The Square of Revenge (13 page)

“Your eyedrops are next to your plate,” said Laurent as he filled a huge mug with coffee and a lot of hot milk.

Daniel tucked in, stuffing his face like a ravenous wolf while Laurent nibbled guardedly on a piece of buttered toast. When the boy had had enough, Laurent cleared the table.

Daniel got dressed in the bedroom and Laurent transformed the rectangular table into an altar complete with crucifix and candles. Daniel wasn’t exactly overjoyed when he saw what Laurent had been doing.

“Do we have to?” he sighed.

“One more time, my boy. We can’t risk a single mistake. Do it once more for me. Then I’ll be content.”

Daniel closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. Laurent handed him the vestments one by one.

“First the alb, then you kiss the cross on the stole,” Laurent instructed.

Daniel didn’t argue. He popped his head through the hole in the chasuble and draped it over his arms and shoulders like an experienced priest. He then performed the ritual he had practiced every day for the last three months. Laurent watched carefully and congratulated him when it was over.

“Perfect, my boy. No one will notice a thing. I’m absolutely certain of it.”

While Daniel smoked a cigarette, Laurent took a medium-sized Samsonite case from the wardrobe and filled it with clean clothes and underwear, shaving gear, a silver chalice, a breviary, a couple of novels, and towels. He also packed jeans, a sweater, and sport shoes should the boy have to get away in a hurry. Running in a clerical outfit would attract too much attention.

They climbed into the Mercedes at ten-thirty and drove off in the direction of Marche-les-Dames. The journey took no more than ten minutes. Laurent stopped the car a little short of half a mile from the monastery.

“If everything goes according to plan, I’ll pick you up here on Friday evening,” said Laurent. “And don’t forget you’re only allowed to leave the monastery if something goes wrong. But there’s not much likelihood of that. I’ve prepared it all to the last detail. There are four other guests in the monastery at the moment. As a result, everyone is a potential suspect. But I’m not expecting Benedicta to sound the alarm.”

“Rest assured, Laurent.
I
won’t disappoint you.”

The old man leaned to the right and kissed Daniel on the forehead.

“I know you won’t, my boy.”

Daniel got out of the car and took his luggage from the back seat. He held up his hand and made his way toward the monastery at a brisk pace.

“The best of luck, boy,” Laurent whispered.

He followed Daniel until he disappeared behind the trees. He then turned the Mercedes and drove at a steady 30 mph back to Namur.

Daniel stood at the monastery gate, a little awkward, his spirits low.

“Monastère de Bethléem,” read the sign. He repeated it four times. The eighteenth-century monastery was bathed in an unnatural tranquility. No twittering bird, no rustling leaf disturbed the silence. This was the least satisfying part of the plan, but Laurent refused to make exceptions. And Daniel had promised he wouldn’t disappoint him.

He rang the bell and listened to its echo fade. He waited patiently for footsteps, for a sign of life. No one opened the door.

Daniel put down his suitcase and went in search of another entrance.

In the meantime he mentally rehearsed what Laurent had told him about “les petites soeurs de Bethléem.” The order was relatively young. In 1950, during the solemn proclamation of the dogma of the assumption of Mary’s body and soul into heaven, six pilgrims were overwhelmed by an extraordinary gift of grace and decided to establish a new monastic order.

The first community was founded in Chamvres, France. Their single goal was to join the Blessed Virgin Mary in venerating the Most Holy Trinity day and night, in complete silence and isolation. They sought inspiration from the first monks who gathered in the Egyptian desert in the fourth century, sharing a common life in individual hermitages.

The adopted the rule of Saint Bruno, who had founded the Carthusian order in Chartreuse near Grenoble in 1084. The rule was strict and the life of the monks was hard.

After waiting for ten minutes, and without finding another entrance, Daniel rang the bell a second time. He was dying for a cigarette.

A good fifteen minutes had passed, and after ringing the bell no fewer than four times, he pushed gingerly against the left panel of the door. To his surprise, it was unlocked. More disappointed than relieved, he made his way inside like a timid traveling salesman. The door closed behind him with a muffled click.

Daniel was standing in a spotlessly clean cloister corridor. The floor glistened treacherously like the surface of a Scottish loch. The walls were whitewashed and immaculate, and amber-colored shafts of light penetrated the enormous rectangular windows at regular intervals. For the second time that day, a flicker of doubt ran up his spine and wormed its way into his brain. Did they really have a right to revenge? Was Benedicta as innocent as the others?

He rested his suitcase carefully on the ground. In an instant the floor conjured a perfect mirror image. All this standing still was beginning to hurt. Daniel deliberately put an end to it and started to walk up and down. Each footstep offended the silence, like a dry twig cracking under a hunter’s foot as he stalks his prey. But he didn’t dare go far, so he went outside again and rang the bell for a fifth time, waiting on the threshold of the half-open door. The minutes crept past as he stood there, too timid to move.

Two wooden mailboxes graced the wall to his left, one reading “messages,” the other “contributions,” both in white letters. He started to lose track of time and decided to count to a hundred. If no one appeared, he would just have to head back to Namur on foot.

At ninety-eight he suddenly heard the squeak of hinges. A white figure hovered toward him from the half-light at the end of the corridor. The sister’s face was partially concealed by a generous wimple. She stopped, leaving a distance of ten feet between them.

“Father Verhaeghe,” said Daniel in a gentle voice, the loudness of which surprised him nonetheless.

“I’m here for a four-day retreat,” he whispered. “I received notice two weeks ago that I could come today.”

The diminutive sister nodded but said nothing in response to Daniel’s words. Daniel felt as helpless as a wheelchair patient watching a child drown in a shallow ditch. Laurent had researched the monastery’s customs in great detail, but he hadn’t been able to find out how they welcomed strangers. “Be patient at all times,” Laurent had insisted. So Daniel waited and tried to stare meekly into space.

“Welcome, Father,” she said after a moment.

It was clear from her voice that she was French and that she rarely spoke Dutch. But she still did her best to pronounce each word correctly.

“Let me show you the way.”

“Praised be the Lord Jesus Christ,” Daniel responded, thinking she had quoted a verse from the Bible.

In less than five minutes she had shown him the cell in which he was to spend the coming days, the kitchen, the chapel, and the garden. She then accompanied him back to his cell and handed him two duplicated pages containing the house rules and the daily schedule.

“If you have any further questions, Father, you can leave them in the box by the entrance. You will receive an answer the following day under the door of your cell.”

“Thank you, sister,” said Daniel. “But there are a couple of things I would like to discuss with you, if I may.”

“Sorry, Father, but I’m afraid our conversation has reached its end.” She turned and ten seconds later disappeared around the corner.

Daniel was completely stumped.

The cell was sparsely furnished: a small alcove with a straw mattress, a table, and a chair. Fortunately, the window gave out onto the garden and the view was rewarding, to say the least. The nuns of Bethlehem had clearly managed to transform what had probably been a nondescript patch of ground into a breathtaking paradise.

Daniel deposited his suitcase on the chair, opened it, and arranged its contents on the table. He read the daily schedule standing by the window. Mass was at five-thirty, so there was still a little time to rest.

Laurent had packed a couple of novels. “To pass the time,” he had said. “Unless you want to devote yourself to prayer?”

Daniel chose the thicker of the two, a nine-hundred-page doorstop.

The Quincunx,
he read, half out loud. He kicked off his shoes and installed himself on the bed.

Van In appeared at the station that morning at nine-thirty. The Musigny from the previous day had had the same effect as a heavy dose of valium. He was still more or less anesthetized.

“Top of the mornin’, Commissioner,” said Officer Geerts at the reception counter in a thick Bruges accent, his malicious delight at Van In’s hangover barely concealed.

“Morning, Patrick,” said Van In confused.

Despite his condition, he sensed Geerts’s mocking gaze burning a hole in his back. He turned instinctively and stared the surprised policeman in the eye.

“Something bugging you?”

Patrick Geerts, nicknamed “steamer” because he sweated like a pig, giggled sheepishly.

“Out with it,” Van In barked. He didn’t like Geerts.

The man was a sneaky bastard, prepared to sell his soul to De Kee to get into his good books.

“De Kee’s been looking for you for more than an hour,” he grinned unashamedly. “He called down just ten minutes ago. I don’t think he’s a happy camper, if you get my drift. You know what he’s like if he’s having an off day,” the steamer snickered.

“Is he in his office?” Van In snapped.

Geerts nodded.

“Sure is. If you listen carefully, you can hear him pacing up and down.”

Van In hurried up the stairs, leaving Geerts behind with a grin on his face.
The bastard must have found out about the radio appeal
, he thought. Van In’s colleagues saw him as self-confident, not afraid to row against the tide. But his reputation was nothing more than a carefully constructed façade. Van In wasn’t afraid to answer back either, but when it came to De Kee he was a little more submissive than he would have liked.

“Enter,” was the hard response to his gentle knock.

De Kee stood with his back to the door, looking out over Exchange Square.

“I believe you’ve been looking for me, Commissioner,” said Van In, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

“Take a seat, Van In,” said De Kee abruptly without turning.

Van In took a seat and nervously winkled a cigarette from a half-smoked pack.

“I presume you haven’t seen this morning’s papers,” said De Kee. He continued to stare out of the window. “They’re on my desk.”

Van In picked up one of the papers. The Degroof case had reached the front pages.

“Anonymous Alchemist Takes Revenge on Bruges Jeweler,” he read.

“Keep reading,” De Kee barked.

“Police reports are describing the incident as a well-orchestrated act of revenge against one of the most prominent families in Bruges. Ludovic Degroof, the father of the victim, is not unknown in political circles. For many he epitomizes the Christian People’s Party and is the driving force behind numerous prestigious building projects in the center of the city.”

Van In folded the paper and leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve no idea where they dug up such a story,” he said with a truly clear conscience.

“You know good and bloody well that this isn’t the only issue,” De Kee rasped. “You have managed to make Mr. Degroof extremely angry.” His voice sounded gloomier than usual.

Van In wasn’t in the mood to beat around the bush any longer.

“Are we talking about the Radio Contact appeal we broadcast yesterday?”

“So you admit it,” said De Kee dryly, his splayed left hand in his hair.

“I was under orders from the public prosecutor’s office,” Van In defended himself. It was his only argument.

De Kee turned and glared at Van In.

“Assistant Commissioner Van In,”—his first two words were unusually hesitant—“I presume you’re adult enough to realize that you should have discussed a stunt like that with me first.”

He sat at his desk opposite Van In and shook his head.

“I thought I made it clear enough, crystal-clear in fact, that this case was to be given no publicity. I even told you that Ludovic Degroof had made an explicit point of it, information I didn’t have to share. You should also be well enough aware that we don’t dance to the public prosecutor’s pipes round here.
They
have to make do with whatever information
we
provide.”

“But Commissioner,” Van In protested, “the Deputy threatened to contact the media herself if I didn’t do what she asked. God knows what might have happened. We managed to limit the radio appeal to between seven and nine in the morning. A friendly gesture. I had no other option. I was also convinced that a short radio report would make little difference.”

“And you were wrong, my friend. The public prosecutor called me yesterday evening. If you had consulted me, there would have been no radio appeal. The case is set to be shelved. Get that into your head once and for all, Van In, and this is on Ludovic Degroof’s explicit request. The public prosecutor has assured me that Ms. Martens will no longer be pressing the point. There even seems to be a problem with her definitive appointment as Deputy as a result of this whole mess.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Van In muttered. This time he had screwed things up big-time.

“I thought you were smarter than this, Van In,” said De Kee, his fingers in his hair yet again. Van In realized he wasn’t the only one up to his neck in it.

“Even the mayor isn’t happy with your exploits.”

“The mayor!” Van In exclaimed.

De Kee leaned forward and folded his hands under his chin.

“The mayor is a socialist—opposed to Degroof politically … is that what you’re thinking? Forget it! Ludovic Degroof’s tentacles are everywhere, even in the mayor’s office. And sometimes a mayor has no other choice than to knuckle under to the Brussels club, even if he belongs to another party.” De Kee could see that Van In had realized the gravity of the situation. Perhaps he had gone a little too far. The assistant commissioner wasn’t his best friend, but every now and then they had to toe the line, chief commissioners, assistant commissioners and mayors alike.