2_2_DiscoverBenelux_11_November_2014_Q9_Scan Magazine 1 06/11/2014 23:09 Page 91 Discover Benelux | Culture | Long Read My wife looked on intently. The phone went so quiet that I thought I’d lost him. “Hello?” I prompted. “Do you see Zsolt Tözsér’s death as a joke now?” The light darkened as if a cloud were passing overhead. I got up and walked away. “What?” I asked quietly. The suspicion among certain members of the Amsterdam police force – that I’d been involved in the Hungarian racketeer’s shooting – just wouldn’t go away. “Don’t let this be about you and me,” Lottman said. “Have it be about Holland, and Europe.” I tried to make sense of his words but saw Zsolt Tözsér’s body in a dyke, bullets to the head and the heart. “How?” “By coming to Brussels. Now.” *We met at a restaurant not far from Brussels Central Station, a Michelin-starred place called Chez Moi. I’d realised that I could get to Brussels and back before Nadia was ready to meet us; I’d left Pernilla watching a highly acclaimed documentary film about the Ecuadorian cuckoo or something. The short train ride to Brussels had given me chance to think about the problems piling up at work again, and what help I might be able to ask for from Lottman. Ever since Zsolt Tözsér was lost as an informant, IJ Tunnel 3 had been stretched thin in having to deal with rising levels of organised crime. That was the deceptiveness of Amsterdam: people rarely encountered crime (in the city centre at least). But when they did, they encountered it hard. Organised theft, smuggling and gun crime; too many goods moving through the ports, too much to keep track of. And I still only had Stefan and Liesbeth on my team. “Henk,” Lottman greeted me. He’d put on even more weight. It wasn’t hard to see why, in a place like this. Chez Moi had a discreetly art deco feel and its warm, buttery tones conveyed an understated opulence. Clearly it catered to the bigwigs. Lottman was in his natural habitat. The maître d’ eyed my moss-green bomber jacket as he showed us to a table in the corner. Lottman was wearing a single-breasted tent of a suit jacket along with a shirt and tie. He nodded his acknowledgements to other important diners. The maître d’ asked in Dutch whether the table was suitable and, after a moment’s evaluation, Lottman said that it was. Once we were seated, he dropped his voice. “It’s good to see you, Henk. You’re looking well.” His words caught me off guard; I found it hard to believe the compliment, and I couldn’t in
all sincerity repay it. He was sweating, so much so that he had to use his white napkin to mop his brow. The sommelier saved me. “We’ll order a bottle of the usual,” Lottman leaned back to tell him before turning to me again. “Are you hungry? The veal here is always very good. The fried calf’s brain is exquisite.” I could still taste the sourness of the cranberry brownie from earlier and opted for moulesfrites. When in Rome … “How’s the team-leader role suiting you?” Lottman asked. “It keeps me off the streets … and on them. How’s Bruxelles?” I said, using the French pronunciation. He snorted. “I’ve never known any institution that takes better care of its people. EU employees don’t pay tax, not even VAT, in the first year they work here. They have more-than-generous expense accounts, free meals and haircuts, and even their own bus lanes. Whatever the EU doesn’t pay, the lobbyists do. It’s perfectly possible to stay here and not spend a single centime. And yet, no one seems happy.” “Maybe we’re born to struggle.” “Maybe we are. Have you ever been to Ghana?” “Ghana? In Africa?” “Yes.” I paused. “No.” My dad had spent time on the Dutch Gold Coast. At least, I think he had; he wasn’t around to ask about these things any more. Maybe that’s why I tended to give Lottman, with his paternal presence, the benefit of the doubt. “Why?” I asked. “I was just curious. I thought there might have been a family connection, but maybe I am mistaken. Ah –” The wine arrived – something red, French and no doubt extremely expensive. The sommelier poured a little; Rem swirled it in his big glass, then sniffed, tasted, and pronounced it satisfactory. A frustrating silence followed as the sommelier decanted the wine, poured two glasses, removed others and generally fussed; finally, once he’d left, Rem continued in a confidential voice. “There’s a man arriving in town, a Mr Lesoto. Ghanaian diplomat. Quite important to our national business here.” I had to remind myself what Lottman actually did in Brussels, apart from drink expensive wine in restaurants such as this one. “He’s been having a rough time of it with the authorities here lately. The Belgians can be pretty uptight when they want to be, you know.” “Having a rough time how?”
“At the airport, apparently. Suspicion as to what he’s carrying in diplomatic pouches. Well, as I’m sure I don’t need tell you, that’s no one’s damn business but the Ghanaians.” “Agreed,” I said slowly, wondering how I fitted in with any of this. “Are there any grounds for suspicion?” “No more so than with any other country’s diplomats.” A curiously evasive phrasing. “It would be helpful if you could be here when he next arrives in the country,” Lottman continued. “To ensure that everything’s handled appropriately. Just to be certain that his rights are observed.” “Why?” “Because he’s a friend of our country. And friends look after friends.” He leaned in. “Do you know what I mean, Henk?” “Why on earth me? It’s not like I don’t have enough to do back in Amsterdam. And it’s not my jurisdiction.” “Why? Because I trust you. I’ll smooth things over with your boss; you’ll be in a better position when you go back.” That much rang true. I could see the opportunity to interrupt the uncooperative pattern I’d fallen into with Joost. “Mr Lesoto is planning to make a trip to Amsterdam, via Belgium, I’m told,” Rem went on. “You can act as a sort of chaperone. I know Belgium’s not your jurisdiction, but … ” “Why don’t you just speak to Belgian customs? They’ll surely listen to you – or any member of government here.” He gave no answer. Which was an answer: he didn’t want any direct involvement with the matter. That gave me pause for thought. But if I was seconded to Rem Lottman for a week or so, the resource and staffing issues at the station would surely gain visibility and urgency. Or so I told myself. “Let me get this straight. You want me to meet a Ghanaian diplomat on arrival here and make sure he has no problems. Then … what?” “Spend a little time with him. Like I said, he wants to visit Amsterdam, apparently. You might even have fun.” He smiled. I think it was the first time I’d seen him do so. “Why doesn’t he just fly in to Schiphol?” “Please, I don’t know. Try asking him when he arrives first thing on Monday. Ah, the veal!”
The Harbour Master II: The Maze is on sale now. Turn to page 26 for our interview with author Daniel Pembrey where he explains why the Benelux is such an inspiring backdrop for his crime novels.
Issue 11 | November 2014 | 91