From Bruges with Love (16 page)

Jonathan Brooks, a tall, blond Brit, had served in the SAS for eleven years. He was one of the commandos who took out a couple of IRA heavyweights in Gibraltar back in the day. The entire affair created such a political commotion that the four-man SAS team was forced into early retirement. Brooks had accepted the golden handshake offered by Her Majesty's government, but he wasn't happy about it. Six months after the incident, he set himself up as a private investigator in Valletta. His choice was no coincidence. Malta had been part of the British Commonwealth until only recently. British culture was still part and parcel of everyday life, and the weather suited him down to the ground.

Jos Brouwers parked his rented Suzuki in a working-class suburb of the capital, not far from the harbor. A couple of children ran past him, whooping and having fun. The narrow streets, scruffy café terraces, and loud advertising billboards reminded him of Naples. The smell at least was unmistakably Neapolitan: urine, rotting food, and heating oil.

Jonathan Brooks lived in a spacious villa looking out over the docks. Its flaking façade—typical of southern European houses—concealed the cool opulence of whitewashed walls and efficient air-conditioning.

“Hello, Jos. How are you? How was the flight?” he shouted from the balcony.

Brouwers wiped the sweat from his brow, waved, then joined his hands together to form a cup.

“Thirsty?”

The Brit let out a full-throated laugh. He and Brouwers had first met at an SAS training camp. Brouwers was part of a delegation representing the Belgian federal police. After the wave of terrorism in the seventies, the police were in search of a way to respond to the meaningless violence threatening to destabilize society. The politicians had decided to set up a counterterrorism unit. Brouwers had been part of the elite special interventions squadron—SIE, or Speciaal Interventie Eskadron—from the outset, and no one was surprised that it followed the British model. After all, the SAS was generally considered the best anti-terror brigade in the world. And that was without exaggeration.

“I've got Jupiler,” said Brooks as the two men shook hands. “Ice cold.”

Carine Neels hadn't ridden a bicycle in years. She had chosen the most rickety thing she could find in the warehouse where her colleagues stored stolen two-wheelers awaiting collection by their rightful owners. But owner and bike were rarely united.

The bicycle fitted her new image to a tee. Its frame was covered in rust, and the chain squeaked like a nestful of abandoned chicks. Perfect for a woman on welfare.

Care House was in a wooded estate outside the city, about three miles from the Hauwer Street station. The wind was cold and in her face the entire journey. It took her the best part of twenty minutes to get there. Carine was exhausted and out of breath when she cycled up the driveway to the house.

Ilse Vanquathem watched Carine arrive from behind her office window. More and more women in need had been finding their way to Care House of late, and the boost in her annual bonus was tangible to say the least. This time providence had sent her a magnificent specimen. The girl on the bike had long shapely legs, a cute little face, and broad shoulders. Her thin jacket barely concealed an ample pair of breasts.

“Come inside, miss,” said Ilse as she stood in the doorway. She winked hospitably and welcomed her in. “No need to lock the bike. All the people who work here are honest to the core.”

Ilse found it hard to imagine that anyone would want to steal such a pile of scrap.

Versavel spent the entire journey from Sint-Andries to Hauwer­ Street staring vacantly through the windscreen, only half-listening­ to the monologue being delivered by his boss.

“All this time we were trying to identify a man,” Van In rattled on. “Herbert's a damn transsexual. That explains the aesthetic surgery and the mouthful of porcelain teeth. Why didn't we think of it? It's back to square fucking one with phone calls and doctors. Jesus H. Christ. Lucky there aren't too many quacks into that kind of business. What man would get it into his head to …”

Van In glanced at Versavel out of the corner of his eye. The sergeant looked like a wax statue recently escaped from Madame Tussauds. “You all right, Guido?”

Versavel didn't move a muscle.

“Is it Frank?”

Van In knew it was a stupid question, but what the fuck else could he say? “D'you want me to take you home?”

Versavel had been stroking the holster of his pistol for the best part of five minutes. Van In hadn't been paying much attention, but suddenly the sight of it filled his mind with unwanted images.

“I'm taking you home,” he said. “And I'm staying with you until you get back to your old self.”

11

T
he atmosphere at the breakfast table was tense to say the least. Hannelore was in a mood because Van In had arrived home in the middle of the night.

“Guido was in the pits, Hanne. Without Frank he's as useless as a …”

“Husband without a phone? You at least could have called,” she snorted.

Van In took the swipe chin on. Hannelore had an appointment with the gynecologist that afternoon for an amniocentesis. He had a good idea how she was feeling. Images of what could go wrong had haunted his own thoughts for the best part of two days. Of course he should have called her, but when Versavel broke down after their visit to the Vermasts, Van In had brought his buddy home, and they had talked into the wee small hours. By the time he realized how late it was, he didn't want to wake her.

“Just call next time, no matter how late it is.”

Hannelore pushed her toast to one side. Since dinner at the Heer Halewijn, there hadn't been much movement in her belly.
What if …

“You believe me, don't you?” Van In waved his hand in front of her eyes. “Are we good?”

The concerned expression on his face made her smile involuntarily. When Van In showed signs of compassion, that meant he was in emotional turmoil himself. If something happened to her, he would be capable of anything, even putting a bullet through someone's head.

“Next time you should bring Guido back here. We can talk about his problems together.”

Van In didn't feel like explaining that some conversations were man to man only. “Guido would appreciate that,” he lied.

Hannelore tolerated a kiss. Men would never understand how worried women can get.

“By the way,” she said moments later, “Miss Neels was here last night. She wanted to report back on her visit to Care House.”

“Shit,” said Van In.

“You're forgiven, Pieter. If you leave two good-looking women in the lurch for Guido, then it must have been serious.”

“Did she say anything?”

“What do you think?” Hannelore smiled. “The girl is convinced she's working undercover and the only person she has to answer to is her immediate boss.”

Van In wisely held his tongue. Her mood had clearly changed for the better, but he still didn't figure it was time to ask her to issue a warrant for Linda Aerts's arrest.

Mdina is the jewel of Malta—no ifs, ands, or buts. The old Moorish-looking city dominates the island's arid interior like a much honored holy place on a hill.

Brooks parked his Land Rover—he detested Japanese cars—on the square dividing the historic capital from the more modern town of Rabat.

“As I mentioned yesterday, there's only a handful of Flemish expats on Malta,” he said with the self-assured air of a Brit in exile.

Brouwers was still a little groggy from the Jupiler. They had lavishly celebrated their reunion the night before—he with beer, Brooks with red wine. “And a good thing too.” Brouwers sighed.

If his hypothesis was right and Aerts was indeed on Malta, it was only a question of time before he traced him and took him out. Once the job was done, Brooks would bring him to Sicily in a speedboat. In exchange for the favor, the ex-commando had offered his friend a commission of one thousand Maltese pounds. It was a lot of money, but crumbs compared to what he'd have had to pay to persuade a Concorde pilot to fly faster that Mach 2.2.

“Plets has lived here for more than fifteen years,” said Brooks. “If anyone knows anything about Flemish people on the island, he's your man.”

The sudden clatter of hoofs took Brouwers by surprise. A cheerfully decorated coach raced past the Land Rover, missing it by inches. A middle-aged couple waved enthusiastically, as tourists are inclined to do. The coachman droned dutifully on, but the couple in the back weren't interested in his story. Brouwers noticed the man pour a drink for his wife—a triviality, but it moved him. A happy retirement in the company of a woman was a dream he would never experience.

“Most people in Mdina are pretty well-off.”

Brooks grabbed Brouwers by the arm. The myth that Belgians were insatiable beer drinkers was highly exaggerated. His friend didn't look well at all. “Most of them are descendants of old Maltese families. The city is an open-air museum that attracts hundreds of thousands on a yearly basis.”

Brooks steered Brouwers across the sun-drenched square. It was so hot that even the tourists had sought shelter in the meager shade of a solitary palm tree, where it was at least ten degrees cooler.

Both men entered the massive gate. The city was surrounded by a tall fortified wall that sucked up the Mediterranean heat like a cactus in the desert. The moat had been filled in, and a bunch of well-tanned teenagers were enjoying a snappy game of soccer. Mdina was more of a fortress than a city—imposing and invincible.

Jeroen Plets was Flemish and heavyset, with a beer belly and blushing cheeks. He had the air of a contented gentleman farmer who didn't need to work and hadn't for years. When Brouwers explained in West Flemish that he was looking for a fellow countryman on the island, Plets invited them in with a gesture of welcome. Brooks knew Plets's wife was native Maltese. They had met twenty years ago at a jewelry fair in Milan. Plets was a buyer back then for a renowned Antwerp jeweler. His bride to be was heading the Maltese delegation and presenting her own exquisite collection. It was love at first sight. They courted by correspondence and phone for sixteen months and vowed eternal fidelity in the winter of 1979. She now supervised fifteen jewelry shops on the island. The fast-growing tourist market hadn't done the enterprising couple any harm, and their exclusive den in Mdina was clear proof, if any was needed.

“We haven't had someone from the old country on a visit for ages.” Plets laughed. “Is this your first time on Malta?”

Brouwers nodded.

“Jane, we have visitors!” their host shouted in evident good spirits.

Jane turned out to be a heavy-boned, slightly timid woman. Her smile, on the other hand, was more disarming than the best-trained photo model.

She greeted Brouwers and Brooks each with a solid handshake. Her fingers were bedecked with the most magnificent silver rings Brouwers had ever seen. “May I offer you some white wine?” she asked without imposing herself.

Brouwers was dying for a glass of water. He was normally pretty reserved when it came to alcohol, and he had already broken the rules twice in the preceding week.

“That's very kind of you, ma'am,” said Brooks, saving his friend from an unforgiveable blunder. On Malta, refusing such an offer would have been a humiliation.

Jane smiled and disappeared as the men planted themselves in cushioned wicker chairs scattered around the courtyard. The historical building's patio fulfilled its purpose to perfection, as it offered shade and refreshment.

“Make yourselves at home, gentlemen,” said Plets, still clearly delighted to have visitors.

His wife took care of refreshments, setting a tray on the table and leaving the rest to her husband as an exemplary hostess should. She seemed exceptionally sweet in her long cobalt-blue dress, which subtly camouflaged a number of surplus curves. The curvaceous Maltese looked like a well-fed Arabian princess. Her gray eyes were intelligent, and the stunning jewelry with which she was adorned jingled with every movement.

Plets took a chilled bottle of white wine from the ice bucket and served his guests.

Brooks leaned back in his chair and tasted the excellent vintage. He was familiar with Maltese hospitality and was looking forward to a lazy afternoon.

“You mentioned that you rarely have Flemish visitors, Mr. Plets,” Brouwers commented. “No family or friends then?”

Brooks noticed Jane's eyes cloud over. Plets was just as ruffled. He raised his glass without answering and stared for several seconds at the deep blue sky through the sparkling wine. The dancing kaleidoscopic colors seemed to interest him more than his guest's inquiry.

“I presume you still have contacts back home,” Brouwers cautiously insisted.

“No, I don't,” said Plets dryly.

Brouwers sensed the unease and tried desperately to pick up the pieces.

“Please excuse my indiscretion, sir.”

“My family rejected me twenty years ago,” said Plets after a nerve-racking silence. The confrontation with the past had torn open old wounds, but he had no reason whatsoever to conceal the truth. “You couldn't have known that, of course, but take it from me, the man you're looking for isn't family.”

“The thought hadn't entered my head, Mr. Plets.”

Brouwers deftly capitalized on the new turn in the conversation. “The man I'm looking for is a notorious crook, and I have reason to believe he's somewhere on the island. It seemed logical to assume that a man on the run from the law would seek contact with his fellow countrymen. According to Jonathan, you're one of the few Flemish people living on Malta, so—”

“I understand, Mr. Brouwers,” Plets interrupted. “But believe me, you're the only other Flemish person I've seen around here in the last ten years.”

Plets rubbed the stubble on his chin. Brouwers reminded him of his family. The notorious crook Brouwers was looking for suddenly acquired Plets's complete sympathy.

Jane lifted the skirt of her dress and crossed her legs. Brooks thought it was time to be going.

“I'm not claiming you know the man,” said Brouwers, trying to put a good face on the situation. “But Malta is a small island. Perhaps you've heard rumors?”

“If you want rumors, then Amand's your man.”

“The restaurant owner on Gozo?” asked Brouwers.

Plets nodded. “If anyone can help you, Amand can. He knows every foreigner on the island.”

Jane refilled the glasses and returned the bottle to the ice bucket upside down, a clear signal that she considered the visit to be over.

Fifteen minutes later, Brooks and Brouwers drove off in the swelteringly hot Land Rover heading for Gozo, the second largest island in the Maltese archipelago.

“What did I do wrong, Jonathan?”

“Just bad luck,” said Brooks. “I didn't know the family thing was so sensitive.”

“Next stop Gozo, I suppose.” Brouwers sighed.

Brooks glanced at his watch. “No problem,” he said enthusiastically. “Gozo's crawling with good hotels.”

Brouwers didn't ask why Brooks wanted to spend the night on Gozo, but he wasn't in any hurry.

Chief Inspector Dirk Baert was feverishly thrashing his keyboard when Versavel arrived.

“Good morning, Sergeant.”

Versavel ignored his superior's greeting and didn't reciprocate with the usual “How are you?” He wasn't in the best of shape himself. For the first time in almost forty years, he hadn't shaved, and he'd been wearing the same shirt for two days in a row.

“We received some important information on William Aerts yesterday,” said Baert after a moment or two. The silence irritated him. He also thought that Van In and Versavel were being unprofessional.

“I tried to reach you all day yesterday,” he added with an accusatory tone.

Versavel sniffed at his armpit and made a face. He then focused his attention on the coffee machine.

“William Aerts took a chartered flight last Tuesday to Rome. Don't you think we should follow up on this, Sergeant? If you ask me, people who leg it in a hurry have always got something to hide.”

“Leave the decisions to Van In,” Versavel growled. Baert was right, of course, but Versavel preferred to die than admit it.

“Can we expect the commissioner today?”

“Do me a favor, Baert?”

The chief inspector turned. “A favor, Sergeant?”

“Shut the fuck up, and leave me in peace,” Versavel snarled.

Baert reacted like a man with Parkinson's. He wanted to move, but his limbs refused to listen. When he finally managed to get to his feet, the door flew open. Van In thought for a second he'd walked onto a film set where the director had just roared “Cut.”

“I forgot my ID card, and the clown at reception wouldn't let me in.”

Versavel grinned. Van In used the same excuse at least once a week.

“A rookie?”

“Still wet behind the ears.” Van In sighed, shrugging his shoulders. He tossed his jacket at the coat stand, ignoring Baert, and poured himself a cup of coffee. Since one or another idiot introduced the concept “sense of civil insecurity,” the various police forces across the country had been competing with one another for new recruits. The public had to feel safe, and that meant more uniforms on the streets. The next idea would be a private cop for every family. No one gave a damn about serious crime. That was reserved for the TV.

“Who was it?” asked Versavel.

“Robocop thirty-six or thirty-seven. Jeez, Guido. I can't tell them apart anymore.”

“The boys at the desk are only doing their job,” Baert protested. “People used to walk in and out of the station unchallenged. It was high time something was done about it.”

He was referring to the new security procedures Chief Commissioner De Kee had set up at the entrance to the building­. Visitors had to identify themselves at reception, and the staff had to use a card with a magnetic strip that opened the bulletproof-­glass door.

“Then they should have done a better job,” Van In sneered.

Everyone knew that the bulletproof-glass door had been wrongly mounted. One tick with a hammer and the whole thing would shatter into a thousand pieces. To make matters worse, the door between reception and the hallway was made of pressed cardboard. A sturdy toddler could force it open with no trouble. And if that didn't work, someone could grab a riot gun from the arms room, which was next to reception and thus outside the “secure” zone.

Baert swallowed the critique in silence. His fingers trembled above his keyboard. His brain manufactured a strange hormone cocktail that transformed his blood into a churning mountain stream. “William Aerts has been spotted in Italy,” Baert hissed. “But no one appears to give a shit.”