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…"