Don't forget to read the updated Chapter 25!

Twenty Six

They were to meet in one of Van Sant's many brothels. Although the Captain hadn't been happy about it, Müller had elected to bring only Ivan with him for back-up, should he need it. It was risky bringing any of the others, he had explained in an attempt to sooth the man, who was fast losing what little remained of his temper. But the fact was that the Captain and the two detectives were too well known. The European newspapers - hell, the world's newspapers - loved the adventurous, moral, teenage reporter Tintin, and his scrappy, loyal little dog. He really was one of the most globally famous celebrities, and there was no way that three of his entourage would go unnoticed in Van Sant's hideout. And if they were recognised, Müller had no doubt that Van Sant would kill them all - including Tintin and Georgie - and disappear into the underworld to escape justice. If he was ever successfully prosecuted, Van Sant was facing a long jail stretch made worse by other criminals already locked-up, who hated him.

Besides, being invited to his brothel took away the element of surprise; the only thing that had helped them take the barn was the fact that nobody was expecting it. Van Sant would by now have gathered the rest of his men to him, and by the time the meeting with Müller took place he would have certainly heard about the raid on the barn. News of such a coup for the local police and Interpol would travel fast, and he would be wary that they were targeting all of his known businesses at the same time. The barn could never be traced back to him - he was far too clever for that - but he would be understandably wary. He would want the protection afforded by guns and vast numbers, and Müller would be outnumbered regardless of who he brought with him. Even if Lady Luck herself showed up and rode shotgun they would be screwed.

No, it was much better to go along with the guise of a legitimate business meeting, and hope to get out before Van Sant realised Müller was anything to do with the bust on the barn.

Eventually, the Captain had conceded the point. But Müller had to agree to one demand: he handed the keys to the office of Valkyrie over to the Captain and promised to bring Tintin there. As he broke every red light and ignored every Stop sign on the way to Eindhoven, Müller had time to mull that over. Surely the Captain would want Tintin looked after, following such an ordeal as he was bound to receive at the hands of Van Sant. Therefore it would make more sense to bring him straight to a hospital, or even back to their hotel. Unless, of course, the Captain was trying to keep it quiet. A hospital and hotel have a lot of staff, after all. The newspapers and news shows would hear about it at once and the whole place would become a media circus, and a media circus during a discrete investigation would blow the whole thing open.

It stank of good P.R., and Müller doubted that it came from the Captain. Clever little Tintin, he thought to himself as he drove. Covering your tracks like a true professional. I wonder how many 'incidents' really made it into the newspapers? And how many indiscretions have you thrown money at, to make them disappear? Are you burying them? Why? To protect your reputation and your public image? Just how squeaky clean is the squeaky clean reporter?

He shook his head as he swung into a quiet street near Emmasingel. Close by, the impressive structure of De Admirant towered over the commercial shopping district, which was deserted at that late hour. Van Sant's brothel was extremely discrete: it was one of his most expensive, exclusive joints, advertised only as a 'gentleman's club'. It was strictly members' only and any potential member had to receive an official invitation before they could even consider joining. Müller, of course, had one in his wallet. He flashed the gilt-edged membership card at the glassy-eyed woman that greeted him at the door.

He and Ivan were admitted at once. Though they had both left their guns secreted in a hiding place in Müller's car they were still quickly and expertly frisked by one of Van Sant's men. As they were led through the inner club with it's impressive bar staffed by beautiful, under-clothed women, Müller was struck by how few of Van Sant's men were actually around. Usually, a few of them stood in the shadows, covering the exits while more stayed on the floor to make sure the girls gave nothing away for free and to over-see any negotiations that might take place. Tonight, though, a single, harassed-looking man in black was attempting to break up the women, who were clustered tightly at the end of the bar, muttering to each other as they chain-smoked and ignored their solitary guard.

Van Sant was spooked: he had to be. He would never have allowed the girls to stand idle when there was money to be made. He knows about the raid, Müller thought to himself. You knew he would. Stay cool and we'll all make it out of here alive. Maybe.

x

Van Sant was found in a room on the second floor. The elegant hard-wood floors had been overlaid with an opulent rug that may have been real Persian, but Müller didn't get the chance to examine it too closely. The man himself was sitting on a leather couch, his arms stretched out along the back of it. His head was tilted back, a thick cigar clamped between his teeth. Thin tendrils of blue smoke made their lazy way up to curl and crowd around the expensive-looking brass light fixtures.

"You have money?" he asked without looking at his guests.

It had taken a lot of convincing, but the Captain had finally gone to an ATM machine to bank-roll this. Müller gestured to Ivan, who stepped forward. A briefcase hung from a chain, attached to his left wrist by a thick metal cuff. He unlocked it before flipping the case over and opening it so that its insides were facing Van Sant. Van Sant finally looked at them - well, at the money - and Müller did his best to keep his own face completely blank.

The thing that most people forget, he thought to himself, is that predatory animals fight hardest when they are cornered. Even the lowly rat is at its most dangerous when it's backed into a corner. He may only be a child, and he may present an innocent face to the world, but Tintin was a hunter at heart. Van Sant had cornered him and Tintin had fought back.

Viciously too. Good boy!

The fat Dutchman bore thin scratches across his nose and cheeks. His lip was crusted with a considerable amount of dried blood and when he smiled at the bundles of euros on offer Müller could see that two of the teeth on his bottom jaw were missing completely, while one of his front teeth on the top was cracked in half. At the smile, Van Sant winced and clutched at his mouth. His eyes narrowed and turned to Müller.

"You look..." Müller began, before trailing off. Lying to the man would be pointless, he realised. He blew out a noisy puff of air and shrugged helplessly. "I hope you gave as good as you got?"

"Oh yes," Van Sant promised, his eyes flashing cruelly. "How much did you bring?"

"Everything that was in the club," Müller lied. "Fifty seven. But if it's as good as you say it is" -

"It's fine," Van Sant said at once. "I want to sell this and be done with it. I've had bad luck ever since I acquired it."

Müller's heart started to pound a little harder. Georgie? His luck turned to shit the second he took her. Oh, please, God, I ask you for so little...

"I want you to take it and go," Van Sant concluded.

"Take what?" Müller asked cautiously. He reached out and snapped the briefcase shut, almost taking off Van Sant's fingers as he reached for the banknotes. "I don't even know what I'm buying," he pointed out.

Van Sant settled back and resumed sucking on his cigar. "Bring it," he said casually. One of his few men detached from the wall and disappeared out of a second door, one hidden in the elaborate paneling of the wooden walls on the other side of the room. Müller knew that the door led to a small room further in the building. Several of the bedrooms connected to that room via a series of hidden doors: Van Sant used it to move the younger children into the bedrooms discretely, when men and women of that nature visited here.

They passed the next few seconds in silence, with Van Sant happily sending plumes of smoke up to the ceiling. Eventually, the man returned. He dragged behind him a forlorn figure dressed in a stained shirt several sizes too large. The man pushed the boy into the centre of the room and forced him too his knees. Tintin stayed like that, his head bowed, until Müller approached him. He kneeled in front of Tintin and forced his head up, examining him. His face was left free of bruises, although his bottom lip bore blood and teeth marks - revenge for Van Sant's damaged mouth, no doubt, and there were thick bruises around the delicate skin of his throat. Müller silently tried to communicate with him to play along.

Tintin's eyes seemed to light up, and Müller's heart stopped with fear that the boy would give the game away, but he had doubted how clever Tintin truly was. The boy cleared his throat and spat in Müller's face. "Go to hell!" he croaked.

Müller recoiled and automatically raised his hand to punch Tintin, but Ivan grabbed his wrist. "Not here!" the Russian warned. "Take him somewhere safer and finish the job there."

"You are happy with the money?" Müller asked as he straightened up and used his handkerchief to wipe the spit out of his beard.

"More than happy," Van Sant replied. He had watched the scene with dispassionate eyes. "I did my best to break him," he continued, "but the results were unsatisfactory. Take my advice, Müller: take your revenge and kill him as soon as you can."

Müller nodded. "I intend to do just that. You have a back way out of here we can use?"

Van Sant nodded. "Your man can bring your car around the back; there's no way anyone can see him leaving here with you."

"Good. Ivan: go and get the car." Müller gazed down at Tintin, detached from the boy's obvious suffering. Tintin glared back malevolently, but made no move to escape.

I think we're getting out of here alive, Müller thought triumphantly.

x

Captain Haddock wasn't a patient man. He knew it; he'd come to terms with it. He wasn't a bad tempered man, but he had a bad temper. There was a fine line between the two and the Captain straddled it triumphantly and wore it like a badge of honour. He was a genial, kind man who occasionally lost his temper, that was all. But there were times when the passion and the fits of screaming fell to prayer and waiting, and this was one of those times. He sat on the sofa in the office of Valkyrie and watched the many screens that lit up the wall above the desk. Below, the club was packed and people were having a great time. Young people and people old enough to know better; they were all dancing and drinking and laughing and talking, and it made the Captain sad to know that Tintin would never be among their number.

Not that he was dead. No, he wasn't. The Captain was sure of it. He was sure that if something that final had happened to Tintin he'd know; he'd feel it, the sundering of his own soul as part of it was taken away for good. No, he was alive, but he still would never live like the people on the computer screens lived. He would never allow his guard to be relaxed enough to live like that. And to the Captain there was a kind of sadness in that. Yes, he was pleased that Tintin wasn't the type of teenager to fall in drunk at night after spending his evenings tom-catting around town, but there was a sort of sadness to it too. Tintin would never experience the true idiocy of that time of life. It was a time of life where one could almost act like an adult but take none of the responsibility when it inevitably went tits up. Tintin had been taking responsibility since the day the Captain had met him. Hell, he'd probably been taking responsibility since the day he'd decided to skip childhood and become an adult.

Proceed straight to Go. Do not collect £200. Do not collect your embarrassing memories of trying to drop the hand during a slow dance.

He was jerked out of his idle thoughts as the phone on the desk rang. He stared at it for a minute, wondering if he should answer it when the choice was taken from him and it stopped ringing. He breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, he lacked patience and had a bad temper, but at the minute both of those had fled and left him with nothing more than a small stirring of hope and wretched feeling of utter helplessness.

His mobile phone began to ring. He took it out and stared at the screen: he didn't recognise the number. He answered anyway.

"Hello?"

"It's Müller. Where are you?"

"I'm in your office. Very dark in here, isn't it?"

"It's atmospheric. Go down the stairs and to the back of them. There's a door. Open it and go into the store room. At the back there's another door, you understand? Open that one too. The keys are in the bottom drawer of my desk."

"Do you have Tintin?" the Captain demanded.

"Yes, now let us bloody in!"

The Captain did as he was told at once, hurrying down to the storeroom and hastily trying all the keys on the heavy silver ring until he found the right one. He wrenched the door open and found himself staring at the back alley behind Valkyrie. Müller's Jag idled, the engine dying as soon as the door opened and the Captain revealed himself. Moments later they were hustling a groggy Tintin upstairs while Ivan made sure that nobody saw them.

x

Tintin dozed on the couch, curled into a ball with the Captain's jacket over him like a blanket. He was aware of voices around him but he was too comfortable to move. Besides, there was no fear: he recognised the voices and the familiar scent of Old Spice and pipe tobacco from the material covering him.

"What happened to him?" the Captain's voice asked.

"How the hell should I know?" Müller replied. "He slept for most of the drive back here, and he wasn't very talkative when he was awake."

"That's a bad sign." The Captain sounded worried. "Usually he's full of talk when he's out of situations like that."

"He's been in situations like that before?"

"Well, not exactly like that, but you know what I mean. And there's blood on the back of his head. Should he be sleeping if he's got a whack on the noggin? Go on: you're the doctor."

"Well, technically speaking, no, he shouldn't..."

Tintin groaned and pushed the coat away from his face. He'd made a nice little hollow that was warm, and he didn't like leaving it. "Please don't talk about me like I'm not here," he said.

"You're awake?" The Captain's face hove into view. "Thank God for that! Are you alright, lad?"

Tintin sat up fully and blew out a noisy puff of air. "My ribs hurt... That's about it though. Everything else is superficial." He gingerly felt the back of his head, but when he examined his fingers there was very little blood on them. Most of it was dried into his hair by now. "I'd love a coffee," he added.

Müller gestured to Ivan, who was idling beside the door like a real hired henchman. The tall Russian gave his friend a wink and disappeared down to the bar to harass the barman into making a fresh pot.

"How's Daniel?" Tintin asked, looking up at the Captain. "Did he make it out alright?"

"Aye, he's fine, lad, don't worry about him. What about you? How are you?" The Captain squatted down on his hunkers and examined Tintin's face. "Did you get a fist to the mouth?" He pointed at the cut.

"Oh, no." Tintin waved it away. "That was when he" - he stopped mid sentence and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes," he lied. "He punched me in the mouth. I broke his jaw, I think."

"Not quite," Müller said. He eyed Tintin carefully. "You managed to knock out two teeth, though, and it looks like at least another one will have to be taken out."

"Good," Tintin said darkly. He gingerly felt his own lip, his eyes growing distant for a second, before shaking himself back into the present. "I think I know where Georgia is." He frowned. "But I don't know where it is, if you see what I mean. He brought me to the warehouse where she is, but I don't know where it is."

"Eindhoven," Müller said at once.

"We went to the wrong bloody place," the Captain said with a snort. "That was some mighty find deduction there, Müller."

"My reasoning and logic was sound," Müller said stiffly.

Tintin looked from one to the other. "What are you two talking about?"

"We have some news of our own," the Captain replied, "and now we have an inkling where Georgie is too. You see, we found out that Van Sant keeps a few places near Amsterdam" -

Ivan returned with a tray containing a few cups and glass coffee decanter. Tintin signaled for the Captain to continue as he made himself a cup and settled back to listen to their story.