The flat Belgian landscape to which the great Jacques Brel once pledged his heart was on the point of slipping into a misty sleep. The temperature in Flanders that afternoon had been unbearably warm, but now a September chill had risen up from the centuries-old canal in front of the house. Changeable weather was as much a part of Belgium as fries and chocolate. The crowns of the trees bowed down as if this bogus herald of an advancing fall was a danger to their foliage. Here and there a wisp of blue smoke hovered above an isolated farmhouse set off against a cotton candy sky. Provoost shivered. The short bicycle ride hadn’t done him any good. He was chilled to the bone. Johan Brys, Vandaele’s other guest, had parked his jet-black BMW in front of the villa. Provoost noticed the license plate. Brys liked to follow fashion. He had replaced the ministry license plate with his private number, a tactic the majority of dignitaries were inclined to deploy these days.
