Part 6 — The Road to The Hague
Blue light sliced through the snowfall in rhythmic waves as Elias took advantage of the paramedics' confusion. While the ambulance crew tended to the severely injured Markus and police attempted to secure the crash site, Elias slipped silently into the shadows beneath the bridge pillars. The shock had numbed his body; the cold no longer registered in his mind. He was functioning purely on autopilot.
He trudged through the deep snow along the riverbank, away from the road, until he reached an industrial park on the edge of town. In his coat pocket, he felt his wallet—he always carried cash. It was enough to pay for a taxi to the nearest major train station.
Three hours later, Elias sat on an early morning train to Amsterdam, connecting to The Hague. The carriage was virtually empty. The lifeless grey light of Christmas Day filtered through the fogged windows. He sat in the very back, his face hidden inside the collar of an oversized coat he had purchased at a railway mission. The grey box rested on his lap, wrapped in a simple plastic bag.
He stared at the engraving on the bottom, which was far easier to examine in the dim light of the train compartment.
December 25, 1971.
His birth date. What did it mean? Anna had met him when he was already thirty years old. How could she possess a secret that dated back to the day he was born? Was his entire existence, his very identity, merely part of a elaborate, sinister fabrication?
The train clattered rhythmically over the tracks. Every click of the wheels seemed to chant his name. Elias closed his eyes and tried to recall his childhood. His parents had been simple people—his father a carpenter from a small village in Lower Saxony, his mother a quiet woman who died young. He had no siblings. No extended family. A modest, unremarkable life.
Or had it been?
The longer he pondered, the more gaps appeared in his memory. Why were there no childhood photos of him before age six? His parents had always claimed a house fire destroyed their old albums. Had that been a lie too?
By afternoon, the train pulled into The Hague Central Station. The Dutch winter was damp and windy; instead of snow, an icy, dark drizzle fell from the sky. Elias stepped onto the station plaza. The city looked deserted on this holiday. Only a few pedestrians hurried along the wet streets with hunched shoulders.
He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket containing the note Elena had frantically whispered before losing consciousness: Lange Beestenmarkt 42.
Elias caught a tram. His hand gripped the bag containing the box so tightly his knuckles turned white. He felt watched. Every passenger turning their head, every passerby on the street felt like a potential pursuer. Had Julian's network arrived already? Had his son—or the phantom claiming to be his son—anticipated where Elias would flee?
The Lange Beestenmarkt was a narrow, historic lane in the heart of The Hague. Old brick houses stood shoulder-to-shoulder, featuring tall, narrow windows and dark wooden doors. Number 42 was a modest antique shop on the ground floor. The display windows were packed with grandfather clocks, dusty oil paintings, silverware, and yellowed books. A sign on the door read: Gesloten (Closed).
Elias stepped into the doorway to escape the rain. He knocked gently on the glass. No answer. He knocked harder.
Inside the dark shop, something moved. A shadow glided between overcrowded shelves. A small, stooped figure approached the door. An elderly man with thick glasses and a messy fringe of white hair peeked through the glass.
When the old man saw Elias's face, his eyes widened behind his thick lenses. His hand trembled as he unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door a crack.
“We are closed, sir,” the man said in German with a heavy Dutch accent.
“I... I'm looking for answers,” Elias said faintly, pulling the grey box slightly out of the plastic bag. “Elena sent me. It's about Anouk. Anouk van der Meer.”
The old man froze. He cast a hurried glance up and down the empty street, grabbed Elias by the sleeve, and pulled him into the shop with surprising strength. The door was instantly shut and locked behind them.
The scent of old paper, beeswax, and dry wood filled the air. The old man breathed heavily.
“Anouk...”, he whispered. “She has been dead for eight years.”
“I know,” Elias answered. “I was her husband. Elias Vermeer.”
The antiquarian stared at him as if seeing a ghost. He took a step back, removed his glasses, wiped them on his vest, and put them back on.
“Elias...?” he asked in disbelief. “You are Elias?”
“Yes. Do you know me?”
The old man leaned against a counter. “I don't know you personally, Elias. But I know your voice from the recordings. And I know your face from the documents Anouk stashed here thirty years ago.”
Elias's heart pounded in his throat. “What kind of documents?”
The man didn't answer directly. He walked toward a heavy oak door at the back of the shop, gestured for Elias to follow, and led him into a small, candlelit study. Hundreds of old photographs hung on the walls.
The old man pointed to a black-and-white photograph framed simply on the wall. It dated back to the 1970s.
Elias stepped closer. The photograph showed a young man sitting in a laboratory chair. Electrodes were attached to his temples. Standing beside him in a white lab coat was a woman.
Elias felt the blood rush in his ears. The young man in the photo... was himself. As a twenty-year-old.
But the most terrifying part was the woman in the lab coat. She was no stranger. She was a younger version of Anna.
“What... what is this?” Elias stammered, his mind threatening to fracture. “Anna was an art teacher! Why... why is she wearing a lab coat? Why am I in this photo?”
The old antiquarian looked at him with profound, endless pity.
“Anouk was no art teacher, Elias. And she didn't meet you when you were thirty. She was the head of the 'Janus Project' within Dutch intelligence. A project dedicated to the restructuring and alteration of human memory.”
The man stepped very close to Elias and placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.
“You never had a normal life, Elias. Your memories of your childhood, your parents, your entire life before 1990... they don't exist. They were implanted by Anouk. You weren't her husband, Elias. You were her test subject number one.”
Elias reeled backward. The room spun around him. The grey box slipped from his hands and hit the wooden floorboards with a dull thud.
And at that exact moment—triggered by the shock of the impact—something clicked inside the box. A soft, mechanical hum hummed to life. The thumbprint sensor on the bottom began to glow in an eerie, deep blue light.
