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  He possessed a careless sort of charm she’d grown fond of. That, and the improbably chaotic way he dealt with the rest of the world—his brilliant but often too focused mind, which made it difficult for him to bring complex projects to a successful close.

  But what did he see in her? She wasn’t sure. A lot of things he didn’t share with her. He loved her, she was sure of that, but in what way? She knew so little about his life. He never mentioned previous relations. He never spoke about his past. He only looked forward. Sharing a life with her, that much he had promised. And that seemed enough for her, at least for right now. So why ask difficult questions?

  She looked at her cheap Swatch. Almost nine. She had classes soon. Oh, well, she could skip them. She skipped classes more often recently. Anthropology. Who liked anthropology?

  She didn’t, for sure.

  But she had to study. Prepare for her exams. Her parents supported her financially, assuming their daughter would get a diploma. On what Pieter earned, they could barely afford this apartment. Her parents didn’t know they lived together. They assumed she had a student room in Amsterdam, which was what they paid for. They assumed their virtuous daughter had her head in books all the time.

  But now Pieter was out of a job. He had pulled that stunt, as he said he would do. Stealing that infamous list from the offices of the politician he worked for. How foolish could you get? He could make money out of selling the list to a newspaper, but he didn’t intend to. He wasn’t going to get money for it. He was an idealist. Someone would have to pay the rent, but who? Not Pieter, who couldn’t even get public benefits of any sort now. Should she consider a part-time job?

  She shrugged, glancing at her ass in the mirror in those panties as she pulled on jeans.

  “I’ll be back, you spoiled brat,” she said.

  Pieter, under the covers, didn’t respond.

  She went out, in sneakers without socks. It was chilly outside but dry.

  She didn’t notice the man watching their building from the doorway on the other side of the street.

  He focused on Eileen for a moment and then looked up at the windows of the apartment. He had seen Eileen through the window. He’d seen her without her T-shirt. Decadent world. Skinny girls, just like in Moscow or Chechnya. Girls with bad habits. Not eating, just shooting up and snorting. He knew that sort of girl well. Would do anything for cash. He knew where they got their money. Pieter Van Boer. A pimp.

  No mercy, then. A pimp and a thief. He knew the appropriate punishment for that sort of person, and he enjoyed the privilege of doling out the punishment. He didn’t even have to invoke God. He had a contract with a more earthly power. That was enough.

  A last look at the girl. Long legs and a firm little ass. He didn’t know how long she would be away, but it didn’t matter much. What he needed to do would take him only a few moments.

  He crossed the street and pushed open the door of the building. He’d noticed that the front door did not latch. Careless people!

  He walked up the stairs. At Van Boer’s apartment, he paused for a moment. No name, no bell. He knocked on the door.

  He heard a muffled voice from inside. “Eileen? Is that you?”

  Parnow, though he didn’t understand the Dutch, could still tell by the tone of the young man’s voice that he wasn’t on his guard. He pushed the door. It opened easily enough. He stepped inside, the gun with the silencer in his right hand. The black backpack in his left. He let the bag slip slowly from his hand until it rested by the door.

  There seemed to be nobody.

  Then he noticed the outline of Van Boer under the bed sheets.

  “You brought croissants?” the muffled voice asked.

  “Pieter Van Boer?” Parnow asked. He made no effort to pronounce the name correctly. After all, this was no social call.

  The sheets were jerked back. The confused and startled face of Van Boer appeared. This was definitely the kid from the photo. Parnow was now sure of his victim.

  “Who are you?” Pieter asked, in Dutch.

  “Where is the list?” Parnow asked, in English.

  The young man’s gaze wandered to his left for a brief but significant moment. Parnow looked in the same direction. A small, rickety desk with letters, papers, pencils, a laptop, and an antique desk lamp.

  Yeah, that’s where the list would be.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Pieter said.

  Parnow raised the gun.

  Pieter attempted to get up while holding his hands in front of his face.

  Funny, Parnow thought, how they all assume they can stop a 9mm bullet with their hands or arms. As if they’re Superman or whatever. He knew about Superman from the movies. Superman could fend off bullets and even heavier projectiles with so much ease. Typical American bullshit.

  Well, Pieter Van Boer couldn’t, obviously. No way. He wasn’t Superman.

  Parnow pulled the trigger twice.

  The weapon made a coughing sound. As if someone in the room had a cold. Van Boer’s body fell back. His blood covered the wall in a fan-like pattern.

  Parnow lowered the gun. He stepped toward the desk. Pushed pencils and letters aside. A cardboard file. A list of names and amounts. Exactly as he had been told. He folded the file and tucked it into his jacket. Noticed the laptop. Maybe he should take that as well. Maybe his clients would be interested in whatever information it contained. And wasn’t there a smartphone around as well?

  A subdued cry and a dull thud sounded behind him. He turned.

  The girl stood halfway in the room. She had dropped the baker’s bag when she saw Van Boer’s body. She held both hands in front of her mouth. A paragon of shocked horror.

  Parnow stepped toward her. Two steps. The apartment wasn’t large. He swung the gun upward again, the barrel facing her.

  She had seen him. She didn’t step back. She didn’t panic. He would have to admit he hadn’t expected that. A brave, thin, spindly, startled girl who understood right away the situation as it presented itself to her. Understood the danger she was in. He had known brave girls like her in Russia. And in Ukraine. He had met them in Moscow when he settled scores with dealers. He had seen them under all circumstances. They were the kind of girls that happened to live somewhat longer than the others. Not much, but long enough to enjoy a decent stretch in life.

  The girl kicked him in the groin.

  Which he hadn’t expected at all.

  The blow hit him hard. He doubled over.

  She whacked him on the cheek with her hard, closed fist.

  It hurt, but he also felt shame for not anticipating her reaction. Not being ready for it. He had become old and slow. He couldn’t even handle a young girl anymore.

  She wanted to hit him again, but she had lost the advantage of surprise. He rammed his fist into her ribs but lost his balance. His jacket fell open and the file fell out.

  She kicked him again, rather ineffectively, grabbed the file, and managed to flee the apartment.

  In the time it took him to recover and get up again, neither his body nor his honor intact, she was gone. Worse yet, she had disappeared with the list.

  He limped to the window. Leaned out. She was running on the other side of the street. He hobbled downstairs, taking the backpack with him. He slid the gun into the backpack. By the time he reached street level, she’d disappeared. He ran in the direction he’d seen her last. But he couldn’t spot her anywhere. She knew the city better than he did. He could search up and down streets, but it’d be pointless. He wouldn’t find her. At least not today.

  He kicked a wall. He wanted to blow off more steam but that would be too conspicuous. So he zippered the backpack with the gun inside, swung it onto his shoulder, and went back the way he had come.

  A MONDAY IN SEPTEMBER

  Amsterdam

  1

  “HE’S A TRULY INSUFFERABLE man who only wants to impose his own opinion and isn’t going to listen to what other members of the team have to contribute.
He ignores his superiors as much as he ignores their orders. He doesn’t take them seriously. All this leads to conflicts. His methods are unconventional at best and border on illegal at times. And his opinion of women, well, I won’t go into that topic.”

  This was what Superintendent Teunis had said only a few weeks earlier about Chief Inspector Walter Eekhaut. Or words to that effect. Excepting Teunis herself and the man sitting on the other side of her desk at the time, there had been no witnesses who could, at any later point, repeat exactly what had been stated.

  “I assume,” the man had said, “that you’d rather get rid of Chief Inspector Eekhaut?”

  “And I assume,” Teunis had replied, “that I was clear enough on the subject.”

  The man smirked. He had a name, but it wasn’t relevant, because he worked for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and was high enough up the official ladder to exert influence on the Superintendent of the Brussels Federal Police. “It seems, in a certain way, that he’s best suited for the mission we have in mind.”

  “You’ve been very vague concerning that mission,” Teunis said.

  “I have, because this is a delicate assignment. So delicate and at the same time so—how should I put it—so absolutely meaningless, that we want to entrust it to someone outside of our own circle.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “You do. All this concerns the growing influence of Russian financiers in our banking sector. By our, of course, I don’t mean those puny banks this kingdom still has left, my dear. What I’m referring to are the really large players in the Benelux market, specifically Fabna Bank.”

  “Oh,” Teunis said, sliding her ballpoint across the surface of her desk, tracing the chaotic pathways of international banking politics.

  “Precisely. Our Dutch colleagues of the AIVD, the General Intelligence and Security Service, are the ones who set this whole … affair in motion. Interventions of this sort are nothing new, as you probably know. Arab and Japanese companies already own large portions of Western European and American corporations. But that’s legitimate financing. White money, as you might say. The Russians, however … well, let’s say there’s much reason for concern. Deep concern. Matters didn’t usually get out of hand in the past, but that’s changed. You saw the papers. We learned that one single financier in particular is about to acquire around five percent of Fabna. And he’s coming to Amsterdam soon. The AIVD wants to keep an eye on him and the whole operation. They’re asking for our assistance since Fabna is a Dutch-Belgian company. And they’re playing the whole thing by the book. I’m sure you understand why.”

  “So they need a specialist. But then we’re not talking about Eekhaut. He’s not a financial specialist in any respect.”

  “True. And he has a number of deplorable professional habits. But nevertheless, he has a solid reputation as an investigator. At the same time—and I’m counting on your discretion here because I shouldn’t be telling you this—we’re not really that much interested in this affair. Finance has a heart attack whenever the Russians start flaunting their money, but the minister has other worries. So he doesn’t really want to play ball with the Dutch.”

  “Which minister? Who has authority here?”

  “There’s the hitch. All the ministers who control part of the dossier are passing responsibility from one to the other. They don’t want to be bothered with it. That’s why mine has finally decided on a symbolic solution.”

  “In the shape of a recalcitrant senior detective—?”

  “Who isn’t even an expert, but who can’t do much harm either, and of whom we don’t mind ridding ourselves.”

  “I see,” Teunis said. “Well, that suits me just fine, as you probably expected.”

  “I’m glad we’re on the same page,” the man said.

  And so Chief Inspector Eekhaut found himself on a train from Brussels to Amsterdam, with an economy-class ticket, on a Monday morning in September. He had been looking at the passing landscape, although he had a book on the little table by the window. He hadn’t read a page yet. The train had just passed Roosendaal, and the landscape—the Netherlands now and no longer Belgium—became even more flat and wet. It had stopped raining for a while, but it had been raining for three straight days. Ditches and streams were swollen. The Netherlands. Laboriously reclaimed from the water. But for how much longer? If the ocean levels were really on the rise, all of this might soon become sea again, and the Dutch would be in trouble.

  They should have built their dikes a bit higher, Eekhaut thought. That’s what they’re good at—building dikes. Soon they’ll live on an inverted island.

  He observed the low-hanging clouds. There would be more rain soon.

  His mood hadn’t improved since early this morning. He had taken the seven o’clock train from Leuven. As usual, he had been early. He had a cup of coffee in the station refreshment room along with a collection of temporarily stranded travelers: an old man with a new suitcase and a second cup of coffee, a few cigarette-smoking laborers, two unattractive women on their way to work in Brussels, a good-looking brunette who was reading an Olivia Goldsmith paperback while puffing at her first cigarette of the day.

  In Mechelen, he transferred to the intercity train. Ugliest station in a country that excelled in ugly stations. Then directly toward Amsterdam. In the distance, the horizon was the color of old lead. His luggage had been sent ahead. Expenses were paid by the government, as were his train ticket and the apartment where he was to stay for the duration. They were obviously very pleased to get rid of him. To send him packing to Holland. To the unsuspecting Dutch. So be it.

  Teunis had had a few things to say to him about the way he’d behaved while under her command. He wasn’t surprised. He knew what she thought of him. No love lost between them. Well, he had himself partially to blame for that. He had never cared much about his image. He wouldn’t even contradict the rumors that were circulating about him. “You have issues with female superiors,” she told him. “No,” he’d replied, “I have issues with authority, and hence with all superiors.” After that, the conversation had been difficult.

  His problem with authority kept showing up in his annual evaluations, too.

  A few people had come to say goodbye. Older colleagues he’d worked with and who knew that his methods yielded results. The stubborn ones, who swore by old-school policing. The dying breed. But Teunis had told them, “The federal police are better off without people like Chief Inspector Eekhaut. Today, there is no room anymore for his kind of improvisation. For the past two decades, we’ve been introducing and using scientific methods for solving crimes. Eekhaut has never grasped that.”

  And so on.

  He was aware of the story. He knew every word of it. Tone and content hadn’t changed during recent years.

  He had discussed these methods at length with Teunis—whose first name was probably Isolde or something like that. About the failure of those scientific methods of which she spoke so highly. Neither of them had changed their point of view. In the end, she had simply arranged for his transfer. Transfer. It sounded ugly, a punishment. And that was what it really was, a punishment. To the Bureau of International Crime and Extremist Organizations, part of the AIVD in Amsterdam. The Bureau was engaged in combating extremist groups and serious border-crossing crime within a European framework. And it appeared he got the job because he was fluent in both English and French. Because not a single Francophone colleague on the force could be bothered to learn Dutch or English.

  And, of course, this was the most distant place they could send him. His assignment was clearly defined, Teunis explained: he was to assist the Dutch with the investigation into Adam Keretsky, the infamous Russian financier. The new future major shareholder of Fabna.

  She hadn’t even bothered to ask him whether he would accept the job voluntarily. As far as she was concerned, the question was irrelevant.

  Her first name had to be Isolde—though no one, no one at all, seemed to know what her
name actually was. A superintendent wasn’t expected to have a first name.

  The train moved gracefully through the peaceful green landscape, like an electric ghost. The messy architecture of Flanders had given way to the slightly too tidy architecture of the Netherlands, where it seemed the freedom of families was constricted by obsessively erected walls.

  Three foreign students, of various origins, seemed to be having a noisy argument in English, the lingua franca of European intellectuals, about the meaning of intelligent design. One of them had a new Sony laptop with him.

  Eekhaut had no affinity for the Netherlands.

  The question was, however, if he had ever had any affinity for his own country.

  What else had Teunis said about him? The same remarks he had read in his evaluations for years. Insufficiently results-oriented. Exceptionally weak in his administrative skills. Poor communication with superiors. Too little respect for them, as well.

  Respect!

  He had no, absolutely no respect for the kind of hierarchy that Teunis represented.

  The train made a slight turn and passed through a small town whose apartment buildings denoted modest prosperity and an orderly lifestyle. An orderly country, with clear rules for everybody. He knew Amsterdam would be different. He had been there a couple of times as a tourist. An anarchic city. A very un-Dutch city. A city very unfriendly toward anyone over twenty and, at the same time, stimulating enough for anyone over fifty.

  Not that he was stimulated by his new assignment.

  He let his gaze wander to the book in front of him. Nabokov, Look at the Harlequins! The last book the author wrote. A bizarre pseudo-memoir. He felt as though the title were about him. A harlequin. Someone who had spent thirty years wearing the mask of a police officer, a civil servant, and who could no longer pretend that mask made any sense. He had been a police officer because he believed in justice. These days, police officers—especially at his level—were recruited from the ranks of young academics who weighed the career opportunities of such a proposition.