Angel in the Shadows Page 24

  After putting their hanging theory to the test in Esther’s apartment, Radjen believed he was ready to let the story of Meijer’s death play out in front of him. But he needed to be alone to do this, much like every reconstruction he’d done in the past. Not even Esther was allowed to be present.

  Motionless, he stood on the spot where he’d shaken Efrya Meijer’s hand and expressed his condolences over the loss of her husband that first night.

  Now he was there alone, in the pale moonlight, beside her stripped bed, in the curtainless room with its emptied linen closets.

  A smell permeated the air. The scent of two people who’d spent years sleeping next to each other in the same bed.

  He heard them breathing, as if they were lying there.

  Thomas Meijer moved restlessly, woke up and leaned over Efrya to see if she was still asleep. Then he quietly slipped out of bed, pulled the curtain slightly aside and gazed into the garden. Although there was not a breath of wind in the empty room, Radjen could hear the stormy weather kicking up, the intermittent rain hitting the window. He realized there wasn’t any banging. The gate at the rear of the garden was apparently shut tight.

  Thomas Meijer removed his pyjamas, donned some loungewear, shoved his feet into his slippers and, barely making a sound, left the bedroom. Radjen looked at Efrya, who didn’t stir. He wanted to wake her; ask her to go after Thomas and drag him back to bed. But the scenes he saw were merely images in his head.

  Radjen left the bedroom. He paused on the small landing, where he and Esther had wormed their way out of their forensics gear, surprised at the unspoken feeling of intimacy: a closeness they’d shared from that moment on.

  The pounding of his heart accelerated as he descended the stairs. He went and stood in the middle of the living room, closed his eyes, and deeply inhaled and exhaled for a few minutes.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was staring into the dim light of a floor lamp. The doors leading to the garden were open wide. The sheer curtains were moving in the wind.

  At the rear of the garden he discovered Thomas Meijer’s hunched silhouette, bent over the garden gate while holding an umbrella above his head.

  It took a while before Meijer turned and walked back towards the house. Halfway, the wind got hold of his umbrella, causing the thin metal stretchers to break and partly collapse. Meijer couldn’t manage to close the thing and left it beside the shed door. Radjen knew that forensics would find the umbrella in the garden later that night.

  Meijer shut the French windows to the garden, but didn’t lock them, and returned to the kitchen where he poured a glass of milk and made a sandwich with white bread, butter and chocolate sprinkles. He took the plate and glass into the living room, turned on the computer and entered a search term. He arrived on the homepage of a Ghanaian estate agent, where he clicked through a series of beach houses in bright shades of green, yellow and orange.

  Radjen felt a gust of wind from behind, turned and saw the sheer curtains flapping fitfully, as if they were fighting off the rain. When he looked back in Meijer’s direction, he was facing the screen, but the weight of his body was slumped backwards in his chair. A figure as fleeting as a shadow was standing over him.

  Radjen knew it had been quick. The sudden injection Meijer received in his neck was administered silently. He was gagged and his mouth sealed shut with tape.

  To lift his weight, hands were slipped under his armpits and clasped behind his neck. Now being dragged into the garden, Meijer had lost all control over his muscles. His body seemed to be made of rubber. His head hung like a weight and his arms trailed alongside his body.

  The series of events that unfolded before him in the garden shed were as he and Esther had re-enacted. A belt was fastened around Meijer’s hips. The rope that ran along his back up over the beam was given a few forceful tugs. Radjen couldn’t tell if Meijer tried to offer any resistance. His body was undoubtedly too numb to heed the distress signals sent by his brain.

  As he was being hoisted with a final tug, Meijer’s head brushed along the rope. The noose felt rough as it slid past his face. He was hanging motionless in the neon-blue glow of his fish tanks.

  The noose was quickly thrown over his head and secured. The stepladder was pulled out from under him and positioned in such a way that it looked like he’d kicked it over.

  Meijer dropped vertically. You could hear the taut rope crack his neck. His limp tongue hung from his mouth.

  Radjen observed him hanging there, exactly how they’d found him, while the images of that night slowly faded from view.

  He was now alone in the neon-blue light of the aquarium tanks, where the fish were fitfully darting about among the plastic ruins in murkier water. They probably hadn’t been fed in days. Radjen opened one of the food containers and sprinkled a handful of small pellets into the water. The fish followed their primal instincts and swam towards the food, fighting for every morsel.

  Suddenly, above the hum of the water pumps, he heard the hinges of the garden gate creak.

  As quietly as he could, he went and stood beside the closed door. Without thinking he grabbed for his weapon, which, having been sat at a desk most of the time, he hadn’t carried in years. He waited apprehensively.

  The handle slowly turned downwards. The door opened a crack. Radjen braced himself.

  At first he thought the sound was in his head. That it was his body releasing built-up tension. But it was the buzzing of his mobile. He was paralysed for a split second, looking down at his pocket. Then he quickly turned back to the door just as it was forcefully slammed in his face.

  Radjen lost his balance and fell backwards on to the hard floor.

  The sound he heard after his head hit the cold tiles resembled a buzzing phone.

  2

  Along with the children and the other women, Farah and Aninda were squeezed into the bed of the pickup taking them back to the Waringin Shelter. The sky had turned ashen-grey. A rain storm was brewing.

  ‘What made you follow me?’ Farah asked.

  ‘I had a feeling you were in danger,’ Aninda replied. ‘So I gathered the children together and told them I’d show them Fatahillah Square today and promised them a spin on the wheel afterwards. As we passed the museum, I saw two men shoving a third into a car. I instantly knew it had something to do with you.’

  It started to rain. The women picked up a large sheet of blue tarpaulin and held it up over their heads, so they and the children could shelter underneath. In no time at all, overflowing drains were spewing dark-brown jets of water into the streets.

  ‘But I’d have come anyway, even if you hadn’t told me anything last night.’

  Farah gave her a puzzled look.

  ‘Weeks ago, Satria declared that one of us would meet an unknown woman. She’d look oriental, like Indonesians with a Hindu background, but she’d be a foreigner with blue eyes.’

  Farah shook her head in disbelief.

  Satria, the old woman who’d been so delighted to see her this morning, who’d greeted her like a Pencak Silat warrior without knowing that she too was a practitioner … But then again, she must have realized, otherwise she wouldn’t have saluted her the way she had.

  ‘A woman I don’t know predicted I’d come here before I knew it myself. I can’t get my head around that,’ she said. ‘Besides, how did you know it was me?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Aninda said. ‘You looked nothing like Satria’s description, but when I spotted you during the demonstration I knew I had to help you. It was only because of the tear gas that I discovered you were wearing lenses and that your eyes were actually blue. Then, once you’d told me your story, I knew for certain.’

  The tarpaulin flapped fiercely in the wind and the rain beat down hard, but the children were crowing with delight. All of a sudden they were in an artificial underwater world, pretending to swim and puckering up their mouths and gulping like deep-sea fish. They roared with laughter. Then one of the women began to sing. The childre
n joined in.

  ‘Their favourite song,’ Aninda said with a smile. ‘It’s about dancing and shining brightly, like stars in the sky.’

  When they arrived back at the Waringin Shelter an hour later, the rain had moved inland and the sun was beginning to peep out from behind the clouds. The children jumped out of the pickup and ran shrieking into the courtyard, where the plants and trees looked even greener than before.

  She was back in a place she thought she’d never see again – a place where, as soon as she saw the large weeping fig last night, she’d immediately felt at home, as if by some strange geographical detour she’d returned to the garden of her childhood. For the second time in less than twenty-hour hours, she’d been rescued from a seemingly impossible situation by a woman she didn’t know, but to whom she’d revealed the most personal things; a woman who seemed to share her own determination and with whom she felt an emotional bond.

  As she looked around, inhaling the musk of wet earth and trying to get her bearings again, she saw a group of scruffy men and women, some clasping small children by the hand, accepting packages of food from the Waringin volunteers. She spotted Satria with her silvery-grey hair among them.

  The old woman observed her from a distance with that reassuring look in her eyes, as if to say, ‘Don’t worry, you’re meant to be here.’ This was the woman who’d foretold her arrival.

  She greeted Satria the way Pencak Silat practitioners do, and the old woman bowed in response before calmly continuing to distribute food.

  Aninda came and stood beside her with a warm smile on her face.

  ‘You’re someone with good karma,’ she said. ‘You’ve got guardian angels looking after you wherever you go.’

  ‘I guess I’m someone who needs a lot of looking after,’ Farah replied.

  She took the young woman’s hand, realizing that without her she’d probably be in a BIN cell by now, and together they walked further into the courtyard.

  3

  As he knocked back his second gin cocktail in the Dutch Bar on Holland Boulevard at Schiphol Airport, Paul watched a special edition of The Headlines Show on one of the big plasma screens.

  Exactly two hours earlier he’d stood in the huge AND atrium, explaining to an army of international journalists that the hostage-taking in the Seven Sisters and Farah’s alleged involvement had all been a ruse of the Kremlin’s.

  Now Cathy Marant, with a condescending look and her eye-popping breasts in a low-cut ready-to-wear suit, was presenting her take on things.

  ‘According to Chapelle, his former colleague Hafez is the victim of what he calls “media manipulation”. But who exactly is Paul Chapelle and how reliable a journalist is he?’

  Paul ordered a third cocktail and saw some old pictures of himself flash across the screen.

  ‘Chapelle, a former foreign correspondent at the AND, has left a trail of work-related conflicts at the various places he’s been posted – in London, Paris, Istanbul and, more recently, Johannesburg. As a result of his inflammatory articles on members of the South African government, he’s now on the official media blacklist there.’

  A photo from the Johannesburg police archives appeared on screen.

  ‘Not all that long ago, Chapelle was arrested in Johannesburg for assault and public intoxication.’

  Paul stared at the photo with horror. It had been taken after his last girlfriend, Susanne, was killed during a burglary at her home and the police blocked him from entering the crime scene. Yes, he’d been drunk, and yes, he’d knocked down the policeman who’d tried to stop him, and yes, five of them had then roughed him up and thrown him into a cell. But what was the point of including this in a news item on the press briefing he’d given this afternoon?

  ‘At his chaotic press conference, Chapelle really had it in for the CEO of AtlasNet, Valentin Lavrov, holding him directly responsible for what he described as “victimizing Farah Hafez”. Chapelle backed up his story with a handful of photos whose authenticity has since been questioned by a Russian government spokesperson. Should Paul Chapelle be taken seriously or is he a news manipulator himself? Find out in our main broadcast this evening. This was Cathy Marant with a special edition of The Headlines Show.’

  By now Paul had turned away from the screen and was dialling Farah.

  The first thing he noticed when she answered was how upbeat she sounded. It had been a long time since he’d heard her so determined and positive. Even now that sultry quality of her voice, which he loved so much, resonated with exuberance. Trying to remain as calm and collected as possible, he gave her a quick update on the press conference. It earned him a rich laugh. He heard raucous children in the background – the sound of cheerful chaos.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the Waringin Shelter, surrounded by guardian angels. I spoke with Saputra, Edward’s contact. He’s arranged for me to meet a mole in Gundono’s organization tomorrow.’

  ‘Can this Saputra figure be trusted?’

  ‘Edward knows him. He’s kept under surveillance, though. Shortly after our meeting he was picked up, probably by Indonesian State Intelligence.’

  ‘Jesus, Farah. That meeting tomorrow is either a set-up, or Saputra will crack when they interrogate him and you’ll end up walking straight into a trap.’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out, right?’

  Paul didn’t know which he found more challenging: her apparent naivety or her unyielding obstinance.

  ‘You’d love to put me on a leash, wouldn’t you?’ she said, laughing.

  ‘No. I’d like to help you out.’

  ‘You can help by listening to me.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘According to Saputra, the best way to expose Lavrov’s practices in Indonesia is through the man who introduced him to government officials.’

  ‘Gundono?’

  ‘Exactly. Gundono is not just the Finance Minister, he’s also the Chairman of the commission that granted the concessions for the new nuclear power stations. Through Gundono, we’ll find out how Lavrov pulled this off.’

  ‘How do we get to Gundono?’

  ‘Saputra says the facilities manager can smuggle me into Gundono’s headquarters and give me access to the computer network, but I’ve no idea how we’ll do it once we’re in.’

  ‘Sorry I can’t help you. It sounds awfully complicated. And I’m headed to Jo’burg shortly.’

  ‘Jo’burg? What are you going to do there?’

  ‘The evidence I was looking for – about the connection between Lavrov and the South African government – I can get my hands on it after all.’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘It turns out that the South African crime squad I’ve had contact with, the Scorpion Unit that investigates corruption cases, is working closely with Interpol. By the way, we know someone there.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘That’s to say, you do. Joshua Calvino.’

  He instantly regretted mentioning the name given the awkward silence that followed.

  ‘What’s Calvino –’

  ‘It’s a long story. The contact who was going to pass me information about Lavrov’s shady deals with the future President, Jacob Nkoane, was tortured and murdered at the meeting we’d arranged. But he’d backed up his findings … For me, and me alone. A kind of exclusivity clause. The South African crime squad has now approached me via Calvino and asked if I’m prepared to share that information with them.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘If it’s the only way to get hold of it, then yes.’

  ‘Jesus, Paul, this is always a tough call as a journalist. I know how much maintaining your independence means to you.’

  ‘It’s a lofty ideal I’m happy to sacrifice in order to build a watertight case against Lavrov. That’s what you want, right?’

  ‘So you’re doing this for me?’

  ‘No, I’m doing it for us.’

  There was a brief silence on the other end. The
children’s noises had died down. He could even hear her breathing – or was he imagining this?

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you think we’re going to be okay?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I’m certain we will.’

  ‘You’re really rather annoying, you know that?’

  ‘I’ve been told before.’

  ‘We’ll see each other again soon, right?’

  ‘Yes, we will, Farah, yes.’

  ‘Saya cinta kamu, Paul.’

  ‘Take care,’ he said awkwardly and ended the call.

  During his flight to Johannesburg, Paul tried to catch up on the TV coverage of his press conference on the small screen in front of him. CNN had an initial response from Valentin Lavrov. He was at the Ministry of Economic Affairs in The Hague, where he and Minister Lombard had signed the contract committing Russia and the Netherlands to realizing Europe’s biggest gas-distribution hub. It was set to be built in the province of Noord Holland.

  ‘I don’t usually react to libel,’ a relaxed Lavrov said, looking directly into the camera. ‘But let me tell you this: a so-called journalist who bandies about these kinds of allegations can be described only as an outrageous fantasist. I’d like to advise Mr Chapelle to leave journalism to people who are actually qualified and to apply for an acting job in Hollywood instead.’

  Via a satellite link with the Kremlin, a government spokesperson announced, ironically enough, that Paul had doctored the photos when it was exactly the opposite. Paul saw that same photo he’d taken of Lavrov and Farah on the balcony, looking out over Lake Glubokoe together, but the image on screen showed Lavrov on his own. In the second picture, it wasn’t Farah being bundled into the boot of the Falcon but a large suitcase. And the third showed a military vehicle being waved through the Seven Sisters cordon – not the Falcon with Arseni Vakurov inside.