Geerts, grey raincoat and a crew-cut bullet head. Marnixstraat had almost sixty detectives working on the case already, going through CCTV and phone records, interviewing potential witnesses. The call to Saskia’s phone was made through a Net connection. Untraceable. The black van had been found abandoned near Centraal station. They’d used a counterfeit security pass to allow them to take it close to Leidseplein.
These men were prepared.
‘We don’t base government policy on the actions of criminals,’ Geerts said with no emotion.
‘You’ve been trying to ship this man out of the country for years,’ De Groot told the pair from AIVD. ‘A few more days won’t hurt. He’s not going anywhere. We need the time.’
Geerts was about to argue when Fransen put a hand to his arm, smiled without much warmth and said, ‘That’s fine. We can wait. A few days anyway.’
Laura Bakker sat silently fuming throughout the briefing. Fransen had admitted at the outset they’d received some prior warning of a possible attack during the Sinterklaas parade. Not details. Only chatter. She said it was insufficient to brief the police. They should have been aware the threat level was raised that morning. Standard practice in such circumstances.
‘If we’d known . . .’ Bakker said a second time.
Mirjam Fransen shrugged.
‘What would you have done? We had teams of officers in place. That was enough. We couldn’t cancel Sinterklaas.’ A brief smile. ‘Could we?’
Commissaris de Groot glared at her.
‘I should have been better informed. We won’t pursue that now.’
‘No you won’t.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I need to go back to the office. I want you to handle the practical matters. Deal with the family. This Georgian prostitute . . . does she have the right papers?’
Hanna Bublik was being interviewed downstairs by Dirk Van der Berg and a female officer. She didn’t seem to have much to say.
‘Her legal status isn’t one of my priorities right now,’ Vos said. ‘The room where the girl was being held. It looked like a boat.’
Fransen frowned.
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘I live on a boat. You get to know what they’re like. Low walls. Timber planking . . .’
‘There are a lot of boats in Amsterdam,’ she said. ‘Good luck . . .’
‘Why did you shoot that man?’ Bakker asked.
Fransen shrugged.
‘You wouldn’t have asked that if you were there.’ She stared the young policewoman in the face. ‘Bouali had a handgun. He looked ready to use it. We gave the standard warning.’
‘I didn’t hear any warning,’ Bakker pointed out.
Mirjam Fransen waited a moment then asked, ‘Do you think I’m lying?’
‘I’m saying I didn’t hear it.’
‘And I’m telling you it was given. Bouali had a weapon. The idiot was turning it on us. I wanted him alive as much as you. Maybe he had things he could tell us.’
The dead man was a Briton by birth, had changed his name when he fell in with a radical preacher in the north of England. Vos’s team had already talked to some of the people in the grubby tenement in the red-light district where he had a tiny room. His housemates were mainly foreign restaurant workers. He was a stranger, there for only a few days, had spent most of his time elsewhere and didn’t talk much.
The AIVD woman turned to Vos and held out a hand.
‘I need that phone now. We’ll deal with the calls.’
He did nothing.
‘The phone,’ she repeated.
Frank de Groot got up and sat on the edge of his desk.
‘Whoever this man is he insisted he’d only talk to Vos.’
‘They don’t make the conditions,’ Geerts said.
‘When they’re holding an eight-year-old girl hostage they do,’ De Groot replied. ‘We keep the phone. Vos does the talking. We’ll let you know what happens, naturally.’ A pause. ‘It would be nice if we got the same in return.’
Mirjam Fransen glared at him.
‘Do you really want me to take this to the ministry?’
‘No. I want
These men were prepared.
‘We don’t base government policy on the actions of criminals,’ Geerts said with no emotion.
‘You’ve been trying to ship this man out of the country for years,’ De Groot told the pair from AIVD. ‘A few more days won’t hurt. He’s not going anywhere. We need the time.’
Geerts was about to argue when Fransen put a hand to his arm, smiled without much warmth and said, ‘That’s fine. We can wait. A few days anyway.’
Laura Bakker sat silently fuming throughout the briefing. Fransen had admitted at the outset they’d received some prior warning of a possible attack during the Sinterklaas parade. Not details. Only chatter. She said it was insufficient to brief the police. They should have been aware the threat level was raised that morning. Standard practice in such circumstances.
‘If we’d known . . .’ Bakker said a second time.
Mirjam Fransen shrugged.
‘What would you have done? We had teams of officers in place. That was enough. We couldn’t cancel Sinterklaas.’ A brief smile. ‘Could we?’
Commissaris de Groot glared at her.
‘I should have been better informed. We won’t pursue that now.’
‘No you won’t.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I need to go back to the office. I want you to handle the practical matters. Deal with the family. This Georgian prostitute . . . does she have the right papers?’
Hanna Bublik was being interviewed downstairs by Dirk Van der Berg and a female officer. She didn’t seem to have much to say.
‘Her legal status isn’t one of my priorities right now,’ Vos said. ‘The room where the girl was being held. It looked like a boat.’
Fransen frowned.
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘I live on a boat. You get to know what they’re like. Low walls. Timber planking . . .’
‘There are a lot of boats in Amsterdam,’ she said. ‘Good luck . . .’
‘Why did you shoot that man?’ Bakker asked.
Fransen shrugged.
‘You wouldn’t have asked that if you were there.’ She stared the young policewoman in the face. ‘Bouali had a handgun. He looked ready to use it. We gave the standard warning.’
‘I didn’t hear any warning,’ Bakker pointed out.
Mirjam Fransen waited a moment then asked, ‘Do you think I’m lying?’
‘I’m saying I didn’t hear it.’
‘And I’m telling you it was given. Bouali had a weapon. The idiot was turning it on us. I wanted him alive as much as you. Maybe he had things he could tell us.’
The dead man was a Briton by birth, had changed his name when he fell in with a radical preacher in the north of England. Vos’s team had already talked to some of the people in the grubby tenement in the red-light district where he had a tiny room. His housemates were mainly foreign restaurant workers. He was a stranger, there for only a few days, had spent most of his time elsewhere and didn’t talk much.
The AIVD woman turned to Vos and held out a hand.
‘I need that phone now. We’ll deal with the calls.’
He did nothing.
‘The phone,’ she repeated.
Frank de Groot got up and sat on the edge of his desk.
‘Whoever this man is he insisted he’d only talk to Vos.’
‘They don’t make the conditions,’ Geerts said.
‘When they’re holding an eight-year-old girl hostage they do,’ De Groot replied. ‘We keep the phone. Vos does the talking. We’ll let you know what happens, naturally.’ A pause. ‘It would be nice if we got the same in return.’
Mirjam Fransen glared at him.
‘Do you really want me to take this to the ministry?’
‘No. I want
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