Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

Something else trembles in her voice. Resignation. Acceptance. Why is she so ready to give up? In that split second I realize there is something that she’s not telling me. Either she can’t bring herself to do it or Spijker has warned her off. With her innate sense of honesty and justice, she will not lie to me directly.

“What happened to Samira?”

“She went missing last night from the migrant center at Schiphol Airport.”

There is a scientific theory called the uncertainty principle that states it is impossible to truly observe something without altering it. I have done more than observe. By finding Samira I have changed the course of events.

During the taxi journey to police headquarters my fists are clenched and my fingernails dig into the soft flesh. I want to scream. I warned Spijker this would happen. I said Samira would run or Yanus would find her.

I don’t expect him to see me. He will hide behind his workload or make excuses that I’ve wasted enough of his time already. Again I wait in the foyer. This time the summons comes. Perhaps he has a conscience after all.

The corridors are lined in light gray carpet and dotted with palms. It feels more like a merchant bank than a police station.

Spijker is jacketless. His sleeves are rolled up. The hair on his forearms is the color of his freckles. The door closes. His jacket swings from a hanger behind it.

“How long are you intending to remain in Amsterdam?” he asks.

“Why, sir?”

“You have already stayed longer than is usual. Most visitors are here for a day or two.”

“Are you advising me to leave?”

“I have no authority to do that.” He spins on his chair, gazing out the window. His office looks east across the theater district to the neo-Gothic spires of the Rijksmuseum. Lined on the windowsill are tiny cacti in painted clay pots. This is his garden—fleshy, bulbous and spiky.

I had a speech prepared during my taxi ride, when I vented my spleen and caused the taxi driver a few anxious moments, peering into the rear mirror. Now all my best lines seem pointless and wasted. I wait for the detective to speak.

“I know what you think, DC Barba. You think I have dropped the ball on this. That is a rugby term, yes? A British game not a Dutch one. In the Netherlands we do not pick up the ball. Only a goalkeeper can do this.”

“You should have protected her.”

“She chose to escape.”

“She’s eight months pregnant and eighteen years old. You couldn’t hold her for twenty-four hours.”

“Did you want me to handcuff her?”

“You could have stopped her.”

“I am trying to keep this investigation low key. I don’t want it reaching the media. Black market babies make dramatic headlines.”

“So it was a political decision?”

“There is no politics in the Dutch police.”

“No?”

“No one has talked politics to me.”

Despite his down-turned mouth and sad eyes, Spijker comes across as an optimist, a man who has faith in the human condition.

“I have twenty years’ service. I know how to make a case. I am like the little pig that builds his house out of bricks. You are like the little pig who builds her house from straw. Do you remember what happens to such a house?” He puffs out his cheeks and blows. A flake of cigarette ash swirls from his desk into my lap.

Sporting metaphors and fairy-tale metaphors, what next? He opens the top drawer of his desk, withdrawing a file.

“There is a fertility clinic in Amersfoort. It has a very good reputation and has helped thousands of couples to begin a family. Occasionally, when IVF has been unsuccessful, the clinic has agreed to implant embryos into the uterus of a surrogate mother. This is called gestational surrogacy. In 2002 there were only four such procedures out of 1,500 normal IVF implantations. In 2003 and 2004 there were two in total.” He glances at the file. “In the past year there have been twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two! That’s an increase of more than tenfold.”

“Gestational surrogacy is legal in the Netherlands. Commercial surrogacy is not. Nor is blackmail or bonded slavery.

“Directors of the clinic and staff insist they are unaware of any wrongdoing. They also insist the surrogate mothers were properly screened. They were examined physically, financially and psychologically.

“On January 26 this year Samira Khan underwent this examination. She was asked questions about her menstrual cycle and was given pills and injections—estrogen and progesterone—to prepare her uterus for the implantation.

“On February 10 she returned to the clinic. The embryo transfer took less than fifteen minutes. A soft tube was inserted through her vagina to a predetermined position. A small inner catheter was then loaded with two embryos and these were injected into the uterus. Samira Khan was told to lie still for thirty minutes and then discharged. She was taken to the car park in a wheelchair and driven away by Yanus. Her pregnancy was confirmed two weeks later. Twins.”

Spijker finally looks up at me. “But you know this already.”

There are other papers in his file.

“Do you have the names of the intended parents?”

“Legal contracts are required between couples and the surrogate mothers. The clinic does not draw up these contracts, but requires a written statement from a lawyer confirming they exist.”

“Have you seen the contracts?”

“Yes.”

For a moment I think he’s going to wait for me to ask, but he is not a cruel man.

“Each copy of the contract was signed by Samira Khan and countersigned by Cate Beaumont. Is this what you wish to know?”

“Yes.”

He returns the folder to the drawer and rises from his seat, surveying the view from his window with a mixture of pride and protectiveness.

“Of the twenty-two procedures I mentioned, eighteen resulted in pregnancies. One of the failures involved a woman named Zala Haseeb. Doctors discovered she was unable to fall pregnant because of earlier damage to her reproductive organs caused by blunt force trauma.”

“She was tortured by the Taliban.”

He doesn’t turn from the window but I know he hears me.

“Twelve of the surrogate mothers are past term but we have no confirmation of the births. Normally the clinic monitors every stage of the pregnancy and keeps a record of each outcome for statistical purposes. In this case, however, it lost track of the women.”

“Lost track of them!”

“We are in the process of finding them. The clinic has provided us with their names but the addresses appear to be fictitious.”

“I don’t think you’ll find any trace of the births in the Netherlands,” I say. “I think the mothers were smuggled across borders or overseas to where the intended parents live. This meant the babies could be handed over immediately after they were born and registered without any questions.”

Spijker sees the logic of this. “We are tracking the intended parents through financial transactions. There are receipts and statutory declarations.”

“Who drew up the contracts?”

“A legal firm here in Amsterdam.”

“Are they being investigated?”

Spijker pauses for a brief moment. “You met the senior partner yesterday. He represents Mr. Yanus.”

His gaze builds into a stare. For the first time I realize what a burden he carries. I have been chasing the truth about a single woman. He now has a case that touches dozens, perhaps hundreds of people’s lives.

Spijker turns away from the window. After a long silence he speaks. “Do you have children?”

“No, sir.”

“I have four of them.”

“Four!”