‘You must not think ill of Riordan, nor underestimate him.’ Samuelson spoke very seriously. ‘He is an evangelist, a missionary fired by a burning zeal. He is genuinely appalled by what is happening in Northern Ireland and believes that if blood must be spilled to bring peace to that troubled land then that’s how it will be. In his own words, he’s prepared to use the devil’s tools to fight the devil.’
‘And you support him in all of this?’
‘Naturally. Why else should I be here?’
It would have been interesting, van Effen thought, to know just why else he should be there but it seemed hardly the time and place to raise the question. He hoisted himself on a bar stool and looked around.
The two girls were in whispered consultation. Agnelli and Daniken had already occupied the two stools at the further end of the bar, Vasco, who had been wandering round looking at the paintings and brass and copper work on the walls, made his unconcerned way over to the bar and sat down beside Daniken whom he began to engage in hoarse conversation.
‘Mr Samuelson.’ It was Julie. ‘I think I’ll go to my room. I have a bit of a headache.’
Van Effen remained casually still, drumming his fingers idly on the bar-top, a man perfectly at ease with himself. He was, in fact, very far indeed from being at ease with himself, the last thing that he wanted was that either of the girls should go to their rooms. Samuelson, who had been stooping down behind the bar, came to his unwitting rescue.
‘My dear Julie!’ If he weren’t so certain that he knew what Samuelson would say next, van Effen could have hit him. ‘Not to be thought of. Here we have a fine Tio Pepe. Guaranteed cure for any headache. Would you deprive me of your company?’
They would obviously have cheerfully done just that but just as obviously deemed it prudent to do as he told—prisoners tend to do what their gaolers tell them—and came and perched reluctantly by the bar, Julie close to her brother. She glanced at him briefly, a glance which told him quite clearly what she thought of violent characters who spoke off-handedly about sticking undesirable characters under the ground, then looked away. Almost at once she looked back again, fortunately not too quickly: something had just touched her right thigh. She looked at him, frowning slightly, then glanced downwards. Almost at once she turned away and made some confidential remark to Annemarie, just as Samuelson’s head cleared the bar again. Magnificent, van Effen thought, she was magnificent, the best in Amsterdam wouldn’t be good enough for his sister after this.
She accepted her sherry from Samuelson with a correctly pleasant if somewhat forced smile, delicately sipped her drink, placed it on the bar-top, opened her handbag on her lap and brought out cigarettes and lighter. She was magnificent, van Effen thought. She lit the cigarette, returned the cigarette case but not the lighter to her bag and, while still talking quietly to Annemarie while watching, without seeming to, the men at the bar, dropped her hand till it touched van Effen’s. A moment later, the lighter and the folded note, the top of which had been protruding between the fore and middle fingers of van Effen’s was safely inside her closed bag. He could have hugged and kissed her and made a mental note to do so at the first available opportunity. In the meantime, he did the next best thing, he downed his borreltje in one gulp. He had never much cared for it but this one tasted as nectar must have done to the gods. Samuelson, ever the attentive host, hurried across to replenish his glass and van Effen thanked him courteously. The second borreltje went the same way as the first.
Julie locked the bedroom door behind her, opened her bag and brought out the note which she began to unfold. Annemarie looked at her curiously.
‘What have you got there? And why are your hands shaking, Julie?’
‘A billet-doux that I have just got from a lovelorn suitor in the bar. Wouldn’t your hands shake if you’d just got a billet-doux from a love-lorn suitor in the bar?’ She smoothed out the note so that they could both read it together. It had been meticulously typed so obviously it was not a scribbled note put together at the last moment.
‘Sorry about the appearance and the thick accent,’ it said, ‘but you will understand that I can’t very well go around in my ordinary clothes and using my ordinary voice.
‘The dashing young army captain is Vasco. You will understand why he has developed this sore throat. Annemarie might just have been a little startled to hear his normal voice. Agnelli would have been very startled.
‘George is with us. Couldn’t bring him in at first because George can’t be disguised. Couldn’t have you hugging him with feminine shrieks of delight.
‘You don’t know us and you don’t want to know us. Stay away from us but don’t make it too obvious. Distant, remote and extending to us as much courtesy as you would to any other common criminals.
‘Don’t try to do anything clever. Don’t try to do anything. The men, probably, are not dangerous but watch the girls. They’re shrewd and have nasty devious feminine minds.
‘Destroy this note immediately. I love you both.’
‘And signed,’ Julie said, ‘with his own unmistakable signature.’ Her hands still weren’t too steady.
‘You said he would come,’ Annemarie said. Her voice was like Julie’s hands.
‘Yes, I did, didn’t I? Didn’t expect him quite so soon, though. What are we going to do—cry with relief?’
‘Certainly not.’ Annemarie sniffed. ‘He might have spared us the bits about feminine shrieks of delight and shrewd and nasty devious feminine minds.’ She watched as Julie ignited the note over a wash-basin and flushed the ashes away. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘Celebrate.’
‘In the bar?’
‘Where else?’
‘And ignore them totally.’
‘Totally.’
NINE
The barn that served as a garage was cold and draughty and leaking and couldn’t have served as a barn for many years: the air was heavy with the unsavoury smell of musty hay although there was no trace of hay to be seen. But it was clean and well lit, enough to show that the army truck’s freshly painted bodywork had vanished under a thick encrustation of mud.
George and O’Brien were bent over what appeared to be some kind of check-list when van Effen entered. George looked over O’Brien’s shoulder and lifted an interrogative eyebrow. Van Effen gave a brief nod in return, then said: ‘About through?’
‘Finished,’ George said. ‘All present and correct, I think.’
‘Think,’ O’Brien said. ‘Check, re-check and crosscheck. Never saw a man so meticulous about anything.’ Julie and Annemarie had taken what seemed like an unconscionably long time before making their departure. ‘But I did learn a little about explosives. And a lot about drinking beer.’
They switched off the lights, padlocked the doors—George pointedly pocketing the key while making some remark to the effect that signed receipts came first—and entered the mill. Julie and Annemarie were seated at a table by the fire, each with a small glass before her, a sure indication, van Effen knew, that they had read the note he had left with them. He noted, approvingly, that both girls regarded their entry with an open curiosity: it would have been an odd person indeed who would have registered indifference when encountering George’s vast bulk for the first time. Across the fire-place, and seated at another table, Samuelson was just replacing the hand-set of a rather splendid-looking radio transceiver: when obtaining new equipment the FFF obviously didn’t patronize second-hand markets.
‘All well?’ Samuelson said.
‘All well,’ O’Brien said. ‘Just about managed to stop George testing the detonators with his teeth. That’s quite an arsenal you have there, Mr Samuelson.’
‘Sign here, please.’ George laid three copies of the inventory on the table before Samuelson who signed them, thus confirming that he was, indeed, the man in charge, smiled and handed them back to George who solemnly handed over the garage padlock key.
‘A pleasure to do business with you, George. How woul
d you like the fee to be paid?’
‘Not time for the fee yet,’ George said. ‘The inventory is only a promise. Wait for the guarantee—let’s see if the damn things work.’
Samuelson smiled again. ‘I thought businessmen always demanded cash on delivery.’
‘Not this businessman. If, of course, you decide not to use them, then I’ll present the bill—you understand that I can’t very well return them to the ordnance store. Or if you decide to dispense with our services.’
‘Still a pleasure, George. I’m quite certain we’ll be requiring both your goods and your services. Well, gentlemen, we’ll be hearing a rather—’ He broke off, looked at van Effen, patted the radio and said: ‘You know what this is, don’t you?’
‘A transceiver. RCA. The best, I believe. If you’d a mind to, you could reach the moon with that.’
‘It can reach Amsterdam, which is all I want. Helmut. Helmut Paderiwski, whom you have met, I believe.’
‘Yes. I rather wondered where Helmut was.’
‘Our voice in the capital. He has just arranged for our latest message to be made known.’ He glanced at the wall clock. ‘Exactly eight minutes. TV and radio. We’ve decided not to bother about newspapers any more. I am not being smug when I say that we can now get instant coverage whenever we wish it. I think you’ll all find it a rather interesting message—messages rather. Don’t you think we should give them—ah—advance notice, Romero? Mr Danilov here has said that he likes to know what’s going on before he reads or hears about it.’
‘If it is your wish, of course.’ Agnelli was his usual smiling self. ‘But I would rather they saw it on TV. I think it would be interesting to see what the reaction of the average Dutch citizen would be.’
‘We’ll wait. It’s unimportant. Although I’d hardly call those three average Dutch citizens. Ah! Our provision party has returned.’
The two girls van Effen had met the previous evening in the room off the Voorburgwal entered, each carrying a shopping basket. They were followed by a young man who was having some difficulty in coping with a huge hamper he was carrying.
‘Welcome back,’ Samuelson said benignly. ‘A successful expedition, I see. Ah! Introductions. Mr Danilov, of course, you’ve met. This is George, this is the Captain who for some obscure reason is called the Lieutenant. Maria. Kathleen. You look puzzled, Mr Danilov.’
‘That’s a lot of food.’
‘True, true. But a lot of mouths to feed.’
‘It’s a fair way to Utrecht.’
‘Utrecht? My dear fellow, we shop at the local village store. Delighted to have our trade. Ah, the factor of anonymity.’ He laughed. ‘Romero. If you would be so kind.’
Romero led van Effen to the front door, opened it and gestured. At the foot of the steps stood a dark blue van. Emblazoned on its side, in golden lettering, was the legend Golden Gate Film Productions.
‘Ingenious,’ van Effen said.
‘It is, rather. Not a famous enough name to attract national attention but we’re certainly well enough known locally. Been here for almost a month now. We have a camera crew almost continuously on the move around the area. An isolated spot, this, and it brings a touch of colour into their otherwise drab lives. No trouble at all in recruiting house and kitchen staff: we are generous employers and very well thought of locally.’
‘You’d be even better thought of if they knew that this is probably the only area in the Netherlands that’s immune from flooding.’
‘There’s that, there’s that.’ Agnelli seemed quite pleased with the idea. ‘War film, I need hardly say. Hence the helicopter. Had to get official permission, of course, but that was a mere formality.’
‘I’d wondered how you’d managed that. You do have your nerve, that I must say.’
‘Just had a thought. This newly acquired truck. Change of paint and it can move around in complete freedom. War film—army truck. Follows, no?’
‘Yes. This is your brain-child, of course?’
‘Yes. But why “of course”?’
‘You do have a certain talent for devious organization.’
The TV announcer, soberly suited and tied and ominously grave in expression, looked as if he were about to pronounce a funeral oration.
‘We have just received what is called an interim communiqué from London. It says that the talks about the Dutch crisis are continuing and that a further communiqué can be expected within the hour.
‘It was expected that some further statements would be received from this terrorist organization calling itself the FFF. Those have arrived some fifteen minutes ago. They are not so much statements as threats of the very gravest nature.
‘The first of those states that they, the FFF, expect to hear by midnight that a definite and affirmative answer—that is an answer agreeing to the FFF’s demands—will be announced before 8 a.m. tomorrow. If they do not hear such confirmation by midnight, the Oostlijk-Flevoland dyke will be blown at five minutes past midnight. The citizens of Lelystad are advised to begin to take precautionary measures now. If they fail to do this, the FFF now disclaim all responsibility for their fate.
‘The second statement makes the announcement that the FFF have in their possession a number of nuclear explosive devices which they will not hesitate to use, if the need arises, to achieve their ends. The FFF hastens to assure the people of the Netherlands that those nuclear devices are not of the calibre of hydrogen or atomic weapons. They are tactical battlefield devices intended for delivery by plane, rocket or shell-fire. All are of American manufacture, some still on the secret list. All have been obtained from NATO bases in Germany. They have the serial numbers of those devices—they are clearly stamped on each one—and the US forces in Germany can confirm that those devices are, in fact, missing. If, that is, they are prepared to give this confirmation.’
There was a pause while the newscaster broke off to accept and glance at a sheet of paper that had just been handed him by a studio colleague: judging from the stricken expression on the colleague’s face, he had already read the message.
Van Effen looked around the room. No newscaster, he felt certain, had ever had so rapt an audience. The faces of George and the Lieutenant were expressionless, but that was only because, in certain circumstances such as those, they hadn’t much use for expressions: but their eyes were very still. Julie and Annemarie looked shocked. Kathleen and Maria were smiling, but their smiles were halfhearted and more than tinged by apprehension: no question, they had known what was coming but they still didn’t like hearing it. Agnelli, O’Brien and Daniken looked thoughtful but not particularly gratified. But the normally genial Samuelson was revelling in every moment of it. True, he was still smiling, but there was no warmth in his smile: there never can be in the smile of a hungry crocodile that has just spotted his unwary lunch.
‘We have here,’ the announcer said, ‘a further message from, the FFF. They say they are prepared to release those numbers at any time, but they feel a practical demonstration to prove their possession of those nuclear devices would be much more convincing. Accordingly, they intend to explode one of those devices in the Ijsselmeer in the early afternoon of tomorrow. The power of the charge will be in the range of one kiloton—that is to say, the equivalent of one thousand tons of TNT. This is expected to cause a certain disturbance of the water but the probable height of the accompanying tidal wave—tsunami is the term for it—is not precisely known. It is hoped that the inhabitants of the coastal settlements of the Ijsselmeer will not be too inconvenienced. Inconvenienced!’ The newscaster almost spluttered the word which was obviously not in the script—or the repetition of it. He recovered himself. ‘The demonstration has been delayed until the afternoon in order to allow British cabinet ministers plenty of time to fly across and join their Dutch colleagues in watching this demonstration. The precise time and place will be announced later. The device, they add, is already in position.
‘Finally, they demand some money. This money, they say
, will be returned. It is not blackmail money, or ransom money, merely a temporary loan to cover operating expenses. Details of the methods of payment will be announced later this evening—this is to give the parties concerned time to arrange for the transfer. The demand is for one hundred million guilders from the government, twenty million from Mr David Joseph Karlmann Meijer, the Rotterdam industrialist.’ The newscaster laid down his paper. ‘Viewers will not need reminding that Mr Meijer’s daughter, Anne, is being held hostage by the terrorists.’ Samuelson touched a switch before him and the screen went blank.
‘I wish,’ Samuelson said in a complaining voice, ‘that he wouldn’t call us “terrorists”. “Philanthropists” is the word. I rather liked that touch about operating expenses. Anne, my dear, do sit down. You’re over-excited.’
Annemarie, who was clearly and very understandably over-excited was on her feet, face pale, lips compressed, her hands unclenching and clenching into ivory-knuckled fists.
‘You monster,’ she whispered. ‘You utterly evil monster.’
‘You think so, my dear?’ He looked round the room, smiling. Van Effen was one of those who smiled back at him: there were witnesses. ‘Not at all. Philanthropist. Equitable redistribution of excess wealth. Besides, it’s not even that. As you heard, merely a temporary loan. Don’t tell me that the wealthiest man in the Netherlands can’t afford that money. I know all about your father.’
‘You murderer,’ she said softly. Her hands were hanging straight by her sides now, and they were still. ‘You murderer.’ The tears were rolling down her cheeks and now Julie was on her feet, her arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘You know all about my father. You know then that he has had two major heart attacks this year. You know that he came out of hospital only four days ago after his last heart attack. You’ve killed him.’ Her voice, like her shoulders, was shaking. ‘You’ve killed him.’