Angel in the Shadows Read online

  When she hugged him, he could feel her hands trembling.

  ‘I found the girl,’ he said. ‘And I led the FSB straight to her. They must have been tailing me – all along.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. You did what you thought was necessary.’

  ‘They know we’re in this together – you and me. I don’t know how, but they do.’

  ‘I’ve been on their radar for years, Paul. They know about us, about us back then, I mean. So it’s not surprising that when you’re in Moscow … they –’

  ‘Farah was right. Each of us needs to investigate this from a separate location. I’m jeopardizing your safety by being here.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Did you get anywhere with those memory cards?’

  She looked at him for a long time, without responding. She realized what he’d just said, that he was leaving her again, so she needed a moment to pull herself back to the here and now.

  ‘Almost a day’s work wasted. We looked at them all, every single SD card, all except one, which was so badly damaged it contained no data.’

  ‘I still think we’re on the right track,’ Paul said. ‘The girl … I don’t know if she’ll talk. I passed your number to one of her friends.’

  ‘How are you planning to reveal everything that we do know?’

  ‘I’ll consult with Edward when I get back.’

  ‘The moment you disclose your information and publish the photos of Lavrov, he’ll come after you. And then it won’t matter whether you’re in Amsterdam or in Tokyo. He’ll find you.’

  ‘Sure, but he’ll find me. And me only. You … you’ll be able to carry on here.’

  Without a word, she took his head in her hands. Her eyes changed when she looked at him. He’d never seen her in tears before. This was the first time. She kissed him – not with her former lust, but with vulnerability, with lips that tasted of salt.

  ‘And now it’s time for you to get the hell out of here.’

  With that, she let go of him, turned around and disappeared in the smog.

  15

  It was getting dark. It was later than Farah realized, and she was too tired for her own good. She turned into a side street, and then another, and before she knew it she found herself in a labyrinth of mud puddles, sputtering mopeds racing past and countless radios blaring out a mix of saccharine Indonesian ballads, heavy metal and kroncong music.

  Evening fell the way it does in the tropics. All of a sudden it was pitch-black. Lights popped on, fires were lit, and the aromas of fresh nasi goreng, ketoprak, rujak and gado-gado wafted towards her from all possible directions. She smelled the sweet scent of ginger, the citrusy aroma of galangal and the rotten stench of trassi.

  She thought of the promise she’d made.

  The promise to the boy who’d been left for dead in the Amsterdamse Bos.

  ‘I’m here. I won’t leave you,’ she’d said to him.

  Instead of fulfilling that promise, she was now wandering aimlessly down muggy alleyways in an Asian metropolis.

  For a moment, it didn’t seem to matter where she was going, as long as she kept moving. It was something she’d seen the junkies in Amsterdam’s Red Light District do; they were always on the move and yet never arriving anywhere. That’s how she felt right now. An addict without a goal, a wanderer who thought she could compensate for the lack of any real prospects with motion, by moving ever further away, miles and miles from home.

  In messy courtyards full of playing children and crouching women, fires were lit, meals cooked and food noisily eaten. But she kept walking. As long as she didn’t stop, she wouldn’t have to think about where she came from and where she was headed. All she had to do was to keep walking.

  Keep walking. Where to? With what aim?

  Breathe in, breathe out. Think.

  Get a handle on the growing panic. Determine your course. Choose your direction.

  She could flag down a rickshaw, a bajaj or even a taxi, and be grossly overcharged for a trip through the stinking city, but it would be worth it, because she’d be taken to a place that felt safe, or at least offered the illusion of safety. A place where she could consider her next step, where she could consult with Paul and Anya about her strategy.

  She was certain about one thing. She wouldn’t let her actions be guided by impulse this time.

  That’s when she saw the man in white.

  He was standing in the twilight, less than ten metres away. For a split second, she thought he was a ghost – a ghost with the bearing and appearance of her father.

  She heard a jangly melody behind her, a repetitive sequence of cheerful sounds typical of mobile vendors of ice cream, sweets and other food stuffs.

  It was a snippet of a memory, and no sooner had it come than it was gone. She wasn’t a child in Kabul, standing opposite her father, asking if she’d like a treat. The man facing her was an Indonesian who was waving happily at a young man on a moped pulling up behind her in the alleyway. A small sound system had been attached to the moped’s luggage carrier and hooked up to a megaphone on a stick. A slightly hysterical female voice urged everyone to come and join the protest.

  Groups of men and women began to emerge from the alleys, as if they’d been waiting for the young man and his message. Some were carrying torches. They were all tense in a cheerful sort of way, like children going to a big party for the first time in their lives.

  Farah thought back to the moment her bus ground to a halt in downtown Jakarta. When was that again? Yesterday? The day before yesterday? It felt like a long time ago. On that occasion, too, the crowd had come from all directions, both men and women, young and old. This time they were all dressed in white.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘To Merdeka Square. Hatta’s due to speak.’

  ‘Baladin Hatta?’

  ‘Do you know any other Hatta?’

  This was met by jolly, friendly laughter. Farah accompanied the group to the end of the alleyway, and saw a much bigger stream of people in white march along the wide, car-free street. Banners were unfurled, more torches lit, slogans chanted.

  It all seemed to happen spontaneously, like she could just float along, which is exactly what she wanted. It felt safe. She wanted to walk with these singing slogan-shouting men and women in white through Jakarta’s streets to the large square. To hear this man who had now crossed her path for the second time.

  All around her, fists were raised, and more mantras shouted. She became part of a collective anger that was winding its way through the city’s streets like an illuminated snake. For a moment, it felt as if her anger about what Valentin Lavrov had done to her was shared by all of these people and they were expressing their revulsion on her behalf.

  At each junction, more people joined in, and the demonstration became not only increasingly large but increasingly chaotic. Farah realized she was completely hemmed in. Sweat started to pour down her body, and her head was throbbing like an anvil being hit by a hammer.

  That’s when she felt the hand on her upper arm. A young woman held out a plastic bottle of water. Her face was open, like that of a child’s, and her smile revealed a row of milky-white teeth. Even her eyes were smiling. Farah put her in her mid twenties, quite a bit younger than herself, and shorter too. Her long, black hair was tied into a ponytail, and she was wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt and linen trousers. She wore trainers on her feet.

  ‘Thank you.’ She gulped down some water and handed back the bottle.

  ‘You’re not from around here?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘On holiday?’

  ‘No, just passing through.’

  The young woman held out her hand.

  ‘Aninda.’

  ‘Valentina,’ Farah said. ‘My name is Valentina.’

  For a split second, it felt as if they were floating in a bubble of silence. Then Farah let go of the woman’s hand.

  ‘Why’s everybody dressed in white?’

  ‘It sign
ifies non-violence. We want a peaceful revolution. White is also the symbol of our hope for a new beginning.’

  It wasn’t so much what she said or how she said it, but the look in her eyes that made Farah feel happy. This young, unknown woman felt like a long-forgotten friend.

  Out of a linen bag, which she carried across her body, Aninda pulled a strip of white fabric.

  ‘You can use this as a bandanna,’ she said. ‘Would you like that?’

  Farah nodded, accepted the strip of fabric and tied it around her head.

  ‘Now you’re part of us,’ Aninda said with a smile.

  Then suddenly her smile vanished. A shockwave swept through the crowd. A Molotov cocktail exploded in the distance, releasing a plume of fire and black smoke. Farah heard muffled shots. Canisters exploded above the heads of the demonstrators, releasing a nebulous substance that floated towards them with a hissing sound.

  ‘Tear gas!’ Aninda shouted.

  In a panic, people took off in all directions. Some tripped and fell. Those who didn’t get up quickly enough got trampled underfoot. Farah faltered and saw everything change through a haze of tears. Her eyes, nose and mouth appeared to be on fire. She began to cough her lungs out. Aninda held on to her. ‘Saya berada di sisimu.’ ‘I’m with you,’ she yelled in Farah’s ear. ‘I’m with you and I’ll get you out of this.’

  For a second she was no longer in Jakarta. She was tied to the chair in the auditorium, with a bomb strapped to her body. FRONT TOWARDS ENEMY. The same anxiety, the same accelerated heart rate, but another lifetime. Paul’s voice, a distant echo.

  ‘I’m here with you.’

  She felt like she was choking. She clapped her hands in front of her eyes. ‘My lenses,’ she cried. ‘I’m wearing lenses!’

  All around her she could hear deafening screams and gunshots, while more tear-gas canisters whizzed through the air and exploded. She’d lost all sense of direction and stumbled.

  But she didn’t fall. Aninda had her arms wrapped tightly around her.

  16

  Arriving back at the police station in Amsterdam, Esther and Radjen went directly to the digital-investigation unit with Lombard’s computer. The room was full of seized computers, mobile phones, navigation equipment, USB sticks and security cameras. Anything electrical that contained data to be examined was awaiting analysis by one of the force’s most promising digital detectives, Laurens Kramer.

  Laurens was part of a generation who’d never known life without computers. He was fascinated by the huge amount of trace evidence he could gather from a computer, mobile phone or other data carrier in each and every one of the cases he investigated.

  He’d attached the original hard drive from Minister Lombard’s computer to a data copier, to which he’d coupled an empty hard drive. This allowed him to make an exact forensic copy. Tension hung in the air. Laurens stared at the computer screen. He reminded Radjen of a sniper looking through night-vision goggles at a hidden enemy.

  ‘Data and images, accidentally or deliberately deleted, are often invisible but still present on a data carrier,’ Laurens said, self-satisfied.

  ‘Data recovery,’ Esther acknowledged.

  Suddenly Radjen felt like an old man.

  ‘So even when information is erased and other data saved on the carrier, a trace of the original data is always left behind,’ Laurens said.

  ‘That’s what I was hoping,’ Radjen said. ‘How the hell did they get rid of all those files?’

  ‘They used a USB stick, a pre-programmed one to be exact, with software that was launched as soon as this computer was restarted. Whoever wanted to remove those files went to the Basic Input/Output System, where he clicked on his USB as the boot device. Are you still with me?’

  ‘I lost you right after USB stick,’ Radjen admitted.

  ‘What you’re trying to say is that the computer didn’t use its own operating system when it was restarted, but what was on the USB,’ Esther said.

  ‘Correct,’ Laurens replied. ‘And that system is top of the bill, the cream of the digital crop: it automatically goes in search of deleted or altered files like a hunting dog. The system relies on a so-called wipe tool that uses just zeros to go through the files that have to be erased. Zeros, zeros, over and over again. Layer after layer, until the files are no longer detectable. Until there’s nothing left to uncover.’

  ‘And these images?’ Radjen asked, pointing at the black-and-white photos of the two girls.

  ‘They were copied over it.’

  ‘Where are the original images, then?’

  ‘Untraceable.’

  ‘Even for you?’

  ‘Even for me. But …’

  Radjen saw the triumph in Laurens’ eyes.

  ‘But what the NFI failed to report is the time frame of when these pictures were posted. Sloppy work. It happened at five in the morning. So barely three hours after the confiscation of the computer. In other words, we don’t have the original files, but we do have hard evidence that these photos were purposely removed and exchanged for the series we are now seeing.’

  Laurens turned to Radjen.

  ‘What’s the name of the bureau that examined the computer on behalf of the NFI?’

  ‘Nationwide Forensics,’ Radjen said. ‘In The Hague.’

  ‘If you want to speak to the arsehole who messed with these files, best you check there,’ Kramer said.

  Radjen and Esther looked at each other.

  ‘Back to The Hague we go, Chief.’

  They drove the roughly sixty-five traffic-free kilometres from Amsterdam to The Hague in record time. In the old Transvaal district stood a recently opened Hindustani temple beside a building site. Two large cranes were moving large concrete slabs that would be used to build new luxury apartments.

  ‘This neighbourhood is known as Little India,’ Radjen said, as they passed shops of exotic vegetables, carpets, second-hand furniture, clothing and videos, all housed in nineteenth-century buildings.

  It was if they weren’t driving through Paul Krugerlaan in The Hague, but through a neighbourhood in Mumbai.

  ‘The Hague is quickly becoming the Indian capital of the world. Nowhere in Europe do you find as many Hindustanis as here.’

  The private company Nationwide Forensics was located on Paul Krugerplein. It was impossible for Radjen to find a spot for his car, so he double-parked. When he got out, he was almost hit by a cyclist, a Hindustani boy with a younger girl sitting behind him on the luggage carrier. The bike rode on to an area with market stalls, where residents in saris, burqas, tracksuits and leggings were hauling big shopping bags, and a musician with dreadlocks on a small stage played music that sounded equally devout and hip.

  ‘That’s chutney,’ Esther said.

  ‘Chutney?

  ‘A mix of traditional Indian folk music and calypso from Trinidad.’

  At that moment he felt the ground shake.

  Later he’d remember it happening, how it took only a few seconds. But those shards of memory would always plague him. They would remain embedded in his mind forever.

  After the shaking came the storm of glass. Large splinters shooting across the street with immense speed.

  He’d remember not the sound, but the vibration, and the explosive force with which not only the glass shattered but also the boy and girl were thrown from their bike at the moment they passed Nationwide Forensics.

  After the glass storm came the fire, towering flames lashing out, followed by iron, stone and rubble. Windows burst from the intense heat.

  Radjen threw himself on top of Esther in an effort to shield her. He protected her head and felt the rain of glass and debris fall on them, and he saw the glow of the firestorm reflected in her eyes.

  For a moment all was quiet.

  Then came the huge roar of walls that had lost their support, a ceiling collapsing. Thick clouds of dust spewed from the building. From every direction came the sound of screaming. The crying of children, dogs howling
and barking, car alarms going off.

  Carefully raising his head, he saw a street that looked like it’d just been struck by a meteorite.

  He checked how Esther was. She sat up. She had abrasions on her face and he touched them with trembling fingers, almost as if he were caressing a wax figure. She nodded, stared at him blankly. He supported her, and she grabbed his hand, gave it a squeeze, and then released it, indicating she could handle this on her own.

  Dizzy and with intense ringing in his ears, he managed to get to his feet. An extreme example of a situation where feelings are nothing more than useless obstacles. Action was what was needed now. He called Central Dispatch and quickly briefed them on the situation, so it was clear what kind of assistance had to be sent to the scene. The entire façade of Nationwide Forensics had been blown to smithereens. Only a smouldering charcoal hole was left, twisted blackened metal, a fountain of burst pipes.

  Radjen stood over the boy who had ridden past with the girl on the back of his bike. They lay motionless on top of each other, ten, twenty metres from where they’d been cycling when the explosion occurred. Both had severe cuts to the head, neck, arms and legs. The boy had a piece of metal sticking out of his right thigh. His face looked battered. The girl was bleeding from her mouth and her ears. Radjen saw she was missing a leg. She opened her eyes and clutched his hand. He stroked her head gently and told her that the ambulance was on its way.

  She clung to his gaze, her hand in his.

  He knew she could no longer hear him.

  He gently shut her eyes.

  Every one of his actions after that, from receiving and briefing the police, fire and ambulance personnel to reassuring the neighbourhood, was done on autopilot. Perhaps it was comparable to the way cameramen and photographers do their work in war-torn zones; how they’re able to coolly and decisively capture the most horrifying things. But only because the lens is between them and reality. Radjen’s immense commitment to the job fulfilled a similar function. It enabled him to defuse emotions, to act decisively and afterwards to spend hours giving a detailed statement – together with Esther – to the police so they could hand over the whole matter to their colleagues in The Hague.