By Pieter Aspe
Internet als commissaris Pieter Van In denkt dat hij even kan uitblazen na het onthutsende avontuur met het stamcelonderzoek waarbij hij bijna de verdrinkingsdood stierf, krijgt hij een merkwaardig telefoontje van een oude vriendin. Haar broer is spoorloos verdwenen en zij schakelt de discrete hulp in van Van In. Ze wil geen officieel onderzoek, wish haar broer is geheim agent en het is niet toegestaan op enigerlei wijze de aandacht op de geheime dienst te vestigen.
Als Van In zijn privéonderzoek begin, ontdekt hij al gauw dat er binnen de Europese geheime dienst in oprichting verschillende strekkingen zijn en dat afdelingen elkaar niet alleen wantrouwen, maar ook tegenwerken. De agenten houden elkaar nauwlettend en angstvallig in het oog. Van In stuit op een complot binnen de dienst en hij vermoedt dat de broer van zijn jeugdvriendin over aanwijzingen beschikte die hem in acuut levensgevaar hebben gebracht. Er ontstaat een kat-en-muisspel, waarbij Van In uiteindelijk de stervende broer vindt. In een ultieme krachtmeting slaagt hij erin een ramp te vermijden. Daarbij wekt hij de bewondering van de best van de geheime dienst.
Read or Download De Vijand (Van In, Book 26) PDF
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Extra resources for De Vijand (Van In, Book 26)
When he saw me he got up and took a Sig Sauer pistol from the table, stuffing it into his waistband, the grip hanging over the lip of his drawstring pants. We shook hands and he walked me over to my bike. He straddled it, started it up, and rode the throttle in neutral. He yelled over the engine, “That Spectre pistol Core's selling you? ” “Mommy. That's too much for a pistol, Bird. It was me I'd charge you three hundy” “That's cool of you, dude, but he ain't budging. ” I stuck my chin at the bike.
Or get shot here and let my partners waste him? Or hope one of them gets a clean line on him right this second? Or lie down and try to stay out of the way of everyone's bullets that were sure to puncture the Monte Carlo any second? Or, or, or … drop the keys? Yes, drop the keys. If I was going to die, then he was going to die too. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and let them fall into the footwell. ” “Motherfucker—” I leaned forward and Provestgaard did too. Mellor, who was closest to the passenger's side of the car, stuck his revolver in the rear window gap and emptied it.
Shoot, in that year, 1987, he probably even had his own computer. It didn't appeal to me. The bullet put the rush of the streets in me and through me. It guaranteed I'd never direct anything but myself, and convinced me that large desks were for castrated dummies. I thought, Fuck that, I'm gonna be an undercover. ” AUGUST 2001—JANUARY 2002 IF ANYTHING, THE shooting proved that my job, and therefore my life, was not glamorous in any way. Pathetically, I'd imagined that undercover life would be like Miami Vice—full of cigarette boats, fast cars, expensive clothes, and perfect tens in bikinis sitting in my lap while I negotiated with drug kingpins.