for Reason is over. Jasper, Nemeth? The body? And you, Courier.”

  The two young men entered the kitchen and carefully carried Metagogeus outside, into the cold and the dark. In the kitchen, Baphomet kept his gun aimed at Courier.

  54

  THE TEAM MADE GOOD time covering the fifty miles between Amsterdam and Het Kleine Water. The five big BMWs swerved through traffic, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Other cars moved out of the way. Dewaal was on the phone most of the time. She would concern herself with the paperwork later, but she needed at least verbal consent from the hierarchy for the operation and a couple of updates. The ministry finally gave its permission after the police chief had intervened on behalf of the Bureau. Only then did Dewaal stop cursing. “You’d like to believe we have some sort of federal police force unified under a single command, but far from it, goddamn it! I have to pass AIVD management, regional police chiefs, and even local police. Time for a change.”

  The last miles were the most difficult and the slowest. A provincial road meandering through sleepy villages and then something no better than a glorified track between trees. Like it had been in the Ardennes, Eekhaut thought, but without snow. He sat in the same car as Dewaal, with Al-Rahman riding shotgun, having reassured Dewaal and earned his place thanks to defusing an already defused bomb.

  “Kill the lights,” Dewaal instructed, and they drove the last stretch almost in the dark.

  After a final slope, under the dramatically overcast sky, they spotted a dozen buildings on the edge of a darkening lake. The cars stopped at a safe distance, and the officers got out. They gathered around Dewaal, out of sight of the houses. Some of the officers had shotguns. Without the sound of engines, the surroundings seemed out of this world; not even wind moved through the naked branches. The cold began to creep into the officers’ bones. Eekhaut knew it would be bad to get injured, with the cold and all. Hypothermia was a real danger under these circumstances.