The Midas Murders (17 page)

“Do you remember the Scaglione gang?”

Versavel placed the book at his side and furrowed his brow.

Van In rattled off energetically: “1967, a brawl in Knokke. Five people arrested, including Luigi Scaglione, a notorious gangster stationed in Marseille.”

“Weren't they settling some score or something?” asked Versavel after a moment.

The wood began to crackle and fill the room with a pleasant smell of smoke.

“Exactly. Scaglione claimed that the nightclub owner owed him a million, and when the man refused to pay, his cohorts laid into him.”

“It's coming back to me,” Versavel mused. “A bit of a looker, that Scaglione.”

“I hadn't thought about it that way,” Van In sighed. “And don't try to tell me that's all you know about the case.”

He poked the fire and maneuvered the logs into the best position.

“There were problems with the court case,” Versavel said. “Scaglione insisted on appearing in front of a French-speaking tribunal, and I believe he finally got his way. The case was transferred to the district court in Tournai a couple of months later. If I'm not mistaken, he got a six-month suspended sentence.”

“There's nothing wrong with your memory, Guido. According to the papers, the judge decided on February 7 that Scaglione was not to be tried in Bruges, and on February 13 a bomb exploded in front of the courthouse.”

“But Scaglione certainly couldn't have had anything to do with that. Why would he use a bomb to press home his demands if they had already been granted a week earlier?”

“Indeed,” Van In mumbled. “That's what was bothering me too.”

“It's not a bad argument, I'll give you that; but even if your theory tallies, I still don't get what a bomb attack from 1967 has to do with the attack on Guido Gezelle almost thirty years later.”

Van In didn't seem the least discouraged. “Do you know who the public prosecutor was in 1967?”

Versavel nervously stroked his moustache. Van In was in dangerous waters.

“Edgar Creytens, the renowned father of our infamous investigating magistrate.”

“I hope you aren't starting to see ghosts, Commi … Pieter, I mean.”

“There's a lot more where that came from,” Van In continued with enthusiasm. “According to the papers, Scaglione was an experienced deep-sea diver, and a loose-lipped gang member declared to a journalist that they had just returned from Lake Toplitz in the Austrian Alps.”

“With all due respect, Pieter, I'm having a hard time following this.”

“Patience, Guido, patience. I once saw a documentary about Lake Toplitz. Insiders claim it's where the treasure of the Nibelungs is hidden.”

“The
what
?”

“SS gold, Guido.”

“You don't say.”

Van In stuck to his guns. “The German press paid it a ton of attention in the nineteen-fifties.
Stern
magazine even organized an enormous expedition in search of the lost gold.”

“And did they find anything?” asked Versavel curtly.

“Chests full of British pounds and U.S. dollars,” Van In reluctantly admitted. “But where there's smoke—eh?”

At that moment, an angry gust of wind forced smoke down the chimney, making Versavel cough.

“That'll teach you,” said Van In in his stride. “And if you had paid more attention during geography class, you would have known that Lake Toplitz is a stone's throw from Altaussee.”

“And what would that tell me?” Versavel had decided not to wind Van In up.

“That the Allies found a large number of art treasures in the salt mines of Altaussee in 1945. All of them stolen by the Nazis.”

“Michelangelo's
Madonna
,” said Versavel, feigning surprise.

“Finally,” Van In snorted.

Versavel confined himself to a modest nod. The story sounded completely implausible, and the link between the 1967 bomb attack and the death of Fiedle was about as believable as the existence of a relationship between Princess Diana and the tramp who slept on the bench in front of Kensington Palace every night.

“Isn't Hallstatt also nearby?” asked Versavel incidentally.

“Jesus H. Christ. Where did that come from?”

“You shouldn't have been so quick to accuse me of not paying attention in geography,” Versavel smirked.

“Any more surprises up your sleeve?”

Versavel grabbed the book and carefully examined its cover.

“If I tell you that Bostoen led the investigation in '67, you'll probably lose it completely,” he said dryly.

“State Security Bostoen?” Van In screamed.

“I have to admit, he did shoot right up through the ranks after that,” Versavel humbly conceded.

V
AN
I
N WAS AWAKENED ON
Sunday morning by a pelting downpour. The weather man was wrong again. He had forecast snow, but in Van In's bedroom it was a tropical seventy degrees. Hannelore was lying on top of the duvet, sleeping like a newborn Venus.

Van In switched on the bedside lamp and carefully got out of bed. Hannelore turned on her side and grabbed his pillow without interrupting her dream.

He stood by the window and gazed at the dark waters of the Reie canal. Huge drops of rain trickled down the glass, and dozens of gurgling drainpipes joined forces with the clatter of the pouring rain. The water washed the thick layer of snow from the rooftops, its fluorescent white melting like fat in a fire. Darkness once again took possession of the row of houses on the other side of the canal. Van In glanced at his watch. It was five past six. He had only had four hours of sleep. Before turning the light back off, he took time to survey the pale-skinned beauty breathing silently on his bed, still fragrant from their moment of intimacy.

Downstairs, he started the coffee and lit a cigarette. He cherished such moments of intangible tranquility, listening to the rain, his eyes half-closed.

When the coffee was ready, he made his way to the lounge, lit the fire, put on his headphones, and slipped a CD of the orthodox monks of Chevetogne into the player. He sweetened his coffee with two lumps of sugar and added a dash of cream.

With his feet on the coffee table, he submitted to the embrace of the melodious Slavic tones and tried to empty his mind. The tranquility and the music had the same effect on his mood as the pure air he had inhaled deep in his lungs ten years earlier on a visit to the North Pole. His eyelids grew heavy, and the flicker of burning logs worked on his mind like a hypnotist's watch. Just as he was about to doze off, he had a moment of oneness with the cosmos, with an all-penetrating presence. For the first time in his life, Van In realized just how insignificant he was.

“Hello.”

He was vaguely aware of someone removing the headphones. Hannelore was curled up beside him.

“Wakey, wakey.”

She smelled of shower gel. A wet lock of hair clung to his cheek when she kissed him on the lips.

“Jesus H. Christ. Did I oversleep?”

“It's seven forty-five,” she teased. “You're going to be late for work.”

Van In jumped to his feet and stared at her in confusion. She was wearing a pair of his buttonless pajamas.

“I've taken care of breakfast,” she laughed.

“That's sweet of you, but I don't have time for breakfast. Shut the door after yourself, I'll see you tonight.”

Hannelore couldn't control herself any longer, exploding with laughter.

“It's Sunday, Commissioner!” she giggled, jumping to her feet and pinching his cheek. “Sunday, no work, lazy day, making dinner for the little lady. That's what you promised yesterday.”

“Sunday!” Van In roared.

He grabbed Hannelore and pulled her onto the couch.

“Jesus H. Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“You, a heart patient?” she jeered. “I didn't see any signs of it last night.”

“Careful,” Van In threatened. The pajama jacket hung loose over her shoulders. “You're asking for it.”

“First, breakfast.”

She made herself decent and took him by the hand.

Van In never ate breakfast when he was alone, but the sight of her tucking in gave him an appetite.

“Jesus H. Christ, that tastes good,” he said between mouthfuls.

Hannelore buttered a slice of toast and dipped it in her coffee. “How long have we known each other?”

Van In put down his cup and licked the jam from his upper lip.

“Eight months and ten days,” he said with certainty.

“You're like an ex-smoker keeping track of his smoke-free existence.”

“I wish,” he sighed. “Cigarette?”

“Later.”

She took a slice of toast and piled it high with honey.

“There's one thing I've always wanted to ask you.”

“Do I look like someone who never betrays his secrets?”

“Well,” she hesitated. “It might be a stupid question, but what in God's name is the ‘Jesus H. Christ' thing all about?”

Van In was taken aback. He had expected a completely different question.

“Do you really want to know?” he said, relieved.

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded.

Van In poured himself a cup of coffee and offered her a cigarette.

“I don't like to admit it, but my grandmother had an affair with a German during the First World War. His name was Helmut Kohl.”

“Small world,” Hannelore giggled.

“Don't laugh,” said Van In. “Just because my grandma hung around with a German doesn't mean I—”

“Get on with it,” she interrupted him, losing her patience.

Van In took a spoon and stirred his coffee slowly and deliberately.

“The affair didn't last, of course, but Helmut reappeared after the war. My grandmother was married by then, but he continued to be a friend of the family.”

“Pieter,” she pleaded. “Will you please get to the point?”

“My grandfather was a very tolerant man,” he continued unruffled.

“Pieter Van In, I mean it.”

“Helmut always joined us for Christmas, and when dinner was over and my grandmother asked if he had enjoyed the meal, he would always say:
ich bin schon im Himmel
—I'm in heaven.”

“I don't get it,” said Hannelore disappointed.

“If I can believe my mother, he said it all the time. And as a child, I mimicked him and used to say ‘Benson im Himmel.' When he died, my mother said ‘Now he's really in heaven, with Jesus.' As I got older, ‘Benson im Himmel' made way for ‘Jesus H. Christ.' ‘H.' is for Helmut. But to be honest, it's time I dropped it.”

“Why?”

Van In took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke through his nose.

“Simple,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Forget Helmut: I'm in heaven myself.”

Robert Nicolai started his day with the usual routine. He worked out for a good half hour on a complicated fitness machine and then washed off the sweat under a cold shower. Experienced masochists know that ice-cold water can take the body to unparalleled heights of ecstasy. Nicolai savored the pain that preceded the ecstasy. When he was climbing an impossibly steep mountain face, he longed for the moment the pain in his fingers became unbearable.

He scrubbed his body with a coarse brush. His blood reached the boiling point, and he only turned off the shower when the water started to feel warm to the touch. He then dried himself carefully, put on clean underwear, and concluded his exercises with a hundred knee bends in front of the mirror.

A typical breakfast was fruit juice, hard-boiled eggs, muesli, and cod liver. Outside, the first tram of the day cut its way through the mushy gray melting snow. He didn't have to open the curtains to know that the thaw had set in.

Nicolai enjoyed his breakfast and thought about Wednesday night—or, really, early Thursday morning. He had prepared the operation down to the last detail; if this morning's forecast was to be believed, Northern Europe was looking forward to an area of high pressure, and that meant good weather. He lit a cigarette to celebrate. He always lit a cigarette before an important job.

He spent the rest of the morning organizing his climbing gear. A genuine climber always pays a lot of attention to his material, making sure everything is as it should be.

Nicolai was known as a perfectionist. He started by laying each item out in front of him. He rolled out the nylon cable and tested its supporting power on a rafter in the attic. He examined every inch of the rope without hurrying himself. He then checked his harness, his figure-eight descender, the carabiners, and the pitons.

Nicolai considered taking a chalk bag. Magnesium powder could be traced, but it was a risk he was willing to take. He only got dressed after everything had been thoroughly checked. He planned to call the client that night. The wee small hours of Thursday morning seemed to be the ideal moment to risk the climb.

Herr Leitner studied the faces of the men gathered around the table. Ernst Vögel, a thickset fifty-year-old with ruddy marbled cheeks, nibbled at a croissant and brushed the crumbs from the table after every bite. Vögel had succeeded Fiedle as the company's Benelux manager.

Klagersfeld, the society's general secretary, stirred his coffee with the grace of a recently resuscitated mummy. Heinz Witze sat opposite Leitner. He was in charge of finances. Fiedle's death was a boon to his strategy. The fusty accountant had never concealed his conviction that the Bruges venture was a bad medium-range investment. Scaglione had done a perfect job and the ambitious Vandekerckhove was convinced that he had acted on Leitner's orders.

An elderly man sat in a wheelchair by the window.

“Operation Canal Grande has reached a decisive phase.”

Otto Leitner placed his hands flat on the table as if he was about to stand up. Vögel looked at him pityingly. From the way the imperator was leaning forward, it was clear to see that his piles were acting up.

“In two weeks' time, Bruges's administrative council will examine the Polder Project, and it looks as if the present coalition is going to agree to our plans.”

Witze shook his head and scribbled a couple of observations. Manfred Klagersfeld tried to decipher them, but refused to put on his glasses.

“The next phase is set to cost us at least five million,” said Witze in a toneless voice. In contrast to the others, he had good color and seemed in the best of health. He had just returned from a fortnight in the French Antilles.

“Ach, Heinz. You always say that,” Vögel responded, evidently irked. “What does five million mean? The Bruges region is worth a hundred times more. And don't forget we get the port of Zeebrugge as a bonus, and you know how important Zeebrugge is.”

“Then there's the added value of the properties we've purchased, Heinz,” said Leitner with a painful smile.

He continued to hold himself up with his hands as he searched in vain for a comfortable position.

“Two hundred restored residences with a surplus value of twenty-five thousand apiece. That alone covers the extra outlay,” said Klagersfeld. “Doesn't that compensate for the ‘reconstruction' of a stupid tower?”

Witze combed back his thinning hair with his fingers.

“No one can guarantee that the attack on the Belfort will bring the people of Bruges to their knees,” he protested. “We can hardly blow up every monument in the city.”

“Why not?” said Klagersfeld, raising a bony finger.

“I don't understand why you have to look for problems all the time, Heinz. Don't forget the three thousand new housing units. With the profit they bring in, we can reconstruct half of Bruges if we want. Look at Warsaw. Not a single tourist will notice the difference.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, we need to maintain our unanimity.”

Konrad von Metternich didn't need to raise his voice. The assembly fell silent in an instant. The elderly man turned his wheelchair and rolled gently toward the conference table.

“Our company is growing,” he cautioned. “Profit is our first priority. We need the Low Countries, and what better prey than Flanders?”

They all nodded in agreement. Von Metternich was a living legend. His great-uncle had been one of the co-founders of the society, and while he had no official function, no one dared contradict him.

“Anyway, if I'm not mistaken Travel Inc. will be covering the cost of restoring the tower.”

“With our money,” Witze carped.

“Our respected colleague von Metternich is right. A mere five million should not prevent us from pushing through our plans.”

“And if the entire tower collapses?” asked Witze, unable to conceal his skepticism.

“Then the Flemish themselves will pay the tab,” said Klagersfeld. “Fiedle foresaw such an eventuality. The man consigned to plant the bomb is a Walloon. One hour after the explosion, the police will be tipped off and the poor fellow will be arrested. According to Fiedle, the Belgian legal authorities will link the bomber with the MWR, a Walloon extremist movement.”

“And you believe you can turn the Flemish against the Walloons,” said Witze, still skeptical.

“It doesn't have to be civil war, but the process will cause commotion enough,” said Leitner, smiling.

“Fiedle was a genius. Even if his first plan backfires, we can profit from his second.”

“But it'll never come to that,” said Klagersfeld in a conciliatory tone.

“The Polder Project can't fail. Our research has made that clear. In the next few years, Bruges's inadequate tourist policy will lead to a massive loss of tax revenue. The city already has a debt of four hundred million DM, and privatization is in fashion.”

“I fear you underestimate the people of Bruges. I can't imagine them leaving their city in droves to resettle in the polders,” Witze grunted.

“But they will if we set the rental value of the new houses low at first,” said Leitner. “Most people are having a hard time dealing with city rents.”

Konrad von Metternich stirred his glass and took a sip of his freshly squeezed pineapple juice. The elderly man was fed up with the discussion. He tapped the side of his glass with a silver spoon.

“Dietrich Fiedle prepared this operation with precision,” he said, sure of his words. “The previous city council had agreed to cooperate, but no one could have foreseen that the elections would throw such a monkey wrench in the works. The new mayor rejected our plans, but he isn't able to turn back the clock on everything. The traffic-circulation plan imposed on the city by Herr De Kee and Herr Decorte is beginning to bear fruit. The new system of traffic loops is forcing traditional businesses out of the city. Rents are set to fall, placing us in a position to acquire extra property. These are the facts. Research has also shown that the majority of Bruges natives are getting a little tired of the tourist torrent. The inconvenience is a serious burden and no one feels at home in the city anymore. These are also facts.