The hug lasted until she stirred.
"But what will you tell them afterward?" de Gier asked.
"I don't know yet."
He rested his chin on her head. "Tell them I turn you on and that you thought I came for you. You don't have to recognize the others in our team, they're supposed to be disguised."
\\\\\ 21 /////
In the club's largest room, where half a dozen comfortable couches, upholstered in different materials but all in striking shades of a bright orangy red, were grouped around a roulette table that attracted an enthusiastic crowd, de Gier sat stiffly next to a small gentleman in an old-fashioned but dapper summer suit. The commissaris, hard to recognize under his shock of false white hair, had crossed his legs and was contemplating his highly polished boot. A small hand stroked his full beard, and his pale blue eyes peered at the sergeant through a sparkling lorgnette that he had just, with a delicate gesture, pushed up to the bridge of his thin nose. "Excellent," the commissaris said, tapping de Gier's knee. "That's what I like about working with you, Rinus, you always do so much better than can be expected. So Celine's with us now? You 'turned' her, so to speak?" He glanced at Celine, standing next to Ryder, chattering brightly to the big man, who looked shabby in spite of his white linen jacket and loud checkered pants. Ryder's bulging cheeks dripped with sweat and his bulging eyes stared hungrily at a cluster of thousand-guilder notes, pushed toward him by the croupier's little rake. Ryder's pudgy hands rearranged the money, quickly finding numbered squares. A shiny pendant, a combination of precious stones set in massive gold, dangled from a silk ribbon hung around his neck, as he corrected a choice while the croupier and the crowd waited.
"Rien ne va plus," the croupier sang out. The wheel turned. A small metal ball jumped musically in the sudden hush that pervaded the room. The crowd applauded. Ryder swept up his profits, impassively dispensed by the croupier's magical instrument. Ryder thanked the powers below with a clumsy bow and proposed a toast. Waiters came running with a silver tray.
"To me!" Ryder shouted. "To me!" his cronies shouted, grinning and waving. "To me and all!" Ryder's surprisingly high voice shrilled like a piercing whistle on a lopsided locomotive as he bent down to put an arm around Celine.
"To me and all!" The choir around the pair obediently echoed. The commissaris's and de Gier's glasses were raised too. "Hurrah," the commissaris said.
"Hey-ho," de Gier said softly. "Hey-ho."
"And Celine'll let us know?" the commissaris asked. "Splendid. You really have a way. How do you do it?"
"I was going to knock her out," de Gier said. "I didn't do well at all. There were some risks. She could have gotten away, but I'm not good at hitting women. If she had alarmed the waiters, we would have been in a pretty fix again."
"Not really," the commissaris said. "What can they do? This is a shadowy operation, Rinus. A small bubble. We can prick it, and when we succeed we run away from the foul smell." He touched his flowing beard. "Itchy. The glue prickles. My wife spent most of the afternoon attaching all this hair. I have to bring this off or she'll be most upset. Doesn't like to waste energy, Katrien doesn't."
De Gier had spotted the baron hovering at the other side of the room, and excused himself. Cardozo took his place. "And how did you fare?" the commissaris asked. "Have you picked your waiter?"
"Yes, sir." Cardozo reinserted his multicolored tie, which kept jumping out of his waistcoat. "Your waiter is the fellow with the red sash over there, carrying the smoked salmon. You should try some of that. Do you know they employ slaves here?"
The commissaris observed his waiter, a bowlegged individual with a barrel chest, a low brow, and shaggy tufts sprouting from malformed ears.
"Slaves, Simon?" The commissaris tried to raise his glued-on eyebrows.
"There," Cardozo said. "The Indian lady in the sari. Sayukta. She took me upstairs, we talked for a while."
"Talked?" The commissaris raised his hand, but dropped it again. "Shouldn't scratch. Bah."
"Sayukta's from Calcutta," Cardozo said. "She was born in a park. The rats in the park ate her baby brother, but she learned how to beat them off. Seems like a hard life. Everybody sleeps in the street there, but the parks are worse. And then she got sold to some organization that ships young girls out. The slaves get hired out to brothels, and since they never have proper papers, they're in the power of whoever exploits them. Sayukta's only nineteen. She seems to like me."
"Did you make any promises?" the commissaris asked.
"No, sir, I only said I might perhaps be able to help. She doesn't care for her present occupation."
The commissaris dug his fingers into his sideburns. "You might get her address"
"I have it, sir."
Grijpstra passed the couch, wishing the commissaris a good evening. The adjutant wore a wig too, combed down over his forehead so that the scar of his wound wouldn't show. A walrus mustache drooped down impressively. With his baggy tweed jacket, he could have been British. "Jones is the name," Grijpstra said, pausing briefly. "A parson by trade, representing the lunatic fringe of the Protestant faith. Would they provide attractive indecent minors here? Are we getting close to the kill?"
"Not yet," the commissaris said. "Celine will tell de Gier. Ryder is celebrating now. We want a lot of money on the table. Are our State detectives alert?"
"They're in the poker room now, sir, winning. Trying to get your investment back."
"Karate and Ketchup are gambling too," Cardozo said. "How much did you put in? A thousand for each of us?"
"Never mind mere money," the commissaris said. "It's such a pleasure not having to apply to the administration for funds."
Guests were drifting back into the room, and the croupier came to attention. "I'll play some blackjack," Grijpstra said. "They don't seem to like it when you just eat a lot. Have you sampled the little rolls with mushroom ragout yet? I've had a few, but they're too filling."
"So you sell luxury goods to the Russian elite?" the baron asked de Gier in the poker room. "I believe the more equal comrades do drugs a lot. You have a connection?"
De Gier sucked his cheroot. "I could use a better quality." He winked at the baron. "And some financing, perhaps. So you're a banker?"
De la Faille handed de Gier his card. "Give me a buzz tomorrow, perhaps we shouldn't meet at the bank. Come over to my apartment. Do you sell outboard engines, perhaps? I hear the communist lakes are good for sporty boating, but there's a better market now, with the Iranian army stuck in inundated swamps. Ever been to Iran? I could arrange a passport and a Japanese supply. Officially the trade is banned, but the demand is quite hectic. We could find a way." He touched de Gier's shoulder. "Did you find Celine? You seemed rather in a hurry."
"I had this urge," de Gier said.
"You had met her before?"
De Gier waved about vaguely. "Earlier this evening. I wasn't sure then, but the need suddenly arose."
"You must have found her. You look all relaxed."
"Yes," de Gier said. "So do you. I didn't quite get what you were telling me when we met at the mirror."
The baron shrugged. "Cocaine does that to me. Sudden insight, you know; it's still with me, but I took a downer later on. Drugs are fun, don't you think? Don't know what we ever did without them. To be able to inspire and control the mind at will. Manipulating others is easy enough, merely a matter of applying power at the right time, but the self can be quite silly, jumps around too much, all that intelligence wanting to go astray."
"You were inspired when we met just now?" de Gier asked. "What did you see?"
The baron's hand was still on de Gier's shoulder. "You must have seen it too. Physically, of course, we're very much alike, but I saw more. Mated souls?"