Mr. Miller Page 8

  I shook my head. ‘Cash,’ I said. Car rentals and hotel rooms could be traced, so I’d probably have to change hotels every other day.

  Without even giving it a moment’s thought I had slipped into the next phase, that of self-preservation. Now I needed time to figure out what to do next. More time than I would want.

  In the hotel room I set up my laptop on the desk and plugged it in. As it was starting up I zapped through the channels on the TV. Games, music, happy people dressed in happy colours. News. The Minister of Justice, my minister, out on the street in front of the Ministry, Erik Strila in the background. My people, my clients. The minister was speaking to three or four microphones that had been thrust in front of him. In that strange, pinched, distant tone, as if none of it fazed him in the least, he made assertions that seemed to come from the realm of the absurd. The lack of counselling was now audible. Without blinking an eye, he said that the number of Muslim extremists in the Netherlands appeared to be much higher than anyone had suspected, and I knew that wasn’t right. I was familiar with the report on which he was basing his statement. I had received it under embargo a few days before my debacle, and the conclusions it drew were quite different. And here were these panting journalists, wanting to know whether tougher measures were going to be taken, or whether the minister was finally going to throw the dangerous imams out of the country and what he was going to do to secure the safety of the country’s citizens.

  I listened to his yakking with half an ear while searching the files on my laptop for the report. I found it without difficulty, but when I scrolled to the pertinent information I felt as if my powers of reasoning had abandoned me. There, on the screen of my computer, were exactly the same conclusions that the minister was announcing to the world. The numbers were alarming: the threat was indeed much more serious than had been suspected.

  My memory rose up in protest. I was certain that I had read a very different account less than a week ago, milder and more nuanced, but no matter how much I scrolled up and down, the report was still permeated with the same sense of urgency. I stared at the screen with dismay. Apparently my own memory was not to be trusted.

  I collected my messages and looked for the e-mail I had sent to myself from Ina Radekker’s apartment. Soon I had the list of web addresses on my screen. I saved the list in a text file and created a hyperlink for every address. All I had to do was click on an address with the cursor and the browser would surf straight to it.

  One by one I worked my way through the list, searching for the things that Ina had been dealing with from her own computer. It was a collection without any structure. I surfed from second-hand book sites to sites about the treatment of athlete’s foot, recipes for bouillabaisse and a site from the city of Amsterdam on arbitrating a rental conflict. These were flashes from the life of a woman I had never met, flashes that might have had to do with someone else for all I knew, a girlfriend or a family member.

  The last three addresses on the list were for HC&P itself: the Dutch site, the American site where our headquarters were located, and a subsite of that with an endlessly long address. I clicked on the subsite and the computer went to work. It took minutes before a dialog box finally opened up with the question ‘Open or save file?’

  I clicked on ‘open,’ and soon the depressing ‘Insufficient memory’ message appeared.

  I stared at the screen. The internal memory of my laptop was too limited to open the site. Usually this meant that a program was included in the download in order to run the site, but in most cases this was no problem. Not now, though.

  I closed all the programs I didn’t need and tried again. The result was the same: not enough memory. Deep in thought I stared at the screen, and it took a while before I realized that my computer was downloading something. The hard drive was active, and in the lower right-hand corner of the screen there were two little green fields indicating intensive data traffic. I pointed the cursor at the x in the upper right-hand corner of the screen in order to close the web address, but the computer wouldn’t respond. I clicked again. Still no response.

  A couple of pop-ups then flashed across the screen in quick succession. They disappeared just as quickly. All was quiet for a couple of seconds until the browser began working of its own accord. Then a series of web addresses began jumping into the address box at incredible speed. The computer was running through more than eight billion websites and God knows how many unknown, hidden sites, entirely on its own, and no matter what I clicked with the mouse, no matter what keys I hit, it had no influence on what was going on. The computer was executing a program, and as long as it was thus occupied it would not respond to any of my commands. The program had taken control of my laptop. Just like that. It wouldn’t even let me touch my own stuff. I didn’t know whether to be upset about it or not. I felt both resignation and anger.

  It was a weird feeling, playing tag with myself.

  Finally the screen settled down. A site was slowly being uploaded with a large photo in the background: the earth as seen from space. And across this a brief text appeared:

  You have reached the home of Mr. Miller.

  Welcome?

  19 To see somebody, to talk

  The home of Mr. Miller was less accessible than it seemed at first glance. No matter what I did, I was stuck on that start page. Finally I had to turn off the computer and re-start it in order to use it again. I was irritated and tired. The decision not to go home anymore and to sever all ties began to catch up with me. It had been an impulsive choice, quickly made. Based more on what I didn’t know than what I did. It was an escape. I hadn’t seen it that way until I checked in here, but that’s how I saw it now.

  I was so untraceable in the Novotel that I myself barely knew where I was. It was Friday afternoon, ten minutes to five. The end-of-the-week rush hour had been building up for more than an hour and the traffic on the ring road, which I could see from the window in my room, was bumper-to-bumper. In both directions. The big office buildings were emptying out, except for the ones with the consultants. I knew Gijs would be working late because of the rock-hard work ethic that prevailed at HC&P. No one ever went home on time. Everyone worked longer than the normal number of hours. In order to win the loyalty of its highly intelligent and talented workforce, HC&P placed strong emphasis on a sense of family. HC&P employees belong together and take care of each other. That was the flip side of the cutthroat competitive battles that were fought every day.

  That’s also why I was so certain that Van Waayen would think it over ten times before handing me over to the police. He couldn’t keep me from being arrested, and if he were to speak to me he’d implore me to give myself up. But to tell the police, ‘He’s at such-and-such a place, and if you go there you can nab him’—not that. That wasn’t how things were done at HC&P.

  During my stint of temporary rest in the hotel room I could see how little space I really had. As long as the registration system maintained that no one else had been present in the building that night, no one could help me. I certainly couldn’t turn to the firm’s management for help. The question was why the system had registered me and not Huib Breger and the other men. It meant that certain people could go in and out of the building without the system taking note of their visit. Or that the registration of their presence was later erased. I kept going back and forth between both possibilities, unable to decide which was the worst.

  The second was really the easiest to comprehend. Evidently there were people with access to the registration system, people who knew how to manipulate it. That wasn’t good, but it happened so often and in so many companies that it was hardly remarkable. The person who did manipulate the system, however, and who had used it to eliminate a member of the office staff—both literally and figuratively—was on very friendly terms with at least one of the firm’s partners. I was convinced that Van Waayen had nothing to do with the murder of Ina Radekker, but did he know that the registration system could be erased? I refused to
believe it. That was one coincidence too many. So what was the connection between Van Waayen and this Breger?

  The other possibility was much worse. A system that registers some of the people present and not others was quite conceivable. All you would need was a pass with a chip that ordered the system not to record it, and software that recognized and accepted such an order. It wasn’t all that difficult, but the consequences were bizarre. It meant that the leadership of the firm had knowingly created a system in which certain individuals could enter and exit the offices without being noticed.

  Simple.

  But why? And if this was true, how could I ever prove it? The leadership of the firm would never admit it because they themselves were jointly responsible.

  My thoughts were bouncing off the bare walls of the hotel room. The more I pondered this problem the bigger it became. In either scenario I had to get into the HC&P registration system because only there could I find something to prove that the system didn’t work the way everyone thought it did or to demonstrate that it had been tinkered with. In either case I was up the creek, because I didn’t know anything about software. I understood that you could do anything with computers, but I didn’t know how that worked. I knew there was a program that registered the presence of people in the building, and I understood that it was run from one of the firm’s big computers, but I had no idea where to look for that program, either physically or virtually. I didn’t even know where the company’s central computer was located. Maybe it wasn’t even in our office, but somewhere entirely remote. With today’s technology it could have been in India or China. Then no one would ever notice it.

  Not only did I know nothing about information technology but I also knew no one working in that sector. Unlike other large consultancies, HC&P did not have its own IT department. So even if I could find someone who could help me, it would have to be someone outside the firm, and such a person would have no access to the company’s internal network.

  I still had access, although I had no illusions. It wouldn’t be long before my own authorization was revoked. Being sought by the police in connection with a murder: that was reason enough to refuse me admission to the network. And when that finally happened, I hoped to be able to carry on with Ina’s login data, which I assumed would remain active for a while. No one had any reason to hurry up and change it. On the contrary, things like that that sometimes got stuck in systems and stayed there for years. Cynical bureaucracy.

  I checked my e-mail. Eleven messages. One was from Van Waayen. I read it.

  Michael,

  Since you’re not answering your phone any more (a distressing sign, incidentally), I’m forced to contact you in this rather impersonal way.

  In the light of recent events, which not only have plunged this company into a period of mourning for the loss of one of its valued employees but have also filled us with deep despair, I think it would be better if you would get in touch with the police as soon as possible. There’s no other way to clear this thing up. I personally cannot believe that you had anything to do with such a terrible murder. Nor do I want to believe it. But HC&P cannot afford to be naive. So I’m laying you off until you’re able to convince the police of your innocence. I’ve already informed your clients of this change—including the Ministry of the Interior, even though it most probably means that the entire assignment will be terminated. You understand, then, how seriously I’m taking this. Please do whatever you have to do so we can quickly pick up where we left off.

  Dries van Waayen

  I tried to login on the office website, but my password and user name had already been invalidated. I cursed. So much for the warm HC&P sense of family.

  Not only had the decision already been made, but it had already been carried out. This made the last sentence of his e-mail sound particularly phony. ‘… so we can quickly pick up where we left off.’ I decided it would probably be wise not to count on it.

  When I closed the message, a dialog box appeared. The sender wanted me to confirm that the message had been read. That confirmation could now be sent.

  YES or NO?

  I chose NO. Dries van Waayen could decide whatever he wanted but he wasn’t getting any confirmation out of me. Nor would he get any answers to his phone calls—or any sign of life—until I knew what I was facing. And that could take a while.

  I used the new cell phone to call my parents. Finally, much too late, of course, but for them every response was too late. They lived with assurances that were unknown to me: a built-up pension and a place in the hereafter. Their future was all sewn up until well beyond their old age. They had reserved seats in the realms of the eternal. All they had to do was to keep on paying their dues till they died. Every disruption of their well-ordered life was a direct attack on that scheme. Now my mother was beside herself. She couldn’t take any more. First that business with Kurt and all the uncertainties that went with it, and now I was being accused of having murdered somebody.

  ‘Is it true?’ she asked. With her religious convictions she attached great importance to truth and honesty.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Why do they say it then?’

  The police, the press, other people. If ‘they’ are saying it, it must be a fact. What I have to say has suddenly become no more than an opinion. It was a familiar feeling. Distressingly familiar.

  ‘They say it because that’s what they think,’ I said.

  ‘Oh … and why …’

  ‘Mom!’ I said with a commanding tone. I didn’t want to talk this way, having to defend myself before my own family. I had already been afraid this would happen, but now that it had it was much harder to bear than I had expected.

  ‘Are you coming to see us?’ she asked.

  ‘That depends,’ I said. ‘Maybe Sunday.’

  ‘Sunday?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said again. ‘When do you get out of church?’

  ‘Usually about eleven-thirty, but if you’re coming I won’t go.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes, that would work, too.’

  And thus we felt each other out, trying to find small assurances, small areas of agreement that could give us something to hold on to. To that end my mother was prepared to give up her great mainstay, the Sunday church service—just this once, of course, but even so. What I would have to give up was something I didn’t dare think about.

  ‘Kurt is gone, too,’ she said suddenly. ‘Rented an apartment.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Well, where do you think? In Amsterdam of course, somewhere. I wrote it down …’ I heard her rummaging through some papers. ‘… here it is. Hondecoeterstraat. Do you know it? Is it a nice neighbourhood?’

  ‘Hondecoeter is very decent, Mom. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t have to worry?’ she snapped. ‘Now I don’t have to worry all of a sudden. It’s a little late for that, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  I tried to explain that I hadn’t meant it that way, but I couldn’t straighten out what was already bent. My mother had drawn a line.

  ‘You know what, Michael? As soon as you can say something honest to me, something I can trust, then call me. If all I get from you is hot air, then don’t bother. You understand?’ She didn’t wait for my answer.

  One week ago I had known exactly who I was. My jokes were funny, my sense of humour was one of my strongest qualities, I was friendly, intelligent and considerate. And I was fast. My work rate was high and my insights had the unobstructed speed of intuition. I knew who I liked and who I didn’t like. One week ago. Now I no longer knew what I wanted, and if I did know I didn’t dare say it, or I didn’t know how to say it.

  I called Gijs. His voice boomed through the phone. ‘Jesus, man, where are you? I’ve called you eight times! Ten times! More!’

  ‘Send an e-mail,’ I said. ‘I’m not using that number anymore.’

  But he wouldn’t use e-mail out of fear that his messages would be screened and out of an acute lack of tru
st. ‘Don’t do anything by e-mail,’ he said. ‘Not with me or with anybody else in the office.’

  ‘Are you home tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Gijs, please,’ I said. ‘I have to see somebody, to talk. Too much is happening. I …’

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  We agreed on a time that seemed safe for both of us. Way after midnight.

  20 No, that’s Kurt

  By the end of the day I was back in the centre of town. I had put my laptop and all the papers and documents in the backpack, dragging everything around with me. All that was left in my hotel room were the rest of my clothes. I had turned over my pin-striped suit and shirt to the hotel’s dry-cleaning service. They’d be ready in the morning.

  I walked from the tram stop to the internet cafe, covering the ground with great strides. In the past few days a sense of urgency had crept into my body. No matter where I was, I wanted to get away as quickly as possible. I didn’t want to be seen and I definitely didn’t want to be found. I felt pursued by people I didn’t know. I kept getting the idea that I had forgotten something, that something had slipped my mind. Hence the rush.

  I bought one hour of internet use, entered the long web address in one of the computers and waited for contact with the site. The connection was made with dazzling speed and the computer went to work, effortlessly this time. The huge amount of information poured in through the cafe’s high-capacity connections. The screen flashed a couple of times with strange information, unrecognizable to me, as if it had the hiccups, and then it turned a solid grey. In the middle of the screen was an hourglass telling me to be patient, that the system was at work.

  I waited. For minutes I looked at the empty screen and the exasperating little icon. Nothing happened. I leaned back in my chair, folded my hands behind my head, and waited—my head empty, my eyes fixed on the screen.

  After about four minutes the screen flashed a few more times, turned completely black and then completely blue. A beautiful deep blue.