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Authors: Jef Geeraerts

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BOOK: The Public Prosecutor
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“Hello!” The familiar de Ceuleneer blare.
“Everything OK?” Albert enquired.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Safe?”
“Yes.”
“Good news,” said de Ceuleneer.
“Oh…”
“He agreed.”
“What do you mean?”
“That he’s going to send someone who can do what you’re asking.”
“Oh…”
“You don’t sound very pleased.”
“No, I am, honestly.”
“But there’s a condition.”
“What condition?”
“He wants to rehearse the whole thing, on location.”
“Does he have to?”
“These guys are professionals. Ramiz says you can trust him. Hundred and ten per cent!”
“An Albanian?”
“What did you expect? And there’s another thing I was thinking about…”
“What?”
“That blackmailer of yours has a contact at the bank. If you ask for a rendezvous to hand over the money, he’ll probably call the bank first to make sure you’ve withdrawn the money. Himself or some go-between or other.”
Albert thought about it. De Ceuleneer was probably right.
“OK,” he said. “I’m expecting his call in an hour. I’ll arrange to meet him near the courts in Antwerp, not in Kortenberg.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll have more control over the situation should something go wrong.”
“
Go wrong?
”
“What did you think? This is a risky business, all things considered.”
“Have you thought about a location?”
“Yes, but I haven’t made up my mind yet. How can I get in touch with you?”
“My mobile number.”
“OK. Thanks, Walter.”
“Call me as soon as you’ve spoken to the bastard?”
“OK.”
“Cheers.”
De Ceuleneer hung up.
Albert leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. A trip to Geneva in the BMW seemed the best option, although it would take an entire day. The day after next he had to be in Brussels to chair a meeting of the college of public prosecutors. It would have to be tomorrow. He looked at his watch. Almost nine. He opened his correspondence folder, put on his glasses, and started to read the first letter without paying much attention. He automatically removed the fountain pen from his inside pocket and unscrewed the top.
 
At 9.55, Albert’s secretary informed him that he had a call.
“Please put it through.”
“Aha… Good morning Mr Savelkoul.” Polite, apprehensive, curious.
Albert clenched his teeth, his heart in his throat.
“Yes…”
He was furious.
The man revelled audibly in his victory.
“Is there news?”
“News? What do you mean?” asked Albert, trying to maintain his calm.
“About the… eh… the handover. The date… The place…”
“You can count Kortenberg out for a start. Not safe enough.”
“As you wish. Your preferences will be accommodated, where possible of course.”
Albert had an image of the peasant bastard’s mocking grin.
“I’ll know more the day after tomorrow,” he said.
“When should I call back?”
“The day after tomorrow. Same time.”
“Friday 4 June at ten.”
“Yes…”
Albert carefully returned the receiver to its cradle and took a couple of deep breaths to stave off a looming headache. Knowing he could rely on Ramiz Shehu’s help put his mind at rest, and there was no point in fretting about potential consequences. His usual defence mechanism (not thinking about a problem until it ceased to exist) didn’t work this time. He clenched his fists and pictured his hands around the little fucker’s neck, bashing his fat head against a wall until the blood squirted out of his nose…
The headache refused to subside. He called his secretary and asked her to bring a cup of strong black coffee. The word coffee made him think of Major de Vreker. He’d heard nothing from him about the strange goings on in Sint-Job-in-’t-Goor. Louise, Yamma, Soliman flashed through his mind. He would have to take his horse out for a ride one of these days. Without Maria.
He slammed his desk with his fist. She was alone at home, dressed in that infantile maid’s outfit while Madame was on her way to her appointment in his official car. He would ask the chauffeur later where they had been.
Much to his own surprise, he asked after his secretary’s health when she arrived with the coffee.
“Good, Public Prosecutor, thank you,” she replied, a rosy blush invading her cheeks.
“And your mother?”
“She’ll have to go into a care home, Public Prosecutor.”
“And have you found one?”
“No, not yet. It’s not easy…”
“I know, I know. I’d be happy to do what I can if you have no success.”
“Oh… thank you… Public Prosecutor,” she said with difficulty, her face now bright red.
She asked permission to return to her desk.
He responded positively with a friendly wave of the hand.
As he enjoyed his coffee, he yielded to a second urge: he called home on his mobile.
Maria Landowska picked up the phone.
“Hello,
kochanie
.”
“Oh, Mr Albert…”
“Hello.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, Maria. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
She started to sob gently. “You make me so happy…”
“See you this evening, Maria…”
She blew her nose. He hung up and slowly savoured his coffee, a strange smile on his face. He suddenly felt tired and old. The bloody pain had returned that morning, but hadn’t lasted long. Perhaps I should give Jokke a call one of these days, he thought.
He heard a cough at the door. His secretary came in with a fax. He waited until she had left the room and started to read: licence number 7RS 225 was registered to Avis Rent-a-Car in Leuven. Pity, he thought, no reference to driver. He folded the fax and stuffed it into his wallet.
At ten thirty on Wednesday 2 June, the sale of properties belonging to Baroness Marie-Amandine de Vreux d’Alembourg, presently residing at Amerikalei 124A, 2000 Antwerp, to Rumpus Ltd, domiciled in 1180 Brussels, proceeded in a most extraordinary manner.
Jozef Vromen (seventy-four), notary public resident in Ekeren, received her together with Baron Hervé van Reyn, General Vicar of Opus Dei in Belgium, in his run-down castle, surrounded by trees in the middle of a neglected park. The notary was a small man, gaunt and bald, and he wore a loose-fitting grey suit with stains on the lapels. He was slowly recovering from a stroke, which had left him with partial paralysis on his left side and speech problems. A confirmed bachelor, he lived alone with an elderly maid in the castle his grandfather had purchased in 1891, when he took over a colleague’s legal practice. With the exception of a coal-fired central heating system, the interior had been left unaltered since its purchase. Jozef Vromen occupied a couple of rooms above the offices and lived like a hermit. He started his working day in the house chapel with the recitation of a series of Ave Marias and ended it in exactly the same way. He had been an Opus Dei supernumerary for twenty years and served the institution as titular notary for the province of Antwerp. He did so on the sole condition that he would never be asked to accept a fee for his services. He was prepared to do whatever was permitted - or thereabouts - by law to promote the interests of his respected client. Even Baroness de Vreux was taken aback by the bizarre conditions in which the transaction took place. The three first made their way to the chapel, Vromen in front with his walking stick, dragging his left leg. Hervé van Reyn then recited a series of twenty Ave Marias at the top of his voice, so loud it echoed around the room. Van Reyn held Baroness Amandine’s hand as he prayed, evidently eliciting a sort of hypnotic trance and the dulled awareness generally associated with brainwashing as she accompanied the two gentlemen to the office.
Jozef Vromen then read the most important paragraphs of the deed of sale in a monotonous voice akin to the chant-like rhythm of the prayers they had just recited. Every ten seconds he moistened his lips with a reptilian lick of the tongue.
The property included a penthouse apartment located on the sea dyke at Knocke-het Zoute valued at forty million Belgian francs, a villa in Wijnegem with garden, swimming pool and caretaker’s residence valued at twenty-two million francs, and forty acres of woodland near Neupont-sur-Lesse valued at 6.8 million. The total value of the sale amounted to 68.8 million Belgian francs.
During the reading of the deed of sale, Hervé van Reyn kept his hand on that of Baroness de Vreux, an elated grin on his face. She seemed vacant, like an old woman with Alzheimer’s. Dressed in a blue blazer, grey trousers, striped shirt and military tie, van Reyn was the personification of
la noblesse belge
, a caste that had created privileges in centuries gone by, which they still enjoyed to the present day.
Van Reyn signed the deed of sale in the name of the purchaser, Rumpus Ltd. He underlined his flamboyant signature and concluded it with a full stop, a graphological characteristic of a dominant personality.
Amandine placed her signature mechanically to the right of his.
Baron van Reyn then handed her a dog-eared brown leather attaché case, and opened it himself. It was stuffed to the brim with ten-thousand-franc notes.
“Should I count it for you?” he said with a grin.
She shook her head and signed a receipt for the sum of sixty-eight million Belgian francs. She handed the receipt to van Reyn, who popped it in the blink of an eye into his inside breast pocket. Vromen spent the entire time apparently distracted by the contents of another dossier.
Van Reyn coughed. Vromen looked up, shook their hands and muttered: “Congratulations.”
The three made their way to the front door and took their leave of one another. Before they had left the castle, Vromen tore up the receipt for his standard fee of 131,941 francs, as a sign that he wished to donate the sum to the non-profit organization Atlantis, used by Belgium’s Opus Dei to launder its undeclared income.
Baron Hervé van Reyn gallantly carried the attaché case outside. When they arrived at the park’s open gate, he bowed and took his leave, the attaché case firmly under his arm.
“Haven’t we forgotten something?” he enquired with his trademark grin.
Noticeably taken aback, Baroness de Vreux pursed her lips, opened her handbag and handed him a bulging envelope without saying a word.
Inspired by the Opus Dei precept of Sacred Brazenness, Hervé van Reyn turned abruptly, without the usual courtesies, and walked towards his car, which was parked nearby. The envelope contained around ten million francs in shares and obligations, which Pla y Daniel had requested of her in Rome.
She made her way slowly and with difficulty towards the black Opel Omega, which was parked half a mile along the road near Saint Lambert’s church, with Albert’s chauffeur at the wheel.
 
Albert called Walter de Ceuleneer at ten thirty sharp and made an arrangement to meet the Albanian the following Thursday at nine in front of the church in Overbroek, a sleepy village between Brecht and Sint-Job-in-’t-Goor, which he knew like the back of his hand. He also informed de Ceuleneer that he planned to drive to Geneva that same day in a private car. De Ceuleneer cracked one of his classic jokes: prominent Belgians
always had their chauffeur do the driving
when they visited Luxembourg to deposit undeclared earnings. Albert did not miss his friend’s allusion to the so-called “KB-Lux” affair. He replied that the affair was destined to be swept under the carpet because Belgium’s elite had compromised itself yet again. You could compare it with the Nijvel robberies, he added, but without the twenty-eight deaths. De Ceuleneer was the only person with whom he dared to share such allusions. He asked if the stalking trip to Scotland was still on for 12 June. “Of course,” de Ceuleneer thundered.
After the call, he was seized by a fit of gloom. What in God’s name was he doing? He was the Public Prosecutor of Antwerp! He was in one of the most precarious situations you could imagine, for the simple reason that he had no authority to start a judicial inquiry. But once the mist had cleared, he was determined to conduct a discreet investigation into the whys and wherefores of the affair. Was there any connection with the attacks on Igor and Yamma? How had they managed to get hold of information on his account in Geneva? Who might benefit from driving him into a corner? Who had rented the car from Avis in Leuven? Was Amandine the spider at the centre of the web?
The thought of Amandine’s involvement particularly disturbed him. Powerlessness was like a vacuum he found impossible to square with his position of power as a magistrate, and his narcissism of course, which had helped him come to terms with events so quickly, even the sudden break-up with Louise.
BOOK: The Public Prosecutor
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