The Rattle-Rat

\\\\\ 14 /////

De Gier, dropped off that morning, with his cases of tomatoes, at the Military Police barracks, shook Private Sudema's hand.

"I telephoned just now," de Gier said. "Here's a present. Tomatoes, ripe and fresh, a gift from your uncle."

Private Sudema was taller than his uncle, and broader in the shoulders. His blue eyes sparkled in the sun. "Morning, Sergeant."

"Shall I help you carry this load in?"

"Not necessary," Private Sudema said. Other policemen marched about in the yard, giants topped by gleaming hats above white braid draped across their muscular shoulders and torsos, musclemen in black tailored jackets with folded-back lapels, showing off starched white shirts and collars and faultlessly arranged blue scarves.

"Assistance!" bellowed Private Sudema.

A still younger man turned sharply, marched up, stopped smartly, and stood to attention. "These cases," Private Sudema barked, "have to be taken to the kitchen."

The other policeman bent his knees, stacked all four cases, picked up the lowest, and stretched his legs. He marched away at speed. "One, two," shouted Private Sudema.

"You're both privates?" de Gier asked.

"I'm first-class," Private Sudema said, pointing at the thin white chevron on his sleeve. "Rank. We're in the military here."

They walked to the main building. "You wish to visit the island of Ameland?" Private Sudema asked. "In connection with the murder of Scherjoen? You wish to interview the deserter? We'll arrest him today."

"That would be nice," de Gier said. "Just following up on information received. I'm a detective. I like to detect."

"Would you mind repeating your purpose to our adjutant, please?"

Hie adjutant waited behind a polished mahogany table.

"Sergeant de Gier," Private Sudema said, "who telephoned earlier on. Municipal Police, Amsterdam, detective. Request for assistance re murder Scherjoen. The sergeant brought us four cases of tomatoes, with the compliments of my uncle."

"The deserter," the adjutant said. "A connection? Please sit down, Sergeant. Were you tipped off? I don't quite get it. Of course, I don't have to get it. But if I did get it…"

"We sometimes hear something," de Gier said. "Last night I happened to be in Leeuwarden. An irresponsible drunk mentioned your deserter. Nonsense, maybe, but then we never know. We like to follow up. I'm here anyway, so I thought I might check."

"Is our deserter suspected of having killed Scherjoen?"

"No," de Gier said. "But there might be a divergence of lines that once met. Separate causes that shared the same effect. One never knows."

"Coffee?" the adjutant asked. "Sudema?"

Sudema stood a little more at attention.

"Could I have the file on the deserter?"

Sudema marched to a cabinet and yanked open a drawer. He pulled a carton file, brought it over, and handed it to the adjutant.

The adjutant consulted the file. "Deserter. Air Force. Air- base Leeuwarden. Gone three weeks. Plays football. Champion runner. Hm. Yes. Likes to sail. Almost arrested on three occasions. In Rotterdam. On a highway in the far south and in Dingjum. Hm. Right. Didn't Scherjoen reside in Dingjum?" He looked at Sudema. "Your uncle, now. Isn't he the lieutenant in charge of the State Police station over there?"

"Lieutenant Sudema sent you the tomatoes," de Gier said.

"Private Sudema," the adjutant said softly. "Does your uncle drink?"

"He doesn't not drink, but one can't say he drinks." Private Sudema looked straight ahead. "Uncle Sjurd knows his limits."

"Where's that coffee?" the adjutant asked loudly.

Private Sudema marched off. He marched back again. "They're coming, Adjutant."

They came. Eight privates.

The private who had carried the tomatoes poured the coffee. The coffee had been waiting on the mahogany table, in a silver pot between a silver milk jug and a silver sugar bowl. The adjutant was given the first cup, de Gier the second; the others received their coffee in order of rank.

"There you are. Thank you."

"Why are all of you so tall?" de Gier asked.

"Fertile Frisian soil," the adjutant said. "Pure air. I won't say that we are a super race, but we came out better. Handsome people, handsome cows."

"Handsome sheep too?" de Gier asked.

"Yes," the adjutant said. "When sheep originate here, they come out better." His gaze shot down the length of the table. "Has everyone been served?"

"Yes, Adjutant," Private Sudema snapped.

The adjutant stirred. Everybody stirred. The adjutant took a sip. Everybody sipped.

"Scherjoen bought and sold sheep," de Gier said. "Any sheep in Ameland?"

"Yes," the adjutant said. "Ameland is a Frisian isle, so Ameland sheep are Frisian too. A murder motivated by sheep?"

"I've never been to Ameland," de Gier said.

"You'll know better," the adjutant said. "I'm only a simple guardian of frontiers, a hunter of deserters, and a protector of royalty, that's all."

"I don't know anything better," de Gier said. "I know nothing at all. I keep busy in case my superiors might be watching. And it would be nice to spend a day on one of your beautiful islands."

"Good," the adjutant said. "We all do what we have to do. Sudema."

Private Sudema replaced his cup.

"You'll be going to Ameland today."

"Yes, Adjutant."

"Or do you have something better to do?"

"Not today, Adjutant."

"Fine. The deserter is at home, we have received a report. He doesn't show himself much, but he does happen to be at home. He's been betrayed. The deserter was born in the village in the north and the informer is from the village in the south. The northerners and the southerners do not live in harmony."

"Adjutant?" said the private who had carried the tomatoes.

"Yes, my boy."

"He wasn't betrayed," the private said. "I was on the island and had a drink in the pub, and the southerners were there and had been drinking too. Southerners have a habit of raising their voices. I happened to hear that the deserter would be at his home in the north."

"You were in uniform?"

"No, Adjutant."

"But everybody knows you on the island. You're from the south, aren't you, my boy?"

"I am."

"We'll call it a coincidence," the adjutant said.

"Adjutant?"

"Now what, my boy?"

The private was quiet.

"Whatever you like. Old wives' tales. Foam on a wave. The swirl of a tea leaf. Are you busy today, my boy?"

"Yes, Adjutant, I have to fetch my motorcycle."

"You have motorcycles here?" de Gier asked. "What brand? I used to be a motorcycle cop. I rode a BMW."

"My private motorcycle," the private said. "A brand-new thousand-cc Kawasaki. The dealership is closed after our hours, so I have to pick it up during the day."

"How about you?" the adjutant asked another private. The private had to visit the doctor. The next in line had to see the dentist. The next three had to attend a party, to celebrate the transfer and simultaneous promotion of a colleague. The last two privates were available for duty.

"So you two stay here," the adjutant said, "for otherwise there'll be no one in the barracks. Sudema, you'll go alone, but keep things quiet. Two years ago we had some trouble on the island. A Marine, remember?"

"A deserter?" de Gier asked.

"Subject was on holiday," the adjutant said. "Ripped a tent while camping-his own, but we don't like boisterous behavior in a military man. Sudema, you go to the subject's house, ring the bell, and ask him to accompany you. If he's unwilling, we'll see what we'll do. Report to me first. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Adjutant."

"Call our vessel. The vessel is available? Did the skipper get over his cold?"

"The ferry?" de Gier asked.

"Our own vessel," the adjutant said. "Or, rather, lent to us, for it belongs to the Army. The Wet Engineers, to be precise. The skipper is an Army sergeant. Our name has been painted on the ship, so people may think it's ours, but that isn't really the case. The sergeant is borrowed from the Engineers, but the crew are footsoldiers. We're not really in charge, but we make use of the craft."

"Hello?" Private Sudema asked through the radio. "Barracks here. Over."

The radio coughed.

"Are you all right again, skipper?" Private Sudema asked.

"Right, right. A bit better, let's say."

"Can you take two men to Ameland?" Private Sudema asked.

"Why not? It's a nice day."

"We'll be there soon. Over and out."

"Fetch the bus," the adjutant barked. "You. Before you fetch your motorcycle."

The private drove the bus into the yard. The adjutant inspected the vehicle. The ashtray contained two butts. The private excused himself, took the ashtray inside the building, and came running back. He pushed the ashtray back into the dashboard.

"Where did Sudema go?"

The adjutant went back into the building. De Gier followed. "Can't find cartridges," Private Sudema said.

The adjutant and Sudema opened and closed cupboards.

"I emptied my last clip on the shooting range," Private Sudema said. "There should be a box here."

The adjutant locked in a file. "Ordered a thousand rounds three weeks ago. They usually take a month. Next week, maybe?"

"I have an extra clip," de Gier said. "Same caliber. You use twenty-two Magnum too."

"No," the adjutant said. "Thanks all the same. You have Municipal Police cartridges, and if Sudema lost them, we'd have a week of paperwork. I'm short on clerks too."

"Don't really need them," Private Sudema said.

"Exactly," the adjutant said. "Just imagine that, God help us, you wounded a subject. Do you have any idea what a room in the hospital would cost us per day?"

"But we never shoot anyone," Sudema said.

"It could happen," the adjutant said, "if we had something to shoot with. It's simple enough. All you have to do is pull a trigger. What happens afterward may be beyond all hope."

Sudema closed his eyes, considering possibilities.

"It happened to me once," the adjutant said. "Long ago, but still… In Korea. I'll never forget. We had eight hundred men out there, and ten military policemen. We mostly directed traffic. I was in charge of a crossing. I was short-tempered then. Nobody ignored my orders. We were near the front line, and a carload of Koreans came at me. I motioned to them to stop. The stop sign is international, everybody is supposed to know it, but that vehicle kept coming. Some sort of jeep, of Russian manufacture, and the soldiers in it were from the north. By chance-there's always chance, you know-an American soldier stood next to me and was carrying a bazooka, complete with a rocket in the tube, but he wasn't doing anything, for I was in charge of the position. I took that bazooka and fired it at the jeep."

"A hit?" de Gier asked.

"Not much distance, and a big rocket. Hard to miss, Sergeant. It happened that I'd been trying out a bazooka the day before, so I knew what to do."

"North Koreans were the enemy?" de Gier asked.

"Let's go," Private Sudema said.

The bus drove off, the young private at the wheel. "The adjutant is still as short-tempered as ever," Sudema said, "but that time he got a medal."

The trip didn't take long. The ship was waiting in the port of Harlingen. It seemed in excellent order, sixty feet long, painted blue and white, a clean new flag on the after deck.

"Nice," de Gier said.

The skipper welcomed his passengers. "You like my boat? I do too, but she's obsolete, I'm told. There'll be a new vessel next month. Cost as much as a jet fighter, and this one will be sold for scrap."

"A sturdy craft," de Gier said.

The skipper caressed the railing. "She'll take you to the end of the oceans, provided you stick to the channels. She's really too deep for here." The boat, with the help of two soldiers, detached herself from the quay. The skipper showed off the engine room. "Nothing ever breaks down," he said. "Pity, really, I do like repairs. Every two weeks the boys and I take everything apart and fit it back together again, but the material is outdated, couldn't break it if we tried."

"Look here," the skipper said. "Every part is made out of copper. Nice to polish. We do that a lot."

"Stolen copper?" de Gier asked.

"What's that?" the skipper asked. "Are you here because of theft? You're a detective, aren't you? I won't have thieves on board, ever. Couldn't stand it. What's this copper that was stolen?"

"Not on your boat," de Gier said. "I heard that copper was stolen on the island-maybe a rumor. You mentioned copper, and I thought of what I heard."

"On Ameland they like to steal," the skipper said. "Have you heard their song?" He sang to the beat of his wrench, tapping on a tube:

"Three good men from this isle

Without forethought or guile

Lifted three beams from a house

As quiet as a mouse

The house fell apart

Now wasn't that smart?"

De Gier and Sudema applauded, for the skipper had a good voice. They climbed to the bridge, where a soldier handled the wheel. Sudema lit a pipe. The skipper began to cough. "Does the smoke bother you?" Private Sudema asked.

"The old chest, you know. Should be in bed, but it's a bit boring at home. Better to be here."

Sudema looked for an ashtray. "Knock it outside," the skipper said. "Portside."

"Where?"

"Left. That side. Where the wind isn't coming from."

De Gier observed the sea that stretched away beyond the merry bow wave, deep blue to the horizon. The flag behind him snapped in the breeze. Seagulls planed effortlessly above the thumping ship as it began to ease itself into the waves. "Lots of thieves in Ameland?" de Gier asked.

"All residents of islands are thieves," the skipper said. "I'm from an island myself. The sea brings gifts and you pick them up, and before you know it you're picking up everything in sight. A good habit, in a way, as long as you can keep mum about it. The people of Ameland like to talk too much. They even show their thievery in their flag. You know the Ameland flag? Three beams on a blue field, and the moon in it too. Because they like to steal at night. They put in a crown as well, to make things all right again."

"What did they want with the three beams?"

"Sell them to a builder," the skipper said. "On the mainland. All landlubbers are fences. They leave the adventurous part to us."

Sudema came back to the bridge. "Can I smoke down there?"

"As long as you keep portside," the skipper said. "That's left."

De Gier followed Private Sudema.

"Your uncle mentioned copper," de Gier said. "Would the deserter have been lifting copper? There must be a connection to Scherjoen. Did Scherjoen like copper?"

"Uncle Sjurd was really drunk?" Sudema asked.

"Sorry," de Gier said. "I shouldn't have said I got the tip from a drunk."

"Uncle Sjurd can be as drunk as he likes," Sudema said. "But he helps to run the church, and I've always seen him slam the cork after he's had two drinks."

"Not this time," de Gier said. "Let him be drunk for once, and tell me about the copper."

Sudema watched the sea. De Gier watched the sea too.

"Aunt Gyske," Sudema said dreamily. "You met her, did you?"

"Yes."

"If I ever get married," Private Sudema said, "she'll have to look like Aunt Gyske."

"She came out better," de Gier said, "because of your pure Frisian soil. Tell me about this copper."

Sudema sighed. "The copper was used to manufacture cartridge casing for the guns of the Air Force. The jets drop them above the islands, when they exercise on their range. Copper is expensive and the Air Force wants it back, so the Air Force soldiers pick them up, in their own time, at a quarter a casing. Because we patrol around here, we take the soldiers along, or they can hitch a ride with the Water Police or the Navy. Water Inspection will take them too. The Air Force lets us ride their planes at times, if we can think of an excuse. It helps to relieve stress."

"Do the pickers-up of Air Force cartridge casings make a lot of dough?"

"It all adds up," Private Sudema said. "But it takes a while before they get it, because we're all military and nothing ever comes at once. The casings are stored in shacks, and the shacks are emptied only once in so many months. Then they get their pay. The Air Force sends a vessel for the casings."

"An Air Force vessel?" de Gier asked.

"No, Marines. They ride their armored vehicles on the islands' beaches, and one of their ferries will be lent to the Air Force, but the ferry is really Army."

"The Wet Engineers?"

"The Dry Engineers," Private Sudema said. "The ferries are built to transport tanks, and tanks are dry, but the Dry Engineers don't have boats, so they borrow them from the Wet Engineers and run them temporarily-but that can take forever-for the Air Force."

'The ferry picks up the cartridge casings?"

"If things go right. Last time things went wrong." Private Sudema made his pipe gurgle. "All the shacks were empty."

The vessel cut through mirror-images of clouds. The sign reading ROYAL MILITARY POLICE reflected a thick ray of bright sunlight and became a blue and white symbol of joyful energy above the gray engine room's powerful hum. Fishing vessels heading for the mainland greeted authority by blowing their horns briefly. Sudema saluted stiffly to acknowledge their respect. The ship followed the channel indicated by buoys and by branches, most of them still with their leaves, stuck into the water at the edge of mudbanks. "A service tendered by Water Inspection," Sudema said, "or rather by Forestry. They have their own boat too, but registered in the name of Water Inspection." Sudema's pipe erupted in sparks. "No, let's see now, maybe the Pilot Service plants those branches, in a boat that belongs to the Port."

De Gier's cigarette smoke went down the wrong way. He coughed and frantically waved his arms. "You should change to a pipe," Private Sudema said. "Pipe tobacco calms the mind." He blew a smoke ring that was torn up by the wind.

A seal appeared and watched de Gier curiously from innocent round eyes, sunk in his round head. "Morning," de Gier said. The seal looked away shyly. The round head changed into a pointed snout as it sank backwards into the waves.

"That deserter," Sudema said. "He sails a nice boat. Made it himself, I believe, a copy of an antique flat-bottomed sloop. Must have nosed past the islands one dark night and darted in and out before disappearing with the loot."

A patrol boat of the Water Police came by, sinister and low in the water, with a sharp prow like a warship and painted light gray, with large white numbers.

"Well armed, I suppose?" de Gier asked.

"Not as far as I know," Sudema said. "A carbine, maybe. We own a few too, but they stay in the barracks."

A larger vessel came by, of the same gray color, again with square white numbers.

"Navy," Sudema said. A cannon without a barrel stood on the foredeck of the boat.

"Does that work?" de Gier asked.

"Used to," Sudema said. "But they lost the barrel years ago. I sometimes ask the sailors about it, but they prefer not to discuss the matter. The barrel cracked during an exercise. They're trying to replace it, but so far nothing seems to fit very well."

The warship crossed the wakes of Water Police and Military Police vessels.

"Quite a show of strength," de Gier said. 'To what purpose, do you think? Any smuggling here?"

"Only on weekends," Sudema said, "but we aren't around then. The harbormaster of Ameland reported a suspicious boat some weekends ago, when he was out here fishing. He phoned, and one of us happened to be in the barracks and he might have wanted to go out, but he couldn't raise the skipper. Wouldn't have been any good anyway. Smugglers use flat-bottomed craft so that they can operate outside the channel."

"So you did nothing?"

"We did something," Sudema said. "Our man phoned the alarm stations and an Air Force helicopter went out to take a look. Couldn't see anything. By then the fog had come in.

De Gier rubbed bis eyes. "Yes," Sudema said, "I noticed it just now. You have a nervous tremor in both eyelids. Should watch that, you know. When I had that, it was diagnosed as stress; a week's leave and it got much better."

"Stress?" de Gier asked. "You were working too hard?"

"That too," Sudema said. "Long hours, but I think it was my engagement. Aunt Gyske had her birthday, and Jymke and I were invited to the party. Uncle Sjurd kept going to his tomatoes in the greenhouse, and Aunt Gyske kept dancing with me. She had this record, slow blues, and the stereo was switched to automatic so the tune kept coming back at us. Jymke got bored and went home, but I didn't notice."

"End of the engagement?"

"I did take her some tulips," Sudema said, "from Aunt Gyske's garden, but she didn't want them, it seemed. Wouldn't come to the door."

Ameland showed as a thin yellow line, dotted with green. De Gier practiced deep breathing on the after deck. A soldier came to fetch him to have coffee in the skipper's cabin. The other soldier was in charge of the bridge. The skipper and Sudema were waiting at the table.

"An exciting life," the skipper said. "I'm due to retire next year, but they won't get me to stay at home. I'm building my own boat on weekends. I'll just keep going."

"Here?" de Gier asked.

"Where else?" The skipper pounded the table. "This is where I belong. I'll be here until doomsday."

The harbormaster welcomed the ship, telling the skipper that he came in too fast again.

"Can't go any slower," the skipper said. "If I did, I'd be in reverse."

"That bow wave of yours is mining my dock."

"Next time I'll come straight through it."

"I'll report you to your boss."

"Why don't you?" the skipper asked. "You'd do me a favor. I don't think I have a boss, but if I have, I would like to meet him."

"We brought some very nice fresh tomatoes," Private Sudema said kindly.

The soldiers carried two cases of tomatoes ashore and walked back lugging a crate filled with sole.

"Your own catch?" de Gier asked.

"No time for that," the harbormaster said. "You have no idea how busy they keep me here. The fishermen bring in the sole. Undersized, but each fishing boat can bring in two crates, by permission of the Fishing Inspection."

"Are they around here too?"

"Not in their own boat," Sudema said. "They're using a NATO vessel now, temporarily registered with our Navy."

Two State Police officers drove down the jetty and parked their Land Rover near the harbormaster's office. The harbormaster invited them in for coffee. There was time for conversation, on the subject of tennis. The State Police officers played a lot of tennis on weekdays, they said, for they were off duty over the weekends.

"Do you close down your station during weekends?" de Gier asked.

"Yes," said the officer in charge, "but we could still be reached by phone through headquarters ashore. Headquarters could then call us at our homes, and if there was some urgency, let's say, we would probably be able to go see what might be going on."

"As long as it doesn't happen too often," the subordinate officer said. "Listen, we've got some forty square miles here, and there are only seven of us. There's a lot of overtime already. All sorts of things to do."

"I hear you allow nudism on the beaches," de Gier said.

"Yes," said the officer in charge. "We used to look at them a lot when nudism was still new-some nice ladies around-but you get used to what they have on show. I prefer birdwatching now. More variety. I check them in my birdbook, and as soon as I identify them I cross them off."

The harbormaster excused himself. A boat approached the jetty.

"Shall we go?" the officer in charge asked.

The trip didn't take long, although there were two interruptions. A cyclist had strayed from the path reserved for cyclists and had to be spoken to, and a man who was cleaning his ashtray above a garbage can provided by the authorities, but who had dropped two butts on the way, was criticized politely. Both lawbreakers apologized profusely.

"Got to pay attention to everything here," the subordinate officer said, once they had reached their station. "Coffee, Sergeant?"

"No thanks," de Gier said. "I'm suffering from a little stress. Coffee makes it worse."

"Should try some fishing," the officer in charge said. "We have been told to fish in lieu of expensive therapy. Fishing for eel is most recommended. We put out our trap and pull it in after six hours. Meanwhile we wait." De Gier was shown the eel traps that were drying on lines in the yard. A motorcycle leaned against a wall. "Dirt bike," the subordinate officer said. "I enjoyed it for a while, but it's for sale now. Good rough tires. Will take you across any dune, but the movement is too hectic, gives you a pain in the kidneys."

"The sergeant used to serve with die Amsterdam motorcycle brigade," Private Sudema said.

"Be my guest," the officer said. "Take her out, once you've made your arrest. The deserter is home, I caught a glimpse of him this morning."

"Couldn't you have grabbed him?" de Gier asked.

"I?" the officer asked. "A State Police official? Bother a military subject?"

Private Sudema coughed behind his hand.

"I'm sorry," de Gier said.

"We do try to help our colleagues at times," the officer said, "but we don't mind their business, that's something else again."

The house that Sudema pointed out was surrounded by rosebushes. "I'll ring the bell," Sudema said. "He might not want to come out, in which case he'll probably leave by the door in the rear."

"Should I hang around in the back?" de Gier asked.

"Why not?" Sudema said. "Wish him the time of day. He's supposed to be a pleasant fellow. Easy to talk to, I'm told."

De Gier squatted behind the fence and peered through the roses. In the garden, a cat had stretched itself out to enjoy the sun. Crows conversed slowly on the roof. A peewit tumbled about in the sky. Ducks flapped their wings on their way to the sea. A young man came out of the kitchen door and picked up a rake. He raked the path to the barn, left the rake against a doorpost, and went inside. In the barn a motorcycle started up. De Gier jumped up and waved. "Hello?"

The young man on the motorcycle raced through the open gate.

Sudema strolled around the house. "That was our friend."

"Too fast for me," de Gier said.

"Gone now," Sudema said. "Pity, in a way. Well, there's always another time."

"Got to talk to the subject," de Gier said. He ran back to the station. The officer couldn't immediately find the key to the motorcycle. De Gier jogged around the yard. "Here," the officer said. "In the tray for pencils and ballpoints. We're too disorganized. It's driving me bonkers."

De Gier kicked the starter and manipulated the gears with his foot. The bike climbed a dune with ease, jumped, bounced down, and was off again. De Gier increased speed on the beach. The wheels hissed across the moist sand left by the ebbing tide. De Gier switched the engine off and applied the brake. He listened.

A growl, far away, ahead.

He kicked the engine back to life. The speedometer heeled over. An island, de Gier thought, has an end.

The dot ahead had reached the end and would have to come back. De Gier maneuvered. The motorcycles turned around each other, in decreasing circles.

Cat and mouse.

If you like, Mouse, de Gier thought. Tell you what. I'll give you a break. Go on, escape.

The mouse sped away, but the cat cut him off, speeding through a mean short curve. The mouse fell over and no longer moved.

"Hurt yourself?" de Gier asked.

"Pulled a muscle," the deserter said. He jumped to his feet. The deserter was a slender boy with whitish-blond hair, muscled legs, and long, mobile arms. He hopped up and down, waving his fists. "Are you ready?"

De Gier brushed sand from his mustache. "Not really. I'd rather have a cool drink. Hot day today. You know the way around here, don't you? A good cafe" with a view?"

"You a military cop?"

"De Gier, Municipal Police, Amsterdam. I'm not after you. I only have a few questions."

"The officer who rang the bell was a military cop."

"I won't tell him," de Gier said, and smiled.

The young man kept hopping up and down. "Can't trust policemen."

De Gier raised a hand. He pressed it to his chest. "You can trust me. I'm a tourist, a foreigner, visiting your lovely land."

"You're putting me on," the deserter said.

"May I never eat fried sole again," de Gier said, "if my word can't be trusted."

The young man righted his motorcycle. "Follow me."

On the cafe's terrace, peacefully staring at the barely moving sea, across sand castles built by German tourists, disturbed only by children grabbing french fries from each other's paper bags, distracted only by a fairly young mother and her almost-full grown daughter who had taken off their blouses to rub suntan oil on their breasts, the deserter complained. Life in the Air Force did not agree with him. He explained the routine: getting up before sunrise to start another day, during which there would be little to do except pull an airplane to a specified spot. Once there, it had to be taken elsewhere. Back again, maybe a couple of times. The airplane never flew; it was parked. Malfunctioning, perhaps? Could be, nobody knew. Maybe the airplane didn't work. Let's pull it back. The plane is in the way. You, would you mind placing it over there? Who put this plane here? Please, private, take it away. This is the wrong plane. It should take off from the other strip. The pilot is waiting. There's no pilot waiting? Let's find a pilot. No, not you, you're the one who pulls the plane.

"Please," de Gier said.

"That's the way it goes," the deserter said. "I've got a lot to do, but they drafted me anyway. I have to finish my new boat so that I can rent it out and make some cash to fix up my other boat. I've got to go to Fiji."

"Why Fiji?"

The deserter had read about Fiji. His father had been away too, but not that far away. 'They got bones through their noses out there, and when the ladies want you to love them, they take off their blouses. Got to be careful, though. Sometimes they take off their blouses because they want to dive for crayfish. But they take off their blouses in a different way then. You got to study their ways and then you'll be all right."

"They take off their blouses here too," de Gier said.

The deserter looked at the fairly young mother and her almost-full-grown daughter. Mother and daughter smiled at him.

"They don't have bones through their noses," the deserter said. "And they don't do any diving. I really have to go to Fiji."

The deserter put his glass down. De Gier ordered refills. "Your solution is simple."

"Not now. I'm about to be arrested. So far I've outrun them, but they keep coming back."

"Quite," de Gier said. "Don't get caught. That's the easy way and also the least pleasant. Why don't you go the clever way? Take your boat and sail for the mainland. Go to the airbase. Climb the fence. Go straight to the commander's office, knock on the door, and present yourself."

"You think I'm retarded?"

"Not at all," de Gier said. "You're tough and you're intelligent. Explain to the commander that you don't want to be in the Air Force anymore."

"They'll put handcuffs on me."

"Never," de Gier said. "You'll be sent home."

"Why?"

"Because you don't want to join them. They don't like that. Most military people are group-oriented. The individual frightens them."

"They think I'm crazy."

"You are," de Gier said. "One of the happy few. Tm crazy, but I'm very discreet. You should be discreet too. Tell them their life doesn't suit you, that you can't figure out why. Say you're sorry. Then go back to your island, finish your boat, and sail for Fiji."

The deserter thought. "You sure you're crazy too?"

"Ssh. Don't tell."

"You want to go to Fiji too?"

"I'm bound for Papua New Guinea," de Gier said. "That's about as far as you're going. I've been taking my time. My urge grew slowly. You're lucky. It's better to go when you're young."

The deserter grinned.

"Now tell me," de Gier said, "about the copper."

"You're after me for that?"

"I'm not after you at all," de Gier said. "Please put that out of your head. An intelligent man shouldn't have to repeat himself. Go on, what about this copper? Is that why you were in Dingjum? That time you escaped again?"

"Yes," the deserter said. "But I didn't sell it to the fence. I'll bring it all back if you like. It seemed like a good thing, in the middle of the night, three shacks filled with expensive copper, gathered by those silly soldiers, but once I had it the fun was gone."

"You planned to sell it to Douwe Scherjoen?"

"Nasty little man," the deserter said. "He thought he had me. The copper was just the beginning. He had other plans and I didn't like them at all."

De Gier sipped his soda.

"You know what he was up to?" the deserter asked.

De Gier rolled a cigarette.

"I don't go for that sort of thing," the deserter said.

"But you don't mind stealing copper?"

"That was fun." The deserter laughed. "And part of Scher- joen's plan was fitn too. Meet some rusty tramp under the eyes of all the patrol boats and pick up some cargo. You've no idea what snoops around here. Water Police, Military Police, Navy, Water Inspection…"

"I've been told."

"But I didn't like the cargo."

"You refused?"

"Of course," the deserter said. "They give that stuff to schoolkids for free, and once they're hooked, they make them wallow in the filth of Amsterdam. Why should I have anything to do with that? Not me, never."

"What did Scherjoen say the cargo would be?"

"He didn't."

"What sort of vessel will bring it in?"

The deserter shrugged.

"When is the tramp due?"

"Soon, but I refused straight off. Wouldn't have anything more to do with Scherjoen. I never gave him the copper. I'll take it back to the shacks if you like."

"That's a good idea," de Gier said.

They rode off together. De Gier returned the dirt bike to the police station. "You'd never catch him," the officer in charge said. "He knows the island inside out. Did you get to see him?"

"I heard him," de Gier said. "Never got close. Well, I tried."

The skipper telephoned. It wasn't that he was in a hurry, but it was getting late and he thought he might be going back to the mainland.

"Been catching any eels lately?" Private Sudema asked.

The subordinate officer brought two fat eels and wrapped them separately. "We smoked them for you, too."

Sudema and de Gier thanked their hosts.

The Military Police vessel was ready to leave to make space for the State Police patrol boat. The Navy ship was expected any moment too. Two helicopters roared across the jetty.

"CIA," the harbormaster said, "cooperating with our Security Service. There's an East German fishing boat offshore, loaded with electronics, to snoop on the NATO exercises that are going on again. The helicopters will be Army, I guess, but they could be Navy too. Air Force pilots, probably."

"And what will they do to the spy ship?"

"Maybe fly around it?" the harbormaster asked.

"Should be our job," Private Sudema said, "but we haven't got the right ship. The Kraut will be in shallow water, outside the channel."

Jet fighters drew cloudy lines in the sky.

"And what would they be doing?" de Gier asked.

"Making hours," Sudema said. "The Air Force is always making hours. They have a different system from ours."

The soldiers brought folding chairs, and de Gier and Sudema settled on the after deck. Sudema lit a pipe. The soldiers brought tea and a dish of fresh-baked cookies on a tray. Seals frolicked in the vessel's wake.

"Seals have the good life," Sudema said. "Nothing to do but enjoy themselves. Makes a man envy dumb animals. Just look at them."

De Gier thought he saw the biggest seal wink.

"You're too right," de Gier said. "All we ever do is work."