The Public Prosecutor Page 9

  “What’s the procedure?”

  “First a rectal.”

  “Will it hurt?”

  “Not a bit, idiot. A finger, nothing more.”

  “Bah!”

  “The urologist, is he good?” Albert persisted.

  “Among the best, if you ask me.”

  “Is this kind of stuff normal at my age?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “Nothing abnormal about it. King Boudewijn hit the jackpot at sixty.”

  “Hmm… Now I feel a lot better! Tell me, Jokke…”

  “Mm?”

  “After the operation… will I still be able to, you know, do the business?”

  “Absolutely, but with one minor difference.”

  “A difference?”

  “Yep. Retrograde ejaculation.”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “The sperm doesn’t come out.”

  “What?”

  “You come internally.”

  “Ouch!” he yelped.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “A touch. Internally?”

  “In the bladder. But there’s no problem. It’s a bit late to be thinking about children. You come as before, only nothing gets wet. We call it a dry orgasm in the trade, ha ha ha.”

  “You wouldn’t be laughing if you could feel what I feel right now.”

  “Nine out of ten it’s a false alarm. I’ll see you in the morning about ten thirty, OK?”

  “Fine.”

  “The class structure is part of God’s plan.”

  “You can laugh: better to say that God has monthly scores to maintain.”

  He hung up and immediately called her number.

  No answer.

  Skin against skin (she on his lap, her arm round his neck), Louise and Johan D’Hoog sat on the floor, stroking Igor’s head.

  Louise kissed D’Hoog’s naked shoulder and her Labrador’s snout in turns. She was wearing beige satin panties edged with lace, delectable against her smooth, straight thighs. Her nipples were like unripe raspberries on her small breasts. D’Hoog’s hairy chest was just as brown as Louise’s East Indian skin. He looked like a flamenco dancer.

  Louise suddenly took hold of his neck, rested her head against his ear and whispered: “I love you more than ever, my wild gypsy thoroughbred, my Julius Caesar, my sizzling stallion.”

  “Crazy as ever,” D’Hoog growled, gently squeezing his right middle finger into her anus (which he called my little poop hole).

  “Mm, Johan… keep it up and you’ll make me come…” Louise groaned, biting his shoulder, tugging his body hair with her teeth.

  “We leave tomorrow for Botswana!” he shouted all at once, turning to face her and kissing her passionately.

  Igor lifted his head with a jolt.

  “Silly Billy, you’re scaring our baby boy!”

  “Come, let’s stroke his head together while I work your little rosebud.”

  “I prefer little poop hole.”

  “Come closer so I can kiss you.” He leaned forward and took hold of her buttocks. She threw back her long black hair and settled onto her belly. He pulled her panties aside and told her it was an octopus, a burst fig, a soft-boiled egg. He licked her gently and she whimpered.

  “Go ahead. Do whatever you want with it. As long as you mate with me like a stallion.”

  “Your stallion’s ready to go.”

  “Come. Doggy style. Your mare is waiting. Mate with me!”

  “You’re not going to kick me like a true thoroughbred mare when a stallion gets close?”

  “Shut up and get on with it.”

  He lay down beside her and caressed her back, like fine silk to the touch. She opened her thighs. His penis was erect, immense and brown, its head purple and throbbing.

  “Are you wet enough?”

  “Drenched!”

  “Whoa, horny mare.”

  “Come, my stallion, my stud, come!”

  He groaned as he glided inside her, gently rocking to and fro.

  “Deeper!”

  He pushed deep inside her until he felt his penis touch her womb. She slipped her right hand under her legs and started to finger her clitoris.

  “Are you ready to come?” he panted, his mouth against her ear.

  “If you shoot, I’ll come.”

  He picked up the pace.

  “Ah… I’m coming!” she squealed. “We’re mating, we’re mating.”

  He grunted and ejaculated while she clawed the carpet and tossed her head from side to side.

  “Twelve rounds, I counted,” she said as they lay gasping. She puffed and giggled.

  “With you it just keeps on coming, fucking bitch.”

  “Johan…” she said, all girly and helpless.

  “Mm?”

  “I can’t live without you.”

  “What about the old man?”

  “Leave it. He’s out of the picture.”

  “He still pays his visits—”

  “Yeah right, to exercise his horse and complain about his wife who won’t give him a divorce, and the New Political Culture they finally managed to contain, and the never ending magistrate appointments, and how lucky he is they haven’t abolished the fucking system.”

  “Doesn’t his wife have a touch of blue blood?”

  “Yes. Stinking rich, apparently. But hopeless in bed, if he’s to be believed. Holier than the Pope. Last week she took a train full of sick people to Lourdes. Played the nurse.”

  “Pff. Why didn’t she become a nun? What about him?”

  “Used to be OK, but now… forget it.”

  “What age is he?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “Hmm, public prosecutor,” D’Hoog pondered out loud and sat upright. He then burst out laughing and kissed her nipples each in turn.

  “Come, let me clean you up,” she said. She took a towel that was lying on the floor beside her and started to dry his half-erect penis and kiss it at the same time.

  “Dry that pussy of yours, twit.”

  “Are you going to take me again?”

  “Later. I’m hungry.”

  “Me too. There’s all sorts of stuff in the fridge. Fancy some champagne?”

  “Do you need an answer?”

  “And there’s smoked salmon, crayfish and caviar.”

  “Sounds like a feast.”

  She got to her feet and wobbled towards the kitchen, the towel held between her thighs. “Shall we eat on the floor?” she shouted.

  “If you want.”

  She returned with a plastic bag from which she produced three tin-foil parcels and a tin of Iranian caviar. She spread everything out on the floor and headed back to the fridge to collect the bottle of champagne Albert had opened that afternoon and recorked. She placed two crystal tulip glasses on the floor and D’Hoog filled them to the brim.

  “Chin chin.”

  They drank. She knelt down in front of him and squirted champagne in his mouth.

  He did the same and then removed the tails from the crayfish, which were already cut open, and they began to eat. He opened the tin of caviar and sniffed at it. Igor joined them and stared at the tin with interest.

  “Is he allowed that sort of thing?” D’Hoog asked, his mouth full of food.

  “He’s crazy about caviar.”

  He balanced some on his thumb and Igor greedily licked it up.

  “Caviar’s not really my thing,” he said.

  “I love it,” she said, “but not tonight.”

  “Sevruga,” he said, reading the text on the lid.

  “Not the best. Beluga’s my favourite, but a kilo costs seventy thousand.”

  “Pampered, eh? Shall I give him some more?”

  “Yes, but leave some in the tin in case he asks for it.”

  D’Hoog shrugged his shoulders, closed the lid and tossed the tin on the floor.

  The computerized voice of the Travel Pilot RGS 06 announced
the Oude Baan. Voorhout, who was at the wheel of the Mercedes van, stepped on the brakes. The headlights revealed a dirt track leading into a pine forest.

  “What a fucking jungle,” said Materne.

  “Let’s drive a bit further.”

  The track was bumpy and overgrown on either side with silver grass. They made slow progress.

  “Look,” said Voorhout, catching sight of a car parked ahead of them, near a house with lights burning inside. A grey Volvo hatchback. He stopped and took a photo of the car with the 3200 ASA mini digital camera, which dangled permanently around his neck. They drove past the car. Materne noted the number plate and punched it into the computer. They stopped again a little further along the track.

  “Registered under Jan D’Hoog.”

  “The vet.”

  “Correct.”

  “It’s ten-past eleven already. That pussy of hers must be in pretty bad shape.”

  “Shall we take a look?”

  “OK. Bring Rambo.”

  “Rambo…” Materne muttered flatly.

  The dog was lying at his feet and raised its head. They got out of the van. Materne did some stretching exercises. The dog turned in circles and finally lifted its leg against a clump of silver grass.

  The shaft of light from Materne’s torch flickered through the pine trees. “Looks like the lady’s into privacy.”

  “And she has a male visitor.”

  “And she’s refusing to answer the phone.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  They made their way towards the house.

  Voorhout directed his torch towards the front of the Volvo, illuminating the vet sticker on the windscreen. “That confirms it.”

  “As if there was any doubt.”

  They stayed close to the car and looked towards the house. The blinds were down, but light was still visible inside. A bird screeched somewhere in the woods.

  “An owl,” said Voorhout.

  A mist had formed over the paddock behind the house and a first quarter half-moon hung high in the sky. It was silent as the grave. Not a breath of wind.

  Voorhout flashed his torch into the car and tried to open the passenger door. It was locked.

  “D’you want me to open it?”

  “No need.”

  They slinked towards the front door. Not a sound inside, only the whinny of a horse in the distance.

  Rambo suddenly bolted and disappeared behind the house.

  “Rambo! Here!” Materne shouted, smothering his voice.

  Igor jumped to his feet, growled and ran out of the room.

  “What’s his problem?” said Louise.

  “Probably heard something outside.”

  “Shouldn’t you take a look?”

  “Maybe a good idea…” D’Hoog got up and headed towards the front door.

  What happened next took place at lightning speed. Barks turned to high-pitched yelps.

  “Rambo!”

  A halogen lamp flooded the entire area with light. The front door opened. A hirsute young man, stripped to the waist, looked around nervously, disappeared inside for a second and returned with a rifle.

  “Rambo,” Materne yelled, running in the direction of the yelps.

  “Bastards!” the man roared, and he stormed behind him. Materne found Rambo holding a brown-haired dog by the neck in what looked like an overexposed movie shot. He tugged at the dog’s collar but the pit bull refused to let go.

  “Son of a bitch!” the man yelled. He took aim. An angry rifle shot resounded through the night air. The pit bull jolted and rolled over in convulsions. The brown-haired dog, a Labrador, limped off, bleeding badly.

  “Hands up, bastard!”

  The man poked his rifle into Materne’s chest. In the blink of an eye, Materne grabbed the barrel, yanked it out of the man’s hands, tossed it aside and treated him to a karate blow to the gut. The man keeled over without a sound and lay motionless on his back.

  “Let’s get the fuck!…” Voorhout screamed.

  “Johan!”

  A young woman with long black hair, dressed in a negligee, rushed towards the vet, fell to her knees by his side, took hold of his head and held it to her cheek.

  “Johan! I called emergency. They’re on their way!”

  The vet tried to get up. “Bastards!” he growled.

  “My dog!” Materne screamed.

  “Leave him! He’s dead!”

  “Fuckin’ hell!” Materne launched himself at the vet, kneed him in the face and tossed him to the ground. Voorhout took a series of shots with his mini camera. “Move it, man! We’re out of here!”

  They took to their heels. When they arrived at the Mercedes van, Voorhout gasped: “We have to go back for Rambo! My address is hanging round his neck!”

  “Jesus Christ, man!” Voorhout jumped into the driver’s seat, turned the Mercedes round and sped towards the still-floodlit house. The woman was dabbing blood from the vet’s face with a towel.

  Materne jumped out of the van before it had stopped, dashed towards the pit bull, lifted him onto his shoulder and carried him with difficulty to the back of the van, which Voorhout was holding open. He tossed the dog inside. A second later, Voorhout was behind the wheel with Materne at his side, thumping the dashboard like a madman.

  The Mercedes took off, its engine screeching.

  8

  Shortly after midnight, Baron Hervé van Reyn’s daily review of the international press clippings selected by his secretary was interrupted by the buzz and whirr of the fax machine. It was a fairly long fax. When the machine stopped, he got up from his desk and collected the various pages. From Rome. In French. Sender: Joaquín Pla y Daniel. He returned to his desk and started to read. It was the transcript summary of a taped conversation between Pla and Amandine de Vreux. Extremely interesting reading, if the marginal notes he took were anything to go by.

  After about fifteen minutes reading, he slipped the fax into a brand-new folder, wrote “D.S.” on the front and drew a tiny cross in the upper left-hand corner. In spite of the late hour, he was still wearing a suit, a family custom he maintained with respect. He had been wearing it the entire day, but it looked as if it had just come from the dry-cleaners.

  Fax (39) 66869550

  Mittente: Ufficio informazione della Prelatura dell’Opus Dei in Roma Via Sant’Agostino 5/A 00186 Roma

  Indirizzo: Prélature de l’Opus Dei en Belgique. Fax (32) 2347 4916.

  1999 05 25 11.56 p.m.

  God and daring (Saying 401)

  Querido amigo,

  Please find an exact transcription of the content of the conversation I had today with the mother of D.S. I am sure it will be of interest to you in a number of respects. It should facilitate the urgent resolution of the situation at hand. Whatever the cost, resolution is essential at two different levels.

  Greetings in Christo

  Joaquín

  V - When did you last go to confession?

  A - Today, on your advice.

  V - Do you remember anything from the evening meditation that caught your attention?

  A - (She picks up a copy of The Way and reads the text of Saying 178) When you see a poor wooden cross, alone, uncared-for and of no value… and without its crucified, don’t forget that that cross is your cross: the cross of each day, the hidden cross, without splendour or consolation… the cross which is awaiting the crucified it lacks: and that crucified must be you.

  V - I would like to ask you a number of questions, which I expect you to answer truthfully, even if it shames you deeply.

  A - You have my word, Father. Let sacred brazenness be my guide.

  V - You appear to have misunderstood the meaning of the word. Ask your mentor to explain it.

  A - Pax.

  V - How did the relationship with your husband begin?

  A - We were studying at the same university. I was studying history of art and he was at the faculty of law. He was an exceptional student. He participated in st
udent life to the full and was president of the faculty student organization, but he managed summa cum laude year after year without the slightest trouble. My father was professor of constitutional law at the time and a Supreme Court barrister…

  V - Do I detect an element of pride in the way you draw attention to your father’s position? Meditate on Saying 606: See how humble Jesus is: a donkey was his throne in Jerusalem!

  A - Pax.

  V - Continue.

  A - Daddy took him as his assistant and invited him to the house from time to time. That’s when we got to know one another.

  V - What was this elite student’s social and cultural background?

  A - His social background was middle class. His parents owned two large delicatessens in Antwerp. They had a cottage in the country. They were hard-working shopkeepers without cultural baggage or social status.

  V - Were they Catholic?

  A - No, but they could hardly have been described as dyed-in-the-wool nonconformists either. They were… shopkeepers.

  V - Why did they send him to a Catholic university?

  A - I’ve no idea.

  V - Are they still alive?

  A - No.

  V - Where did he do his secondary studies?

  A - Grammar school in Berchem.

  V - Didn’t your father find that a little suspicious? I’m lead to believe that, as a member of the aristocracy, he is a man of deep faith.

  A - With the exception of the Jesuit College, the grammar school was the best in Antwerp.

  V - Where did your father study?

  A - With the Jesuits.

  V - Did your husband go to church with any frequency?

  A - I fear not. When we were first married he came with me to mass.

  V - And now?

  A - Only on official occasions.

  V - So he lives in a permanent state of mortal sin?

  A - Yes.

  V - Has your father ever been contacted by Opus Dei?

  A - Yes, but he saw them as the Jesuits’ main competitors and he had great respect for the Jesuits.

  V - What do you mean?

  A - He did not want to commit himself.

  V - Were you ever approached by Opus Dei during your years at the university in Leuven?

  A - You appear not to be aware that Opus Dei was completely unheard of in Leuven in 1951.