The Public Prosecutor (34 page)
Read The Public Prosecutor Online
Authors: Jef Geeraerts
“Where’s the Moroccan?” said Alia in a thick Antwerp accent. “I’m Albanian!”
“OK, the dirty Albanian bastard laying into the bald guy with one of those truncheons,” Vissenberg repeated. “I set Bruno on them and he put a stop to it in no time, eh boy!”
The Doberman wagged its short tail a couple of times.
“And the other gent?” enquired Verhaert, who had the habit of referring to everyone not in the force as a “gent”. He checked to see if Hersch was still breathing and examined the telescopic truncheon, but said nothing.
“He’s been well taken care of, if you ask me,” said Vissenberg. “One of his legs is broken. That brown fucker was like a madman.”
“Nothing else?” asked Verhaert.
“Wait a minute. Yes! There was a car parked in the street next to the girls’ school. He drove off without lights when the bald guy started to squeal. I’m pretty sure it was a Volkswagen.”
“And you? Where’s your bike?” Verhaert asked Alia, pointing to his leathers.
“Back there, not far,” Alia answered, pointing in the direction of Sternhoven.
“Cuff ’im, Jos,” Verhaert ordered, “and see if you can find his bike.”
“Right away, boss,” Peeters answered, skilfully cuffing Alia and disappearing towards Sternhoven.
“Let’s get the whole shebang on paper,” said Verhaert, “and maybe we should call an ambulance for the bald gent.”
“Fancy a pint?” Vissenberg enquired.
“Never been known to say no…” said Verhaert.
He made his way over to the police van, switched off the blue rotating lights, grabbed a pile of official statement forms and brought them to the café, where Vissenberg had switched on the lights.
Verhaert sat down at one of the tables, removed his cap and placed it next to the pile of papers.
Vissenberg arrived with a couple of pints. They clinked glasses and Verhaert said: “Can I see your ID card? Just a formality…”
“No problem,” said Vissenberg, and he disappeared behind the bar.
“Shit! That bloody ambulance,” said Verhaert. “Let’s see if the bugger’s come to…”
He made his way outside. The Albanian was on the ground with his hands behind his back; the bald gent hadn’t budged an inch.
“These cuffs are too tight,” Alia complained.
“Shut it, Mustafa!”
Verhaert returned to the police van and called St Joseph’s hospital in Westmalle.
Vissenberg reappeared in the café with a blanket under his arm.
“Shouldn’t we get the bald guy inside?” he asked. “I brought a blanket.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Verhaert, emptying his glass in one go.
As they were carrying the wounded man into the café, Vissenberg noticed something on the ground: a brown paper package, sealed with sticky tape. He pointed it out to Verhaert.
“We’ll take it along for evidence,” he replied formally.
The man regained consciousness when they laid him on the blanket. He started to groan and grabbed at his right arm, which appeared out of joint.
23
On Wednesday 9 June around quarter past eleven, Baron Hervé van Reyn readied himself for an unusual event: a têteà-tête with His Majesty’s private secretary, Baron Pierre van Peers de Grâce, known to those who did not appreciate him as “the viceroy of Belgium”. He was a man of tradition in every respect, and his family had enjoyed political and economic influence since the time of Leopold II. Several members had been associated with the Société Générale de Belgique since the birth of the Belgian state and many of them held senior military and diplomatic ranks. The van Peers had a long-established reputation for tremendous piety, extreme conservativeness and, unusually among the aristocracy, acute intelligence.
Pierre’s wife, Baroness Charlotte Drieu de la Rochelle, had been responsible for the civil list for a considerable number of years in the Royal Household of King Boudewijn. None of his family had ever married a “commoner”, as the nobility disdainfully described it. He had no direct connections with Opus Dei, although he taught Forestry Law at the Université Catholique de Louvain, Belgium’s Opus Dei stronghold, and the Institut Catholique des Hautes Études Commerciales in Brussels. Although he was supportive of Opus Dei, Baron Pierre belonged to a sect established in Belgium by Cardinal Suenens - The Catholic Charismatic Movement - which preached a strict interpretation of the Gospel, with an emphasis on the power of the Holy Spirit. In terms of ethics and religiosity, he was more or less on the same wavelength as King Boudewijn. Queen Fabiola also appeared to have been over the moon with the appointment of such a devout personal secretary. Her husband the King lived in fear of the Lord, was a furious opponent of abortion, and was not afraid to declare paedophilia, prostitution and woman-trafficking to be sins crying out for revenge. Baron Pierre still joined Fabiola, Albert, Paola, Lorenz, Astrid and Filip every week for prayer and praise in the palace chapel at Laken. He was also Crown Prince Filip’s “spiritual director”. There was little doubt that he had personally inspired King Boudewijn to refuse to ratify the law on abortion.
Baron Pierre, who was a secret admirer of Machiavelli and Baltasar Gracián, must have taken great pleasure in his influence on the King. Infiltration and intrigue were in his blood. He openly idolized Baldassarre Castiglione and his book
Il libro del cortegiano
, and had learned lengthy passages off by heart: “The perfect courtier must use his accomplishments to win the heart and appreciation of the prince in such a way that he is able and determined to tell him the truth in everything he should know without fear of displeasing him; and if he is aware that the prince is of a mind to do something wrong, he should have the courage to contradict him and make use of the favour won by his accomplishments to rid his mind of every false intention and keep him on the path of virtue.”
Il libro del cortegiano
, and had learned lengthy passages off by heart: “The perfect courtier must use his accomplishments to win the heart and appreciation of the prince in such a way that he is able and determined to tell him the truth in everything he should know without fear of displeasing him; and if he is aware that the prince is of a mind to do something wrong, he should have the courage to contradict him and make use of the favour won by his accomplishments to rid his mind of every false intention and keep him on the path of virtue.”
He had only three arch-enemies: freemasons, Marxism and the supporters of liberalizing abortion. He had two nicknames. The humanists called him
Saint-Pierre
and the leftist fanatics
Rasputin
. He never gave the slightest hint of his rancour towards everything related to free-thinking or secularism. The smile of the perfect courtier was a permanent feature, no matter what the circumstances. He also possessed an aristocratic talent for correctly gauging the amount of affability one should display. He was considered a “
Grand Commis de l’Etat
”, a nobleman who exercised power behind the scenes, someone with a blind devotion to his origins, an obsession taken to be a proper respect for the past. Such individuals find life difficult to grasp and tend to take refuge in formalism instead.
Saint-Pierre
and the leftist fanatics
Rasputin
. He never gave the slightest hint of his rancour towards everything related to free-thinking or secularism. The smile of the perfect courtier was a permanent feature, no matter what the circumstances. He also possessed an aristocratic talent for correctly gauging the amount of affability one should display. He was considered a “
Grand Commis de l’Etat
”, a nobleman who exercised power behind the scenes, someone with a blind devotion to his origins, an obsession taken to be a proper respect for the past. Such individuals find life difficult to grasp and tend to take refuge in formalism instead.
A black court Mercedes, registration number 31, pulled up in front of the restaurant Comme Chez Soi at twelve o’clock sharp. The chauffeur, in dark-grey uniform and cap, opened the rear passenger door, and a balding man in a dark-grey suit stepped out. He was short and thickset, with a heavy ball-shaped head and a stubby neck. He was wearing glasses with thick lenses and looked for all the world like a church verger or a complaisant Civil Servant. He looked anxiously left and right until he caught sight of Hervé van Reyn hurrying towards him. He smiled and held out his hand as they exchanged the customary high-pitched “
Mon cher Pierre, mon cher Hervé
”. Van Reyn had sent Baron Pierre the de Vreux file in an envelope marked “Strictly Personal”, and the Baron had managed to review it in a short couple of days, something van Reyn considered “ominous, in the third sense of the term”, in other words: promising.
Mon cher Pierre, mon cher Hervé
”. Van Reyn had sent Baron Pierre the de Vreux file in an envelope marked “Strictly Personal”, and the Baron had managed to review it in a short couple of days, something van Reyn considered “ominous, in the third sense of the term”, in other words: promising.
The King’s private secretary was known to enjoy veiling himself in a cloud of mystery. Van Reyn, on the other hand, was barely able to control his curiosity. They descended the stairs into the restaurant, where they were warmly greeted in French by a female manager wearing a multicoloured silk outfit decked with jewellery. She led them into the “salon royal”, which was reserved for the royal family and a few select non-royals. While they relaxed in one of the salon’s comfortable armchairs, a waiter appeared with two glasses of orange juice on a silver tray. When the waiter, whom they completely ignored, had left the room, they sipped their juice and stared at each other with wide innocent eyes, as if they had met for the first time.
“Et comment va Brigitte?
” van Reyn enquired.
” van Reyn enquired.
“She’s in Tuscany with a friend who cultivates the most exclusive roses in the world.
La contessa della Gherardesca
…”
La contessa della Gherardesca
…”
“Aha, I met her once with Prince Aquaviva.”
The King’s private secretary did not only speak with a high-pitched voice, he was also exceedingly nervous, a characteristic he put down to his high IQ. He was a member of an international club of extremely gifted individuals, many of whom were inclined to babble at a rate of knots without listening.
“Mm… Tuscany is one of the most magnificent places I know, especially in the spring. In July and August… pff,” scoffed van Reyn, who never took his vacation in the tourist season.
Van Peers agreed wholeheartedly, gestured stereotypically with his limp wrist, his head to the left, his nose in the air. He wore his wedding ring and nothing more. The idea of a signet ring with the family coat of arms was pure ostentation. After all, everyone knew well and good who he was.
“You and yours?” he enquired, with a noncommittal allusion to Opus Dei.
“Procurator Pla y Daniel is particularly pleased with the Belgian prelature.”
“Did I ever tell you,
mon cher
Hervé, that I once received a blessing from his great uncle, the primate of all Spain, on the Feast of the Ascension 1963.”
mon cher
Hervé, that I once received a blessing from his great uncle, the primate of all Spain, on the Feast of the Ascension 1963.”
“In Toledo?”
“No, in Avila. He was inaugurating a statue of some local saint or other.”
“Is it true that he was the last to insist that people kiss his red slippers?”
“I wasn’t aware of it.”
Van Peers sipped at his glass and smiled charmingly in van Reyn’s direction. He had a knack for being able to transform his smile from run of the mill to broad in a second, a bit like switching an electric radiator on and off. He had indeed kissed the slippers of a senile old man in red who weighed more than four hundred pounds, but he preferred to keep it to himself.
“Shall we?” said van Peers, glancing at his watch and abruptly standing up.
“We still have a few minutes, I hope…”
“I have an appointment at two, but the menu was agreed on the phone.”
Van Reyn nodded and followed the private secretary into the small dining room next to the salon royal, where an oval table with a large candelabra had been set for two. He noticed that van Peers had no documents with him and this made him uneasy.
They had barely taken their place at table when two waiters appeared with the first course - mixed salad with chunks of lobster. Spa mineral water was served in crystal glasses. The private secretary liked to give the impression that he was a teetotaller, although in private he was a keen drinker of wine and champagne.
They looked at one another, made a synchronized sign of the cross, closed their eyes and prayed in silence. After a second sign of the cross they began to eat.
“Mm…” both men droned after tasting their first forkful.
“Nothing can beat Comme Chez Soi,” said van Reyn, who preferred De Karmeliet in Bruges, but knew that van Peers did not share his opinion.
They ate in silence, tearing portions from an elegant bread roll, dabbing their lips after every sip of the glass, knife held like a paintbrush between thumb and middle finger, little finger stiff and upright.
“So, how is our friend Paul Hersch getting on these days?” van Peers enquired without looking at van Reyn. He ate quickly without savouring his food, as if he wasn’t interested in fine cuisine.
Van Reyn was taken aback. Had van Peers smelled a rat? After being informed by Marlowe & Co. on the telephone about what had happened that Monday night, he had reacted exactly as the Jesuits had done for centuries: he pretended there was nothing going on. Opus Dei’s Belgian prelature was thus prepared to leave its senior numerary in the lurch and would deny any involvement in blackmail. Van Reyn had made enquiries at Saint Joseph’s Hospital in Westmalle via a doctor - an Opus Dei cooperator - who informed him that Paul Hersch was in a bad way. He had spent twelve hours in intensive care with a double cranial fracture, a herniated neck disc, a broken arm and a host of bruises and contusions over his entire body. The doctors only realized at the last minute that one of his kidneys had been punctured and they had to operate to remove it. The surgeon had smiled and told him to look on the bright side: he could still live a normal life with one kidney. Fortunately, Hersch had been wise enough to offer no further details about his address, which was taken to be an ordinary apartment on Leuven’s Tervuursevest. According to van Reyn, the Marlowe & Co. detective had reacted adequately, ensuring the avoidance of any direct association between the crime and Opus Dei. If it were necessary (he had already consulted Pla y Daniel on the matter), they were even prepared to deny ever having known Paul Hersch. A barrister at the Public Prosecutor’s Office in Brussels and an Opus Dei supernumerary had already been informed of the affair. He had promised to keep a close eye on developments at the Public Prosecutor’s Office in Antwerp with the help of a cooperator who worked there. Appropriate measures would be taken in due course and he was prepared to intervene if necessary, although convention disapproved.
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