Roman D. Hepburn

Roman D Hepburn is passionate about literature of every genre. Coming from a mixed European and North American background, he’s a fervent defender of universality in all its forms, and he has always considered himself to be a citizen of the world. From his teenage years, teachers and classmates alike recognized and were fired up by his natural-born talent as a storyteller. His constant curiosity and indefatigable thirst for knowledge bring a multiplicity of dimensions to his novels. Roman Hepburn’s writing deftly combines the most up-to-date technology, social phenomena, psychological conflicts and suspense.

He first came to notice with “Circle of Silence”, which was awarded a literary “Grand Prix” in Paris – France. “Circle of Silence” instantly made its mark on the thriller best-seller list.

Said Paul Coelho: “A new talented author has been discovered.”

Get all the latest information on the author at rdhepburn.com

Roman D. Hepburn

CIRCLE

OF SILENCE

Thriller

English version by AI & FD

Best Novel Grand Prix in Paris

Paulo Coelho, President of the jury, said:

“A novel tuned to today’s world. A new talented author has been discovered”

Prisma MEDIAS (A division of the Bertelsmann Group)

6, rue Daru. 75008 Paris

www.prisma-media.com

E-mail for professional : gizmo.co1025@gmail.com

ISBN : 978-2-917144-28-2

This novel is a work of fiction. All the characters, events, institutions, and places together with their respective names (apart from a few references to cities or to products) and the entire dialog are imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, organizations or events, real or fictitious, existing or having existed is entirely coincidental.

NOTE BY THE AUTHOR

To be awarded a prestigious literary “Grand Prix” by unanimous vote, in a competition involving more than 500 novels, is a huge source of pleasure for an author. And my pleasure is all the more intense because this prize was awarded by a public jury composed of avid readers. I am also very proud that the chairman of the jury was world famous writer Paulo Coelho, who can count more than a hundred million readers worldwide. For myself, I have the greatest admiration for all those who, in their way, stimulate awareness, urge us to reconsider our values and priorities, and encourage us on our journey through life in search of universal love, which should be the single source of strength and motivation in all our actions.

More than the pleasure it gives, I believe a thriller may also cause us to reflect on the excesses of modern society, an important part of which is everything related to human degradation.

This novel raises awareness about the despicable secret organizations that traffic young human beings. I worked for two years with federal police forces to dissect the mechanisms they use to hide behind respectable institutions. What they showed me was sometimes horrific. More than 20,000 children go missing and are never found each year. All these abused, wounded, humiliated, sometimes assaulted, and broken souls, having lived through hell, deserve to have these megalomaniacal psychopaths denounced so they can be neutralized.

And even though I have changed or rearranged names and locations, and fictionalized certain events to soften this grim reality, everything is based on true events.

I would like to take this opportunity to offer my sincerest thanks to all the key figures in the “Grand Prix”: first of all to the enormous group of public readers, then to the members of the jury and to its chairman, Paul Coelho. And to all of those book-buyers who support today’s authors, and thereby enable them to create further books!

I wish you a very enjoyable read.

PART 1 Hidden in plain sight

PART 2 The terrible secret of the Moorea

“The Essential is invisible to the eyes.”

Saint-Exupéry

PART 2 The terrible secret of the Moorea

1

Sitting on the living room sofa, Clarke had been staring at the opposite wall for some time. The images of what he’d lived through since young Frank’s deposition kept floating through his mind, mingling with the tragic deaths of Sylvia and George. Yet he was a long way from suspecting his best friend had likewise fallen victim and that his body was floating lifelessly, jammed between two rocks somewhere along the North Sea coastline.

He went back to studying all the items he’d found so far, and picked up the second pile of documents. He was hoping to extract more information from them by crosschecking, but this wasn’t an easy task because at first sight everything appeared to be perfectly legitimate and above board. He decided to go back over Frank’s deposition: perhaps there were some details he’d failed to analyze sufficiently deeply. He inserted the USB key into his laptop and started reviewing the video of their conversation from the beginning.

“… is being recorded. First of all, could you please confirm your identity?”

“Yes … my name is Frank Moldair.”

“So, Mr. Moldair, I’ve been told that you have important revelations to give to us.”

He decided to fast-forward the recording, and only stop at the passages that were still unclear to him.

“… But in the third year, some of them abused the system and they got informed on. So they started to get frightened. And as they didn’t dare organize these evenings in their houses, some of them decided to form a ‘private circle’ as they called it, and they only kept those people they trusted absolutely and they’d known from the start. But gradually they linked up with some people from Eastern Europe, guys who did anything for money and who they got to organize the evenings for them. It started like that. And then, because there were more and more people who wanted to join the circle, they bought a bridge club that was in a bad state. That’s how they could organize private evenings without any risk. The members of the circle mixed in with members of the club, and nobody suspected a thing. But soon they’re getting very strict: newcomers working for them only know a couple of people, and are kept practically in the dark. They have no idea what happens on certain evenings. Very few are permitted to know all the participants. But as I’ve been with them from the start, I know most of them.”

“Who, for example?”

…

“… or who could be useful to them are allowed membership. They also created a security company as a shell; it’s those East European guys who take care of that. But in reality they’re getting paid to put everything under surveillance. They look legit an’ all, but really they’re very dangerous. They respect nobody and nothing, they’re real pieces of shit. And because they’re paid in wads of dough, they’re prepared to do anything to make it last. If one of them attracts attention to himself or does something stupid, he disappears.”

“They kill him?”

“I don’t know if they get abducted or buried somewhere, but they never come back … I don’t know where they’re from, but they’re real pros. Even though I’ve been with them from the start, I’m scared of them. Especially the one with the scar on the chin: that’s their boss.”

“Go on …”

Clarke replayed the passage.

“… Especially the one with the scar on the chin: that’s their boss.”

Clarke quickly scanned through the photographs in his possession, but he couldn’t see anybody matching that description. He went on.

“They kidnapped them from where?”

“Anywhere. They make use of all the big cities. But they’re not the ones doing the work. Sometimes they have several suppliers in the same city. But those guys don’t know anything. If they’re arrested they can’t say anything. They don’t even know who’s paying them. And once they’ve been kidnapped, the children aren’t allowed to stay in the same region for more than four hours. That’s the hard and fast rule, for maximum security. And other people get paid very handsomely to transfer them from one country to another. For security, there are several of them acting as go-betweens every two hundred kilometers or so. The change-over takes place in back bars.”

Clarke fast-forwarded the recording.

“Their latest discovery, that’s to trap them with stuff they make themselves. But I don’t know how they make it. I only know there are different sorts. And when the kids take the stuff, it’s like it disconnects their brain. They become completely compliant and often don’t remember a thing afterwards. Then there’s the Web.”

“The Internet? For kidnapping teenagers? With all those warnings they keep giving out?”

“Yeah, but they’re always working out some new ways of enticing them … it might be hard to believe but …”

…

“And these private evenings, how many times a year do they take place?”

“It depends, it’s not a regular thing. Three or four times a year, that’s all.”

“And always in that club?”

“No, never in the club … that’s just for people to meet. It can be anywhere, any time, somewhere completely innocent, but never in the same place twice. And before any evening takes place, first of all those East European guys work out the ‘emergency plan’ in case the alarm bells go off.”

…

“If what you say is true, finding the evidence is all-important. We’ll be able to get a search warrant very quickly and come to seize everything at once, you understand?” “No, but your warrant will be useless.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you won’t find anything. It’s all been hidden away, in two different places. And even if you found it all, they’d make it all disappear before you had time to get an operation together. As I’ve told you, they’ve thought of everything. I’ve even heard they have somebody in the police on their side.”

“You realize you’re playing a very dangerous game, Mr. Moldair?”

“I’m not scared. Without me, you have nothing. That’s why I want to negotiate. I’ll give you everything I have, names, DVDs, photos … and most of all the location of the next meeting, That’s the most difficult thing to find out, but it’s taking place in four days’ time. If you miss that and if something happens to me, you’ll never know about the next one.”

Clarke stopped his viewing for a few moments. His eyes stared at the screen, and then he decided to listen to the end of the deposition.

…

“There’s no time to lose if you want me to help you. They don’t know I’ve talked to you, but as I’ve taken two kids they won’t get off my case as from tonight onwards. First of all they’ll think I’m having some sort of fit, because that’s happened before, but if I don’t come back with the kids they’ll be in a real bad mood.”

“And the two kidnapped children are still at your place?”

“Yes.”

“And they were kidnapped recently?”

“Well yeah, last night.”

…

Clarke reclined against the sofa, and watched as Frank waited sitting at the table. Then he noticed the young man looking for something in his pocket. He remembered the recording hadn’t stopped while he’d gone to see Chester, and that he hadn’t been able to review the section where Frank was left on his own. Clarke jerked his head up, frowning: false alarm, it was only a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Clarke was just about stop viewing, when he saw the young dealer removing something from the little pocket in his jacket sleeve. Clarke moved closer to the screen, froze the image and manipulated the zoom function: it was a small red plaque. He searched in one of the envelopes placed on the table and took out the little plaque. It was the same one he’d found in Frank’s leather jacket, but hadn’t known what it was. It looked a bit like a casino chip, but he had no idea where it came from. Anyway it must have had some significance to Frank for him to contemplate it like that during his deposition, he thought. He’d obviously acquired it only recently.

He looked back over some of the documents, as well as the photos taking during the “golden shamrock” tournament and the other ones from the inauguration of the Orient Express restaurant. But who were these men who’d been photographed at different events in the private club? How many of them were mixed up in the network? And which of them? He went through the documents and briefs from instructing judges … and all the photocopies of confidential documents… so who had made the copies? What was the point of them? And why? He was becoming exhausted and starting to get confused. Frustrated at failing to find any more answers, he dumped the whole lot down on the table with a sigh, and rubbed his eyes.

Tom had a lot of blood in his mouth, he was dazed, and he could hardly feel his body any more – but he was alive and conscious. He was able to steady himself a bit, but was still being roughly swept about like a piece of flotsam on the waves. Drained of the last vestiges of his strength, he clambered painfully up the rough-hewn boulders. A final heave of exertion brought him out, breathless, onto a quayside near the port. With the rain beating down, he lay stretched out on the rough pebbles, curled uncomfortably on his side. Soaked to the skin, his hair plastered to his skull, his face looked as if it had unraveled. He was so drained that he had no strength left to move under shelter. But at that precise moment, he hadn’t the slightest inkling that this was only the beginning of the nightmare.

Still stretched out on the ground, Tom took a long time to regain his breath, despite the cold, the wind and the icy water. His head was spinning and he wondered if his heart would ever recover from the shock. It took several minutes before he was able to slowly sit up. As the cloudbursts poured down on top of him, he reckoned they were even wilder than before. For a few moments, he watched the lightning and the tempest raging over the sea, and then down below at the sea-spray as it continued battering the stone reef with unabated ferocity. He could hardly believe he’d survived such a perturbed sea. With the back of his sleeve, he wiped the blood running down from his temple onto his cheek. His left knee was very painful: he pulled it close against his body for a moment. His white shirt was torn, and covered in bloodstains.

And then, finally, he got up while glancing all around the harbor: fortunately, no one had seen him and there wasn’t a soul in sight. He looked once more at the dimly illuminated liner in the distance. All of a sudden he felt the small amount of food he’d ingested rising dangerously in his throat. And this time he wasn’t pretending – but thinking about it a moment longer wasn’t an option: it all came out of his stomach in one go. The effort it took to get up afterwards seemed superhuman. He was so cold that he felt his skin was no longer waterproof and the water would soak right through to his bones.

He now had to get back to the hotel and change his clothes before going to the police. But how was he going to get back? He didn’t know the city and therefore had no idea where the hotel was, or how far away it was. Out of habit, he took his phone out of his pocket, but it was obviously unusable. Then, he suddenly realized that he couldn’t even remember the name of the hotel he’d been booked into… what was it called again? The shock of what he’d just experienced must have affected him much more than he thought. He only remembered that it was a hotel with large tinted windows and a large circular entrance protected by a kind of canopy big enough for two cars to drop off guests at the same time. That description should be enough to find it, but who could he ask? He decided to walk a little way toward the warehouses he could see on the other side of the harbor, but he fell back down because his knee was still hurting too much.

The headlights of a vehicle flashed at the end of the dock: this was an opportunity to get back quickly, he thought. Luckily, the rain had eased a little. He gathered his strength and stood up to wave. The driver must have seen him because the dark vehicle headed straight for him and quickly pulled up alongside. Tom approached with difficulty, limping, to the driver’s door, the window of which rolled down completely. Despite the dim light and the rain, Tom made out the silhouette of a man wearing a dark jacket.

“Good evening, are you with security?”

“Yes, and who are you?”

“I was invited to a party on the cruise ship that’s anchored over there,” he replied, pointing at the ship.

“So, what are you doing here? And what happened to you?”

“I need to get to town as soon as possible. Can you take me?”

“For that, you’ll need to call a taxi; we’re with security.”

“That’s perfect timing, because I have something to tell the police.”

“What?”

“I witnessed some illegal activity on board, and I need to react as quickly as possible.”

“Okay, then we’ll take you.”

Tom saw a figure in the front passenger seat getting out of the vehicle. He didn’t need to open the door for him, he thought; he could do it himself. Then he felt a strong hand grab his arm and push him in front of the vehicle. Thrown off balance, Tom lost his balance and fell to the ground. When he looked up, he saw the reflection of what looked like the end of a muffler.

“What are you doing?” “Don’t move, we’re going to check your ID.”

“But why? Do you think I’m dangerous in my current state? I’m only asking you to take me to my hotel.”

“Stay in front of the car, in plain sight,” the man replied simply before getting back into the vehicle.

Completely blinded by the headlights, Tom could no longer see the officers; he could only hear the purr of the engine. These guys were being overzealous, but it was pointless to argue: the brains of these two idiots had shrunk to the size of their muscles, and they had mentally shut down, a typical reaction of simpletons. They had called their boss, and now he had to wait until they realized their mistake… but how was he going to prove his identity, since he had nothing on him?

The only solution, he thought, was for them to escort him back to his hotel… All this was delaying him considerably, but he had no other choice… what a mess he’d gotten himself into… if he hadn’t accepted this position, he would never have boarded this boat, and none of this would have happened. The wind had calmed down a little, but the rain continued to soak him relentlessly, and he was cold. Suddenly, he heard one of the vehicle doors open, then a woman’s voice. “We can finally leave,” he thought, “it’s about time.” A few moments later, the woman came up beside him, holding a pistol.

“Get up and walk toward the hangar,” she said.

“I don’t have any identification on me; you’ll have to take me back to my hotel so I can show it to you.”

“Walk toward the hangar,” she repeated in the same tone. Tom complied with difficulty. One of the two men had already parked the vehicle next to a large door that he had left ajar. He went in first.

“This way,” he said to Tom, walking along a hedge of wooden pallets.

When he reached what appeared to be an office, the man grabbed one of the chairs and placed it in the middle of the room.

“Sit there,” the woman ordered him.

Tom sat down, and it was only then that he recognized the woman. His evening suit was wet, his hair disheveled, but it was definitely the same woman he’d seen leaving one of the ship’s cabins. He realized then that these men had nothing to do with port security, which explained the whole charade.

“So, you’re not with security,” he said.

“Yes, we’re in charge of the security of the people on this ship,” said the driver.

“It’s the bodyguards protecting the guests you want to denounce,” Davina added. “Who are you? You were at the reception, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So, you’re not a member of the symposium?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the others?” One of the two men approached Tom with a pair of handcuffs. “Put your hands behind your back,” he told her.

“No, absolutely not. You have no right to keep me here.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Davina retorted. “You’re in no position to negotiate.” Tom complied, and the man tied his hands behind the back of the chair.

“Bring the juice,” Davina said.

Tom suddenly felt a wave of heat wash over him, and his heart began to pound. He no longer knew if he was trembling from cold or from anxiety.

The driver pulled up a syringe and removed the needle shield.

“What are you doing?” Tom asked, struggling to hide his panic.

The man didn’t answer, but the other pulled off Tom’s jacket and ripped open his shirt, exposing his left shoulder.

“Don’t do things you’ll regret,” Tom said.

But the man with the syringe didn’t react and plunged the needle so deeply into Tom’s flesh that he winced in pain. Then he left the syringe in his arm, pulling at his skin.

“What is this?” he asked the man who had inserted the needle. “It’s a homemade product,” Davina replied. “The more we inject you with, the more you tell us. And when we reach the end, it’s the grand finale.” Tom was growing increasingly panicked, but he mustn’t show it: he was dealing with a kind of ruthless mafia that didn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone who got in their way. He didn’t know how to react, or what to say to try and save his own skin before they injected him with the syringe.

“I’ll repeat my questions,” Davina continued, “are you a member of the symposium?”

“Yes.”

“So what were you doing on the dock? Why aren’t you with the others?”

“I… I dozed off,” he mumbled, his voice shaky.

Davina approached him and slapped him as the man who had placed the syringe injected him with some of the drug.

“I wasn’t feeling well, so I went to lie down, and when I came out, everyone was already gone,” Tom replied immediately.

Davina slapped him again.

“Stop it, that won’t work on me,” she snapped, grabbing him roughly by the collar. “You told those men you saw things on the boat; so you went snooping around while the others were being brought ashore. Who are you? A cop?”

“No, I’m not a cop.”

“Then why didn’t you go back with the others, huh?” If you went snooping, that’s why you came!

“No, I came because I was invited, that’s all.” Davina slapped him again, and the man injected a little more of the drug. Then she took out her smartphone, made a few adjustments, and shoved the screen in his face.

“Guests don’t go searching the cabins. You think we didn’t see you? I knew you were hiding somewhere, but we planned to let you run around a bit before dealing with you, either on the ship or at your hotel.”

Tom looked at the screen where he saw himself sneaking into the first room. So there was indeed a surveillance system he hadn’t noticed. But his silhouette disappeared from view and the image remained still; he realized that the camera was only filming the first room and that its purpose was probably not to warn of intrusions, but of the teenagers’ potential escapes. He had been caught red-handed and didn’t quite know how to explain the situation.

“Yes, it was me, but I wasn’t searching anything at all. I had to leave the dining room because I was feeling unwell and was looking for a quiet place. So I made sure no one was there before going in; and that’s when I saw the teenagers sleeping, that’s all.”

Davina spoke in her language to one of the two men; he took out his phone and pressed a button. He spoke for a few moments in the same language with his companion, then with Davina. She approached Tom and slapped him again, twice in quick succession this time.

“You were sick, and someone took you to a cabin. So you had a place to rest, but you came out again to snoop around… you weren’t so sick after all.”

Tom began to feel the effects of the drug. He felt himself losing his grip on reality: the gravity of the situation was gradually fading, and he felt almost relieved. He had to change his strategy immediately and stop playing their game. He had to try to destabilize them and scare them before he completely lost control. It might not work, but there were no other options. He had to risk everything, even if it meant saying anything.

“Okay, fine, I’ll tell you who I am and what I was doing. I’m officially Assistant District Attorney Nordam, but I’m also an agent with a special intergovernmental agency that wants to put an end to the crimes and abuses of mafias that use or mistreat children and teenagers. We’re in the final stages, but we still needed confirmation of what was happening on that ship.
I was equipped with a miniature camera connected to my smartphone as soon as I arrived, and they received all the images of the people on board, of the private party you were attending earlier, and of what I saw in the cabins before leaving the ship. And there are only a few hours left… If I were you, I’d leave everything now and save my own skin because when they arrest you, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a room as small as a chicken coop, from which you’ll never be able to escape, which will give you a very good idea of the concept of eternity.
You can eliminate me, but now that they have all your faces, you’ll be hunted down until they find you, dead or alive. And you, I don’t understand you: you wouldn’t accept having the person you love most taken away and used. So why participate in this kind of activity? You’re such a beautiful woman, why waste your femininity and your life when you have everything you could do? You could do so much better with your life.”

“Shut up, where’s that camera?” Davina asked.

“I must have lost it when I fell overboard.”

“That wasn’t a very clever plan for a spy.”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“What was the plan, then?”

“They were sending me information while I was on the boat, comparing their satellite images from that day with what I was showing them. Once they received the images, I was supposed to take the ferry.” But no one was supposed to know who had used it. I was at the end of the boat when your men approached, and I grabbed a rope to hide on the side of the boat. But I couldn’t pull myself back up and slid down the hull into the water. I can’t believe I survived.

One of the men started speaking to Davina in his language.

“He tells me you’ve just given us the solution to your perfect crime: since you were in this situation, we just have to put you back in it.”

“I see you haven’t understood what’s happening tonight, nor what’s at stake for your future.”

The man who was near Tom injected him with more of the drug, but Davina stopped him with a few sharp words.

“If we put him back in the water, the police will look for where he came from and they’ll come onto the boat. But if we take him down quietly and slip a few packets into his pocket, the investigation will stay on the dock. Give me your gun,” she said to the other man standing behind her.

He handed her a pistol with a silencer. Tom was no longer afraid because of the drug they were injecting him with, but he still understood that this crazy woman was going to kill him right there in that chair; he’d missed his chance. He thought his last hour had come in the ocean, but in the end, he was going to be killed at point-blank range by a completely unhinged bitch. The effect of the injected liquid was intensifying: he felt like he’d suddenly grown taller, and his perception of the people and things around him was distorted.

“If you do that, you will increase the seriousness of your case tenfold,” he articulated with great difficulty.

Then Davina checked her gun to make sure the safety was off and pointed the silencer at Tom. But she abruptly changed targets and fired first at the man next to Tom, then at the one who had moved to the side. Neither man had time to react and collapsed.

“Their future ends here,” she declared, taking the vehicle’s transponder from one of the men’s pockets. “That way, they can’t talk about me anymore.” She walked to the vehicle and immediately returned with packets of small pills, which she placed in one of their pockets. Tom was completely bewildered. Worse, with this substance, he found it amusing and felt a sudden urge to laugh.

“Nice one,” he said, amused. “But what are you doing?” he asked, barely taken aback but still somewhat aware of the situation, as she removed the syringe and released him.

“I’m starting a new life. I’ve had enough for a long time… it shouldn’t have gone this far. So I’m leaving. Tomorrow, you won’t remember a thing.”

“No, they won’t catch you,” Tom said, amused.

“Don’t worry, I was just making it up… I invented the whole thing!”

Davina couldn’t help but smile at this turn of events, knowing their concoction was working.

“Come on, I’ll drop you off a few streets away and you can manage,” she said, pushing him into the dark SUV after letting him stagger for a few seconds while she closed the hangar door.

“Oh, yes, no problem. I’ve traveled a lot, you know, and when I was little, my parents told me I could go anywhere, and that I was capable of managing in…”

Davina pushed him into the front seat and slammed the door. She made sure there was no one around, got into the vehicle, and started the engine abruptly. The SUV drove to the end of the dock, turned into a small street, and disappeared into the gloom of the port.

“Ooh, what a beautiful car,” he declared, stroking the center console. “It’s a fully loaded G-Class! And that brown interior, I love it! I want one like that too. I’ll buy it from you, okay?”

A few moments later, Davina stopped in the middle of a small, dark street and leaned towards Tom to open the door.

“There you go. Get out and walk to your hotel. You only received a small amount, and it will take better effect after a good coffee,” she said, pushing him out of the car.

She then closed the door and drove off.

“Hey, wait!” Tom shouted. “Wait… come have a drink with me… I think I love you, you know!”

Davina closed the door and drove off with a deep rumble.

He found himself alone in the darkness, with only the icy north wind for company, which swept through the city streets and crept under the collar of his overcoat; he pulled it tighter around him as he headed towards the city, shivering and limping.

His knee was swelling alarmingly, and was causing him increasing agony. The pains spread across his thigh and made him stop regularly to raise his foot for a few moments, before continuing.

Having reached the end of the street, he took a narrow, badly lit lane running along some factories that dated back at least a hundred years, from the look of them. Farther down, the lane turned into a wide avenue and in the far distance he could see the lights of the city.

The effect of the product that had been injected into him was still present, but luckily he was still capable of some discernment; certainly because they had not had time to inject him with enough of it.

He was dreaming of a steaming hot cup of tea or a large coffee. Not needing any cash for the official dinner, he hadn’t brought his wallet with him.

He still rummaged through his jacket and found his credit card holder in one of the inside pockets.

Now he remembered: he’d taken it with him, just in case. He congratulated himself on his forethought, and almost kissed the case. He looked up to get his bearings, and to spot a sign indicating a bar or restaurant that could serve him a hot drink. But he couldn’t see anything, which was profoundly discouraging at that moment.

He went on walking, exhausted, with a feeling of dizziness caused by what had been injected into him, completely soaked, battling against the wind and rain that beat down unabated. But a few hundred meters farther on, he finally made out a yellow light shining out into a neighboring side street. He was seized with intense joy as he approached: it was a sort of English pub. Sheltering from the rain under the corbelled balcony, he tried to wring out his hair by passing his hand over it several times, and shook the water from the bottom of his clothes before going in. Violent gusts of wind pushed the rain inside the establishment before he’d had time to get the door shut. The pub was full, but there was a small space left at the bar. His eyes fixated on two Irish coffees standing on a tray at the end of the counter, hypnotizing him for a few moments. That was exactly what he needed. The barman, a strapping young lad of around twenty years of age, came right up to him and spoke a few words of Dutch he couldn’t understand.

Tom replied in English, still under the influence of the drug:

“Hey bro, how’s it going?” he said, flashing a broad smile.

“Say, your bar’s doing well, have you seen the crowds? Uh, get me a big, hot coffee, please.”

The bartender must have understood the answer because he nodded as he walked away.

It was too dark and there were too many people for anyone to notice him; that suited him just fine. There were only two customers next to him at the bar who, probably surprised by the odor of seawater or just his sorry state, turned their backs to him.

“Hey! How’s it going, guys?”

The one to his right gave a brief, wry smile and muttered something he didn’t understand any better. On the one hand, Tom had a frantic desire to talk, but on the other hand, he was too tired. The barman put the drinks down on the counter, and Tom handed him his credit card. But he shook his head no.

“We don’t accept cards for small amounts.”

The barman spoke very good English. At least he was easy to communicate with.

“I’m very sorry, but I don’t have any cash on me. Just take what you need.”

He was prepared to pay any sum in the world for this coffee; he couldn’t give a damn. After the experience he’d just endured, nothing else mattered any more. The barman looked at him.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” said Tom, very firmly.

The barman scrutinized him more closely, suddenly becoming aware of his pitiful state, and handed the card back to him.

“That’s ok, it’s on the house.”

“No, I assure you, it’s my pleasure,” persisted Tom, “and take a big tip!”

“No, no, it’s on the house,” he said, as he walked away.

But Tom called him back.

“Can I use it to take a cab?”

“Yes,” came the reply.

“Could you call me one?”

“Sure, for when?”

“Here, right now, as soon as possible.”

“Oh, very well,” he said in surprise.

The barman had strong suspicions that something had happened, but he didn’t ask any questions and became more welcoming toward Tom.

Was it because he looked so pathetic, or had his poor lost tourist act unleashed some empathy in the young man for him to be so obliging? Tom wondered. He came to the conclusion it was a bit of both.

Without doubt, he sure was a pitiful specimen, but he didn’t give a damn about that either. He gulped down half his large coffee, nursing it in his hands to warm them up. He could feel every centimeter, as the brew slid down his throat all the way to his stomach. It felt as though he were drinking the elixir of eternal rejuvenation, bringing him back to life.

“The taxi’s just around the corner,” said the young barman returning a minute later.

“Thanks,” replied Tom simply.

He drank the rest of his coffee in one gulp, and then went out of the bar. A cab pulled up at the same moment.

2

The opulent, four-star Concordia hotel was not far away. Although the wind had calmed down, the rain refused to let up and was still lashing the road surface. It took hardly ten minutes before the cab was depositing Tom in front of the main entrance. He brushed his hands through his hair several times, and then, soaked but no longer dripping, he walked into the midst of the small crowd milling about the lobby. Luckily, the coffee had somewhat lessened the effect of what had been injected into him.

He noticed with relief that he wasn’t the only one to have been caught unawares by the storm. Then again, he was the only person wearing a torn and ripped tuxedo that reeked of plankton.

What he feared most was that these delegates from the symposium, never mind friends of the prosecutor, would recognize him and ask him why he had seaweed clinging to the back of his jacket. Or even worse, that they’d mention the fact to the prosecutor next morning at breakfast, talking about something they were sure to label “weird.” He could just hear them. Determined not to catch anybody’s eye, he focused on the reception desk in the hope of reaching it as fast as possible. He had it all worked out: first he’d ask for the prosecutor’s key card and take advantage of his absence to search his room. It was absolutely essential to get the card, but what could he tell the clerk? “Good evening, prosecutor general’s office, room 701, or room 701 for the prosecutor general.” No, it was impossible in his current state, he thought. Luckily there were four people in front of him at the reception desk. The clerks seemed to be overwhelmed with requests from one set of clients and filling in formalities for another set. With the strain showing on his face, he reached the counter and tried to hide his appearance behind some other people. To his great surprise, one of the hotel clerks recognized and then greeted him.

“Room 701,” said Tom, grateful for this bonus.

The man selected a key card, tapped in the code and handed it to him.

“Here you are, sir.”

“Thanks,” said Tom simply, as he rapidly walked away.

He went toward the elevators as unobtrusively as possible, despite the slurping noise made by his shoes at every step.

Two elderly ladies had just got in, from their garments appearing to belong to some branch of British aristocracy. At least they aren’t part of the symposium, he thought to himself. He went in, and turned around to press nervously in quick succession on the seventh floor button. As soon as the elevator started moving, he could hear unambiguous sniffing. He felt them stirring behind his back.

“It’s Chanel Number 15, ladies, Quintessence of the Seven Seas – it’s new and completely natural,” he announced.

The elevator stopped at the fifth floor. Tom was praying that nobody would recognize him and stood to one side to let the ladies out, who gave him as wide a berth as possible while keeping their eyes cast down. Finally he reached the door of room 701. Everything had gone perfectly up till now; he hadn’t met anyone he knew and the long corridor was deserted. He opened the door, and was about to switch on the light but had second thoughts, crossing the prosecutor’s suite in a few long strides. He half-opened the window and went back out of the room. A small group of delegates were walking past as he closed the door. Shit, he thought to himself, another minute and nobody would have seen anything. They appeared to be well lubricated, as they were in festive mood and fairly noisy. In other circumstances, he would have smiled at finding eminent international law experts in such a state of inebriation.

“Oh, hello!”

“Hellooo.”

“Helloo.”

“Hello,” replied Tom, hoping to get past as quickly as possible.

From their accent, they were apparently Scottish.

“Oh my God, you’re completely soaked.”

“What an excellent observer you are,” he replied with a broad smile.

“Caught out in the rain, were ye? Well, not me, I took my wee umbrella with me! Very, very wee but very practical. You should have been able to think of the same thing at your age.”

“We’re going to empty the bar in my suite,” said another member of the group, waving a bottle of vintage whiskey.

They all happily agreed, chuckling.

“And how! And we especially hope your bar is well-stocked…” They chuckled again.

“Would you like to join us for a last dram?”

“No, thanks all the same. I’m pretty tired actually.”

One of the group was visibly no longer in complete control of his faculties, and was becoming a little too uninhibited.

“Och, the poor wee wimp. Why don’t you let yourself go, you’ll sleep so much better tomorrow. Just look how beautiful this bottle is, a real work of art.”

“No, really, thanks so much, but I hope you enjoy yourselves,” he replied, a slight smile of politeness playing on his lips.

They went away good-naturedly, but still noisy, toward the man’s suite.

“Ok, ok, but you’ll be missing out on a whiskey that’s over eighteen years old, my friend …”

“All the more for us.”

They all laughed again.

“We’re the best clubbers in this city, you know.”

Then they started up a raucous rendition of “We are the bar-champions, we are the bar-champions” to the tune by Queen. Tom was relieved: they might be boisterous, but they weren’t threatening. They were so drunk that they could have met the Pope himself and not realized it. In another half-hour, they’d no longer remember seeing him.

By the time he reached the main hallway, his shoes were slurping more than ever. He was embarrassed; it wasn’t exactly circumspect in an establishment like this. But after all, I’m deputy to the prosecutor general, he reminded himself. However, even this thought didn’t quite reassure him. In fact, just thinking about it caused him to feel embarrassed. The large hallway, still very busy, seemed to be a crossroads of perpetual human movement, despite the lateness of the hour. He stood near the elevators and pretended to be looking for somebody. He glanced at his watch, and then stared at the main entrance while keeping an eye on the crowds and the reception clerk who’d given him his card. He waited until she’d left her post before walking up to the counter. This time he approached a woman who hadn’t previously been there, and who had launched into a long-winded explanation with two clients about where a particular bar was to be found in the city-center. She was annotating a city map with words, crosses, arrows and circles.

He decided to interrupt.

“Pardon me, but this card isn’t working – it’s for room 702, Dorvan.”

She excused herself from the other client and took the card.

“It’s not working?” she repeated.

“No.”

“Our apologies, but it happens sometimes.”

“No problem, it’s not your fault.”

She put the card down behind the counter, and took another one out as she tapped on her keyboard.

“Here you are, sir.”

“Thanks.”

She resumed her explanations, and Tom went back to the elevators. He was relieved to reach his room. Taking off his raincoat, his jacket and his pants, he put them on individual hangers and hung them up on the outside of the wardrobe. He emptied his jacket pockets, taking out his leather cardholder and his cellphone. Nothing had been spared: it was all soaked through.

He opened up his phone and shook out the water onto the carpet, before placing it on the bathroom shelf. It was lucky he’d switched it off for the evening. He did the same with the leather wallet, and then from the other pocket withdrew the phial he’d wrapped in a tissue. What could he do with a phial of insulin? It wasn’t a crime to be diabetic. As for fingerprints, there was small hope of being able to extract anything after it had all been dunked in seawater. In all the torment of his crossing, he hadn’t been able to treat the one item he’d brought back with him with due care and attention. Well, he thought, he’d simply done his best in the hope that a fingerprint might be detectable, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Not knowing what to do with it, he thought it best to touch it as little as possible and placed it together with the other items on the bathroom shelf.

Then he took off his torn and bloodstained shirt, rolled it up and threw it into a plastic bag, that he tied up carefully and hung on the door handle. He had a close look at all the places hurting him on his body. He was covered in bruises, especially down the left-hand side. His knee was very swollen, slightly purplish, and he had two fairly substantial grazes on his thigh. His shoulder also had a small but inflamed contusion. And there was a large lump on the side of his skull, creating shooting pains that refused to stop. Half his body was causing him pain; and yet none of the injuries seemed very serious. He searched about in his sponge bag, and found two painkillers that he placed on the edge of the basin. Then, after a moment’s thought, he re-opened the small plastic bottle and took out two more. To ensure the best recovery, the dose had to match up to the gravity of the incident. And yet he was astonished that he couldn’t feel the effects of the coffee at all. He took a glass, filled it with warm water, and swallowed down all four tablets at once. Then he stepped into the shower, standing almost motionless for a long time, and allowing the scalding hot jets of water to needle his neck and shoulders and warm him up, because he still felt frozen to the bone. It was some comfort, after the succession of horrors he’d just lived through.

When he emerged from the bathroom, the clouds of steam were so dense that he could hardly see. Being unfamiliar with the room, he fumbled for the towels and then wrapped his entire body in linen. He put on the shirt, socks and suit he’d worn the night before. He felt his shoes for a moment – they were still soaked. But he didn’t have another pair, thinking that he didn’t want to overload his luggage for just two days. He put them on reluctantly and gently massaged his left knee, which was still very painful. Then he opened the window out of his room, climbed over the sill and slid around the low wall separating his suite from the prosecutor’s, and entered through the window he’d opened. The evening before, he’d spent a long time examining the place and he’d realized that this operation would be quite feasible, a fact that had surprised him.

Once he was inside the room, he hurriedly opened the wardrobe to take out the prosecutor’s two large attaché-cases. He examined all the documents, each folder, every note, and even his diary. But “official dinner” was the only entry noted there. He put everything back in place, and searched his suitcase, and all the pockets both inside and outside. Nothing. He searched every pocket of his clothes, his overcoat. He couldn’t believe it: he was actually searching through the prosecutor general’s private things. What he was doing was illegal, but more than that he knew how much the prosecutor hated that kind of thing. His PA had admitted as much to him on more than one occasion. What would he do if got caught out? Would it all be sorted out in a friendly fashion? Would he be arrested? Still nothing. He looked inside the drawers in the two bedside tables, and in the small desk. Nothing again. He was just thinking that he’d just committed his first offenses as deputy to the prosecutor general. First he’d trespassed into the room, and then breached all the rules by conducing a search without a warrant.

But it was for a very good reason, he thought to himself. And surely a judge would have granted him a warrant if he’d been fully apprised of all the facts. And what if he didn’t? Well just too bad. Anyway, nobody would be any the wiser: he couldn’t use documents or evidence that had been seized illegally. It was for … his personal information. Tom searched the whole suite, but still couldn’t find anything he could bring to Clarke. There was nothing but the ring binders and files the prosecutor had brought to the symposium. He went back to one of the suitcases, took out the prosecutor’s large diary again and flipped through the phone index he found at the back, reading each name slowly in the hope of establishing some sort of connection or other interesting snippet of information. Once again, the result was disappointing: the index only contained the names and numbers of lawyers or judges, most of whom hadn’t attended the dinner that evening. He was no further forward. He shut the window he’d come in by, stuck his ear to the door to make sure there was nobody in the corridor, and went back to his own room.

In his mind he went over and over everything he’d seen that night. He thought again of Clarke’s call, and of their last discussion on the evening of his nomination. When he’d spoken to him about the business, both at the reception and in the limo, his thoughts had been too distracted by the people around him for him to pay proper attention to the seriousness of the situation. And now, despite the welter of emotions threatening to engulf him, he kept tormenting his memory to recall the gist of those last conversations, without success. All the important details were missing. Who was the prosecutor really? Was it possible he was leading a double life right under everyone’s noses? What was hidden in that club he’d joined? What was behind it all? He could only remember Clarke mentioning a witness who’d been eliminated. If that was true, it involved a criminal organization. So what was he covering up? How many other people were implicated? There were so many questions needing answers. Perhaps Clarke had the answers.

Then his thoughts suddenly turned to himself, to the life he wanted to lead. He’d always dreamed of a simple, peaceful life, but given the circumstances that dream seemed to be slipping farther and farther out of reach. He didn’t want to become a career magistrate any more, or even to continue practicing law. No, he was going to stop the whole thing immediately, and open up an antiques store. What joy that must bring: to hunt for antiques at random in cluttered cellars and attics, to unearth rare objects and curios, to research and then explain their history or usage to clients and then match them up with the interiors of magnificently decorated apartments. Or to take off to some island, open a bar, sell ice cream and prepare cocktails or fresh drinks for smiling customers. Those lives would be so much more pleasant than the one he’d been living since studying the law. And to think there were people paying top dollar to have a taste of extreme sports for brief moments, just to be able to boast about them afterward for entire evenings at a time. He who was no enthusiast for this type of feat had just survived one of the most extreme experiences, but without involving any glamour, medals or other people.

He didn’t know if was fright from having diced with death, the cold, his exhaustion or his state of shock, but he had been shivering for a full half-hour and couldn’t stop. The vision of his struggle against the raging ocean was still unfolding before his eyes, as he fell onto the carpet. He started sobbing. He could still hear his screams before he was hurled onto the rocks, screams that had emerged from the depth of his being, screams he’d never forget.

For a few minutes he tried to convince himself that everything he’d seen was pure coincidence for which there was a simple explanation. If there was anything to it, surely the prosecutor wasn’t involved or else he’d been used. Perhaps he’d been threatened? Things like that did happen. He’d discuss it with him calmly one day, to find out. He wasn’t the type of man to bury his head in the sand, but in this situation perhaps that was the best course of action. He would still observe the prosecutor and if he had to intervene, he’d do it later, much later, when he was fully in possession of the facts. He really wanted it to be like that. It was easier.

From tomorrow, he’d stop thinking about it and his life would return to normal. He lay on the floor for a few more moments, and then got up slowly. But as he turned to the side, a bolt of agony shot through him. His left knee was hurting horribly, the pain reaching as far as his hip. His body was covered in bruises that were maintaining a dull throbbing pain. Then he sat motionless on the side of the bed for a moment. He turned the photo of his parents that he’d placed on his bedside table toward him. He took it everywhere with him and looked at it often. He thought of them every day, but he’d never felt them so alive, so close to him as he’d experienced that night in the midst of the ocean waves, and once again his eyes were filled with tears. With his elbows on his knees, he buried his forehead in his hands. His shoulders moved and then started shaking, as he quietly wept. He was releasing all the tension of his desperate struggle with death, of what could have happened, of what he’d seen, his pain, his exhaustion. His nerves were stretched to their utmost, but now he needed to get over it. He looked up, his red eyes staring into space, and decided to phone Clarke. But he had to use the special procedure his friend had insisted on. This was a security protocol to avoid the call being tapped into, which his friend had explained to him.

Like all his colleagues and as part of his position as a member of the team fighting against organized crime, Clarke had a secure phone line installed at his home. And yet rumors had been circulating that even these lines could be tapped, and some colleagues had found evidence leading them to be believe they were under close surveillance. But nobody could prove a thing and it was impossible to determine whether these had been installed through government offices, some pseudo-governmental outfit or even criminal organizations. Anyway, the rumors came as no surprise to Clarke, who several years before had been working on creating sophisticated codes to encrypt confidential government data. He’d preferred not to stir up any controversy, because prying eyes would only have resulted in even more sophisticated surveillance systems being put in place, all the harder to detect. He let those around him believe that he ignorant of any such thing, all the while behaving as if he were under constant surveillance. In this way he gave them the impression they were monitoring him, when in reality he was the one deciding what information to give them.

He had therefore given all his close friends a cellphone sim card, registered under the name of an anonymous company set up in another city. Those who needed to convey important or confidential information to him had to call him on his usual number, let it ring once, and then hang up before the call had been connected. And each of them had to repeat the procedure a precise number of times so that they could be identified. He then went out to call them back on another cellphone that was kept switched off the rest of the time, using the number registered on the sim card they’d been given and that they had to insert into their usual cellphone. If he didn’t call them back within ten minutes, they had to start over every hour. The procedure seemed a bit complicated, but it was the price for guaranteeing absolute confidentiality, because any sophisticated listening device was capable of detecting and then locating incoming or outgoing calls. It was then an easy task to pinpoint the locations of the caller and the person called.

First of all Tom grabbed the hair dryer. He didn’t know how much water damage his cellphone had suffered, as it had been in its case and in his pocket, but at least it hadn’t short-circuited as it had been switched off. He took off the back panel, extracted the battery, and then put the blower on maximum to dry all the components he could take apart. After a few minutes of this salon-style drying for cellphones, he reassembled all the components, put in his usual sim card and switched it on. He wondered how the phone would function after being dunked in the sea like that. But a few seconds later the device started vibrating, and the screen lit up with its usual information. Amazing but true: it was working. Well so far, anyway. He dialed the hotel number as a final test. Everything worked perfectly. As he’d been taught, he took out his usual sim card and put in Clarke’s one to guarantee them their precious anonymity. He closed it back up, and put it into his pants pocket. He hardly dared go out to find a booth. But he had to. With his nerves stretched to breaking point, he put his still-damp shoes back on, pulled on another jacket and went outside carrying his umbrella.

He lingered for a few moments outside the hotel’s main entrance, as it was still pouring with rain. Then he walked toward somewhere that seemed to be the busiest. Despite the pains jarring his knee at every step, Tom continued walking slowly and dodging the puddles. He found a telephone booth a few streets away, and then meticulously put the procedure into action.

Tom was soon back at the hotel. He knew that Clarke had been affected by the whole business and was probably thinking about it that very moment. It wouldn’t take him long to call back. Cabs were pulling up almost one behind the other in front of the entrance, depositing the first of the delegates to return from the city-center bars where they’d carried on the evening. Some of them had difficulty in standing up on their own; they were being helped by their companions but had lost all sense of direction, which was somewhat comical. Tom slipped in unobtrusively and went straight up to his room. He put his shoes to dry on the heated towel rail in the bathroom, and then sat down in the chair by the window. His eyes flicked over the city lights, as he went on asking questions. What should he do now? What was the next stage? But he didn’t have a lot of time for reflection, because his phone starting vibrating in his pocket just a few minutes later.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Hi Chris, it’s me,” said Clarke.

“Oh hello Mike,” said Tom.

In accordance with the plan, they used their code names only. No other name or place was to be mentioned.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, in my room, and there’s nobody else here.”

“Put the TV on and sit next to it to talk to me.”

“You think there’s something in here?”

“No, but this way we can be sure.”

Tom switched on the TV.

“Done. So now I’d really like you to tell me everything you know about the business you were talking about earlier on,” said Tom in a questioning voice.

“I’ll explain everything when you get back. But to sum up briefly: the young guy I was telling you about who supposedly committed suicide, he was in fact eliminated. I haven’t any formal proof, but I’m not expecting any. Two people I asked to help me were killed a few hours apart, and I didn’t see it coming. They reacted with almost unbelievable speed. And I think they’re looking for a third person but they don’t know it’s me, because otherwise they’d already have shown up, given how fast they are. But even so I don’t feel safe in the office any more, and that’s the first time anything like that has happened to me. And did you notice anything yourself?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m calling. At first I didn’t believe what you told me on the phone, but you were right.”

“I understand, I had difficulty in believing anything before the two murders. But how were you able to prove it?” asked Clarke.

“Well, a few minutes after your call, we arrived at the exact place you were describing.”

“Which was?”

“The port of The Hague. They had organized the official dinner aboard a cruise liner.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, not at all. It was all very official. The ship owner was an acquaintance of the prosecutor. From what I could understand, they’d got to know each other during a bridge tournament, and the guy lives in The Hague.”

“Bridge … interesting,” said Clarke, making an instant connection to the private club the locator had led him to.

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you when we see each other. Go on.”

“I pretended to be seasick so I could wander around the boat. But it wasn’t easy because of the security guards. The way they reacted was rather ambivalent, but I hadn’t noticed before. There was always one on my heels who wouldn’t leave me alone. But I was still able to get rid of him for ten minutes and I searched in all the cabins I could. One of them was full of young, half-drugged teenagers. But two people came in and I had to hide, and I couldn’t find out anything else. And then I went back to the big dining room where the rest of them were.”

“But you’re completely mad, I told you they were dangerous. You shouldn’t have taken risks like that. I asked you to keep your eyes open, not get yourself killed.”

“Yes, but as I told you, I didn’t believe anybody from that symposium could be part of some secret network or other, and that there was something illegal going on in a place filled with international legal experts.”

“Yes, I see.”

“It’s most of all when you told me my boss was implicated in all of it, that was going too far. It’s not that I didn’t want to believe you, but I was sure you’d made a mistake and that you’d realize it very soon.”

“Anyway, you should never have done something like that. If they’d noticed anything, they wouldn’t have hesitated a second to take you out.”

“Yes, now I realize how lucky I was. And all the more so since I nearly managed to take myself out,” Tom admitted.

“What are you saying?”

“I did even worse at the end of the meal. When I think about it, I can hardly believe what I actually did.”

“Oh no … what did you do?”

“I hid when they took the guests back. I went searching again, and came across one of the rooms at the back of the boat, and I saw everything.”

“Oh no! And they’ll have seen you too, it goes without saying. They’ve seen you, even if you didn’t realize, and that means you’re in real danger. So listen up – ”

“No, wait.”

“No, you listen to me, I want you to rent a car and get home tonight.”

“No, don’t worry, they didn’t see me. I was on the deck, it was pitch black, there was a really bad storm and everyone was inside, except the guards who were talking at one end of the boat, but I kept a good lookout. Suddenly I saw them approaching. I didn’t hear them because of the wind. So I had no choice and I slid down a rope against the side of the boat. But I had to wait so long until they went away that I couldn’t climb back up again. I had no strength left. I had to swim back, and I really thought I was going to drown.”

“No way, it can’t be true, you didn’t really do that?”

“Yes I did, and I don’t know how I got out of it, because the sea was so rough that I really thought several times over that’s where I’d be staying permanently.”

“But you’re totally reckless.”

“I didn’t have time to understand what I was doing. I really think it’s a miracle I survived. You’ve no idea how horrific it was. I had scenes from my life flashing in front of me, sometime all at once.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d thought you were going to get up to something so irresponsible.”

“I don’t know what came over me. But I didn’t think I’d be dealing with murderers in the presence of my boss. At worst, I thought I’d see some sixteen-year-old girl locked up in a cabin by a couple of sickos, and that my boss had nothing to do with it. I was even convinced he knew nothing about it. And then I wanted to leave the liner and take the ferryboat back, and I’d have discussed it with him the next day.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t say anything. According to the young guy, it’s a very well organized network that’s been in operation for the last six years. And I’ve already discovered quite a few things. For example that’s it’s been hiding under layers of simple but completely legitimate structures with fiendish efficiency. And as most of the top brass are implicated, they won’t take the slightest risk. The big problem will be acting as fast as possible but without going through the normal procedures. And that’s where I don’t know what to do, but we’ll talk about that when you get back.”

“Listen, I don’t want to discourage you, but I think you’re going too far. You’re not going to fight against an organization like that all on your own?”

“But it’s too late, I don’t have any choice. If I’d known, I’d wouldn’t have done anything either. But I’ve already gone in deeper than I’d realized, and I can’t go back. They know that somebody’s sniffing about in their business, and I need to come up with a solution and fast, without giving them time to get to me.”

“But you’ll soon find yourself completely out of your depth.”

“No, Chris, I’m already out of my depth. But I say again, I don’t have any choice.”

“And what if you discussed it with your co-workers?”

“Impossible, for all sorts of reasons I’ll tell you about later. But here it is in a few words: first I’m not allowed to handle the case anymore. Next, I don’t know who to trust. And even if I could find somebody, they’d ask me for proof before putting their jobs on the line. And they’d be right. You know, you have a different slant on things when you have a family to support.”

“The guy didn’t bring any evidence?” asked Tom in surprise.

“I’ve found a couple of interesting things, but it’s not enough.”

“But what are we going to do then?”

“To be honest, I have no clue. Let’s think about it and we’ll talk it over tomorrow.”

“I could tell an inspector.”

“No, better not. All you know is that you can’t do anything else tonight. And nobody will take any sort of action without cast-iron proof.”

“Yes I know. But the best thing would be to call up one of the services and catch them red-handed.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but who do you want to ask to set up that kind of intervention in the next couple of hours, and only on your say-so? They won’t have enough time and anyway, without being prepared it won’t be very effective. At best they’ll send a patrol out tomorrow, which won’t achieve anything and will simply give them a warning. No, we can’t follow normal procedure. And from what the guy told me, they have all sorts of moles they keep sweet in order to get information, but I haven’t found anything about that. And he told me they need very little time to make everything vanish and that they’d lay low for a few months. We’d never be able to prove anything, but we’d always be in mortal danger, because they’d carry on with their clean-up operations before starting up again.”

“I see.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to come back now?” repeated Clarke, anxiously.

His best buddy was in imminent danger, and he couldn’t keep up his normal level of reticence.

“You could rent a car now and come back tonight,” he went on. “And I could even come to meet you, if you want.”

“No, I’m not in any danger, Mike. I’m telling you nobody saw me. And anyway, it would be worse if I left now, because it would mean I knew something.”

“Well, whatever you do, don’t alter your behavior. Don’t do anything out of the ordinary. The person you work for will be suspicious of everything.”

“Yes of course.”

“So this is what we’ll do. What time do you land tomorrow?”

“At 4pm.”

“Are you going back to the office afterward?”

“Not in theory, my boss will have to answer a few journalists’ questions but then that will be it for the day.”

“So, will you be using a private room?”

“No, he won’t be able to give an official press conference. The journalists are sure to be in the arrivals hall.”

“So, I’ll come and meet you at the airport, and I’ll take you somewhere to tell you about the documents I’ve found. And then, we’ll decide on the best plan of action, but we’ll have to act fast. Then again, it’s obvious we mustn’t discuss this any more until tomorrow.”

“Agreed. When he’s finished talking to the journalists, he’ll take his leave of us. I’ll wait until everybody’s gone and then I’ll come and meet you.”

“Very well. I’ll wait for you in arrivals, at the far end. And whatever you do, stay alert.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve never been so scared in all my life and I won’t ever forget.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Tom was well aware that this whole business had the very specific flavor of dangerous experiences, the sort you should avoid like the plague. And yet he’d just understood that his friend Clarke no longer had any choice. He switched off the TV and got up, but he was suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. He hardly had the strength to turn off the light before he collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed.

3

At nine o’clock the next morning, the ringing of the alarm clock tore Tom from the deep slumber that had knocked him out. It took him a long time to turn it off, because his body was recoiling from responding and it felt as if he’d only slept for a few minutes. He tried to get up, but his lower back and pelvis simply refused to react, because his muscles had seized up during the night. He knew that the previous evening’s exertions had been even more brutal than he’d thought, and that his nerves had been stretched to breaking point until the small hours. The prosecutor had told him to take his time in the morning – good thing too. The challenge now was to get up. It was useless repeating the commands to his body, because his limbs still refused to respond. He waited a few minutes more, and then managed to roll over to the edge of the bed. Victory: half a leg hung over the void. The second leg followed close behind, and once his feet had touched the floor he sat on the bed for a few moments before finally getting up. The muscle stiffness turned this simple maneuver into a superhuman feat. His knees were trembling and his ankles felt weak. He wobbled dangerously, almost bent double as if he were just learning to walk, and ended up face first on the floor, nearly knocking himself unconscious against the bathroom door. His mouth twisted in pain, but he got up again with great difficulty. Finally he reached his sponge bag and took out the bottle of painkillers.

Sitting on the edge of the bath by the washbasin, he filled a glass with water and tipped four tablets at once into his mouth. They almost choked him, and caused a violent bout of coughing. He brushed his hand through his tousled hair, but lifting his arm was decidedly painful. He then very gently massaged his knee, closing his eyes and grimacing because the pain was so acute. With great care, he felt the bump on his skull. It was very sensitive to the touch, but at least it was no longer throbbing. He glanced quickly in the mirror, and almost jumped back in fright. His eye-sockets were horribly swollen. Standing under the shower, he turned the temperature up as high as he could bear it, and remained there under the scalding jets. It wasn’t quite as difficult to return to the bed, where he sat down, stretched his legs out and switched on the TV. He channel-hopped until he found an international news station, without paying much attention. His thoughts turned back to previous evening’s events, and he wondered how long the prosecutor had been mixed up in the organization and if he had a specific role in it, or if he was just an unwitting member.

His alarm clock showed 10:15. He decided it was time to go down and order a coffee. He was able to get up somewhat more easily by now, but walking was still a difficult exercise. Lacing his shoes was a grinding chore. While he was getting ready, Tom couldn’t stop asking himself questions. He wondered if he’d manage to hide his anger and contempt for his boss every time he was sitting opposite him, either today or afterwards in the office. Would the prosecutor manage to detect a change in his behavior? He had to be careful not to alter his attitude: that was very important. But it was something that greatly concerned him, because he wasn’t skilled at this particular game. People had often told him he wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings. He always gave himself away, either in his voice or in his expression. And he knew the prosecutor well and had oftentimes experienced his sort of sixth sense at that level. Several months ago during a trial, he’d verified that the man could read thoughts. He’d even stated: “You see, right in the middle of the trial, the physical attitude of the defendant changed, as did the intensity of his gaze. I knew he was hiding something …” He checked his hair again, and glanced at his watch.

Tom found the dining room. Even if his body was still crying out in pain, he had nevertheless recovered most of his motor muscles except on his left leg, because the knee was still very inflamed and painful He walked slowly with a limp. A waiter greeted him from the right.

“I’ll have a cappuccino and two croissants, please.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the waiter.

The prosecutor was sitting alone at a table. There was a marked change in him from the preceding days. His face was relaxed, his eyes shining. He looked as self-satisfied as somebody who’d been enjoying a full night’s worth of good wine and sex. Tom had to jolt himself together, to stifle the disgust rising in his gorge and the fury springing from his inner being. He didn’t have time to prepare any answers in case his state of health was questioned. What could he tell the prosecutor about his leg? He could tell him he’d slipped off the ladder while boarding the ferryboat. He wouldn’t have any opportunity to check it out. But it could be dangerous if he did, because they’d confirm the opposite was true and he’d immediately start suspecting something. He could tell him he’d been crashed into by a cyclist on his way back to the hotel, yesterday evening after the meal — crashed into by a cyclist at eleven at night, in the pouring rain: it was possible but rather far-fetched. No, he needed a simple story that would hold water. But what could he say …

The prosecutor was gulping down big mouthfuls of croissant that he’d dunked into his café au lait.

“Oh, good morning,” he said as he caught sight of him.

What a pathetic sight, he’s dunking almost the whole croissant in his coffee.

Tom couldn’t repress the bitter and cynical comments arising in his heart of hearts. Even the thought of talking to him and breathing the same air as him turned his stomach. He was feeling profoundly nauseous – a kind of sickness of the soul.

“Good morning,” replied Tom.

It was his limp that drew the prosecutor’s stunned attention.

“But what happened to you?”

I’ve been spying on you, you and your lecherous clique, then I had to swim back and I was crushed against the rocks to escape your posse of killers …

“I slipped down some steps in a bar,” he explained. “I went out for a drink last night, after I’d got back to the hotel, but it was raining so hard that everything was soaked, even inside the buildings. It was dark and I didn’t look where I was going.”

He was lying. The prosecutor was also a practiced liar, but by omission.

“Nothing serious?”

Hypocrite, as if it mattered to you. And what do you mean by serious anyway? Not much, I reckon.

The waiter brought a cup of foaming coffee and the croissants. For a brief moment, Tom was spellbound. He loved having a smooth layer of foam on his coffee.

“Thanks,” he said. “No, I’ve gotten a few bruises and my knee really hurts. But it should get better soon.”

“Look, they’re talking about you in the paper. And in fairly positive terms,” he added, with a smile.

Tom cast an indifferent eye over the article the prosecutor had so solicitously pointed out to him. It included the photo they’d taken of him at his nomination reception.

“You see, that’s what I told you. This is all very good for you.”

Tom only read the caption: “Prosecutor general John Pauwels named young magistrate Tom Dorvan as his first deputy, in recognition of the excellent ability he has demonstrated in the field of negotiation and legal analysis at international level.” He’d read the rest later. Perhaps. In contrast to what he’d thought, his reaction was neither positive or negative. He had the impression the paper was discussing somebody else. I don’t know what to say, Tom thought to himself. But I must say something.

“The photo’s not very flattering.”

“Oh, that’s not true, the photo’s really good. It’s absolutely you, even if you do look a bit serious.”

“I think they could have chosen one that was a bit less austere.”

“I can see you worry about your image, that’s a good sign. But I think they did well. You’re representing justice, and justice needs to be seen as austere in order to be respected. Anyway, I don’t know what you view is, but personally I don’t think the symposium amounted to much.”

That’s it, play it smart. If you knew I’d surprised you yesterday, you wouldn’t be acting so high and mighty. All the trouble you’ve taken to hide yourselves behind those bridge games. I wonder how you’d answer me, you filthy pig, if I told you I knew everything, I’d seen everything and that you’ve been exposed. Would you try to bluster your way out? How would you react? By dodging the question, or by minimizing it? You’d tell me about a passing weakness … or that you were infiltrating a network implicated in the corruption of minors, or else you’d forgotten your glasses and didn’t realize how young those teenagers were. Then you’d go and phone your little friends to make me disappear, ever so quietly. I still can’t believe it. I’m outraged by your obscenities. But what makes me even sicker is you’re not the slightest bit ashamed, and that instead of skulking about twenty meters underground for the rest of your shabby life, you keep on blatantly strutting about like a peacock. So … phony guy answers phony guy.

“Tom?”

“Er, I don’t have any opinion on the matter,” he said, putting down his coffee cup. “I’m still not used to these symposiums, but it did seem rather confusing to me.”

Oh dear, that’s over-indulging him. Pull yourself together, Tom. No, don’t change your behavior. Careful: no elusive glances, but don’t stare at him too hard either. My voice is a bit deeper than usual. That’s not serious, it doesn’t mean anything – it could be for all sorts of reasons.

Tom nibbled the end of a croissant, but his right hand had an intermittent shake. He tried to control it, but the tremor was stronger than him. He decided to place it on the table as much as possible, and to use his left had which wasn’t shaking as much. The night had been too brief and he hadn’t had time to recover. It was lucky his mind was bright and his speech clear; it would have been difficult to guess at his lack of sleep and how exhausted he’d been the night before. He managed to play along fairly well, at least for the moment, while attempting not to give the prosecutor too long to watch him.

“Well, it enables us to forge or maintain certain interesting relationships,” said the prosecutor.

Yes, like relationships with kids, for example.

“Well, I think those sorts of relationships are still somewhat ambivalent.”

Realizing that this last remark tended rather too far toward the cynical, he tried to add something ordinary.

“But it’s always interesting to listen to different points of view.”

“You’re in a gloomy mood, not to say downbeat, aren’t you?”

Shut it, piece of crap.

“I think I’m just being pragmatic.”

Whatever happened, he had to avoid coming across as too surly, however much effort it took. He needed to remind himself of the fact that he was supposed to have noticed nothing. He put on a fixed smile, hoping to quash the complex range of mixed emotions merging into the profound disgust he was experiencing against the man. He couldn’t stop the images swirling around in his head, of what he’d seen through the portholes and which had been haunting him since the night before. He saw the pure, naïve smiles on those trusting little faces and felt a new wave of revulsion. His solar plexus suddenly contracted in nervous tension, causing him to purse his lips.

“What’s the matter?” asked the prosecutor.

Luckily the answer came easily, because at that moment the pain was pulsing over his entire leg.

“Nothing,” he said almost too quickly, but then went on. “I’ve got violent pains in the thigh.”

He quailed at the thought of not being believed.

“Oh,” came the cold reply. “But you’re not completely wrong, you know. I think there are quite a few international civil servantswho are very hypocritical. You never know quite where you stand with them.”

I can’t believe that the man telling me this is some sort of Jekyll and Hyde, an expert at ambiguity, a master of double-dealing.

“That’s true, sometimes it’s very surprising.”

Tom’s reply was said in a tone that betrayed his inner discomfort. But he rallied, and decided from that moment on he’d no longer let himself be ruled by his emotions … not for a minute, and not to forget it …

“And they need to change venues from time to time. It’s not very stimulating if you always meet back at the same place.”

Yes, we could go to Thailand, for example. You’d be close to those bars you love. And I’ve no problem now imagining you chatting up those little girls. Unless you prefer little boys?

“Well,” said the prosecutor, “I hope you’ve learned something nevertheless.”

He made this utterance sound very pompous.

You’ve no idea how much, my friend. I’ve learned all sorts of things, more than you’d believe. It’s no longer an international gathering for legislation but for vice. Stop it, stop it now, calm down. Otherwise you’ll never last out.

“Yes, I certainly learned some very interesting things.”

No, don’t play with fire, not with him, he’s too sly.

“Like what, for example?”

There you go, you see, what’s the point of that? And what are you going to reply now?

“That the interiors of bars can be dangerous after a storm.”

The prosecutor made a small noise, while pursing his lips.

“I see.”

Tom didn’t dare force a smile, because he was too scared it would be noticed.

Yeah, it’ll do, but don’t go too far. Should I ask him if he had a good evening or just keep quiet? What would be the most natural? And you, sir, did enjoy your bridge evening? Or simply: did you have a good evening? No, if he doesn’t ask me the question first I won’t say anything.

He was taking longer than normal to reply, making sure not to give himself away. But that wasn’t too serious either. It could very easily be attributed to over-tiredness.

“Good, well I’m going to read a bit until lunch, and then in the early afternoon we’re catching a cab to the airport.”

“Very well.”

“Will you go and fetch your fakes?”

“My fakes?” he replied slowly, trying to spot the potential trap.

“Yes, those paintings for your friends …”

“Oh yes. Er … no, I’m in no fit state to go looking, my knee hurts too much.”

“Have I said something to upset you?”

“No, why?”

Tom looked at the prosecutor uncertainly. The expression on his face couldn’t mask the anxiety that he’d somehow given himself away.

“I don’t know, it’s because of those reproachful looks. You look as if you’d like to blame me for all the evils of the world.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it must be the pain talking.”

“It’s because of me that you’re here, but it’s not my fault that you don’t know how to walk downstairs.”

He had to find some sort of frothy reply, as a diversion, so that he’d forget everything he’d seen in that look.

“Well anyway,” continued the prosecutor, “you seem to be more tense than usual.”

Hell, he’s realized.

Tom pulled a face. He’d just moved in a way that caused him atrocious pain. He thought for an instant the prosecutor must have sensed the disgust and anger rising in his voice, and tried to soften his tone of voice.

“Oh well, but I’ve really no reason to be tense, except for the shooting pains I’ve been feeling on and off in my left leg.”

“Yes, it must be the pain. Perhaps you should take yourself to the hospital?”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary, but I’ll go up and rest for a bit, and take some painkillers.”

And most of all not have you in my face.

Tom wanted to stop there. He didn’t want to play with fire any longer. He’d release his pent-up feelings later, somewhere else.

“Yes, go and rest for a while, and we’ll catch up later.”

“Agreed,” said Tom in an almost cheerful voice.

As he got up, he thought the pain had lessened a bit. The tablets must have taken effect. He attempted to walk more upright, but the injury to his knee was still protesting too much. He stopped for a moment to lift his leg up, and then limped away.

4

As he’d mentioned to Clara the previous day, Clarke stayed home all morning and telephoned the office to explain his absence.

“Good morning Nadia, Clarke here.”

“Oh, morning,” she said.

“Nadia, I’m not coming into the office this morning. I still have a lot of research to get through before completing the file Mr. Chester is waiting for, and as he told me he needs it in double-quick time, I’m staying home so I won’t be disturbed. Can you tell him that, if he asks to see me?”

“And if you get any calls in, what shall I say? That you’ll call back this afternoon or tomorrow?”

“Tell them I’ll call back tomorrow.”

“Very well, so see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, see you tomorrow, goodbye Nadia.”

He searched about in all the stuff he’d placed on the table and stopped for a few moments, stroking his chin. He realized he’d forgotten something. At that instant, the phone rang. The message “unidentified caller” appeared on the screen. Who could that be? he asked himself. It wasn’t Tom’s code, or Clara’s because she was working. It could only be Nadia calling him back from the office. He picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, my love, how are you?” said Clara.

“Oh, that’s a promise, Judy,” he said in a distant tone of voice. “Yes, I know,” he went on, without giving her a chance to reply, “I’m not coming into the office this morning but I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m sorry but I have to cut you off now, I really have a lot of work to do. I’ll come by and see you when I’ve got in, ok?”

“Very well,” she replied, rather surprised.

“See you tomorrow.”

Shit, he thought, as soon as he’d hung up: that was Clara. She shouldn’t have phoned him. She’d dialed the number without using her code, thinking what she had to say wasn’t of any consequence. Of course she hadn’t worried about the line being tapped by “others.” And she’d betrayed herself with “my love,” despite his attempts to create a diversion. For a few moments, he regretted answering the phone, but he immediately retracted that thought. If he hadn’t replied, the answer-phone would have picked up the message, and that could have been much worse. But maybe he was just getting paranoid and there was nobody listening in.

He left his apartment carrying one of his cellphones. A few streets away, he entered a code as he walked. When the message “Line status: secured” appeared on the screen, he dialed a number.

Next to the offices of the IDSS were two rooms with plain, grayish walls. The smaller room was almost empty, containing a metal cabinet, a desk and two tatty hairs. The larger room was furnished with a rectangular table, surrounded by five flexible plastic chairs. That was where the telephonic listening console for the organization had been installed. It was furnished with the most sophisticated equipment in the field of telecommunications, phone tapping and decryption. Built somewhere in the Far East, it had been imported into Eastern Europe and then driven to Brussels, hidden in a French truck transporting office furniture destined for high-ranking international bureaucrats. Four men moved around the one manipulating the equipment. They were listening to the conversation they’d just recorded. A cruel smile flitted across Vlad’s lips, as he stubbed out his cigarette with deceptive calm, by crushing it in his own peculiar manner – an expression of the way he was going to deal with Clarke.

“He doesn’t want to talk on the phone, he’s suspicious,” said the operative.

“Did you get the number?” asked Vlad.

“No, it’s not a normal number and it was too fast to decrypt it.”

“And who’s that Judy?” asked Vlad.

“There’s somebody called Judy in the Service,” said Van der Meer, who was standing just behind them. “But it’s not her.”

“There was stress in his voice,” said Vlad. “Go over it again, Liviu.”

The operative replayed the start of the conversation.

“Hello?”

“Hey, my love, how are ymy-blockquoteou?”

“Oh, that’s a promise, Judy. Yes, I know, I’m not coming into the office this morning but I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m sorry but I have to cut you off now, I really have a lot of work to do. I’ll come by and see you when I’ve got in, ok?”

“That’s fine, stop there,” said Vlad.

The operative stopped the recording.

“You hear that? She means it when she says ‘my love’.”

He spoke the words in a mocking imitation of her voice.

“But his tone changes. It’s not the same as at the start. And he doesn’t let her get a word in. It’s not somebody he works with. I really think it’s his girlfriend and that he’s annoyed she’s calling. And he’s annoyed because he thinks he’s being tapped.”

“Why would he suspect anything since he knows that all our agents have secure lines?” said Van der Meer, who was starting to lose patience.

“I don’t know,” replied Vlad. “Perhaps he’s always suspicious. Anyway, he’s very good at it.”

“Yes, I know that, thanks. A fact I find intensely annoying.”

“Yes, he could start to annoy all of us. At last something exciting,” said Vlad in genuine pleasure.

Van der Meer, who was experiencing no such pleasure, couldn’t rest easy until that Foster guy had been put out of harm’s way.

“And we have to find this Judy,” he ordered Vlad. “He could have talked to her.”

“Yeah, but if she’s his girlfriend, she’s surely not called Judy. And you know why he’s not going into the office this morning? It’s because he’s still snooping about somewhere. Unfortunately we don’t know where. But it would be better to keep a watch on him.”

“So, put a shadow on him,” said Van der Meer decisively. “But take two vehicles and don’t follow him too closely, he’s sly that one.”

“But we’re sly too, you know,” said Vlad with a sneer.

Van der Meer didn’t seem all that reassured.

About fifty meters from his apartment block, Clarke was carrying on a conversation with Clara in an almost deserted side street.

“But I was getting worried about you, my beloved, and I needed to hear your voice,” she confided to him. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I couldn’t rest easy.”

“It’s the same for me, but don’t worry. It’ll soon be over. Listen, I can’t find my encoder. Have you seen in anywhere?”

“No, you didn’t have it last night. Have you looked in all your pockets?”

“Yes, but it’s not there. That means I left it in the office, damn and blast. I’ll need to go back and fetch it.”

“No, Clarke, don’t go, I’d rather … not before you’ve talked to somebody.”

“But I can’t leave it there, it’s full of information I need. Don’t worry, my love, they don’t suspect anything, I’m telling you. And nobody’s expecting me at the office right now. I told you I was always one step ahead, you know me. Whoever the people implicated in this business are, they’re very limited in the action they can take. They don’t … they don’t want to attract attention.”

“And what if George talked before he was killed?” she said with increasing worry.

“George? Never. He’d have said any old crap but he’d never have given my name away. It’s a basic rule in the Service, as you know. And I was like a son to him.”

“But maybe there’s another mole or perhaps someone spotted you when you weren’t looking …”

“No, if that was the case, I’d have heard from them already.”

“Be careful, all the same. Are you coming back this evening?”

“It depends on what happens with Tom. I’m going to fetch him from the airport this afternoon and I’ll come home either this evening or tomorrow. But whatever happens I’ll call you tonight. Anyway, I have to go now. See you later, my love.”

“Very well,” she said softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too, my darling … see you this evening.”

Clarke walked on farther until he stopped in front of his car, preferring to park somewhere else the night before. He took his time looking around the street, making sure he wasn’t being watched, before getting into the car.

Vlad and his three henchmen were watching Clarke’s apartment block. They were posted at the two ends of the street he’d have to take in order to get back to his place.

“Now, all we have to do is wait,” said Vlad on the phone.

“What color’s his car?” asked Belu.

“Oh yeah, you weren’t here last night. It’s light gray.”

“No,” said Nicoleanu, “it’s a sort of gray-green.”

“What are you talking about, it’s light gray.”

“No, it’s more like green, like the color of fungus.”

“So, gray or green?” asked Belu in the other car.

“Ok, ok,” said Vlad, “it’s light gray-green. Anyway, I’ll call you when we see him.”

Some time later, Clarke arrived at the office. Nadia was totally surprised.

“You’re here already … I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.”

“Nadia, you haven’t see me,” he said in a whisper. “I’m not here. I’ve just come in to fetch something I forgot.”

“Very well, you’re not here,” she repeated.

Please let her be smart, just for once, he thought as he walked away, but then he turned back.

“In fact, Nadia, did anybody enter—” he corrected himself – “come in to fetch a file from my office?”

She spun around in her chair and carried on working on her computer, proud to take him at his word. She turned in his direction, but without looking at him.

“Is somebody talking to me?”

Spoke too soon, Clarke chastised himself. He stared at the main power switch and prepared to turn it off with his foot.

“No, don’t do that,” she begged, “I’m just sending an important document …”

She looked at his intransigent expression and replied without hesitation.

“No.”

“Thanks,” said Clarke, rewarding her with a tiny smile before continuing on his way to his office.

Meanwhile Van der Meer was dialing a number.

“Hello,” replied Vlad.

“I’ve just been warned, he arrived in the office a few minutes ago.”

“But they told you just the opposite only half-an-hour ago.”

“I know, but he must have changed his mind in the meantime. Or rather, it must be part of his diversionary tactics.”

“We’ll wait for him near the building and we’ll keep you informed as soon as something happens.”

Vlad felt rather disconcerted. He even felt a bit outperformed … but he’d soon recover.

“George is dead!” said a voice.

A little group had gathered spontaneously in the office of one of their colleagues, to talk about this dramatic turn of events. Clarke slid along the wall without stopping, hoping not to be noticed. He didn’t want to stay long in his office; he no longer felt safe and was scared of giving himself away by talking about his friend George. But his hopes faded a few seconds later, as soon as he heard his name.

“Clarke?”

He retraced his steps and went into the office where five co-workers had gathered together.

“Oh, it looks like all that’s missing is tea and biscuits,” he said nonchalantly, looking at each of them in turn.

Nobody reacted. He wasn’t expecting them to.

“Good morning everybody,” he went on.

“There’s bad news, Clarke.”

“Oh, what’s the matter?”

“Clarke, did you know George is dead?”

“George … Decker?”

“Yes.”

“How horrible,” he said, looking about for a chair to sit down. “But how did it happen?” he asked in consternation.

“The boss told me he’d had a heart attack in his bath.”

“That’s insane.”

“You knew him well, didn’t you?”

“I worked with him a few years ago, but that’s all, and I didn’t know him any more than that.” (It was totally false, but better to be careful.) “He was in charge of the listening posts, wasn’t he?”

“No, he worked with us,” began a colleague.

“Yes, on the sixth floor,” put in another. “He worked on cases to do with financial corruption.”

“But it’s so unfair, I think he was only a year off retirement,” said somebody else.

The whole group was reeling from the shock, but nobody found that odd. After all, upsets of that sort had become “common currency” nowadays, but this time they knew the victim.

“Well I’m not surprised,” said the fourth person. “Two weeks ago I was listening to a man on the radio saying that the age we’re living in is completely mad. Either you die of stress, of exhaustion or of illness because of work, or you get run over and killed in the street. Last week, some guy was stabbed in broad daylight with a knife or some sort of hook. The attacker ripped out half his back. The poor guy staggered to the supermarket where my wife was shopping, but he died on the spot. And the worst thing is that nobody wanted to remember the attacker.”

“Alex, that’s really terrible,” said Clarke. “Could you find out what we can do with regard to George’s family? I can’t do it now because I’m busy, but I’ll take over tomorrow.”

“Yes, ok. Shall I call you later?”

“No, I’ll call you, as soon as I’ve finished.”

“Very well.”

“Right, I need to run off now.”

Clarke walked away, but hardly had he entered his office when he felt compelled to leave it again. He had the oppressive feeling he was being watched. Perhaps it was only an impression, but he knew how easy it was to hide a bug or a mini-camera somewhere, without anybody being any the wiser. He quickly found his encoder in the pocket of another jacket that he always left in his office. It was a black device, slightly bigger and thicker than a cigarette pack. Then he left immediately.

This time it was Vlad who phoned.

“Yes,” replied Van der Meer.

“He’s going to the airport.”

“Did he notice you?”

“No, not at all, don’t worry, he’s totally predictable.”

It wasn’t true, as Vlad well knew, but he absolutely wanted to impress Van der Meer who was always dismissive of his self-assuredness and skills.

“Good, we still don’t know who the girl is, but we know he’s going to the airport. But what’s he going … Oh Christ, I know. That heap of shit’s going to approach Pauwels, who’s arriving within the hour. Vlad, you’ve got to stop him.”

“That’s easy.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Van der Meer irritably. “It might not be as easy as you think. He’s one of the best in his year.”

That remark pricked Vlad’s pride. He was the best, and he was annoyed that Van der Meer could still doubt him after six years of faultless work. Nobody had ever escaped him and that wasn’t going to change today. It had to be said that the sensations of pleasure and fiendish expectation were more intense than ever. He couldn’t fail to catch him.

“I might take longer sometimes, but nobody I’ve decided to eliminate has ever survived. As I’ve told you again and again,” he said, working himself up.

“Well, maybe that’s true, Vlad, but it was back in your own country. And you weren’t dealing with trained agents like him. And it’s in a public place with CCTV cameras installed everywhere.”

“Exactly, that’s why it’ll be easier.”

“Whatever you think, he’ll certainly be a hard nut to crack. So you’ll have to be doubly careful.” And then, detaching his words, “And above all, don’t let yourself be noticed for even a moment, because I won’t be able to help you. I would really like to have taken care of him somewhere else, but this little shit-face has been taking us for a ride and we don’t have any choice.”

“Don’t worry, I’m telling you there won’t be any problems – he’s the one who’ll have problems. We won’t come back until the mission’s been completed.”

“And there’s another issue. The press and photographers will be at the airport to cover the arrival of the delegation. So watch that nobody has you appearing in the background of any film or photos. And I repeat: there has to be total discretion. No possible blunder.”

“There won’t be,” he said. “And afterward we’ll take care of the girl. He’s sure to have her photo and number on him. I’ll call you later.”

Vlad cut the call and looked at one of his henchmen in cynical satisfaction. The good old times were back. Then he dialed another number.

“It’s me,” he said simply. “Call Cornel and tell him to meet us at once at the airport.”

He took out his modified black pen, opened a small box filled with cylindrical phials of various colors and selected a black one. Liviu Nika watched him as he drove.

“I hope it’s still as effective, those must have been in the box for at least a year.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a very stable molecule and the concentration’s strong enough for an elephant.”

Their mutually complicit glances were filled with hatred.

5

They slowed down at the airport, deliberately keeping their distance from Clarke. Ten cars overtook them before they slipped into the same parking lot. Keeping a watch from a distance, they allowed him to take the elevators, and then parked right in front of his car. Belu stopped his car two spaces farther over.

“Shall we search the car?” asked Nika.

“No, it’ll set off his alarm.”

“I can neutralize the system.”

“I know, but there’s a risk it won’t work. And I don’t want to take any risks right now. We’ll have all the time in the world later.”

Vlad’s phone rang.

“Yes, Cornel,” he said, after checking the number. “Where are you?”

“Just coming into the airport.”

“Go into the arrivals parking lot and up to the second level. We’re at the back on the right, near the elevators.”

“Ok, I’m coming.”

A short while later, he drove into the arrivals lot and parked near Vlad’s car. Wearing a green pullover, Cornel Dumitrescu got out and came over to sit in the rear seat of their car.

“Listen up,” said Vlad as soon as he’d shut the door. “We don’t have much time. The problem needs to be sorted before 4pm. We’ll all go in separately and you’ll take up your positions in the arrivals hall, as agreed. But you stay with me, Cornell, so I can point him out to you. He’s quite tall, brown hair, wearing jeans and a black jacket. Watch out, he works for the Special Services and he knows all about shadowing. He’s the one who’s been snooping about in our business and he’ll be on his guard. Best thing is for you stand near the doors where the passengers come out, like you were waiting for somebody. Keep your jacket on your left arm. There’ll be a moment when he gets close to you and if he spots you, he won’t be suspicious. And keep that in your pocket,” finished Vlad, handing him the black-lacquer device.

“Is it ready?” asked Cornel.

“Yes. Hide that in your hand as soon as he’s five meters away and always stay behind him. But don’t do anything until the signal. First we’ll try to draw him away to somewhere else. And if that doesn’t work, you take over.”

The execution plan had been set in motion to Vlad’s great satisfaction. Yet his self-assurance wasn’t the same as it had been six years ago, because he hadn’t been killing on such a regular basis. But it must be like riding a bike, he thought, it comes back very quickly. The crowds bothered him nevertheless. You had to ignore them and remain very unobtrusive. And never lose sight of the security cameras that always abounded in airports.

In the arrivals hall, Clarke looked up at the central signboard. The plane was landing on time and everything was going to plan. He was in good time being three-quarters of an hour early, which suited him just fine. He hadn’t eaten any lunch and he was feeling very hungry. On the security side, he’d kept his eye in his rear-view mirror on the drive over as far as the parking lot, and he hadn’t spotted anybody following him meaning nobody knew where he was. He’d be able to enjoy a snack in peace and quiet before Tom arrived.

As usual, the terminal was swarming with people, but it was spacious, well ventilated and bearable. The two busiest spots were the arrivals doors where the passengers came out, and a self-service bar located a bit farther over. He went straight there, glancing discreetly around. Not a single suspicious look: nobody was taking any notice him and everything was fine. He stopped for a few moments in front of the menu fixed to an illuminated display case, and then went along the self-service shelves. He chose two filled salad sandwiches and a coffee, and sat down at a small round table at one end of the bar that had just become vacant. A young couple with two children were sitting at the two tables nearby. An older man, who looked like the father of one of the parents, was sitting next to them with his nose buried in a tourist guide. They were talking in a language he didn’t recognize, a bit noisy but harmless. Anyway, they didn’t look like killers. Or if so, they were very good at it.

Clarke’s table was placed opposite some enormous bay windows from where he could watch a non-stop, real-life aerial ballet. He loved planes and had always wanted to learn to fly, but had never had the time. That day, you could only vaguely make out the cockpits of the machines, because the sky was grey and dark. But you could see them coming in by their powerful landing lights. At least six of them were on approach at regular distances apart, one behind the other, at gradually descending heights. It was impressive: they looked like a succession of UFOs or an alien invasion. He took great pleasure in spotting them as he ate, or rather guzzled, because he’d been gulping down great mouthfuls of sandwich like a man who’d had nothing to eat for several days.

“But where is he, the little shit?” murmured Vlad to Cornel, as they walked into the terminal.

He glanced at each of his men in turn, but was only granted negatives in reply.

“Perhaps in the bar,” he went on. “Follow me.”

Vlad had the eyes of a hawk and it wasn’t long before he’d spotted Clarke’s profile.

“Down there, at the back. You see him?”

“Yes,” replied Cornel.

Finishing his two sandwiches, Clarke downed his coffee in three gulps. Then he searched in his pocket and took out the encoder. He slid back the upper part, tapped on the tiny keyboard and read the information on the screen.

“You see the little gadget he has in his hand?” said Vlad.

“Yes.”

“It’s a specialty of his department. It’s sure to contain data that shouldn’t be there and it’s essential we get it. If you’re the one taking him out, try to grab it. If not, Liviu will do it.”

“Understood.”

“Stand in front of the arrivals doors now, he’ll be getting up in the next few minutes.”

Cornel left Vlad without replying.

Clarke looked at his watch: ten minutes to go. He made up his mind to watch the hall and determine where he was going to stand. He put the device in his pocket and walked quietly toward the arrivals doors where Tom would be coming out, and waited just opposite by two rental vehicle counters. The delegates wouldn’t have any luggage to pick up, so they would be out fast. He looked around: a Japanese tourist with two children was going through the procedure required to rent a car, while his wife took photos of the counter they were standing at. Journalists and photographers, clustered together at the end of the corridor the passengers had to follow to get into the arrivals hall, were chatting among themselves. They were squeezed together, each hoping to gain the best place to assault the prosecutor with their hail of questions. Some of them hadn’t had time or hadn’t bothered to gen themselves up, so stood reading the crib-sheets prepared by their respective newspapers, summarizing the aims of the symposium.

Vlad turned to Nika.

“Go now.”

His henchman nodded and approached with a sure step. Clarke saw him coming from fifteen meters away. He was surprised to see the man smiling at him as if he knew him. He looked all around the hall, but couldn’t see anybody else with him. At first the stranger seemed to be calm and friendly, walking quietly and openly toward him. He was holding his hands by his sides, there was no visible weapon, and he didn’t seem the slightest bit threatening. Clarke didn’t move but was still on his guard. When he was close enough, Nika looked him straight in the eyes.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said softly, in a relaxed voice. “I’m from airport security. Our boss recognized you on one of the cameras,” he went on, vaguely pointing toward the ceiling. “Apparently you were both on the same training course, and he’d like to see you for a moment.”

Clarke had never seen the man before, but that wasn’t a reason to be overcome by paranoia. There were thousands of people in the airport and you couldn’t regard everybody coming anywhere near you as a killer from the organization. In his dark-blue suit with its cheap and tacky tie, he really did look like one of the airport staff. And this kind of situation came up quite often, even though the acquaintances in question usually came in person. But the delegation was due to arrive momentarily and there was no way he could abandon his surveillance. This little improvised scenario was so well performed that Clarke didn’t think for a second it was a ruse to get him away from there. On the contrary, he thought he’d found an excellent observation post.

“Who is he?” he asked, curious but unsuspicious.

The man gave a slow smile.

“I’m not allowed to tell you.”

Clarke gave a brief smile in return.

“Very well, agreed.”

“Would you please follow me?”

The man escorted Clarke toward the elevators.

“Where are the offices?” asked Clarke again, as he glanced quickly all around the hall.

“Downstairs, basement level.”

Vlad and his men couldn’t get over the proficiency of their team member. Clarke was following him to the basement, as docile as a lamb. They’d easily be able to take care of him, without anybody noticing. Just as they were supposed to. He was really good, that Liviu Nika. Vlad smirked like a predator. For a second he felt genuine pride in his choice. The guy was younger than him but he easily matched his caliber. On the other hand, it was all going too fast and too easily for his taste. He was almost disappointed. He hadn’t felt the usual thrill of excitement of toying with his prey and adopting his strategies accordingly in the heat of action. He watched them going into the elevators.

A series of fleeting images suddenly came into Clarke’s mind, just as the two large sliding doors were closing. He blocked them with a thrust of the arm and came back out. His eyes instantly fixed on the man whose expression he’d thought abnormally furtive, just before he’d gone into the elevator. He’d looked away as soon as he’d seen Clarke notice him. It was the well-built man he’d seen hurrying away the night before, just before Sylvia’s death in the Corinthia Grand Hotel. Clarke kept searching the hall, and his eye fell on the hostile gaze of Vlad who spotted him at the same time. He was the one who always walked with a phone clamped to his ear. He noticed the scar on his chin that young Frank had told him about. Then he saw another gaze being averted. In a few seconds, he understood how the three men were linked together in the same conspiracy.

Still blocking the doors, which kept trying to close, he turned to the man who’d accosted him, his eyes blazing.

“Show me your badge!” Clarke ordered in a hard voice.

As he hadn’t suspected the man before, and because it wasn’t about an inspection but some private matter, he hadn’t had a single reason to ask for it before. All the more so, because he was going to the security office. The man feigned astonishment.

“Oh, I don’t have it on me,” he replied without changing his tone of voice and pretending not to have noticed anything. “It’s in the office.”

“Yeah, that’s right, so go fetch it.”

“It would be easier to follow me, I’ll show it to you when we get there,” he tried again.

There were some other people who wanted to use the elevators, so Clarke moved back. He looked at the man doubtfully for a few moments. Was he part of the gang or was he telling the truth? Maybe he didn’t have anything to do with them? In that case, it would be normal for him to be surprised and not to understand this sudden change of heart. The man maintained his gaze.

“Well, tell your colleague to come up here,” said Clarke.

If his story was true and an old classmate was really waiting for him, that’s when he’d explain his attitude. Everybody would understand and the incident would soon be forgotten. Then he walked away with long strides and came back to the rental vehicle counter, his face tense. He watched the three other men he’d seen, deep in thought. The one who’d approached him had remained in the elevator, vanishing with the rest of the travelers.

Vlad couldn’t understand how he could have looked directly at him and his men, when they’d never met before. Had he spotted them the day before, all the same? Or had he surprised them near his home, in the early afternoon, without them noticing? No, it wasn’t possible … and he simply couldn’t understand it. Van der Meer was right to be suspicious. The little shit was really very good, and he was going to give them the run-around. The challenge spiced things up, but he was jubilant.

Clarke realized he’d underestimated the efficiency of the network’s henchmen. From everything he’d seen, they must know something because there they were, but doing what exactly and how had they caught him? Several theories tossed about in his mind – starting with Clara’s: had George talked? Perhaps they’d tortured him and he’d cracked before he’d been killed. And then a whole series of unanswerable questions assailed him: how did they know he’d be at the airport? Was there a mole in that little group he’d met in the office? It was true there were two people whose integrity he couldn’t be sure of. Or had they discovered his other phone line? No, that simply wasn’t possible, because it had been registered to a person living in northern Germany with no connection to him or the Service.

But all these questions were pointless from now on. He knew that they’d come to kidnap him, interrogate him, threaten him, even torture him to find the dossier he’d spirited away and hidden before coming out here. And then, with or without the dossier, they wouldn’t hesitate an instant to eliminate him, pure and simple, just like poor Sylvia and poor George. And in a way that would seem perfectly natural and wouldn’t raise any doubts.

He absolutely had to find a way of escaping them so they couldn’t grab the hard drive of his encoder containing all the data he’d gathered so far, together with a copy of Frank’s deposition. But for now the important thing was to play for time. And what if he tried to run away? Sure, they’d make all the evidence he needed vanish in the night, as Frank had explained to him. He wouldn’t be able to prove anything, but so what? It was the lesser evil … but that wasn’t a good plan either. They’d never let up on somebody who knew so much, because it would be much too dangerous. But would they dare attempt something here in the arrivals hall, with all these people? If they killed him there and then, what would happen? Nothing: that was just it. They wouldn’t even have to hush up the affair. Somebody would find an explanation for his sudden death – tragic and unfair, certainly, but of completely natural causes. And in a few weeks, it would all be forgotten and they’d have free rein once again.

And then there was Tom. If he didn’t see him there, his friend would run around in circles trying to find him. And if the bastards suspected something, they’d soon notice the first deputy hadn’t left the airport immediately but instead was waiting for somebody who hadn’t shown up, which would give him away and all would be lost without him even knowing. If they were on to him, at all costs Clarke wanted to prevent them from being on to Tom, and him causing another friend’s death.

And what if they’d found something out? Perhaps they’d made a connection between him and Tom? His brain was working in overdrive. He didn’t have time to analyze all the details, but the main factors played out in his mind in the span of a few seconds. Tom had only been working for the prosecutor’s office for six months, and they hadn’t seen each other often in that time, not like in the past, because of his new job and all the work he was doing remodeling part of his house. In his opinion, the answer was no: the villains couldn’t have found any link between him and Tom. Perhaps they were waiting to see who he was meeting. But in that case, why had they tried to lure him away without knowing something? His ability to reason things logically had reached the end of the line. He couldn’t understand anything any more, but at all costs he had to avoid these men making any connection between him and Tom. And more than anything, to secure his own position by hiding until he’d arrived. He threw a cautious glance at the butt of the revolver hidden under his jacket, and then looked up. Anyway, he told himself, if they try anything on, I’ll use my weapon. But that would be sheer carnage in a place like this, he chided himself.

He took stock of the situation. There were three or four of them, tactically placed, and obviously quite aware of what they were doing. He was beset by sudden anxiety, and mentally checked through his imminent objectives. He had to find a place to hide or camouflage his device, warn Tom and escape their clutches until tomorrow. He looked toward the two possible exits but the men were still watching him coldly. He made a quick calculation of distances … glanced at the two exits, the elevators and the escalator. They were posted strategically at every exit: impossible to separate them. He was surrounded, driven into a corner, caught like a rat in a trap … it was a real conspiracy. Clarke wondered what they were going to do now. With a worried expression, he gazed into the distance to focus his attention. He simply had to get away and hide his encoder. Then he’d find a way of getting a message to Tom … to tell him to do nothing. Secretive, untouchable networks really did exist, but he’d never have believed it before.

Being hounded by a mafia organization involving his boss would have been the stuff of fiction only a few hours previously. But it was also a vicious circle: since his boss had got his fingers burned, he needed to eliminate all those threatening to unmask him. And yet if he’d known he wouldn’t ever have tried it on. He’d have thought this particular matter might be difficult, but no worse than anything else he’d dealt with. Having won all the accolades in his year, and emerging as one of the best agents in the Special Services, he was starting to lose his nerve. In fact, he would have preferred not to get mixed up in this business, but now he couldn’t turn the clock back.

He decided then and there to walk over to the bar, the only place in the airport that didn’t appear to be guarded. They surely wouldn’t dare approach him in such a busy place, he thought. Then he stopped dead. That’s exactly what they were looking for: noise and confusion in a big crowd of people, where nobody was paying attention to anybody else. And as he couldn’t move easily, he’d be an easy target. Just then Nicoleanu, who’d been standing in the middle of the hall, looked as if he was going to the bar. Clarke’s face was creased in worry lines, betraying his growing unease: he was terrified by the thought that Tom was just about to come out, that he’d catch sight of him, come toward him and make some sort of sign of recognition. He looked again toward the stream of passengers … still nothing. Suddenly he noticed a small recess to the left of the bar, leading to some public toilets. He watched the constant coming and going; it wasn’t ideal, but what choice did he have?

Seeing the door to the men’s room was open, he moved over there quickly and slipped inside. The toilets were bigger than he’d thought, stretching into the distance. There was a row of cubicles on the left, basins on the right and a female cleaner toward the back. The place was swarming with people and most of the cubicles were shut. That was all he noticed before locking himself into the only available cubicle. He dug into his pocket, and almost tore it in his haste to get out the encoder that had stuck inside. As the toilet seat didn’t have a lid, he sat down on the bowl itself. Luckily these cubicles were properly enclosed, all the way down to the floor. There was a gap at the top of the door, but he couldn’t do anything about that. All it needed was increased vigilance. He went straight to work.

6

Belu went toward the men’s toilets, waited for a sign from Vlad, and walked in while removing the doorstop that had been placed under the door. But he hadn’t reckoned on Dolorès dos Anjos, the cleaning operative. It was the thing that bugged her most of all: somebody disturbing her at work. It happened several times a day, but this time she’d had enough. As ample in character as she was in girth, her deeply outraged expression made it very clear to the intruder that he’d committed a grave mistake. She was responsible for zone F, which encompassed the whole arrivals floor, and so she was the one in command of the toilets.

Shouting forcefully skyward in an incomprehensible mixture of English and Portuguese, she firmly put the doorstop back in place. Clarke listened to her tirade, without suspecting that she’d just repelled one of the pair of dangerous killers who were coming for him. Neither did she. Realizing he could no longer act without being observed, Belu went out again toward one of the exits. Clarke found it very difficult to concentrate as his fingers fiddled with the tiny buttons of his device, which was emitting varied but unobtrusive sounds. And he was bothered each time the door handle was noisily pushed down, making him jump. He was terrified that one of the men would attack him inside the toilets. As he didn’t know if it was his enemies or distracted passengers in a hurry trying to open the door, he kept looking up, staring at the top of the cubicle door like a hunted stag. Then he closed his device, and got up onto the edge of the toilet bowl to assess the situation. None of them was around. All he had to do was hide the encoder. He quickly scanned the place to find the best solution. He noticed a businessman in his fifties with a small leather briefcase: it was standing open, with a Singapore Airlines label stuck onto the handle. Then his eyes rested on the pocket containing polishing cloths on the small cleaning cart. He hesitated, but fixed his choice on the cart. He got back down, hid the small device under his jacket and started to unlock the door. And stopped. He turned back again and peered around the cubicle. It was a brief search, because there were no recesses. Everything was perfectly smooth and visible. The only possible place was the tank, but it was perched two meters above the toilet and difficult to reach. He climbed back onto the bowl and cautiously scanned the wash area over the top of the door again. The cleaning operative was busy filling the vending machine with condoms. The other people were all in a hurry and nobody seemed to be waiting about. He tried to lift the cover of the tank but it was too high, and he couldn’t get any leverage. He glanced again toward the bad-tempered doorkeeper. She had just dropped almost all the little blue and pink packages in a circle all around her. Having lost her former suppleness as a young ballerina ages ago, she was fully occupied in the task. He climbed back up and slid the device in behind the tank, as dexterously as possible.

Having back pain from bending over, the woman straightened up at the same moment and saw a hand withdraw as she leaned back to stretch. A hand … she’d seen a hand. She wasn’t dreaming; she’d seen a hand slide out from the back of the tank. And if there was a hand, it wasn’t to clean – it was to hide something. Nobody did that to her, not that sort of thing. It was sure to be something to do with drugs. The management had warned them that people hid drugs in the toilets, and she’d received strict directives on the subject. She kept her eyes on the cubicle.

Clarke opened the door quickly and took off, walking in step with a traveler who was leaving at the same time. She grabbed her broom and went straight into the cubicle. Closing the door, she looked at the back of the tank and then tried to dislodge the object using the broom-handle. On the third attempt she was successful; the object fell down, but before it could smash itself on the ground she’d caught it with surprising agility.

Clarke left the toilet very quickly, and strode toward the place where his friend was due to arrive. He shot a quick glance at Vlad, who was standing opposite him but with no apparent reaction. It was very crowded, and Clarke pushed through as fast as he could to reach the corridor by the arrivals doors. He kept throwing anxious glances all around, to check where the henchmen were stationed. Strangely, they hadn’t left the posts they’d been assigned to. Dumitrescu walked softly toward Clarke, until he was two meters away and looking as if he was waiting for somebody. Searching for the best place from where to catch Tom’s eye, Clarke moved to the right until he was just next to him. The man moved back slightly so that he was right behind him. Then he glanced unobtrusively at Vlad, who gave him a slight nod of assent. Now was the time to risk it, before Clarke could speak to the prosecutor. Without being seen, the man took the small instrument from the pocket of the jacket he’d folded over his left arm. For a moment he was distracted when two people pushed in front of him. A young man caused him even more annoyance, with his large backpack knocking into him every time he moved.

Then everything happened very fast. The doors opened. Tom and the prosecutor came out and walked down the corridor toward the pressmen. The remaining delegation composed of six civil servants followed proudly behind, their large attaché-cases clutched in their hands. For more than fifteen seconds, Clarke tried to catch Tom’s eye. He was walking to the right of the prosecutor, just behind him. His knee hadn’t improved and he was still dragging his leg.

But despite the crowds his eye fell on his friend and he walked toward him. Then he noticed the dismissive look together with an almost imperceptible negative sign with the index finger, his hand pressed against his chest. Clarke was trying to make him understand two things simultaneously: that he shouldn’t come close to him and that he shouldn’t try anything with regard to what they’d talked about.

That’s when Dumitrescu decided to act. Almost at the same moment, he brought an object close to Clarke’s back, parallel to his heart. The hubbub in the hall completely drowned out the dry click of the small device, as well as Clarke’s muffled groan. The noises weren’t even noticed by the people close to him. Only Tom had sensed that something out of the ordinary was happening, but he’d understood he mustn’t stop.

He continued with the prosecutor and the other delegates, while the last image he’d had in his field of vision was of his friend as he was turning around. In fact Clarke had spun around on pure reflex, in order to defend himself and to find out who had launched the surprise attack on him, but Dumitrescu had already gone. Clarke tried to catch up with him and grip him by the shoulder, but the crowd prevented him from moving forward. By now he couldn’t go any further. He stumbled for a few seconds, and then his legs suddenly collapsed under him as his vision faded.

Tom saw him falling, as if he’d been pole-axed by a heart attack, creating a small disturbance in a corner of the airport. He fell so fast it was as if he’d been liquefied on the spot. Hardened to shocking images, some photographers scrambled toward him like a troupe of ravening hyenas, attracted by the crowd gathering around the body, to see if was anybody famous. No it was an unknown person, and who cared about a nonentity? They set off in the other direction and mingled with the rabble near the delegation. Somebody falling ill was a slight diversion and of no interest to them. Dumitrescu left the hall and vanished. The horde of photographers greeted the delegates with a galaxy of flashes, which in combination with the blinding lights from their cameras erupted all around to an infuriating extent.

Shell-shocked, Tom suddenly grasped the meaning of the instructions Clarke had just signaled to him. He must have realized too late that he was being followed and that they shouldn’t meet. It was logical: if he was under surveillance, he couldn’t show them that they knew each other. His mind was in turmoil. He tried to pull himself together, but was finding it very difficult to hide his shock. His face was pale and his mind was wandering. The hubbub of the crowd and explosion of flashes seemed to have receded into the distance. He wondered what had happened to his friend. Was it a gunshot? Was he seriously wounded? He glanced quickly in his direction, and saw people crouching by the body of his friend, trying to resuscitate him.

Vlad and Nika introduced themselves to the people taking care of Clarke as plain-clothes policemen.

“Excuse us, we’re from the police. Thank you for your help, but we’ll take care of everything now.”

Vlad pretended to examine Clarke’s eyes while taking his pulse, to make sure he was dead. Then he covered his face with his jacket and searched all the pockets. He came across a wallet he handed to Nika, and a bunch of keys, but nothing else. Not even in the back pockets.

“He doesn’t have it, go and look in the toilets,” murmured Vlad.

Nika stood up and walked away to the restrooms.

The journalists were getting impatient: they were coming to find out about the outcome of the symposium, as well as the prosecutor’s opinion. Once he approached the mikes, he was literally assaulted on all sides by the questions bursting simultaneously out of the journalists like machine-gun fire.

The name of the game was, in fact, determining the soundness and practical usefulness of the newly created tribunal. One of the burning issues concerned the taxation of income acquired on the Stock Market and placed into offshore accounts. Numerous affected people across the world were impatient to hear the results, because there were enormous interests at stake. A battle of daggers drawn had been engaged among the private sectors and certain States. But mostly States, vying to outdo each other in ingenuity in order to attract the greatest amount of capital.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I’m unable to give you a statement on the subject at this moment in time. It’s too soon. All I can tell you is that after all the years of debating on these issues, what has emerged is the following: managing profits earned by trading platforms is a business like any other. Each country should put forward their proposals, with advantages and disadvantages, according to their genuine economic potential. But you’ll have more information at the press conference we’re arranging in ten days’ time.”

Tom kept glancing toward the small group, in the hope of finding out what was happening. The disturbance had settled down: two airport security guards had turned up, accompanied by two people in civilian clothes, probably a doctor and nurse. My God, prayed Tom, please don’t let it be anything serious and let him come out of it.

“Does anyone know this person?” asked one of the security men taking in the scene.

But nobody answered.

“Was there anyone with him?”

“No, I think he was on his own,” said a woman.

“What happened?” asked the man in civilian clothes.

“He was waiting in front of me and he suddenly collapsed.”

“Ask for a gurney, we’ll take him to the infirmary.”

The guard spoke into the mike attached to his shoulder. But seeing the expression on his face and the way people were behaving around the body, Tom understood that his friend was most likely dead. His last gesture, his last look had been to save him. He was horrified and terrified in equal measure.

Vlad pulled his jacket off Clarke’s face, and merged among the horde of journalists surrounding the delegation. He was very close to Tom. They exchanged glances, but Tom looked just like any other member of the press. For his part, Vlad was waiting for Nika and wasn’t suspicious. The guy was just some unlikable highbrow with a limp. Some journalists did not want to wait for the press conference. They insisted on getting more substantial information before the others. They tried making deliberately false assertions: one of the tactics they used to provoke a reaction and sow fragments of disinformation to spice things up. It didn’t work this time around, and the prosecutor made a final statement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I will not be making any further announcements at this time, and I thank you for your understanding. Please excuse us, we have work to do.”

The journalists moved slightly to one side, and the delegation departed by one of the exits.

A woman with her face wrapped in a scarf was standing about twenty meters away. Impelled by some sort of premonition of evil, Clara had driven to the airport. She hadn’t seen anything, but she’d understood it all when the man in the green pullover had suddenly distanced himself from Clarke, just before he’d fallen. Her teeth clenched, she stood transfixed as she watched events unfold.

Thinking the man was acting by himself, her first reaction was to rush toward Clarke, but she stopped short when she saw him talking to another man. She’d prayed fervently that it was nothing serious, but she’d very soon grasped the horror of the situation when she saw the jacket being placed over his face. She continued watching, and little by little had been able to spot the other accomplices. They’d acted like beaters, to distract Clarke, while another man he didn’t suspect carried out the actual killing. A mixture of panic and anxiety was etched on her face. And then she experienced a violent feeling bursting out of her: not sorrow, or anger or revenge, but a combination of all three. For an interminable moment she had remained undecided on how to get involved.

She didn’t know what to do. Should she take action and denounce them publicly? Should she follow them without saying anything? None of these solutions seemed realistic to her. Clarke had told her how dangerous they were, and if she wanted to act somehow the most essential thing was not to be noticed. To achieve justice, she thought instinctively to herself, it would be better for them not to know her. That way she’d be able to track them through the shadows right to the end. She decided to wait until they’d left, before going to the infirmary and asking how Clarke was. She’d pass herself off as one of the people who’d come to his aid. She was still shaking from the shock of what had happened to her beloved. Now she was sure she’d sensed something before, a kind of imminent danger at that moment when they’d said goodbye. It had only lasted for a fraction of a second, but the fleeting premonition had knocked her sideways. She couldn’t decide if it was genuine intuition or if she’d exaggerated her anxiety because she was so tired. It didn’t matter now; she’d decided to get to the airport and had immediately taken the day off, thinking naively she could come to his aid if there were any problems.

Three official sedans were waiting for the members of the delegation. The six of them were dividing themselves between the last two cars, when the prosecutor spoke to Tom.

“Can I ask you to take my files back to the office?” he said, handing over his briefcase.

He didn’t wait for a reply. It was an order in the form of a polite request.

“Shall I give them to Greta?”

“No, put them straight into my office, she’ll open it up for you. And tell her not to sort through any of it. I’ll do that myself.”

“Very well.”

“And we’ll see each other tomorrow at nine. We’ll be working on the Manson file. I don’t want them to gain the upper hand, that lot.”

“Very well, I’ll go prepare the whole dossier.”

“Have a good evening,” he said, getting into the lead car on his own.

“Thanks, same to you,” replied Tom.

The driver closed the door. Tom walked to the second vehicle. He’d planned to go straight back to his home, but now it seemed calling by his workplace wasn’t such a bad idea. He’d have the chance to ferret about in the prosecutor’s office without attracting attention.

Vlad and his men had gathered together at the far end of the airport.

“There’s nothing anywhere.”

“You checked in all the basins?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“Did he go into the ladies’ restrooms?”

“No, he only went into the men’s.”

“Goddamit to hell, where the fuck’s he hidden the thing?”

Even though she was broken with colossal grief, Clara was experiencing an astonishingly clear mind. She had no idea where this resistance came from, but all at once she could feel a great strength inside her. Her lips pinched, her expression black, she stared at the four men as they walked away, as if to burn their faces permanently into her memory.

7

The sedan dropped John Pauwels in front of the imposing double-gates that guarded the access to the very select Cunningham Bridge Club Association. The small gate on the right opened up, allowing the prosecutor to walk through and continue up the avenue on foot. He didn’t want to be driven up to the front entrance of the club, but had decided to take advantage of the large secluded park to clear his head and take a bit of exercise.

At the far end, the perfectly tended lawns were adorned with a circular fountain made of dressed stone, enlivened by refreshing jets of water fed by a delightfully babbling but artificially created brook. Three uniformed guards were patrolling both sides of the house. Perfectly aligned at the front stood four midnight blue Maybachs, whose interior lounges were known only to the most important members. The prosecutor walked up to the entrance leading to the very tall, wooden double-doors.

The maitre d’ greeted him in the lobby.

“Good evening, sir, Mr. Van der Meer has just arrived. He’s waiting for you,” he said with a respectful gesture.

“Thank you, Victor,” he replied, turning toward the restaurant.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

The prosecutor passed through the succession of rooms, greeting those he knew on his way. The first room was entirely dedicated to the bar, while the two farther rooms formed the restaurant proper. Sitting at the back of the second room and tapping away on his laptop, Van der Meer had isolated himself from the other club members by leaving two tables empty. He had already given orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed for any reason. All the tables had been covered with pristine double tablecloths, but hadn’t been laid for dinner yet.

“Hello Nigel,” said Pauwels calmly, pulling out a chair.

“Ah, hello John,” replied the other, closing his laptop and putting it to one side. “Did your trip go well?”

“Yes, it was very pleasant being on that cruise liner. You’ll really like it, you’ll see.”

“Oh, I can imagine. And otherwise, the symposium?”

“Utterly useless but it all went well.”

Van der Meer grabbed the bottle of whiskey that had been reserved for him.

“The usual?”

“Yes please,” replied Pauwels without looking at the bottle.

Then he added:

“So tell me what happened.”

“Yes, but first of all tell me if he’s had time to upset you since you got back,” said Van der Meer, pouring out two generous measures.

“No, he was taken ill just before talking to me. Vlad looked really annoyed,” he said, smiling slightly out of the corner of his mouth.

Nothing escaped the prosecutor, as usual, but he pretended not to have noticed anything. They exchanged satisfied looks of mutual understanding.

“But who is this fellow exactly and just what does he know?”

“As to the second question, not the slightest idea. He was one of our agents, but not under my direct command. He caught me short and I didn’t have time to suggest a different career path to him. He started snooping about with an old trooper in my department, but I was only informed about that yesterday.”

“And what made him go snooping?”

“A young guy who squealed. Somebody who’d been with them from the beginning, and he’d got into a fight with another man on the boat. And then, we don’t know what it was that got up his nose, but he came in to see Foster to make a deal. He was prepared to spill the beans as long as the justice system turned a blind eye to what he’d done. When they telephoned me to ask for his protection, of course I accepted and then I did the necessary. I don’t know if they knew each other before, but that Foster went on snooping despite my orders. I didn’t realize at first that it was him. Two men turned up at the Telecom offices and took Phil by surprise. He was able to give me the name of George Decker, a long-time agent in my department. The other name didn’t mean anything to me. I suspected Foster nevertheless, but he played a clever hand to start off with. He decided to go on with his inquiry while pretending the opposite to his superior. Then I thought it must be somebody else, a colleague of Decker’s. He managed to mislead me for some time before I finally realized it was him. But after what happened to his co-worker, he should have understood it would be better not to get too close to certain matters. And yet the little idiot wanted to rewrite the legend of Icarus: thinking he could get too close to things that didn’t concern him without burning his wings. What can you do, it’s not my fault.”

“But it wasn’t very clever to take care of him at the airport – you should have waited.”

“I know … I didn’t have any choice because he’d gotten ahead of us, and we couldn’t just stand about twiddling our thumbs. But don’t worry, we can trust Vlad. If he’d had doubts or felt that something wasn’t working, he wouldn’t have made the attempt at the airport. He’d have followed him and then waited for a more propitious moment. I know Vlad, he’s a hard bastard but he’s used to this type of work, and he’s much too attached to his new and ordered way of life to take the slightest risk. Everything’s been sorted now and he gave me his assurance that nobody noticed anything.”

“Did they find anything embarrassing?”

“No, but I wanted to stop them before they had the chance. They must have discovered those numbers by searching the guy’s apartment, and they were curious to find out where they led, that’s all. The older guy had been living alone for years, and they’re going to take care of the other one’s girlfriend, as a precaution, as soon as they’ve found her. It’s just a matter of time.”

“No, I slipped on a step. When I tried to recover my balance I fell onto my side.”

“Oh dear. And does it hurt?”

“A bit, when I move. But it’ll be better in a few days.”

“Apparently the official dinner took place on a cruise liner, that must have been fantastic,” said Greta enviously as she closed the office.

“Yes, but there was a huge storm and I didn’t feel very safe,” said Tom, taking the dossiers out of the attaché-case.

“Oh my Lord, a few drops of rain and a puff of wind, and you get all upset.”

“You’re playing it down,” said Tom with an expression of annoyance, because he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

“Oh I don’t think so,” she said.

“I’d like to see you facing the full force of nature.”

“Stop exaggerating Tom — you didn’t fall into the raging sea, did you?”

Tom couldn’t prevent a small smile; good old Greta had no idea about what he’d just survived. And she was so upright and honest that even if he told her the truth and explained everything he’d discovered, she’d never believe him.

“No, of course not,” he said simply.

“Were the conference sessions interesting?” she asked.

As it was the end of the day, she knew he wasn’t doing any more work and that was why she was taking the opportunity to have a chat with him.

“Some more than others, as usual,” he replied.

Then he left his office, carrying the prosecutor’s two heavy briefcases.

“Could you hand me the keys to His Majesty’s kingdom, he’s asked me to prepare the documents for tomorrow’s meeting.”

“Leave it, I’ll sort it all out.”

“No, he told me to ask you to wait before sorting through everything.”

“Oh, very well.”

She opened one of the drawers, dug out the small metal safe that locked with an electronic key, and dialed in a number. She carried out this operation with Tom watching, because as they were alone in the office there was no reason to take any precautions. And since her boss had just nominated him his deputy and had charged him with preparing his dossiers, she felt she could trust him. She opened up the safe; it contained six golden keys, each fitted with an electronic chip down one side. She pulled out number four and handed it to him.

“There you go,” she said with a smile.

“Thanks.”

“Will it take you long?”

“However long it takes to sort through the dossiers and put everything into the proper order.”

“I see, so I’ll take these three ring binders downstairs and I’ll lock up as soon as you’ve finished.”

“Very well,” said Tom, walking toward the office.

Tom unlocked the door once the PA had gone, hurriedly arranged the dossiers into three untidy piles of roughly the same size, and stowed the briefcases away in their usual place – the sideboard in front of the window. Then he decided to take a tour of the office and search for clues or compromising documents. He tried to open the cupboards, filing cabinets and other drawers one after the other, but they were all locked. He knew it was useless to force them, because they were reinforced and fireproof. He didn’t even bother looking in the desk, as it wouldn’t be where he’d find anything. He went out, pulled the self-closing door to, left the key in the PA’s office and went back to his own. He heard her coming and pretended to be reading his notes. She knocked gently on the door.

“Have you finished?”

“Yes, thanks. I’ve put the key on your desk.”

“Oh that’s good, but are you still staying here?” she said, putting the key back into the safe.

“No, I’ll go once I’ve finished sorting through these notes.”

“You’re doing well. These symposiums don’t appear to amount to much, but they’re rather tiring all the same,” she said as she closed the desk drawer. “Anyway, that’s how it’s always seemed to me.”

You’re telling me, he thought to himself.

“And nothing’s changed, so you’re quite right.”

“So, have a good evening and see you tomorrow.”

“Sure, you too, see you tomorrow.”

She put on her coat, picked up her purse and went out. Tom waited a while before putting down his sheet of paper, taking out the rest of the dossiers and placing them on her desk. He went out into the corridor and walked as far as the elevators, to make sure Greta wasn’t still around. But she’d already gone. She was a model of efficiency, and she never stayed late at the office. A natural organizer, she wasn’t the sort of person to delay her departure by forgetting something and making a false start. Tom retraced his steps, sat down on Greta’s chair and tried to open the drawer containing the safe … it was stuck. All the other drawers opened easily, but not this one. So all the keys to the prosecutor’s office were locked inside a mini-safe in a permanently locked drawer, he thought to himself.

“I don’t know if you remember the guy who turned up in Miami with the Cubans,” said Van der Meer.

“Yes, but the difference with Marty and the Cubans,” said Pauwels, “is that they didn’t watch their backs properly. They weren’t legally set up, they dropped their guard and the whole thing fell apart — it’s a classic case. This is totally different, because we’re beyond reproach. We’re members of a private bridge club participating in meetings and bridge tournaments in various venues. Nothing else is our concern. And don’t forget that at our age, we’re insuperable and untouchable. Anyway, even if the guys at the club had the slightest suspicion, they couldn’t do a thing about it because there’s not a shred of evidence. But they wouldn’t ever try anything on: they know if they threaten to put their noses into our business, we’ll stick our noses into theirs. You know, in this day and age and with all the little favors everyone’s doing for everyone else, there’s no point in upsetting people.”

“Yes, you’re right. In case of unforeseen circumstances, I’ve already booked myself a weekend stay in Malakian’s place in Marrakesh. Not only is it not in the same place, it’s not on the same continent. No possible connection.”

Belu and Nicoleanu gave Clarke’s apartment a thorough going-over, searching for any documents liable to discredit the organization. They used the tried and trusted technique: all the drawers were pulled open, emptied and thrown to the ground. The cupboards, low tables and bookshelves were tipped over. They ran their hands over all the furniture and looked underneath every wardrobe. Nicoleanu took out his cutter, upended the sofa and ripped through the material underneath.

“Stop it,” said Belu. “That’s enough, you can tear up the rest.”

They searched in every nook and cranny, but with no results. They spent more than two hours subjecting the whole apartment to a fine toothcomb, but couldn’t find anything.

“But where’s he hidden the thing? It’s just not possible that there’s nothing here.”

“He must have put in someplace else, maybe his girlfriend’s joint.”

They went back into the bedroom and Belu picked up the photo of Clara he’d thrown onto the bed. He unpicked the back of the frame to take out the photo. He turned it over, but there was nothing written on the back.

“That’s her for sure, his slut. But we don’t know a thing about her, her address or nothing.”

“But how d’you know it’s her? We’ve searched through everything and we haven’t found any other photos, which is weird, huh?”

His sidekick shrugged his shoulders.

“We’ll see. Go fetch his laptop and all his stuff. I’ll keep looking.”

Nicoleanu did as he was told. He grabbed the laptop, gathered up the CDs and USB keys they’d found and put the lot into a plastic bag.

“We’ve found a photo of his girlfriend but there’s nothing else,” said Belu into his cellphone.

“Find her,” said Vlad. “Take the photo to Ted, he can hack her address from the central computer.”

“Fine,” said Belu.

He cut the call.

“We’re taking the photo to Ted,” said Belu. “You can go see him. Tell him it’s an order from Van der Meer and that we couldn’t find anything on the bitch. And tell him to get his finger out to find her name and address. I’m going back, but when he’s found her, call me and we’ll go pay her a little visit.”

“OK,” said Nicoleanu simply.

“And tell him we only have two hours,” said Belu.

They left the apartment. Belu cast a last curious glance over the place, as if he’d find some missing clue, and then shut the door.

8

Dolorès dos Anjos pushed her cleaning cart into the storeroom where the airport’s machinery and maintenance material were kept. Her husband, who worked with her, was pouring floor cleaner into the reservoir in her electric cart. She shut the door and picked up the encoder that Clarke had hidden, and tried to open it. When she found she couldn’t, she took one of her keys and tried with that. Nothing doing. She looked at the hermetically sealed black box with a mixture of astonishment and suspicion, and then went up to her husband.

“Vat ees dis, huh?” she asked in her strong accent.

“What is what?” he asked, in less of an accent.

“Dis,” she repeated, handing him the small black box.

Her husband took it, turned it all around but couldn’t find any writing.

“Is a machine for to méasuring de radio waves.”

Getting all worked up, she grabbed the box back.

“But vat ees dis ting, and vat ees jou telling me?”

“Is what is written, if jou knows reading, jou.”

“Hi knows reading very good,” she replied with a huff.

“Yes, jou knows reading de numbers good, but only de silver numbers which is winning and that jou pays for every Saturdays.”

“Oh jou stop, huh? And for why in my toilets me?” she said, increasingly irritated.

“But how do I’s know?” he replied, with a grimace. “Maybe it’s de injineers who is taking de special méasurings.”

“De special méasurings in de toilet? Hi ees not stoopid, huh? Hi sees de person dat puts it dere. Dis ees no injineer,” she said, exaggerating the word, “dis ees a jong man who ees ‘iding eet on de purposes.”

“But why is jou go fetch it?”

“Jou knows de managemen’, what dey say ‘bout de drogs. Jou must searchings in de coobicles to find de drogs. If de man ‘e tries to ‘ide dem, den jou must not to toch, jou must trow dem in da toilet ver’ quick, or jou must to talking wid da polis.”

“That is maybe the special measurings.”

“And Hi not got de time for making fon wid dat.”

She threw the device into a large trashcan.

“So … and ees fineesh, de méasurings.”

But her husband was taking malicious pleasure in pushing her emotions to the very edge, and he carried on the conversation.

“But jou is crazy … is maybe a trick of the mafia, I knows them, they doos that, this is not the measurings but if they is full of the drogs, they is coming to find jou and if you ‘as thrown it, then they kills jou, in tha toilets.”

“Huh, dey can coming, Hi hitting dem wid da broom.”

“What jou think, you can do nothings. They coming two and three, they putting jou head in the bowl and they shooting jou in the neck with the very silent, like rabbits.”

“But what jou saying, jou?” she shouted, hitting him in frustration. “Jou like when Hi is dead, denn you go seeing da girls, huh? And so dis machine, he staying ‘ere. He measurings da trash, like so!”

“Jou doing what jou want, but if jou staying alive, jou not working no more. Because they comings to see jou.”

She threw him an evil look as she clamped the lid down on the trashcan, to show her determination. She switched off the light and they both left the storeroom.

Tom had been pacing around his home for hours. It was dark, and only the indirect lighting in the kitchen was switched on. He was simultaneously tense, sad and worried. His friend had been murdered before his very eyes and he couldn’t talk about it to anyone. He opened the fridge and took out two beers. He wasn’t intending to get drunk, but one beer wasn’t going to be enough to calm him down. He downed the first one in a single gulp, and then opened the second bottle and went back to the living room to sit down in a chair. He kept on analyzing over and over everything that had happened in the last two days. Starting with the concealed murder of his friend, causing the gist of their last conversation to spin around in his mind. Still sipping his beer, he stood up, went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. He took out some dark clothes and threw them onto a chair, took off his pants, sat on the bed, and looked at the state of his knee. It was purple and inflamed, and still very painful. He went into the bathroom and took out the plastic box containing all his first-aid kit. First he applied what remained of some anti-inflammatory cream, together with some sterile pads, and then wrapped his knee in elastic bandage. He took off his shirt and put on a pair of charcoal-gray jeans and a black pullover. Walking back to the kitchen, he grabbed two keys on an old key ring and gulped down the rest of his beer.

About a half-hour later, Tom walked into Clarke’s apartment building. When he reached the right floor, he went straight to the door where the name “Bergson” was engraved on a black plaque: that was the right one. He took the keys out of his pocket, went into the apartment without a sound, closed the door quietly behind him and moved cautiously forward into the spacious living room. He swept the area with the torchlight he’d brought with him, and saw at once how everything had been ransacked, turned upside down, and scattered without compunction. It took him several minutes to grasp the extent of the chaos. Stunned, he gazed at the calamity, almost losing his balance as he stumbled over the objects on the floor. Even though it was plunged into darkness, the room was sufficiently well lit by the streetlights outside for him to be able to make out what the objects were. But the shadows, the items themselves and even the normally familiar furniture all seemed to present a threat. He swung his torch too rapidly across the room for him to notice the top of a head hidden behind the sofa. And yet as he moved on through the apartment, the increasing feeling of unease was creating a lump in his throat. He could see files dumped on chairs all over the apartment, with clothes on the office chair. The torch was giving him a sense of security, even if he knew it was false. There wasn’t a sound, except for the muffled tones of film music coming from the apartment below. But it only came in snatches, because the night air was carrying the sound away. Although he was dead, Clarke’s presence in the apartment was still very noticeable. It was strange, almost troubling.

He went on farther into the next room, and started rummaging gently among all the scattered belongings. At the same time, a shadow moved silently and furtively across the carpet toward the back of the room. Too absorbed in what he was doing, Tom didn’t hear anything and went on with his searches. But he had a sudden strange feeling that there was a presence in the apartment, making his heart beat like crazy in his chest. He tried to find a logical reason for this sensation of fear: being in the dark, everything that had happened, being in the middle of searching his missing friend’s apartment – surely it was a normal reaction? It was fear of the unknown that was terrifying his mind. He went on hunting about in his friend’s stuff, moving slowly toward the back of the apartment. The dark and silent shadow was still watching him. Tom picked up the tiny trunk covered in tan leather that he’d brought Clarke from the Indies. His friend had loved it, because its domed upper part reminded him of the trunks belonging to the first explorers, now lying at the bottom of the ocean. It even had its own lock and tiny key. He gently wiped away the tears springing in his eyes, remembering the feast his friend had organized for his return and the fabulous evening they’d spent together. Clarke had always been his great soul mate. When he’d arrived in the city just about a year ago, Clarke had put him up for a few months until he’d found a house he really liked. Knowing that Tom loved DIY in his leisure time, that was when Clarke had asked his friend to build a secret hideaway into one of the walls in the apartment. Tom had happily spent an entire weekend creating it for him. He had meticulously cut out a space about fifty centimeters in length, inside the wall behind the skirting board. The end of the skirting board acted as a door, firmly locking in the cavity with a series of ties fitted together one after the other. The cuts were imperceptible, but even so Clarke had disguised the place behind a small writing desk. This had been moved, but it was still camouflaging the secret hiding-place.

Tom pushed gently against the small piece of furniture, moving a few items on the floor to one side to do so, pulled out the end of the skirting board and searched inside. What a disappointment: it was empty. The most likely explanation was that Clarke had taken out all the evidence he’d talked about to show him. He knew what the next stage was: he’d been taken by surprise and they’d killed him to grab the evidence. It was sadly all part of the pitiless logic so typical of mafia organizations.

Tom came back into the room where the shadow had moved, but still didn’t suspect anything. He hardly had time to take a step when the shadow loomed up from behind the chair. He thought his heart was going to freeze in fright.

9

A fine rain was falling. Belu had gotten Clara Wagner’s name and address. Nika and Vlad had joined him and they were waiting inside a large dark sedan, parked about fifty meters from her apartment block. Keeping up surveillance on Clara’s home was fairly easy, because she lived in a residential quarter surrounded by very busy side streets. All they had to do was park in line, and wait until nobody noticed them any more. Sooner or later, she’d be forced to come in or go out, thought Vlad. There was a constant stream traffic along the narrow street, and the entrance hall well lit. It suited him perfectly.

“A yellow Mini, that won’t be difficult to spot,” said Belu.

“D’you know if Ted had any problems identifying her?” asked Vlad.

“No, it took him half-an-hour.”

“He’s really good that guy.”

“Yeah.”

“You think we’ll find more stuff at her place?”

“Yep, I think he stashed everything in her apartment, even if she doesn’t know.”

“You think she doesn’t know?” asked Nika.

“I dunno, maybe. But we don’t have a choice, we can’t take the risk,” said Vlad.

Belu was holding a small cylinder made of brown metal to his ear.

“You’re sure it’s that one?” asked Vlad.

“Yeah, I checked again just now, before I went to fetch it.”

“That’s some work,” congratulated Vlad.

The wraith threw a heavy object at Tom, hitting him on the shoulder blade, and then tried again with a kind of long vase. He lost his balance for a moment, but managed to dodge the second assault. He moved back, flipped his torch on, and held it up toward the shadow. With his breath coming in short jerks, he gazed at the face of his attacker. A black band across the brow hid the hair; the face was quite wide but the traits were fine and the limbs long, like … but it was a woman! Partially blinded, she threw another object with all her might, but he managed to dodge that as well.

“Clara?” he said in a low voice.

But the person facing him wouldn’t let go of her aggression.

“Who are you?”

“Tom, Clarke’s friend.”

“Tom?” she said, out of breath.

Tom put his finger to his mouth, to indicate she should speak in a whisper. He smiled at her, but she was still suspicious.

“Yes.”

There was a sudden noise, like wood cracking unexpectedly. They turned their heads toward the next-door room. They didn’t know what had caused it, but they didn’t want to hang around to find out. Tom beckoned to Clara to move out, and she didn’t have to be told twice.

He took her down the corridors of the building, looking for a quiet place. A few minutes later, they walked into the storeroom where the trashcans were kept, and continued talking.

“At least it’s quiet here,” Tom assured her.

Clara was completely tensed up. It was obvious she’d accumulated a strong dose of adrenalin and that she was ready to wipe out anybody mixed up, however remotely, with the disappearance of the man she’d just lost. The dark rings under her eyes were the manifestation of both anger and huge sadness.

“Have you hurt yourself?” she asked.

“No, it’s nothing,” said Tom.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were one of the bastards who got in using Clarke’s stolen keys.”

“I thought the same thing.”

He couldn’t stop a big sigh of anguish.

“But do you have a key to the apartment?”

“Yes, I lived here for some time when I arrived in the city. I left about two months ago before I could make your acquaintance.”

“Oh.”

There was a short silence and then they both spoke at once.

“But how did –?”

“Because I –”

They stopped at the same time.

“You first,” said Tom.

“No, what were you saying?”

“How did you know they found Clarke’s keys on him?” he asked, looking away and feeling both embarrassed and awkward.

Clara blinked a few times before attempting a reply. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. Tom instinctively took her by the arm. She’d managed to control herself, but now she could feel her courage abandoning her: she’d held back her tears up to that moment, but couldn’t resist any longer and started sobbing. Tom lost all his shyness in his desire to comfort her, and took her in his arms. He had to swallow hard several times. She seemed so very sad; his eyes filled with tears and he cried openly with her. It didn’t last long but the next minute passed in silence. Calmer now, almost pressed against him, she went on talking as her body stiffened in rage.

“I saw it all … I saw how those bastards take somebody out.”

Completely flabbergasted, he pulled his face back from hers.

“You were there?”

“Yes, I’d had a bad feeling since yesterday,” she said between the sobs. “A little voice kept telling me to go to the airport. So I went a bit before Clarke did. I thought it would help if I saw something unusual. God I was naïve! I didn’t notice anything. I didn’t even understand he’d gone to hide in the toilets.”

The words came out of her mouth with difficulty.

“I had my eyes permanently fixed on him,” she went on. “I knew he was coming to fetch you, and there was nothing I could do. It all happened so quickly. It was only when he fell that I understood.”

Her voice ended in a strangled sob, and she buried her face in the hollow of Tom’s shoulder.

“Hey, you mustn’t blame yourself. Quite the opposite in fact – thank goodness you didn’t do anything, because you’d have suffered the same fate.”

“Oh, so you’re aware what happened. I didn’t know if he’d been able to contact you beforehand.”

“Yes, he called me the first time early in the evening, and then we had a long talk that same evening.”

“But now I know who they are,” she went on. “I saw them. And that changes everything. I don’t know what to do, but I have to do something.”

Tom’s eyes were full of tears, and he could hardly swallow because his throat was in knots.

“He was my best friend. I admired him and I really liked him. And he helped me so much when I was younger.”

“So you have to help me.”

“No Clara, it’s not what he would have wanted, because it’s much too dangerous.”

“But who are those guys?” asked Clara in exasperation.

“I haven’t the least idea, that’s just it.”

“We can send in the police and get them locked up tonight, can’t we? It’s a murder after all.”

Tom smiled in desperation. With that naïve reaction of hers, he realized how little she knew about mafias or the complexities of the judicial system. And he’d decided it would be impossible to run an inquiry in parallel. He made up his mind to explain a few facts to her, to dissuade her from committing an irreversible error.

“First of all, we don’t know their identities or where they are. Next, they’re the henchmen working for a network hell-bent on preserving its secrecy. They’re real criminal pros who know how not to leave a single trace behind. They would be very difficult to catch in the act. And if you can’t catch them red-handed, there’s not much you can do. Believe me, they know that all too well.”

“But I saw them, I can identify them and testify against them.”

“I also saw what happened. But without proof it’s useless. Just think, if that were true then anybody could say any damned thing about anybody else.”

“But if you saw it all, shouldn’t that be enough to take action?”

“No. Like you, I saw somebody collapsing, Clara, that’s all. For the onlookers around him, as well as the airport doctor, it was somebody being taken ill, like thousands of others cases. They attacked him almost directly in front of me, but what evidence do we have?”

“Evidence, maybe not yet, but there’s my testimony. I can identify the guy who attacked him. I could draw him. He was wearing a green pullover and he walked away as soon as Clarke fell.”

“That’s very weak as evidence. You saw the attacker? If so, what did he attack him with?”

“I don’t know, but he certainly injected him with something. If they did an autopsy they’d find a needle-mark.”

“They won’t bother to do an autopsy if the family doesn’t demand one. And as Clarke didn’t have any family, there’ll be no autopsy. And if you ask for one, it’s the best way of showing yourself. And say they did find poison, you’d have to start proceedings against them, and once again you’d make yourself known. And the most likely outcome would be exactly the same thing as happened to Clarke. They’d find you and take you out.”

“But there must be something we can do – surely they’re not going to kill half the city!”

“If we stop here, no. But if we set an official process in motion, we won’t be able to hide it either from the prosecutor or from Clarke’s boss, as they’ll definitely be kept in the loop one way or another. And soon after that, we’ll hit a snag. Something completely accidental, of course. I can already hear the comments. The poor thing, how did she manage to electrocute herself so idiotically? And as for me, it’ll be something like: poor guy, he really didn’t have much luck, did he? He loved DIY, he wanted to make a hole through a wall and instead he stabbed himself in the head with his drill. He didn’t take enough precautions, and he should have kept his head in his books. And even if the official proceedings are put in motion and a search warrant granted, they won’t find anything. The whole thing will be ended in a flash, to great relief all round. We’ll have lost; they’ll have won.”

“But as you two talked yesterday evening, he must have given you some other information enabling you to take action?”

“No, I don’t have enough factors to hand and I really don’t know what to do so that we don’t become compromised. I told him everything I’d seen and what I did, but he didn’t tell me anything much that could help us. He was going to discuss it all once I’d got back. He simply made me aware of the urgent need to act, but first of all he wanted to fill me in on the whole thing. Apparently, if they feel threatened they destroy all damning evidence, including people, as we’ve found out. It might be a valuable piece of advice, but it doesn’t help me get much farther. And then after repeating the warning to me two or three times, we agreed to meet at the airport.”

“But what can we do then?”

“I really don’t know.”

Clara was prepared to endure anything, to bear anything so that her soul and Clarke’s could rest in peace, and those who’d committed the crime could be punished.

“Listen Tom, I don’t give a damn in hell about that organization or what any of those sickos could do to me, but I can’t stay here doing nothing. I want those bastards arrested.”

“Clara, I absolutely share the same desire as you, but we don’t have time to gather all the evidence. We have nothing. The only thing you’d be risking would be your own disappearance.”

“Tom, I need to do something. We have to find a solution.”

“I really don’t know what to say to you. We should have arrested the whole lot of them last night, as you said, without clogging up the system or international laws. Well, that was impossible. First of all nobody was prepared, and secondly who would have dared meddle in this type of business? I think the best thing to do is to find a judge to talk to.”

“You know, I was meaning to look for you when I left here.”

“That’s just what I wanted to do,” he replied.

They looked at each other without smiling.

“But as I didn’t know your address, I was going to call by your workplace tomorrow.”

“Tom, I understand that you still don’t know what to do and that it would be much better to do nothing. But Clarke gave me back the joy in my life, and I’ve never been as happy as I was with him. And they’re sure to carry on. If it takes me the rest of my life, I want them to pay for the horror they’ve done. So I’m asking you: will you help me?”

He took her gently by the shoulders and stared into her eyes, so that he could reason with her.

“Clara … no, it’s … I have to think about it.”

“Thank you. So, we’ll start taking action tomorrow.”

“Clara, I can understand what you’re feeling, but we can’t take anything lightly because it would be pure recklessness,” he said again. “We’d be running too great a risk of getting killed. And we can’t achieve anything if we’re dead. Then again, the best solution for the moment is for you to come and see me in a few days, which will give us time to come up with a plan.”

“Do you think they’re after me?”

“I don’t know, but it would be better to be careful. Did those guys see you with him?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“But perhaps they knew Clarke was living with you?”

“I don’t think so either. He wanted to keep that a secret for my own safety. He kept his own apartment to deceive the enemy, as he used to say. He always told me that he hadn’t ever written down any number or address linked to me. Nothing to help them make any sort of connection.”

Tears welled up again in her eyes.

“Very well,” he said, a vague smile playing across his lips at the thought of his friend’s obsessive foresight.

Clarke had always been very careful with regard to his private life, and had always considered it of the utmost importance to protect Clara and his friends. He thought of everything. Always. It was one of the rules of the Special Services, and one to which he paid particular attention.

“But you must still be extra vigilant from now on.”

“Yes, don’t worry about me, I’ll be very careful. But they know you were his friend, don’t they?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve been working for the prosecutor for a few months now, but we’ve never talked about our private lives.”

“They don’t even know he came to meet you at the airport?”

“No, again I don’t think so. Anyway, I never said anything. And I don’t think they could have intercepted our conversation. We used a special security procedure.”

“So how did they know?”

“No idea. It was perhaps an unlucky chance, or else they were following him without him realizing.”

“No, Clarke would have noticed.”

“Perhaps he didn’t. He told me he’d been totally surprised by their actions and that he’d underestimated the danger from the start.”

“Yes, that’s true, that’s what he told me too, and he couldn’t believe it. But are you sure they don’t suspect your relationship?”

“No, I really don’t think so. After he’d phoned me the first time, I saw some horrendous things. I didn’t realize what terrible risks I was taking and that the whole thing was sheer folly. That I’d allowed myself to be attacked by a monster which was much too big for me. I understood just in time. I didn’t do anything and nobody saw me. For them, I was just the first deputy accompanying the prosecutor on his trip, that’s all. They didn’t suspect anything.”

“But Clarke came to your nomination evening, so the prosecutor must have seen you two together.”

“Well, you need have no worry on that score. He hates that sort of ritual, and I didn’t introduce him to anybody. He left very quickly at the start of the evening. What with the pressmen and the guests, there were so many people that he’d never remember. And anyway, he had no reason to pay attention because he didn’t suspect a thing. As for Clarke, I didn’t introduce him to anybody either. People must have thought he was just one of my many co-workers.”

Clara was running out of arguments.

“I don’t know if Clarke told you,” she said, “but he asked two people for help in this business, and they’re both dead.”

“So they spied on him,” said Tom.

“I don’t know.”

“Actually no,” he corrected himself. “I don’t think so, otherwise they’d have taken him out immediately. No, I think they tried to find the person who was searching for information, without knowing it was him. I’ll stick my neck out and guess there are one or more moles in my department and that he didn’t realize. But they didn’t know he was the one behind all this.”

“Yes, that’s very possible. I’ll tell you what little I know, but later on.”

“Agreed. And have you been here long?”

“No, I arrived only about ten minutes before you did, because I was looking for something.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the results!”

“No, that wasn’t me, they were here before me.”

“Oh … and did you find what you were looking for?”

“I don’t know. I came to look in the secret place he showed to me once.”

“Oh, you’re the one who emptied it then?”

“You knew about it?”

“Just a bit, yes, as I’m the one who built it.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I went there just now and I was surprised to find nothing inside. In fact I was scared that the searchers found something.”

“No, but there was only this,” she said, showing him a brown envelope she’d hidden under her pullover. “I couldn’t find anything else.”

“So they did want something … but what? That’s perhaps what they were searching for, but they weren’t able to put their hands on it.”

The light went out suddenly, and the world around them went black. Tom felt his way in the dark. They couldn’t find the light switch, because the standby light hadn’t been working for a long time.

“Oh come on, where’s the frigging thing?”

He half-opened the door to let some outside light in, finally found the switch and turned it on.

“I think we’d better go now.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Clara who was feeling uneasy. “I think you know where I work, but do you know how to get there?”

“I’ve never been there, but I’ve a vague idea.”

“There’s a service entry behind the main building. Let’s meet there in half-an-hour.”

“No, I’d rather go on talking at my place. It’ll be quieter.”

“Ok, but I have to call by my apartment first, I promised somebody.”

“Very well. I’ll go first and you follow a few minutes after. Give me all that,” he suggested, taking the envelope from her hands. “I’ll look at what’s inside, so things can go faster. Do you have a car?”

“Yes, but I think we can trust each other.”

“So take mine,” he said with a slight smile, handing her his key-fob. “It’s the charcoal-gray one in the visitors’ parking lot. And I’ll take yours. I’ll hide it someplace. Do you know where I live?”

“Yes,” she replied, handing him the Mini key. “Clarke showed me one day.”

“Perfect. The garage remote is inside, just press the button on the left.”

“Fine.”

“So see you later.”

“Yes, see you later.”

Tom walked off, but then turned around and added:

“Be very careful and keep making sure you’re not being followed.”

“Agreed,” she said, her face strained.

The rain had become heavier, and sitting low in their seats Vlad’s men didn’t react to the charcoal-gray car. It arrived at the same moment as two other cars, and parked in a communal lot at the back of the building. They were too focused on the mission that had just been triggered by the arrival of a yellow car.

Clara got out, but didn’t notice she was being watched. Evidently her mind was elsewhere: intermittent flashbacks of the silent horror she’d witnessed at the airport kept unfolding before her eyes. She felt very guilty for encouraging Clarke to undertake his own inquiry. She thought again of what she’d told Tom, and then of the last discussions she’d had with Clarke on the phone. She shouldn’t have called him, and all along she’d been in an agony of doubt about phoning him. It had been very hard to pick up the handset, which had suddenly felt like a lead weight in her hand. In the end she felt the unpleasant sensation that she’d make a terrible mistake. The oppressive feeling was added to the premonition that had pushed her to go to the airport. Was he killed because she’d called him? No, he’d recovered the situation well as soon as he’d answered. And then he’d called her on the secure phone. All these questions and thoughts tumbled chaotically around her mind, as she forced herself to place the sequence of events into some sort of chronological order. She tried to recall the last words they’d exchanged, but she couldn’t concentrate. She’d come back to it later. More importantly, she was carrying his baby; she’d known this for some time but was waiting for the right moment to tell him the good news. She felt so guilty at reacting that way. If he’d known, maybe he’d never have gone to the airport. His mother had soon died after he was born, and his father had been killed a year later in an auto accident. He was orphan, and now his child was going to be born without a father as well. What could she do now? Her head was still clear enough to come up with an immediate answer: it was too early to reply to that question. She’d have plenty of time later, perhaps all the time in the world. But for now it was essential to deal with the situation.

Clara reached the entrance door to her block, just behind a young couple.

“It’s her,” said Vlad suddenly, sitting bolt upright in his seat with Clara’s photo in his hand. “But where’d she come from, the bitch?”

The couple went inside first, followed by Clara. They exchanged a few words in the entrance hall.

“Look,” said Nika, “they know each other. Maybe she came with them.”

Vlad watched her for a moment.

“Perhaps they work together,” said Nika.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Vlad, relying on his thirty years of experience.

Vlad and his men rapidly got out of their car, just as Clara and the couple vanished inside the building.

“It’ll be a breeze, she doesn’t seem to be very alert,” said Belu.

“We don’t relax the pressure until it’s finished,” said Vlad. “I want a perfect job.”

They went into the building, first checking the mailbox for the correct apartment number. Then with his killer eye Vlad slowly gazed at the illuminated numbers above the elevators: the right-hand one had just reached the sixth floor. They went up themselves. It was the moment Vlad relished above all: the instant just before the kill. The idea of extinguishing somebody’s life made him more excited than anything. And he was all the more thrilled to be carrying this out in private at her place, just where she felt the safest.

About a minute later, with precise, nimble movements, Nika stuck a strip of brown gaffer tape across the spy-hole of the apartment opposite hers. Belu had already placed the cylinder he’d brought with him into the lock. The device worked almost silently for ten seconds, and the lock opened without a murmur.

The place wasn’t illuminated. Belu switched on the light: nobody there. Nika came out of the apartment and looked up and down the corridor. The glass door at the end was ajar. He hurried up there, and found it led to the service stairs. Retracing his steps, he came back to Vlad.

“The bitch, she’s rumbled us. She must have spotted us when she arrived … she’s gone down the service stairs.”

“Good, search all the floors and the stairwell,” ordered Vlad. “You, go down and try to catch her,” he told Belu. “I’ll take care of her apartment.”

With military efficiency, they split up to their respective assignments. Vlad carried out a methodical search of each room, roughly throwing random items onto the floor to vent his rage. The blood vessels in his neck and face were protruding with anger. They met up ten minutes later on the ground floor. Vlad questioned his men with a brief jerk of the head. The first replied in the negative, and then Vlad turned to the second of them.

“Nothing,” he said, with a similar shake of the head.

The three of them returned to their car on the other side of the road. Vlad then decided to organize a more efficient search for Clara Wagner. If she was so suspicious, it was because she knew stuff. She therefore constituted a serious danger to the organization.

“Call Petre,” he fumed at Nika as he took the front seat. “Tell him to check up on her credit cards and verify all the hotels in the area. That bitch must be getting help. He has to find out where from. Look,” he said to Belu. “I found a note-book with addresses and phone numbers, so call each of them in turn and record all the conversations.”

“And say what?”

“Doesn’t matter. That you’re Doctor Whatever and she gave you this number if you had to call her.”

Clara was leaving her friend who lived in the apartment five doors down, on the same floor. She’d come to fetch the fennec she’d left there. She had no idea it had just saved her life. Her friend, a Jamaican woman in her forties, handed her the frightened little animal that she’d been carrying in her arms.

“Bye, Didou, bye-bye,” she chirped in her cheerful voice.

Clara was still very upset. Her tone of voice was in complete contrast to her neighbor’s, even though she was doing her best to hide her inner turmoil.

“Thanks again Sonia, and good night.”

“But you’re welcome honey,” she replied, with that particular way of hers of rolling her r’s. “You leave him when you want, girl, he’s just too cute. Good night Clara.”

She closed the door and Clara went back to her apartment. Switching on the light, she stood transfixed at the sight of the shambles. She’d been spotted and the killers were hot on her heels. Just like Clarke’s place, the standard technique had been used: drawers were tipped out, wardrobes and cupboards turned inside out, cushions ripped and thrown on the floor. Even the fridge-freezer had been emptied and the two doors left open. Run away and hide: that was the most essential thing. She quickly grabbed some essentials, throwing them into a large canvas bag. She caught the fennec, switched off the light, glanced through the spy-hole and went out.

As soon as she rang the bell at her friend’s apartment, the door was opened. The boisterous rhythms of reggae music echoed down the corridor.

“Sonia, I’m taking you at your word, and I’m giving Didou back to you. I need to go away for a few days, but I don’t know for how long. I’ll explain everything later.”

She handed back the fennec, together with a plastic bag containing his food bowl.

“But … has something serious happened, Clara?” the neighbor asked curiously.

“I’ll tell you later, it’s an emergency.”

“Oh,” she said, apparently satisfied with this explanation.

Clara blew her a quick kiss as she walked down the corridor. She went downstairs quietly, glanced around the entrance hall without being seen, and then took a corridor that led to the other side of the building. She pushed the door half-open and looked outside. There was nobody about and she couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She stepped out cautiously, without making a noise, looked around again and went to Tom’s car. It was still raining hard as she left the parking lot. Semi-crouched over the steering wheel, she was feeling very insecure. She had only just taken her driving test and wasn’t used to working a manual gearbox. And the incredible power of the racing car with its lighting responses was scaring her. It was so different to her Mini. In any other circumstance, she’d have liked it much better because she loved powerful cars. But this evening, that power was going to enable her to outrun any car following her, she persuaded herself. All at once, she felt more secure.

Still thinking things over, she decided to drive in the opposite direction to Tom’s house. She was really annoyed with herself at being so easily caught out, because she hadn’t paid enough attention. She was too trusting by nature and wasn’t wary enough, but she wouldn’t make that mistake a second time. The traffic was flowing quite smoothly on the highway she’d taken, and she dodged through the other vehicles quite easily. She started changing lanes at random, now and then slowing down abruptly to check if any cars slammed their brakes on behind her. Once she’d reached the beltway, she merged with the other vehicles, even daring to push the needle up to 110mph when there was a gap in the traffic. Every three minutes or so, she memorized the cars she could see in her rear-view mirror, slowing down to make sure they all overtook her. She followed the second exit off the beltway. Then she did a U-turn and drove the route in reverse. Some time later, the car left the beltway again, turned around at the following intersection and soon vanished up a smaller road. No suspect car was following her, but she still kept driving around for another fifteen minutes to be totally sure, and to release the build-up of tension.

She had been driving around like that for about half-an-hour. Finally she took the little side roads leading out west, gradually reaching the tranquil residential area where Tom lived. She’d been there a few times before, but didn’t really know her way around. When she finally reached her destination, she stopped the car in front of another building about fifty meters from Tom’s house, and sat unmoving for another ten minutes, her eyes glued to the rear-view mirror. Then she pressed the remote to open the garage door. The signal was fairly strong and the door opened automatically. Looking cautiously all around, she couldn’t see anybody suspicious on the horizon. She drove in quickly and immediately pressed the remote to close the garage door again.

10

When Clara knocked on Tom’s door a few minutes later, he was in the middle of analyzing the different items in the envelope he’d found at Clarke’s place, and watching the various informations he’d downloaded off the small USB key. He found a copy of Frank’s deposition. He got up and crossed the living room into the entrance hall. Even though he was expecting Clara, he still checked on his CCTV monitor before opening the door.

“Hey, come in, I’m happy to see you,” he said at once. “I was getting worried.”

“Well, something happened.”

“What?”

“They’ve already spotted me.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll tell you everything, but shut that door because I’m really very scared.”

“Oh, sorry, give me your things.”

He turned the lock twice, switched off the hall light and dropped Clara’s things on the floor farther down without paying much attention, as he was obviously distracted by something else. She watched him, and couldn’t help smiling at his lack of manners. Even though it was devoid of all the proprieties, she rather liked his attitude. As Clarke had told her, Tom was upright and honest, incapable of anything underhand. And at that precise moment, it all came clear to her: he was spontaneous and unspoiled, and at the same time very astute. Without knowing him, that spontaneous attitude could easily be confused with being naïve or idealistic.

They crossed the living room toward the back of the house, which she was greatly surprised to see was in the same state as her apartment after it had been ransacked. She suddenly remembered Clarke telling her about his passion for DIY. Tom had transformed half his house into a cabinetmaker’s workshop. All the furniture had been pushed back against the walls, some items covered in sheets, others in plastic tarpaulin. A large workbench, tools, pots of various lacquers and pieces of wood were spread out all over the place. He had just been fixing the joints on four chairs. Their feet held fast in clamps, they’d been upended onto a trestle table, drying out. Apart from that, the ambience in the house was very pleasant, and the rooms were spacious. Tom had painted the walls in a combination of warm colors: the ochre-yellow of the living room gave it an airy feel, and the generously proportioned and comfortable armchairs made the whole place feel welcoming.

On one of the walls just above the workbench hung a huge enlargement of an old Kodak Eastman photo of him and Martin Johnson watching lions, both of them leaning against dusty old vans in the plains of the Serengeti. The original had been fixed close by, below the enlargement. An authentic “mystery” clock, a rare item in the purest Art Deco tradition, was another original piece taking pride of place on a low table in the living room. Oftentimes Tom would sit and watch it, with obvious pleasure. He was fascinated by the golden needles moving around the transparent dial without being attached to either axis. As if by magic. Another time, Clara would have marveled at the fantastic transformation he’d brought about to the house, and at all the curios it contained, but she didn’t dwell on that now. They were both far too engrossed in what they’d endured in the last few hours, and they’d hardly noticed the people crossing their paths or the places they’d gone through.

Tom made sure that all the exits were locked. He checked all the windows and locked all the doors behind him. He left the living room lights switched on, turned up the volume on the TV, and then they both went into the kitchen where they sat down at the table, an opened bottle of water between them. The back door hadn’t been used for a long time, but Tom got up to make sure it was really locked. Neither of them believed that they’d ever have to submit to such paranoia. Their attitude seemed almost grotesque in this beautiful house in its tranquil neighborhood, but the facts of the last twenty-fours meant they couldn’t let down their guard for a moment. No more mistakes, as they both knew only too well.

“But what are you saying?” asked Tom.

“Those bastards managed to get into my place. I don’t know how they did it, but my whole apartment was ransacked and turned upside down.”

“Did you surprise them?”

“No, there was nobody there when I went in.”

“Oh no,” murmured Tom, filled with such anxiety that he found it hard to breathe.

“I only stayed a couple of minutes, then I picked up all my papers and left.”

“You’re sure you weren’t …” he began, looking at her in concern.

“No Tom,” she interrupted, “I wasn’t followed.”

“Good, that’s very good,” he said, shaking his head as if to convince himself of the fact. “Meanwhile I’ve been spending my time sorting through the stuff in the envelope.”

“Have you found anything out?”

“Not yet, I’ve only listened to the guy’s deposition that Clarke recorded. On the other hand, I think there’s something interesting. We’ll go back to the living room, but keep your voice low because it’ll be better.”

“You think that …”

“No I don’t, but we need to be careful.”

They went back into the living room. Tom dimmed the lights, took the documents out of the envelope and placed them on a low table. Then he rolled the large plasma screen into the middle of the room.

“Apart from the fact that it’s utterly abhorrent, I’ll show you what I’ve seen. It’s toward the end …”

He pushed the remote control as he watched Clara. She was worried, of course, but she was also visibly exhausted and had lost her concentration. She must be reeling from the blow, he thought. They sat side-by-side on the sofa, and watched the section when Frank was talking about the important documents he’d hidden. Tom fast-forwarded to the moment he was waiting for Clarke to come back, smoking a cigarette. He froze the image at the point when he took the plaque out of the sleeve pocket of his jacket.

“You see that?” he said, pointing at the object. “It’s a left luggage plaque from the central railroad station. I know because I’ve had to use the place quite a few times.”

“And what d’you make of it?” she asked, unable to grasp the significance.

“Well, that it’s maybe, no certainly, the place where he hid the rest of the documents he was talking about.”

“Ok, but we haven’t …”

“Yes, we have,” he broke in. “It was in the envelope. At first, I didn’t know what it was, but then it clicked when I saw him taking it out of his jacket. We’ll go over to the central station tomorrow morning. There could be factors that will really help us. But I must confess, even if we find some interesting facts or names, the whole thing is still beyond us. If there really are top brass in the police or the Special Services implicated in this business, they’ll be very keen to make us disappear as soon as they know we’re on to them. And for the first time in my life, I really don’t know what to do.”

He noticed a shiver running up Clara’s spine. He knew he shouldn’t have confessed his doubts at that precise moment, but he needed to share what he was feeling. As a consolation. To swap ideas or comforting solutions. Even though Clara knew there was always a solution to any problem, she couldn’t stop feeling the same way he did.

“But for now, we must get some rest,” he went on. “We can’t achieve anything if we’re too tired.”

“I don’t feel like it, but you’re right, I can’t do any more.”

They hadn’t even been aware how much their physically and emotionally exhausted bodies were crying out for rest, because of all the stress they’d endured in such a short space of time, and lack of sleep. Tom went into another room and came back a few moments later carrying two large wool blankets. With everything that had happened, they felt safer staying together, in close proximity. Neither of them wanted to sleep in a separate room, and they lay down on the sofas right there in the living room. Despite their fatigue, sleep eluded them. They were too tense and disturbed by events. Eyes open, they lay on their backs, as their minds continued racing. They searched for solutions but found none, and all their questions remained unanswered.

“We must go and warn the other people in the Special Services,” said Clara in the darkness.

“No, it’s too dangerous. If one person is implicated, there could be others. Or else there could be a mole and we’d soon be betrayed.”

“But surely they’re not all mixed up in this mafia?”

“No, but we don’t know who is and who isn’t. And even if the person we talk to isn’t the one, they’ll need proof. And since we don’t have any, they’re sure to go and talk to the head of the outfit, which will give him all the ammunition he needs to make everything disappear, while we’ll have to go into hiding to survive.”

“But we’ll have to do something, since they’ve already gotten as far as my place.”

“Well yeah, that’s the problem. They won’t take long to find you. And even if it’s not immediate, they’ll get there sooner or later. In fact, you won’t be able to go back to work until they’ve been arrested.”

“And if they’re not caught?”

“Then it’ll be too dangerous to stay here. You’ll have to go away, for good. It’s the only solution because you’ll be attacked anyway one of these days. And just when you least expect it. And it’ll be the same for me because they’ll find out I know about them.”

“How long can I stay here, d’you think?”

“I don’t know, but not for long at any rate.”

“And if we find evidence tomorrow, what then?”

“I really don’t know,” he sighed.

Tom felt he couldn’t allow himself any mistakes, but he didn’t have a single strategy or action plan, and he didn’t even know who to ask for help. All he’d understood was that they couldn’t go through the normal procedures. It was usual to go stumbling about in the dark before finding your way, that’s how life was. But this time, he’d reached the conclusion that the only possible solution was immediate flight. In fact all roads were blind alleys as far as that mafia was concerned, because they had no respect for anybody.

Dressed in a dark gray suit, new white shirt and conventional tie, Tom was ready to go to work as dawn was breaking. Clara went with him to the front door, but just as he was closing the cab door the driver turned around. How awful, it was the man in the green pullover: she recognized him. An evil smile played across his lips. He accelerated quickly and drove Tom away, without her having time to catch up with the car and warn him. She ran after the cab yelling.

“Tom! Tom! Be careful, it’s him, he’s the one who killed Clarke.”

But Tom couldn’t hear her. He didn’t even turn around, although she wasn’t all that far behind. Then she woke up, her muscles clenched, her solar plexus tied in knots. Clara had managed to fall asleep, but it was only light sleep disrupted by nightmares. The tangle of blanket at the bottom of the sofa bore witness to the fact. Then she fell asleep once again, only to be troubled by another but completely different nightmare. This time a dark silhouette jumped out at her when she opened one of her wardrobe doors. A stranger was lying in wait on the bed, and grabbed her before she could put up any resistance. And the man kept asking the same question: “Where’s his hiding place, huh?” But how did he know Clarke had a hiding place, she asked herself over and over. And the man started up again: “Where’s his hiding place? I’ve all the time in the world and I’m not leaving until you tell me. And I’ll inject you every hour,” the man went on relentlessly. “You’ll feel worse and worse. And if you have too many injections, you’ll die. But if you tell me where the hiding place is, I’ll stop at once. I promise.” First she tried to deny her relationship with Clarke. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about … what hiding place? “Your boyfriend’s hiding place.” “But I don’t have a boyfriend.” “Don’t play smart with me, the zoo director showed me your wedding photos, before he died.” “You killed him?” “Of course.” “But there aren’t any wedding photos, there was no wedding.” “As you’re being such a smartass, I’m going to inject you.” He held a dart in his hand, like the ones they used to tranquilize wild animals from a distance.

11

They awoke at the same time, just as the first rays of dawn were filtering through the living room drapes. They had hardly slept more than three hours, which hadn’t done them much good: there was no letup to the stress of the previous day’s events. They jumped up, but were upset to realize that the nightmare they’d shared hadn’t vanished on awakening. The inquiry, the process or fleeing – they didn’t know quite which – were therefore going to continue.

Tom made a desultory attempt to tidy his clothes, went into the kitchen, and looked at his diary as he switched on the automatic coffeemaker. Clara soon joined him. They had both slept in their clothes and were still tousled from the night. He turned on the radio.

“Did you sleep?”

“Badly. You?”

“Same.”

Their words were solemn. Their brains still felt numb, but they were already going over their situation. For Clara time had run out since the previous night, and they couldn’t afford to make any mistakes, because things would move very fast from now onward.

“I think the best thing is get away as far as possible without anyone knowing anything,” said Tom. “And to unravel everything at once if we find any clues. I’ll go to work this morning, just to see if I can find any evidence in the prosecutor’s office. I won’t be taking much of a risk, as he’s away for long periods during the day. I’ll come back around … let’s say one o’clock. But it would be better if you didn’t go out until I get back.”

“Yes, I’ll call the director at the Wildlife Park in a bit. I’ll make the call outside, that’s safer, but I won’t be long.”

“Good,” he said with a smile of collusion. “And I think it would be best for you to pack two suitcases, so that we can be ready to leave the city should things take a sudden turn.”

“Very well. It won’t take a moment, I already have everything I need with me.”

“I won’t take long either. All my ID and cards are in the first drawer of the writing desk in the living room. And as for clothes, just pick out something suitable from the room next to my bedroom. It acts as my wardrobe, and that’s where I keep the cases. Choose the most unobtrusive ones.”

“Well, I’ll go get them ready right now, because you never know.”

“Oh … and some more precautions. Switch off your cellphone and don’t call me at work, even from a phone booth. All calls to the prosecutor’s office are recorded.”

“Recorded?”

“Yes. And they don’t hide that fact. It’s the implementation of a decree from a few years ago made with reference to international organizations. Avoid going near the windows while I’m out. And I’ll keep my eyes peeled during my trips. For the moment, the best thing is not to change my habits.”

“And if I need to get hold of you urgently?”

“I’ll think about it, but for the moment it would be better not to.”

Tom went into the office slightly earlier than normal, so that he could get the reports he had to write up for the prosecutor finished as quickly as possible, and to gain some time to sort out the inquiries he needed to put into effect without anyone else knowing. But he was already tired: his body clock was used to regular sleep patterns, and was reacting badly to this abrupt change of rhythm.

While Dolorès dos Anjos – the woman in charge of maintenance in zone F at the airport – sang her heart out as she reorganized her stock of paper hand-towels and liquid soap, three men in navy-blue suits came into the premises. She didn’t notice them at first, because the place was fairly spacious and she was about fifteen meters from the door. When she heard the door closing again, she turned around and nearly jumped out of her skin. She froze for a moment, and took a few steps backward in fright, to the great astonishment of the three men who couldn’t understand her behavior. One of them was operating a small detector device, while the apparently friendlier second man was wearing a badge. The oldest of the three stood slightly apart.

“Good morning,” he said, in a deep and solemn voice.

“Good morninks,” she said, staring at him.

As they moved forward, she kept retreating toward the trashcan.

“Don’t be scared. We’re only looking for a small colored device.”

Her sudden interruption was very brusque. In her terror she was speaking even more incomprehensibly than usual, and her words came out in a single string, without any pauses.

“De machin’ ees in de cart of de cleanings Hi ees not take eet Hi ees not know where ees come from because eet ees come by eetself and my hosband ee says Hi must trow eet because de person who ees come in de airport ee ees forget eet in da toilet.”

The man who’d spoken to her turned to his colleague with a shake of the head.

“I didn’t understand a word,” he said awkwardly.

The men were staring at her, completely perplexed. A wave of anxiety swept across the woman’s face. She threw herself against the trashcan, frantically took out a few old cloths, and came back with the small box.

“My hosbond me ee says Hi not give eet to de person because ee say ee not come back, and de machin’ Hi must leaving eet dere so Hi ees puttings in da trash so ees always dere so ees not my fault because Hi ees not takin eet.”

“I still can’t understand a word.”

“That’s normal, there are no subtitles.”

“So do you have it?”

He took the device she was handing to him. She was frowning so hard that it gave her a really severe expression.

“But jou knows dat Hi is saying,” she went on in exasperation. “Hi …”

“Hush,” the man interrupted her roughly. “Calm down, it’s all finished. It’s all ok.”

The woman in charge of maintenance hid behind her cart.

“It’s over, we’re going now and we’ll leave you to your work.”

The three men had just reached the threshold, when one of them turned back, unable to stop himself playing on her fear.

“And most of all, you don’t speak about anything to anybody, understand?” he said, in somber tones.

She gave a rapid nod of the head, still terrified. With a sardonic smile, the man closed the door as he went out.

Dolorès dos Anjos rushed toward a small cupboard, extracted a bottle of whiskey that was three-quarters full, and took three generous swigs before catching her breath for a moment. But she jumped again when she heard an object falling at the back of the area, causing the bottle to slip through her fingers.

12

Attending meetings with the prosecutor were the moments Tom dreaded most. Having to be constantly on his guard, he felt as if he was being subjected to a non-stop oral examination. And now that he’d realized to what extent his boss was implicated in this organization and the dangers he ran of betraying himself, the minutes were dragging by with excruciating slowness. The possible existence of damning evidence or compromising clues hidden somewhere in his office had been greatly concerning him over the last twenty-four hours. And he was revolted by the thought that he was working under the orders of a highly placed and respected civil servant, who delighted in playing a double game without him being able to show the slightest reaction. Since his arrival at the office that morning, he’d been seized by an unquenchable will that was gradually changing into the irresistible desire to plunge into illegal actions, just so that justice could be done. That was something he hadn’t expected, he thought to himself.

Carrying two thick files under his arm, Tom knocked on the door and entered the magistrate’s office.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, moving toward the desk.

“Morning. Listen, I’ve no time this morning, as I’m booked for two meetings outside the office and I’m already late. Is it anything urgent?”

“No, I need to talk about these two files, one of which is the Smijevsky case, but it can wait.”

“And the other?”

“The Syzer Trust Bank case.”

“The Syzer case, why?”

“It’s about their acquisitions of several companies close to bankruptcy, at inflated prices.”

“Oh yes, their system of carrying equity interests.”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“And what are their lawyers saying about it, apart from the fact that it’s unfair?”

“That a commercial entity is perfectly entitled to sell off its companies to other businesses it owns, both legally and in practice.”

“But the prices were definitely inflated?”

“They categorically state no, and that at the moment each transaction was executed it corresponded to the current market price with regard to the potential value of those companies.”
“With regard to the potential value of the companies, when they’re on the verge of bankruptcy? It seems very clear to me that the bank was using those companies to sell off doubtful assets, thus enabling them to hide the enormous losses arising from their failures in speculation. It allowed them to conceal the losses from the shareholders and give the Stock Market the impression that they were a solid business with good debtors.”

“The problem is that they have a good argument. It’s actually legal, unless we can prove the intention of fraud.”

“And what’s your conclusion?”

“In theory, perhaps, but it’s rarely the case. Generally this type of transaction is used to quickly hide any problems that have become insoluble or discreditable.”

“And can we prove it?”

“No.”

The prosecutor shut his briefcase and came up to Tom.

“Well, I’ll think about it and we’ll discuss the matter when I return.”

“Very well,” said Tom simply, feeling relieved even if the meeting had only been postponed.

He opened the door and the prosecutor went out. Leaving the office as well, Tom was suddenly aware that all the cupboards and filing cabinets had been left open. He closed the door behind him and went back to his own office, while the prosecutor was giving instructions to Greta about incoming phone calls.

Tom was standing in front of the window, gazing out at the city while he listened to what was going on in the corridor. Greta was on the phone. When she’d finished speaking, he carefully hid the Parker-Johnson & Co. file at the back of one of the drawers, and came out of the office with an expression of extreme annoyance.

“Have you seen the Parker-Johnson & Co. file?” he asked his PA.

“No, can’t you find it?”
She got up to help him look for the file.

“No, but I think I know where it is,” he said, pointing to his boss’s office. “Leave it for now, I’ll go there myself as it’ll help me relax a bit.”

“Very well,” she said, sitting back down.

She opened the drawer containing the small key-safe. Tapping in the six-figure code as conscientiously as Tom had memorized it, she took out the key and gave it to him.

Tom was slowly walking toward the prosecutor’s office when the phone rang again. That’s perfect, he thought, the PA’s busy and the prosecutor’s out, so the coast is clear. He went in and rapidly opened all the drawers in the filing cabinet, hoping to spot a dossier that looked different or some other clue. He searched quickly through the cupboards, looking through everything he could find … nothing. The office was enormous, and he needed more time but didn’t have it. Then he opened the drawers in the prosecutor’s private desk. There he came across a kind of diary covered in brown ostrich leather. He flicked through it. Still nothing. He looked at his watch, and found he’d already been searching about for ten minutes, and therefore needed to leave the office. He went out again, feeling quite put out.

“Didn’t you find anything?” she asked him.

“No,” he replied with a shake of the head.

The telephone rang again, and the PA went on with her work. Tom walked back into his office, closed the door and sat down thoughtfully. Then he got up almost immediately and went back into the PA’s office. She had just put the phone down.

“Could I ask you to go look downstairs while I search in the office again?” asked Tom.

“But of course, I’ll go straight away.”

She pushed the button on her console to divert incoming phone calls, and went out.

A few moments later, Tom stood nonchalantly on the threshold with his hands in his pockets, as Greta walked down to the end of the corridor. He quickly went back to his office, found a small tube of super-glue, went up to the drawer containing the small key-safe and squeezed two squirts inside the lock. Greta would only notice the problem at the end of the day. By the time she’d called maintenance, the drawer would have stayed open for at least a whole day, allowing him more time for a thorough search.

Lost in thought, Clara was working in front of Tom’s kitchen counter, wrapping two sandwiches in greaseproof paper. She heard the door opening … she stopped moving, glanced up at the wall clock, which showed 11 o’clock … Tom had said he’d be back at one. She put the sandwiches down quietly, and then with trembling hands but without a sound picked up a large carpenter’s hammer Tom had left lying around on the counter, finally hiding in a recess behind the kitchen door. The footsteps had stopped in the hall, but now they were getting closer. They stopped once more … then moved again. Clara held the hammer in the air and stopped breathing. Somebody was coming into the kitchen. She recognized the silhouette and let the hammer down with a sigh. Tom turned around at the same moment.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, before looking down and noticing the hammer. “Did I scare you?” he went on in surprise, totally unaware of the anxiety he’d caused.

“No …” she said quietly first of all, hammer in hand, before suddenly raising her voice. “Scared doesn’t cut it in the circumstances. You told me you wouldn’t be home till one o’clock and it’s only eleven now.”

Then she relaxed and let out a long sigh, to unblock the trapped air from inside her chest.

“Oh sorry, I … I never thought. I … I’m used to being on my own and …”

“It’s not a problem,” she said with a smile of relief. “I was just really scared, that’s all.”

“No, I’m really sorry, it wasn’t very smart.”

“It’s nothing. But tell me if there’s anything you’ve found out.”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing. He can’t keep anything in his office. We’ll go see what there is at left luggage. I told you I wouldn’t be free to go this afternoon. And did you manage to contact anybody?”

“Yes, I told them I had some family problems to sort out and that I’d be away for a few days.”

“Good, that’s very good. So let’s go.”

Clara picked up the sandwiches.

“I’m not really very hungry,” Tom said, switching off the radio.

“I know, me neither, but we haven’t eaten anything today and you have to force yourself if you don’t want to wear yourself out.”

Suddenly the phone rang. They looked at each other in silence. Did the prosecutor suspect something? Tom went up to the phone, but waited until the answering machine cut in.

“Hi Tom, it’s Fred at the lab. I just wanted to tell you that I have the results of those tests you asked for. Call me when you have a moment. See you later, Mr. Deputy.”

“Oh it’s Fred, a friend who works at the Central Office of Criminology. I gave him a phial of insulin I found on the boat. He told me he’d see if he could find any fingerprints. I asked him to phone me here. We’ll call by and see him before we go to left luggage.”

Tom stopped his car in the parking lot at the Central Office of Criminology, in front of a service door.

“Shall I come too?” asked Clara.

“Sure. You’re … Kate and you work with me in the office.”

They were followed by a car, which stopped fifty meters from where they’d parked, half hidden behind a row of other parked cars. Clara and Tom didn’t notice anything, but jumped out of their car and vanished inside the building. The three occupants in the car following them all appeared cold, even unsettling. Sitting in the front passenger seat, the man telephoning was particularly expressionless.

“They’re going into the Central Office of Criminology.”

They reached the lab, both wearing a magnetic badge labeled “visitor” attached to their jackets. Fred’s office was at the back of the specialized lab, surrounded by powerful computers and various pieces of curious-looking apparatus. He saw them and walked over to greet them.

“Oh Tom!”

Tom and Clara came up to meet him.

“Hi Fred, how are you?”

“Fine, thanks. So it seems you’ve had a promotion?”

“Yes, but it’s not all fun and games, as I’ll tell you later. This is Kate, she works with me.”

“Charmed.”

“Likewise.”

“So Fred, did you find anything?”

“Well you could say so. As for fingerprints, nada, but I didn’t think I would. On the other hand, the contents had nothing to do with insulin. But where did you find the thing?”

“It’s best you know as little as possible, Fred. What’s this about?”

“It’ll take some time to discover what exactly. But we’ve found a blend of very complex molecules. One of the molecules is structurally related to morphine sulfate, close to the composition of GHB.”

Tom frowned.

“And what’s …”

But he was interrupted by Clara.

“Gamma hydroxybutyric acid?”

“Yes, that’s it,” he said, completely ignoring Tom and delighted to be speaking to an equal. “But it’s been mixed together with other new substances and we need more time to identify them. It’s a compound we’ve never seen before. I’ve sent a sample to another colleague to see if he corroborates our results.”

Tom was still lost and impatient to get a reply. He cleared his throat with a forced smile, as Clara and Fred looked at him.

“Er-hem!”

“It’s a synthetic narcotic,” explained Fred. “A sort of tranquilizer created by modern chemical processing. And it’s nothing to do with traditional heroin or coke, if you get me.”

“But it’s already based on a very dangerous drug,” said Clara.

Tom stared at them both, intrigued.

“Exactly. Even if I haven’t discovered the complete formula yet, you can still take action to seize it as a synthetic drug, because the base is already an illegal substance. In a few days, I’ll have finished my analysis. Here, these are the results of the first tests.”

He handed him a rectangular-shaped card, which Tom folded in two and stashed in his inside jacket pocket.

“I’m keeping this,” said Fred, indicating a phial into which he’d transferred the dangerous liquid. “It will be better for your career that you don’t carry this kind of object around with you.”

“Thanks Fred. I’ll explain all the details later, but I’ve lots to do today and we have to go.”

“No problem, call me whenever.”

Clara and Tom got back to their car.

“Do you want to drive while I make a few calls?”

“I’d rather not, I’ve only just passed my test and I’m still not very confident. And anyway, I’m too hungry.”

Tom gave a small laugh and they got into the car. At the same time, two vans bearing the inscription “Department of the Environment — Parks & Gardens” stopped near the sedan following Tom and Clara. The first van’s electric window was lowered.

“We couldn’t get here any faster. Are they still there?”

“No, but they’ve just gone, follow us.”

“Man, you just blew me away,” said Tom as he drove.

“Oh, it’s not much really. I’ve been keeping a note of all the existing tranquilizers for years. They’re still researching the best sedative to subdue animals without knocking them out, and so that they don’t react adversely after the treatment. They’ve been testing a product based on gamma-hydroxybutyric acid for some time now, but it hasn’t been accepted because of the disastrous side-effects it causes.”

“Oh, I see.”

“GHB, as it’s called, is one of the base components of the new synthetic drugs used by the youth of today. They call them ‘happy pills.’ But it’s only the dealers that are happy, because it’s cheap to make and very quickly turns the user into an addict. The problem is that it fries your brains pretty soon. And you vomit frequently and your physiological functions slow down. Not to mention that your breathing can slow down too, or stop completely … and that’s when you choke to death.”

“Oh yeah, that sure is happiness,” he said, after a moment’s thought.

The hunters soon caught up with Tom’s car when it stopped at a red light. The two vans arrived and blocked the car from behind, while the dark-blue sedan overtook them on the left to stop right next to Clara. The front passenger electric window was lowered and somebody ordered the occupants to get ready, with an authoritative wave of the hand. Clara turned around and soon spotted all the passengers in the car. She didn’t recognize them, but they looked very much like the mafia types she’d see at the airport.

“What do those guys want? Wait, they look like the goons at the airport.”

“They must have called up some other thugs as reinforcements.”

“I don’t know, but get the hell out of here, quick.”

She threw the curry sandwich she’d started on at the driver’s head, distracting him for a few seconds, and then she grabbed Tom’s sandwich and subjected it to the same fate. Meanwhile the lights had turned green, but only the right-hand lane of traffic started moving, because a truck was blocking the left-hand lane as it attempted a difficult maneuver to turn around.

Tom slammed his foot on the gas, thrust the car into the right-hand lane, and then abruptly turned left to follow the truck. For a few seconds they were driving up the wide avenue. The blue sedan was hard on their heels, closely followed by one of the vans. Both lanes were flowing freely in the opposite direction, and it was impossible to escape to the left. He suddenly veered right, took a transverse road and drove down a one-way side street, and then negotiated a whole series of even narrower streets. He was relieved and satisfied to note that fate had granted them a small boost: the traffic was flowing fairly well and the powerful Koenigsegg Gemera had no problem in distancing itself from its pursers.

“I think we’ve lost them.”

“But how did they find us?” asked Clara.

“I haven’t a clue, I don’t understand. What’s really annoying is that now they know we’re together. We can’t go back to my place and I can’t go back to the office.”

In a fit of anger, he hit the steering column full force.

“Sons of bitches!” he yelled in exasperation.

13

Once they’d reached the entrance hall at the central station, Clara and Tom went over to the left luggage office. Just as Tom was handing the plaque to the clerk, inside her field of vision Clara caught sight of a silhouette watching them. She turned her head slightly and recognized one of the men who’d been following them.

“There’s one on my right,” she murmured surreptitiously to Tom. “And the others can’t be far behind. Come on, let’s go. They absolutely mustn’t come near us, otherwise they’ll inject us with their filth.”

They left without taking possession of the object they’d come to collect. They attempted to distance themselves, half-walking, half-running, but Tom’s knee was still hurting and his limp became so bad that they ended up hiding themselves. But they were immediately spotted, and their way was blocked by two men approaching them. Clara and Tom didn’t know what to do to escape. Clara’s hands were clenched so tight that her nails were biting into the palms.

“Wait,” said the man, raising a hand. “Our boss would like to talk to you, but he wants to do it in secret. We have to take …”

And then simultaneously and with all the strength discharged by the rush of adrenalin, Clara and Tom hit the two men as violently as they could. They had never felt power like it. They hit out completely wildly because neither of them had ever learned how to fight. But the blows to knees and abdomen were effective enough for them to be able to escape. To their great astonishment, the two men didn’t try to catch them again. One of them seemed to be talking into his watch. But when they tried to make their escape down a staircase leading from the back of the station, they were blocked by the sedan, the two vans and five men in casual clothing, as well as the two others who had caught up with them again and were coming down the stairs as well. They were surrounded: a hastily improvised and perfectly orchestrated mousetrap. The man Clara had thrown the sandwiches at made them get into one of the vans. They weren’t threatened by any weapons, but the way events were unfolding and the number of men were sufficient evidence to make them cooperate. And from the tone of their voices and their self-assurance, there was no doubt that all these men were in perfect control of the situation and that it would be impossible to escape.

“Get in quickly,” ordered the older man, one arm behind them, the other indicating one of the van’s side doors.

Clara and Tom reluctantly did as they were told. The six men looked at them, satisfied at finally having caught them, and got into their respective vehicles.

“Clear?” asked the van driver on his walkie-talkie.

“Affirmative,” crackled the speaker.

The little cortege set off quietly, without drawing attention. Three men with sinister expressions surrounded Clara and Tom, who felt very cramped, much too cramped in the van. Clara was on the extreme defensive, following what Fred had discovered in the lab, and trembled every time one of the men next to her moved. The one who’d compelled them to get into the van was sitting opposite them, next to the other three.

“Undesirable observers spotted?” he said into a mike hidden inside his sleeve.

“Negative,” replied a crackling voice. “Three people passed by the back of the van. They seemed in a hurry and didn’t notice anything. Two men walked in front, were inquisitive for a few moments but didn’t go on watching.”

“Very well.”

He looked at Tom, a light smile on his lips. There was a long silence, and then Tom decided to try a bluff.

“Gentlemen, you’ve made a mistake with this abduction. I’m the first deputy to a federal prosecutor, and as such I’m entitled to permanent close protection. They’re discreet but I can assure you they saw everything. They didn’t intervene because they would have been outnumbered, but reinforcements have already been alerted as I’m speaking to you.”

“Did they have close protection from the lab … even at a distance?” asked the man into his sleeve mike, with some concern.

“Negative, no close protection since this morning.”

“Very well.”

“Mistake,” insisted Tom, “nobody knows this but all the members of our office carry a personal attack alarm, which I set off just now. The security services will locate me in a few minutes. So, stop now and this goes no further, I give you my word.”

“I’m under orders, as I told you. Our boss would like to talk to you in secret, so you can see what happens with him.”

“We’re not interested in talking to him,” replied Tom.

“I can’t tell you any more.”

“You shouldn’t fight against justice, mate,” said Clara, “because it’ll never let you go.”

A few kilometers away, next to a marshalling yard, two more vans labeled with the names of transport and rental companies disappeared inside a vast hangar, and stopped next to where four people dressed in railroad workers’ coveralls were waiting. A dozen hooded, armed men got out immediately and spread out over the area to take up their posts at strategic locations. All the vehicles left immediately. A bit farther over, four workers were finishing applying the last part of an enormous advertising poster pronouncing “Blue Dream, abbey cheese” onto the sides of one of three brown goods wagons, parts of which had already been severely attacked by rust. Perfection in the detail had been pushed to the limit in the dilapidated appearance of the graphics: the sign was hardly legible.

The men sitting in the front of the van were talking in code by walkie-talkie, while Tom was attempting to catch the eye of the individual sitting opposite him. It was useless: impassive, his eyes stayed firmly fixed on the floor of the van. These small trucks, each displaying the harmless Parks & Gardens sign, were covered with bits of earth and bore the genuine identification plates of the Department of the Environment. The men hadn’t had to play about camouflaging or copying them. The vehicles were sure to have been stolen, thought Tom. Nothing appears more genuine than the genuine article. The mike crackled into life.

“Depot to station 4, respond.”

“Station 4, go ahead.”

“What are you doing, station 4? We’re all ready for the two trees.”

“Sorry, we had a few problems fetching them, but we’re at the corner of the street so we’ll be with you shortly.”

“Understood, see you later.”

The vans followed close behind each other along the narrow street running alongside the tracks, and drove into the hangar without slowing down by the two men watching out for their arrival, stopping two meters from a small goods train hooked up to a service locomotive. The side door of the second van opened up. The three men got out, followed by Clara and then Tom. The men in railroad workers’ clothing stood three meters apart from each other, forming a human corridor as far as a door situated at the back of the middle railcar, where Tom and Clara were invited to go in alone.

Two guards saluted as they arrived. The inside of the railcar had been completely transformed and furnished in the most ultra-modern style. They walked across the first part that served as a decontamination chamber. Farther on, a man got up to receive them in a workroom next to the rear part, separated from the rest of the railcar by a thick reinforced glass door, and fitted out with extremely sophisticated communications equipment manned by a dozen technicians. The vans left the hangar and drove off. The goods train slowly started up. The railcar had no exterior windows but very large flat screens built into the walls, painted so realistically with countryside scenes that it was like looking out of ordinary windows.

Clara and Tom found themselves facing a man in his sixties, with fine features and a bald head. His eyes lively, his expression sharp, nothing seemed to escape his attention; but his face betrayed not the slightest emotion. He wasn’t the type of person to waste time in pleasantries. He went straight to the point.

“You’ve been a bit difficult to find, you know?” he said.

A vague smile flitted across his pinched lips. He talked slowly and regularly, with a slight accent that was hard to place … maybe German. Clara fixed the man in the railcar with an anxious and suspicious look.

“Who are you and what’s all this carry-on?” asked Tom coldly. “And where are we going?”

“I’m Walter Goldberg, director-in-chief of the national office for Territorial Security, attached to the Special Services.”

His neutral, monotonous voice was ambiguous nevertheless. It was impossible to determine how sincere he was.

“And I’m telling you that I’m …”

“You’re Tom Dorvan, first deputy to prosecutor Pauwels, and you’re Clara Wagner.”

He offered them his hand, but neither of them moved. The atmosphere became tense and anxious.

“You’re scared and you’re suspicious of everyone, aren’t you? I understand, believe me.”

He motioned for them to sit down. Reluctantly, Clara and Tom stared at him before complying. Goldberg noticed Tom looking around the inside of the railcar.

“This is our mobile office. It’s reinforced and the specialized equipment prevents any eavesdropping. Only a very few people in the entire world know of its existence. Behind me are highly skilled experts, who are also coordinators for several ministers of State. Generally, we only use this office for special missions connected to the protection of the territory, or to travel to other secret places. Every time it’s used, the strike troop carries out obligatory simulation exercises.”

But Tom didn’t want to listen.

“What do you want … and where are we going?”

“We’re going on a little trip,” he said in an amused tone of voice. “You know, you shouldn’t be suspicious of me, I’m a friend of Clarke’s.”

“Oh yes, you as well. It’s amazing the number of friends we’ve been uncovering in the last few hours.”

“He never talked about you to me,” Clara said immediately.

“Bad luck for you, because you’re talking to his girlfriend,” said Tom.

“I know. In fact, I’ve discovered more or less everything there is to know about you two, and in the last few hours, as you say.”

“Fantastic,” said Tom, still as coldly. “Go on like that, and in a few years you’ll be writing our biographies. But for now, we have to go to work. And since you belong to the national security services, you won’t have any problem finding my number.”

“This is what you were looking for, isn’t it?” he asked them, showing them the bag.

He took out the plaque and read the figures aloud.

“Number 35? When I learned of Clarke’s death, I was very distressed. I couldn’t understand what had happened. I only found out this morning, when I received the small device as well as two cellphones belonging to two children who’d been missing for some time.”

The uneasy atmosphere was worsening, but Goldberg opened the encoder by means of a magnetic key and slipped in a mini USB key, before clearing it. The device was rather odd in appearance: the upper part comprised a screen but the lower part only consisted of four rows of tiny buttons of various shapes and colors.

“This encoder is a very powerful device used by the Special Services. It can hold a lot of encrypted data and can be connected up to the various departments’ mainframe computers in total security. This is how he sent me an urgent message. He didn’t have enough time to explain everything, but I received all the facts he’d found out about this secret and dangerous organization.”

He made them listen to a part of the message. He pressed several buttons and a series of beeps and various other incomprehensible sounds could be heard, but it was obviously not Morse.

“This is what an encrypted message sounds like,” he said. “Clarke worked for me for two years, in Territorial Security HQ, before becoming an agent with the Special Services. He was one of the most brilliant assets I’ve ever met in my career, and I really respected his exceptional abilities. Together we developed an emergency language, an encrypted code that only applied to our services. But let’s get back to this message. Clarke found himself in a difficult situation. He knew that those hunting him wanted to question him, and extract the information contained in this encoder. He followed normal procedure for this type of situation and hid the device at random. As it comprises a recovery signal, we were able to retrieve it this morning at the airport. Then, I don’t know what happened because all the CCTV cameras in that area had had two hours of recording erased. But I suppose …”

“I saw everything, there were four of them,” interrupted Clara.

“You were at the airport?” asked Goldberg in astonishment.

“Yes, but Clarke didn’t know.”

“And you saw the faces of the killers?”

“Yes.”

“That’s something that could be of considerable help to us. You have my every sympathy, miss, please know I feel for you from the bottom of my heart. Truly … so as I said he was determined for me to receive everything he’d found out. Unhappily, this doesn’t constitute any sort of proof. He died because he didn’t know that the current director of his own department was covering up a secret circle. He didn’t suspect that such a thing was possible at that level.”

“Yes, we knew that as well. I was waiting to fetch the bag before going to Judge Kemper to ask for his help.”

“Help? You wouldn’t live more than a few hours.”

“Kemper’s mixed up in this?”

“No, at least I don’t think so, but he’s a personal friend of the prosecutor. He’d have talked to him about it, that’s for sure, and both of you would have been eliminated within days, not to say hours. Nobody would have noticed anything and the whole thing would have ended there.”

Tom glanced at Clara. Should they, after all, trust this man? Was he trying to buy their silence to cover up the business? Was he going to take them out himself if they refused to follow his advice?

“But why didn’t you intervene, if you knew all this?”

“We know … I can only speak of strong doubts, and that’s the whole problem. It’s been impossible for us to prove anything up to now. But let’s go on. Clarke then told me to contact you, and that he’d given you certain information, and how you’d possibly discovered some facts that would allow us to act.”

“And how did you find the bag?” asked Tom, still suspicious.

“That information is also in the message. He explains that he’d found, on the person who’d come to talk to him, a plaque from the left luggage office at the central station – plaque number 35. It’s not very original, but I think the aim was simply to get the documents out of his apartment for a while. Sadly, as I told you, the information and photos he’d collected are not sufficient evidence. That said, there’s another person watching them but who’s never been able to gather enough evidence to arrest them. He’s the current director-general of SCIS, Surveillance and Coordination for International Security. Very few people in the world know of these counter-intelligence services. The SCIS coordinates several information agencies such as Interpol, Scotland Yard and so on. This man, who used to be head of the SAS, the Special Air Service, is inaccessible. But since I talked to him this morning, he’s very impatient to meet you.”

“And what can he tell me so that we can trust him and trust you?” asked Tom.

“Nothing …”

“That’s not much. And since we can’t understand a thing on that encrypted message, how do we know your transcription is genuine and that the contents are what you told us about?”

Goldberg’s eyes stared first at Clara, then at Tom.

“But … I’m the one Clarke sent all the data to.”

He made them listen to the last part of the message, which was a recording of Clarke’s voice. It was much weaker than on a computer, but he was obviously finding it difficult to suppress his bitterness and anxiety. The noise of toilets in the background could be clearly identified.

“Clara or Tom, if you’re listening to this message it means something’s happened to me and that I can’t be with you to talk to you about it. I’ve sent everything to Walter Goldberg so that you’re not put in any danger, either of you. He’s a longtime friend. Tom, however things pan out, I beg you, don’t do anything. It’s not up to you to do it, anyway. It’s much too dangerous. Let Walter Goldberg take over. He’ll know how to proceed and he’ll protect both of you. Clara … Clara my darling I love you, you know I do, and I can’t wait to see you again … and I wanted to tell you …”

Goldberg stopped the device, and then gave Clara another USB stick.

“What comes next is a personal message dedicated to you. I’ve copied it onto this USB key.”

Clara was moved to tears.

“And of course, you can prove you’re the person Clarke was talking about?” asked Tom again.

Without hesitation, Goldberg took out his official badge bearing the name of the Security Services, which both of them examined carefully.

“You know, I haven’t had to show my credentials to anyone since I was a young man.”

He smiled briefly. But after everything they’d experienced, Tom still felt totally confused and didn’t know how much he could put his trust this man. Goldberg felt it.

“You’re still suspicious, which I can understand. I’m surprised myself that you’re not in a worse state of collapse, after the succession of shocks you’ve had to face in such a short time. But what Clarke said about your involvement is not very precise at this moment in time,” he added softly. “You can’t, you simply can’t go on keeping your distance.”

Tom was still very defensive. He didn’t like the innuendos hidden beneath that last sentence. That would suit him just fine, he thought to himself, I’m the perfect recruit: inexperienced, no past history, still enjoying the trust of all those around me. He’s taking advantage when I’m at my most vulnerable, when we don’t have time to think and don’t know what to do.

But Goldberg went on talking.

“If my information is correct, you have no more trump cards left to play. So, what will you do when they learn that his girlfriend is hiding at your place and that you’re her friend? Leave? Run away? Be constantly on your guard?”

He couldn’t have put it better, thought Tom.

“If memory serves, you’ve been blessed with a large fortune inherited from your parents. Even without misusing it, you have access to the best of the world’s most beautiful places. With your profile and practicing the profession that you do, a man like yourself is not very easy to hide. Without which, you won’t go on living. And it’s somewhat similar for Miss Wagner. Anyway, if you leave now, you’ll be flagging up your involvement in this affair and they’ll never let you go. And I can confirm that their international connections work in perfect harmony. So if you’ve something better in mind than cooperating with us, do it, but do it immediately. I advise you, however, to take your decision after the meeting we’ve arranged to take place in a short while,” he finished, hoping Tom would concur.

Even though what the man had said seemed full of common sense, Tom knew these people employed the most up-to-date coercive techniques by mixing personal and emotional elements together with irrefutable arguments, to rally them to their cause. However, his line of reasoning was fair enough, he had to admit: they’d been driven into a corner.

I’ll push a bit because I still need convincing, he said to himself, which will allow me to see what they’ve hidden up their sleeves and if there are any flaws. Anyway, if they’re really sincere I’ll soon know. He’s making us believe there’s no more time … that it’ll be too late. Good heavens, he’s worse than a carpet-seller in a North-African souk. So unless the guy he mentioned can prove the soundness of this urgency to me, I’ll take my time in thinking over the question.

Goldberg could feel that Tom was still digging his heels in too hard for him to have the slightest chance of winning over his trust, and all the more so to continue with the conversation. He decided to stop there.

“Fine,” Tom finally replied. “I’ll take your advice. I’ll go to the meeting and I’ll think about it, provided we don’t get eliminated first.”

“Come on, don’t exaggerate,” said Goldberg at once.

“After everything that’s happened, I don’t know where the boundaries of exaggeration are any more.”

14

The train moved into a hangar of much smaller proportions than the previous one. The roof had been patched up in various places, and fingers of light flickered through a few irregular strips of wood. Moving some fifty meters farther forward at walking speed, the locomotive stopped, and then reversed very slowly before coming to a complete halt. The noise of muffled rumblings blended with the metallic grinding of the coupling mechanisms.

“There we are, we’ve arrived. If you’d like to follow me.”

Goldberg got up, and walked in front of Clara and Tom to the door they’d come in by at the front of the railcar. The men who’d accompanied them were still standing there, beside a wide, open trapdoor in the floor. He motioned them to move forward.

“If you please.”

Clara walked toward the trapdoor, from where a retractable metal stairway led downward. Farther below, she could see another set of concrete stairs seeming to descend into the very bowels of the earth.

“Let’s go,” she said, holding onto Tom.

Goldberg smiled briefly and went down the stairs. Clara and Tom followed close behind, accompanied by one of the men who’d been guarding the trapdoor. They reached an underground level that had been deeply dug out and comprised an endless maze of corridors, badly lit by the cold light of fluorescent tubes spaced too far apart. A mechanism shut the concrete trapdoor almost soundlessly. Goldberg led the way down one of the corridors.

“We’re nearly there.”

The unsavory odor of stale air was mixed with the stench of sewers, damp stone and mold. Clara was distracted by the man bringing up the rear. He was too close for her liking. She turned around twice, glaring defiantly.

Fifty meters farther on, they stopped in front of a door and waited in a silence broken by the sound of trickling water, which was being broadcast from anti-eavesdropping scramblers. After a seemingly long pause, the door opened. Two men in their forties, dressed in civilian clothes, nodded quickly, first at the director of the Security Services, then at Clara, Tom and the guard.

“Wait there. I just need a minute,” said Goldberg before disappearing inside.

The two men followed him and closed the door behind them.

Tom and Clara stood still, facing the well-built guard with his expression as hard and cold as stone. Waiting on their own with the man made Clara anxious, and she wouldn’t lower her gaze. Tom was looking for some clue to indicate where this place was, but couldn’t find anything. Then a whisper could be heard, emanating from the guard’s earpiece. He dug his hand into his pocket, came up to them and took Clara by the arm. She jumped back abruptly, pushing his arm away.

“Pardon me,” he said in surprise.

Showing them his smartcard, he used it to open the door and let them in.

“Second door on the right,” he told them.

They went in, crossed a small lobby and came out onto a metal gangway crossing a ten-storey abyss that extended fifty meters into the distance, swarming with technicians working on ultra-complex instruments and devices. Each floor of this secret lair was immense, and continued for several hundred meters.

The first floor was divided up into various sectors, each equipped with hundreds of consoles and screens.

Goldberg came up behind them.

“Come on, he’s down there in his office.”

Watching out of the glass-fronted elevator that took them down to the lower levels, Tom and Clara uncovered a world that appeared at once familiar and surreal. Familiar because they’d already seen similar places quite well recreated in films, and surreal because this time they were right inside the place and it was of incalculable dimensions while being inconceivably sophisticated, at the same time buried dozens of meters deep beneath railroad tracks in an apparently rusty and abandoned depot. In fact, they had the impression that time measured on the outside had no significance here, or that the method of measuring it was different. The air was fresh and dry, yet didn’t smell enclosed.

They emerged at the lower level, and walked along the first section, then passed by a kind of operating block where a man wearing sterile protective clothing and latex gloves was adjusting a piece of apparatus, sitting in front of a small set of surgical instruments. He glanced at Clara and Tom, who were staring at him with astonished and perplexed expressions. Finally they reached a room that was much more conventionally furnished, with a warm and welcoming atmosphere. A man of advanced years and considerable plumpness was sitting behind a mahogany desk of modern design, created from four wide round plates, reminiscent of a four-leaved clover. Opposite him, a man in his forties was sitting on one of the sixteen chairs made of the same wood. The two men got up to greet them. Goldberg made the introductions.

“Mr. Parson, these are Clarke’s two friends. This is Mr. Parson who I was telling you about and my colleague Gary McPhiel of the FBI.”

The gradient tint of the man’s spectacles was rather dark, giving the impression that he was wearing permanent sunglasses. They greeted Clara and Tom, who responded with slight nods.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning. Please excuse us for the, let’s say, unconventional manner you were brought here, but we were obliged to take you by surprise. It wasn’t very agreeable, but we had to double our precautions. Sit down,” he said, indicating the nearest group of chairs, where they all seated themselves.

“Where are we?” asked Clara.

“You’re in the headquarters for surveillance and coordination of the intelligence and counter-intelligence services.”

“That’s strange,” said Tom in wonder. “If Clarke knew about this place, he’d have surely told me.”

“That’s because he didn’t know about it, is all. Indeed, very few people know it exists. So, I’m assuming Mr. Goldberg explained the situation to you?” he went on.

“Yes, or at least his version of it,” said Tom.

“When we learned that you knew of the existence of this particular criminal network with international ramifications, I asked him to intervene as soon as possible, without giving you any warning, and to arrange this meeting for several reasons. First of all I wanted to find out if you were apprised of sufficient facts to allow us to act as fast as possible, and secondly to talk to you about the real dangers that the secret circle running this network represents. And last but not least, the final reason was to enable you to gain international recognition in the fight against organized crime, together with an outstanding promotion in your career, Mr. Dorvan.”

“You want to help me, how kind,” said Tom with false gratitude.

He was starting to catch his first glimpse of the trap: they were going to tell him to close his eyes for reasons of State and to go on spying about and collecting facts for them, up to the point where he was eliminated. In others words, he was being used as cannon fodder.

“Yes, deciding on mutual collaboration, because you’ve short-circuited several years of inquiries and shadowing.”

“Well, unfortunately Clara and I don’t have any particular facts to help you in this affair, and we don’t want to be mixed up in it anymore. Personally, I’ve no desire to be recognized in any way. I’d much prefer to live out my life in peace and quiet.”

“At this stage, if you do nothing I can assure you the whole thing will be compromised.”

Of course Clara wanted to take revenge on the people who’d murdered Clarke, but she found it odd that such powerful and well-organized services should need Tom. She needed clarity on the matter.

“Please explain why the Secret Services should suddenly need Mr. Dorvan’s help, when this is not his field of expertise? He would never be as effective as one of your agents, and it could be fatal for him,” she objected, failing to be impressed by any of it.

Then rather cynically, she went on putting suggestions forward as they occurred to her.

“Do you need more staff? Or perhaps they’re on fall leave? In fact, there’s nothing to prove that your interests are as laudable as you’re making out. There might well have been things Clarke wasn’t experienced in. You could even be mixed up with these people and, if you’re not, Mr. Dorvan will be the perfect pawn to be used and then eliminated. And me too, without anyone asking any questions. Tell me this isn’t the plot you’re hatching. The first guy” (she pointed her chin at Goldberg) “is in charge of anaesthetizing us with emotive arguments so that the other one” (turning toward Parson) “can send us to the front.”

“Just so,” added Tom. “You’ll send us off on some apparently official stratagem, and knowing how we think and act, you’ll then decide to eliminate us when it suits you, without anybody being any the wiser.”

“Your reaction is perfectly understandable after everything that’s happened to you,” admitted Parson with an almost imperceptible smile. “However, there are a dozen boxes each containing several hundred pages on this business, and those are not blank pages. This is a case with code 2012, KC 2012. For your information, all cases with the number 2012 are designated as ‘cases that don’t exist’.”

“That don’t exist?” asked Tom frowning.

“Yes, officially. They’re unknown to the public at large, they never include names or signatures, they’re never handled by any secretaries, and all the material is completely destroyed at the end of each operation. Even our own services don’t know anything about them. Only the president, the minister, Mr. Goldberg and myself are aware of them. The initials stand for the case code. It’s always in English to facilitate communication with our colleagues overseas. Here it concerns ‘Kid Connections.’ But it would take too long to explain it all to you, because we mu–”

“But,” interrupted Clara, “we have all the time in the world. In fact, listening carefully to you is all we have to do for the rest of the day,” she said, turning toward Tom.

“Er, yeah,” he said, somewhat confused. “At the very least, we need a detailed briefing.”

“That’s not information which will be really useful to you at this time, and I fear that it would discourage you from doing other things,” said Parson.

“Don’t worry, I’ve recovered enough. So give me an update on the situation and I’ll tell you if I’m discouraged. Where will you start? With the reason of State, perhaps?”

Parson looked at them in turn. He knew that they were both very much on their guard, and that it would take only the slightest thing to make them lose all their confidence. He also knew he had to convince both of them in order to win Tom’s cooperation.

“First you need to know that our goal is not to eliminate you, otherwise we’d have done that a long time ago. The perimeter of those marshalling yards above us is totally patrolled by our agents. They’d have made you disappear as soon as you’d arrived without anybody asking any questions,” he clarified, gazing at Clara. “And nobody would have known a thing about it,” he added looking at Tom. “But to do that, I wouldn’t have had to make you come here. No, believe me, this is not the reason that you’re here in this place. It’s true that you can be useful to us, Mr. Dorvan. But I think the benefit is all on your side, because if this organization has spotted you or suspects you of watching them, your chances of survival are exceedingly slight.”

“Go on,” said Tom, still on the defensive.

“It’s a question of the rule of law. But before developing the theme, I will begin by discussing the types of activities this organization and its offshoots engage in. There are others, but none of this magnitude.

There are three main activities: the first is the manufacture and distribution of synthetic drugs, the second is the development of large human trafficking and hidden prostitution networks worldwide.

The third reason is even more insidious, as it allows certain individuals to manipulate people in strategic positions to serve their own interests. They blackmail some of these individuals with photos or videos to ensure their loyalty. While many are active members of this network, others have been caught in their various traps without initially realizing it. They don’t use firearms, because they possess far more powerful weapons: threats and blackmail. This is a kind of cartel responsible for the disappearance of more and more children and teenagers worldwide.”

“More and more children?”

“Yes, boys and girls, and getting increasingly younger.

And this secret network can call on far more resources than the State police forces. More than that, most of their members today have been to the best schools and occupy key positions in the world of business, finance, showbusiness or politics. It is structured into several sprawling outfits, and run by a secret circle of people linked to the intelligence services of a single state. It can be defined as a mafia of silence but hiding in plain sight, right in front of our eyes. Our prey doesn’t run to ground in back-bars or poky hotels, nor do they download pornographic images off the Internet. No, on the contrary, they frequent the most up-and-coming clubs and institutions, and mingle with people enjoying the greatest respectability, and sometimes particularly popoular. A little world that’s almost impossible to access that nobody suspects, and ruled, as I told you, by the most absolute omertà or code of silence.”

“And very difficult to watch, because they’re constantly changing countries for their meetings,” added the FBI agent.

“And,” said Parson, “they provide irresistible financial inducements, to persuade the people working for them to supply them with the best possible protection. This money also enables them to invest in perfectly legitimate syndicates, gaming circles and other financial companies or real estate.”

“Like a kind of modern-day Al Capone,” added the FBI agent again, “but on a much more sophisticated level.”

“All their set-ups are very sophisticated indeed,” went on Parson. “For example, they’ll change the corporate name of certain companies every ten months, to avoid any sort of State control. We’ve also tried to infiltrate their activities through the tax authorities, but we’ve never been able to extract a thing. They regularly pay their taxes ten days in advance of the deadline, and never use any questionable tax-loopholes. They’re without reproach at that level. The same goes for their official activities, which are based on mundane banality so as not to attract any attention. They would never take any risks. Their henchmen work for them on an undeclared basis, but they never stay long enough in one country for us to make any sort of intervention.”

“They carry out their contracts under the shelter of all those companies,” explained McPhiel, “but there’s never any illegal activity you can turn up. As for their regular employees, they’ve never been in trouble with the law, and they don’t suspect a thing.”

“On the contrary,” said Parson, “some of their companies are valued by all those making use of their services. One of their surveillance companies, for example, is even in charge of protecting the confidential data of several embassies!”

“I see,” said Tom.

“And believe us or not, they even make donations to science and charitable works. These are prosperous companies that contribute a lot in taxes, and their moral standing is seemingly beyond reproach. Therefore officially they’ve nothing to fear from anybody, because nobody has anything to reproach them for and they well know it. There’s no justification for starting any inquiry. And anyway it wouldn’t lead anywhere: the networks are organized into completely legitimate companies at several levels, quite distinct from each other and having nothing in common. As regards the law, one security company is employed several times a year by another company in charge of their evening’s entertainment. Do you see?”

“Yes,” said Tom pensively.

“I mean, do you see how unreachable they are?”

“Yes … you mean that even if they’re caught in the act during one of their evenings, and since most of their illicit activities are hidden from a good number of the members, the only people you could take in for questioning would be a few employees working for the company in charge of the evening’s entertainment.”

“Exactly, those are the ones who’d get the push … and only them. They always have gold-plated security. They’ve thought of everything and are perfectly protected. Thanks to the bridge club, for example, they can sit there anytime with alibis you can’t challenge. In case of any suspicion or inquiries, each of them would insist they knew nothing. The very honorable members and their guests, steeped as they are in their high moral values, would be shocked to learn what was being cooked up without their knowledge and would react with natural and perfectly justified outrage. Which wouldn’t be altogether false, as a good number of the members aren’t aware of anything. Scandalized, they’d turn against the club which would once again throw all responsibility onto the company organizing the evening’s entertainment. The outcome is classic: the company specializing in arranging events would disappear the very next day with its directors, like hundreds of others. For the police, the real miscreants would have evaporated into thin air. It would be unjustified and useless, not to say illegal, to pursue matters any further.”

“It’s hard to believe,” murmured Clara in bewilderment.

“Well yes, they have themselves covered one hundred percent. I should even say two hundred per cent, as they have several cover stories. And all those companies enable them to employ as many henchmen as they like to protect them and organize their meetings, and on a completely official basis. What’s more, those guys are really difficult to spot. A rotation system allows them to change countries every six months or so, which makes them practically invisible. And they’ve shown a lot of know-how in their choice of henchmen. They’re former government officers or soldiers from the Balkans, Kosovo, Moldova, or Turkey, for example, and most of them have been trained in counter-intelligence, surveillance and close-quarters protection. There wouldn’t be much you could teach them. And because they soon come to realize how much better their life is since they started working for this organization, now they protect the goose that lays the golden egg at all costs. If we use force, the organization will know instantly and everything will be made to vanish before an inquiry can even be started. As for the clients, they have no hesitation in paying to ensure the network’s total security. Money might be able to loosen tongues, but it also shuts them up.”

“But you must be able to find evidence or trace the transactions?”

“Not a shred of evidence, not a single trace, everything has been perfectly camouflaged. There are too many players and too much money involved. The payments are made thanks to a circuit – as complex as it’s elaborate – of receivers of works of art or precious jewels, of professional traffickers and other small-time dealers. There are many advantages to having procurers acting as go-betweens. They’re not known to the customs services or the police, they have no claims, they’re easily interchangeable, and they can be quietly eliminated just as easily if there are any problems. This organization uses several chains of traffickers, the main two being the following: one to supply their prostitution network with children they have abducted from anywhere…”

“They kidnap young teenagers from anywhere in the world, and transfer them from one country to another within a few hours, which makes the work of the local police almost impossible,” said Goldberg.

“And the other is to transport valuables. These are mafia go-betweens that are constantly changed over and which the police can’t do much about. A few days ago, our colleagues in Prague set up a wide-ranging operation to flush out the line of people contacted by their key trafficker. We’d lost sight of him for several years, until the FBI picked up his trail again a few weeks ago. But our colleagues in Prague supposedly pulled a fast one by making the trafficker and his contacts believe their surveillance had been as brief as it was unproductive, and that they’d had to call off the whole operation. Without being aware of it, they fell into the trap sprung by our colleagues. They felt quite safe conducting their business and we were able to continue the surveillance. The Czech counter-intelligence services pulled off the most remarkable coup. That’s how we found their banker in Prague. They were even able to record his conversation as the merchandise was being handed over. We’ve been given a three-hourly update on all their movements, and they’re just waiting for our go-ahead to arrest them all. But let’s get back to what we’re particularly interested in. The valuables are then converted into cash, which is sent to the four corners of the world, using different accounts in shell companies. A veritable maze of sophisticated financial set-ups that are almost impossible to trace. The transactions are mainly performed by lawyers working for the networks or by management companies. And those people would have left their former employment in recognized financial institutions a long time before, otherwise they would have been spotted too soon. No, they’re playing with Eastern Europe, Asia and the Mid East now, and they can change in an instant.”

“But since you already have the names, why can’t you put taps on their home phone-lines?” asked Tom.

“You wouldn’t think it,” said Goldberg, “but they all have families and would never do anything compromising under their own roof. It’s the main reason these organizations were created. Most of the members occupy very important positions, meaning the image of the family ideal can never be touched. It’s excellent for their careers, and well loved by the media as you know.”

“As you’ll understand, this is far removed from isolated acts by madmen or of a seedy network for the exchange of pornographic photographs downloaded off the Internet,” said the FBI agent.

“And is the FBI in charge of shadowing them?” asked Tom.

“Oh my God no!” said Parson. “And good thing too for the secrecy of the operation. Their director would be quite capable of making us all wear the same dark glasses, and use large-scale models for our surveillance trains. ”

He gave McPhiel a small smirk.

“Hey c’mon Peter, you shouldn’t reveal all the secrets of our tactics and methods,” he said.

He turned toward Tom.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s jealous.”

“We’ve been trying to dismantle this circle of silence for several years now, but the members are too scattered over the world which, legally speaking, greatly complicates matters.”

“Yes, and it’s a serendipity that young Frank came to talk to Clarke,” said Goldberg. “Thanks to him we’ve been able to obtain essential information and pick up the trail again. For us, it’s been a real godsend, like manna falling from heaven.”

“And also from balcony, sadly. That’s why we’re still stuck at the same point,” sighed Parson.

“But is there any possibility that Clarke could have made a mistake about the prosecutor?” asked Tom, still hoping that his boss was only a victim of this organization or of some nefarious scheme. “And that the man he told me about two days ago never worked for them?”

“Is that what Agent Foster told you?” asked Parson. “That he was working for them?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Because if that’s what he thought, then he really was mistaken. We can’t really say the prosecutor’s working for them.”

“Ah,” said Tom hurriedly, wanting to latch onto that single remark and not listen to anything else.

“Because that would mean,” continued Parson, “he was a sort of employee or an occasional associate.”

“And in fact that’s not the case,” said Tom, a flicker of relief showing in his expression.

“No, not really, that’s not true, because he’s one of the brains behind the circle. But he never gets involved. He only covers certain things up.”

“And have you known that for long a long time?” asked Clara.

“No, we’ve only just fully grasped the situation. It would take too long to explain and it wouldn’t serve any purpose at the moment. But in brief, his former first deputy, your predecessor,” he said to Tom, “took part in some of those evenings. But he couldn’t accept the fact that he’d been ensnared by means of a fiendishly clever ruse, which I’ll tell you about later. He researched into the prosecutor’s past history, with the obvious intention of trapping him in turn. You should simply know that your predecessor died mysteriously in an auto accident on his way to meeting Mr. Goldberg, to talk to him about the facts he’d discovered with regard to this network. Nobody, of course, dared voice the suspicion that the prosecutor could be involved in the matter. And neither did I.”

“How long before his death did he give you this information?” asked Tom anxiously.

“About a week before. First of all he’d spoken of his doubts over Clarke’s boss. And then on the day of his death, he wanted to talk to us about this circle and the contacts Pauwels kept up with Van der Meer, through their bridge club.”

“Oh no!” said Tom, with increasing horror.

“I don’t know how they met, but they found each other somehow, those two. They’ve each been leading a double life for so long that nobody has known anything about it.”

“But it’s not possible, not a prosecutor …”

“Alas,” said Goldberg, “it’s much more common than you’d imagine, whatever the person’s social status.”

“Most of the magistrates I know do fairly good work,” went on Parson, “but there are a lot of second-rate ones and believe me, I know quite a few. Lots I could tell you about … What can you do? Just because they hold important positions it doesn’t mean their inner fantasies and vices will be suppressed. But they’re not all the same, thank goodness. The members making up this network have created many companies to get rich quickly but discreetly. And they rapidly take up the game of defying normal society. But their daring has to be toned down nevertheless. For example, they’d never involve their own bosses because it would be much too risky. On the contrary, taking part in an evening organized by a third party, in a secret location frequented by highly distinguished members of an exclusive club, with half of them suspecting absolutely nothing … what do you expect will happen to them? All they then have to do is take the minimum of precautions in order not to be noticed by prying eyes while they’re taking drugs or touching up minors, which is not very difficult.”

“But you don’t take that kind of risk if you hold such high office,” said Tom, still dazed.

“They only have to hand out honors and good names,” said Parson. “You don’t think in the same way if you find a means of rapidly accumulating millions of euros or dollars. And the ability to spend millions until the end of their days will always outweigh the value of a medal testifying to an exemplary career. It’s a sort of sickness, like gambling in the casino. Respecting the law or ethics is the least of their worries. It’s not loss of position they fear, but being unable to take advantage of those huge sums of money. We estimate their illicit gains at more than 800 million dollars a year, divided up between the members. Those amounts are paid into various accounts spread all over the world. Numerous people, whatever their position, will take any risk to enjoy such sums, knowing that it’s almost impossible for them to be caught in the act, and for anyone to obtain any sort of concrete proof against them. Thus they’re preparing a golden future for themselves, without any particular danger. Of course they expect to benefit from their fortunes. And since most of the principal members are experts in the art of laundering money, all traces of those assets are lost.”

“But how can you uphold all these allegations, then?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Dorvan, I know exactly what I’m talking about. The file is fairly thick already, but we don’t have time to deal with that now. You’ll be able to consult it at your leisure, if that’s what tickles your fancy, but only once this operation has been seen through to the end. And with a bit of luck, we might find some clues about those assets. But I’m not sure, because they are both possessed of a rare intelligence well above that of their peers. The prosecutor is a real brainbox, capable of manipulating the system to perfection. One of the best examples to illustrate what I’m talking about is your nomination: it took everyone by surprise that he’d chosen somebody so young.”

“Me most of all,” admitted Tom.

“It has nothing to do with your excellent abilities, as we’ve been able to verify, but because he was determined to appoint a less experienced first deputy.”

“A polite little jerk,” he said, nodding his head slowly to show his comprehension.

“Not completely … but let’s say somebody who didn’t represent any sort of danger and who he could easily manipulate. He ignored other candidates who would have been harder to neutralize. In fact, everything leads me to believe that he, and he alone, possesses all the facts I need about the network.”

“Facts … you mean, proof?”

“Yes.”

“But why haven’t you gone in immediately and seized them?” asked Clara, speechless.

“Well, that’s the nub of the question. We can’t,” he said, looking at her. “The service I command is centralizing the fight against organized crime, and coordinates all international legislative activity. The results of inquiries and analytical reports used by every country in the world can be found in this central office. Thus we have one of the largest and most comprehensive databases in existence today. But it can’t assist us in this particular case. Certainly it helped in finding out certain facts and setting us off in particular directions, but we were very soon confronted and then blocked by the legislative systems of the various countries in which these networks originate. And as your friend was able to verify, high-ranking international civil servants are protected by diplomatic immunity, which makes the whole process extremely complicated. And the prosecutor, who benefits from the same immunity, knows that only too well. He’s aware he can’t be indicted at local or even national level, and that the very strict and lengthy protocol it’s obligatory to follow in case of any doubt will allow him all the time he needs to wash himself clean, while destroying any compromising facts he’s been involved in. He can therefore live in complete serenity because he’s perfectly protected, and in some ways he’s not wrong. What with the statutes he benefits from, his dual nationality and the way this organization is structured, there is absolutely nothing we can do. And we have to respect what they call the rule of law, and that’s what I was talking about just now. That means we have to respect the law with regard to arresting people, even though they no longer respect it themselves. But in the matter we’re concerned with, we can’t follow due process, not because it’s beyond our competency, but because none of the legal procedures would be discreet enough. Even a preliminary inquiry, because there’s too great a risk that the prosecutor would be informed, without us knowing, either by a member of the network or by one of his associates with sharp eyes, and we’d lose any chance we had of arresting them. They’d make all the evidence disappear within a few hours, including the children. We therefore have to take action in a different way.”

He turned to Tom.

“And this is when you become involved, Tom, if you will allow me to call you by your first name, because you’re the only possibility we have to circumvent this problem of the rule of law to take immediate and secret action.”

Tom began to understand the direction things were going in, and he could feel his throat constricting. Parson was surely going to ask him to watch the prosecutor, even to spy on him, or to install miniature bugs in his office. But he needed to refuse at any cost, however well-founded his arguments were. Clarke was right, it wasn’t up to him to act because it was too dangerous. Not for his career, but for him. Whatever they tried to make him believe, he knew he’d never get out of it in one piece.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting from me exactly, but your procedure seems completely illegal to me,” he said defensively.

“I’d rather call it … elaborating a very particular procedure code to be used in very specific circumstances. But should we respect traditional laws when these are no longer applicable, and which have been paralyzing the implementation of a true justice to this extent for so many years? There are some realities that have to take precedence over formalities or even laws. It’s a legitimate question, but while waiting for society to come up with solutions I’ve taken the decision to act and to fight on equal terms. But as this is my decision, it concerns me and me alone.”

“Well, the same goes for me. You want to fight on equal terms, but I’m the one who’ll be caught between two front lines. To sum up, you were right, I’ve been put off: my reply is no. I’m not interested in quitting the role of prosecutor’s pawn just to become yours, even if I understand you correctly. If I accept to follow you on this course of action, in a few hours I’ll have lost ten years of my life and my entire stock of credibility. Not counting the fact that I’ll be suspended and won’t be able to practice as a lawyer. I’d have no right to compensation and my only possible employment would be making French fries and washing pots. And even there, I’m afraid my future employer would suspect me and tell me I was overqualified for the job. That’s what my future would hold if I decide to work in cooperation with your services. A rosy future, full of hopes and dreams, but mostly hope as you well know. It’s another type of elimination, on the quiet, within the rules of the game, but just as effective all the same.”

“With all the assets at your disposal, you’d never have to go make French fries. But even if that were true,” said Parson without sounding the least bit disconcerted, “surely it would be preferable to meeting your death in the next few days?”

“What do you mean?”

“You understand me very well. I mean that you really have no choice. Well, you do,” he said, adjusting his position in his chair, “but the alternative is more radical with regard to our proposal. And if I’m talking to you, it’s not because we want you to be our pawn. It’s because you were the prosecutor’s personal choice, after he’d been watching you for a long time without you knowing. He really thinks you’re totally inoffensive and that you don’t suspect anything. For that reason and much more than any other agent in my services, you have a far greater chance of succeeding in this mission and gaining access to the information we need. I’ll then arrange for him to be neutralized and for a legitimate search warrant to be granted. Because for the moment I’m only going on assumptions, even if they’re well founded. You see, I have two old documents in my possession, which are all I need for the official go-ahead.”

“I thought you didn’t have any proof,” interrupted Tom.

“Yes, but setting things in motion will make too much noise and take too long. And I can’t even use the procedure to get an official search warrant, because precisely the place I’m interested in is protected from any type of warrant. But if you accept our offer, you’ll be accorded all the support we can muster. Your chances of success can’t be guaranteed, but they’ll be increased.”

“Even without knowing the details of this mission, if the place the facts are to be found in is protected from any type of warrant, you’ll never bring it to a successful conclusion without the justice system or the government demanding explanations,” said Tom.

“Rest assured, I haven’t taken this decision lightly. I talked to the minister yesterday morning: she knows everything. I told her that if not we’d have to follow normal procedures, and that in the very unlikely event of success, the prosecutor would have to be judged by an extraordinary council of the magistracy. I also told her he’d easily be able to shield himself behind his position and diplomatic status, and meanwhile all the evidence would disappear.”

“And what did she think?” asked Tom.

“The same as us. That’s why she also talked to her superior to make him part of our extra-ordinary procedure.”

“And what did her superior think?” asked Tom skeptically.

“That our procedure was extra ordinary …”

There was a heavy silence.

“But where do you expect me to find these facts?”

“Well, following your predecessor’s clues, there’s a place that the prosecutor considers totally safe for hiding compromising material: it’s in his personal vault in the archives. It’s kept for highly classified files protected by the seal of State secrecy. The prosecutor is the only person to have access and it’s completely protected from any search warrant. He’s very far-sighted because he knows that he could lose his position of power if any of the material were to be discovered in his home, in his office or at any of his relations’ places. And that’s what confirms my suspicions about the choice of this vault: the solution is simple and perfectly safe. At the end of his term of office, he’ll remove or destroy those documents with impunity, before transferring the codes to his successor.”

“And what is the material you need?” asked Tom hesitantly.

“Well, among other things your predecessor told me about the existence of a secret folder containing genetic fingerprints.”

“Genetic fingerprints?”

“Yes. He was able to establish that your friend Clarke’s head of department had created a file of DNA profiles of all the members implicated in the network. In that way, if anybody failed to cooperate they could break them and make them spill the beans.”

“But that might work with people who already have a criminal record or after a crime’s been committed, but not for anybody without a record.”

“Wrong. There are several possibilities: for example, replacing the genetic fingerprint in an unsolved serious case with genetic material belonging to the member who’s troubling them, or committing an outrage or a murder and leaving his DNA at the scene. Then, all they’d have to do is inform on him, knowing that the police will rapidly crosscheck the genetic profile of the person to be arrested and the one in the unsolved case. Genetic fingerprints are all-powerful and considered irrefutable proof, so the person in question will be removed from being able to harm anybody for a long time. If he talks, reprisals will be taken against his family and so on. That’s also how they keep everyone working for them on their toes. And once your predecessor had explained all this to me, and after he’d fallen victim to the very same set-up, there is absolutely no doubt about the contents of this folder. Then when the file has been closed, they declare trumps to the interested party. Most of them fall into the trap and they’re too frightened to do anything against them. The only way they can guarantee that nothing will be used against them is to never say anything, and to go on paying. To remain solo if anything happens, and above all never cooperate with the police.”

“They’re really Machiavellian,” said Clara in a small voice.

“Compared to them, Machiavelli was a choirboy, miss,” said Parson, before turning back to Tom.

“You absolutely have to find those files. And this is what it looks like.”

He showed him a few samples he took out of one of his desk drawers.

“Because of their size and format, they won’t be placed inside normal ring binders or standard files. And because they mustn’t be damaged, in principle they must all be kept in the same place.”

“But if I remove the files from the prosecutor’s vault without any official authorization, I wouldn’t be the only one to lose all rights to practice my profession,” he said to Parson.

“You won’t be removing anything. Absolutely not. Since these kind of searches are prohibited as you know, all the evidence will be lost because it’s inadmissible in the justice system. First of all I need to make sure that what I’m looking for is indeed in that vault. As I’ve told you, even the fastest official process won’t prevent the evidence from disappearing. On the contrary, I need you to photograph all the names appearing on the top of the folders, as well as everything you can find in the vault concerning this circle. The names of the different shell companies and of the companies they depend on; their codenames, any sort of accounting records or movement of particular accounts. And if possible, exchanges or transfers in other currencies. It shouldn’t be too difficult, as you’re very familiar with those sorts of documents.”

“But that’s not the problem. What you’re asking me to do is highly illegal, and I’ll be cooking French fries in prison as soon as you make use of the information.”

“No. You’re the instrument hopefully allowing me to neutralize these highly-placed individuals profiting from a weakness in the system, which they’ve been manipulating for their own perverse ends. You won’t be removing anything and you won’t be divulging any information from confidential files. Anyway, nobody will know anything about it. There’ll be no proof of this mission, nor of your actions, I can guarantee you that. And to tell you the truth, if there’s any problem of course I’ll assume all liability. Tom, I’m the one taking full responsibility for this entire operation. I’m at the end of my career and I have nothing to prove, believe you me. I have no interest or desire in ruining the career of a young magistrate with a promising future, who is destined to become an honest and upright high-ranking civil servant. That’s what society needs, more than ever. And I wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice any self-importance in my career, so that the continued existence of this crucial judicial function can be assured by people like you.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s not a choice; it’s your duty. Dismantling this network and pledging such important positions can be assured. That will be the crowning success of my career. So, I was saying that you have to photograph everything you find. I’d very much like to catch them in their own trap. And with a bit of luck, you’ll also find information or hints about their next meeting.”

“Well, that at least I can tell you about. It’s already happened. I know because I saw everything. It took place aboard a cruise liner, two days ago.”

“No, I think they’ll take further advantage of having that cruise liner on the open sea, in international waters where it’s impossible to intervene. It’s an ideal situation: nobody suspects anything and it’s very easy to protect. They obviously feel very safe there, and we can almost be certain that they’ve planned another very secret meeting on that boat.”

“What’s the point of knowing, if you can’t intervene?” asked Tom.

“If you can find the material, I’m ready to launch a strike attack to arrest them soon afterwards, and thus effectively cut off the head of the network,” said Parson calmly, staring at Tom over the top of his glasses, as if to underline the gravity of the situation by making visual contact.

There was a long silence. Tom turned around in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the pen Parson was holding in his hand. He ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh. He had listened to all the arguments, and now the moment to give his answer had arrived. The ball was obviously in his court. He felt as if he’d crossed through Hell and only escaped by the skin of his teeth, for the third time in two days. It was getting to be a bit much: far too much for his taste, as he wondered if he’d be able to hold his nerve. But now he seemed to be getting dangerously close to the point of no return. He had to struggle hard against a strange desire to leave as fast as he could for the airport, take the next plane out with Clara and get away as far as possible – to hide themselves away for some time and wait. Anyway, Clarke was dead and there was nothing he could do for him. Using all his concentration, he began assembling his ideas. He could well understand that he was holding the lives of many young adolescents in his hands, and that without him the situation would never be resolved. At this point in time, he scoffed at the law and all its intricacies, but he didn’t want to put himself into a difficult, not to say inextricable, situation. However well-intentioned these men seemed to be, and even if Parson appeared to be honest, he’d only known them for a short while. He knew that in this sort of extreme situation, things could topple over from one hour to the next, if they themselves were subjected to extreme pressure. What would they do if they or their families were threatened?

If he refused, perhaps they’d work out other but less risky strategies. But if they couldn’t find any, children would go on being abducted. And then again, he couldn’t imagine continuing to work for the prosecutor. However, if he tendered his resignation his boss would find it very odd, which could be just as dangerous. Tom was faced with an impossible decision. He let out a soft but unconvincing groan.

“And if we fail?”

Parson held his gaze without replying.

“I see …”

There was another awkward silence. Tom looked at Clara with a prolongued sigh of despair, and then stared at the table. He weighed up the different options. But how could he decide? There was nothing to choose between fleeing, becoming a pawn and dying. He waited for a few moments before looking up and meeting Parson’s piercing, relentless gaze. Then he thought of Clarke and slowly nodded his head in agreement.

“I think we can …”

“I’m very grateful,” said Parson, not letting him speak for fear he’d change his mind. “I’m very impressed by your courage.”

Tom opened his mouth, but Parson went on.

“Yes, in truth, men of your caliber are a rarity, but I knew you were one of them.”

Tom sighed and shook his head.

“Four days ago, I was nominated first deputy to a super-intelligent big boss of a powerful mafia organization, and now I have to risk my life before my career’s even had a chance to take off.”

“Don’t worry too much about that, as we’ve estimated your chances of survival at more than sixty per cent, which is very good for an operation like this.”

“Oh, brilliant!” he replied with a vexed look and fake cheerfulness. “That’s … so comforting.”

Parson was suddenly interrupted by one of his staff bearing an internal memo. He pushed up his glasses and read the message.

“It’s just as I thought. There’s nothing at the prosecutor’s home. One of our teams searched his house, and they even checked all his walls with a scanner. And they completed the whole task in an hour-and-a-half, while he wife was out at a beauty salon. And that was Gary’s idea.”

“Oh no … you don’t know him, he’s very meticulous and he’ll notice immediately,” said Tom, upset at the idea that they were already committing errors.

“It’s obvious you don’t know our team: they as discreet as it’s possible to be. A misplaced hair will be put back in its place. And if the neighbors were out in their back yards cooking up a barbecue, they won’t have noticed anything. On the hand, I’ve also taken the liberty of checking over your home to ensure the success of our operation. Neither you or your house are being tapped.”

“I could have told you that, as I’ve got a very good surveillance system installed.”

“And I can assure you they’d have no difficulty hacking into your system. Still, this must give you more reassurance. It proves that nobody suspects you, which increases your chances of success by five to ten per cent.”

“Oh that’s just great,” said Tom, in the same tone of voice.

Then he took out the card his friend Fred had given him at the lab.

“And what do you know about this?” he asked, handing the card to Parson.

He read it over, but couldn’t understand much of it.

“Where did you find this?”

“On that boat. That’s where they organized the evening at the end of the congress on the harmonization of international legislation. There were a number of phials inscribed with ‘insulin’ in one of the cabins I found. I took one, thinking it could have fingerprints … and I handed it over to be analyzed. That’s where they told me it was … I can’t remember any more,” (he looked to Clara for help) “but anyway it’s not insulin.”

“I don’t know the exact name of the substance, but it’s a chemical formula based on GHB,” she explained.

“You searched the cabins when you were aboard that boat?”

“Yes, and I saw it all: drugged children and teenagers, the evening they’d arranged and the cabins where they carried out their abominations.”

“Well that’s not good news. They’re sure to have spotted you without you noticing.”

“No, I almost drowned that same evening, because I had to make it back by swimming in a raging sea, but I’m sure nobody saw me.”

“That wasn’t very advisable, and you certainly shouldn’t have tried something like that,” said Parson frowning.

“No, too true, and I won’t do it again I can promise you.”

“Can the FBI help us?” asked Parson.

He handed the card to McPhiel who quickly glanced at the chemical formula.

“Regrettably no, it must be a new…”

“Useless, as usual. Come on,” he said, rising from his chair. “We’ll go and find somebody who knows.”

“But it’s not my job!” said McPhiel defensively. “He’s really got it in for me today,” he said, taking Clara to one side. “Because he’s not normally like this, you know.”

15

Parson led the little group several floors lower down, into a kind of laboratory, and turned to one of three people working in the large but almost empty room. A small man of Asian origin, wearing a white lab coat, got up as they came in.

“Mr. Chen, we need your wisdom. Could you decrypt this formula?”

“Of course, Mr. Parson,” he said respectfully.

“Mr. Chen is an eminent research scientist who’s come to us from Singapore,” he said to his guests.

The scientist read the formula, but his face darkened with a worried expression.

“Apparently it’s some sort of tranquilizer,” went on Parson.

“It’s much worse than that. It’s the formula for a synthetic drug that will severely affect the central nervous system. Most of it is based on gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, classic GHB if you like, but the rest of the formula changes drastically depending on the desired effect.”

His words came out in a rapid but consistent flow.

“The same base can have different effects?”

“Yes. Depending on the formula, the effects can be faster or slower. This one, for example, works lightning-fast. It’s a deceptive molecule, taken for something else by the organism, which then absorbs it instantaneously.”

He went into a side-room next to the laboratory, followed by the little group, sat in front of a computer and tapped rapidly on the keyboard until a chart appeared on the screen.

“These are also called ‘designer’ drugs,” Chen went on, “because they can be created in great numbers using derived formulas, and build up different effects. But the formula you have here shows the presence of several very dangerous substances, and a lot of scopolamine. That’s a fatal mixture,” he confirmed with some satisfaction.

“That’s certainly what they’ve been using on people they want to disappear,” said the FBI agent.

“The formula is so powerful,” said Chen, “that it doesn’t need to be injected. It only has to come into contact with the skin for it to be effective.”

“Simply in contact with the skin?” asked Parson, almost incredulously.

“Yes, as soon as the substance has come into contact with the skin, in a few milliseconds the neurons transmit messages to disrupt the function of the cerebellum and the central nervous system,” explained the researcher. “That paralyzes specific functions of the autonomic nervous system and causes death by almost instantaneous cardio-respiratory arrest. And this type of substance is usually undetectable in the autopsy – two hours later there’s no trace left.”

“Mr. Chen is a veritable walking encyclopedia,” said Parson, looking at Clara and Tom.

“Oh, I can tell you more than that.”

“Which is?”

“Other variants of formulas based on GHB are used for military purposes by certain countries, who give them to their soldiers to increase their aggression. At the same time, military laboratories have developed an implement to utilize this type of substance efficiently. They call it a Laser Dermo-Jet or LDJ. It’s in the form of a harmless-looking pen, in which is hidden a powerful weapon to inject biochemical substances very rapidly. You can insert different phials according to the effect desired. The particular dose is forcefully propelled in a kind of very narrow stream, that can pierce several layers of clothing tissues right through to the skin. Almost all the world’s secret services utilize them. These synthetic drugs create a huge scourge that’s almost impossible to contend with. Customs officers and the police are equipped to detect certain substances like heroin and cocaine, but this kinf of new formulas. They leave no powder traces on clothing or in apartments, no trace under the nails, and even a mass spectrometer cannot detect any presence of it in hair.”

“I’ve heard people talking about this scourge,” said the FBI agent. “It’s actually one of the biggest problems encountered by all the agencies in the fight against narcotic trafficking all over the world. You can do whatever you like to people who’ve absorbed such substances, without them realizing and without them remembering anything. They remain conscious but they can’t react. Furthermore, they quickly become addicted. And for the traffickers, another advantage of these synthetic drugs is that they don’t cost a lot.”

“Another problem,” said Chen, keeping going, “is that the chemists working for the major networks keep discovering new variations that take a long time to identify. That’s often what prevents the police from taking action, because a substance that can’t be identified or categorized cannot be considered illegal. The traffickers know that, and it allows them to dodge the law for some time.”

“But what you’re saying is terrifying,” said Tom.

“Yes, governments have been ill-prepared for these types of drugs, which are impossible to detect. They’re colorless, and their acrid odor can easily be camouflaged in a sugary drink. Neither dogs nor computers are able to detect them. That’s why so few are seized, and why nobody’s really bothering about them.”

“But how can they intercept these substances?” asked Clara.

“The answer is they can’t, except by chance,” replied Chen. “The formula you have there is for a complete product. But generally they separate the molecules into various harmless elements, which are simple, legal substances that can be transferred across borders. Once they’ve reached their destination, all they have to do is mix them together to obtain the dangerous compound. Seizures are made all the more difficult, because it’s one of the few powerful drugs that can be separated into several substances, based on harmless and legal products.”

“Yes he’s right,” said Goldberg. “There’s not much the police and customs can do against this scourge, and you could even say they’ve been completely outclassed. Right now we have a chance to hit hard, but our friend Tom must gain access to the documents Mr. Parson needs.”

“Thank you for all these explanations, Mr. Chen,” said Parson. “We’ll leave you to your work.”

“My pleasure,” said the scientist, moving away from the little group.

“Searching the safe is one thing, but you still haven’t told me how I can gain access to it,” said Tom.

“Actually it’s very simple,” said the FBI agent, “but nobody knows how. All we have to do is ask the janitor using the password ‘pizzas,’ and he’ll come and open up.”

Tom looked at him seriously for a moment. The FBI agent started laughing.

“Come on, Gary,” said Parson with a slight smile. “Don’t upset our friend even more, it’s already difficult enough as it is.”

“Pardon me,” said the FBI agent.

Tom smiled briefly to show him it didn’t matter.

“Yes, that’s the big problem,” admitted Parson. “Because first we have to get inside the temple of security hidden in the basement levels of the building you work in, which is where the vaults for various ministers are to be found. When the building was being constructed, access to those vaults was protected by a whole series of ultra-sophisticated safety barriers, using the most up-to-date technology, with the aim of offering maximum protection for the documents stored there. But to understand how the mechanisms work, you have to consult the creator of the whole system, that’s to say Mr. Goldberg here.”

“Well, first of all I suggest you follow me. I’ll take you to our virtual reality room.”

The little group left the side-room of the laboratory.

“When they were constructing the basement vaults, our engineers recreated the place to an exact design using computer models to predict any potential intrusions. And that will be very useful to us in preparing you for the different stages you’ll have to go through.”

A minute later they reached a projection booth next to a large room filled with computer equipment. Goldberg shut the door behind them, grabbed several pairs of space-age-looking glasses, and gave one to each of them.

“Here you are, I’ll leave you to settle yourselves down, and I’ll transmit the virtual images.”

Goldberg sat down in front of them, on a single chair that he turned around to face them. A remote control and a small transparent plastic box were placed on a tray attached to his seat.

“First of all, Mr. Dorvan,” started Goldberg, “you should know that eighteen basement levels protect the archive collections of several major ministries. Seven of them consist of the vaults belonging to the departments of Foreign Affairs, Defense and Justice. No need to mention this involves top-secret data. The vault we’re interested in is on the eighth basement level, and as Mr. Parson told you, access is very difficult. He called it a temple of security, and that’s a euphemism. Personally, I’ve never seen a bunker like it. When the vaults were being installed, we were ordered to develop unique security systems. For that we had an unlimited budget. We even worked out our own identification process based on the geometry of the right ear. Our system achieved a whole series of calculations involving the distance relative to the tragus, the helix and the anti-helix of the earlobe. The program could verify more than a hundred parameters in a few seconds. Identification was foolproof, but we had to abandon it because with current means and in extreme circumstances, the human earlobe can be faithfully replicated. Our current identification system works using a biometric analysis of the authorized person’s left eye, coupled with simultaneously cross-referencing the confidential information recorded onto a microchip. And finally each person is allocated his own personal entry code. And there we can say we’ve been successful, because the complexity of the system makes it impossible for a non-authorized person to gain access to the vaults. This complexity has now turned against us, and that’s what you have to confront.”

“But from what you’ve said, the whole thing simply doesn’t seem possible,” said Tom.

“Not really, in principle. And it’s all the more difficult, because unlike what you might have seen in certain fiction films that always simplify this type of operation, it’s impossible to deceive the scanner in a system like this, because it’s extremely complex. An iris drawn onto a contact lens or onto a dead eye wouldn’t work. The microprocessor simultaneously calculates the movement of the iris in question, according to natural and unique reactions by the eye with regard to different light intensities emitted by the laser on the machine. And that data has match exactly with the data recorded onto the microchip.”

“But how on earth are you going to get around this?” asked Tom, feeling increasingly skeptical and worried. Were they going to ask him to threaten the prosecutor with a weapon, and tell him to come down with him? And perhaps shut him into his own vault? Did he really have to go on …

“When we installed this security system, we kept all the parameters of every authorized person’s left iris in the memory banks, the one measured by the system.”

He picked up the small transparent box from the tray.

“Here you have a technological masterpiece that nobody knows anything about.”

He passed over the small box, in which a kind of contact lens was visible.

“Don’t open the box, but just admire this small miracle of precision engineering. We’ve succeeded in creating a liquid crystal lens containing the procurator’s iris, whose movements are controlled by a miniature microprocessor that you’ll have on your person. However, there is a problem. So that your own iris isn’t disturbed by the identification process, the lens is rather thick. It could bother you, but you’ll have to bear it because there isn’t any other solution.”

“And where’s the microprocessor?”

“Well, that’s the second problem I was going to tell you about,” said Goldberg, turning his head in slight embarrassment. “There are, in fact, two microprocessors. The first, containing the date analyzed by the computer, is enclosed in a capsule that’s implanted under the skin, as always for reasons of maximum security. And the computer will only accept the parameters of the capsule if it’s implanted at a specific distance from and angle to the left eye. But you’ll need a second microprocessor, a little bigger this time, which will interact with the system’s laser and will control all the movements of the iris.”

Tom couldn’t help widening his eyes at the very idea of implants.

“You’re not going to implant a microprocessor into my body?”

“Well, no…”

“Oh good…”

“Actually, we’re going to implant two into you, because we have no other choice. As much for technical reasons as for reasons of …”

“… security, yes I understand,” interrupted Tom in annoyance.

“But it’s not a big thing, I can assure you,” said Goldberg softly, to make light of the interruption. “Put simply, your second implant will be slightly bigger than the first one because it contains a small battery.”

“And you’re doing that when?”

“Straight away, we’ll do the implants here. It will only take about twenty minutes.”

“Oh,” said Tom, who didn’t appear too thrilled by the idea.

“The last point is the confidential code,” said Goldberg. “It’s made up of five letters and fourteen digits, but we don’t have it. Only the prosecutor knows it. On the other hand, the regulation demands that it be noted down and placed in a sealed place, somewhere in his office. The regulation was necessary, because if he forgot his code the machine wouldn’t retrieve it, and the whole system would have to be changed just for his vault.”

“And just where am I going to find it?”

“I really can’t tell you. It will be up to you to sort out. I’d advise you to go and do some overtime tonight, so that you can find it. Are you ready for the simulation?” Goldberg went on quickly, leaving him no time to change his mind.

“I suppose so,” replied Tom, not feeling very reassured.

“So put on your viewing glasses and let’s go.”

He pushed a button on his remote control, causing a stream of images to move across the virtual screen by simple hand gestures. The first thing Tom recognized was the exterior of the building. The simulated images might have been artificially produced, but they were nonetheless astonishingly realistic.

“We’re going straight to the elevators,” said Goldberg, sweeping faster with his hand.

The image of the interior of a somewhat cramped elevator cage appeared before their eyes.

“As you can see, these elevators hold two people maximum. There are twelve of them. All you have to do is enter one that has its door open. Each person has to go down alone, that’s the rule. You’ll present your left eye to the scanner, but only once the door has closed. You’ve nothing else to do, as the elevator will automatically take you down to the eighth basement level. Then, you’ll arrive in front of the first of the two doors that access the vault. First you should show your face to the two cameras behind you. They’re connected to the surveillance office, five floors above, where a guard is in charge of unlocking the system to allow the entry procedure to be engaged. Once the two red diodes change to yellow, the door will open automatically. You’ll then be facing the main door, and that’s where you’ll enter the access code. If the code is correctly entered, you’ll gain access to the room itself. As for the particular vault, it’s number twelve, in the right-hand rows. That’s where you’ll find the scanner, which analyzes the confidential data contained in the microchip. You’ll present your left eye while keeping your head as straight as possible. We’ll do some exercises once you’ve had the implant, so that you feel comfortable with what you have to do. Then the door will open, and the ball will be in your court. There are two problems to consider. The first is the CCTV cameras. All the comings and goings are recorded and kept on video for two weeks. Of course we’ll have to modify the recording so that your presence is concealed.”

“And do you know the guard working in the security office?”

“Well, there are six of them on constant rotation. Yes, we know them but only one of them works for us. He’s one of the men who installed the system, by the way. And he’s the one who’ll modify the parameters without it being detectable. In other words, he’ll be in charge of deleting the recordings of your operation without it affecting the timer. That way, if somebody has to check the recordings, the machines will indicate completely normal functioning, without any interruption or manipulation. The problem is that he’s finishing his week tomorrow, and the relief takes over at midday. He only comes back in four days’ time, and without a valid reason we can’t change all the scheduling around without drawing attention to ourselves. Anyway, we won’t have time because the next meeting of the organization is undoubtedly taking place this weekend. It’s therefore imperative that you do your best to gain access to the vault tomorrow morning, find the material we need and get back out at least fifteen minutes before midday, that’s to say by 11:45am at the latest, after which we’ll no longer be able to erase the traces of your intrusion. And it would be better to reckon on at least an hour for the whole operation.”

“One hour, tomorrow morning … that won’t be possible,” said Tom. “The prosecutor has meetings all morning and he’ll require my presence for some of them.”

“Which ones?”

“I never know in advance. I need to be available to him right up to the end. It’s according to his needs and is completely random. Impossible to predict a free slot at any particularly time, and certainly not for a whole hour.”

“Listen, that’s really up to you to sort out. But you have to do your utmost to free yourself up. Make up a meeting, a headache or an errand to the chemist’s, tell him what you like, but you sort it out, because you’ll need at least an hour to search the vault. Failing that, you’ll never have enough time to find all the material and the whole operation will have been for nothing.”

Tom didn’t know how to reply. He took off his viewing glasses and pensively, almost absent-mindedly, looked toward Goldberg who was tapping the buttons on his remote control with his left hand. Then he started talking softly, as if thinking out loud.

“The best solution would be to finish just before midday, and to carry on with the time I have available for my lunch break.”

“Yes, if you can manage that, I think that would be the best time so that nobody suspects anything.”

“I’ll try, but frankly I can’t promise you a thing.”

“Do your best. And if you succeed in this operation,” went on Goldberg, “once you come out of your elevator, you’ll slip into the crowd emerging by the main entrance, without looking around, and leave the building as fast as possible. Then we’ll meet you in The Chapel.”

“The chapel?”

“It’s a restaurant on the third street north of the main entrance to the building – don’t you know it?”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard of it. The place where all the hardened barristers go and drown their sorrows after losing a trial.”

“Yes, that’s it. But at least, if anybody should recognize you, it won’t be a surprise. You’ll melt into the masses, if I can put it like that.”

“I see.”

“The maitre d’ will take you to a table. You’ll order something and wait. Don’t look around, or at the contact who’ll speak to you.”

“And what’s the other problem you mentioned?”

“It’s about the scanners. You should know that they only accept two attempts at identification. If it doesn’t work on the second attempt, the whole system will jam, the alarm will go off, all exits will be locked down, and by the time our guard has extracted you from the situation you won’t be able to search the vault any more. There again, the mission will be over and you’ll have to get out immediately. Do you have any questions?”

“Are you sure there’s no other way?” asked Tom sighing.

“No, but when you get back to your office, you’ll have to keep making sure the prosecutor doesn’t suspect you’re double-crossing him, because otherwise the task will be even more difficult, not to say impossible. The next two days, until Friday, will be the most dangerous as far as you’re concerned, because if he suspects anything he won’t wait for evidence or concrete proof, believe me.”

Tom looked at Clara in utter dejection. She put her hand on his.

“And if I can’t find the confidential code?”

“That’s very unlikely. It has to be in his office. If you have any problems in gaining access or in opening those files, I can supply you with …”

“No, it’s better I sort that out myself.”

“Very well,” said Goldberg simply, “but you must do that tonight.”

Clara looked at Tom without a word, but her hand was still holding tightly onto his, as if she was trying to infuse him with courage.

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s difficult, Tom, but we have to trust them.”

Goldberg, Parson and McPhiel sat in silence. Tom felt rather lost, overtaken by events and most of all by the mission they’d entrusted to him.

“Is there any way I can help in this mission?” asked Clara.

“No. The most effective help will be to give him your full support for the next few days. That’s what he’ll value most.”

“Is that all?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Preceded by Goldberg, Clara and Tom walked into the examination room they’d walked past when they’d first arrived on the floor.

“Tom, this is Dr. Werner, our doctor and private surgeon.”

“Delighted,” said the surgeon.

“Likewise,” said Tom.

“We’ve explained to Mr. Dorvan the necessity of having two microprocessors implanted. We’ll do it right now, and we’ll finish with some tests in case any adjustments have to be made.”

“Very well,” said the surgeon, picking up his medical mask. “Take off your shirt and lie down on this table please.”

Tom took off his jacket, tie and shirt.

“Mr. Dorvan is a bit worried about this operation,” said Goldberg to the surgeon.

“There’s nothing to be concerned about, Mr. Dorvan. It’s a very simple procedure under the skin, and there isn’t any kind of danger.”

With his torso bare, Tom stretched out on the table, while Clara and Goldberg sat down beside him. The surgeon began by swabbing the place he was going to open up, and injected him with a local anesthetic.

“Don’t worry,” he said in a reassuringly soft voice, “it won’t hurt.”

He cut an incision into Tom’s skin a centimeter-and-a-half below the clavicle, and staunched the blood as is started flowing.

“After that, we’ll test out the lens,” said Parson, “because it’ll be better if you both leave separately. We’ll take Miss Wagner back to your place. As for your car, we’ll have it removed on a truck from the car pound and brought here. The best thing is to return normally to work and to make out you had a breakdown, if anyone asks you any questions.”

“No,” said Tom. “I took some files away and they think I’m working at home.”

The surgeon picked up the first capsule with a pair of pincers.

“But I thought it would be the size of a grain of rice?” said Tom in surprise.

“No, not this one. It’s much more sophisticated than a smart chip, if that’s what you’re referring to. It’s the smallest size possible for such a complicated system. If it was on the open market, it would be the size of a USB key.”

Then he slid the capsule under Tom’s skin.

“Oh and another thing,” said Clara. “When you’re at the office, don’t eat or drink anything you haven’t chosen yourself. In fact, it would be better to take your coffee outside the office, and to watch what people prepare for you yourself, because you never know.”

“Excellent precaution, miss,” said Goldberg in approval. “That type of advice is the most valuable help you can offer him.”

As the first incision was being stitched up, Tom looked at her without saying a word.

16

About two hours later, Tom was sitting in his office with the door half-open. The effects of the anesthetic had worn off, and the two scars were only slightly painful. With a weary appearance and disillusioned expression, he knew that from now on the success of the operation was resting entirely on his shoulders. Not knowing if his fatigue was real or imagined, and fearing that Greta would notice the change in his attitude, he pretended to launch into hard work to prevent any possible suspicions. He took out several large dossiers, piling them onto his desk. They created a kind of rampart, and allowed him to hide the fact that he wasn’t really doing much. It was the end of the afternoon. The PA knocked on the door to attract Tom’s attention.

“Yes,” he said, without looking up.

“I’m going, Tom.”

“Fine, Greta.”

“So see you tomorrow.”

“Er, do you know if the prosecutor will be coming back to the office this evening?”

“No, he’s spending the evening with his colleagues. He won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

“Very well, so see you tomorrow.”

“Would you like me to shut the door?”

“Yes, please, I still have a stack of work to get through.”

Tom waited a few minutes once the door had closed, and then got up rapidly to make sure the PA had really left. The glue he’d used the day before would allow him to access the drawer containing the keys for a second time, without having to force it. He tapped in the code on the little safe, took out key number 4 and went into the prosecutor’s office. He pushed the end of the key into the security lock, and heard all the tumblers clicking back at the same time. The code he needed could be anywhere among the numerous fireproof filing cabinets, built into the office walls. After two hours of painstaking searching, he’d still found nothing. The clock was showing 9:30pm and he hadn’t even examined half the files. In desperation, he went back to his office. He picked up the receiver, dialed a number, let it ring once and put the phone down again. Then he went out of the building, walked about a bit in the dark and entered a telephone booth.

The phone rang in another booth. Clara picked up. She was dressed in a jogging sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over her cap.

“Is that you?” asked Tom.

“Yes,” replied Clara.

“Sorry to make you come out like this, but I needed to be careful.”

“Is everything ok?”

“Yes, that’s to say, I don’t know. I haven’t found a thing so far and it could take much longer. So don’t wait up for me and try to sleep a bit.”

“I was worried … do you want me to come and help you?”

“No, it would be much too risky. Get some rest, that’s the best thing you can do to help.”

“Fine … so see you tomorrow, or perhaps sooner than that.”

“Yes, that’s it … and whatever you do, don’t worry too much.”

He cut the call, went back into the building and greeted the night porter from a distance. Once he was back in the office, he went to sit in the prosecutor’s chair, and swept his gaze over the area several times, trying to spot any possible places where his boss could have hidden that code. The office was silent, but it was a silence that was becoming increasingly heavy.

Some hours later, Tom was still looking for the code. His face drawn, his hair in a tangle, he had taken off his jacket and pushed his shirtsleeves up. The office clock was now showing 11:40pm. All at once he spotted a small document-case tied up with two straps sealed with a large blob of yellow wax, and slipped between two suspension files. He turned around several times, then picked up a letter-opener and broke the seal. A weak smile appeared on his defeated face, after he’d read a few pages. It was indeed the security file in which the prosecutor had written his code. Tom took a notebook out of his jacket, copied out the precious password and put the document-case back in place, taking care to replace the straps in their original position. Unfortunately he didn’t notice that the strap on the left was protruding slightly when he closed the long drawer. He locked all the cabinets, closed the door and meticulously put the key back into the little safe.

17

Tom’s arrival back at the house awoke Clara. Her first question was about the infamous code he needed. He reassured her that everything was fine, but then being unable to sleep despite the late hour, they talked long into the night. They discussed Parson and Goldberg, the operation, the justice system and even politics. Toward 3am, Clara told Tom of her fears that he’d never cope, that he wouldn’t take his time to think and would make mistakes because of his lack of sleep. They turned out the light and tried to doze off.

They awoke rather exhausted in the morning, after spending their second night on the sofas. Tom’s body was stiff with renewed muscle aches. They’d surfaced in addition to the other ones, and his face twisted in pain every time he moved. He changed his shirt, but dressed in the same suit and tie. Ready to leave, he sipped his coffee standing up. Clara stood in front of him. The last twenty-four hours had been so eventful that he’d lost all track of time, and was tormented by the difficulties of the mission he had yet to accomplish.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to take my leave at the appropriate moment, you see,” he said anxiously, knotting his tie. “I have to accompany the prosecutor to a meeting at the tribunal first thing, and then we have to review various cases before his meetings.”

She was well aware of the dangers he was running, and the anguish he was feeling. She took his hands, as if to transmit all her energy to him.

“Don’t think about it now, I’m sure an opportunity will present itself when the time’s right,” she said softly.

She was also feeling a terrible internal anguish, but she was doing her utmost to hide it from him. Their heads touched.

“Just do what you can,” she said, hoping to soothe the pressure that seemed to be crippling him. “But if there’s any problem, run away and don’t ever set foot in the place again. We’ll soon find somewhere to hide.”

Tom nodded his head slowly in agreement.

In the prosecutor’s office, Greta was sorting through and arranging several dossiers, as she always did, for the meetings taking place during the latter half of the morning. She opened the drawer where the small document-case was located and whose seal had been broken. The strap was still protruding three centimeters to one side, but she didn’t notice. She pulled out a file, closed the drawer and left the office.

Tom looked at his watch for the fifth time. It was 10:15, and he’d just come back from a meeting at the tribunal in the company of the prosecutor.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Greta, and how are you this morning?” he asked almost cheerfully.

“Very well, thank you sir. Almost all your dossiers for this morning are on your desk. I still need to complete the last one, and I’ll bring it to you in a few minutes.”

“Perfect, I’ll run through them quickly. And Tom, we’ll meet up again in about half-an-hour.”

“Agreed,” he said.

The PA collected up the documents for the last dossier she’d completed, but noticed that there was a piece missing. She went back into the prosecutor’s office. He was still standing up; he’d opened up one of the numerous boxes heaped onto his desk and was sorting through some papers.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’ve forgotten a hearing report.”

“Go ahead,” he said, sitting down.

There were more than forty suspension files in total, spread between all the reinforced filing cabinets in his office, but as luck would have it she had to open the drawer containing the forced-open document-case. Pauwels had raised his head and was looking at what she was doing, deep in thought and with his finger on his mouth. He frowned abruptly as he caught sight of something protruding from the suspension files, and rubbed his eyes before putting his glasses back on. The PA didn’t notice anything as she looked for the document. She found it a few moments later, closed the long drawer and went out. The prosecutor got up immediately, opened the drawer back up and examined the broken strap as well as the seal on the small document-case, without touching anything. He closed the drawer and went back to his chair. He pressed a button on his phone.

“Greta?”

“Yes, sir,”

“Did anyone come into my office while I was away in The Hague?”

“No sir, not that I know of, apart from myself of course and Mr. Dorvan, who went in for a few minutes to put your dossiers in there when you returned from your symposium.”

“And any workmen or maintenance people?”

“No. There’s only Alphonso the cleaner. Is something missing?”

“No, no, Greta, it must have been Alphonso moving something, it’s all fine.”

He replaced the receiver on the phone console and pressed some more buttons.

“It’s me Nigel, are you on your own?”

“Yes, why, is there a problem?”

“Yes, and it’s really infuriating. The seal on one of my confidential document-cases has been broken.”

“Is it … is it a sensitive file?”

“Yes, it’s my confidential access code for the vault.”

“Perhaps it simply got ripped or torn by accident.”

“No, I had a good look. It’s been broken.”

“Do you know who could have done that?”

“No, not the slightest idea. But I was thinking of the guy at the airport. Do you think he could have come here without me noticing?”

“Somebody got in during your absence?”

“No, at least not while my secretary was there. Only the cleaning guy.”

“Could it be him?”

“No, he can’t read or write.”

“Well, I think it very unlikely it was Foster. He’d only been snooping about for two days, and I don’t see how he could have got as far as you. And your PA?”

“No, if she’d opened the document-case by mistake, she’d have told me.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps she didn’t realize or she was feeling guilty. And what about Dorvan?”

“Yes, but he only stayed a few minutes while my secretary was watching; otherwise he can’t get into my office. And he doesn’t even know anything about the vault. And all my files are locked away.”

“Did he go to The Hague with you, to the symposium?”

“Yes.”

“To the dinner on the boat?”

“Yes.”

“Could he have seen anything?”

“No, he arrived with the other members and he was at my table.”

“Did he leave at any time during the reception or the dinner?”

“Yes, but only because he was feeling sick.”

“Sick? Well, well … and I hope he’s better now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, he was seasick and went to lie down for a few minutes. Anyway, he was accompanied. If anything had happened, we’d have been told.”

“And has his behavior changed since his return?”

“No, he’s just a bit tired. It’s normal, he’s still got to get used to his new job and there’s so much he has to do.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, apart from his limp, but that’s nothing to do with it.”

“How long’s he been limping?”

“Since we left The Hague.”

“Perhaps he took a little tour of the boat, without anybody noticing?”

“But of course not, why d’you think he’d suspect anything? Anyway, when he came back to the table he wasn’t limping. No, he slipped in a bar. It was raining very hard, and everything was wet.”

“That’s what he said. Perhaps he slipped in the boat. What’s he doing now?”

“He’s here, in his office. I’m waiting to discuss some files with him, and he’ll attend my next meeting.”

“Keep a close eye on him and test him a bit. You can never be too careful. If you sense anything abnormal, tell me.”

“Yes, and afterward I’ll take a look downstairs. On the other hand, I’d like you to examine the document-case.”

“OK, I’ll come fetch it. Will your meeting take long?”

“No, an hour at the most. And then you can come over whenever you like, I’ll be here all day.”

“Very well, I’ll see you later.”

“See you later.”

Frowning hard, Pauwels stared into space for a few minutes, trying to understand. Then he used the intercom again.

“Greta, tell Tom to come in now.”

“Very well,” she replied over the intercom.

Not suspecting a thing, Tom came in a few moments later. He was somewhat relieved that the briefing had been brought forward. It would give him more time to get down to the vault.

“There we are,” said the prosecutor, “we’ll make a start. We’ll discuss the Johnson file and look at the rest when I get back, next week.”

“Very well.”

“But tell me, how is your knee?”

“It’s a bit better, thanks, but it’s still swollen.”

“How did it happen exactly?” he asked, staring straight at him.

“Oh, er …” stumbled Tom, who wasn’t expecting the question and could hardly remember the excuse he’d used the day before. “I slipped on a step going into a bar.”

“Didn’t you see it?”

“No, and it was very slippery.”

“I like going out in The Hague too, when I get the chance. It’s very pleasant. I’ll take you to a couple of places I know.”

“With pleasure,” replied Tom, beginning to sense something wasn’t quite right.

“So apart from slippery steps, is it a nice place?”

“Yes, it’s quite agreeable. It’s a modern bar, very refined but a bit dark.”

“Is it in the city-center?” went on the prosecutor, as if keen to find out the bar’s location so he could go there that very night.

“Yes, but I don’t know where exactly. We took a cab there.”

“Ah, with your colleagues from the ministry?”

“No, with some Irish people who were also part of the symposium. They offered to take me. They were very friendly and I accepted.”

“Do you remember the name of the bar?”

“Er … it was …”

He’d read a name in the hotel brochure, something easy to remember, but he couldn’t recall it any more. It was time to cover his tracks.

“Actually, I went to two different bars during the evening. The first one I visited on my own was an Irish or English pub. But I didn’t stay long because it was so crowded. And that’s when I went back to the hotel and went out again with those people … but I don’t remember the name of the bar.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. If the name comes back to you, tell me. Perhaps I’ll go and take a look. I’m back in The Hague late tomorrow afternoon, as I’ve been invited for a bridge tournament.”

“Oh I see. If the name comes back to me, I’ll let you know.”

“So what have the gentlemen from the Glenicore group been saying?”

“Nothing particularly new. They told me they wanted to change lawyers and are demanding a report in the next few days.”

“Ah, very good. So we’ll wait.”

Tom thought the prosecutor was staring at him in a way he’d never done before, as if he were trying to detect the slightest false move. His piercing gaze was really disturbing him. Tom couldn’t understand, but had sensed the subtle change in his expression the moment the questioning had changed into misgivings. Nobody else would have realized, as it was hardly noticeable, but Tom knew the man well. There was a distinct change in his attitude. He seemed to be suspicious of something … but how was that possible? He was sure nobody had seen him. He could also feel, for whatever reason, that he wouldn’t be able to dispel these doubts and that any attempt to do so would only make them worse. You mustn’t show how this is affecting you, thought Tom to himself. Is he really suspicious of something, or is he just trying to be more welcoming?

The prosecutor was surprised by Tom’s attitude, which seemed more distant than usual. He thought he’d lost the self-assurance that typified his way of responding to questions and when he put forward his arguments. Something didn’t fit, and he wasn’t just imagining it. He tipped back in his chair, his hands folded across his paunch, and recalled to mind some of Tom’s recent reactions as he watched him talking.

“So, on the Adamson case, I’d like you to put into writing the different propositions we talked about.”

“Very well, I’ll make a start today and I’ll hand them to you as soon as I’ve finished.”

“Yes, it’s fairly urgent because we don’t have a lot of time until the closing dates.”

“Perfect, so I’ll go and dictate a few pages,” Tom said, collecting up the pages in the file, “and I’ll give them to you Monday morning.”

“And we’ll review the other files then.”

Tom got up and went to the door, but he’d hardly opened it when the PA came running in.

“Counselor Rossler and Counselor Hovac have arrived, sir,” she said.

“Ah, very good,” replied the prosecutor as he got up.

Tom nodded to the two lawyers sitting in the reception lobby, before vanishing inside his own office.

“Good morning, sir,” they said in chorus.

“Will you see them now, sir?” asked Greta, as the prosecutor picked up the receiver.

“No, I’m not quite ready.”

“Very well,” she said, closing the door behind her.

She went up to the two lawyers.

“He’ll be ready in a few minutes,” she told them.

“Thanks,” replied the older of the two.

She went back to her office.

“Nigel? It’s me.”

“Do you have any news?”

“No, he was a bit evasive about the exact location of the place he visited in The Hague.”

“You see …”

“No, it doesn’t mean anything, but that’s not why I’m calling you. I wanted to invite you over here at the end of the afternoon, and then to dinner at the club.”

Tom was sitting in his office and still wondering if the prosecutor suspected something. If he did, what had aroused his suspicions? If he didn’t, why did he ask all those questions out of the blue? Was it a coincidence? Had he become paranoid between yesterday and today? Why was he staring at him like that? Had he detected some change in his behavior? He had to stop thinking like that, because it was impossible to answer these questions anyway. The prosecutor’s expression always remained impassive, indecipherable. It was very difficult to make out what had provoked his doubts.

The prosecutor got up, opened his office door, and beckoned to the two waiting lawyers.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said to the lawmen, who bounded out of their seats as if propelled by invisible springs and walked into his office.

“Good morning, Prosecutor,” they replied together.

“Do come in.”

Tom glanced surreptitiously at his watch: 10:55. He hoped with all his might that the prosecutor wouldn’t call him back in, and that he’d forget about him until the start of the afternoon.

“Tell Mr. Dorvan we’re waiting for him now,” said the prosecutor to his PA.

“Very well, sir.”

Tom had heard it all. Frozen with fright, he sat bolt upright in his chair, unable to breathe. A nervous impulse ran over his body to the tips of his fingers. He decided to anticipate the PA and to update the prosecutor before he could shut the door. The presence of the two lawyers would help him: he wouldn’t be able to argue or ask too many questions. He stood in the doorway while trying to appear completely relaxed, and resorted to one of the fake alibis he’d carefully prepared. But at that level, using a fake alibi was an art in itself requiring a good memory, and didn’t allow for the slightest error, ambiguity or inaccuracy.

“I’m sorry, but I’m unable to join you as I have a meeting at 11:15 with Counselor Smijevsky,” he said without missing a beat. “He insisted it was really important, so I accepted. I didn’t think you’d need me for this meeting.”

“Ah … well, see you later then,” replied the prosecutor in surprise, frowning.

The reply annoyed him, and his irritation was clear to read as Tom closed the door.

“I don’t have that meeting noted on your schedule,” said the PA, somewhat frustrated to have been kept out of the loop.

Greta was a sure-fire walking directory for anything to do with cases and files relating to the office. She was always up to date on everything. She knew by heart all the meetings for the week in Tom’s and the prosecutor’s diaries, she had memorized the names of current files, about two hundred phone numbers, and the contents of practically every letter they’d dictated to her, some of them going back six months. Tom knew that, and he’d never have played a trick on her if he hadn’t recently noticed some slip-ups or deficits in her memory. For some time now, she’d been forgetting pieces of information or omitting to make a note of some of the meetings. It was a bit mean, but not nasty. Perhaps it was just mental fatigue on her part, and it was in a good cause, after all.

“Yes you have, I told you yesterday when I got back from The Hague.”

“When we arranged the scheduling for the preliminary meetings?”

“Exactly.”

The strategy worked to perfection. Not wanting to admit to any possible depletion in her abilities, she refrained from answering back. And so as not to draw attention to that fact, she preferred to admit she’d made an omission or an error, even though it wasn’t the case. A few months off from her well-deserved retirement, it wasn’t the time to betray any weakness. She made do with mumbling a few excuses.

“I’m so sorry, I must have been distracted by several phone calls at once, and it went out of my head. I have to admit this week has been a bit disjoined because of all the preparations for that symposium.”

“But it doesn’t matter, Greta, it doesn’t matter at all.”

Tom went back into his office, closed the door and took a long, slow breath with his eyes closed. The moment had come to go downstairs. He’d allowed himself a fifteen-minute margin to prepare, but now realized he didn’t have a minute to waste: it was already 11:05. He was more worried that accessing the vault could take longer than they’d predicted. Not counting the fact that he could be delayed by some imponderable factor, a prediction that turned out to be too true: the phone rang. Line 17 – McCody, one of the legal experts in the office. He knew him; his questions were always short and concise, and he never took longer than necessary. He picked up the phone with the firm intention of cutting him short if he didn’t act true to form. He was able to hang up two minutes later. Two minutes lost, making it 11:07 now. He absolutely had to go down there immediately. His heart was beating fast and he felt breathless. From the start of the morning, he’d been wondering if he’d be able to withstand the shock. He hadn’t been instructed or trained to be a spy. The idea of leaving and dropping everything flicked through his mind for a few moments. He got up, and grabbed a brown briefcase hidden behind two other, newer ones. He never usually showed it in public because of its ancient, worn appearance, only using it to carry documents to the archives. He looked around his office one more time, as if he wouldn’t ever come back there. Just as he was going out the PA knocked on the door.

“Yes,” he said without waiting.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Duncan would like to see you about the Miller report. He’s was trying to see you all day yesterday, but I forgot to mention it.”

Tom looked at his watch: 11:09 – he should already be in the vault. The man behind her was smiling over her shoulder. He was caught short, pinned down in a trap yet again.

“Please sit down,” he said, showing him a chair and placing his briefcase next to his desk.

The man gave a brief explanation of the situation. Incredible luck, but it was nothing to do with him. He sent him to Counselor Cassel’s office, in the Ministry of Justice. The man left the room. 11:13 … another four minutes gone.

Tom picked up his briefcase again, made sure that no trace of his identity was showing inside, inserted a file filled with blank pages and glanced through the door. With her headphones fixed on her head, the PA was trying to get to grips with her new voice-recognition program, that according to the blurb was going to change her life. The prosecutor’s office door was closed. He was just about to leave when he realized he’d forgotten his jacket. He retraced his steps and grabbed it with unaccustomed ferocity. Another minute lost, he calculated. He walked away rapidly, with a look of concentration as if he were late for a meeting. He tossed his last words at the PA: “I’ll be back in the early afternoon.”

18

Tom went toward the toilets on the twelfth floor, five levels lower – far enough not to be recognized by anybody – but stopped in front of the door. He still needed to tell Smijevsky’s practice, just in case. He took out his cellphone and dialed a number. He knew it by heart, like all the other telephone numbers he had in his directory.

“Norvin, Smijevsky and Butler, good morning.”

“Good morning, miss. Dorvan here at the prosecutor’s office.”

“Oh good morning sir, how are you?” she asked in her usual cheerful voice.
I’m feeling so bad, my dear, that it’s beyond description. I’m just about to spend the worst moments of my life. I’m in danger of being caught red-handed committing all sorts of felonies, or even of turning up this evening somewhere at the bottom of the water, with my feet encased in a block of concrete. My stomach is in knots and I want to throw up. Apart from that, I’m in an enviable position: I’m the first deputy to the prosecutor general.

“Very well, thanks. Tell me, it’s 11:45 today I have the meeting with Counselor Smijevksy, isn’t it?”

“Oh, but I don’t think so. Wait, I’ll check for you … no, there’s nothing in the diary, sir.”

“Indeed? But perhaps it’s tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow … let’s see, yes there we are, just before noon tomorrow.”

“That’s right, I made a mistake. Now I remember, I don’t have my diary with me and I thought it was my next meeting. My apologies, miss.”

“No problem.”

“Unfortunately I need to cancel tomorrow’s meeting, but please tell Counselor Smijevsky that I’ll call him early next week.”

“Very well, I’ll give him the message. Have a good day, sir.”

“Thanks, you too, goodbye, miss.”

He cut the call, switched off his cellphone, and went into the back of the toilets near the washbasins. He put down his briefcase and ran cold water over his fists for a good minute, before splashing his face. 11:16. Not waiting any longer, he took the small clear box out of his pocket. He tried to insert the lens but didn’t manage: he’d never worn contact lenses. A stranger came in. Tom had made several attempts with Goldberg and knew well that it should be dead easy, since millions of people performed the same task every day, but fear and stress were disrupting his concentration. He’d learned how to handle legal texts, not spy gear. Neither was he used to forcing the ultra-sophisticated vault belonging to a prosecutor general, an operation which, should there be the slightest problem, would certainly cost him his life one of these days. He forced himself to keep calm, and for the next few minutes not to think what about could happen to him.

He glanced at his watch again: 11:18. After relieving himself noisily, the stranger stood next to him to wash his hands.

“First time, huh?” he said in a loud voice.

Tom pulled a face that could just about pass for a smile, and nodded slowly.

“It’s always the same the first time. It’ll take a couple of days. You have to open your eye wide, separate the eyelids and look down.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do, but I’m taking my time,” replied Tom, his tone dismissive but sharp.

“Well, good luck then,” said the stranger as he went out.

Tom waited for the door to shut. He sighed, and tried again with the lens. But his eye was irritated by his previous attempts, and his vision was blurring. He checked the time again: 11:20. He went toward the elevators, while his briefcase seemed to be weighed down with the small notebook containing the code. He had the impression everyone would notice his lens.

Sitting at a round table only used for these meetings, the prosecutor found his concentration wandering in front of these two lawyers, who were explaining the basis of the proposal they were putting forward with regard to their tricky case. The matter of the broken seal was disturbing him. It seemed even odder to him because his office remained permanently locked during his absence, and his reinforced filing cabinets could only be opened with an electronic key.

“But don’t put words into my mouth,” proclaimed Hovac. “I’m in complete agreement that times change, that the company failed to adapt some of its procedures as it should have done, and that it needs to make some drastic modifications on these various points, but it’s not fair that the effects of this penalty should go so far back.”

The prosecutor could hear the sound of his voice, but was no longer following. He wanted to cut this meeting short, and was waiting for an opportune moment to interrupt as skillfully as possible, but the lawyer didn’t leave a single gap he could dive into. The speaker was in full flow and seemed to have learned his text by heart. He was scared that any interruption would make him lose the impact of his defense strategy.

“Don’t forget the company’s over a hundred years old, and that it’s been going since 1880,” went on Hovac. “They’ve always treated their employees in accordance with standards that are well above the average and in line with current regulations, and they’ve always functioned in this way with their ‘special funds.’ Let’s not forget either that times have also changed with respect to the economy, clearly shown by the loss of profits suffered by this business over the last three years. A penalty like this would have a disastrous effect. Not only would it no longer allow the company to treat its employees as it has done up to now, but it will be forced to make people redundant. And then it’ll turn into a vicious circle. Sooner or later, quality will go down, they’ll produce less, and the decrease in turnover will be increasingly serious. The company will go on making redundancies and will pay less and less in taxes. And then it’ll lose its competitive edge.”

Not able to stand it any longer, the prosecutor decided to interrupt.

“Look at the …”

“Listen, gentlemen, to tell you the truth I’ve just come back from a symposium which required a lot of work, and I didn’t have time to finish studying your file.”

Renowned as a leading light of the bar, Hovac was struck dumb with astonishment at this unpredicted scenario. Gifted in the art of turning an unforeseen situation to his own advantage, he searched for an intelligent reply among his vast repertoire of dealing with unexpected, disconcerting or stupid responses, but he could only come up with:

“It’s no matter, we can come back to this when it suits you.”

Hovac was not very pleased with this reply, but he was happy with the situation. The prosecutor general owed them one. That was better than snatching a decision. He was preoccupied now, meaning he’d be more conciliatory at the next meeting.

“It doesn’t bother you?” asked the prosecutor, hardly listening to the reply and not giving a damn anyway about what they were going to come up with.

“No, not at all,” chorused the two lawyers in quick response.

“Telephone my secretary next week, and she’ll immediately book you in for a meeting.”

“Very well, that’s what we’ll do. Thank you, Prosecutor, “ said Hovac.

“No, thank you for your understanding,” admitted Pauwels finally.

The two lawyers got up and the prosecutor accompanied them to the door, which closed behind them. Then he started pacing up and down between the window and his desk.

Tom was busy keeping himself as calm as possible. He crossed the building’s large main hall, and found the door leading to the twelve elevators reserved for those with access to the vaults. He couldn’t rid himself of the anxiety that threatened to choke him. He was still wondering if the prosecutor suspected something. He stopped for an instant. There was still time to leave it all behind and get away as far as possible. He took a step toward the door … a second step, and then stopped for a fraction of a second before taking the third step. The two sliding doors opened automatically and he suddenly found himself in front of a double row of six elevators looking much less appealing than the ones in the main hall. Two security guards were sitting in a bulletproof booth, at the end of the corridor. Tom hid his astonishment by pretending to ignore them, while feeling a surge of anger against Goldberg. It hadn’t been part of the simulation, and nobody had warned him. He’d been overwrought for two days, was finding it harder to control himself, and he really didn’t need this kind of surprise.

The muscles in his limbs starting shaking, and he no longer had any control over them. He prayed that nobody would notice. For the second time in his life, he could feel his legs giving way under him. It was an awful, unsettling sensation because it was beyond his control, making him feel even more vulnerable. Drops of sweat had been trickling down his back since he’d left his office. He could feel that his shirt was completely soaked, another reminder of his anguish and the danger of his mission at every turn. His mouth was so dry that he could hardly swallow. Whether from fear or fatigue – he was unable tell which – he could feel himself cracking up. He walked quickly into one of the four open elevator cages. The doors closed in an instant, and then an electronic voice rang out.

“Please look at the yellow dot,” it said.

The machine was scanning his artificial iris. All the systems installed in there were in perfect working order: the elevator started on its descent.

The guards followed Tom’s progress for a few moments on their control screen: -2, -3, -4. He was going down into the classified zone. One of the guards pushed a button to switch the interior view of the elevator onto a larger screen. He watched Tom for a moment, but everything seemed normal. He pushed on some more buttons, and a series of messages appeared on the screen.

“System status: OK.”

“Security parameters checked: access authorized.”

But there was still something irking him.

“Who is the guy?”

“I don’t know his name, but look him up in the directory. I think he’s the prosecutor’s deputy.”

“But does he have authorization to go down to the vaults?”

“If he’s there, yes he does.”

“Wait, I’ll see.”

The guard checked down the lists in a thick dossier, looked at all the photos of authorized persons on the screen, pressed another button, and checked his lists again. Unable to find the information he was looking for, he grabbed the receiver.

As they’d told him, the doors opened at the eighth basement level. Tom reached the first door. It wasn’t exactly the same as in the simulation, he noticed. As they’d agreed, he faced the two targets behind him: three red diodes turned to yellow and the door opened. He was now imprisoned in a kind of antechamber, where the control system formed an integral part of the second door. Large, reinforced, thick – it was very impressive. This wasn’t like in the simulation either. He took the small notebook out of his pocket, but was trembling so hard that he had to hold onto his right hand so that he could read the digits and enter the long code. As he’d been briefed, the two halves of the heavy reinforced door slowly moved apart, accompanied by the muted rumbling of powerful electronic motors. He went straight to the rows on the right. He could hear a noise in one of the adjacent vaults, and prayed that he wouldn’t be questioned by somebody who knew him. He stopped by vault number twelve and placed his left eye to the identification apparatus, holding his head as upright as possible, as had been explained to him during the virtual reality simulation. His iris was scanned, three diodes changed to green and the exposed cylinders on the vault started unlocking. That wasn’t like in the simulation either, but at least everything was working perfectly so far. He went into the room. It was rectangular in shape and quite long – about twelve meters by five. The floor was made of bare concrete. There was a long row of beige filing cabinets along the left-hand wall, with tall metal filing cabinets, in the same beige color, covering the back of the vault and the right-hand wall. A chair covered in brown material had been placed near a long rectangular table made of chrome-plate. His face contorted, Tom looked at his watch: 11:30. Then he looked around in consternation.

There were so many drawers and cabinets, and surely even more ring binders and files inside, that he’d never have enough time, he thought. He walked quickly to the first filing cabinets in the row and opened them up, one by one. He pulled out the first drawer: it contained only sealed files. He opened the next one and consulted the files one after the other, as fast as he could.

19

The prosecutor decided to go down to the vaults, to verify if somebody could have breached the different levels of security. But first he wanted to call Counselor Smijevsky’s practice. He looked up the number, wrote it on the screen of his phone console, picked up the receiver with a determined air, and dialed.

“Norvin, Smijevsky and Butler.”

“Good morning, this is the secretariat at Prosecutor Pauwels’ office.”

“Oh, good morning.”

“I’ve been asked to call you because Mr. Dorvan forgot a file for his next meeting. Do you know if he’s still there?”

“No, he didn’t come by this morning. He phoned about half-an-hour ago and realized he’d mistaken the day. His meeting is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Oh, what time?”

“Well, at the same time but he cancelled because there was a hitch. He told me he’d call Counselor Smijevsky back himself early next week.”

“Oh I see, so I’ll fix that with him.”

“Very well.”

“Thank you, miss, goodbye.”

“You’re welcome, goodbye sir.”

The prosecutor cut the call, thinking. Dorvan did have a meeting, but he’d mistaken the day. Possible. But why hadn’t he called by Greta’s office to fix up the next meeting? Perhaps he was organizing his scheduling personally. He did the same thing himself, so it was possible. But then if he’d phoned, he wouldn’t have needed to go to the practice. And as it wasn’t far away, Dorvan must already be on his way back.

He pressed the intercom button.

“Greta?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has Counselor Dorvan got back yet?”

“No, sir, not yet. I think he went straight to lunch after his meeting with Counselor Smijevsky.”

“Very well,” he said simply.

His suspicions were increasing, but he still couldn’t deduce anything at this stage. He got up abruptly, took his jacket, crossed his office, passed by the PA without saying anything, and took the elevator. Hardly two minutes later he emerged in the main hall, and walked with resolute step toward the elevators leading down to the vaults.

“John,” said Van der Meer as he accosted him.

The prosecutor turned his head and stopped when he saw his friend.

“You’re here already?” he said.

“Oh, I came early because Vlad has just given me some information about Prague.”

“I’m going down to the vaults, it’ll take me ten minutes. Do you mind waiting for me?”

“No, go down afterward if you like, because what I have tell you is more urgent.”

“Very well, let’s go up,” he said, turning on his heels.

Van der Meer nodded a greeting at the PA before entering the prosecutor’s office. The latter closed the door behind them, and immediately opened the drawer of the suspension files where his small document-case with the broken seal was stored.

“Here,” he said, taking it out.

Van der Meer put on some white cotton gloves he’d taken out of his black briefcase, and removed the document-case. Then they sat down together at the round table at the back of the office.

“So, what do you think?” asked Pauwels.

“Well yes, it’s definitely been forced, because the seal would never have broken by itself.”

“I’d really like to know who’s been sticking their filthy paws into my business,” said the prosecutor curtly.

“And nobody can get into this room, apart from the secretary?”

“That’s right.”

“The cleaners?”

“No, they come in the morning and can only get in with her being present. At the end of the day, she locks it all with a secure central locking system, and apart from her nobody has access to this office after hours.”

“Do you remember the last time you saw it with the seal unbroken?”

“Unfortunately not, as I don’t need it and I never use it. I only noticed it today.”

“How long have you had the document-case?”

“Oh, I don’t know exactly any more. It contains my personal code and I haven’t changed it for at least eight months.”

“That’s a bit vague …”

“I know.”

“Yes well, the only advice I can give you for the moment is to do what you wanted to do. Go check vaults and change your code immediately.”

“In fact, I don’t think it’s even necessary to go down to the vaults, because the system simultaneously checks my iris and the data on the chip they implanted, which only I am in possession of. It’s therefore impossible to get in down there without me being present.”

“Does Dorvan have a gift for computers?”

“I don’t know, why?”

“You’ve no idea how much a clever hacker can turn up. And there are lots of hackers of his generation, believe you me!”

“No, you have to be exaggerating. Not such sophisticated systems.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

Even though the services in charge of protecting the archives had given the prosecutor such a clear demonstration of how such a thing would be impossible, his friend had sown the seeds of doubt into his mind and he was becoming increasingly agitated. He walked to the window and stood there, hands in pockets, looking into the distance.

“Meanwhile,” went on Van der Meer, “I’ll give the document-case a thorough going-over, but I doubt we’ll find anything. Could it go back to the time of your previous deputy?”

“Yes, that’s possible,” replied Pauwels, continuing to pace back and forth in front of the table. “But I don’t see it how it could have happened without Greta being involved. And I really can’t believe she could be mixed up in anything like that. For one thing, she’s too close to retiring, and for another thing she didn’t like him. And anyway, why would he have done it? He was familiar with the security system for the vaults. It wouldn’t have been of the slightest use to him. I told you, nobody can get down there without me being present. They never stopped talking about it when the building was inaugurated.”

“And I’ll ask you the same question: was he gifted with computers?”

“Karl? He just about knew how to switch his own machine on.”

“So, I can only see one possibility: your new deputy. Where is he at this moment?”

“I don’t know, it wasn’t clear how he was spending his time this morning.”

“Not clear,” repeated Van der Meer in an increasingly doubting tone of voice.

“Yes, he told us he was leaving for a meeting at a law practice, but in fact he got the day wrong.”

“And you swallowed that?”

“Nigel, stop, it can happen to anybody. I rang them myself. Their secretary confirmed that he’d called just before the meeting and that he’d realized he’d got the day wrong.”

“No, I don’t believe a word of it. You don’t call to confirm a meeting ‘just before knocking at the door’.”

“Stop it, I’m telling you, he might just have been unsure. He’s only been working here for a few months.”

“Yes, maybe that’s all it is, or perhaps he’s a smart-ass who knows more than you think. So, do me a favor and go down to the vaults.”

“Yes, I was going down there as I told you. But what’s this information you mentioned?”

“Vlad called me just now. He received a coded message from Klarov. His computer techs have been confronted with quite a few problems recently, during the ‘special handling.’ He thinks his computers are under surveillance.”

“Is he sure?” asked Pauwels, looking worried.

“No. For the moment, it’s only a suspicion. But two days ago, they carried out numerous international transfers, and apparently the system had some unusual reactions.”

“Unusual? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know exactly. I only vaguely understood that it caused the system to slow down, with more interruptions than usual. The problem is that we don’t know if you have to take these types of incidents seriously. It’s something that often happens with computers, which they admit themselves.”

“What does Klarov think?”

“According to him, the fear voiced by the computer techs seems to be justified, in as much as it’s the first time they’ve encountered these sorts of incidents for two days in a row. Apparently, they often have problems to sort out. It can take them some time, but once the problem’s been resolved, they don’t have to keep coming back to it. But this time, there were no problems to sort out.”

“There weren’t any problems or they didn’t find any?”

“That’s just it, they don’t know. And that’s why they can’t be any more specific than that.”

“Can’t they detect more precisely if somebody’s been able to hack into their system?”

“No, it wouldn’t be necessary for people who’ve put them under surveillance to hack into the system. On the contrary, one of Klarov’s technicians told him that he could carry out all sorts of investigations on their behalf, but Klarov refused. They don’t know if these are hackers or a special government cell, but his computer techs think they have some pointers. The thing is, should it turn out to be some sort of police surveillance, Klarov would rather let them believe that nobody’s noticed anything. But he thought it prudent to warn us. He also said that it could well be gangs paid for by the competition.”

“Were any ‘special’ transactions made during the last forty-eight hours?”

“Yes, one, but I don’t know which. Anyway, now they’ll act accordingly. But can a government set up surveillance on a bank without its knowledge?”

“No. But you’re as familiar with the system as I am. There are always secret, unofficial cells assigned to this sort of task. It also depends on who’s giving the orders. And I don’t remember if this type of operation is difficult to carry out in Prague. We can’t know about all of Klarov’s transactions. Perhaps he’s under surveillance just for those operations he’s implicated in and which the government doesn’t like.”

“But that could lead them to undertake deeper investigations into all the assets he’s managing.”

“No, there’s nothing to fear at that level. His establishment manages thousands of company accounts. It would take them years to investigate each of them, and they couldn’t do it without official authorization. And even if that happened, Klarov would take care of the most important dossiers – he’s an expert in international transfers. And he has a lot of connections as well.”

Van der Meer nodded his head silently, and then went on.

“To get back to that document-case. Perhaps your new deputy is in league with somebody who’s put a bug in his ear? Are you certain it’s not him?”

“Listen, no, not absolutely, but he’s just been nominated and I ask again, why would he be taking such a risk when it wouldn’t get him anywhere? Don’t you think your theory’s a bit warped?”

“That’s my job, these sorts of theories. Just picture somebody warning him about something, so he goes snooping around in the boat, and then in your office, without anybody paying attention. And he happens to be a young guy. Did he know that Foster?”

“Who?”

“The guy who wanted to accost you at the airport. It’s very plausible. And he’d have started looking. The code won’t be any use to him, since he can’t get down there, but perhaps he’s going on with his research.”

“No, Nigel, it’s ridiculous.”

“Not as much as you think. Perhaps he’s already been down to your vault? I’ll find out if they knew each other,” he said, his face dark. “That would explain certain things. Perhaps there’s a connection between your deputy and Clarke Foster. And if there’s a connection, we have to make sure that Dorvan is working alone and neutralize him before tomorrow evening.”

“But even if we find out it’s him, he’ll never tell you if he’s working alone or not.”

“Don’t worry. That’s why I trust in Vlad. It’s one of the things he likes best. Anyway, for now we have a lot of questions and not enough answers. Didn’t he seem to be acting strangely during your meeting?”

“No, as I told you, he was just a bit vague about the bars he visited in The Hague, but that seems quite reasonable.”

“That he said he visited … he’s a magistrate and he can’t remember which places he visited two days ago?”

“No, he told me he’d been taken there by a group of Irish people. In a city you’re unfamiliar with, it’s just as plausible. And it’s his private life, after all, he doesn’t have to account to me for that part of it.”

“Do you know when he’s getting back?”

“No. My PA thinks he’s coming back early this afternoon.”

“Can you try to get a precise answer without him being suspicious?”

“Yes, wait.”

He pressed a button on his telephone.

“Greta, could you call Dorvan on his cellphone and ask him what time he’s getting back?” he asked, looking at his forced document-case. “I’d like to finish off some files before the weekend.”

“Yes, I’ll do it immediately,” she replied.

Tom moved to the filing cabinets at the back, where the shelves were filled with blue-and-white archive boxes. His attention was drawn toward two of them without labels, at the bottom of the third cabinet. He opened them and quickly scanned through all the contents. Then he recognized the folders containing the genetic fingerprints. They were just like the ones Parson had shown him the day before. He stood transfixed for a moment in front of the documents, despite the urgency of the situation. The folders emitted something strange and mysterious. But he didn’t know if this feeling was because they were in his hands for the first time, or if he was finally holding the infamous evidence Parson needed. Each folder was clearly labelled with a single name, and he had an insane desire to read them all, but he pulled himself together. He’d arrived too late in the vault and now he’d run out of time. He took the small phone Goldberg had given him and started photographing everything. His breath came in short bursts – in fact he’d almost stopped breathing without realizing. There were around a hundred folders, but it took him less than four minutes to complete his task. He went on searching in the hope of finding print-outs of transactions, or any other document mentioning sums of money, as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He found a dozen and photographed each of them, before putting the camera back into his pocket.

Tom didn’t hear the door of the vault closing quietly, and the cylinders returning to their original positions. He went on examining the documents one by one. Once again he nervously glanced at his watch: 11:55 – there were only a few minutes left before he had to leave. And they’d warned him enough times: the slightest delay would compromise the secrecy of the operation. He put the box back, closed up the cabinet, picked up his briefcase and went to the door. That’s when he realized it had closed automatically. There was another thing they hadn’t told him about. What did the system require to be opened up again? The iris? The code? Both at the same time? He supposed he had to repeat the same procedure and went up to the control apparatus. The lens was irritating his eye, and his vision as a whole was affected by tears. As best he could he presented his weeping eye to the scanner. The diodes remained red: the recognition had been negative, and his first attempt had failed.

Two short beeps announced the reply Pauwels and Van der Meer were still waiting for, in silence. The prosecutor pressed the button.

“Yes?”

“Well, I tried his number twice, but it went straight to voicemail. It’s odd, because usually he never switches off his cellphone. Would you like me to try again?”

“No, don’t bother, I’ll see him early this afternoon. Thanks Greta.”

“Very well, sir.”

They looked at each other for a few moments.

“Perhaps he switched it off, but he might also be in a place where there’s no signal.”

“Nigel, you’re paranoid. But I still want to go downstairs and change that code,” said Pauwels as he got up.

“And I’ll go analyze this,” said Van der Meer, waving the small document-case that he then put inside his own attaché-case.

They left the office in rapid succession.

Damn and blast, said Tom to himself. I only have one more try and if that doesn’t work, I’m caught like a rat in a trap. He knew it would be his one and only last attempt, the prospect of which made his mind jam. He could feel the panic rising in him. He was losing his concentration. He couldn’t regain his composure any more. Then he noticed he’d stopped breathing. He stood up straight, and took a breath so deep that it almost hurt his lungs. At the peak of anxiety, he put down his briefcase to wipe his eye, before starting again.

Pauwels and Van der Meer walked rapidly across the main hall.

“Keep an eye on him nevertheless, until we have some results,” said Van der Meer.

Pauwels agreed by nodding his head, but didn’t reply.

“Later,” said Van der Meer.

“Yes,” murmured Pauwels.

He walked on another ten meters into the access area to the vaults, passing by the guard who nodded in his direction, but he didn’t respond.

Tom’s palm was so moist that he had to wipe it on his pants before tapping in the code again. It didn’t help, but it was some sort of reassurance. Then he widened his eye as much as he could, wiped it again and presented it trembling to the scanner. But the system failed to react when he pressed the confirmation button. He looked at the keyboard, his expression frozen in anxiety. He could feel drops of sweat trickling down his spine. Suddenly … a noise, a rumbling, the sound of the cylinders … he turned to the door, which was opening. He grabbed his briefcase and ran outside, his forehead bathed in sweat that was dripping into his eyes. He wiped them as he walked – only a single thought occupied his mind: to get out of these reinforced basement levels that were pressing in on him more and more.

Nearing the antechamber guarding the access to the vaults, as he’d been briefed he stood in front of the right-hand door to go through the exit procedure. He tapped in the code but the system remained inert. His heart started beating harder in his chest. It took him five long seconds before he realized a message had appeared: “Please wait – entry procedure in progress”. He remembered all of a sudden: Goldberg had told him that the system wouldn’t react if another person was in the antechamber at the same time. Tom had a fleeting inkling that he had to distance himself from the door. And yet he argued with himself: it wasn’t logical at all, and the impression must have been generated by the fear that he had so little time left. But this thought was stronger, and he moved on instinct toward the farther left-hand passage, without turning around. The prosecutor came into the archives with a firm step, and turned right toward his vault.

Tom had reached the end of another passage, and pretended to be going through the entry procedure to gain access to the last vault. From so far away and with only his back showing, nobody could have recognized him. After a few seconds, he couldn’t stand it any longer and he hurried to the door, to get through the exit procedure before midday. He looked at his watch: 12:05. The deadline had passed; it was therefore too late, and they wouldn’t be able to erase his presence from the videos. But he’d think about that later. For the moment, he had to get out. He tapped in the code for the door to open.

The prosecutor was in the middle of the entry procedure for his vault, when he heard rapid tapping on a control keyboard. Someone was entering their code very quickly, and he decided to retrace his steps to see who was carrying out the procedure.

The door opened, and Tom hurled himself into the antechamber as the first door closed. The prosecutor could only see a silhouette, which disappeared too fast for him to be able to make a formal identification through the smoky glass separating the two doors. And yet he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of a briefcase, and the detail had aroused his curiosity. A dark, irregular-shaped, curving line was smudged on the left-hand corner, which made him think of a continent on an ancient geographic map. He frowned: he had a suspicion, but he wasn’t sure. Something about that dark silhouette seemed familiar to him. But then he caught himself: there were about fourteen hundred similar dark silhouettes in the building, and Tom didn’t have a brown briefcase. He had two, but they were both black with bronze clasps.

Tom entered the elevator and the door closed.

“Please look at the yellow dot,” said the disembodied voice.

The same procedure should operate for exiting the vaults. There again, it was different to the simulation. He found all these controls excessive. If a person had been accepted on the way down, surely they were free to go back up again. He was bathed in sweat, and he could feel his shirt sticking to his skin. He’d reached the end of his tether. But when he presented his eye to the scanner, the overflow of tears prevented the apparatus from scanning the iris on the lens. Precious seconds were ticking by. By now his eye was so irritated that he couldn’t keep it open any longer. A red dot was blinking in the middle of a circle.

“Identification negative,” said the hollow voice. This impersonal voice, incapable of assessing the urgency of the situation and the disarray in which he found himself, caused the blood to freeze in his veins.

“Please look at the yellow dot,” said the voice again.

Tom took out the lens, spat out what little saliva he had left in his mouth, and tried to insert it again. To his great surprise, the lens went back in easily. He gathered all the energy and concentration he needed, and started again. After a few unbearable moments, he sighed in relief. The elevator started moving. They were going up, but the numbers weren’t changing fast enough. Nothing was going fast enough. When the doors finally opened at ground level, Tom walked out at a hurried pace. The two guards stared at him from their security booth. Tom met their curious gazes for a few atrocious seconds. He knew that he couldn’t permit himself a moment’s hesitation or surprise in front of those guards, and decided to ignore them. But just as he was glancing away, in his peripheral vision he saw one of them rushing out of his glass bubble. He absolutely mustn’t run away, and it wasn’t the moment to crack up; yet he had to avoid looking as guilty as a pickpocket caught red-handed, and instead walk with the assurance befitting his position. He needed to walk impassively to the main hall, toward the exit, to his freedom. But what could he say? What could he do if he was unable to reply to his questions and therefore arouse his suspicions? And what could he do to stop him? He hardly had time to drop the lens into his hand when the man caught up with him.

“Sir, please,” said the guard as he came closer.

Tom turned around as he continued walking, but the man had already reached him.

“Yes?”

“Your particulars don’t appear on our access lists for this zone, sir.”

“Oh, that’s odd,” said Tom, very sure of himself. “Perhaps it’s because I’ve only recently been granted permanent access.”

The fear had reached such a level that Tom wondered if he was going to faint. He glanced sideways at the main door to estimate the number of meters to run if he had to make a dash, and he wondered if the guard could hear his heart throbbing in his chest.

“Yes, I telephoned the surveillance unit downstairs, and that’s what they told me. But you should tell your office to do the necessary as soon as possible.”

“But they assured me it had already been done. I’ll go and ask them again.”

“Is it that hot down there?” said the guard in surprise, noticing Tom’s damp hair and the sweat trickling down his forehead.

“Yes, much too hot, and what’s more, I’m claustrophobic.”

“Oh, I see. Please excuse me for disturbing you, but we have very strict orders and I wouldn’t want to lose my job.”

“I understand,” said Tom simply, “that’s fine.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Welcome.”

Tom walked away and came out into the main hall as calmly as he could. As it was shortly after midday, the first half of the employees had started the daily displacement of humanity toward the cafeterias. People seemed to be arriving from every direction, so it was easy to melt into the crowd. Van der Meer was standing just in front of the main entrance door, and was finishing talking to a man in a light-colored raincoat. Tom exited the building at the same time, and they went down the fifteen steps almost side by side. Tom had to put the brakes on his desire to run. The more he forced himself to slow down, the faster he walked because the instinct was stronger than him. But he couldn’t wait to leave the surroundings of the building before increasing his speed. He was almost running, hoping nevertheless not to be noticed.

Pauwels quickened his pace and rapidly reached the square in front of the main entrance. He glanced all around, and then looked farther away to see if he could spot the familiar silhouette. There were several similar ones, but he didn’t notice Tom trotting off in the distance. He retraced his steps and decided to go back up to his office, to call Van der Meer.

20

As they’d planned, Tom entered The Chapel, the well-known restaurant he didn’t know but which everybody talked about. He went down a narrow spiral staircase emerging into the main hall, created on the site of an old, Gothic-style chapel dating from the twelfth century and built by some prince or other as a penance against divine retribution. Heavy round columns supported curving arches, filled in with strikingly effective fan vaulting, and reinforced with discreet inlaid lighting that highlighted the soaring arcs of the ancient stonework.

The interior decor, on the other hand, was determinedly modern. Formed into a round or square shape framed in chrome, each tabletop was made of polished glass soberly adorned in Greek style. It hung as if suspended a few centimeters above a single, rather narrow cylindrical pedestal, inside which an intense light-source had been placed that illuminated the guests as well as the vaulted ceiling above them. This unique lighting gave the whole room a space-age feel, in particular contrast to the former chapel’s Gothic arches. A tall, scented rose, the base of its stem jammed into a test-tube embedded into the edge of the tabletop, adorned each table to enliven the ambiance consisting of stone, metal and glass. The high-backed chairs were thickly constructed; they were made from a single unit encased in a kind of apple-green rubber, their rounded shape giving them the appearance of little thrones. The oddly acidic aura emanating from them gave one the impression of an alien’s hideaway.

The restaurant had a formidable reputation for its gourmet menu. The kitchen was briskly run by Attilio Carlo, a young chef aged about thirty-five – or rather by all his skivvies. He could be described as a genius of cuisine, an alchemist of savors with a very promising future, capable of creating new flavors based on the subtle blending of herbs, flowers, and aromatic plants. He belonged to those rare chefs who refused to be inspired by their peers. He was a creator who truly invented his own nouvelle cuisine. For several years now, his reputation had been growing beyond borders, and his establishment had become the subject of gossip among wealthy businessmen constantly on the lookout for novel experiences, who arrived at night by private jet to sample his gastronomic delights. At midday, the establishment offered business lunches.

During the second half of the evening, the clientele changed in character. Lounge music that was at once mysterious, smooth and modern created an ambience suitable for private discussions, and an influx of lawyers transformed one of the crypts into an attorneys’ den as they besieged the place to mourn their defeats, offer explanations, find compromises, or simply get discreetly drunk to forget that they were thirty-five going on fifty. Insults were thrown later, after midnight, but without the situation ever coming to blows because the young chef wouldn’t tolerate such behavior. If anything kicked off, he’d come running with carafes of cold water to pour over the protagonists, whatever their status. But everyone allowed these quirky mannerisms; first of all because he was in the right, and then because he was a cheerful young man, who loved life and was very likeable. Perhaps the fact that he measured six-and-a-half feet, and weighed some 220 pounds without an ounce of fat (as he was proud of boasting), had something to do with this tolerant attitude.

The maitre d’ greeted Tom as soon as he’d reached the foot of the stairs.

“Good afternoon, sir, would you be so good as to follow me?”

Tom followed in his footsteps, and then pulled up short.

“One minute, I’d like to order a coffee first.”

“We’ll bring it to your table, sir.”

“No, I’d like it straight away.”

“Very well, sir.”

Tom went to the bar, ordered a coffee and watched it being prepared. Then he took it with him and followed the maitre d’. The restaurant was full. At the far end, some enclosed booths had been built into the corners. The maitre d’ led him through the main dining room, which looked very much like a crypt, and showed him to the last free table in a corner. Tom sat with his back to the wall, and waited until the man had left. He sipped his coffee slowly, glancing occasionally around. They hadn’t told him who he would be meeting: sure to be Goldberg. On the table to his left, a very distinguished-looking woman was adjusting a Hermès scarf belonging to a bejeweled lady in her seventies, who looked like her mother. The opposite tables were occupied on one side by a single man whose outfit made him look more like a deep-sea fisherman than an agent from the Special Services, and on the other side by two businessmen sipping their cocktails in a very relaxed manner.

No sight of Goldberg. Tom was drinking his coffee, his left eye still irritated and weeping, when a voice seemed to be speaking to him.

“Put your lens in the ashtray in front of you. Relax … and tell me if it all went well.”

Tom slowly looked up. He wasn’t dreaming. The voice came from the woman taking care of the lady in her seventies, at the next-door table. He glanced surreptitiously at the tables in front of him before replying.

“Yes,” he replied, in a state. “But you can tell Goldberg that he forgot to warn me about all sorts of things, and because of that the whole thing almost came to nothing.”

“Such as?”

“First of all, the guards by the elevators. Then the door of the vault, which locks automatically when you’re inside, the iris-scan which only works once out of twice, and the exit procedure. And you can also tell him I didn’t manage to get out in time. Which is very annoying if there is any evidence of this illegal intrusion,” he finished, still making sure he wasn’t being watched.

“You were actually six minutes late. Stop looking around like that, you’ll draw attention to yourself. You don’t need to worry about eavesdroppers in this area,” she reassured him. “The three tables around us are occupied by Service people. You don’t need to worry about being recorded either. Everything’s been erased. We allowed for a spare half-hour in case there was a problem, and we made sure the relief was delayed. But we didn’t want you to count on that, so that’s why we didn’t tell you any more. As for everything you’ve just told me, I think Mr. Goldberg wanted to develop your improvisational skills … but I’m joking, of course.”

“Very funny.”

“He knew the only thing that guard could do was call control, where our agent was waiting.”

Tom drank another mouthful of coffee, and replied before he’d put his cup down.

“Yes, but I didn’t know that,” he said bitterly.

“Oh, I think he simply forgot to tell you.”

“Oh yes, of course. And I think he also forgot to tell me that I’m in imminent danger of having my head blown off by a bullet from a silencer. Or perhaps you were you going to do it?”

“Now don’t make such a fuss, for goodness sake … we’re protecting you.”

“Well, aren’t I the lucky one?”

21

“Did anybody get in?” asked Van der Meer.

“No, I checked it over, and nothing’s been touched,” replied Pauwels. “I would have been astonished if it had, because the vault doesn’t work without me.”

“Did you find Dorvan?”

“No, he hasn’t come back yet. It’s odd, because he’s never behaved like that before.”

“As soon as he gets in, try to find out what he’s been doing. And check everything he tells you, especially after what’s been happening recently. For my part, I haven’t found anything yet. I still don’t know if he was connected to Foster. And as for the results of the fingerprints, I won’t get them back until tomorrow morning, but I’ll call you as soon as I do. I’ll have them compared with all of his.”

“Do you have the cellphone?” said the woman.

Tom took it out of his pocket, and put it down in front of him, still anxiously watching the tables opposite.

“Leave it by the ashtray. We’ll take it when you leave. Go back to your office as usual, but be prepared for all sorts of questions because you never know. When you get home this evening, stop by the second-to-last intersection before your house. Park next to the temporary parking restriction signs. Somebody will make themselves known to you and will take you to Mr. Goldberg.”

“And what about tomorrow evening?” asked Pauwels.

“There’s no reason to change anything. Everything’s already in place and the location is ideal. If nothing else turns up by then, we’re not going to deny ourselves the pleasure.”

Trying to hide his agitation, Tom got back to the office, but the PA hadn’t returned from her lunch-break yet. He stowed his briefcase in the bottom of the cupboard, flopped into his chair and let his eyes wander around his room. After a few moments, he read some lines on a document relating to the Smijevsky case that had been open for the last two days. It was a fairly complex matter, even if this file only made up a slim brick in the ramparts he’d been constructing on his desk over the last few days. He leafed through the pages, but found it impossible to concentrate on anything, and once again his gaze wandered to the corner of the room. He remained like that, in a kind of stupor, for a good few minutes.

The prosecutor was sitting at his desk, pensive, his left index finger on his lips. Then he got up abruptly and left the room. Giving two rapid knocks on the door, he entered Tom’s office without waiting.

“So, have you been hiding?” he asked, moving toward him.

Tom knew he shouldn’t distort or exaggerate any responses, given the amount of stress he was feeling. He held his gaze, impassively.

“Why?”

Pauwels pointed to the files he’d heaped onto his desk, and scrutinized them.

“Is it a version of the Great Wall of China?”

Tom was slightly reassured that he hadn’t been alluding to anything else, and managed to give a broad grin.

“Well yeah. It’s terrible, but being orderly was never one of my fortes. But it’s very practical like this because I don’t have to get up to fetch any files.”

“Your office is huge, that’s for sure.”

He looked around to confirm the irony of this statement. The office was rather narrow and he only had to move his chair forward a bit to reach the filing cabinets.

Tom forced himself to smile politely. The prosecutor decided to go on the attack.

“Greta and I have been looking for you since the end of the morning.”

“Oh really? But I haven’t received any messages from her.”

“No, she told me she couldn’t reach you on your cellphone.”

Tom searched in his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“Well, it’s switched off. I’m sorry, but I forgot to turn it on this morning. But it’s not something that often happens to me.”

“That’s what she told me actually.”

“Was it something urgent?”

“Er … no. I haven’t had enough time to deal with the Bennett file. As I know you’re more familiar with them than I am, I wanted to have you with me in my meeting with Counselor Hovac. And as soon as I realized it would be impossible for me to come to a decision in those circumstances, I adjourned the meeting about fifteen minutes after it had started.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry,” said Tom, who felt the prosecutor was searching for something.

A little voice told him in a whisper to play the innocent.

“I could have attended,” he said, “since I ended up mixing up the date. When I realized my mistake, I decided to call at the library to research some of those porting procedures we discussed yesterday. I wanted to see if I could find any more information about it, and if there was any case law on the subject.”

“And what did you find?”

Tom called himself an idiot. He obviously hadn’t gone to the library, nor had he looked up any of those procedures. He had just taken his first false step, and he wouldn’t be able to extricate himself if the prosecutor continued with this line of questioning.

“Two or three things, but nothing more than you’d instructed me already.”

He carried on without a break.

“And then I went straight to my lunch break. Would you like me to do anything on the Bennett case?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll tell them to call Greta to arrange another meeting. We’ll see them when I get back next week.”

“Very well.”

“And what file are you working on at the moment?” asked the prosecutor.

“Well, I’m just in the process of finishing up the Smijevsky case.”

“Haven’t you finished yet?” he asked, noticeably annoyed.

“I’m just about to close the file,” said Tom in a sure tone of voice. “I just need to see him next week for our final meeting.”

Pauwels looked around the office with an unwavering gaze. Tom noticed and innocently dared to question him about his mood, in an attempt to dispel his doubts.

“You seem to be rather worried. Is that just my impression or is there something bothering you?”

“Er … no, not at all,” said the prosecutor in surprise, looking at his watch. “I’ll give you Monday’s schedule tomorrow morning, before I leave. Now I have to go home. See you tomorrow then.”

“Very well. I won’t be staying here much longer either.”

The prosecutor went out of the office, shutting the door behind him as he exchanged a few words with the PA. Tom waited a moment, and then got up and put on his jacket.

22

Night was falling over the city. Tom crossed over the intersection the woman had mentioned, and waited. Less than a minute later, a dark-green car pulled up in front of him. A man dressed in a dark raincoat approached him, and took a sealed envelope out of his pocket. Tom let the window down far enough for the envelope to be slipped inside. He opened it and read the contents. Then he got out and sat down in the rear seat of the other car, as the man in the raincoat prepared to drive off.

“Where are we going?” asked Tom.

“Mr. Goldberg is waiting for you at Hampton Hall,” said the agent. “He asked your friend to come as well, in case she recognizes anybody.”

About ten minutes later, the car drove around the theater, made its way down a narrow street and stopped in front of the stage entrance. The door opened. Walter Goldberg and Clara were waiting just inside, accompanied by two agents from the Special Services. Clara went up to Tom and took his arm.

“Tom, you did it,” said Clara in congratulation. “They have everything they need.”

For the first time, Tom detected a spark of life in her eyes, and suddenly felt a certain pride.

“Yes, the documents you found told us much, but that’s not the end of the road. We have to be able to arrest them tomorrow night, without them suspecting anything. We know that a bridge meeting has been planned for tomorrow night in The Hague, on the liner, and that one of the artists here has been amply rewarded to entertain the club members at the start of the evening.”

“An artist like this, in the evening?”

“Yes, it’s a very good cover for a secret gathering,” he explained. “But I don’t know if she’s with them or not, and whether we have to play our cards close to our chests. If by any chance that was the case, she’d warn one of them and all would be lost.”

They opened the door leading backstage. Goldberg went in quietly, followed by Clara, Tom and the two agents. The show was in full swing. They watched for a few moments from the wings. It was the traditional repertoire of skillfully mingled, funny vocal performances: a non-stop conflict of egos between a German diva, Ermine Vogelsang, and an Italian diva, Carla Brisotti. The German singer was refusing to give way to her Italian counterpart, and insisted on singing an Italian duet in German. A battle of umbrellas ensued, accompanied by clucks of rage and insults of every variety declaimed in virtuoso singing exercises. The audience frequently burst into laughter.

By all appearances, they loved the show. Then it was the interval: the curtain fell, as the house lights went up.

“Do you recognize anybody?” Goldberg asked Clara, who was watching the crowd through a small aperture.

“No,” she replied. “Anyway, not the guys from the airport. But is that really her name … Vogelsang?” she asked.

Goldberg shook his head no.

“It’s her stage name,” he said, continuing to look around.

“So, she thinks she’s some sort of songbird?”… That is what its name means.

“I don’t know,” said Goldberg. “At least, she’s not the right size.”

This sarcastic reply was the first time he’d betrayed any sign of tension and worry.

They walked past the Italian singer’s room, all five of them reaching the door of Ermine Vogelsang’s dressing room some fifteen meters farther down. Goldberg knocked several times. The makeup artist opened the door, and stared at them impertinently.

“May we …” started Goldberg.

He was interrupted by a sigh of exasperation.

“No, Madame is not receiving visitors during the interval,” she said firmly, before shutting the door in their faces.

Goldberg started showing his impatience. He knocked again, more energetically this time. The makeup artist opened up again, visibly agitated.

“I see I didn’t explain myself properly …”

Goldberg brandished his double Special Services badge.

“Federal Agent.”

“Aah,” she said in a silly tone of voice.

Goldberg went in, followed by Clara and Tom. The two agents stood one each side of the door. He showed his badge to the singer, who failed to show the slightest enthusiasm.

“Good evening, I’m Walter Goldberg, director of the States Security Services. And these are two of my agents.”

“Yes, and what do you want?”

“You are Claudia Dortmund, otherwise known as Ermine Vogelsang?”

“Yes, why?” she asked in a hard voice.

“This is the last evening you’re performing this show in the theater?”

“Yes, that’s it, the last time. Are you coming to see it?”

“And tomorrow, where will you be?”

“Oh, tomorrow I’ll be nowhere because I’m on vacation,” she said, recovering her grand theatrical manner and her distinctive accent: a subtle mixture of Russian and German.

“Oh really … and where are you going?”

“Well I don’t know that myself yet, my dear. I’ll go, as usual, where the wind takes me.”

“Well, I’ve the impression that the wind will take you to The Hague,” said Goldberg, finding it increasingly hard to hide his annoyance.

“The Hague?” she laughed. “But why the hell should I go to The Hague?”

“A show onboard a cruise liner … where the tide takes you, for instance,” hissed Tom.

“We know that you’re performing for a private club on a cruise liner moored just outside The Hague.”

“But of course I’m not, my friend, I have no idea where you get these ideas from, but it’s utterly fantastic.”

“I saw the amount paid into your account, a considerable sum.”

“Ooh, he talks but he knows how to read as well, gut … gut.”

“You’ve asked for an awful lot,” said Tom. “And our friends in the tax department will come and check that nothing’s been omitted over the last few years. With sums like that, it would be easy to lose everything.”

Goldberg interrupted Tom with a wink, invisible to the singer.

“It’s no good, we’ll undertake an official search of her home later on.”

Goldberg looked at the singer with an impassive expression.

“I’ve no more time to waste here.”

“But that suits me just fine, my friend, because neither do I. So I don’t need to show you …”

“Since you persist in lying to us,” he went on, “I’m arresting you. Take your things, the cars are waiting for us outside.”

“But my friend, you’re not thinking. What about the end of the show? Who will reimburse this wonderful audience?”

“That’s irrelevant to the matter in hand,” he said coldly, moving toward the door. “Please Madame, let’s go.”

“But I’m going nowhere, and certainly not with you.”

She stood behind a table, and armed herself with a folded fan and a large makeup brush.

“Get out … you’ve no right to …”

“Oh, you can be sure I have the right. So please don’t make me use force.”

“Get out … get out! I want to speak to my lawyer.”

“We’ll call him from my office.”

The situation was starting to deteriorate. The singer was resisting far harder than Goldberg had thought, and indeed he had absolutely no right to take her away. He wasn’t getting what he wanted, and if this Ermine Vogelsang had a good relationship with a member of the organization, she’d tell them everything and jeopardize the entire operation. He was beginning to lose control of the situation. Clara felt it, and decided to intervene by talking to him.

“Wait, give her a chance to understand what’s at stake, and let me talk to her.”

She opened the door of the dressing room. Goldberg and Tom went out, while she shut the door.

“Nein, there’s no point you sweet-talking me you know, my little one, it won’t change anything.”

Clara sat down in front of her.

“Ermine, listen to me. Finesse and psychology are not Mr. Goldberg’s strong points.”

“Strong points? But my child, he doesn’t even know these things exist.”

“Ermine, I understand you …”

“Ach, I don’t like him, that one.”

“He doesn’t show his emotions, that’s true, but he’s a man of integrity who only has a few hours to put his hands on a dangerous network and save the lives of dozens of children and teenagers. That’s why he’s a bit nervous, but you have to understand him. He absolutely wants to succeed. And if you know something, you must …”

“Oh no,” she said, bursting into tears to Clara’s great surprise. “I can’t … I can’t tell you anything, nothing.”

“So, you’re going on that boat, aren’t you?”

“Yes but they know if I say something, they’ll kill Judith.”

“Who’s Judith?”

“My niece.”

“They’re holding your niece?”

“Oh the story goes back years. It was at a time in my life when I was living in a world that wasn’t very … nice. I did favors for them and they helped me in my career. When my sister died last year, of course I adopted her daughter. But they knew about it and they took her from me, saying that she’d have to work for them for some time, and that they’d only give her back to me later. I threatened to go and tell the police everything, but they told me they’d make us both disappear if I went. But I know they would do it, and it’s too late now. What do you expect me to do? They’ve already killed her.”

“They’ve killed her?”

“Well yes, in a manner of speaking. They’ve dirtied her soul, that’s the same thing. Her life is lost, and so is mine.”

“Oh, I understand. But it’s not true, her life isn’t lost,” said Clara softly, placing her hand gently on Ermine’s shoulder. “Nobody can ever dirty another person’s soul, whatever the circumstances. You know, the same thing happened to me. And over several years … so I know what I’m talking about. But you have to tell them.”

“I can’t …”

“Well, we’ll both tell them, but we mustn’t let those bastards win.”

“They’ve already won, they always win.”

“Oh no … believe me, they might have made her suffer physically, but we’re the ones who decide about our souls. She shouldn’t ever let feelings of shame or guilt damage or humiliate her. But she has to recognize that, so that it doesn’t spoil the rest of her life. You can’t ever give them that power, not ever. They’re never worth the anguish. And tell her that even if it’s hard to start off with, she should never let what’s happened to her ruin her future.”

The singer nodded, her heart taut, before falling in sobs into Clara’s arms.

“But what can we do?” she asked, after she’d recovered.

Clara opened the door of the dressing room. Goldberg and Tom jumped back: they’d been listening at the door. The singer noticed and Goldberg was visibly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he said in confusion. “I …”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, sniffing and dabbing her eyes. “We won’t have to repeat everything.”

“I beg your pardon, Madame, I never imagined anything like it. I really thought you were an accomplice.”

“Yes, me too, I’m really sorry,” said Tom.

“But you couldn’t have known,” she said with a sad smile.

“Don’t worry any more, because now we’re on your side. We’ll arrest them tomorrow and you’ll be able to help us,” said Goldberg softly.

“Help you?”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

“Do you have some props for your show?”

“Er … yes, a few, and some costumes in the trunks behind me.”

“Well, as they’re holding your niece, they’re sure you won’t speak to anybody. So in principle they shouldn’t suspect you or anything you bring with you. In fact, we’ve been keeping tabs on them over the last few days and they’re not suspicious. Do you know who’ll be attending the evening?”

“No, it’s my first time.”

A voice called from behind the door.

“It’s time, Madame.”

“Later, Carole, tell them to wait a few more minutes.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Goldberg. “But you could be very useful in helping us to neutralize one section of the gang. Are you taking anyone with you?”

“Yes, I’ve planned to take Carole with me.”

“Perfect. So during the second half of your show, our experts will prepare your trunks. They’ll contain a knockout gas that’s colorless and odorless, but very effective. Have you worked with stage masks before?”

“No, but I’ll do what you tell me, you can count on me.”

“Thank you. It would be better to get back to the show now. The team leader will tell you exactly what you have to do.”

“Very well.”

They went out at the back of the theatre, where two unmarked cars were waiting for them.

“An agent will take you home,” said Goldberg, “and he’ll keep a watch on your house until tomorrow. It would be better not to go out tonight.”

“You’ve nothing to fear on that score,” said Tom.

“Perfect. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye.”

23

Standing in the kitchen, Tom was fixing Clara a cup of coffee. Dressed as always – white shirt, tie and dark suit – he was ready for the office.

“I’ll have to spend the morning listening to all his crap and nonsense, which is really upsetting,” he confessed.

“And can you come home afterward?”

“No, then I have a meeting with three crooks who’ll go on insisting I don’t get their point of view. And after that, the good old PA will try to orchestrate the prosecutor’s departure, which will be chaotic and disorganized as usual. He won’t stop barking orders at her, while she’s the one saving the day every time – it’s just pathetic. Well at least he’ll be away, and I’ll feel calmer. And as soon as he’s gone, I’ll come back as soon as possible, let’s say between 12:30 and two o’clock.”

“Fine,” said Clara, “and then we’ll go and meet Goldberg.”

“What did he say exactly?”

“That he’ll have us picked up around mid-afternoon at the back of the Wildlife Park. He’ll be in touch to tell us what time exactly. He wants to have us with him, as witnesses on the spot, while the operation’s unfolding.”

“Why your workplace and not here?”

“He told me he didn’t want to take any risks. He doesn’t even want his team to know where you live.”

Tom made a small noise of agreement.

“It’s true, he’s right.”

Several files were heaped at one end of the big rectangular table in polished Rio rosewood, reflecting the black-and-russet tints of the Ingmar Steinbeck room. Each of the three lawyers sitting opposite Tom had his own personal notebook opened next to their respective weapons, a series of confidential documents placed in perfect alignment in front of them. They had already emptied the cups of coffee served to them.

“Counselor Ferguson,” said Tom, “I return to my question: could you give me the reason why your client didn’t inform us of these facts at the start of the preliminary consultations?”

“Well, as you know,” began Ferguson, “this company has seven branches throughout the world and it’s normal that money should be dispersed among a dozen different accounts.”

“Dispersed … excuse me if I’m insulting your twenty years of experience, but with sixty percent of accounts paid into Singapore and Grand Caiman, I think this would be better described as phenomenally fast evaporation.”

“Oh come on,” said Porter, another lawyer, taking offense. “I don’t think there are that many …”

“At any rate, the directors don’t have anything to do with this matter,” said Ferguson again. “They’ve been following this procedure for decades, and were unaware that this didn’t apply to special funds …”

“You’ll be telling me next that your directors were poor wretches with unhappy childhoods,” interrupted Tom in exasperation. “Reduced to kicking a ball about in poor-class cities, and that they never received the proper education to become the CEOs and principal shareholders of multinational companies worth several billion dollars? Or else that the company is too scattered for them to be held responsible for all its accounting errors …”

“The prosecutor is therefore desperately trying to convict us, and is refusing to understand us at all,” exclaimed Ferguson.

“No. He thinks at this stage that your clients have attained a sufficient level of competence to realize what they’re doing. They’ve engaged in initiatives with their eyes wide open, taking advantage of a loophole in international law in this matter.”

Deep in thought, the prosecutor left his office and spoke his PA.

“Greta, I’ll have run out of cigarettes by the weekend, and I’m afraid there won’t be the brand I smoke in The Hague.”

“Shall I go fetch you a carton?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Thanks, that’ll give me time to sort through my notes.”

The PA had hardly left his office when Pauwels went into Tom’s office. He opened a few files bearing names he didn’t recognize, as well as all the drawers. He face relaxed a bit: he appeared to be relieved that he hadn’t found anything compromising. But just before leaving the room, he opened the cupboard again. Bending down to the lower shelves, for no particular reason but as if attracted by a magnet, he saw the brown leather briefcase hidden behind the other ones. He stood up, and found the dark patch that had attracted his attention in the vault. He returned the briefcase, went back to his office and closed himself in, before picking up the phone.

“Nigel?”

“Yes, it’s me. Good timing, because I have the results of the fingerprint tests.”

“Oh. Which are?”

“There are three sets of prints on the small document-case: yours and your secretary’s. But one of the sets is very new and particularly clear, so there’s definitely a third person who touched it recently.”

“I think I know who it belongs to.”

“You have new information?”

“No. But I think you were right – it’s Dorvan.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. And you’ll see, in a few hours we’ll be able to confirm that he knew the guy at the airport. At first I thought he was coming for you, but now there’s no doubt he was coming to meet or talk to Dorvan. But … how did you know?”

“I saw him coming out of the vault yesterday, just when I was going in.”

“But why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I wasn’t sure it was him at first. There was something familiar about him, but I could only see a dark silhouette. And there are dozens of dark silhouettes at our place. Then this nagging doubt wouldn’t leave me alone, and I went to have a look in his office. That’s where I found his briefcase.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. He has several and it’s not the one he usually uses. But I recognized the very large patch that had attracted my attention. You’re right – he’s managed to bypass the security system. For goodness sake, the system’s a pile of crap. The vaults leak like a sieve, when they assured me the system was one hundred percent impregnable.”

“You think he went right inside the vault?”

“No, he’d have needed the chip that’s in my possession alone. But he must have tried and was blocked when he reached the basement level.”

“And what d’you want to do now?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, after a long pause. “I have to think about it.”

“Anyway, if he knew Foster, I think he was telling you porkies about the bars in The Hague. He kept deliberately vague about the place he went to, because he never went anywhere. I think he saw something and nobody realized. That’s very serious. After him, it’ll all be over, but we have to act immediately.”

“That’s for sure.”

“You’re hesitating?”

“No, but I still can’t believe it.”

“I’m telling you, I’m not the slightest bit surprised. They’ll have talked together, him and Foster, and he’d have wanted to go on searching for his own aggrandizement or else to take revenge. As for the security system, I don’t know how he did it. I think he must be a computer whiz, and that he was able to breach the first barriers but that he wasn’t expecting there’d be more down below.”

A series of flashbacks, where Tom was leaving the dining room aboard the boat, came into the prosecutor’s mind.

“Will you follow the normal procedure and have Vlad meet him in the street?”

“No, as we’re leaving in a few hours, it would be better to take care of him here.”

“The problem is that we can’t allow him any time to take the initiative.”

“Yes, you’re right, and he’d better not have too long on his own in the office.”

“Did he come in this morning?”

“Yes, but he’s still in a meeting.”

“Good thing,” said Van der Meer, and then, “In fact I think it’s time to put him out of circulation before he gets any farther, which is the safest solution. I’ll take care of it myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Two deputies dying within the space of six months, and the second of them in your office – that would seem a bit odd.”

“No. It’s a fateful coincidence. The law of sequences. It’s even the most natural scenario. He falls down in my office, victim of a heart attack. And it won’t be a surprise to anyone in particular: at his age, overworking for the sake of your career can often be fatal. They’ll just think he had too much work, which will justify your request for another position. And that’s better than having him continue to snoop about, at any rate.”

“No, I’d rather find some other way … I’m sure …”

24

Tom returned to his office, just as the prosecutor was coming out of his.

“Ah, you’re back already,” said Pauwels. “That suits me fine, because I’ll be able to leave sooner. Come into my office, I’m curious to know what use the Ferguson practice has been saying to you.”

“Very well, I’m just coming,” said Tom in surprise, because the prosecutor had never shown any interest in the case.

Pauwels went to his office, opened the top drawer and picked up a green leather writing case. He took out a large black pen, and made sure the device was fully loaded, before placing it inside his pocket. Then he sat and waited for Dorvan, with the firm intention of administering a fatal dose as soon as he could. The very idea, that the person he’d chosen and who’d worked by his side was making inquiries behind his back and snooping about in his business to try and break his career, provoked such violent rage inside him that he felt compelled to commit murder. Imagining him talking as if nothing had happened increased his desire to see him choke to death before his eyes. That snot-nosed kid would never get the chance to destroy everything he’d worked toward for so long.

But he wouldn’t say anything to him. No, he’d just look at him and even refrain from insulting him. Then, when his lips had turned purple after he’d suffocated, he’d cry out his name so that the secretary would hear and come rushing into the office to help out. His new deputy, so young and charming – choking to death. The plan delighted him beyond words. Tom knocked on the door.

“Come in, come in,” he said, pretending he’d just finished reading a document.

Tom went to his usual chair, facing the desk, but the prosecutor stopped him.

“Why don’t we sit down at the table?” he said, getting up. “There are too many files cluttering up this desk.”

“As you wish,” he agreed.

“So, how did the encounter go?” asked the prosecutor as he sat down. “I’m sure you were able to conduct the meeting in your usual masterly fashion,” he continued, a note of forced politeness in his voice.

Pauwels was already finding it hard to sit still in front of him.

What’s he want, the little shit? he asked himself. To take my place? To become famous? And anyway, not like that he won’t, it’s out of the question.

“First he reassured me it was normal for special funds to be distributed among a dozen accounts, because they have so many branches.”

“That’s one line of defense, certainly.”

The thought of being in the same proximity as the little snot-face who’d betrayed him was becoming increasingly unbearable. He had to act fast because he didn’t know how long he could go on hiding his hatred. He was impatient for him to die so that he could be finally relieved of the burden. He hadn’t been taking all those risks, only for all the benefits awaiting him to be snatched away at the last moment. He got up and started pacing up and down in between the table and his desk.

“Yes, but not with sixty percent of the accounts skillfully hidden in Singapore and the middle of the Caribbean.”

“Ah no, of course not.”

Tom was amazed at the prosecutor’s reply. It was shorter than usual and very unlike him. Pauwels was thinking that at no time must he betray any sign of hostility, so as not to arouse Dorvan’s suspicions. He couldn’t miss his chance. Nor must he allow any frowns on his face or tension in his voice to reveal the enormous resentment he was feeling toward the guy, he thought. However difficult, he had to maintain his usual tone of voice.

“Then he tried to persuade me that the principal directors were unaware of any illegalities, because they’d always conducted their business in that way.”

Pauwels got close to Tom several times, his hand in his pocket. He was waiting for the perfect moment. Tom was feeling uncomfortable. He couldn’t understand why the prosecutor was pacing up and down, when he normally stayed behind his desk, stuck to his chair. It was disturbing him and prevented him from concentrating.

“Indeed? Could you get me the spreadsheet for the management of those special funds going back six years?”

“Er … I don’t think we have anything like that,” replied Tom, not understanding what he was trying to achieve.

Tom felt that the prosecutor’s behavior toward him had changed abruptly, and he wondered if he suspected anything. But it couldn’t be possible, as everything had gone to plan and his trip down to the vaults had been erased from the surveillance tapes. It must be something else. And yet, glancing out of the corner of his eye, Tom thought he really could detect a distrustful expression. Or was it just his imagination working overtime?

“Yes we have,” he insisted. “I saw them a few weeks ago. They must be … wait.”

He stood next to Tom.

“Where are the balance sheets? They must be at the back.”

The prosecutor slipped his hand into his pocket and came up toward the nape of Tom’s neck, at the same time trying to locate the button that discharged the liquid. He was aiming for the neck, because it was the place where the product would be the most effective. Watch out, he said to himself, even if he isn’t as strong, you mustn’t miss your chance. But the pen was upside-down. He lowered his arm and put his hand back in his pocket, so that he could turn the device around as unobtrusively as possible.

“So, let’s see what we have,” said Tom, still unable to understand, and turning over the pages to the end of the dossier.

“Well, it must include that diagram …”

The device was now in the correct position.

“Wait a moment …”

Pauwels was just raising his arm, when there were three loud knocks on the door. The prosecutor knew he couldn’t ignore Greta, and that it would be too risky to try anything now.

“That’s sure to be for me, she’s come to remind me of my last meeting,” said Tom as Pauwels lowered his arm again.

“Oh yes,” he said.

Greta came in.

“Counselor Dorvan’s last appointment has already been waiting in room 4 for fifteen minutes.”

“Oh well, I’ll go find those spreadsheets and we’ll discuss them next week,” said Tom in a firm voice.

“Very well,” said the prosecutor, unable to make any further attempts. “We’ll finish up next week. Go to your meeting, and I’ll complete my preparations.”

“Have a good trip and see you on Monday,” said Tom, as he got up and gathered his papers together.

“Thanks,” replied the prosecutor coldly.

Tom returned to his office, and came out a few moments later carrying two thick dossiers under his arm.

Pauwels closed the door of his office and grabbed his cellphone.

“Nigel?”

“Yes, what happened?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t do a thing. I think we’ll have to ask Judge Jensen to intervene.”

“Very well,” replied Van der Meer. “I’ll take care of it.”

“But tell him to warn us if there’s a problem, so that we have enough time to make all the necessary arrangements.”

“Yes, I’ll insist on that.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Very well, I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“See you later.”

Pauwels left his office carrying two attaché-cases. The PA put down the phone, picked up the messages, quickly sorted some files, got up and went to fetch an overcoat in the cupboard. She handed it to the prosecutor, who took it in the crook of his arm. The phone started ringing in reception.

“Have you taken your cellphone, sir?”

“Yes, yes, you’ve already asked me twice. Is the limo downstairs? I’m already late.”

“Yes, sir, the limo’s waiting for you.”

“Well, I’m going.”

“Very well. Have a good trip, sir.”

Tom had returned.

“You’re already finished?” asked the prosecutor in astonishment.

“Yes, he asked for an adjournment.”

“Ah … I’ve dictated two or three notes that Greta will put on your desk.”

“Very well, so once again, have a good trip.”

“Have a good trip, sir,” said Greta.

“Thanks,” he said, leaving the room without looking at them.

Tom and the PA went back to their respective offices. Tom was feeling a kind of discomfort he attributed to the fatigue of the last few days. Everything seemed calm now, and yet without knowing why, that calm seemed to be temporary and deceptive. He tidied his office a bit, chose three thick dossiers to take with him, and got ready to leave.

“I’ve taken some files,” he said to the PA. “As I don’t need to be in the office, I’ll go do some work at home. Tell anybody who calls that I have an appointment out of the office.”

“Very well, Tom. See you tomorrow.”

“See you.”

25

Half an hour later, the indicator on the prosecutor’s private line lit up.

“Yes, sir?” she replied on the first ring.

“Greta, I’ve forgotten to have the McCoy file sent over to Judge Jensen, and he’s asked for it this afternoon.”

“But I’ll take it to him, where is he?”

“No, he’s not in the building. He’s at the hotel because he’s only been here for a few days, and he’s leaving again this evening.”

“Ah, I’ll call the courier company.”

“No. I’d rather Dorvan took it to him. As he’s not a judge we normally work with, he could have some questions to ask.”

“The problem is that Mr. Dorvan has just left. He took some files with him to work on at home.”

“Oh well, that doesn’t matter. Call him on his cellphone, but do it immediately because the judge has to catch his plane in a few hours.”

“I see. And which hotel should he take the file to?”

“It’s the Corinthia, as usual, but the judge told me his driver would come fetch him. Dorvan has to come back as soon as possible.”

“Very well, I’ll phone him immediately.”

“Yes, and call me back if you don’t manage to reach him within a quarter of an hour.”

“Very well, sir. So have a good trip to The Hague, if I don’t call you again.”

“Thanks Greta. Have a good weekend and see you on Monday.”

Nika, the most presentable and loquacious of Vlad’s henchmen, arrived soon after at the PA’s office, accompanied by one of the building’s security men.

“What is it?” she asked the latter, pulling out her right earphone.

“This gentleman says he’s fetching a dossier for Judge Johnson.”

“Jensen,” he corrected.

The PA nodded with a small noise of assent. She pulled off her headphones and stopped working.

“That’s right, the prosecutor has just told me he was coming here.”

“Very well ma’am,” said the guard, moving away. “I’ll go back downstairs.”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said to Liviu Nika. “Unfortunately I can’t give you the dossier myself. I’m sorry, but I’ve received strict orders. The prosecutor would like the first deputy to bring it to the judge in person.”

“Very well,” Nika had to agree.

“He’s just left, but I’ll call him right now. Please sit down,” she went on, indicating the two black leather chairs in front of her desk.

Tom got home just as Clara was preparing to go out.

“Oh, are you back already?” she said, surprised to see him so soon.

“Yes, I left not long after with the excuse that I was going to get some work done at home.”

“And has it all gone ok so far?”

“Pretty much. There were a few odd reactions about some files, but that’s sure to be because of their evening meeting. He can’t stop thinking about it and is unable to focus as much. And what about you, are you going out?”

“No, I just wanted to breathe some fresh air while I was waiting for you.”

The phone rang.

“Oh, sure.”

He closed the door, put down his things, took off his tie and undid the top button of his shirt as he went to the answer-phone.

“Good evening, Tom, Greta here. I’ve just …”

He decided to pick up.

“Yes, Greta, what’s the matter? Yes … oh … yes I see. He’s already there? Very well … sure, I’ll leave right now. That’s it, straight away. It’s my boss … typical,” he said, annoyed, getting dressed again. “He forgot to send a dossier to a judge and he wants me to bring it in person, in case there are any questions.”

“What, right now?” asked Clara in surprise.

“Yes,” replied Tom with his hand on the door. “The PA told me the guy was leaving immediately afterward. It’s annoying, but if I don’t go it’ll arouse their suspicions.”

“D’you want me to come with you?”

“No, I won’t be long. I’m sure I’ll be there for no reason and that he won’t have a single question to ask me.”

“There you are,” said Greta. “He’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”

“Very well,” said Nika.

The PA put her headphones back on, to continue typing up the transcriptions. But then she took them off again.

“Can I fix you something while you wait?”

“No thanks.”

“A coffee at least,” insisted Greta, knowing he’d have to wait at least twenty minutes.

“Yes, fine, a coffee.”

“I’ll go fetch it for you.”

“I’ll call Judge Jensen and tell him we’ll be delayed,” said Nika, taking out his cellphone.

“Yes of course, go ahead,” she said, getting up and going into the waiting room where the coffee machines were located.

“Good evening, Judge, it’s Nika … no in the prosecutor’s office. No, I’m alone, she’s just gone to fix some coffee and he’s not here yet, but she just called him. He’ll be here in about fifteen minutes. Yes … oh, there’s a change of plan? At the airport? Just after … wait a moment, I’ll make a note.”

He lent over the desk, and grabbed a pen and a notepad to write down the message Vlad was dictating to him.

“And the guy who’s coming, I take care of him in the car if I get there? The secretary? No, she’s down the back. I’ll make him come upstairs. Oh, d’you think she’s with him? So they know each other? Tell me where she is, and I’ll go pay her a little visit when we’ve taken care of the other one. She’s at his place? Yes, don’t worry, I won’t miss her this time … and I’ll snoop about his place after that. Ok.”

He cut the call.

Vlad and Belu walked into an empty suite at the Corinthia Grand Hotel, with the aid of a keycard programmed by one of their contacts. The third attempt was successful, because the two other suites they’d tried were occupied. They still made sure by checking in the wardrobes and drawers. Then Vlad faced Belu with a broad grin.

“There you go, we’re awaiting your Counselor,” he said.

“Sit down, Your Honor,” replied Belu. “I’ll call Nika to give him the floor and room number.”

Vlad glanced around the room, noting how the furniture and fittings had been arranged.

“I’ll make him sit here. First I’ll ask him some questions to find out if he lives with the slut. And when I send you out to fetch my cigarettes, you’ll open the wardrobe and come up quietly behind him with the pen, while I’m talking to him. We’ll leave straight after that.”

“No searching?”

“No. But anyway, he won’t have anything on him.”

Greta, who never did anything by halves, was fixing a plate of little biscuits to go with the coffee. She came back into the reception lobby.

“There you go,” she said, placing a small tray in front of Nika. “I’ve also fixed you an assortment of biscuits.”

“Thanks.”

She went to find the dossier in question. Tom came into the reception lobby a few moments later.

“Ah Tom, there you are,” said Greta, who was in conversation with the driver.

“Yes, I left as soon as you’d phoned me.”

“So, this is Judge Jensen’s driver, and this is Mr. Dorvan, first deputy to the prosecutor.”

“Good afternoon, Counselor.”

“Good afternoon.”

“We need to leave as soon as possible,” said Nika. “The judge is catching his plane in just over an hour, and he’s already late.”

“Yes of course,” said Tom.

“I’ve already prepared the dossier,” interrupted Greta. “Here you are.”

“Oh good. In that case, we can leave immediately. Goodbye Greta, see you on Monday.”

“Goodbye Tom.”

The PA sat back down at her desk and put her headphones on. But she frowned suddenly. An unknown text had inserted itself into the one she’d just dictated. She realized very quickly she’d forgotten to deactivate the mike in her headset, and that the voice recognition program had recorded snatches of her conversation with the driver. A whole paragraph had appeared on her computer screen. She tried to erase the whole thing, but she couldn’t stop herself reading the contents – partly out of curiosity, but also to see how the apparatus had transcribed another person’s words. The result might be amusing, because sometimes very eccentric words were added.

“Can I fix you something why you wait a coffee at least yes fine a coffee go fetch call judge yes of course go ahead good evening judge knee car here no in cutor’s office no alone gone some coffee he’s not here called him fifteen minutes oh change plan airport make note the guy coming I take care of him in the car if I get there no she’s down back make him come upstairs oh so they know each other tell me where and I’ll pay her a little visit when taken care of the other one at his place don’t worry I won’t miss this time snoop about his place after there fixed biscuits thanks ah Tom left soon phone Johnson’s driver judge catch plane already late prepared dossier in that case leave immediately see Monday by Tom.”

She put her fingers to her lips and reread the middle section of the paragraph several times. Then she got up and rushed out into the lobby. It was rather an idiotic reaction because she didn’t expect them to be there. And of course they’d already left. How horrible, she told herself, they’re villains pretending to be a judge. She’d have to warn the prosecutor immediately. Trying to find his new number, she wondered who could carry off such a thing. First she thought of the members of that pharmaceutical consortium, who bore him such an enormous grudge. But what could they have against Tom? Why not go directly against the prosecutor? They must have offered him a deal, and honest as he was he’d refused. So somebody had decided to make him pay … oh the bastards, she fumed, they’re not wasting any time, are they?

26

Tom and Nika reached the main entrance to the building. The second phase of office closing time had been in progress for the last ten minutes, and the hallway was swarming with employees disgorged in waves out of the elevators, before they scurried toward the parking lots.

“I’ll drive you to the hotel, and they’ll call you a taxi to take you home,” said Nika.

“No, that won’t be necessary, I’ve an appointment straight after. I’ll take my car and follow your there.”

“As you wish. In that case, I’ll keep an eye on it for you.”

“Good idea. Where are you parked?”

“In the small parking lot over there,” he said, indicating the visitors’ lot.

“I’ll meet you at the exit.”

“Very well,” said Nika.

You’ll never have another appointment, he thought, visibly relieved to be making Tom leave the place where he was untouchable. As soon as you’re inside the door to the suite, you won’t have any more protection. If only you knew what was waiting for you.

Nika was jubilant. Shame he couldn’t watch, but he was already looking forward to the others telling him how they got on, over a whiskey.

Greta dialed the prosecutor’s number. After one ring it switched to voicemail. Fool, she thought as she hung up, it was useless leaving him a message. As he was on the plane, he wouldn’t listen to his messages for at least another hour and then it would be too late. What to do? Warn the police? Pointless, because it would take them longer than just a few minutes to intervene. Well for goodness sake, she should ring Tom himself of course. She could have slapped herself. She dialed the number of his cellphone.

Clara went to the living room table where the noise was coming from, and saw Tom’s cellphone. The message “office” appeared on the screen. She looked at it for a few moments. Was Tom looking for his phone? Was he trying to contact her to tell her something? She didn’t dare pick it up; it could put him in serious danger if it wasn’t him. After a few seconds, the phone gave three short vibrations. Clara picked it up as delicately as if it contained explosives, and decided to listen to the message. Her face crumpled soon after. She put the phone down and instinctively picked up her own phone to warn him. But she turned right around, staring in horror at Tom’s phone. She’d just realized that she couldn’t contact him. She took a card out of her purse and dialed a number, both hands clutching the phone.

“Hello,” said a voice.

“Mr. Goldberg, please.”

“He’s not here at the moment,” said the voice calmly and evenly. “But leave me a message and he’ll call you back in about a quarter of an hour.”

Clara left a brief message and hung up. A quarter of an hour was too long, much too long. She now knew Tom had left to meet his killers, and there was nothing she could do. Here she was all on her own, for the second time, confronting this intolerable force. She gave way to panic and was incapable of thinking straight. Her unconscious mind took over, allowing her to react on instinct. She sensed she needed to follow her intuition, as long as her intellect was in such turmoil. She called a cab, biting her lips with each passing second. Grabbing her coat, she picked up her purse. Her hands were shaking, as was her entire body. She ran out of the house and slammed the door shut. The ensuing noise was so loud that she thought she’d cracked the wall, but at this point she couldn’t have cared less. She’d never run so fast.

Tom parked his car calmly behind the driver. They both got out at the same moment.

“It’s on the fourth floor, suite 423. I’ve just called him to say you’ve arrived.”

“Thanks,” replied Tom.

He went into the hotel and quickly crossed the lobby. It’s probably the largest hotel in the city, he thought, but certainly not the most welcoming. He took one of the elevators that already had three other people in it.

“Which floor?” asked one of them.

“Fourth, please.”

Sitting in his office, the strain showing on his face, Goldberg was on the phone to Clara, who was urging the cab driver to hurry up.

“Anyway, we have to hope he won’t let them get near him.”

Clara threw her cellphone into her purse, at the end of her tether. The driver was dawdling in a half-hearted manner. He was decked out in a Hawaiian shirt covered in large yellow flowers, and all he needed to complete the picture were shades and a garland of jasmine around his neck.

“Faster, drive faster!” she begged the driver, as they stopped at a red light.

With her face crumpled in anguish, Clara clenched her fists and then twisted her hands … anything to stop her screaming out loud. The cab driver, a small Jamaican who was so laid-back that he wouldn’t have cared if the whole world was crumbling about his ears, tried to calm her down. He had a very pronounced island accent, and gave the impression he was shouting even when he spoke quietly, displaying his gleaming white teeth that contrasted sharply with the dark coloring of his skin.

“Calm down, li’l lady,” he said in his drawl, “dere’s no point goin’ fast and gettin’ all in a tiz, you know. Anyway, the lights is red.”

The lights changed while he was speaking, and still laughing. Clara glared at him with a fearsome intensity blazing from her pupils. Waste of time.

“Over here, soon as the weather’s a bit bad, people are always in a hurry. Dat’s a bad ting, a very bad ting. But for me, it’s always summer in me head and in me heart.”

The front dash of the cab was adorned with various items from the islands. He was listening to a cassette tape featuring a strong reggae beat. Looking at the front passenger seat, you’d have thought you were by the beach visiting some rum distillery. My goodness, Clara said to herself, at any other time I’d think it was funny, because he really believes what he’s saying. Then the man started singing along to the chorus. Clara was beside herself. What an idiot, she thought, a man risking his life for the benefit of others is just about to be murdered, and this guy’s singing to himself. Then the driver started tapping his fingers to the beat. I’ll have to try another tack with this guy, she thought, her lips pinched.

“But you don’t understand,” she said, staring straight at him. “I can feel an epileptic fit coming on. I’m in danger of choking on my tongue and I’ll start foaming at the mouth in a minute. It’s horribly uncomfortable and terrifying to watch. So I beg you, stop at the next pharmacy and ask for Triax. And tell them the person’s having a fit, they’ll understand at once.”

Clara gave off some fake groans, causing the terrified driver to turn as pale as his skin allowed. The medicine didn’t exist, of course, but it would take some time for them to convince him of that, time she needed to seize the vehicle. The driver stopped at once, got out of the cab and ran inside the pharmacy. It must be the first time he’s reacted so fast, thought Clara, as she got in behind the wheel. Oh no, a manual gearbox, she grumbled as she turned the key, she hated that. She’d passed her driving test on a standard car, but had bought her automatic Mini not long after. Trying to put it into gear, she stalled the engine. It started up at the second attempt, but it took her a few seconds to push the gear lever forward. Forcing it, the grinding gears protested, but she didn’t care. The car reversed a couple of meters. Once again she pushed the lever forward, hoping to engage first gear. Making sure they were moving forward, she jammed her foot down on the gas. As she overtook a line of stopped cars, she knocked over two roadwork signs that were thrown fifteen meters across the street.

Tom stopped in front of the door to suite 423. He brushed his fingers through his hair, cleared his throat unobtrusively and knocked a few times. The door opened.

“Counselor Dorvan?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Good evening, I’m Judge Jensen’s assistant. Please come in, he’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” said Tom, walking in front of the man and along the small corridor leading to the suite’s main room.

Belu looked up and down the outside corridor, and then noticed Tom looking at him in surprise.

“Isn’t the driver with you?” he asked, by way of explanation.

“No he’s not,” said Tom, suddenly realizing why he’d behaved that way. “He waiting downstairs and keeping an eye on my car.”

“Ah, good.”

“Please come in, Counselor,” came Vlad’s gravelly voice, who was standing in front of the living room’s spacious leather sofa.

Belu hurried up to make the introductions.

“Judge, this is Counselor Dorvan, first deputy to the prosecutor. This is Judge Jensen,” he said, looking at Tom.

“Delighted, Judge,” said Tom in his usual respectful manner.

“Thank you for coming in person to bring me this dossier,” said Vlad in a somewhat cold and distant voice, shaking him by the hand. “I must have interrupted the arrangements for your family weekend. Sit down, please,” he added, indicating one of the armchairs opposite. He rolled his r’s with an indeterminate accent.

“Not at all,” said Tom, sitting down.

Vlad sat on the sofa and Belu took the other armchair. Tom put the dossier down on the low table in front of him, next to a large, old-fashioned chrome cigarette lighter stamped with the hotel logo. He was surprised by the atmosphere in this room, but he didn’t know why.

“And do you have a wife and children already, Counselor?”

Tom wondered why these men were calling him Counselor when he was the prosecutor’s deputy. It must be how they addressed similar people in their country, he decided.

“No, not yet.”

“Ah, your heart is still free?”

“Yes, at the moment.”

That was it: he’d realized what had surprised him. The suite seemed to be unoccupied. It was true that in this class of hotel, it was always perfectly clean and tidy, but usually there were personal affects scattered about: a jacket, some suitcases or briefcases. Tom remembered that the judge had to catch a plane in a short while, and told himself the driver had already taken the luggage down to the car. Anyway, it was odd because the welcome tray had already been placed on the sideboard. What a cheek; they hadn’t even waited until he’d left before preparing the room for the next guest, and in a hotel of this caliber. His mother would never have accepted such impropriety in her hotel group.

“So enjoy your freedom while you can, believe me. You’ll never have the same peace again.”

“Why, do you have a large family?” asked Tom, not quite sure how to respond.

“Oh yes. Two wives and eight children. And it’s very tiring. Unfortunately I’m unable to offer you anything to drink.”

“It doesn’t matter. In any case, I believe you’re in a hurry to get to the airport.”

“Yes, that’s true, but I’ve time to talk about things a bit longer. And the life of a highly-placed public servant, is it tiring?” went on Vlad.

“Yes, my days are very full,” replied Tom, who was finding the man rather odd.

“The prosecutor told me you’ve been working for him for only six months?”

“Eight months, actually.”

“Ah, eight months. Did they find you somewhere to live?”

“No, I had to sort that out myself.”

“Excuse me if you think I’m being impertinent in asking you all these questions, but one of my sons is a young magistrate like you, and he wants to spend some time working here.”

“Oh, I see,” said Tom, understanding the reason for his curiosity.

“And did you find somewhere pleasant?”

“Yes, absolutely. I bought a house in a very agreeable neighborhood, just fifteen minutes from the city-center.”

“Ah, that’s good. Counselor, would you allow me to give your address to my son, and tell him he can contact you in an official capacity before he comes to Brussels?”

“Yes of course, I’ll note it down for you,” said Tom. “But he can also contact me at the office. I’m there all day and I also take private calls.”

“Ah, very good. Mr. Belu, could you bring me my cigarettes? You’ll find them in my coat pocket.”

“At once, sir,” replied Belu, getting up.

“And do you plan on staying long in this city?”

“I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I’ve never asked myself the question.”

Belu opened the wardrobe and took out the thick black pen. Then without making a noise, he came back slowly toward Tom, the point of the weapon aimed at the nape of his neck.

“I see,” said Vlad, deciding to keep on talking as a distraction. “I find it essential nowadays for young people to take trips abroad.”

Suddenly, as he bent forward to write down his address, Tom’s attention was caught by a reflection in the polished chrome surface of the cigarette lighter on the table. The dark form seemed to be moving as if in slow motion.

But … he’s the judge’s assistant … what’s he doing … why’s he moving toward me like that? And what’s that in his hand?

It came to him all of a sudden. Was it possible he wasn’t a judge? That the prosecutor knew something? God damn it! The picture changed abruptly, within a second: they were the henchmen Goldberg had been talking about, and the object coming toward him was the device used to inject the filth that had killed Clarke. He understood everything, but it was too late. The bastards Clara had told him about were right here beside him, and he was about to die, just like Clarke. And that was why the room had seemed odd to him, and why there was a welcome tray: it hadn’t just been prepared because the suite wasn’t occupied, and he’d fallen right into their trap.

Transfixed, Tom watched the black shape moving behind him. He felt his muscles coil like a spring: he mustn’t turn around, because the guy would hurl himself at him and it would all be over. What to do? What the hell could he do? He was getting dangerously close.

“It’s impossible to remain outside of globalization,” went on Vlad. “Those who do can’t realize that …”

Tom contained all his energy, pretending to nod in agreement to the meaningless words emerging from the man calling himself a judge. Then without turning around, he jumped up in a single bound as he pushed the armchair back with all his might. Belu was caught off-guard and let the pen drop to the floor. Tom rushed to the door and opened it, running out into the long corridor. He’d never felt such a surge of adrenalin in his life. It was almost as if he were flying. Belu leaped up and threw himself into the chase, followed by Vlad.

Tom opened the emergency exit, with Belu and Vlad close on his heels. He glanced back, and for a second caught their hate-filled glares before throwing himself down the stairwell, several steps at a time. But Tom could feel Belu catching up. He heard a sort of click and felt the man brushing against him, but he kept on going. He saw two doors at the bottom of the last flight of stairs: the emergency door leading outside the hotel, and another one leading to the entrance hall. Belu was so close that he opted for the entrance hall. There were sure to be objects or people he could use to slow up these madmen. A second later, Tom burst into the lobby, closely followed by Belu and Vlad. He crossed the area like a cannonball, scattering unfortunate guests in his path to block Vlad. One fairly hefty tourist decided to get involved, and tried to intercept Tom thinking he was running away from hotel security.

“Hey, you!”

But why’s that idiot interfering? thought Tom, who couldn’t believe his eyes. Taking advantage of his momentum, Tom grabbed the stranger by the arms, and threw him against his pursuers. It gained him some twenty meters. Outside the hotel entrance, he glanced quickly all around. Seeing the man who’d called himself a driver leaning against his car and smoking a cigarette, he realized he couldn’t get past him. And as soon as he saw him, Nika grasped at once that something was wrong and jumped into his car. Still propelled by the effects of adrenalin, Tom continued running until he was gasping for breath. He crossed the street in front of the hotel without stopping, and was almost crushed by two cars that just avoided him but rammed into each other. Vlad jumped into Nika’s car while Belu continued chasing him on foot. Tom turned around fearfully, trying to measure the distance between them. Looking around the street as he ran, he searched desperately for a way of escaping these insane killers. But Belu was well trained, certainly better than Tom, and he was getting ever closer.

All of a sudden a cab came hurtling around the street corner, almost out of control. Tom turned around again: the man was only twenty meters away. The cab came closer and hooted its horn, coming up alongside. The front passenger door opened before it had even stopped, urging Tom to dash inside. But gasping for breath, he stopped dead in stupefaction: between the hooting cab, the traffic, the noise and the killers chasing him, he was in total confusion. Was that Clara at the wheel of a cab? He couldn’t understand anything anymore.

“Get in!” she shouted, to yank him out of his apathy.

Tom jumped into the vehicle. Half a second later, Belu grabbed the door-handle, pulled the door open and tried to inject a dose into him with his device.

“Tom, be careful!” screamed Clara.

She slammed her foot on the gas; the henchman ran beside the vehicle for an instant, but was finally forced to let go the handle.

“But … what have you done?” asked Tom in total astonishment, blinking all around the cab.

“He was an idiot,” she said, in an over-excited but determined voice. “A prize-winning idiot … and slow, much too slow. And in my book that makes him an idiot.”

“Hey … look out!” yelled Tom, as Clara made the tires screech around a bend.

“Another time,” she replied, concentrating on the maneuver.

They were thrown toward the left of the interior. She jammed her foot down on the gas, still unable to master the gear-changes. As pale as a ghost, his breath coming in short gasps, his eyes wide, Tom gripped the rigid safety belt with both hands. A few hundred meters farther down the road, the traffic forced Clara to slow down.

“Where … where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

Tom turned to Clara, at once perplexed and questioning. Then a violent shock, accompanied by a deafening crunch, threw the car forward. Vlad, Belu and Nika had caught them up, and their sedan had rammed the cab. Clara looked in terror in the rear-view mirror.

“I know … we’re going to see Sandy.”

“Sandy?”

Completely ignoring the other drivers angrily blasting their horns, Clara kept changing lanes, sometimes dangerously, but finally managed to put some distance between them. His eyes frigid, and with a determination bordering on insanity, Vlad watched the cab skidding away. A hint of a cruel smile was etched on his lips. He was starting to relish the hunt.

Despite everything, Clara gradually managed to gain the advantage, and she stopped the car in front of the Wild Wide Wildlife Park where she worked. They jumped out of the cab, just as the powerful sedan bearing their pursuers was pulling up. Clara rushed to the metal door of the staff entrance, with Tom close behind. She tapped in the access code, and they threw themselves into the gloom inside the building.

“Nobody here?” asked Tom.

“No, not now. Only the keepers, but they’re over the other side.”

The door never shut very fast … Vlad’s gloved hand held it back. Clara went straight to a command control and pressed a few buttons. A door opened. They ran inside, followed by the two men since Nika was waiting in the car.

“Come on!” said Clara.

But soon all five of them were facing the covered section of a type of enclosure, only ten meters away, where the monkeys were playing about. Vlad was ecstatic: he’d rediscovered the pleasure of operations of the past, which hadn’t happened to him in a long time. The two men held their prey in their gaze, with expressions as cold as marble, while Vlad smiled cruelly in triumph.

“You see, they’re not fast enough for us.”

The automatic door of the enclosure closed again, without anybody noticing.

“Are you hiding with the little monkeys?” said Belu.

“You never know, perhaps they’ll be naughty and attack us,” said Vlad. “Why be so scared,” he went on, “you won’t feel a thing.”

“And it’s much better if you keep calm,” added Belu.

“Don’t worry, I have no reason to be afraid, but I can’t say the same for you. So, to begin with, throw your instruments towards me.”

“Oh, but you hear that, Belu? She’s in charge… so, darling, come to me and everything will be alright…”

A noise seeming to come from an elevated section attracted the attention of the two men. They slowly turned their heads to the rear. Beneath a kind of porch, about two meters in height, a corridor enclosed in wire netting had opened up, and two enormous white tigers were watching them, motionless. With ears pulled back, their predatory eyes were fixed on the two men, who paled in shock at the sight of the powerful carnivores. Clara stared into the yellow eyes of one of the tigers, and stood firmly in front of Tom to protect him.

“What’s that?” asked Belu.

“This is Twisty, darling, a friend of the little monkeys,” said Clara in a fake cheerful voice. “And here’s her companion Sandy.”

“Tw-Twisty?” echoed Belu, stammering in fright and staring at the big cat that had reacted to his name.

“They’ve just had two very beautiful babies, but since then they’ve become … very irritable.”

“Move back to the door,” hissed Vlad to his two sidekicks.

Nika moved back, but stumbled into the closed door.

“It’s shut,” he said.

Two of Parson’s agents were watching from a distance. One of them adjusted the right-hand section of his special glasses, where a miniature camera lens had been attached. Then he spoke into the mike hidden in his sleeve. Images were directly transmitted into the van, where Goldberg, Parson and McPhiel were waiting.

“Yes, it’s locked and it won’t open easily because it’s made to withstand tigers and all sorts of large baboons… so throw your instruments to me, or I’ll only say one word… But if I say it, I won’t be able to go back…”

They threw their instruments in front of Clara, who quickly picked them up.

“That’s good,” she said. “Now, if you don’t move and don’t try to run away, nothing will happen to you until some of our friends come to get you.”

Then everything happened very fast. Clara and Tom went out of the enclosure, which she immediately locked behind them.

Belu turned to the door and tried to force it open – but in vain. The two men looked at the beasts again, and then tried to climb up the wire netting…

When Clara and Tom came out of the park to get back to the cab, they found themselves face to face with four vans, out of which poured Parson’s and Goldberg’s agents. One of the doors opened, and Goldberg beckoned them inside, while Parson stood opposite him. Clara and Tom got in, all the doors closed and the convey set off at a rapid pace.

“There was no need for you to rush to our rescue,” said Clara to Parson, out of breath and very annoyed.

“Why? You were coping so well on your own that we had no need. But I’m not going to send anyone, you know, because I wouldn’t want to stress out new parents… it could compromise breastfeeding… this kind of litter is so rare…” he added, with a mischievous look.

“How did you know what happened?”

“I know everything.”

Sitting opposite them, his arms folded over his paunch, Parson had the air of a satisfied Buddha.

“And where are we going?”

“The Hague.”

“And when are you going to intervene?”

“In less than fifteen minutes. It’s the last moment before they realize anything’s the matter. But everything’s in place.”

“So we’re going to the airport?” guessed Tom.

“No, we wouldn’t get there in time.”

“But we’ll never get there by road. And how do you propose getting close to them? In camouflaged fishing boats with frogmen armed to the teeth?”

“Exactly… camouflaged fishing boats … they’ll move quietly up to the liner and knock at the door. But you’re completely behind the times, my friend, people could think you worked for the FBI.”

He winked at McPhiel. Clara and Tom were still too tense to smile.

“Well, we’ve also been able to create a ‘designer’ product. It’s a slow-acting formula that the chef has inserted into this midday meal. Lobsters, and turbot in ginger and lemongrass will be engaging in a serious naval battle in their stomachs by the end of the afternoon, which will strongly reduce their ability to react and will make our intervention all the easier.”

“And the chef accepted that?” asked Tom.

“Yes,” replied Goldberg.

“Are you so naïve? From what I’ve just seen, I can tell you they’re so scared of the watchers that the guy will tell them everything. He’ll play a double game and warn them.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so,” said Goldberg, almost softly. “You should know we talked to him kindly when he came ashore, and we were able to persuade him. We reminded him of the increasing number of tragic accidents that can happen in kitchens. I think it was the idea of being flambé’d alive that finally convinced him.

“And the gas you gave to the singer?” asked Clara.

“That’s an extra precaution, in case of. You should always think about “what ifs” and cover your bases.”

The convoy stopped abruptly on the side of the road, in open countryside. The door of the van opened as a helicopter landed in a field. The five of them emerged and ran toward the machine.

27

The singer was already aboard the boat. Aided by Carole, her dresser, she had finished installing the props she needed onto the rostrum where her show was taking place.

“What time am I starting tonight?” she called into the theatre, where half-a-dozen people were milling about.

“It’s tomorrow … tonight we’re rehearsing,” growled Dan in his usual gruff voice.

“But I was only told about one evening,” she said, anxious about the success of the mission.

“Well, it’s in two parts. And then you leave us alone, ‘cause you’re starting to get up my nose with all your diva-type wailing.”

She looked at him askance as he gave a mocking laugh. One of the kitchen-aids came into the theatre and tried to catch Dan’s eye.

“What?” he snapped.

“Lunch is ready.”

“No, we’re eating later when it’s all finished.”

Driving fast, the cab had left the airport and was taking Van der Meer and Pauwels to The Hague.

“Try again,” said Pauwels.

Van der Meer took out his cellphone and pressed re-dial.

Vlad’s phone rang somewhere in the enclosure, where the ground was scattered with human remains and shreds of clothing. The call still refused to connect, and Van der Meer shook his head uncomprehendingly.

“I’ve called him at least five times in the last hour – it’s never happened before.”

They glanced at each other for a moment.

“Shall we go to Marrakesh?” suggest Pauwels.

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“Agreed.”

“Take us back to the airport, please,” ordered Pauwels to the cab-driver.

“Very well, sir.”

The vehicle slowed down, did a U-turn and drove back in the direction of the airport.

The singer felt ill at ease, and was pacing around in circles. She didn’t know how she’d manage to get everyone into the theatre at the same time. She was fretting about the whole assignment, and found it impossible to hide her nerves. Dan noticed.

“Well Miss Diva … what’s up?”

He keeps calling me that, she thought. She sat down on a high stool and decided to take him at his word: she’d behave like a diva.

“No, no, no. I’ve prepared a new show just for you, but I won’t be able to do a repeat performance in public. So either you get all your little friends in here, or I’m leaving.”

The she tossed her head and gazed to the back of the theater, arms crossed.

“Will you listen to that, a for-real diva, I’m telling you. You’re a real pain in the ass, ya hear?”

And then because he’d had no reaction, he spoke to everyone else in the theater.

“Stop for two minutes and come listen to Castafiore.” 1

¹ Nicknamed the “Milanese Nightingale”, Bianca Castafiore was an opera-singer character in the Tintin cartoon series.

They gathered together around the tables close to the stage. She glanced at her watch. They weren’t all there, but she seemed satisfied and began the show. Obviously she hadn’t had any time to prepare: it was all improvised.

The tone of the show was deliberately grotesque. They’re such lumps that they won’t notice anything, she said to herself. You take your members onboard ship? Well, I’m taking you on a sea-voyage as well. And I’ve even planned a little surprise … just for you, she thought.

Her inspiration had come from the story of the Three Little Pigs, revised and adapted to suit the circumstances: the words clearly announced what was going to happen to them.

Pauwels took out his cellphone and an electronic diary from his attaché-case.

“I’ll ask them to get the plane ready immediately.”

“Yes, and I’ll call Dan,” added Van der Meer.

And now, you’re going to discover the magic of my masks, she murmured to herself, taking out two masks of the type used by the Commedia dell’Arte, into which Goldberg’s team had camouflaged some genuine gasmasks. She put the first mask over her dresser’s face and the second over her own, and then without waiting, she surreptitiously pressed the button to activate the mechanism to eject the gas.

She mumbled a few words and made herself laugh, but nobody seemed to be appreciating the joke. They stared at her, without smiling. She was suddenly frightened that they’d rumbled the trick. It was impressive how motionless they were all sitting, staring into space. Dan’s phone rang but nobody moved.

“That’s it, the gas has taken effect. There are six more downstairs,” she said to the dresser through her mask.

The button she’d pressed had also set off the signal to the strike forces. She knew that the thirty mobilized men would emerge from their hiding places and jump into action. In fact, the marine police arrived from several directions. With the prow of their boat soaring out of the water, they’d roared at top speed toward the liner, just as two helicopters appeared in silhouette outlined against the orange-pink sky. At the same moment, ten frogmen emerged from the water, level with the loading bay. The two helicopters hovered above the boat, while the men of the strike force team, hooded and armed to the teeth, were winched in clusters onto the deck.

28

Van der Meer and Pauwels arrived at the small terminal reserved for passengers flying on private jets, followed by the cab-driver laden with two thick attaché-cases and a travel bag slung across his shoulder.

“Thanks, you can put it all down there,” said Pauwels.

“Very well, sir,” said the driver, setting the luggage down in front of one of the glass doors of the annex. “Have a good trip,” he added as he left.

“Thanks,” said Pauwels, as he turned to one of the three stewardesses sitting behind a desk, who greeted him respectfully.

“Good evening, miss, John Pauwels, we’ve booked a plane to Marrakesh,” his said, handing her his official magistrate’s card, as well as his ID.

“Thank you, Mr. Pauwels. Yes, your plane will ready in a few minutes. Please sit down for a moment and I’ll call you. Would you like some refreshment?”

“No thanks, we’ll wait until we’re on board.”

Pauwels joined Van der Meer, who was sitting in a club chair in one of the small lounges. There was relatively little activity in this boarding annex. Three lounges farther over, some businessmen were also waiting for their plane. In jovial mood, they were talking in low voices, but now and then there was a burst of laughter.

29

PRAGUE, Czech Republic

Meanwhile in Prague, the arrest of “Mr. Jones” and one of his contacts was imminent. Novák had received the green light from Parson, and the police officers were getting into position at both ends of a street to the east of the city.

“Hello Svejk!”

“Receiving you RD1,” said Novák, alone at the wheel of the same little rental car he’d been using from the start of the operation.

“The four vehicles are in position,” came the agent’s voice through the speakers.

“Understood.”

Then he spoke to the ten plain-clothes officers who were walking in the street.

“RD7, don’t wait for my signal. React as soon as they come out.”

“OK, Svejk, understood. Nothing in sight at the moment.”

Novák had insisted on the most unobtrusive intervention possible, in contrast to the methods used by certain police forces that he strongly disagreed with. And this time they were employing a new system of encrypted transmissions that were impossible to intercept.

“They’ve just come out and they’re going up the street. RD6, get ready! RD2 and RD3, go! RD4, go, go, go!”

Two men in plain clothes quietly walked toward the trafficker and his contact, talking all the while. Once they’d reached them, the men in front blocked their way. The men behind gripped their arms and handcuffed them, before pushing them rapidly inside a fruit-and-vegetable van that had just pulled up, its side-door wide open. Then the vehicle drove quickly to the end of the street, before being escorted by three motorcycle police and two armed cars. The gods were with them that day, because nobody had witnessed the operation, thought Novák to himself, deciding to take a coffee at the street corner to savor the moment a little longer. By the time the two bastards had been installed in separate rooms and the interrogations had started, he’d have had time to enjoy the break he’d been anticipating for the last two hours.

30

THE HAGUE, Holland

Sitting in the little terminal, Van der Meer and Pauwels were busy reorganizing their attaché-cases, occasionally exchanging a few words.

“Perhaps he was causing them problems.”

“Or else, they decided to take him to his home.”

“Yes, that’s possible. It would be the best thing to do and the most likely explanation. But if that’s true, why doesn’t he answer?”

“Oh, you know him, he likes it all to be finished before he talks.”

A limousine drew up in front of the door. A driver got out, walked into the terminal and went toward the stewardess Pauwels had talked to. They spoke a few words to each other, and then the stewardess showed him the lounge where they were sitting. The driver came up to them.

“Gentlemen,” he said with ceremony. “Your plane is ready to depart, so you can embark now.”

“Ah, very good,” said Pauwels.

“Is this all your luggage?” asked the driver, pointing to the travel bag and the two attaché-cases.

“Just this,” said Van der Meer, as he got up with Pauwels.

“If you would care to follow me,” he said, picking up the travel bag.

They followed the driver and got inside the limousine, which dropped them a few moments later at the foot of the steps leading up inside a white Falcon.

The captain of the strike force came up to the singer.

“The other six have been neutralized,” he reported to her.

“And the children?”

“They’re drugged, but they’re all alive and they seem to be out of danger.”

She gave the captain a small smile of relief.

“I’ll take care of them,” she said.

“Yes, follow me, they’re two decks lower down. We’re just in the process of identifying them to alert their families. Our specialist has already identified three of them, including a little kid called Kevin Ribeiro, kidnapped in the United States and missing since last April. Apparently there are kids from all over the world –- it’s scarcely credible.”

The captain walked along the passageways ahead of her, until they reached the suite where the children were huddled on the floor one against the other. She put her hand to her mouth, horrified by the abominable scene. Then she found her niece, who flinched backward as if she were scared of being hit. She wrapped her in her arms.

“Don’t be frightened, my little Judy, don’t be frightened my angel, it’s all over, you’ve nothing more to fear now. We’re going home. We’re going home and we’re starting a new life.”

Van der Meer and Pauwels settled down opposite each other, in the private jet’s comfortable red leather armchairs. Two thick black-and-gold drapes separated them from the second half of the cabin. They placed their attaché-cases down beside them. Van der Meer spread out his diary and phone on the central lacquered elm burl shelf.

“Mr. Pauwels,” said a charming stewardess, “would you like me to stow your cases in the luggage locker?”

“No, that’s fine, thank you, I’ll need them during the flight. But what we would both like is a drink.”

“Yes, of course, what can I get you?”

“Whiskey?” said Pauwels, turning to his friend.

“Yes, yes, a double please.”

“Me too. What do you have on board?”

“In single malts, we have a thirty-year-old Strathisla by Gordon & McPhail.”

“Perfect.”

“Very well,” replied the stewardess, “I’ll serve them as soon as we’ve taken off.”

She returned to her duties in preparing the flight for take-off.

“It’s good to be here,” said Van der Meer.

“Yes,” said Pauwels simply.

He looked out of the porthole and followed a crow, as it flew near the plane and landed on the end of one of the wings.

“Perhaps you no longer have a first deputy at this time.”

“Yes, I’m wondering what they did with him.”

Then he noticed a second crow joining the first.

“Look,” he said, “there are two crows on the wing.”

“Oh dear, we’d better hurry up before any more arrive.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Pauwels with a laugh, “otherwise they’ll get inside the plane … like in that Hitchcock film The Birds.”

“No, there’s no chimney,” joked Van der Meer. “But what’s behind those drapes?” he asked, curious. “A bedroom? A bar?”

“I don’t know … I’ll go see,” said Pauwels, getting up.

He pulled the drapes back with a yank. His slight jump was the only indication of his surprise: standing there were Parson, McPhiel, Clara and Tom, surrounded by six agents. They had grouped themselves as best they could on the chairs in the second lounge. All dressed in black, pressed one against the other, their getup was indeed reminiscent of the Hitchcock film the prosecutor had just mentioned. The tallest of them was at the back, and even had to bend his head. The prosecutor gazed at the ten pairs of eyes staring back at him. Then he met Tom’s eyes. For Pauwels, this vision was the worst of all possible nightmares.

And yet a slight lift of the eyebrows was the only manifestation of the prosecutor’s astonishment when he saw Parson. Staring back at him, he caught Van der Meer’s eye as he turned around.

“There’s no chimney or bar, but here’s your first deputy, accompanied by a few of his acquaintances,” said Parson. “Oh, but I can kill two birds with one stone, it’s my lucky day today. A prosecutor and a director of the Special Services … or should I say the specialabuses? Good evening, Mr. Van der Meer,” he greeted him in an elegantly disdainful tone of voice. “It was very instructive listening to you.”

Pauwels rapidly regained his composure, and fixed a mask of vague surprise on his face, so as not to betray the slightest anxiety.

“But what are you doing here?” he said in astonishment, waving a hand about as if trying to understand the situation.

Parson put on his own mask: he was going to enjoy the following moments.

“But I’ve come to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything for your trip,” he said, with a piercing look.

“I don’t know what you mean,” replied the prosecutor. “But we have to leave in a few minutes. There must have been some misunderstanding. Please excuse us, I think the company must have mixed up their plane.”

The prosecutor went back to his seat.

“Let’s go, Nigel.”

The agents didn’t move, watching Parson.

“Don’t tempt me, gentlemen,” said Parson. “You’ll be proffering me a professional pleasure I haven’t felt in a long time.”

The rigid jaw-line, and pursed thin lips disclosed the prosecutor’s tenseness that he was trying so hard to hide.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Parson, we’re simply going away for a weekend in Marrakesh.”

“Hmm, to escape a bit?” asked Parson, turning his head. “The fact you’re dreaming of escape is understandable. But I think you’ll be escaping somewhere else … in prison.”

Van der Meer, pretending to sort out his things, had surreptitiously opened Pauwels’ travel bag to take out a dossier, which he slipped skillfully inside the large leather pocket situated at the side of the seat.

“In prison, but what are you talking about? You’ve totally lost your head, old friend.”

McPhiel decided the moment had come to approach them.

“Excuse me,” he said to Parson, indicating he should step to one side. “Do you like magic?” he went on, sitting down opposite Van der Meer.

“I don’t appreciate your humor,” replied the latter. “And I don’t know you, so who are you?”

“No, no, it’s not humor, I’m talking about magic,” said McPhiel.

“I’m sorry,” said Parson, “you didn’t allow me to make the introductions. This is Gary McPhiel. Mr. McPhiel is highly placed in the FBI.”

“Your friends might find you funny, but I don’t, so stop messing about will you?”

“I repeat: it’s not about being funny. It’s magic. And if I’m talking to you about it, it’s because you seem to be a great connoisseur. I know some tricks too,” he said, picking up the prosecutor’s attaché-case. “It’s all a matter of dexterity, in fact. You shouldn’t be able to see objects disappearing or reappearing. Look at this attaché-case,” he said to the whole company, as if he were giving a public performance. “What do we find inside? Not much: an advertising leaflet for a private aviation company and a diary. Now, I’ll close it up again … will you say the magic formula?” he asked Van der Meer. “No? So I’ll speak the words my son taught me recently: ‘documenti leviosa.’ According to him, it’s the best way of making things reappear, such as documents that have vanished.”

“Er no,” corrected Tom. “I think it’s another formula for documents. You have to say: ‘disperias tabulas recuperate’.”

“Oh yes,” said McPhiel, “you’re right. It’s important, because if you don’t say the right magic words it won’t work. Disperias tabulas recuperate,” he said, theatrically. And then with deliberate clumsiness, he took out the dossier Van der Meer had hidden in the seat pocket, put it into the shoulder bag, closed it up and then opened it again.

“So let’s see if the magic formula has worked … yes, there’s something appearing. You see how wonderful magic is. So let’s see what we have here.”

He took out the dossier, opened it up and extracted the numerous folders.

“Oh look at that, folders with genetic fingerprints, bank statements. This formula is really powerful, because all these documents were locked up in totally inaccessible vaults up to now. But, careful Mr. Parson, as they’ve appeared by magic, we absolutely have to check to see if they’re real or fake,” he said, handing it all over.

Parson grasped hold of the folders, and scanned through the contents with an expression of satisfaction. He also had the documents Tom had illegally photographed the day before, in the vault. His smile was much more expressive than usual.

“I like magic,” he said, with a fleeting smile. “There’s everything I need here.”

“So it’s you who persuaded Mr. Dorvan to go into the vaults,” said Pauwels in accusation. “And I suppose, listening to this clown, that you made the arrangements for him to get inside.”

Parson went on staring at him, but didn’t reply.

“The problem,” went on the prosecutor, “is that you’ve committed a grave error by entering my vault without an official search warrant. I’ve also alerted Mr. Van der Meer here about this problem, and I’m about to lodge a complaint. And then, this agent who has no right to be here has planted false evidence into my shoulder bag to accuse me of I know not what exactly.”

“Not at all, I only replaced a document that this gentlemen was trying to hide from us,” corrected McPhiel.

“Lies! Mr. Van der Meer and I have clearly stated that you’ve just transferred documents from out of this seat pocket into my bag, in order to accuse me. It’s clearly some political machination undertaken by God knows who, with the obvious intention of discrediting me. Nobody will follow you, Parson, so I advise you to …”

“First of all, Mr. Pauwels,” interrupted Parson, “the agents behind me, Mr. Dorvan, Mr. McPhiel and I myself are all witnesses to the fact that Mr. Van der Meer took the documents out of your attaché-case and then tried to hide them. Mr. McPhiel was able to recover them before they could be destroyed. Then we refute your allegations, as unwarranted as they’re unjustified, that we needed an official search warrant to enter your vault. As far as we, and the justice system, are concerned, we’ve just proved that you were removing those documents and that you tried to hide them away with the obvious intention of withholding them from justice.

But anyway, Mr. Pauwels, I don’t think you’ve really grasped what’s at stake here. Within this pretty Falcon, we’re ending four years of inquiry that you’ve made very difficult, which I don’t mind admitting. But now it’s all over. We’re arresting you, you and the people in this network, for criminal involvement in immoral activities. Kidnapping and prostitution of minors, embezzlement of funds, murder, abuse of power, fraud, practice of fraud, etc. – it would take too long to list all the charges, which you’re more familiar with than I am, at any rate. A similar operation is taking place in several countries, at this very moment, to arrest all the members of your sorry organization.”

Parson was bluffing, of course. Apart from the intervention on the liner, and the arrest of the trafficker and his contact in Prague, no other operation was currently in progress. It would have been very complicated to coordinate and would have taken far too long, but he knew he was dealing with master criminals. He was therefore counting on the effectiveness of a surprise attack, and decided to hit hard. He also had to be completely sure of himself: or at least to give that impression in order to undermine Pauwels. Caught by strong feelings, Pauwels was unable to correctly analyze the situation, nor to doubt his words. With utter self-assurance, Parson went on speaking in confident tones.

“The exception has been Stephan Klarov, a Prague banker, who we arrested about an hour ago. Things are easier as far as he’s concerned. He’s had various charges hanging over him for some time.”

Using a small laptop, one of the six agents was following the progress of the operation onboard the liner, thanks to images transmitted from cameras fixed to the helmets of some of the strike force team, while the arrest of the trafficker was simultaneously shown on the second half of the screen. He murmured something into the ear of a nearby colleague, who whispered to Parson in turn.

“Ah, I’ve been told that we’ve just received images of your best trafficker and his contact being arrested, so everything’s working perfectly. Anyway, you can confirm it yourselves,” he said, turning the screen toward Pauwels and Van der Meer, who stood there speechless. “Gentlemen, you can leave us now,” said Parson to the six agents standing behind him.

All the agents left the plane. The only ones left were Clara, Tom, McPhiel, and Parson, pressing on his left earpiece to understand what was being relayed to him.

“I’m afraid Marrakesh will have to do without you this weekend. However,” he continued, “you’re lucky, because I’m told there are some children waiting for you on a cruise liner. And there’s a good chance they’ll remember you…”

As he was talking, an official midnight-blue stretched limo escorted by four police outriders drew up on the tarmac. A lady got out, accompanied by a close-quarters protection unit. Well preserved and in her fifties, she exuded an imperious air of self-confidence and power. The two guards remained by the limo, while she continued alone toward Goldberg, who was awaiting her arrival by the steps of the plane. She was a lady who never felt any fear, and with whom it would be possible to circumvent the world several times over without ever getting bored.

Always pleasant, she had managed to preserve her femininity and shrewdness while adoring the good life and fine wines. And in any case, she considered drinking water synonymous to going rusty. She wasn’t the type of person to blush either; rather she was a formidable man-eater whose eagerness on the subject was without equal. And it was disastrous making her promises. If a man pleased her, she didn’t waste time in massaging his ego. She went straight on the attack, with the utmost tact but in a terribly efficient manner. Her tactic was always the same: she asked one of her right-hand men to approach her intended prey, and tell him straight out that Madame would be delighted to have a few words with him. Bed invariably followed only a few hours later.

Tired out after a very active night, she seemed to be agitated and annoyed. The “Midnight Secret” creme she’d applied under black teabags had not succeeded in eradicating her drawn features.

“Good evening, Walter,” she said, in a slightly gravelly voice.

“Good evening, Katherin. How are you?”

“Not bad, thanks. So are they inside?”

“Yes, and Parson’s been waiting impatiently for you.”

“I’ve briefed the President on the procedures you and Parson told me about, with reference to these two characters and their immunity. Unfortunately for various reasons we can’t go into here, the President is keen to avoid any legal procedure of this type. It would be a serious mistake to put the excellent political relationship between Europe and the United States into jeopardy. Never mind the fact that international trade between us has stabilzed. It would serve absolutely no purpose to muddy the waters with an affair like this, not to mention the excessive media coverage. To be honest, we consider these procedures too lengthy, too complex and much too risky.”

“Yes, he’s right.”

“Not to speak of the fact that he finds the storm provoked by this matter terribly boring. He’s tired of tempests, and much prefers calm waters at this time, to enable the greatest efficiency in dealing with these important dossiers.”

“I understand … I’m of the same view.”

“Because in fact, considering their immunity, these procedures won’t lead to much, will they?”

“Indeed. The official searches have proven to be very complicated, and at the end of the day they’ve provided nothing.”

“So we’ve thought that you could do things a bit differently, in this special case.”

“You mean: I can take care of the bastards?”

“Oh no, that would be illegal. No, I was thinking of taking them somewhere for a quiet word, and convincing them of the numerous advantages of the product you’ve told me about.”

“Oh, I see. For a discreet clean-up, between ourselves.”

“Yes, but it has to be very efficient.”

“Well, we have the correct product for that.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, it’s the best. It was especially conceived to make these kinds of stains disappear.”

Goldberg didn’t have to think before replying. He had understood everything and was glad to apply the secret process denied by governments with regard to incidents that were too “delicate” to handle any other way, and most of all when they could seriously endanger diplomatic relations between certain States.

“Will it leave any traces?”

“That’s a very relevant question, if I may be so bold. No, not a thing, which is one of the reasons it’s such an extraordinary product. It’s quite revolutionary.”

“It had better be.”

“As you say.”

“Of course, we also need to be absolutely sure that nobody knows anything about this miracle formula.”

“Of course.”

“It would be the limit nevertheless if we missed out because of them.”

“Yes, that would be … the limit. But as everything can take place within closed doors and very fast, there shouldn’t be any problem. Anyway, it’s a 2012 case.”

“Oh yes, of course,” she said, reassured.

“On the other hand, in my experience we should get better results if we go somewhere else.”

“Oh? Where, for instance?”

“Well, they have very good dry-cleaners in London … particularly in the big hotels.”

“And you’ll take care of it?”

“With the greatest pleasure.”

“Will it take long?”

“No. By the time the news is out tomorrow, I’ll be back in my office.”

“And the product, do you have it here?”

“Of course.”

“Get it ready and come join me.”

“Very well.”

“It will still be easier if they cooperate, so I’ll try and persuade them.”

“With respect, I think that will be very difficult.”

“I’ll still have a go.”

“Anyway, if they don’t react well right now, it doesn’t matter. It will go better when they’ve had their welcome cocktail onboard the plane.”

“A cocktail?”

“Yes, we call it ‘Cloud,’ and it’s based on gin.”

She smiled briefly before continuing.

“The president will be thrilled by the London dry-cleaners. I’m sure he wasn’t aware of their reputation,” she said, before climbing the steps up into the plane.

“Madame minister,” said Parson, who had moved to the front of the plane.

“Good evening, Parson, congratulations. Very good work. I’ve just confirmed with Mr. Goldberg that the president has given him carte blanche to finish the operation,” she added, before turning to the prosecutor.

“I know everything,” she said to Pauwels. “It’s despicable.”

“But …” said the prosecutor, offended.

He didn’t get the chance.

“Some people found it strange for you to be occupying this position,” she said, “and some eminent experts have shown me that for a considerable length of time, professionally speaking, you have attained your highest level of incompetence. But I didn’t think that you’d also descended to the lowest rung of the ladder with your depraved acts. It’s really pathetic.”

Then she turned her accusing glare at Van der Meer.

“As for you, you’ve also reached the heights of mediocrity and – for just as long – you’ve manifested nothing but pitiful results over the last five years. This has been causing the president embarrassment for some time, and he’s been looking for a means of replacing you. Well, now he doesn’t have to search any longer.”

“But,” said the prosecutor, trying for the ultimate about-face, “would you please explain to me …”

“I’ll explain everything to you,” she said with a sardonic smile. “It’s very simple: you’ve gone far too far, gentlemen. The point of no-return has been reached and we have to take appropriate measures.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you know you can’t do anything against us. And first of all, where are those warrants?”

“Oh, come on gentlemen! We’re not going to “quibble” over a few bits of paper, are we?”

“Listen,” said Pauwels, “you know full well that nobody is interested in any of this coming out, because many other problems could surface at the same time, if you understand what I mean. It’s a private matter, after all.”

“Exactly. That’s precisely what we think. By reason of your particular positions, the scandal arising from this private matter, as you say, would be much too serious with regard to what will become of you, and unfair to the government. We are therefore opting for a friendly arrangement … in all secrecy, since that’s a virtue you cherish.”

“I’d rather …”

The director of the Security Services came up, carrying two small boxes.

“So would I. And indeed, I approve of your idea of going on a great trip,” she added, with a sarcastic smile. “In my discussions with the president, first of all we thought of your respective wives and families, and we came to the conclusion that a sudden disappearance would be the best solution to avoid the disgrace that could blight their existence. Think for a moment, gentlemen, you know all about today’s society. You’ll be spoiling their futures and they’ll never recover. I think it’s the least you can do to ensure they have a beautiful life. So, Mr. Pauwels, this plane will take you to London, where a hotel room has already been booked for you. When you arrive, I strongly recommend that you make use of the contents of this box.”

Goldberg opened one of the two small boxes he was holding in his hand. It contained a white capsule. He closed the box again.

“Two agents from the Services will escort you,” said the minister.

Whether it was the nightmare vision, or the determined tone of voice in which she pronounced those last sentences, was difficult to say; but the two men understood their choice with abrupt clarity. The prosecutor stared at the tarmac out of one of the portholes, in silence. His expression was one of resignation. He who never gave up had just capitulated.

Then the minister turned to Van der Meer.

“As for you, you’ll take your little box home with you. Mr. Goldberg and two agents from the services will escort you, to make sure everything happens … well. There, I will take my leave of you, gentlemen,” she said as she left the plane.

She was followed by Goldberg, Parson, McPhiel, Clara and Tom.

“Hello? I’d like to speak with Mrs. Susan Valdez please.”

“That’s me,” she said, the voice still shaky.

“You’re Mrs. Susan Valdez, the mother of Patrick?”

“Yes,” she said, even shakier.

“Good evening, Mrs. Valdez, this is Inspector McCoy speaking. I’m calling you about an intervention we successfully completed. I have some very good news for you.”

“Oh my God.”

“We’ve found Patrick.”

The only reply he could hear was an almost inaudible sob.

“He’s with us … he’s fine, and you’ll certainly be able to see him tomorrow morning …”

The dark limousine drove silently across the tarmac. Clara watched the crows, and then held on to Tom with a smile of relief. Tom squeezed her hand very hard. Despite their features being marked by fatigue and the sorrow of Clarke’s disappearance, they were able to smile at each other in satisfaction. Clara had already decided to live alone for a few years with Clarke’s child. She would talk to Tom about it in a while and wondered if he would agree to be the godfather.

On the starboard wing of the roaring Falcon, the two crows eyed them … and flew away.

The Circle of Silence Part 2

Roman D. Hepburn

Get all the latest information on the author at rdhepburn.com

Roman D. Hepburn

CIRCLE

OF SILENCE

Thriller

English version by AI & FD

NOTE BY THE AUTHOR

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART 1

Hidden in plain sight

PART 2

The terrible secret of the Moorea

“The Essential is invisible to the eyes.”

Saint-Exupéry

PART 2

The terrible secret of the Moorea

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

PRAGUE, Czech Republic

30

THE HAGUE, Holland

THE END

artime

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