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“Fourteen years,” admitted Quinn as they shook hands, and he introduced Sam. He made no mention of her FBI status. She had no jurisdiction in the kingdom of the Netherlands, and they were there unofficially. Papa De Groot ordered coffee—it was still shortly after breakfast—and asked what brought them to his town.
“I’m looking for a man,” said Quinn. “I believe he may be living in Holland.”
“An old friend, perhaps? Someone from the old days?”
“No, I’ve never met him.”
The beam in De Groot’s twinkling eyes did not falter, but he stirred his coffee a little more slowly.
“I heard you had retired from Lloyd’s,” he said.
“True,” said Quinn. “My friend and I are just trying to do a favor for some friends.”
“Tracing missing people?” queried De Groot. “A new departure for you. Well, what’s his name and where does he live?”
De Groot owed him a favor. In May 1977, a group of South Moluccan fanatics, seeking to reestablish their old homeland in the former Dutch colony of Indonesia, had sought to publicize their cause by hijacking a train and a school at nearby Assen. There were fifty-four passengers on the train and a hundred children in the school. This sort of thing was new to Holland; they had no trained hostage-recovery teams in those days.
Quinn had been in his first year with the Lloyd’s firm that specialized in such things. He was sent to advise, along with two soft-spoken sergeants from the British SAS, London’s official contribution. Assen being in next-door Drente Province, De Groot had commanded the local police; the SAS men liaised with the Dutch Army.
De Groot had listened to the lean American who seemed to understand the men of violence inside the train and the school. He suggested what would probably happen when the troops went in and the terrorists opened fire. De Groot ordered his men to do as the American suggested, and two stayed alive because of that. Both the train and the school were eventually stormed; six terrorists died, and two train passengers in the crossfire. No soldiers or policemen were killed.
“His name is Pretorius, Janni Pretorius,” said Quinn. De Groot pursed his lips.
“A common enough name, Pretorius,” he said. “You know which town or village he lives in?”
“No. But he is not Dutch. He’s South African by birth and I suspect may never have naturalized.”
“Then you have a problem,” said De Groot. “We do not have a central list of all foreign nationals living in Holland. Civil rights, you see.”
“He’s a former Congo mercenary. I’d have thought a background like that, plus being from a country Holland hardly approves of, would give him a card in some index somewhere.”
De Groot shook his head.
“Not necessarily. If he is here illegally, then he will not be on file, or we’d have expelled him for illegal entry. If he’s here legally, there’d be a card for him when he came in, but after th
at, if he committed no offenses against Dutch law, he could move freely around without checks. Part of our civil rights.”
Quinn nodded. He knew about Holland’s obsession with civil rights. Though benign to the law-abiding citizen, it also made life a rose garden for the vicious and squalid. Which was why lovely old Amsterdam had become Europe’s capital for drug dealers, terrorists, and child-porn filmmakers.
“How would a man like that get entry and residence permits in Holland?” he asked.
“Well, if he married a Dutch girl he’d get it. That would even give him the right to naturalization. Then he could just disappear.”
“Social security, income tax, Immigration?”
“They wouldn’t tell you,” said De Groot. “The man would have the right to privacy. Even to tell me, I’d have to present a criminal case against the man to justify my inquiry. Believe me, I just can’t do that.”
“No way at all you could help me?” asked Quinn.
De Groot stared out of the window.
“I have a nephew with the BVD,” he said. “It would have to be unofficial. ... Your man might be listed with them.”
“Please ask him,” said Quinn. “I’d be very grateful.”
While Quinn and Sam strolled up the Oosterstraat looking for a place to lunch, De Groot called his nephew in The Hague. Young Koos De Groot was a junior officer with the Binnenlandse Veiligheids Dienst, Holland’s small Internal Security Service. Though he had great affection for the bearlike uncle who used to slip him ten-guilder notes when he was a boy, he needed a deal of persuading. Tapping into the BVD computer was not the sort of thing a Community cop from Groningen called for every day of the week.
Papa De Groot called Quinn the next morning and they met an hour later at the police station.
