Vladimir eyed the cognac silently then looked sternly at Louise and then at Greg. In that moment, they witnessed something even more rare than the cognac, possibly a first ever for Louise.
Vladimir gave a toothy grin.
“What, no cigar?” Vladimir said. The barman balanced the tray with a juggler’s skill, took a cigar from his breast pocket and handed it to Vladimir. “Now, this is my kind of party!”
Michael had been observing the conversation from the other room, while also enjoying the music. He had the distinct impression the party had been winding down, but now that the new bottle had arrived, he put up his feet and ordered another drink for himself.
By the second glass, Louise was sitting snuggly between the two men in the corner of the booth. The conversation had taken off and never stopped. They had caught each other up on their current lives and reminisced about old times.
Louise looked at her watch. “Merde! It’s 1:30 in the morning. I gotta go.” She tried to push her way out of the double bear hug.
“Where do you think you’re going, little one?” Greg said.
“I’m driving to Brussels in the morning,” she said, elbowing a passageway out.
“Brussels?” Vladimir said. He gently placed both hands snuggly around her slim waist and sat her back down. He fixed his regard on hers, the emerald of her eyes picking up the green in his hazel eyes. “What’s going on, Louise?”
“Karen,” she said defiantly. She had no idea why she spit out that name so intuitively.
Vladimir corrected himself. “What’s going on, Karen?”
“What do you care?” Louise said, knowing very well from the look in his eyes that he did care. She was livid, like the time they had angry sex after Louise accused him of murdering her friend Diana.19 “I’m fed up with your calloused spy routine working by the KGB playbook. Let me go.”
“Hello!” Greg interrupted again. “I’m still here! Come on, talk to me. Vlad, as a friend, this is not cool. Louise, we have enough of a history that you know you can trust me.”
“Of course,” Louise said. “Greg, I trust you completely.”
“And me?” said Vladimir. “You don’t trust me?”
“Not completely.”
“What else do I have to do for you to trust me? If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have made it out of BCCI alive. You were a target of their black network.”
Louise was stunned. “The black network is still around?”
“Follow the money,” Vladimir said blithely. “The black network works with whoever pays top dollar.”.
“Works with?” Louise asked. “As in, it still exists?”
“There will always be a black network,” he said. “They evolve, go where the work is.”
“They’re everywhere,” Greg said. “BCCI’s thugs accosted me right in the lobby of the Hilton Brussels to discourage me from a legitimate deal.”
“Yes, I know,” Louise said.
“You know?” asked Greg.
“Yes, I learned some things in the process of the trial, when that whole thing went down,” said Louise. “For instance, I learned about your work as an arms dealer.” She saw the look of shock on Greg’s face. “Don’t worry. Everything checked out. Even that business has as few honest dealers.” She looked at Vladimir. “You, on the other hand, walk the line between legitimate and corrupt.”
Vladimir narrowed his eyes. “Nothing is ever black and white, no matter how much you Americans like to believe it is.”
“Okay, so fill me in on the gray area. What did you mean when you said to follow the money? I need a more specific answer.”
“All right,” replied Vlad. “You say you’re going to Brussels? Here’s a clue: you’re on the right track.”
“By following the money,” said Louise. “But I’m still flying blind here.”
“Old corporate money,” Vlad said. He could see the wheels turning in her head, trying to pick the lock, find the right combination. Vladimir refilled their glasses with the fine Cognac. “Have one more drink with us, and I’ll give you another clue.”
They picked up their glasses and Louise finished half her glass in one gulp. “Okay, I drank half. Tell me and I’ll finish.”
Vlad leaned in and spoke to her in Russian. “What name do you think of when you think of big American money?”
Louise smirked. There were many answers but really just one. “You mean like the Rockefellers?”
Vladimir smiled a second time, clinked her glass, and they drank. Louise slammed the glass down a little harder than planned. Michael had been patiently enjoying the music and beautiful women when the sound caught him off guard. He reached for his firearm but saw Louise crawling safely out of the booth and this time the guys let her go. He followed far enough behind her and headed back to the hotel where he got a room at nearby more affordable hotel.
T H I R T Y
January 12, 2002
The next morning Louise was energized by Vladimir’s intriguing albeit cryptic clue. Before she hit the road for Brussels, she rang room service for a continental breakfast and logged onto the Internet to do more research. There was a new online encyclopedia called Wikipedia, that had just launched in 2001. She typed in Rockefeller and found that the most relevant to her case was David Rockefeller. David had joined the Chase National Bank in 1946, a bank that was associated with his family, and was chaired by David’s uncle, Winthrop W. Aldrich. Louise knew from banking history that Chase National Bank was primarily a wholesale bank, dealing with other prominent financial institutions and major corporate clients, such as General Electric, which had, through its RCA affiliate, leased prominent space and become a crucial first tenant of Rockefeller Center in 1930, commonly known as 30 Rock.
Louise also knew that the bank was closely associated with the oil industry, having longstanding connections with its board of directors to the successor companies of Standard Oil, especially Exxon Mobil. Chase National Bank subsequently became the Chase Manhattan Bank in 1955 and shifted significantly into consumer banking. Cross referencing, Louise came across an article mentioning something intriguing that occurred around that same time. The first Bilderberg conference was held at the Hotel de Bilderberg in Oosterbeek, Netherlands, in May 1954.
The particulars of the conference were also available. Exiled Polish politician, Jozef Retinger, initiated the conference over his concern about the growth of anti-Americanism in Western Europe. The goal of the international conference was to promote a better understanding between the cultures and foster cooperation on political, economic, and defense issues. The conference was to be an annual private meeting of approximately one hundred and fifty people of the European and North American political elite, experts from industry, finance, academia, and the media. The guest list was to include two attendees from each nation, one of each to represent “conservative” and “liberal” points of view. Fifty delegates from eleven Western European countries along with eleven Americans attended the first conference. One of the prominent Americans at that first meeting was David Rockefeller.
The information Louise found was interesting, but nothing seemed nefarious or related to her case. Finally, on Usenet she found a lead – the 48th Bilderberg meeting was held in Brussels, Belgium, in June 2000, at the Château Du Lac Hotel in Genval. Upon further scrutiny, she found someone who had infiltrated the meeting and posted photos. One of the photos showed Ekram Almasi clearly attending the meeting at the hotel. The photographer had even timestamped it by putting a newspaper in the foreground, showing the date. That date was six months before Almasi’s murder. She was satisfied with the lead she had found but miffed at Vladimir’s obscure clue. Why didn’t he just say Bilderberg?
Louise tossed her overnight bag into the back of her rental car and took off north on Route A1 for Belgium, the land of mussels and fried potatoes or moules-frites. Michael had already checked out of his hotel and was waiting in his rental car outside. Years of investigations had programed him with patie
nce to wait as long as it took to solve the problem. He took off following several car lengths behind her.
Three hours later, about fifty miles south of Brussels, she took the exit for the municipality of Charleroi and followed her map toward Route de Philippeville 128 in Marcinelle. She wanted to see for herself the place where multiple murders of young women in four homes within a ten-mile radius could have taken place. The route to Sars-la-Buissière through magnificent bucolic countryside was befitting its name meaning boxwood hedge, with creatively sculpted topiaries adorning both private estates and humble homesteads alike.
But the landscape changed drastically as she entered Sars-la-Buissière, a desolate village lying in a bleak landscape. Only the sound of a lone villager pickaxing away rubble alongside a dump of rusting trailers and cars broke the silence. All other inhabitants had gone away or were shuttered inside their red brick homes. At first glance of the slag heaps – relics of coalmines from a time when the region of Wallonia was a booming industrial heartland – it was easy to see how the gruesome trade of Dutroux might have gone unnoticed. The entire population of less than a thousand worked several jobs to get by. Every car parked on the street seemed to be for sale at “a bargain.”
Louise parked at the only establishment that appeared to be open, Bistro L’Embuscade. She entered and sat at the worn wooden bar, the top of which was inlaid with red brick. She smiled and spoke fluent French to the female proprietress.
“Bonjour. On est bien tranquille ici,” Louise said, remarking on how quiet the town was.
The owner replied in nasally Belgian French “Here as elsewhere in Belgium, people like to keep to themselves. What can I get you?”
“Café au lait, s’il vous plaît.,” Louise said, continuing in French. “I had to stop for petrol and thought I’d refuel myself too,” Despite the frigid welcome, Louise wasn’t backing down from engaging in conversation. “I just drove in from Paris.” Making a point of being from France worked in her favor. According to her research, the Dutroux affair had exposed the animosity between the French-speaking south of Belgium and the Flemish north. Although the wealthier Flemish communities to the north had been careful not to rub it in, the undercurrents were clear. The serial killer Dutroux was from Wallonia. Not from Flanders.
A lone customer finished his espresso and got up to leave. “Merci, Natalie, bonne journée,” he said in the same nasally French.
“Bonne journée, François. À demain,” Louise now knew the owner’s name, Natalie.
“Nice place,” Louise said.
“Are you a journalist?”
“Not exactly. I’m a novelist.” Louise was getting more and more comfortable with that cover story.
“As I was saying, we don’t meddle in other people’s affairs around here.” She waited for milk steamer to stop screeching before adding, “And we don’t appreciate a lot of questions.”
“You’re right. Sometimes in the midst of writing I get a bit too curious. I just drove a few hours alone and felt like conversation.” Louise gave a friendly smile as a kicker.
Natalie placed the white porcelain cup and saucer in front of Louise. “What do you want to know that hasn’t already been splashed across the newspapers?”
“To be honest, I’m interested to know how it was possible for the killings to go on right under your noses?”
“Why don’t you ask the police and authorities? They were to blame for the failure to act earlier against Dutroux. Even the Flemish King Albert was unable to unify the country when we needed him most. The parents begged for help during the search of Julie and Melissa, both French-speaking families. He did nothing. Suffice it to say, he was not invited to their funerals.”
“Do you believe if something like this had happened in the north the King would have been more responsive?”
“Évidemment!” Natalie had a chip on her shoulder and understandably so.
“Julie and Melissa.” Louise softly repeated the names of the girls without surnames, like a saturnine celebrity couple. “What about the local government?”
“The corruption has been going on for many generations.” Natalie indicated the bistro with a wave of her hand. “This place has been in my family since the 1930s and is the only reason I’m still here after many people have moved away. My mother still talks about when thousands of Italians came to work in the coalmines in the 1950s and ’60s and many have remained.”
Louise’s thoughts raced to her own mother and the look on her face when she remembered horror she had survived.
“Like an ambush!” Louise said, catching on to the name of the restaurant.
“Exactement! That’s how my mom came up with the name L’Embuscade. This area was ideal for organized crime to exploit, with the open borders of the European Union and funds pouring into regional coffers of Southern Belgium. The roads and trains provide easy access to the ports of Rotterdam and Antwerp. Charleroi is a known European narcotics hot spot with rampant gun crimes. Dutroux had easy access to organized crime networks there, distributing his pornography and operating an international trade in teenage girls to a steady stream of clients as far as Eastern Europe.”
“You don’t believe Dutroux was acting alone?”
“Of course not. The only good that may have come out of this horror was the world starting to understand the links between Dutroux and organized crime and the entire Belgian political class. Ordinary people here have known about it a long time.”
“Which is why people like to mind their own business,” Louise concluded.
“The underworld keeps to itself. As long as we ordinary people don’t make waves, we are left alone.”
“What about politicians? Haven’t any elected officials tried to clean up?”
“It is impossible for an honest politician to succeed here. The greatest Belgian political mystery is the unsolved murder of André Cools, from Liege in Wallonia. He was shot dead at his home in 1991, many believe by political rivals working with the Mafia, because he had threatened to clean out the political rot. The investigation into the Dutroux murders has been linked to Italian mafioso, Mauro di Santis, who was also on the wanted list for the André Cools murder.”
“But he’s untouchable,” Louise said.
“Alas, yes.”
Louise checked her watch. “Well, thank you for talking to me, Natalie. What do I owe you?”
“Consider it a blessing from Sars-the-Accursed.”
“Au revoir, bonne journée.”
Louise walked back to her car and drove another 10 miles toward Charleroi. The words Sars-the-Accursed echoed in her mind. The sobriquet for Sars-la-Buissière was a stain left by a few evil souls on villagers who just wanted to be left in peace. As she approached the infamous address at Route de Philippeville 128, there was no mistaking the haunting sight of the crumbling red brick house, overgrown with ivy and shrubs. A gateless chain-link fence with a poster bearing the innocent faces of Julie and Melissa barricaded the small yard. There was nothing left to see there. All that remained was the shell of malevolence moved on. Louise continued on to Brussels with Michael still tailing her.
With Dutch and French as the official languages, most residents of Brussels spoke French. As the headquarters of the European Union and the political seat of NATO, modern Brussels had become the unofficial capital of Europe. This had brought a distinct cosmopolitan air with many shiny new office buildings, coexisting alongside the cobbled streets, splendid cafés, handmade lace, world-famous chocolate, local beers, and graceful Art Nouveau architecture that had long made Brussels a must-see destination. Louise was in college the last time she visited and had forgotten how charming the city was. Like many European cities, Brussels had suffered significant damage from air strikes during World War II, but its canals and many historic structures remained.
She drove southeast on the Avenue Louise, a major thoroughfare and one of the city’s most prestigious streets. She followed the map to the main Crédit Agricole located in the re
sidential village of Watermael-Boitsfort. The small suburb was only five square miles, more than half of which covered by the Sonian Forest. The town was still largely rural, but since being linked to Brussels by railway in 1854, it had become a fashionable bourgeois neighborhood.
Louise parked and fed the meter. Slightly disoriented in the unfamiliar country, she realized something that could have been considered an omen. Her internal international banking clock had failed her, and she had forgotten the banks closed for lunch. It had been worth the stop in Sars-la-Buissière to talk with Natalie, but she would have to wait forty-five minutes for the bank to reopen. She found a café nearby and ordered moules-frites.
While she waited for the meal, she read some local history written on the menu. Although the French had long laid claim to the fried potato, it was a Flemish manuscript from 1781 that first cited something resembling French fries or frites. When no river fish was available during winter, local Flemish cooks would slice potatoes into the shape of small fish and fry them. Belgian farmers were some of the first in Europe to embrace the potato soon after it had arrived in Europe from the New World in the sixteenth century. Mussels, cheap and plentiful, were another Belgian staple, originally considered food for the poor. They had long been paired with fried potatoes at the country’s famous fry shops, known as friteries. In Belgium, steamed mussels and fried potatoes went together as naturally as fish and chips in England, and burgers and fries in the United States.
The moules-frites arrived and she enjoyed eating with her fingers, as was customary, using an empty mussel shell as tweezers to pluck and eat the bivalves. But, in a second omen, Louise noticed a definite air of distress in the restaurant. She listened in on some of the conversations but made out only the occasional quel horreur and mon dieu! She paid the tab then walked across the street to the Crédit Agricole, checking her watch as the bank was to open in minutes.
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