Purgatory Read online

  “You protect these people, that should suffice,” she said.

  He nodded. “But, ma’am, what happens to these people here in this camp, when suddenly the UN sends no more money to my government? Me and my men, we would simply leave. That’s what would happen.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Of course. We are not responsible for the fate of these people. Forget what you see in the movies. When the American hero feels responsible for black refugees because they are black and because they have not yet seen the light of civilization, just so the American hero—and with him his Western audience—feels better. That’s what movies are about.”

  She hadn’t realized he would be a talkative man. For their previous encounters, they had never exchanged more than three sentences. Maybe something had happened that made him talkative.

  “People feel better when they see such movies, Lieutenant,” she said. “It reinforces their faith in humanity. Why look down at that?”

  His eyes focused on her face. He looked into her eyes. “Faith in humanity?” he repeated.

  “Yes. Despite wars and atrocities and the hunger and the poverty. Yes, despite all that, there’s still reason to believe in humanity.”

  “Right,” he said after a moment of silence. “I am willing to believe in the rest of humanity. The Russians and the Americans and the British. And even the Dutch. For your sake. But the Somalis . . .”

  “We also have had our hereditary enemies, Lieutenant. The British and the Dutch were once—”

  “I am aware of your historical differences,” he said. “That was part of our military strategy lessons. How the Dutch almost took their fleet up the Thames to London. Hereditary, you say. How long do countries like the Netherlands and England exist, ma’am? I will answer the question myself: about a thousand years.”

  “Yes, that’s about it.”

  “Allow me to use crude benchmarks for the sake of argument. Most European nations have existed for something like a thousand years in their present form. Sometimes much less, like Germany. A few hundred years of strife, that’s what we remember. At the most. Here in Africa, nations and cultures and their memories go back five thousand years. Even longer. We don’t know how long, actually. It often seems our tribes have been around forever, and since humans originated from Africa, they might have.”

  “No culture can really go back uninterrupted for five thousand years, Lieutenant. Collective memories don’t go back that far. There is no historical evidence to support that, not in this part of Africa. In Egypt, yes, but . . .”

  She ran out of steam.

  He said nothing. She had the uneasy feeling she knew nothing at all about history. As if every book on the subject she had ever read had been full of fantasies.

  “There’s something I need to show you, ma’am,” he said after a few moments of silence. “But I must ask you to come alone.”

  She hesitated. She didn’t like the alone part.

  “Oh, you can tell your colleagues you will accompany me. There’s no need for secrecy. We can’t have people gossiping, can we? I’ll take a couple of my men along as well. There’s already a few of them at the site, guarding it.”

  “The site?”

  “Yes. The place I want to show you.”

  “What’s the matter with that place?”

  “I must ask you to be patient. There are no words to adequately describe it. You will have to see for yourself. It will tell you something about Africa. But I warn you that the sight of it will fill your heart with dread.”

  “You are making me curious, Lieutenant,” she said. Is this why he’s so talkative? she wondered. Because he had discovered something extraordinary in the desert? An archaeological site, proof of the existence of a vanished civilization, perhaps? Something that might shed a whole new light on the history of Africa?

  “Curiosity is not a good trait,” he said. “We, here in this small part of the continent, are not a curious people, Mrs. Weisman, because experience has taught us that a lion awaits us behind the next tree or a snake in the grass. That is why we stay on the paths our ancestors cut for us. Perhaps that’s why African nations have never reached the level of civilization of your glorious Western ancestors. That’s why we still live in the jungle or the desert.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I know you didn’t,” he said. “I know white people—forgive me the expression—want to know everything. That’s why I will show you the site tomorrow. You can spare the time, I assume?”

  She had plenty of time, even after a full day of work. She had months. That was how much she had allowed herself to be away from the Netherlands and from Walter. And from herself. Walter had been the most important factor in the equation, after all. She would return to him after her respite. She hadn’t left because their relationship was going wrong, but to avoid precisely that.

  4

  EEKHAUT INTENDED FOR PRINSEN to do all the heavy lifting in connection with the new investigation, since the kid was going to be part of the small team. Going through newspaper archives, comparing medical data, whatever. The boring stuff. And no, it wasn’t fair. Prinsen didn’t deserve this treatment, although he was the youngest member of the team and still had to learn the tricks of the trade. He had to learn that all police officers, even those of the Bureau, were often asked to chase ghosts and illusions.

  Eekhaut would teach Prinsen to conform, precisely the sort of thing he himself wasn’t any good at. But after that, he was going to pull the rug from under his feet. He was going to show him how little a half-decent officer achieved by toeing the line. He’d make him into the perfect little rebel in his own image. In this jungle, you survived by not following order too much, by not playing nice. That’s what Prinsen needed to understand, and the sooner the better.

  Prinsen still had a lot to learn. Social awareness, critical thinking, historical perspective—the boy lacked all this, in Eekhaut’s view. He wouldn’t have learned it in school. Not here in Holland. That much Eekhaut knew about the Dutch. The most interesting things came to you by coincidence, when you tripped over them. He would force the boy to think for himself. He had learned these things the hard way himself, by forcing his way through the ranks of the Belgian police force, one painful step at a time.

  Now he would be sending Prinsen on a treasure hunt, a different kind of treasure hunt.

  Eekhaut didn’t care much for fieldwork. He had been out on the streets for half his professional life, first in Leuven and afterward in Brussels, and look where he’d ended up. The odd man out in this Dutch bunch. But he had come to terms with the way his nonexistent career had worked out. He’d been sleeping better than ever before these past few months. He was no longer frustrated with the stupid injustices displayed by former superiors. At least Dewaal had been free of those sins.

  But he would send Prinsen on a wild goose chase. Well, not really.

  He wondered how to find out who the seven victims had been. There was no telling where they came from. Could be from all over the globe.

  He got up. Through the glass partition between his office and the common area, he noticed Prinsen reading documents. He had no idea what the young man currently was investigating. He didn’t need to know, since Prinsen was Dewaal’s problem, being family and all. But it seemed Prinsen was distracted. Eekhaut knew why. He had heard Eileen Calster would be returning to Amsterdam. Prinsen had not concealed his excitement.

  He opened the door. “Nick,” he said, “you have a minute?”

  Prinsen looked up. He closed the folder and walked into Eekhaut’s office. Eekhaut closed the door behind them.

  “You’re in,” he said. “Dewaal wants you to go looking for missing Dutch citizens that could answer to the very general description of those seven we found in the Ardennes.”

  “I guess you have an idea how many people disappear in the Netherlands every year?” Prinsen said.

  “You can narrow that down to the last few months, until three
weeks ago, apparently.”

  “The whole of the Netherlands?”

  “Start locally. Amsterdam. You’re good at collecting information and discovering links between things. You’re the smart kid behind the game console, the kid in the movies that sees things grown-ups miss. That’s you. There’s enough data on missing persons of every age and social background. Crunch the numbers, kid.”

  “Why Holland? Is there a reason why these people had to be Dutch?”

  “The informant who led us to the crime scene is Dutch. It may not mean anything, but we have to start somewhere.”

  “Is there anything else I should know before I set off?”

  “Like backgrounds?”

  “That would be helpful.”

  “The whole thing seems connected to a cult or a sect, whatever.” Eekhaut gave Prinsen a short review of what he and Dewaal had collected by way of information and what the young detective hadn’t already heard.

  “The Society of Fire? Creepy,” Prinsen said. “Burning people and stuff. Don’t want to know, really. Reminds me of Roman emperors and Christians and witch burnings. You wonder what brings people to hurt others in such a terrible fashion. What’s there to gain?”

  “Any strong conviction, any absolute form of religion, blurs the boundaries of what is acceptable, even in a civilized society,” Eekhaut said. “Happens often enough. Read more Stephen King, and you’ll know what I mean. Or the Old Testament. But the Romans hardly persecuted the Christians, and all that nailing on crosses and having them eaten alive might be a myth or Christian propaganda.”

  Prinsen looked ill at ease. He would be ill at ease, Eekhaut thought. “A vengeful and cruel god,” he continued, “who demands human sacrifice, who has no problem with his flock engaging in genocide. Sound familiar? But I digress, Nick. You understand what it is we want?”

  “I’m on it,” Prinsen said. “Any other characteristic I ought to look for?”

  “Only some general things like race and age, height, but no more than that. There’s a memo in your inbox right now detailing what we need.”

  “Maybe there’s another thing we ought to consider.”

  “Like what?”

  “If this was a ritual,” Prinsen said, “it might be possible the victims were not chosen at random. Maybe they have things in common. Maybe they even knew each other. Members of the same church, perhaps.”

  “Yes, we thought about that. You expect a ritual to have an inherent logic. But maybe not.”

  “How much time do I have?” Prinsen said, getting up.

  “The victims aren’t in any hurry anymore, but Dewaal needs results now. You know the pressure she’s under.”

  “I’ll give it my immediate attention.”

  Eekhaut looked at his watch when Prinsen had left. Ten thirty. He had a couple things he needed to do. He got up, grabbed his jacket and coat, and exited the building through the garage. Buttoning his overcoat, he stepped through Kerkstraat and rounded the corner of Utrechtsestraat. He was close to his apartment but wasn’t heading there.

  He entered Café Bouwman on the corner with Prinsengracht, overlooking the canal. He took a table by the window, where there was plenty of light, and ordered a brown Leffe beer that came at once—cold and frothy. Exactly what he needed.

  On arriving here last September, he had been pleased with the south-facing terrace—actually a double row of tables and chairs along the sidewalk, barely enough for a score of people. The tables and chairs would be back, he hoped, as soon as the weather got milder. On occasion, he would come here for breakfast or grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch.

  These past months he took time away from the office almost every day, late morning, to drink a Leffe and clear his mind. Get the gray cells working. He probably was an alcoholic but he didn’t much care. In Brussels, he had drunk Duvel, the local brew. Or red wine. Here he had switched to Leffe almost at once, in part as a reminder of Flanders and its tradition of beer-brewing monks.

  Also to forget the things he wanted to forget. Plenty of those around. Things he no longer needed in his life. Children bought and sold to end up in Moscow flophouses. Drowned children on a beach somewhere in Italy. People on stakes. Esther’s death, ten years ago—his wife of so many years. Or having to miss Linda for six months. Having to spend his evenings alone again. All that was bad, some worse than the rest. He was nearly over Esther’s death. Had taken him long enough. Things that had happened and couldn’t be undone were better left alone. The same went for the people who died in the Ardennes. He needed to concentrate on Linda. He had to work on his relationship with Linda. That was a thing he could do something about.

  “I really have to do this, Walter,” she had said. She had made up her mind. They had had the conversation over dinner at the Segugio Italian restaurant, in Utrechtsestraat, not far from his apartment. He was eating boar shank stewed in Barolo for secondi, and she was having pheasant breast with polenta in a sauce of olives and licorice. “I know Somalia’s like the end of the world, and I’ll be gone for half a year, but I need this.”

  He glanced at her hands, then outside at the little garden behind the building. The Segugio was a tiny restaurant but intimate. The elegant tables had white cotton cloths draped over them. The floor was unevenly tiled in rustic beige.

  “I need to get some distance between myself and Holland and Amsterdam and the corruption and all that,” she continued. “Away from everything—except you, of course. I would ask you to come with me, but I know you can’t just walk away. And I really want some time alone.”

  He had understood. They had known each other for—how many months now? Four? He had never been to her flat, but she had come to his, and they had made love there.

  Made love. How formal that sounded now. It had almost been raw passion. Sweaty bodies, chaos, body fluids, thirst and hunger, expressions of eternal trust, and promises.

  Too many promises, probably.

  “I won’t try to keep you here,” he said. “Not if you feel so strongly about this.”

  He thought, Damn clichés. It is almost impossible to be original anymore.

  “But you’ll be out there on your own,” he continued, while the waiter, in severe black and white, removed their empty plates, returning to fill their glasses again.

  But there was no way around her decision. She wanted him, and she wanted him to want her, but still she needed to go.

  He realized he knew little about her, even after four months. There were a lot of unspoken things between them. He hadn’t even told her anything about his life, about Esther, who had been his companion for so long, about . . .

  The waiter brought desserts—lemon and Italian meringue crispy pie with mint sauce for her and a warm chocolate cake for him.

  “What will happen after your time in Somalia?” he wanted to know.

  “I’ll come back here, and we’ll have long conversations about poverty and the state the world is in,” she said. And then she smiled. “I’m coming back to you,” she added.

  There had been coffee afterward.

  And they made love in his flat.

  She stayed until morning.

  He glanced at his watch. He was expecting a call from Linda, but she had warned him communications with that part of the world would be difficult. There’d be no post office and no internet and no cell phone she could use. She would have to borrow a satellite phone if available.

  His cell phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and said his name.

  “Walter?” It was Prinsen. “I think I’ve found something. It might be nothing, but it seems—”

  “You found something already?” He imagined Prinsen working through the night, sleepless.

  “That’s right,” the young man said cheerfully. “I went through the Amsterdam reports first. And there’s something you might find interesting.”

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Eekhaut said. A moment. Time enough to finish his Leffe. He was not going to hurry. Certainly not fo
r Prinsen.

  Fifteen minutes later he stood next to the young detective. He had bought a cheese and ham sandwich from Bouwman, had it wrapped to go, and was eating it while listening. Prinsen, used to Eekhaut’s erratic behavior, made no comment about the snack, although it was not noon yet. One of the other veteran officers of the Bureau, Siegel, sat at the table across from them, moving his fingers almost without sound over the keyboard of a laptop.

  “If this works out well for you,” Eekhaut said, “I might put you up for promotion, Nick.”

  Prinsen held up three documents. Eekhaut noticed pictures, names, and text. Profiles. “Three missing persons,” Prinsen said, “that might fit the bill.”

  “No more than three people went missing in Amsterdam in the month or two previous to—?”

  It was Siegel who replied, from behind the computer, not taking his gaze off the screen. “No, twelve, to be exact. But these have something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  Prinsen said, “All three live in or close to the center of Amsterdam. Ages between thirty and fifty. Each works at a management level of some sort. Each disappeared without leaving a trace, destination unknown, between four and five weeks ago. It might be a coincidence, but then again not.”

  “Excellent,” Eekhaut said. “Add their profiles to the dossier. Is there a way we could get their DNA? Have they given blood recently? Or donated an organ?”

  “I’ll try to find out who their doctors were or if they were blood donors.”

  Eekhaut went back to his office and sandwich. Prinsen would do all right, although he wouldn’t get his promotion right away. He was hardworking and eager to help. Eekhaut would have to warn him about that. Maybe his colleagues would take advantage of him. No, he was sure they would. He knew the old guard all too well. People like Veneman and Siegler. And Van Gils too. He knew how they treated the new detectives. He’d seen that happen in Brussels, and cops would be the same the world over. Siegel was of a slightly younger generation, having worked at the AIVD for only ten years. Neither he nor the other veterans had been delighted when Dewaal climbed up the corporate ladder and became their chief. Prinsen, as Dewaal’s nephew, would be particularly vulnerable.