‘It’s by the radio.’
Agnelli reached under the seat and, not without some effort, brought up a large wicker basket which he placed on the seat between van Effen and himself. He opened the lid to reveal a rather splendidly appointed picnic basket.
‘What you would have expected, Mr Danilov. A picnic basket for the Sunday-school picnickers. If we cannot have external warmth at least we can provide some of the internal variety.’ The contents of the basket tended to bear out his claim. Apart from two rows of gleaming glasses and packets of sandwiches neatly wrapped in cellophane, it held a very promising variety of bottles. ‘We thought we might have something to celebrate this evening,’ he said, again almost apologetically, ‘and I do think we have. A schnapps, perhaps, Mr Danilov?’
Van Effen said: ‘I unreservedly withdraw my remarks about your organization.’
Agnelli hadn’t even had time to begin to pour the schnapps when the transceiver buzzer rang. He clamped on the headpiece and acknowledged the call then listened in silence for almost a minute. Then he said: ‘Yes, they are foolish. They have no place to go. So a little persuasion to tip the balance? Call me back in one minute.’ He took off the headpiece. ‘Well, who’s the volunteer to press the button?’ There were no volunteers. ‘Well, then, I suggest you, Mr Danilov. You’re the man who prepared the charges so, of course, we’ll all blame you if the explosion turns out to be a damp squib or, alternatively, the palace falls down, so perhaps it’s only fitting that you press the button also. That way the rest of us will all feel blameless while you—’
He wasn’t given time to complete his sentence. Van Effen stabbed the button and less than two seconds later, deep and muffled like a distant underwater explosion but very unmistakable for all that—to anyone with normal hearing, the sound must have been audible up to a kilometre away—the reverberation from the detonating amatol rolled across the square. Van Effen took the bottle from Agnelli’s unresisting hand—Agnelli, not smiling and with lips parted, seemed to be seeing something very far away—and poured himself a schnapps.
‘Seems I’ll just have to congratulate myself. A nice loud bang but the royal walls still stand. As guaranteed. My health.’
‘That was splendid,’ Agnelli said warmly. He was back on his own usual smiling balance again. ‘Perfectly splendid, Mr Danilov. And no damage after all that noise. Unbelievable.’
‘Perhaps a little royal wine spilt on the royal table-cloth.’ Van Effen made a dismissive gesture. ‘I don’t want to seem unduly modest—not in my nature, really—but that was next to nothing. Next time—if there is a next time—something a little more demanding perhaps.’
‘There’ll be a next time. That I promise. And a little more exacting. That I also promise.’ He paused to sip some schnapps as the others, obviously excited and elated, turned to congratulate van Effen, then held up a hand for silence as the buzzer rang again.
‘Ah! You heard it also, did you? Very, very satisfactory. Mr Danilov is a man of his word.’ He was silent for almost a minute then said: ‘Yes, I agree. I’d been thinking along those lines myself. Most fortuitous, most…Thank you. Ten o’clock then.’
He replaced headpiece and microphone, then leaned back in his seat. ‘Well, now, time to relax.’
‘You relax,’ van Effen said. ‘Not me. If you’re not moving on, I am.’ He made to get up and a puzzled Agnelli caught his arm.
‘What is wrong?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s just, as I’ve told you, that I’ve got a very acute sense of self-preservation. As soon as the police come to their senses—if they ever lost them, they’re a pretty efficient bunch hereabouts—they’re going to start questioning everyone within eyesight of the palace. I should imagine—no, I’m certain—that a minibus with eight odd characters such as us parked in a rainstorm in the Dam would be a prime target for questioning.’ He shrugged off Agnelli’s hand and rose. ‘I’ve an acute aversion to being questioned by the police. A criminal—and we are criminals—has to be some kind of retarded lunatic to remain in the vicinity of his crime.’
‘Sit down. You’re right, of course. Foolish of me—one should never let one’s guard down. Helmut?’
Paderiwski, who was obviously in full agreement with van Effen, drove off at once.
Back in the room they had so recently vacated, Agnelli sank into an armchair. ‘Thank you, ladies, thank you. Schnapps would be fine. Now, perhaps, Mr Danilov, we can relax.’
‘Safer than where we were. But relax? For me, no. Still too close. Instinct? Plain cowardice? I just don’t know. Anyway, I have an appointment tonight. Nine-thirty.’
Agnelli smiled. ‘You were pretty sure that you were going to keep that appointment?’
‘I never had any reason to doubt it. No, that’s not quite accurate. I never had reason to doubt that the arranging of the explosion was a simple matter. I had ample reason to question your ability to get us in and out undetected. But, then, I had no reason beforehand to be aware of your rather remarkable organizational ability. I’ll have no doubts about you again.’
‘Nor we of you—not after tonight’s performance. I had mentioned the possibility of finding a permanent niche with us. That’s no longer a possibility, it’s a guarantee if you’re still of the same mind.’
‘Of course I’m of the same mind. Tonight, you had a free demonstration. Now, I would appreciate some steady employment.’
‘The point I was about to raise. I think you are now entitled to be taken into our confidence.’
Van Effen looked at him in silence, took a thoughtful sip of his schnapps and smiled. ‘Not, I feel certain, your full confidence. You are not about to tell me your ultimate aims. You are not going to tell me how you came together. You’re not going to tell me how you are financed or by whom. You are not going to tell me where you stay—although, if we’re to work together in however limited a capacity, you’ll have to give me some intermediate contact phone number. You’re not even going to tell me why, in what would appear to be an otherwise highly organized setup, you require my services at such a late date.’
Agnelli was thoughtful. ‘That’s a lot of things you seem to be certain that we’re not going to tell you. How come?’
Van Effen let a little impatience show. ‘Because that is precisely the way I would behave myself. The need-to-know principle. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of that again. What I do believe is that you are about to let me into your very limited confidence about your immediate operational plans. No abnormal prescience on my part. You have to. If, that is to say, I’m to be of any use to you.’
‘Correct on all counts. Tell me, Mr Danilov, are you in a position to acquire explosives?’
‘Good God!’
‘Is that so extraordinary a question to ask of an explosives expert?’
‘My astonishment was not at the fact that you ask me. I’m surprised that—well, that such an organized group should embark upon what I take to be an ambitious project without the essentials to hand.’
‘We have some of what you call the essentials. We may not have enough. Are you in a position to help?’
‘Directly, no.’
‘Indirectly?’
‘Perhaps. I would have to make enquiries.’
‘Discreet, of course.’
Van Effen sighed. ‘Please don’t be so naive. If it were possible to obtain explosives without official permission in the Netherlands you would already have done so.’
‘Sorry. Silly remark. But we have to protect ourselves. Your contact would not, of course, obtain supplies—if he could—in a legitimate fashion?’
‘I’m not being indiscreet in saying that, to the best of my knowledge, my contact has never been involved in any legitimate dealings in his life. He would regard it as an affront to his professional code. He is also, incidentally, the only man in the country who knows more than I do about explosives.’
‘Sounds like a person whose acquaintance it might be useful to make.’ Agnelli studied his g
lass then looked at van Effen. ‘Not by any chance your friend Vasco? The person who introduced us at the Hunter’s Horn?’
‘Good lord, no.’ Van Effen creased his brow and compressed his lips. ‘Vasco is hardly what you might call my friend, Mr Agnelli. I got him out of bad trouble, once, and have employed him occasionally on some none-too-demanding errands. But we are not soulmates. I’m quite certain that Vasco knows nothing about explosives, has no access to them and would find it difficult to obtain a child’s cap pistol in a toy shop.’
Agnelli turned to his brother and shrugged. ‘Had we known that, Leonardo, you wouldn’t have spent so much time looking for him this afternoon.’
‘Vasco frequently disappears,’ van Effen said. ‘Has a girlfriend in Utrecht, I believe. You are seriously trying to tell me that you were, also seriously, thinking of engaging Vasco’s services?’
‘Not exactly, but—’
‘He comes in the front door and I go out the back and that’s that,’ van Effen said. ‘He’s unstable, unpredictable and highly dangerous, whether he means to be or not.’
‘I don’t quite understand what you mean by that.’
‘And I don’t quite understand you. You mean you’ve never even bothered to check on him, his background?’
‘We didn’t check yours.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ van Effen said bleakly. ‘Not with all those extradition warrants hanging around.’
Agnelli smiled. ‘That was this morning and this morning has been forgotten. You obviously know something about Vasco that we don’t.’
‘Obviously. He’s bad. Poison. He’s the classic example of game-keeper turned poacher. He’s treacherous and a man full of hate. He hates the law and the society that law protects—or is supposed to protect. He’s that most dangerous of criminals, an ex-cop gone wrong.’
‘A policeman?’ Agnelli’s surprise, van Effen thought, was splendidly done. ‘Police!’
‘Ex. No public accusation of wrong-doing, far less a trial. Dismissed without explanation—although doubtless there would have been an explanation made to Vasco. Just try making some discreet enquiries at the Utrecht police station about a certain ex-Sergeant Westenbrink and see what kind of dusty answers you get. My friend George is a different kettle of fish entirely. A firm believer in honour among thieves. An honest criminal, if such a contradiction in terms exists.’
‘This George is your explosives friend?’ Van Effen nodded. ‘He has a second name?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think he’d work for me?’
‘George never works for anyone. He might be prepared to work with someone. Another thing. George never works through anyone. Not even through me. He’s a very careful man. His police record is clean and he wants to keep it that way. He talks to principals only and then it must be face to face.’
‘That’s the way I like it. Do you think you could get him to talk to me?’
‘Who knows? I could ask him. Not here though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’d advise him against it. He knows I wouldn’t do that without reason. Where can I contact you?’
‘I’ll contact you. At the Trianon.’
‘I won’t make any comments about how touching your trust in me is. Tomorrow morning.’
‘Tonight. Ten o’clock.’
‘You are in a hurry. No point, I suppose, in asking you the compelling nature of this deadline you so obviously have to meet. Besides, I told you, I have a nine-thirty appointment.’
‘Ten o’clock.’ Agnelli rose. ‘You will of course try to see your friend immediately. I’ll put a car at your disposal.’
‘Please, Mr Agnelli. Don’t be so naive.’
SEVEN
‘That’s an Esfahan rug you’re standing on,’ Colonel de Graaf said. ‘Very rare, very expensive.’
‘I’ve got to drip on to something,’ van Effen said reasonably. He was standing before the fire in the Colonel’s luxuriously furnished library, steam gently rising from his saturated clothing. ‘Not for me a door-to-door chauffeur-driven limousine. I have to cope with taxis that go home to roost when the first drop of rain falls and with people who seemed anxious to know where I was going. It didn’t seem clever to let them know that I was going to the house of the Chief of Police.’
‘Your friend Agnelli doesn’t trust you?’
‘Difficult to say. Oh, sure, it was Agnelli who had me followed—couldn’t have been anyone else. But I’m not sure that he’s suspicious of me—I think that, on principle, he just doesn’t trust anyone. Difficult character to read. You’d probably like him. Seems friendly and likeable enough—you really have to make an effort to associate him with anything like blackmail and torture—and even then you find it difficult to convince yourself. Which means nothing. I assume you had a comfortable evening, sir—that you didn’t have to cope with the elements or the thought that you might be shot in the back at any moment.’
De Graaf made a dismissive gesture which could have meant either that such considerations were irrelevant trifles or that they could not possibly apply to him in the first place. ‘An interesting meeting, but only to a limited extent. I’m afraid Bernhard wasn’t in a particularly receptive or cooperative frame of mind.’ Bernhard was Bernhard Dessens, the Minister of Justice.
‘A dithering old woman, scared to accept responsibility, unwilling to commit himself and looking to pass the buck elsewhere?’
‘Exactly. I couldn’t have put—I’ve told you before, Peter, that’s no way to talk about cabinet ministers. There were two of them. Names Riordan and Samuelson. One—person calling himself Riordan—could have been in disguise. The other had made no attempt at any such thing which can only mean that he’s pretty confident about something or other. Riordan had long black hair—shoulder-length, in fact, I thought that ludicrous style had gone out of fashion ten years ago—was deeply tanned, wore a Dutch bargee cap and sun-glasses.’
‘Anything so obvious has to be a disguise.’ Van Effen thought for a moment. ‘He wasn’t by any chance very tall and preternaturally thin?’
De Graaf nodded. ‘I thought that would occur to you at once. The fellow who commandeered that canal boat from—who was it?’
‘At Schiphol? Dekker.’
‘Dekker. This must be the man Dekker described. And damned if I don’t agree with your bizarre suggestion that this fellow—Riordan or whatever—is an albino. Dark glasses. Heavy tan to hide an alabaster complexion. Black hair to hide white. Other fellow—Samuelson—had white hair, thick and very wavy, white moustache and white goatee beard. No albino, though—blue eyes. All that white hair would normally bespeak advanced years but his face was almost completely unlined. But, then, he was very plump, which may account for the youthful skin. Looked like a cross between an idealized concept of a US Senator and some bloated plutocrat, oil billionaire or something like that.’
‘Maybe he’s got a better make-up man than Riordan.’
‘It’s possible. Both men spoke in English, from which I assumed that Samuelson couldn’t speak Dutch. Both made a point of stating that they were Irish-Americans and I have no doubt they were. I don’t have to be Hector or one of his professorial friends to know that—the north-east or New York accent was very strong. Riordan did nearly all the talking.
‘He asked—no, he demanded—that we contact the British government. More exactly, he demanded we act as intermediaries between the FFF and Whitehall on the basis that Whitehall would be much more likely to negotiate with another government than with an unknown group such as they were. When Bernhard asked what on earth they could possibly want to discuss with Whitehall they said they wanted to have a dialogue about Northern Ireland, but refused to elaborate further until the Dutch Government agreed to cooperate.’ De Graaf sighed. ‘Whereupon, alas, our Minister of Justice, seething and fulminating, while at the same time knowing damn well that they had him over a barrel, climbed on to his high horse and said it was inconceivable, unthinkable, tha
t a sovereign nation should negotiate on behalf of a band of terrorists. He carried on for about five minutes in this vein, but I’ll spare you all the parliamentary rhetoric. He ended up by saying that he, personally, would die first.
‘Riordan said that he very much doubted that Dessens would go to such extraordinary lengths and further said that he was convinced that fourteen million Dutchmen would take a diametrically opposite point of view. Then he became rather unpleasantly personal and threatening. He said it didn’t make the slightest damn difference to anything if he, Dessens, committed suicide on the spot, for the Oostlijk—Flevoland dyke in the vicinity of Lelystad would go at midnight if the government didn’t agree to talk terms by ten o’clock tonight. He then produced a paper with a list of places which, he said, were in immediate danger of going at any moment. He didn’t say whether or not mines had already been placed in those areas—the usual uncertainty technique.
‘Among the places he listed—there were so many that I forget half of them—were Leeuwarden, the Noordoost polder in the vicinity of Urk, the Amstelmeer, the Wieringermeer, Putten, the polder south of Petten, Schouwen, Duiveland and Walcheren—did we remember what happened to Walcheren during the war? Both the Eastern and Western Scheldt estuaries were on their list, he said—did we remember what happened there in February 1953—while Noord and Sud Holland offered a positive embarrassment of riches. That’s only a representative sample. Riordan then started to make very sinister remarks about the weather, had we noticed how high the level of the North Sea had risen, how the strengthening wind had gone to the north and that the spring tides were at hand—while the levels of the Rhine, Waal, Maas and Scheldt were near an all-time low—so reminiscent of February 1953, didn’t Dessens think?
‘He then demanded that they talked to a minister or ministers with the power and courage to make decisions and not a snivelling time-server bent only on preserving his own miserable political career, which was, I thought, a bit hard on Bernhard.
‘Riordan then said that, to display their displeasure at this wholly unnecessary hiatus in negotiations, they would detonate one of several devices they had placed in public buildings in the capital. Here the two of them had a whispered conference and then Riordan announced that they had chosen the royal palace and defied anyone to find the explosives before they went off. No lives, he said, were at risk in this explosion, which would occur within five minutes of their departure. He added, almost as an afterthought, that any attempt to restrain them, hinder their departure or have them followed would inevitably mean that the Oostlijk-Flevoland dyke would go not at midnight but at nine o’clock this evening. On this happy note, they left. The palace explosion, as you may know, duly occurred.’