"Do you think I'm jealous?" the commissaris asked. "I probably am. Katrien says I am." He smiled shyly. "Katrien was engaged to Willem Fernandus. And now I want him to stay away from my secretary too?"
"Maybe Miss Antoinette can make a deal," Grijpstra said. "Try the club out for a few evenings and take on only who she likes. We do want information. We can't just bluster into the joint and take potluck. Halba might be there and warn the others off. Those places usually have bodyguards serving as waiters. We could be thrown out before we're properly in."
"You think I'm too much involved in this case?" the commissaris asked. "Admittedly, I know the enemy personally, but Willem does run a bad show, to the detriment of the city. It's my duty to stamp him out."
De Gier chuckled and clutched his chest again. "Halba has no idea that he's doing me the ultimate favor. I'm no longer a cop. I could beat him up now without the slightest qualm, but then he isn't the right opponent, either. A lazy lout on the judo mat, always claiming some injury to get out of a good fight. The chief inspector's not a very good shot, either. Do I really want his scalp?"
The nurse came in. She glared at the commissaris. "What is this?" She waved at the smoke and opened all the windows. "You'll have to leave." She snatched the cigars out of Grijpstra's and de Gier's mouths.
"Nurse?" the commissaris asked.
"Yes? You have to leave at once."
"Nurse?" the commissaris asked. "Please. I have a serious problem. About women, I mean. Can I ask you a question?"
She looked down at him, impeccable in her starched spotless uniform. "Ask away."
"Are you married, nurse? Betrothed, perhaps?"
"I'm free."
"Now," the commissaris said, "if you had the opportunity to dally with wealthy and handsome men- different ones, I mean, a few evenings, for no more than a week, and, please excuse me, this is a theoretical question, it's that I don't understand the female mind very well, you see-would you accept such an offer?"
"I'm available," the nurse said.
"Available," the commissaris said. "I see."
"Our chief means," Grijpstra said, "would you work in an elegant sex club for a little while, for a good cause."
"What good cause? Money?"
"More than that," de Gier said. "You'd get paid, but you'd help do away with some nasty stuff that has been bothering the city."
"Sure," the nurse said, "but I work nights this week. How about next week?"
"We already have an applicant," the commissaris said, "but I'm not sure we should accept her services. The unfortunate idea seems rather immoral to me."
"Sex is not immoral," the nurse said. "Now, if you please, I've got to air this room."
The commissaris left, shaking his head, tapping the linoleum floor with his cane.
"You're Murder Brigade detectives, aren't you?" the nurse asked. "That young fellow who was here just now told me. Aren't you supposed to be special?"
"The sergeant is." Grijpstra raised an accusing hand. "He drives lone vehicles through the wasteland. He sits in dead trees and eats catfood from rusted cans. If you ever get raped, and then killed by a dart from a crossbow, he'll avenge your disheveled corpse."
"I will," de Gier said, showing his strong teeth, arranging his thick curls, brushing up his full mustache, breathing in to show the smooth curves of his pectoral muscles. "Ouch."
"Poor thing," the nurse said. "And you drive through a stop sign." She tucked in de Gier's sheets. "Rest now. Gather strength. Let me know when you're ready, and I'll get myself raped. I saw that movie too." She tucked Grypstra in next. "You should both have a nap now. Shall I sing you to sleep?"
"Dear nurse," de Gier whispered. "Chant to me, let me fade away into your voice."
The nurse hummed a lilting little song.
"Dear nurse," Grijpstra whispered.
She sang on; the lullaby, in the melodious language of the Surinam blacks, filled the room with soft, deep-throated tones that reached around the patients' painful bodies, smoothed their worn nerves, caressed their minds.
The nurse tiptoed out of the room. The adjutant and the sergeant smiled in their sleep.
\\\\\ 17 /////
Mrs. Cardozo,a short, wide woman with the same curly hair as her son Simon, but rather more tidily arranged, pressed the polished brass bell on an imposing iron gate. The gate guarded a raked pebble path leading to a low building adorned with turrets at each corner. Each turret carried a spire, and each spire supported a Star of David. A camera attached to one of the gateposts began to whir and swivel while a metallic voice spoke from the other post.
"Yes?"
"Sarah Cardozo to see the consul," Mrs. Cardozo said briskly.
"It's the Sabbath," the metallic voice said. "Sarah Sarah go away. Do come back some other day."
Mrs. Cardozo rang the bell again.
"You don't speak Yiddish?" the gatepost asked.
"Shabbish the shabbash," Mrs. Cardozo said, "let me in or I'll climb the gate."
"You'll be electrocuted," the voice said. "Who are your bodyguards?"
The camera whirred more energetically and increased its arc so that it could take in Mrs. Cardozo's companions. She pointed to her right. "My son Simon, Mr. Rosenblatt." She pointed to her left. "My houseguest, Izzy Sanders, an Israeli like yourself. Now let us in." She shook her umbrella at the camera. "I don't like today's climate."
"How do you know my name?" the little loudspeaker asked.
"We met before," Mrs. Cardozo said. "I gave you money. I'm the chairperson of the Committee for Trees in the Desert."
The gate clicked open. Mrs. Cardozo pushed it with the point of her umbrella and marched in. Two swarthy young men bounded from the building's front door at the end of the path and blocked the way. They said Shalom and ordered Simon and Izzy to raise their hands and turn around.
"Shalom," Mrs. Cardozo said. "It means 'peace,' so be peaceful with us."
"What do you have under your arm?" asked the young man who was frisking Cardozo.
"My gun," Cardozo said. "You can take it out. I'm a policeman, my card is in the breast pocket of my jacket. You can take the card out too."
The young man read the card and put it back. "You can have the gun again when you leave."
"You won't feel me," Mrs. Cardozo said, "but you can look in my bag." She snapped the bag closed again. "We come in peace, on a matter of life."
"Or death," said an elderly man with an unkempt beard. He walked down the steps leading to the front door. "Some visitors wish us death. We take precautions. I'm sorry they're rude." Mr. Rosenblatt's wide shoulders slumped and his long spine curved forward, but the sadness of his physical bearing was belied by a sparkle in his slanting Slavic eyes above strong cheekbones. He offered Mrs. Cardozo his arm.
Cardozo bounced up the steps, Izzy slouching behind him. The consul spoke to Izzy in Hebrew. Izzy had trouble formulating his hesitant answer.
"A deserter?" Rosenblatt asked in Dutch.
"I'll explain everything," Mrs. Cardozo said. "I remember there's a room in this building, with chairs to sit on. It's time for a glass of beet juice, it seems to me. All in good time."
"Time," the consul said, as he guided his visitors into a large back room, mostly furnished with computer gear, placed haphazardly on plastic-topped tables, "I don't really have, due to being at war forever."
"No!" Izzy tore at his tousled hair with both hands. "No more war, please," he shouted. "Stop it. At once."
"We are a little crazy today?" the consul asked.
Izzy glanced at a computer screen, then covered his eyes. His shoulders shook.
"Izzy is a good boy," Mrs. Cardozo said. "He went to school with my son Samuel. I knew him well. Izzy is an idealist and became an Israeli and fought in your wars."
"Our wars," the consul said.