27 Raamstraat
Raamstraat
The European headquarters of the Secret Sharer silent donor service were located in an old brick house on the Raamstraat in
the historic center of The Hague. Gabriel and Timothy Peel arrived there at eleven fifteen the next morning, having caught
the early train from St. Pancras. In the gloom of the Channel Tunnel they decided that Peel was best suited to appear on the
organization’s doorstep unannounced. He was, after all, the one with the credentials and the actual job. Gabriel, for his
part, was something of a minister without portfolio. He also happened to be cursed with a name and a face that sometimes attracted
unwanted attention.
He took refuge in a café at the end of the street while Peel, an active phone tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket,
presented himself at the entrance of the old brick house and, pressing the call button on the intercom, requested admittance.
There followed a brief interrogation regarding the purpose of his visit, but eventually a buzzer sounded and a dead bolt snapped.
The foyer was hung with black-and-white photographs of the wretched of the earth. Seated behind a small desk was a woman of
perhaps twenty-five with magenta-colored hair and more earrings than Peel could count. He displayed his Met credentials, and
the woman scrutinized them with manifest distaste.
“You realize, I hope, that we cannot disclose the identity of our donors.”
“I do,” said Peel.
“Then what, may I ask, is the purpose of your visit?”
“Background information only.”
She gave him a skeptical look, then indicated an empty chair. “Have a seat, Detective Inspector.”
She swiped a keycard through a reader and disappeared through a doorway. For several minutes there was no sign of her, long
enough for Peel to entertain the possibility that she might never return. Finally the door opened and together they climbed
a flight of crooked stairs to the second floor, where four twentysomethings sat staring at computers in cramped cubicles.
The book-lined office of Dr. Rutger Timmerman, the organization’s longtime executive director, overlooked the Raamstraat.
Gray and professorial, he wore crumpled corduroy trousers and a cardigan sweater with shiny patches on the elbows. He smelled
of pipe smoke and faintly of curry.
He shook Peel’s hand warily. “Inspector Peel, is it?”
“Close enough,” he said with a disarming smile.
Timmerman looked at the woman, who was still standing in the doorway. “That will be all, Greet. Thank you.”
The woman withdrew, closing the door behind her, and Timmerman appraised Peel over a pair of half-moon reading glasses. “What
seems to be the problem?”
“We’re hoping there isn’t one.”
“I can assure you there isn’t.” Timmerman sat down behind his desk. “But how can I be of help?”
“It concerns the rather large donations that were made recently to a number of British-based relief and human rights organizations.”
“Nearly three million pounds in all,” said Timmerman. “A remarkable sum of money that will make life a little better for those who have nothing. But since when is generosity a crime in the eyes of the British police?”
“When it involves corrupt actors with corrupt intentions.”
Dr. Timmerman offered Peel a condescending smile. “In my experience, Inspector, such individuals tend to spend their money
on themselves rather than on others.”
“Do you know the identity of the individual who made the donations?”
“Who says it was an individual? And even if it was only one person, which is not necessarily the case, I have no intention
of divulging his name to you.”
Peel took note of Timmerman’s use of the male personal pronoun. “So it was a man, was it?”
“I don’t know who the donor was, Inspector. Nor do I know whether the donor was a man or a woman. I dealt exclusively with
an intermediary.”
“I’d like the intermediary’s name, please.”
“I’m sure you would. But you’re not going to get it. Oh, I suppose you could attempt to obtain a warrant from the Dutch Ministry
of Justice, but I’m quite confident you won’t get one. The minister is a good friend of our organization and knows that we
are completely above reproach.”
“But surely you must have done some sort of background check before accepting the money.”
“We always do.”
Peel adopted a confiding tone. “It didn’t come from some dicey banking center, did it?”
“Like London, you mean?” Timmerman gave a wry smile. “No, Inspector Peel, there were no obvious red flags.”
“And you maintain records for each transaction?”
“Yes, of course. We have copies of the paperwork for every anonymous donation we’ve ever facilitated.”
“And how are they stored, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Digitally, of course. This is the twenty-first century, after all.”
With that Peel wished Rutger Timmerman a pleasant day, and the magenta-haired girl happily saw him into the Raamstraat. He
walked to the café at the end of the street and sat down at Gabriel’s table.
“How did I do?” he asked.
“For a moment,” said Gabriel, “I thought you were going to ask him for the password to the computer system. Otherwise I thought
you handled yourself rather well for a country policeman on his first overseas assignment.”
“He definitely knows the name of the donor’s intermediary.”
“He knows a name,” said Gabriel. “Whether it’s the name of the donor’s intermediary is an open question. What we need are the bank records.”
“The original wire transfer from the donor’s bank to the Secret Sharer’s account here in The Hague?”
“Exactly.”
“He’ll never let us see those. Not without a search warrant.”
“What are the odds that you can obtain one from the Dutch?”
“Slim to none. Besides, it would take forever and a day.”
“In that case,” said Gabriel, “I’m afraid we have no choice but to spend a few days on Mykonos.”
“What’s on Mykonos?”
“A workaround, Timothy.”
The first direct flight from Amsterdam to Athens departed at nine o’clock that evening.
They spent the remainder of the day roaming the galleries of the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum.
Then, after an early dinner at a restaurant near the Bloemenmarkt, they took a taxi to Schiphol Airport.
They arrived to find it surrounded by a sea of flashing blue emergency lights.
Gabriel checked the airport’s website. “Looks like we’re not going anywhere. Not tonight, at least. All departing flights
have been grounded, and incoming planes are being diverted to other airfields.”
“Why?” asked Peel.
“It doesn’t say. But obviously this is not a drill.”
The taxi dropped them at the airport Hilton, where they grabbed the last two available rooms and then headed for the bar.
It was crowded with stranded passengers, all of whom were staring mystified at the televisions. One was tuned to the BBC,
the other to CNN. Both networks were covering the same story.
“Drones?” asked Peel.
“Several drones, evidently. And they’re circling Schiphol as we speak.”
“Let’s hope one of them doesn’t crash into the Hilton.”
“Yes, let’s,” agreed Gabriel.
“Any idea who might be behind it?”
“It’s either a bored kid or the Russians. I’m betting it’s the latter.”
Peel fetched a couple of Heinekens from the bar while Gabriel pounced on an empty table. And there they remained until 2:00 a.m., watching the news with a hundred other marooned members of the twenty-first-century traveling public, until the Dutch prime
minister announced that all of the intruders had departed Holland’s airspace. Gabriel and Peel repaired to their rooms and
reconvened at breakfast. The airport was scheduled to reopen at 8:00 a.m. There were two seats available on a Lufthansa flight departing at ten.
“It will require an extra stop,” said Gabriel. “But we’ll be in Mykonos in time for dinner.”
“Unless, of course, the Russians launch a drone attack on Frankfurt Airport.”
It was nearly eleven o’clock before the Lufthansa flight departed, but Frankfurt Airport was operating normally and they arrived
in Athens in time to make their connection to Mykonos. As they stepped from the terminal, an all-electric BMW i4 sedan, midnight-blue
in color, rolled to a stop at the curb. Gabriel dropped into the passenger seat, and Peel crawled into the back. Ingrid eyed
the young British detective warily in the rearview mirror.
“Well, well,” she said finally. “If it isn’t my old friend, Inspector Dalgliesh.”