The Public Prosecutor Page 4

  The problem at hand was more delicate than Albert had first imagined, but still relatively easy to solve, with the necessary courage of course. It had been exposed four years earlier by an environmental association of “guys in clogs and mohair socks” who had halted proceedings after the sudden death of their chief negotiator. The affair had been left to simmer at the Court of First Instance during that time, held up by so-called procedural errors discovered at the last minute by one of the big guns at a renowned Brussels legal firm. Another seven months and the case was due to lapse (de Ceuleneer’s reasoning was inaccurate. In every instance of forgery, the case in question did not lapse after the usual five years). That was the essence of the matter and the rest was bullshit, de Ceuleneer concluded with a meaningful glance in Albert’s direction. He had evidently been informed that Albert did not have a blank record when it came to sweeping “delicate cases” under the carpet. He dropped a few hints to this end with characteristic shrewdness. In 1983 (Albert was still first substitute to the public prosecutor at the time), the Antwerp CID announced an important drugs haul. The street value of thirty-five kilos of pure heroin was little short of spectacular in the early Eighties, more than one-hundred million Belgian francs. The press had had a field day and Albert had even appeared on television in front of a table with thirty-five sacks of white powder. But when the matter finally came to court, all hell broke loose: the heroin appeared to have changed all of a sudden into talcum powder. A month earlier, the “secure space” in the cellars of the Court of Justice, where the heroin was stored awaiting destruction after the publication of the court verdict, had been broken into. According to the public prosecutor’s spokesman, only a couple of files had disappeared from the cellar. The man was telling the truth, of course, and since the heroin appeared to have been left untouched, little fuss was made of the apparent document theft. New locks were placed on the doors and that was that. But sparks began to fly when the court was in session and demanded a supplementary expert’s report. It then became clear that the heroin had been stolen and the sacks had been filled with talc. Albert had been given charge of the inquiry, together with an examining magistrate who now worked as a legal advisor to a multinational. He could smell the smoke hanging over his head and he reacted accordingly by removing the dangerous statements provided by the accused, two Albanians from Antwerp’s criminal underworld, who had confessed that the plastic bags actually contained heroin. Records of the tests done by the forensic police, which supported the confession, also appeared to have vanished. Since the lack of concrete evidence had now robbed the case of much of its vigour, Albert had been particularly clement in his closing speech. The chairman of the Third Correctional Court, a thick-headed old man whose only interests were his stamp collection and his pension, followed First Substitute Savelkoul’s remarkable closing speech without question. The two Albanians were acquitted. Where was the heroin? It remained a mystery. An internal inquiry tried to solve the talcum powder issue but to no avail. The Public Prosecutor’s Office intervened and the affair was transferred to the Court of Appeal, where it died an inconspicuous death.

  The Albanians’ renowned defence lawyer, who had pleaded their case with remarkable reserve and just the right amount of indignation, was naturally aware of the ins and outs of the affair. He didn’t breath a word about the break-in at the court house, but he told his clients what had happened to the paperwork. They were good listeners. A little more than a week later, Albert received a telephone call at home during which a man with a German accent invited him to call a certain number in Geneva, identify himself with the code name Beaver and submit an account number. Albert took note. The next day he decided out of curiosity to do what the voice had asked. The people in Geneva informed him that the account was in credit to the sum of one million Swiss francs, the entire amount at Beaver’s disposal. Twenty-five million Belgian francs! His relationship with Louise was rich with passionate infatuation. In those days he earned eighty-eight thousand francs after deductions, most of which Amandine pocketed for “household expenses”. He had to manage as best he could with the rest and with the income from a small parental inheritance, which produced the princely sum of eighteen thousand francs per month. He had just bought a bracelet worth ninety thousand francs for Louise, money he borrowed from a bank. After the telephone call from Switzerland, he did what anyone else in his position would do. He pretended nothing was out of the ordinary and withdrew occasional sums from the account. He had in fact invested fifteen million in stocks and shares, which earned him an average of twelve per cent a year. The sense of independence from Amandine, who had discovered by this time he had a mistress, was incredible. A few days after the money was deposited in the Swiss account, one of the Albanians telephoned him, thanked him in cryptic terms and a deep husky voice for the inestimable service he had provided, and informed him in exotic Flemish that he could count on the Albanian community “for eternity”. He heard nothing more after that.

  Walter de Ceuleneer happened to have an acquaintance in the Albanian underworld, the owner of an antiques and curios shop in the old part of the city, where he would drop in from time to time.

  The Albanian’s name was Ramiz Shehu. The man had invested a couple of million, via the property firm WDC, in land with planning permission on Antwerp’s Left Bank, which he had purchased at an excellent price and which had quadrupled in value after a few years due to the construction of a supermarket. He had also paid part of the purchase price in cash under the table, a method de Ceuleneer employed to perfection. Since then, Shehu had sold him carpets, antiques, caviar and a second-hand Ferrari Testarossa at such favourable prices they had to have been stolen property. As with Albert, de Ceuleneer had managed to win over the Albanian without much effort and to such a degree that they now embraced each other when they met. One fine day, the man had made it clear to his “Belgian brother” that he was prepared to bring in specialists to take care of certain “chores”, but de Ceuleneer had wisely ignored the offer. His relationship with Albert was much more intimate. After the miraculous settlement of a case related to greenbelt land in the eastern part of the province of Antwerp (the minister for Environmental Planning intervened and granted building permission), he had invited him to the castle in Scotland, in his Lear Jet no less. The grouse were plentiful and the shooting was exceptionally good. They even stalked deer on another occasion. Louise had accompanied him, but she didn’t like killing animals. She spent much of her time with de Ceuleneer’s daughter Patricia, enjoying long horse rides in the unsullied countryside.

  After the holiday the two became “the Scottish Sisters”. He later offered Albert the farmhouse in Sint-Job, which he first had renovated, adding stables and a corral. The notary, who was in on the scheme, drew up the deed of sale in Louise’s name. Not a single word was said about settling accounts. And they had continued to be friends, calling one another for a chat on a regular basis, going to dinner with their respective girlfriends and, in the winter, hunting for wild boar in the Ardennes, where de Ceuleneer had a “bit” of land. After the favourable outcome of the case, de Ceuleneer no longer called on Albert’s services. He pretended nothing had happened and Albert found their gentleman’s agreement just fine.

  He drove through the centre of Sint-Job towards the dirt track that had been referred to as the Oude Baan since Napoleonic times. With the exception of Louise’s farmhouse, there were no other houses in sight and this suited them down to the ground. The paddock for the horses was surrounded by pine trees, which gave him a positive sense of security mixed with a nostalgic longing for years gone by. He was certain that no one in the village knew who he was. The farmhouse had a whitewashed façade, small windows with blinds and a chimney with a weathercock on a rustic tiled roof.

  He stopped at the garage adjacent to the house, which used to be a barn, and tooted the horn. The door was half open. A brown Labrador galloped outside and raced in the direction of his BMW. When Albert opened the passenger door, the
dog barked and turned in circles. He grabbed him by the head and shook him back and forth.

  “Igor! Good boy! Where’s the boss?”

  The dog raced into the garage and returned in seconds accompanied by a tall, slender woman in khaki riding breeches, a silk blouse and boots with brown greaves. She had long black hair, small breasts, slanting grey eyes and tanned skin.

  When Albert caught sight of her he closed his eyes and held his breath. Dear God, make this last, he murmured to himself. He had recently fallen prey to escalating moments of anxiety, but when she nestled up to him, warm and muscular, and her youthful fragrance reached him from what seemed so far away, he would open his eyes in amazement and inhale the scent of the pine trees. It’s spring, he thought, and this beautiful young woman is all mine. What could be better? A different sensation coursed through his veins, which reminded him of being young and carefree.

  “You smell like ground rusks,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Nut case!”

  They pursed their lips and kissed, the tip of his tongue caressing her teeth. He had learned the technique years before from a whore. The suggestion of tobacco in her mouth gave him goose bumps and he put his arm around her waist. He sensed a shiver run from her lower back to her shoulders. He thought about the Third Woman according to Buddha.

  “I brought some goodies,” he said, burying his nose in her hair.

  “Mmm…”

  “Caviar… crayfish… smoked salmon.”

  “Weren’t we planning to go for a ride first?

  “Sure. Is Yamma OK?”

  “The vet says it’s not colic after all. She must have eaten too much spring grass. Thoroughbreds can’t handle it, he says.”

  “Did you pay him?”

  “Yes, fifteen hundred.”

  “So she’s fine?”

  “Sure, she’s fine.”

  He had to laugh at her Boston accent, which she had picked up from him.

  They made their way to the car, Igor turning in circles around them.

  “It’s high time we bought some sheep,” she said with a grin.

  “And why should we buy sheep?”

  “Igor isn’t a Labrador.”

  “No? Then what is he?”

  “A shepherd. Look at the way he’s protecting us.”

  “The Good Shepherd,” he proclaimed, “lays down his life for his sheep. It’s in the Bible.”

  “Shit!”

  He opened the rear passenger door of his BMW and removed a plastic bag from the back seat.

  “We should put this in the fridge.”

  “Whatever you say, Dad.”

  He held back, remembering the time he had stingingly reacted to her remark as if it were yesterday.

  They went into the front hall, where her “horse collection” was displayed on an out-of-place empire chest of drawers. The showpiece was a polychrome Chinese wooden horse with saddle but without rider, which he had bought her for her birthday from an antique dealer on Brussels’s Zavel market.

  The living room with its rustic open hearth was soberly furnished, if one did not count the enormous white leather sofa and the twenty or so cuddly toys stacked side by side and on top of one another in the middle. A couple of Henry Alken hunting scenes decorated the walls, not unlike his house on Amerikalei. A .22 FN Trombone rifle graced one of the corners.

  She relaxed in an armchair, lit a cigarette and absently flicked through a copy of Vogue. He made his way to the kitchen, placed the bag in the fridge and moved on to the bedroom. When he returned five minutes later in riding breeches and boots, tweed jacket and riding hat, she looked at her watch.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “OK.” She stubbed out her cigarette determinedly.

  The gaunt, pale-faced priest stared unwaveringly at the blue-suited woman lying flat on her belly on the floor of the crypt, her arms outstretched, in front of a solid silver railing, the massive marble tomb behind it covered with lilies and engulfed by a vague smell of vanilla. The crypt had an extraordinary oval shape surrounded by a wooden gallery on the ground floor and what appeared to be a second level. The gallery was filled with pews where women either leaned forward with their hands over their eyes as if deep in prayer, stared into the distance or took notes in a writing pad. It was deathly quiet. Every now and then a woman would leave the gallery, noiselessly passing the woman on the floor without disturbing her. The women were dressed for the most part in the same black or grey knee-length skirts, white long-sleeved blouses, flat shoes and pallid nylon stockings. They wore their hair short and there was no evidence of make-up. They walked to the railing, to which a round silver medallion depicting the head of a man in relief had been fastened, touched it with their right hands and raised it to their lips. They remained standing with their heads bowed for a few seconds and then left the crypt.

  The priest watched motionlessly as the woman on the floor struggled to her feet. The woman looked at him. He returned a brief nod. Both touched the medal, raised their hands to their lips, and made their way silently to the exit. They found themselves in a corridor with bare marble walls, ascended a flight of stairs and entered a chapel with a simple altar and a red sanctuary lamp. They both kneeled and crossed themselves, walked through the room and ascended another flight of stairs, steep and narrow as a mine shaft. The priest took the lead, climbing two stairs at a time. The woman was unable to keep up the pace and stopped halfway, out of breath. The priest continued. At the top of the stairs he looked down at the woman with what appeared to be a derisive sneer on his face. He glanced at his watch and waited. The woman slowly climbed the remaining stairs.

  “Forgive me, Father,” she gasped. “I’m not as fit as I used to be.”

  The priest pretended not to have heard her.

  After a maze of corridors and stairs, some leading upwards, some downwards, they arrived back in the corridor with the portrait, where they stood for a moment. The priest walked to the parlour door, opened it with brusque impatience and invited her to lead the way.

  They sat in the same chairs as they had an hour before.

  He ill-temperedly opened the file, which was still lying on the table, removed a sheet of paper with a typed text, tapped his glasses and started to read.

  The woman fished a handkerchief from her handbag and blew her nose. He looked up for an instant, put down the sheet of paper and turned his gaze to the ceiling. “Your father,” he commenced, “appears to have bequeathed you - inter vivos - a portion of the family property, consisting of a penthouse apartment in Knokke-het Zoute, a villa with garden, pool and concierge in Wijnegem, and fourteen acres of woodland in the Belgian Ardennes. Am I correct?” “Indeed, yes—” Her voice was toneless.

  “And was there an agreement to share assets?”

  “Of course not—”

  “So you have full title to the assets?”

  “Yes—”

  “Shares and bonds? Money? Other resources?”

  “No, Father,” she answered almost inaudibly.

  “Are you telling me the truth?” he asked with a penetrating look.

  She sat upright and said: “What do you think?”

  “Personally, I have no thoughts on the matter, but Saying 367 of our holy founder, Il Beato Josemaría’s The Way states: ‘Even the most exquisite dish turns into pork if it is eaten by a pig. Let us not be animals like so many.’”

  “What are you implying, Father?”

  “What am I implying?”

  “Yes.”

  “That liars are worse than animals! That’s what I’m implying.”

  “There are shares to the value of roughly ten million Belgian francs…”

  He whacked the table with the flat of his hand, snorted and started to laugh scornfully. “Is that everything?”

  She nodded and hung her head.

  “Look,” the priest continued, “before we go any further, allow me to ask you a pertinent question: do you still wish us to negotiate with the Belgian Roy
al Family on the question of an aristocratic title for your husband, a hereditary title that would pass to your two sons?”

  The woman sat upright and a self-satisfied smile appeared on her lips. “My dearest wish, Father. Public Prosecutor General Savelkoul is a commoner and unfortunately my sons bear his name…”

  “We are aware of this.”

  She said nothing and stared at him anxiously. He waited, evidently searching for the correct words. He then spoke with hesitation, as if his sentences were divided into segments.

  “We are prepared… to intervene… with the Private Secretary to His Majesty King of the Belgians… The man is one of our cooperators. He is well disposed towards us, although not a member.”

  “Precisely…”

  “He has so much influence… A recommendation from him… always meets with a positive response… from His Majesty… We speak from experience… His coat of arms does not bear the emblem Dieu est Mon Epée for nothing…”

  He closed the file and looked beyond her to the figureless cross on the wall.

  “We have a notary in Belgium, a supernumerary member of Opus Dei, prepared to do whatever is necessary…”

  “Whatever is necessary?”

  “He will fill you in on the details,” he responded arrogantly.

  “Surely not the entire family patrimony?…”

  “Rest assured, you will have enough left to live according to your station in life.”

  The woman nodded.

  The priest leaned forward and grinned victoriously. “Now to a completely different matter…”

  She looked at him.

  “I suppose you are aware of the… er… the Public Prosecutor’s extramarital behaviour?”

  The woman closed her eyes, her frown coinciding with a painful twitching.

  “Is my question clear enough?”

  She nodded in the affirmative.

  “Alors…”

  “I have known about it for a long time, Father.”