Headhunters

I tried to detect a reaction in Greve’s face, in his voice. Nothing. Either he had considered the thought too often, or else he was just a stony-hearted bastard. I didn’t know which I preferred.

‘You’re eighteen years old and living in Oslo,’ I said. ‘Your father’s gone missing. You’re a young man with problems. What do you do?’

‘I finished school with top grades and applied to join the Dutch Royal Marines.’

‘Commandos. The macho elite stuff, eh?’

‘Definitely.’

‘The sort where one in a hundred get in.’

‘That kind of thing. I was selected to take part in the preliminary tests where they spend a month systematically trying to break you down. And afterwards – if you survive – four years building you up.’

‘Sounds like something I’ve seen in films.’

‘Believe me, Roger, you won’t have seen this in a film.’

I looked at him. I believed him.

‘Later I joined the counter-terrorism unit BBE in Dorn. I was there for eight years. Got to see the whole world. Suriname, the Dutch West Indies, Indonesia, Afghanistan. Winter exercises in Harstad and Voss. I was taken prisoner and tortured during an anti-drugs campaign in Suriname.’

‘Sounds exotic. But you kept your mouth shut?’

Clas Greve smiled. ‘Shut? I chatted away like an old fishwife. Cocaine barons don’t play at interrogation.’

I leaned forward. ‘Really? What did they do?’

Greve observed me thoughtfully with a raised eyebrow before answering. ‘I don’t think you really want to know, Roger.’

I was a little disappointed, but nodded and sat back.

‘So your comrades were picked off or something like that?’

‘No. When they attacked the positions I had given away, of course everything had been moved on. I spent two months in a cellar living on rotten fruit and water infested with mosquito eggs. When the BBE carried me out I weighed forty-five kilos.’

I looked at him. Tried to imagine how they had tortured him. How he had taken it. And what the forty-five-kilo variant of Clas Greve had looked like. Different, of course. But not that much, not really.

‘Hardly surprising you stopped,’ I said.

‘That wasn’t why. The eight years in the BBE were the best in my life, Roger. First of all, it is in fact the stuff you’ve seen in films. The comradeship and the loyalty. But in addition there was what I learned, what came to be my craft.’

‘Which is?’

‘Finding people. In the BBE there was something called TRACK. A unit which specialised in tracking down people in all possible situations and places in the world. They were the ones who found me in the cellar. So I applied to the unit, was accepted, and there I learned everything. From ancient Indian tracking skills to interrogation methods and the most modern electronic tracking devices in existence. That was how I got to know HOTE. They had made a transmitter the size of a shirt button. The idea was to attach it to someone and then follow all his movements via a receiver, the kind you saw in spy films way back in the sixties, but which no one had actually managed to operate satisfactorily. Even HOTE’s shirt button turned out to be useless; it couldn’t take body sweat, temperatures below minus ten, and the signals only penetrated the thinnest of house walls. But the HOTE boss liked me. He had no sons of his own…’

‘And you had no father.’

Greve sent me an indulgent smile.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘After eight years in the military I started Engineering Studies in The Hague, paid for by HOTE. During my first year at HOTE we had made a tracking device which would function under extreme conditions. After five years I was number two in the command chain. After eight I took over as boss, and the rest you know.’

I leaned back in my chair and sipped my coffee. We were already there. We had a winner. I had even written it. Hired. Perhaps that was why I hesitated to go on, perhaps there was something inside me that said enough was enough. Or perhaps it was something else.

‘You look as if you would like to know more,’ Greve said.

I replied with an evasion. ‘You haven’t talked about your marriage.’

‘I’ve talked about the important things,’ said Greve. ‘Would you like to hear about my marriage?’

I shook my head. And decided to wind things up. But then fate intervened. In the form of Clas Greve himself.

‘Nice picture you’ve got,’ he said, turning to the wall behind him. ‘Is that an Opie?’

‘Sara Gets Undressed,’ I said. ‘A present from Diana. Do you collect art?’

‘I’ve made a small start.’

Something inside me still said no, but it was too late; I had already asked: ‘What’s the best thing you’ve got?’

‘An oil painting. I found it in a hidden room behind the kitchen. No one in the family knew my grandmother had it.’

‘Interesting,’ I said, feeling my heart give a curious jump. Must have been from the tension earlier in the day. ‘What’s the painting?’

He studied me for a long time. A tiny smile stole onto his mouth. He formed his lips to answer, and I had a strange premonition. A premonition that made my stomach recoil like a boxer’s abdominal muscles do when they see a blow coming. But his lips changed shape. And all the premonitions in the world could not have prepared me for his reply.

‘The Calydonian Boar Hunt.’

‘The…’ In two seconds my mouth had gone as dry as dust. ‘The Boar Hunt?’

‘Do you know anything about it?’

‘If you mean the picture by… by…’

‘Peter Paul Rubens,’ Greve completed.

I concentrated on one thing only. Keeping the mask. But something was flashing in front of me, like a scoreboard in the London fog in Loftus Road: QPR had just lobbed the ball into the top corner. Life had been turned upside down. We were on our way to Wembley.

PART TWO Closing In

6 RUBENS

‘PETER PAUL RUBENS.’

For a moment it was as if all movement, all sound in the room had been frozen. The Calydonian Boar Hunt by Peter Paul Rubens. The sensible assumption would of course be that this was a reproduction, a famous, fantastically good forgery that in itself might be worth a million or two. However, there was something in his voice, something about the stress, something about this person, Clas Greve, that left me in no doubt. It was the original, the bloody hunting motif of Greek mythology, the fantasy animal pierced by Meleager’s spear, the painting that had been lost since the Germans plundered the gallery in Rubens’s home town of Antwerp in 1941 and which until the end of the war people had believed and hoped was in some Berlin bunker. I am no great art connoisseur, but for natural reasons I sometimes had occasion to go onto the Net and check the lists of missing and sought-after art. And this painting had headed the top ten for the last sixty years, eventually more as a curiosity since it was thought that it had been burned up together with half of the German capital. My tongue