Officer Jos Dyckmans couldn’t believe his eyes. He and his partner, Officer Wim Smit, were staring at the ugliest house-barge Dyckmans had ever seen.
Long strips of green paint had peeled off the hull and drooped down into the canal water. On the deck, trash bags spewed slimy brown lettuce, soppy slices of pizza and empty wine bottles. A large rat gnawed on some green moldy stuff. Nearby, sat a hideous pink sofa with nasty exposed springs and even nastier black and red stains.
“Le Barge… de Garbage!” Dyckmans said, chuckling at his own wit.
“Yeah!”
Dyckmans and Smit were searching for Valek Stahl, checking all vessels along the south bank of the Albert Canal. This was the thirty-second boat they’d checked with no luck.
“This search is a waste of time! Nobody escapes by barge for chrissakes!” Officer Dyckmans said.
They stepped onto the foul smelling barge and Dyckmans knocked on the door. No response. He knocked harder. Thirty seconds later a skinny young man with long, straggly brown hair and drug-glazed eyes opened it. Beside him appeared a young woman with the same twilight-zone gaze. Her enormous breasts filled a white T-shirt with a picture of an AC Delco oil filter above the words, “Screw Me In Your Car.” She looked like the Belgian army just did.
Dyckmans handed Stahl’s photo to the man. “Have you seen this man with a woman in a blue suit in the last few hours?”
They stared at the photo, moving it close to their pinpoint-pupils, then back, then close again.
“Ain’t seen him. You, Stella?”
“Seen who… ?”
Dyckmans realized they wouldn’t recognize the Pope saying Mass.
“If you do see them, please call this number immediately.” He handed them a card.
“Sure thing, officer.”
As they headed toward the next barge, Dyckmans noticed a cottage perched on a small hill. Someone inside would have an excellent view of the Albert Canal. Lace curtains hung over the windows that were shaped like a ship’s portholes. In the front yard, red tulips surrounded a large ship’s wheel overgrown with ivy. A roof weathervane shaped like a ship’s sail twirled in the wind. Leaning against the side of the cottage was a cast iron anchor.
“Maybe someone up there saw something!” Dyckmans said.
“Yeah, maybe.”
They climbed the brick steps to the cottage and Dyckmans knocked on the door.
An old raspy voice croaked from within. The door squeaked open and a leather-cheeked old man in a wheelchair grinned up at them with bright gray eyes surrounded by at least eighty years of wrinkles. He wore a black wool sweater and baggy corduroy trousers. His hands looked like they’d been microwaved.
“Step aboard, lads,” he said, smiling. “Captain Dirk Van Ackere, retired, at your service.”
They followed him inside where he rolled his chair behind an oak desk with a photo album opened to a faded picture of a Texaco supertanker. A small television in the corner was playing Moby Dick. Ahab was shouting at a sailor.
“Sit, lads.”
They sat in chairs made of grey driftwood.
“Sittin’s all I do since that shit-faced trucker put me in this damn wheelchair. His third DUI!”
“I’m very sorry for you, sir,” Dyckmans said, meaning it.
“Police locked his ass up! Damn well deserved it.”
Dyckmans nodded and handed Stahl’s photo to him. “We wonder if you’ve seen anyone who resembles this man in the last few hours.”
The old man scrunched up his brow as he studied the photo, then handed it back.
“Yep. I seen him.”
Dyckmans wasn’t sure he heard correctly. “Are you positive?”
“Yep. All I do is watch the canal boats. Usta captain supertankers. Saudi crude. Rammed a bunch of Somali pirates once. Tossed them skinny bastards in my brig. Now I’m in the brig!” He thumped his wheelchair.
“Was there a tall woman with him?”
“Yep. Damn pretty woman, you ask me.” Van Ackere winked.
Dyckmans’ heart started pounding. “What was the man wearing?”
“Let’s see, that fella wore a dark shirt and ah… dark- brown trousers!”
“That’s correct! And the woman?”
“She wore a blue suit. Cut a nice figure, she did.”
“Damn - you DID see them!”
“I just told you I did.”
“Did you see his car?”
“Still do.”
“Where?”
“Behind them evergreens yonder.” He pointed out a side window. “That red BMW, German car.”
Dyckmans stood and saw a red fender.
“I don’t buy no Kraut shit,” Van Ackere said. “Bastards hurt my family bad. Both wars!”
“Where’d they go?”
“Krauts went back to Germany. Where they belong!”
“No, no, the man and woman.”
“Oh, they boarded a barge right down there.” He pointed at the empty canal dock just below the cabin.
Dyckmans was excited. “What kind of barge?”
“Vacation barge. Belgian flag. Moored here a few times over the years, then again yesterday.”
“You remember anything else about the barge?”
“Registration number.”
Dyckmans didn’t believe him. “But barge numbers are long! How could – ?”
“I remember ‘em. Keeps my noodle sharp. Hey - use it or lose it, right? Run ten barges past me right now. I’ll give you all the numbers in sequence.”
“But that’s imposs - ”
“Wanna bet a hundred euros?”
Dyckmans, who couldn’t remember his own license plate number, doubted the old man could do it. But something told Dyckmans not to bet. “Nope. What’s the barge number?”
The old man closed his eyes. “Let’s see, that barge number was… six… five… zero… three… four… seven… one… BL.”
Amazed, Dyckmans wrote down the number.
“Got a red albatross on the bow, too.”
“How long ago did the barge leave?”
He glanced at the ship’s clock on the wall. “Reckon she pulled anchor at least three hours ago. Maybe more.”
Dyckmans had to get the news to headquarters. He reached for his cell phone and speed-dialed. Nothing. He checked his battery icon. No power lines. Shit! And Wim’s phone was charging in the police car half-mile away. “Could we use your phone?”
“Ain’t got one!”
“What?”
“Don’t need one.”
“You don’t need a phone?”
“Nope! My friends are all dead or nuts.”
“Where’s the nearest phone?”
“Them assholes on that smelly barge.” He pointed toward the Barge de Garbage. “I’d like to drop a bunker buster bomb on it!”
Dyckmans and Smit thanked the old man, ran down the hill, and banged on the barge door again. Half minute later, the stoned couple stared out as though they’d never seen them before.
“Police emergency! I need to use your phone.”
The young man pointed inside. “Galley wall.”
Dyckmans rushed into the barge, ducking to avoid the low ceiling. The sweet scent of marijuana filled his lungs.
He hurried past a snoring four-hundred-pound bearded man wearing red leotards and a tutu. Looking around, Dyckmans realized he could be in a sex shop in Amsterdam’s Red Light District. Long plastic devices of terrifying anatomical purpose stood like candlesticks along a mantle. Below the mantle, was a fake fireplace with a turning spit. Skewered on the spit was a plastic nude female who squealed each time the flames licked her butt.
And on the ceiling, glowing pink… and smiling forgivingly on the entire sinful panorama, was Richard Nixon, grinning and flashing his V sign.
Dyckmans phoned the news to his superior and hung up. They thanked the stoned couple and left the barge, knowing they’d just completed the most important police work of their careers.
“Let’s celebrate at Froukje’s Bar,” Smit said.
“Can’t.”
“Why not? We’re off duty in three minutes.”
“Boss says we gotta guard the BMW.”
“Stahl may come back for it!”
* * *
“Canal barge!” de Waha said, hanging up his phone in the Congo Museum room.
“Both Maccabee and Stahl?”
“Yes!”
Donovan melted with relief. “How was she?”
“Apparently fine.”
Stahl is keeping her as a hostage. Maybe he would bargain. Maybe he would release her.
Or maybe he’d finally decide she was slowing him down and that the canal was the perfect place to make a body disappear. Sooner or later, Donovan knew, Stahl would decide he didn’t need her any longer.
De Waha pointed to the large map. “They boarded the barge here and headed east.”
“So where could they be now?” Donovan asked.
“At the speed limit, with no stops, it should be about here. The towns of Eigenbilzen and Gellik.”
They jogged outside the Congo Museum to the waiting police helicopter, its rotors turning slowly. In twenty minutes they would be just a kilometer or so from the barge. As the chopper floated up over the Congo Museum gardens, Donovan saw smoke still wafting from some Elephant Gallery windows. He looked at the huge gardens and saw where Stahl’s tires had left long black slash marks on the grass. He prayed that was the only thing Stahl slashed today.