“Yes, well,” Serena interrupted him. “I’ve looked at your profile, Colonel, and sincerely, your presence astonished me. If that’s the right expression. You’re employed by the Saudi secret service, aren’t you?”
“I never made a secret of that, ma’am,” the colonel said.
“No, of course you haven’t. But then, in your country, it is not easy to make the distinction between security services and the Mutaween, or even military intelligence.”
“I’m Mutaween, as I adequately explained,” Al-Rahman said. “It is, indeed as you state, a subtle distinction. But then, to us, religious matters and matters of state coincide to a high degree.”
“Well,” Serena said and got up. “I think I’d like to have a shower now, Chief Inspector. Not here, however. I need to return to Amsterdam at the earliest. Shower and report in that order. And then maybe something to eat.”
Outside more AIVD officers and an armed response team had gathered. The five AIVD cars that Dewaal and the others arrived in stood nearby. The prisoners were dispersed among the vehicles, ready to be driven back to Amsterdam. A forensics team was examining the two bodies.
“I would like to ask Mr. Maxwell a few questions,” Colonel Al-Rahman said, off-handedly. “Ahead of the formal interrogation, if I may?”
“I don’t mind,” Eekhaut said.
He noticed Dewaal talking to a gathering of officers and at the same time talking on her phone. Probably with the brass back home. Things would work out all right for her, he assumed.
The colonel walked toward the BMW, which had its passenger door open and Maxwell inside. Two uniformed police officers with submachine guns stood at attention.
Eekhaut gestured toward the officers. They stepped back. The colonel leaned inside. Eekhaut wondered what they would talk about. He wondered what exactly Al-Rahman had to ask Maxwell. It bothered him the colonel was still around. But then, such had been Dewaal’s orders.
A muffled bang came from the car. Blood exploded against the back window.
Al-Rahman straightened up again, gun in hand.
The two officers stared at him, unable to move.
He showed them the gun, dangling from index and thumb. Then he dropped it in the dirt.
Dewaal was the first to react. She sprinted toward the BMW, opened the door on the other side, and peered in. Then straightened and faced the colonel, who looked back at her, unmoved.
“Holy fuck,” Serena said.
A few hours later, back in Amsterdam, the detectives gathered at the second-floor working area of the Bureau. Nobody felt much urge to speak. Coffee was drunk, and occasionally someone went outside for a smoke. Sandwiches and donuts had been brought and eaten. Most members of the Bureau departed after a while, realizing there was nothing left to do. Only Eekhaut and Dewaal, Prinsen, Van Gils, and Veneman remained. And Serena. Dewaal had been in her own office most of the time. She had again been on the phone, and discussions hadn’t been easy. She had kept the door closed.
Eventually, she joined the others.
“And what about the colonel?” Eekhaut inquired. He knew the subject had to be raised.
“He wasn’t very talkative,” Dewaal said. The colonel had been escorted from the scene by members of AIVD in another car, headed for another destination.
“He didn’t offer an explanation for . . .” Veneman said, pausing, then: “For why he shot Maxwell?”
“Oh, about that, yes,” Dewaal said. “He called it an execution.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep. And he’s sure he will get away with it.”
Van Gils snorted. “For murder? That’s not going to happen. He’ll get twenty years. Here, in Holland.”
“I had his embassy on the phone just now,” Dewaal said. “They’re trying to make a deal with the ministry of foreign affairs. They might even claim the colonel has diplomatic status.”
“And why did he shoot Maxwell? If the Saudis wanted him in front of one of their own judges, they should have asked for his extradition. They could have hanged him publicly in Rihad or wherever.”
“They wouldn’t have gotten an extradition. We don’t extradite a Dutch national to a country where the death penalty is still applied,” Dewaal said.
“Well, in the end, that’s what he got, the death penalty,” Eekhaut said. He surveyed the park outside, the benches already occupied by pensioners and their dogs. He looked at his watch. It was late.
And he said, “The serpent.”
The others gazed at him.
“That’s what he said, at some point, the colonel. The serpent needs to be beheaded when you want to make sure it’s dead. I heard someone else say the same thing.”
“Johanna Simson,” Prinsen said.
“She did indeed. Prison would be out of the question for Maxwell at least. The church knew that. Ms. Simson knew that. Maxwell was much too dangerous to be simply incarcerated. They wanted to make sure the society would be cut off at the head. The head of the serpent. Well, Ms. Simson got her revenge in the end.”
“You mean the colonel works for her?” Dewaal said.
“That’s what it looks like. He works for the Church of the Supreme Purification, most probably. They’re in on this together. Didn’t Interpol know?”
“We have no information about any connection between the colonel and the church,” Serena said evasively.
“I will, of course, consult your boss concerning this matter,” Dewaal told her. “I’m not very happy about you Deus ex machinating the whole situation.”
“Bad luck for Maxwell anyway,” Prinsen said. “Onward to his creator, without a final sacrifice and all.”
“I’m not sure he really believed all that crap himself,” Dewaal said. “We’ll never know, of course. Anyway, there we are. Seems like it’s the end of the society.”
“There are more than enough weird and insane people around,” Eekhaut said, thinking of what Linda had told him she’d seen in Africa.
“Well, let’s close up shop till Monday,” Dewaal said. “This business will be in all the papers for the next few weeks, and I’m sure we’ll notice the fallout. Anyone care for a drink at the pub? If we can find one open?”
Eekhaut excused himself to the surprise of the others. He insisted he had another appointment.
And he did.
He had given Linda a key to his apartment. The key hadn’t been an invitation or a promise. It didn’t work that way, at least not for him. He merely left open a few options. He left his door open. She could use his apartment whenever she wanted, wait there for him.
He wasn’t in a hurry. Neither was she. They would let things run their course. He would arrive at his apartment and find her there, coffee already made the way he liked it. Or she might not be there, and perhaps she would arrive later. The decision would be hers.
But he knew what he wanted. He knew what he wanted from her. And he knew what he was prepared to offer her.
Purgatory Page 33
