The Public Prosecutor (26 page)
Read The Public Prosecutor Online
Authors: Jef Geeraerts
The man stopped a hundred yards or so into the street next to a wine-red Ford Scorpio. Albert took a mental note of the registration number: 7RS 225.
The man unlocked the car with the remote. Albert opened the car door and got into the passenger seat, still holding tight to the CS spray in his raincoat pocket.
The man glanced at Albert, drew in his chin, produced an envelope from his inside pocket and handed it over. It was open.
The envelope contained a letter. He started to read its contents with his heart in his throat. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. When he opened his eyes again, the street outside seemed blurred, as if seen through an out-of-focus camera. He had difficulty breathing and his mouth was dry as a bone.
The man stared ahead in silence.
When Albert had recovered from his initial shock, he croaked: “What do you plan to do with this?” He was finding it hard to maintain his composure.
“What do you think?”
Albert stifled an outburst of rage. “
I
asked
you
a question,” he growled, barely able to control his voice.
I
asked
you
a question,” he growled, barely able to control his voice.
The man made a sort of hissing noise and started to stroke the steering wheel. “Look, Mr Savelkoul,” he began, as if he was about to make some kind of reasonable proposal. “I would like the sum… in the er… bank account… to be transferred… er… to
my
bank account.”
my
bank account.”
Albert took a deep breath, doing all he could to refrain from emptying the CS spray in the ugly little bastard’s face. “And if I refuse?”
They faced one another.
“Then the press will hear about it.”
Albert closed his eyes again and thought about the situation. As ever in such critical situations, his mind was working at full tilt. The procedure was too obvious. He knew from years of studying blackmail cases that this sort of unprofessionalism rarely achieved the desired goal. He was relieved, in a sense. He was more or less convinced that the man was bluffing, but he still found it difficult to understand how he had managed to get hold of his secret bank account number and details of his account. He decided to put him to the test.
“Did you say
transfer
?” he enquired with caution.
transfer
?” he enquired with caution.
“No, no… I meant cash.”
“I see. And what makes you think I can lay my hands on that kind of cash at short notice?”
“How much time do you need?”
“Where can I reach you?”
The man snorted with laughter. Albert noticed his bad breath.
“Mr Savelkoul, do you honestly think I’m
that
crazy?”
that
crazy?”
“Mr Maraudy de Moretus, call me tomorrow morning at ten o’clock sharp,” said Albert in an authoritarian tone. He noticed that the man shuffled uncomfortably, probably realizing how stupid he had been to use an aristocratic family name that didn’t exist.
Albert’s plan was taking shape in the meantime. His heart was beating normally, but his forehead was still clammy with sweat.
“So you agree…” the man said, as if surprised that it had all been so easy.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You’ll hear from me tomorrow at ten. Same number?”
“Of course,” Albert snapped. He opened the passenger door, stepped out and slammed the door behind him. He made his way towards his own car, his head held high, without looking back.
He cursed and cursed under his breath in an effort to calm himself. He walked as quickly as he could, which helped him to think and give shape to his plan. He knew from experience that repetitive action was the only way to get the better of his nerves. Once back in his car, he scribbled the registration number 7RS 226 in his pocket diary, grabbed his mobile and called a number.
“Hello!” a deep baritone barked.
“Walter? Albert here…”
“Ah, how are you, my friend?” Walter de Ceuleneer enquired in his inimitable West Flanders accent.
“Good. Do you have a moment?”
“You’re in luck, man. This is the only evening in the week I’m at home. Come on over. I’ll see if there’s a bottle or two of Le Pin in the cellar. Good choice?”
“Excellent. I’ll be there in about an hour.”
Albert switched off his mobile, started the car and drove slowly out of Brouwerstraat and onto Leuvensesteenweg. He turned right at the lights towards Brussels’s ring road and stepped on the gas. Determination was written all over his face and he was able to think clearly without the slightest effort. He was hypersensitive to the world around him, which enabled him to trust fully in his sixth sense (survival whatever the cost).
He put his foot down as he took the on-ramp for Brussels. The powerful six-cylinder motor purred with ease. An unfamiliar feeling took him by surprise - the conviction that revenge was his only remedy.
He had not noticed the car that had followed him from the church in Kortenberg. The driver of the VW Passat had employed the “hare” technique, driving one car behind the target for a while and maintaining full eye contact.
Albert didn’t need to get out of his car to ring the bell. The ten-foot-high gate made of high-grade steel glided open as he stopped in front of ‘Evergreen House’ on Baillet-Latroulei, one of the most exclusive residential enclaves of Antwerp’s leafy Brasschaat. He knew that the concrete pillars supporting the gate had scanner cameras attached, which registered the presence of vehicles stopping at the drive and sent video images to the house.
Albert drove through the gate and found himself at the beginning of a drive lined with mature beech trees, which wound its way through a broad-leaved wooded area. The BMW’s headlights illuminated a couple of full-grown rhododendrons as a pair of startled rabbits scuttled into the shrubbery, their white bobtails in the air. Roughly a hundred yards into the woods, he reached the edge of a lawn the size of a golf course, surrounding a residence that looked like a Moorish palace built for a Hollywood film set. A postmodern glass porch in the form of a truncated cone gave the place a Dallas-like finish.
The drive continued across the lawn, bordered on each side with halogen spots, and came to an end close to the porch, where a man appeared, dressed in a white bathrobe, glass of wine in hand, accompanied by a large, dark-brown dog. The man waved.
Albert got out of his car to a warm and friendly welcome from Walter de Ceuleneer, who embraced his friend and walked with him into the house, his arm over his shoulder. He was a good six inches shorter than Albert, and his bathrobe was pulled tight over his corpulent and unashamedly protruding belly. With the exception of a thin line of dark-blond hair, his expansive scalp was completely bald, and his head rested neckless on his massive shoulders. His movements were surprisingly swift and agile, a characteristic feature of many chubby-yet-healthy individuals. The magnificent Rottweiler sniffed Albert’s hand and disappeared.
They walked through an immense hallway with stairwells on either side leading to a pillared balcony and a circular stained-glass window, a miniature version of the famous rose window in Chartres cathedral. The marble floor was carpeted with a sixteenth-century map of the city of Roeselare, the owner’s birthplace.
“A glass of wine first!” exclaimed de Ceuleneer on his way to the salon. “Can I take your jacket?” His voice blared like a trumpet.
Albert took off his jacket and loosened his tie and collar.
The impressive hallway and enormous salon differed considerably in terms of style. The salon was the creation of a French interior designer, who had worked for the
président de la république
, among others. Straight lines, discreet colour combinations, modern fitted furniture, refinement itself if one didn’t include the paintings, most of which had been produced by artists from West Flanders in exchange for some favour or other. A life-sized replica of the Venus de Milo on a white pedestal graced the centre of the salon. One of the walls was completely taken up by Picasso’s famous dove, with the added features of a jet airplane and the word PALOMA on its tail, the name of Walter de Ceuleneer’s personal Lear Jet.
président de la république
, among others. Straight lines, discreet colour combinations, modern fitted furniture, refinement itself if one didn’t include the paintings, most of which had been produced by artists from West Flanders in exchange for some favour or other. A life-sized replica of the Venus de Milo on a white pedestal graced the centre of the salon. One of the walls was completely taken up by Picasso’s famous dove, with the added features of a jet airplane and the word PALOMA on its tail, the name of Walter de Ceuleneer’s personal Lear Jet.
They sat back on a leather sofa in front of an open fire with a Cape buffalo above the broad mantelpiece. De Ceuleneer half-filled a crystal red wineglass with an unusual “crackle” stem.
“New glasses?” Albert enquired as he tasted the wine.
“From Alain Chapel in Mionnay,” de Ceuleneer replied, in his opinion the best three-star restaurant in France, “eight points a piece…” (He had the habit of referring to a thousand Francs as
one point.
)
one point.
)
Albert couldn’t help smiling. He was used to de Ceuleneer’s comments, and this sort of camaraderie put him at ease for some unknown reason. He took a second sip and muttered approvingly.
“Annie’s not here,” said de Ceuleneer good-humouredly. “She’s trying to lose a few pounds at a fat farm in California.” At that he slapped his belly hard and roared with laughter, far enough from Albert’s right ear not to do any damage.
“Sam!” he bellowed. The Rottweiler sidled towards him and rested at his feet, his head on his front paws.
“Most women are content if their men are a little more attractive than a chimpanzee,” said Albert. He stretched and stared in silence at the tips of his fingers. He was having trouble coming to the point, especially about the amount of information he would divulge. He was confident nevertheless that Walter de Ceuleneer could keep his mouth shut, in spite of his extravagant manners, particularly when it was a matter of trust between friends.
“I’m being blackmailed,” he blurted, turning to face his friend.
De Ceuleneer raised his eyebrows, put down his glass and leaned back in his armchair.
Albert related the entire story with meticulous clarity, as if he was explaining a complicated legal case. He kept nothing back, except the break with Louise, something he considered completely unrelated to the blackmail question.
When he had finished his story, de Ceuleneer filled their glasses and stared pensively into space. “What are you going to do?” he enquired.
“Not cave in!”
“So you think he’s bluffing?”
“Yes. I’ve a fair amount of experience with this kind of thing. He’s an amateur. He made some major mistakes, the use of a non-existent aristocratic family name for one. And he used his own car without any attempt to disguise the plates. He also seemed to be unaware that a Swiss bank account can never be directly associated with a name and that their commitment to secrecy can only be challenged when drugs or murder are at stake, and even then it takes for ever and costs a fortune.”
“Any thoughts about the source of the account number?”
“I suppose we could force it out of him, but I’m not in the mood.”
“What then?”
Albert took a sip of wine, waited for a moment and said: “Show him who he’s playing with…”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“Put him in hospital for a couple of days.”
“Just like that!”
Albert hesitated for a moment, took another sip of wine and said decidedly: “We let one of your Albanian friend’s sidekicks have a go at him.”
De Ceuleneer didn’t react. He furrowed his brow and whistled gently through his teeth.
Albert thought: West Flanders! Typical commonsense wariness.
“Mmm… I see,” de Ceuleneer muttered. “Mmm…”
“Then he’ll give up,” said Albert, “guaranteed!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Only a number and a code name,” de Ceuleneer pondered. “And you’re certain that there’s no paper trail leading the codename to Albert Savelkoul?”
“Come on, Walter, haven’t you got an account in Switzerland? Only two people know about it: the manager of the bank and a lawyer.”
De Ceuleneer pretended not to have heard the last part of what Albert had said.
“The only possible connections between me and Geneva are telephone calls, but that’s circumstantial evidence.”
De Ceuleneer nodded understandingly. “What phone did you use?”
“My mobile.”
“Certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then the chances of them tracing you are close to none.”
“That’s what I figured,” said Albert.
De Ceuleneer thought for a second, nodded and said: “OK, I’ll give our friend Shehu a call, if that’s what you want.”
Albert thought: it’s just like having an everyday business conversation.
“Please,” said Albert and he sipped at his wine.
De Ceuleneer produced an ultra-thin mobile from his bathrobe and called a number without having to look it up.
“Ramiz, my dear brother, Walter here. How are you?” he said in a painful Flemish accent.
He gazed at the ceiling as Ramiz Shehu responded and when he had finished he held the phone close to his mouth and whispered so quietly that Albert had difficulty making him out: “It would be better to see each other personally, OK?”
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