Floodgate

  ‘And then there’s the factor of demagoguery.’

  ‘Dema what?’ Vasco said.

  ‘People who are supposed to go in for ranting and raving. A word that has fallen into disuse. A word associated with the likes of Hitler, Mussolini and a few dozen nationalistic leaders in the world today. There are good demagogues and bad ones. Originally it meant people who were opposed to established rules of law, usually bad rules. Christ, if you like, could have been called a demagogue. Riordan, I admit, is no member of the Holy Trinity, but I believe him to be a sincere and honest demagogue, however misguided. I do not believe him to be evil.

  ‘Samuelson is the nigger in the woodpile—if one can use such racist language in these days. He’s the real enigma. You know that he’s English?’

  Both men shook their heads.

  ‘He is. A wealthy man. Obviously, a very wealthy man. Sure, rich men are normally under a compulsion to become even richer, but there’s a limit even to that and I believe Samuelson has reached that limit. As sane and stable a man as you could ever hope to meet. Beneath that bonhomie and geniality I think he’s an obsessed man. A driven man. I would like to know what drives him. What do you think of Kathleen?’

  Both men stared at him, then George said: ‘Wait a minute.’ He disappeared inside the mill and reappeared shortly afterwards with three very large glasses of brandy in his hands. ‘If we are to continue this discussion in Verkhoyansk temperatures—what do you mean “Kathleen”?’

  ‘What I said. How does she strike you?’

  ‘We hardly know her,’ George said. ‘A lovely child, of course.’

  ‘There you go again. You and your middle-aged propensities. Vasco?’

  ‘I agree with George. I’ve never seen—’ he broke off. ‘She seems kind and gentle and—’

  ‘An accomplished actress? A case-hardened spy?’ Vasco said nothing. ‘The feminine equivalent of the smiler with the knife under the cloak?’

  ‘No!’ Vasco was vehement.

  ‘No, indeed. When she was watching that TV announcement tonight, you weren’t. You were watching her. Not that I blame you, she’s as watchable as anyone in the Netherlands. But that’s not why you were watching her. Apropos of nothing, Vasco, I think you’d make an excellent Inspector. Under, of course, the watchful eye of George, whom I hope to persuade to leave his ill-chosen role of restaurateur.’

  ‘Me?’ George stared at him as if either or both of them had taken leave of their senses.

  ‘You. You’re wasted. Keep La Caracha, of course. Annelise is the best cook in Amsterdam and you could always hire a couple of thugs, preferably ex-convicts, to take over your distasteful duties as bouncer. But that’s by the by. What did her eyes tell you, Vasco?’

  ‘Her eyes?’ Vasco was momentarily confused.

  ‘Kathleen’s. You were watching her eyes, not her face.’

  ‘How did you know—’

  ‘A combination of craftiness, cunning, deviousness and experience. Practice is all. Fear, distress?’

  ‘Something like that. Distinctly unhappy. Edgy. Odd thing was, she was looking like that before the announcement was made. She knew what was coming or thought or was convinced she knew what was coming and didn’t like it one little bit.’

  ‘Another driven person,’ van Effen said.

  ‘If we’re talking about drivers and driven people,’ George said, ‘you could also include Maria Agnelli. A great lip-licker is our Maria. We’ve all met people who lick their lips when they’re in a state of sadistic anticipation but when you’re in a state your lips don’t tremble. Hers did. Nervous apprehension. Revulsion, if you like.’

  ‘I missed that,’ van Effen said.

  ‘Well, we’ve each of us got only one pair of eyes,’ George said reasonably. ‘But you only had to have half an eye to see that Samuelson enjoyed every moment of the broadcast. So what do we have? Three driven people. One of those driven people, Samuelson, is also the driver, going hellbent, one might say, round a series of hairpin bends down a pretty precipitous mountain slope. The other two are driven, terrified of going over a precipice at the next hairpin.’

  Vasco said in a complaining voice: ‘You’re going too fast for me. You make those two girls sound relatively harmless, maybe even nice. Joachim, Joop and those two other baby-faces in the mill here—Baader-Meinhof, RAF or whatever you call them—they are not nice.’

  ‘They wouldn’t agree,’ van Effen said. ‘They are the new Messiahs, dedicated to the creation of a nobler and better world. It’s merely because of the blind folly of this misguided world that assassination and the deployment of tactical nuclear weapons have become their stock-in-trade.’

  ‘And those two girls are their associates and allies,’ Vasco said. He sounded very bitter indeed. ‘Or do you dip your hand into this witches’ brew of murder, mayhem, blackmail, terrorism and theft and bring them out pure as the driven snow?’

  ‘A little dusting of soot, perhaps. Camouflage. A little coercion here, a little blackmail there, misguided love, misguided loyalty, a warped code of honour, a false sentimentality, a judicious mixture of truth and lies.’

  ‘ “Conned”, I believe is the word you’re after,’ George said. ‘But they weren’t conning anyone when they kidnapped Julie.’

  ‘Of course they were. Sure, they hoped to discourage me, but that was only the ostensible reason. Romero Agnelli would never have thought that up on his own and as for hurting my sister I’ve already given it as my opinion that he would be reluctant to tread on a beetle. The orders came from his brothers Giuseppe and Orlando, that delightful duo I put away all those years ago.’

  ‘But they’re in prison.’

  Van Effen sighed. ‘Vasco, Vasco. Some of the most powerful and vicious gangs in the world are controlled by bosses temporarily confined to maximum-security blocks in prisons. Palermo, Cagliari, Ajaccio, Marseilles, half a dozen cities in the United States, even London and Amsterdam and Naples—there’s where the criminal overlords—overlords still with powers of life or death—hang out in their prison cells. It’s Romero’s brothers who have the orders for the sending of those menacing post-cards to me, who ordered Julie’s kidnapping. But they’re not after Julie. I don’t believe they’re even after me. Convicted criminals, oddly enough, don’t usually harbour grudges against the cops who caught them: their resentment is reserved for the judges who sentenced them. Italy is a classic example of this.’

  ‘If they’re not after you or Julie,’ George said slowly, ‘then my towering intellect tells me they’re after something else. And to think that Samuelson had the staggering effrontery to say that Riordan was prepared to use the devil’s tools to fight the devil.’

  ‘And I said that one would require a very long spoon to sup with the devil.’

  ‘Speaking about the devil,’ Vasco said, ‘and with all due respect, of course, what the devil are you two talking about?’

  ‘The devil,’ George said. ‘Or devils. Part of the flooding—or non-flooding of the country—and it may even be a pre-condition—will be that Romero’s murderous brothers be released from prison or, heaven help us, be given a free pardon.’

  There was a brief hiatus while George returned inside the mill to get some more anti-pneumonia specific. When he returned van Effen said: ‘Well, so much for theory. I think we’ve got everything right except Samuelson’s ultimate motivation. We’re not even wrong about that—we just don’t know. Now, practicalities: that shouldn’t take too long. Our options are limited and, besides, it’s too damned cold.

  ‘We have agreed that now is not the time to dispose of the three boss villains here. There are other and non-theoretical reasons. Samuelson may not be the C-in-C, although I’m convinced he is. There may be others. He has to have someone in the vicinity of the Ijsselmeer to trigger off that damned nuclear device of theirs. They also told us, unwisely, that this is only a stop-over HQ. The other will be their main one and, almost certainly, the one from which they intend to make their final str
ike. We have to find it so, for the moment, we have to go along with them.

  ‘I’m more than prepared for the fact that they’ll breach the dykes north and south of Lelystad and flood the east and south Flevoland areas shortly after midnight because I’m equally certain that the British are going to temporize and not throw in the towel before the first bell rings. With any luck there should be no loss of life—human life, that is: I wouldn’t care to guess what is going to happen to the livestock. This nuclear device to be detonated in the Ijsselmeer tomorrow afternoon presents a more serious threat—my guess is that it would be in the Markerwaard—and I wouldn’t much care to be in the vicinity of Marken or Volendam when it went off. Nasty things, tidal waves, especially when the height is unpredictable. Things might even be unpleasant in Hoorn or Amsterdam itself, although I doubt it. After all, this is meant primarily as a demonstration for the British cabinet or whatever. The big bang will come later—considering the steadily worsening conditions that should be at the next high tide afterwards. Or the one after that. In daylight, anyway.’

  Vasco said: ‘Why daylight?’

  ‘You think they have this helicopter just to make a nonexistent film? They want it to take them some place a land-based vehicle can’t reach. An island, perhaps, though that seems unlikely. The point is that it’s very difficult to land a helicopter in gale force winds although highly-trained air-sea rescue pilots do it regularly. But to try it in a gale in total darkness and driving rain—in zero visibility, that is—is foolhardy to the point of suicide—especially if you happen to have as part of your cargo some potentially unstable nuclear devices. So, daylight.’

  ‘We might be here for a couple of days yet?’ George said.

  ‘My guess is that we’ll be off first light in the morning. They’ll want to establish themselves in their HQ, near the scene of action. Those ground-to-ground and ground-to-air missiles—they have been deactivated?’ George nodded. ‘How are you when it comes to deactivating tactical nuclear devices?’

  ‘I’ve never even seen a tactical nuclear device. If I could examine one or see a blue-print, well, yes, perhaps. Otherwise, no. I know I wouldn’t feel a thing but I still don’t much fancy being vaporized.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have a look at them later on tonight. They’re somewhere on the premises. We don’t even have to look. You heard what Agnelli said—“I can show them to you now.” ’

  ‘Won’t that make them suspicious?’ George said. ‘That we didn’t ask to see them right away? They’ll be thinking we have been having a conference and have dreamed up some devilish scheme.’

  ‘Let them think what they like and be as suspicious as they like. We’re as safe as men in a church. We, my friends, are indispensable.’ George and Vasco looked at each other, then at van Effen, but said nothing. ‘We’re also not very bright. Joop, Joachim or some of their psychopathic Red Army Faction pals stole those nuclear devices from the US NATO arms dump near Metnitz on the night of February 3rd. Something else happened on that same night.’

  ‘February 3rd,’ George said. ‘Of course. We really are not very bright. That was the night the De Dooms ammunition dump was blown out of existence. Samuelson’s explosive experts trying to replenish their supplies. An enormous crater. No replenishments and, of course, no experts. No wonder the FFF were so desperate for our supplies and services. We’re probably the only people around who could set off a squib. Lloyd’s of London would approve of this.’

  Vasco said: ‘A marvellous insurance policy, to be sure. But has the thought occurred to you that Joop or one of his lunatic associates may know how to trigger those nuclear devices?’

  ‘The thought has occurred,’ van Effen said. ‘So we’ll just have to attend to the lunatics or the devices, won’t we? Or both. But before we start attending to anything I suggest we go inside, have a wash and brush up, find out how thoroughly they have examined our luggage, listen to the next riveting communication from the Dutch or British governments or the FFF, then join our genial hosts for dinner. One would imagine that a man of Samuelson’s resources could run to a cordon bleu chef.’

  Romero Agnelli greeted them genially on their entrance and at once pressed jonge jenevers on them. ‘You must be needing this after your long stay outside. I mean, it’s pretty cold tonight.’

  ‘Not for us,’ van Effen said. ‘We’re fresh-air fanatics.’

  ‘I thought that applied only to the English. Anyway, I trust you enjoyed your stroll.’

  ‘If you call pacing up and down your verandah a stroll, then, yes, we did.’ Van Effen knew that Agnelli was perfectly well aware that they had not once left the verandah.

  ‘And, of course, the opportunity for a private conversation.’ Agnelli was still smiling.

  ‘Well, yes. Pondering our probable future, about which we know precious little. After all, you and your friends are hardly very communicative. We don’t know what we’re here for, what services we are expected to perform, where we’re going, even when we’re going.’

  ‘That last I can tell you—eight o’clock tomorrow morning. As for the rest, well, you and I are great believers in the need-to-know principle.’

  ‘True, true. But there’s one thing that we do need to know—where do we sleep tonight? On the floor?’

  ‘Dear me, no. Mind you, this is no Amstel but we do have accommodation of sorts. Come, I’ll show you. I’ve already had your baggage brought up.’

  He led the way up the curving staircase and along to a door at the end of a passageway. The room beyond was of moderate size with three single beds. Agnelli indicated a door at the far end of the room.

  ‘Bathroom. No marble bath, no gold taps, but serviceable enough.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Dinner in twenty minutes.’ He left, still smiling.

  Van Effen and George sat on their beds, engaged in desultory conversation, while Vasco looked around. In this particular kind of looking-around Vasco was a specialist, very meticulous, very thorough. After a few minutes he said: ‘Clear. No bugs.’

  George hoisted his medium-sized suitcase on to his knees. It was one of those fancy cases with combination locks, four figures by each of the two keyholes, eight in all. George peered at it closely.

  ‘Combinations as set?’ van Effen said.

  ‘As set. But not untouched. Very tiny scratches. This case is brand new, never been used before. Normally, I wouldn’t be seen dead with this junior-executive status symbol but Annelise gave it to me for my birthday and it would have been more than my life’s worth to have left home without it. It’s been opened and closed and in very short order, too. I don’t know of a safe-breaker in the Netherlands who could have done this.

  Anyone who knows his job can open a conventional safe—a pair of good ears or a doctor’s stethoscope can hear the tumblers click. No tumblers in this type of lock.’

  Van Effen said: ‘I’ll bet O’Brien could open the vaults of the Amsterdam—Rotterdam bank with a bent hairpin.’

  ‘I wouldn’t doubt it.’ George adjusted the combination figures and opened the case. ‘A very neat character. Everything exactly where it was except of course where it’s naturally settled in the process of being carried.’

  ‘Yours, Vasco?’

  Vasco unlocked his case. ‘Untouched. Spare Smith & Wesson magazines still there.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Van Effen opened his own case—it hadn’t even been locked—lifted out a rather battered toilet bag and took from it a burgundy-coloured aerosol can with a chrome top. The side of the can bore the legend: Yves Saint Laurent—Pour Homme—Mousse à Raser. The aerosol, in fact, contained no shaving foam.

  ‘Well,’ George said, ‘nobody’s been touching or sniffing the contents of that lot.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Van Effen replaced the aerosol. ‘If they had they’d still be here. Horizontal on the carpet. I doubt if they even opened my toilet bag. If there was anything worth finding, they must have reckoned, it would have been in George’s thief-proof case.’ He took a small tablet of soa
p from his toilet bag and handed it to Vasco. ‘You know what to do with this.’

  ‘Hygiene is all.’ Vasco went into the bathroom while van Effen and George crossed to the window opposite the beds and opened it. As far as they could judge in the darkness they were about fifteen feet above the cobbled courtyard below, a courtyard shrouded in almost total darkness.

  ‘Very satisfactory, George, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very. Only snag is that you’ll have to make a pretty long detour to keep in the darkness in order to reach the back of the barn. And have you thought of anti-personnel land-mines—you know, the nasty kind that jump three feet in the air before exploding?’

  ‘George, this place is run and staffed entirely by local villagers. If, say, a laundry-maid was just kind of accidentally blown in half—’

  ‘True. Point taken. But if you were to run into a patrolling member of the FFF—’

  ‘Anybody out on patrol on a night like this has to be a head case. Gale, driving rain, bitter cold, thunder and lightning due any time—’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m not going to run into anyone. Someone might run into me. Velvet gloves. Vasco’s taking his time, isn’t he?’ They moved to the bathroom door, tried to open it and found it locked. Van Effen rattled the door handle.

  ‘Put out your light,’ Vasco said. They did as he asked. Vasco opened the door of the bathroom which was in total darkness. ‘Sorry about that, gentlemen, but I didn’t want the watcher in the shadows to know that he was being watched by another watcher in the shadows. Not, mind you, that our fellow-watcher is very much in the shadows.’

  The bathroom window was, in fact, directly opposite the door in the loft of the barn that held the army truck on the ground floor. The man standing in the doorway was making no great effort to conceal his presence and the courtyard light projecting from the mill verandah was quite strong.