The Public Prosecutor (16 page)

Authors: Jef Geeraerts

BOOK: The Public Prosecutor

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At 10.25, the telephone rang at the Prelature of Opus Dei in Brussels. The receptionist answered the call. The caller asked to speak to the director. She asked the caller’s name. “Marlowe,” he answered. “One moment,” said the receptionist. Ten seconds later, Baron Hervé van Reyn said: “Hello…”

“Good morning, Perálta.”

“Marlowe…”

“You sound surprised.”

“Where did you find my number? We agreed that I would call you three times a day!” said van Reyn in a rapid staccato.

“True, but I think the information I have warrants my call.”

“Where did you find my number?”

“Simple, really, but aren’t you interested in what I have to say?”

“I’m listening,” said van Reyn, his voice evidently restrained.

“We’re seventy per cent sure of the woman in question. We have photos of her with another man.”

“I asked for photos of
the man in question
.”

“You can do a great deal more with the photos that are now on their way to you. They’re more… shall we say… convincing.”

“So they’re on their way here.”

“Yes.”

“I’m
not at all happy
with this procedure.”

“Look here, Perálta. In less than twenty-four hours you’ll have some very useable material at your disposal. If you’re not satisfied—”

“No, no, it’s not a question of being satisfied. I meant—”

“One moment, please, the shadow team have just reported in. Don’t hang up.”

Baron Hervé van Reyn held the receiver close to his ear without budging. He heart was in his throat. He sensed dampness in his armpits, something he abhorred because it was against Opus Dei rules to feel emotion. He was an officer in every sense of the word (priest and full-time servant of the army of Christ), infinitely superior to the ordinary foot soldiers, the married supernumeraries.

Marlowe kept him waiting more than ten minutes.

“Perálta?”

“Yes.”

“We’re now one hundred per cent certain. I have photos of the target with the lady in question. The same lady we photographed with another man yesterday evening in extraordinary circumstances. In front of the same house, no less.”

“In extraordinary circumstances?”

“Yes, you’ll see.”

“When can I expect the photos?” croaked van Reyn.

“A second messenger is on his way.”

“Can’t I collect them myself?”

“Come now, Perálta. I’ve known your identity for a long time.”

“Are you planning to continue?”

“If you say so, but if you ask me we have enough material to go on with.”

“You’ll send the bill?”

“The charges will be deducted from the advance. The remainder will be returned to you.”

“Can you give me a figure?”

“No, our team is still on location. The operation will be cancelled in an hour or so.”

“Hello?” said van Reyn, but the caller had hung up. He covered his eyes with his hands, not to pray but to stifle his regret at having been stupid and careless enough to allow the telephone number of Opus Dei to fall into the hands of a common detective agency.

At 10.45, immediately after his conversation with Marlowe & Co. - which had interrupted his customary imposed silence - Baron Hervé van Reyn telephoned the Rome headquarters of Opus Dei, introduced himself and asked in Spanish to be put through to the procurator general of the prelature. A few seconds later, Pla y Daniel’s cheerful voice announced itself on the phone: “
¿Que tal, amigo?
”

“
Muy bien. ¿Y tú?
”

“
Yo tambien
.”

“Good news, Joaquín.”

“Aha!”

“I have the Swiss bank account number and the balance.”

“Aha!”

“And the other matter is making splendid progress. We’re, shall we say, seventy per cent certain where the… eh… woman lives. Additional information is on the way.”

“Allowing us to be one hundred per cent certain?”

“
Exactamente
.”

“So, my dear Hervé, what are you planning to do?”

“That’s precisely what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s time to give him an initial jolt before his wife gets back to Belgium.”

“We can keep her here as long as you want. She’s on retreat at the moment, close by, here in the house. But what do you mean by ‘jolt’?”

“I plan to send someone with the news that his bank account in Switzerland has been compromised and invite him to transfer a significant portion of the balance. If he refuses, the information will be shared with the Belgian press.”

“What is the balance?”

“In lire or Swiss francs?”

“Either.”

“Two hundred and sixty thousand, nine hundred and twelve Swiss francs, and twenty-five centimes. Together with a substantial portfolio of shares and obligations.”

“How much do you intend to ask?”

“Two hundred thousand. I like round figures.”

“
Exactamente
. And who do you plan to send? Surely not an outsider?”

“Of course not! This is a strictly private matter. I had Paul Hersch in mind.”

“Great minds think alike. How is he?”

“He’s doing a sound job in Leuven. He had sixteen candidates on his Saint Joseph list this year. But his style is still a little, er… Flemish.”

“When do you plan to make a move?”

“I’ll call Hersch later this morning.”

“One more thing: Baroness de Vreux is dissatisfied.”

“Why?”

“She called Leuven and Paul asked her to call back around five thirty. When she did, he told her that her son was unable to speak to her because he had been
disciplined
.”

“Disciplined?”

“Part of his praxis was to give a lecture yesterday evening and Paul felt that his text had misinterpreted the words of blessed Josemaría.”

“Mmm. I still believe discipline is the responsibility of the local superior, in this case Paul Hersch. Time for me to get down to business. Don’t put off your work until tomorrow.”

“Saying 15. You’ll call me if there’s any progress?”

“Promise. When do you expect to visit Brussels?”

“In July. We can meet then and have dinner at l’Ecailler du Palais Royal.”

“It’s a date.
Ciao
, Joaquín.”

“
Ciao
.”

At 11:05, Baron Hervé van Reyn called Paul Hersch.

“
Bonjour
, Paul.”

“Hey, Hervé.”

Van Reyn smiled aloofly. He had difficulty dealing with Hersch’s casual manners. His painful lack of style was sure to limit his career prospects, but he didn’t take the slightest notice of the endless hints. The job van Reyn had in mind for him, however, might as well have been written for him.

“Paul, I need to talk to you about a delicate matter best not dealt with over the phone.”

“Cut the ceremony, Hervé. What can I do for you?”

“Do you have time to meet?”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“This afternoon? Let’s eat. I haven’t had a decent meal in ages. The girls from the Leopoldstraat can’t cook to save themselves.”

“In the Cygne?”

Van Reyn regretted his suggestion immediately, but it was too late to withdraw it.

“Fine by me. Twelve thirty?”

“I’ll be there, but try not to show up in that disgusting tracksuit.”

“A dinner jacket any better?”

“Smart but casual is good enough.”

“See you later.”

Baron Hervé van Reyn returned the receiver to its cradle with a sour expression on his face. “Pity there’s no one better,” he muttered. “If he screws up, O Lord, God only knows what will happen.”

He remembered he still had to say ten Ave Marias. He produced his rosary and started to pray out loud.

When Albert got out of his car that morning around eleven fifteen, the garage door of the farmhouse was closed. He honked his horn, but there was no response. The waste of crayfish and smoked salmon had put him in a bad mood the entire journey. How could fresh crayfish and salmon go off in one day?

“Don’t you believe me?” she had snapped.

He wasn’t inclined to insist. He honked a second time. Nothing. He got out and walked up to the front door. Locked.

“Shit!” he blurted, producing a key from his pocket.

Igor started to bark inside. He heard the bolt being drawn and the door opened. Louise, in black jeans and a T-shirt. She was as white as a sheet and had dark bags under her eyes. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had a cigarette between her fingers. Jesus, she’s beautiful, he thought. He wanted to kiss her, but she looked right through him and said nothing. She offered a customary cheek.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, disappointed at the frosty reception.

“I feel rotten,” she said in a little girl’s voice. “After everything that happened…”

“Sorry…”

She nodded and puffed at her cigarette, inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs and exhaling with composure.

Igor jumped up to greet him with a yelp. He leaned over and examined the two clamps on his neck, which were bright red from the antiseptic. His stomach ached. The hangover had left him without an appetite and he had been drinking coffee all morning. He sighed and looked around, ill at ease. She lay down on the sofa, puffing at her cigarette and staring into space.

“I should take a look at the horses,” he said.

“Fine.”

“Come, Igor,” he said, and he went outside.

He walked into the stables, with Igor running around him in circles. Soliman looked up and neighed deeply when Albert patted his flank.

“Hey, handsome,” he said in a high-pitched voice, walking to the front to stroke his nose. When Soliman smacked his lips, sticking out his tongue in the process, Albert pressed his cheek against his horse’s jaw and enjoyed the musky smell.

As usual, Igor playfully nipped at Soliman’s legs and the horse paid little attention. The dog slept in the stables often enough, but his relationship with Yamma was a different kettle of fish. Every time Igor came close, she snorted and flattened her ears.

Soliman neighed and stretched his neck.

“No, boy, no jaunt today,” said Albert. “The boss is dressed for work.”

Soliman stomped in the straw with his front hoof and lowered his head.

“Come on then, I’ll let you into the paddock,” he said. He pulled a halter over the horse’s ears, fastened it and opened the stable door. Soliman spun round with a jerk and bolted through the door as Albert pulled a halter over Yamma’s ears and chased her into the paddock. Both thoroughbreds bucked and galloped wildly in the open space. Their magnificent gait filled Albert with amazement. He whistled through his fingers. Soliman pricked up his ears and trotted over to his boss with a spring in his step.

“Your mother’s a jealous bitch, you know,” he said, because Yamma had remained at a distance, stomping on the ground and tossing sods of grass in the air.

He made his way to the saddle shed, where there was always a bag of bread set aside. But when he caught sight of his saddle he was taken aback. It was hanging upside down. He removed it from the hook and replaced it correctly. What he saw then surprised him even more:
the stirrup straps had been shortened a couple of notches
.

He marched stony-faced back to the house, where Louise was still flat out on the sofa with her perpetual cigarette.

“What happened to my saddle?” he asked abruptly.

She looked up. “What about it?”

“It was hanging upside down and the stirrup straps had been shortened.”

“I went for a ride this morning,” she said with her eyes closed and a pathetic twist of pain in her face.

“With
my s
addle?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Well, well… And I thought you didn’t feel good…”

“I just took her out for a quick trot.”

“Yamma?”

“Who else? Am I under interrogation or what?”

“Sorry. I let them both into the paddock.”