and Piek had gone off-piste while on patrol in a village called al-Khidr. They had told their Dutch compatriots to turn a blind eye and cover their backs while they cleared up a small matter.
The small matter was a meeting of six civilians in a house on the edge of the village. Six civilians who, their informants had told them, were collaborating with those still loyal to the Republican Guard.
Fransen and Piek wanted to send a message to the other villagers. A message that reminded them they should work with the Coalition forces, not the insurgents, if they valued their lives.
The six men, who were all unarmed, didn’t have time to react. They were shot dead with the Glock 17 sidearms that the Dutchmen were carrying. But that in itself would not have been a strong enough deterrent to the other villagers, desensitized as they were by the ravages of war. So Fransen and Piek cut off their victims’ heads and lined them up outside the house.
There was no concrete evidence that the two Dutchmen were the perpetrators of this crime. The British commander had two options: either to bust them and put them through the military’s disciplinary system, or to lose them fast. He chose the latter option. Within twenty-four hours the pair of them had been secreted back to Doorn garrison. It was their good fortune that the al-Khidr atrocity would be wiped from the record. As indeed would they.
Doorn’s sergeant major had long been van Ossen’s recruitment officer. The arrangement suited the military as much as it did van Ossen. He took embarrassing situations off their hands, and in return got the hardest recruits on the block. Van Ossen would be a hard man to usurp as long as this was the case. A fact that was not wasted on Pallesson.
Pallesson watched a large tourist boat passing them in the opposite direction. It was packed full of stereotypical sightseers. Some of them gawped at him as they glided past. He ignored them.
They passed the big, ugly Stadhuis-Muziektheater, built on the old Jewish quarter, then turned left by the Hermitage museum. Pallesson had no idea where they were going. Finally, they doubled back into a smaller canal and pulled over by some houseboats.
Van Ossen stepped aboard one of them, aided by another sour-looking bodyguard, and climbed down into the glass-sided cabin.
‘Good to see you again, Mr Pallesson. I hope you don’t mind a little ride on the canal. Do you like my boat? It was originally owned by a merchant, who used it to entertain his clients. Sadly, we had a little disagreement and he forfeited the boat. We don’t have time for entertainment right now. Maybe one day.’
‘That would be nice.’
‘So, are you still in? You have the painting for me?’ van Ossen asked bluntly.
‘Everything is in order, I can assure you.’ Pallesson was ruffled, but he kept his voice even. ‘I’ll have the painting next week. As agreed.’
‘I want to bring the deal forward. End of this week.’
Pallesson had dealt with van Ossen’s kind before. They liked to push people around. Partly to show they could, but also to protect themselves by changing locations, times. The only option was to stand up to them.
‘That isn’t possible,’ Pallesson said calmly. ‘Barry Nuttall won’t have the money by then. And I personally guaranteed that The Peasants in Winter would be our bond. It can’t be extracted until next week – I can’t hand it over until then – that was our agreement.’
‘So how do I know you’re good for the deal?’
Van Ossen was irritated. And reluctant to sit on the drugs a day longer than he had to.
‘Our deal is agreed. Barry Nuttall will bring over two million euros in used notes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve done five deals as his partner – Russia and Turkey – never a problem. He’s a pro.’
Van Ossen was renowned for his explosive temper. He was not someone you wanted to cross, a fact that many unfortunate associates had reflected upon as they were sinking to the bottom of a pitch-black canal. In spite of the cashmere overcoat and dark-blue suit, it was obvious which side of the tracks van Ossen came from.
‘He better be,’ van Ossen said with as much malice as he could muster.
Most people would have been unnerved by an irritated van Ossen. Not Pallesson. Faced with danger and threat, he had learnt to draw strength from the dark forces that he believed watched over him.
So a drug-running Dutchman didn’t bother him. He was quickly back on the front foot.
‘You know who I’ve dealt with in the past. Never a problem. And I think you’ll find I’ll be useful across several areas of your supply chain. Especially with the UK borders tightening up,’ Pallesson said, holding his composure. ‘We’ll be ready next week. And then the beautiful Brueghel will be yours to treasure for a few days.’
The Hague
Max breezed straight off the plane from Nice and strolled into the British Embassy in The Hague as if he owned the place. It was a surprisingly drab set-up. Three months earlier, when he’d first arrived from Moscow, Max had been expecting something much grander.
The semi-open-plan layout emphasized the seniority of some of its occupants. The ambassador had a large glass-fronted office with a secluded back room. Anyone else who merited private space got their own square glass box, which offered a degree of seclusion. Unfortunately, when Max had arrived, no ‘executive’ office had been available. So he’d had to muck in with the foot soldiers and take a desk in the open-plan area. This suited Max, as it gave him the chance to interact with the staff. It also secretly pleased Pallesson, underlining the chasm of importance that he believed had opened up between the two of them.
Max always paused at the front desk to talk to Arthur, who’d worked at the embassy for over twenty years. Max knew Arthur liked to have a chat. It broke up the routine of sorting the mail and making sure the office ran smoothly. He was a fanatical Queens Park Rangers fan, which gave Max the opportunity to take the piss out of him most weeks during the football season.
‘See the game on Saturday? You lot were terrible.’ Max had never watched so much as one kick of a QPR game, but Arthur seemed oblivious to the fact.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Arthur would always reply, shaking his head.
Arthur had a son he was very proud of. Young Arthur was currently on manoeuvres in Germany. Max never forgot to ask after him.
Max had a very distinct view on office life. It wasn’t about the number of hours that you spent rubbing your brow and sending emails. It was about solving whatever was put in front of you as efficiently as possible – and then having a bit of fun.
The open-plan office afforded Max the perfect opportunity to work on Pallesson’s attitude towards him. It suited Max perfectly that Pallesson should think of him as ineffective and a bit of a joke. And there was no better way to act the fool than playing office cricket.
Max had enlisted the aid of an unlikely recruit to perpetuate this sham. His immediate boss, Graham Smith, had played cricket for Chelmsford in his youth. Smith liked to be different. He liked to feel he was ‘on it’ and outside the box; young for his age, trendy and a bit of a rebel against the normal order. So he could be persuaded to bowl at Max as long
