Cold Plague

by Daniel Kalla

  Pereau held out his palms. “So what did?”

  “We suspect somebody might have deliberately injected the animals to infect them,” Noah said. “And if so, illness would occur within weeks, not six months later.”

  Pereau’s face blanched and his jaw fell open. The tremor in his hands became a shake. “Mon Dieu, Yvette was right!”

  “About what, M. Pereau?” Elise demanded.

  “The woman at our farm,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It must have been her!”

  “Woman?” Duncan snapped. “What bloody woman?”

  “Yvette didn’t even tell me until after the cows became sick,” he said, his voice shaky. “She had seen a woman coming out of our barns two or three weeks earlier. Yvette grew convinced that this woman was involved with the illness in some way. Of course, I thought it was absurd. People were always coming and going.” His voice cracked. “I even wondered if my wife was losing her mind under the stress.”

  Elise stiffened in her seat. “Did Mme. Pereau recognize the woman?” she asked quietly.

  Pereau’s gaze dropped to his lap. “No.”

  Noah shuffled in his seat. “Did she describe her at all?”

  Pereau shook his head slightly. “Only to say that she was young. And attractive.”

  “What about her hair?” Noah pressed. “Or her coloring? Was she tall? Thin? Anything distinctive?”

  Pereau held up his tremulous palms. “All I remember Yvette saying was that even though the woman wore jeans and an old shirt, she looked out of place in the barn.”

  Duncan grimaced. “What does that mean?”

  “That she was too elegant to be working on a farm or as a courier.”

  Noah thought back to some of the attractive women he had encountered during the investigation. A stranger might have described any one of them as “elegant.”

  “Why didn’t you or your wife tell someone about this woman?” Elise demanded.

  “But we did!” Pereau said defensively. “Or at least, I did.”

  “Who?” Noah asked.

  “The detective who investigated Yvette’s disappearance,” Pereau cried. “The one who found her in Amsterdam.”

  Noah’s throat went dry. He didn’t need to ask which detective. He already knew.

  44

  Limoges, France. January 21

  The road conditions deteriorated steadily during Avril’s drive from Lac Noir back to her office. The highway had not been cleared and the snow fell so heavily that her visibility was very limited. Despite the all-wheel drive and snow tires, her car skidded in places on the deserted road.

  Avril was barely conscious of the treacherous highway. In her mind, she carefully reviewed the interview with Marcel Robichard. She had had to muster every iota of restraint to leave without challenging him. She was certain the man was involved in whatever happened at Ferme d’Allaire—and by extension, her son’s kidnapping—but she had nothing even close to proof. Even if Robichard was involved, she knew that he wasn’t the mastermind. He might not even know where Frédéric was held. Or he might not talk. Regardless, confronting Robichard could lead to Frédéric’s immediate death. A gamble she wasn’t willing to chance.

  Avril decided that the best strategy was to connect Robichard to those responsible, either by following him physically to them or through his electronic trail of phone records or financial statements. However, gathering data on Robichard without drawing the attention of someone inside the police department would be another challenge. And she wondered if her patience would hold. Just twenty-four hours, she vowed to herself. And if Robichard does not lead me to Freddie by tomorrow, I will stick a gun between his eyes to make him tell me.

  Avril parked in the Gendarmerie’s near-empty parking lot and hurried up to her office. She sat down at her computer and logged on with trepidation, but her pulse slowed after she confirmed that no new e-mails had come from Frédéric’s abductors. She opened the Web browser and searched for electronics stores in the Limoges area. She had seen the Sony label on Robichard’s flat-screen TV, but she had no idea of the model number or the size of the screen. If she could figure out when and how Robichard purchased the TV, it would solidify her suspicions and provide potential ammunition for a confrontation.

  A rap at the door interrupted her research. “Come in,” she called out as she closed the search window on her computer.

  The door opened and Inspector Esmond Cabot, his hair immaculately coiffed and his blue suit perfectly pressed, stood at the doorway. “Avril, I was wondering if you have finished dealing with our international visitors?”

  Avril shook her head. “I am still working on it.”

  “We are getting a little behind in the rest of our caseload.”

  Avril stared at her superior with unconcealed annoyance. “You will be the first to know when I am finished, Esmond.”

  Cabot nodded, but he hesitated at the door. “Have you found anything yet?”

  Avril shook her head.

  “Do you need any help?” Cabot asked.

  Avril hesitated. She had no intention of involving Cabot, but she could not remember him ever offering to help before. “Thank you, but no, Esmond. I have it under control.”

  Cabot nodded and left.

  As Avril watched him go, her thoughts churned with renewed suspicions. Is Esmond the mole within our department? Cabot fit her imagined profile. He knew about the missing women in Limousin. And Yvette Pereau could have approached him with her concerns about tampering on her farm. Or one of the junior officers might have apprised him of Yvette’s complaint.

  Avril tasted acid in her throat. Did someone make Esmond an offer he couldn’t refuse?

  She was mulling the idea over when Simon Valmont trooped in through her open door. “What did Esmond want?”

  “To know if I had finished with the mad cow disease investigators,” she said. “He even offered to help with the investigation.”

  “Help?” Valmont chuckled. “We are talking about Inspector Cabot, correct?”

  “Not like him, is it?”

  “People change, you know?” Valmont snorted. “Magic spells and brain transplants, those kinds of things.” The levity left his eyes. “Avril, when will you be finished with all this nonsense?”

  “Soon, I hope,” she said softly. “Why?”

  “I am drowning under the backlog without you.” His heavy exhalation turned into one of his throat-hacking tics. “And now I have to traipse out to bloody Lac Noir.”

  Avril sat up straighter. “What’s going on there?”

  “Sounds like a suicide.”

  Skin afire with pins and needles, Avril forced her voice to cooperate. “Do you know anything about the victim?”

  Valmont shrugged disinterestedly. “I’ve got the name in my office. The neighbor apparently heard a gunshot and called it in. The constable tells me that the victim was the manager for that cattle supplier the E.U. closed down. Sounds very open-and-shut. The fellow loses his lifelong job and then puts a bullet in his brain. Not such a bad way to go, all things considered.”

  Avril’s mouth was too dry to speak. She had only left Robichard’s house ninety minutes before. How did they get to him so quickly?

  “I have to head out in this blizzard to confirm that the death was a suicide,” Valmont grunted. “You want to come along to keep me entertained in case radio reception is poor?”

  Avril shook her head. “I can’t. The investigators from the E.U. are coming to see me.”

  Valmont shrugged again and headed for the door.

  “Simon,” Avril called after him. “Will you still be able to join me at the cemetery later today?”

  He nodded with his back to her and disappeared out the door.

  The Chopin ringtone of her cell phone drew her attention. She glanced down and saw that the caller display read PARIS, FRANCE. Her heart leaped into her throat. She grabbed her purse and jacket, expecting to be sent racing across town to one of many phone booths. “Yes?”
she answered anxiously.

  “Avril, it’s Étienne,” said Inspector Breton of the Police Nationale.

  She relaxed her grip on the phone. “Étienne, what did you find out?” she asked, too impatient to worry about cell phone scanners.

  “I wish I could be of more help,” Breton sighed.

  Avril swallowed. “You couldn’t trace the calls?”

  “Of course we could.”

  “Then what?”

  “The calls originated from multiple cell phones—or maybe it was the same phone with the GSM card switched. It’s impossible to know.”

  “Étienne, please…” Avril said anxiously.

  “Many types of mobile phones carry their activation on interchangeable GSM chips,” Breton explained. “Those chips are the phones’ ‘identity.’”

  “Replace the chip, and the phone has a brand-new identity, I understand,” Avril said, aware of the technology but frustrated by the news. “But surely you can trace where the calls originated and who registered the GSM chips in the first place?”

  “I wish it were that easy, Avril,” Breton said. “Unfortunately, it’s still legal in numerous E.U. countries to sell anonymous GSM chips for cash. You can even buy them over the Internet.”

  Crestfallen, Avril said nothing. As an investigator, she should have foreseen that the people holding Frédéric would be too sophisticated to allow themselves to be traced. Still, she had staked her slim hopes on their having made a mistake. With Robichard’s death, she had nothing else left.

  “Avril?” Breton said.

  “Yes?” she breathed.

  “There is something more to this, isn’t there?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Tell me.”

  “Étienne, you can’t help.” Her voice cracked and she felt the tears welling. “I am not sure anyone can.”

  “But if you’re in danger…”

  Snap out of it! She fought off the tears. “Étienne, thanks for your concern, but I think I have might have overreacted. I will be fine.”

  “Overreacted? Someone is phoning you from all over Limoges to threaten you on different GSM cards and you—”

  “What did you say?” she cut him off urgently. “Limoges?”

  “Of course. I tracked the cell tower that relayed the phone calls. All those calls have come from within your vicinity.”

  Oh my God, Frédéric is somewhere here!

  45

  Terrebonne, France. January 21

  Focused on his swirling thoughts, Noah lost his footing in the snow that had accumulated on the pathway while they had been inside the farmhouse. He righted himself just as Duncan reached a hand out to him. “Haldane, you been drinking Pereau’s castoffs?” Duncan quipped.

  Noah ignored the remark. “His wife saw her.”

  Duncan nodded. “We better find the wife. Even if it means going to bloody Amsterdam.”

  “If she’s there,” Noah said.

  “What are you suggesting, Noah?” Elise asked.

  Noah thumbed back to the house. “You heard André. Detective Avars is the only person who has spoken to his wife recently.”

  Elise spun to face him. “Do you think the detective lied about that?”

  “I’m not sure.” Noah studied Elise. In her stylish red leather coat and matching beret, she was undeniably elegant. The suspicion bubbled in his gut again. He glanced away. “This thing reaches far and wide,” he muttered.

  They loaded into the car, and Elise pulled out onto the slippery road. Noah stared out the window, but the snow fell so heavily that he could barely make out the farms and fields that bordered the highway. Though it was only midday, the light was as dim as twilight. And Noah felt chilled despite the heat blasting from the car’s vents. He kept his eyes glued to the side mirror.

  A few minutes after leaving Terrebonne, Noah spotted another car in the mirror. With the vehicle holding steady a few hundred feet behind them, he could not distinguish its make or color. All he could see was the xenon headlights. Noah’s grip tightened on the armrest. From those headlights alone, he knew it had to be a late-model luxury sedan, possibly an Audi or Mercedes. He glanced over his shoulder at Duncan with concern.

  “What is it, Haldane?” Duncan asked. “Did it suddenly occur to you that I’m two years overdue for my turn to sit in the front?”

  Noah pointed out the back window. Duncan looked over his shoulder. “Is that one of the cars you’ve seen before?” he asked.

  “Maybe.” Noah turned to Elise. “Slow down.”

  She glanced at him. “What if it is them?” she asked urgently.

  “If it’s them, then they’re trying to tail us, not catch us.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “They would have caught us by now if they’d wanted to,” Noah said. “Let’s see what happens if we slow down.”

  Duncan leaned between the seats. “Do it, Elise.”

  Elise eased her foot off the gas. Noah craned his neck to stare out the back window. As their car lost speed, the one behind them matched the deceleration. Both vehicles crawled along the highway for another quarter of a kilometer. At the first turnoff they passed—a small road that was largely hidden behind the precipitation—the trailing car veered off and disappeared into the blowing wind and snow.

  Duncan broke the tense silence in the car. “Haldane, I think someone means business.”

  But who? Noah wondered as he stared at Elise out of the corner of his eye. Her face was set in an impassive stare, but he noticed that her hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he grabbed for it without checking the call display. “Noah Haldane,” he said.

  “Ah, Noah, it’s—” The rest of the words died in the static of poor cell reception, but Noah recognized his boss’s voice.

  “Jean?” Noah said. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, I am—” His voice cut out again. “Where are…mon ami?”

  “We’re on the road,” Noah said. “About ten kilometers outside of Limoges.”

  “I am…your hotel…now,” the crackling voice said. “Perhaps…can meet me?”

  “Give us twenty minutes.” Noah did not try to press Jean for any more information through the intermittent connection. “Twenty minutes, Jean,” he repeated for good measure.

  Duncan tapped Noah’s headrest. “What does the boss want?”

  “Poor cell reception. Must be the storm.” Noah mustered a smile. “With any luck, he plans to fire us.”

  “Right!” Duncan moaned. “Where in God’s name would he find another pair of world-class idiots to do this wretched job?”

  Concentrating on the road ahead, Elise said nothing. Noah and Duncan lapsed into silence, too. Noah noticed that during the rest of the drive back to the hotel Duncan and Elise checked the mirrors as frequently as he did. They didn’t spot another set of xenon headlights, but it took them more than thirty minutes to reach Limoges, and another ten inside the city limits before they pulled up in front of their hotel.

  They parked on the street and stomped through the snow blanketing the sidewalk. Inside the lobby, Jean Nantal waited in his overcoat. He greeted them warmly—especially Duncan, whose hand he clutched in both of his for a silent moment—and then shepherded them to the empty bar. They sat at the now familiar corner table and ordered hot drinks: tea for Duncan and Elise, coffee for the others. Noah briefed Jean on the latest developments, including the news of the “elegant” woman seen at the Pereau farm, and how they had been followed.

  Ignoring his coffee, Jean leaned forward and looked from Elise to Duncan to Noah. “We have found Georges Manet’s camp.”

  “His camp?” Duncan said. “Not Georges?”

  Jean shook his head. “We tracked his satellite phone’s signal. There was a break in the weather and the Canadian Coast Guard was able to reach the research station on Axel Heiberg Island where Dr. Manet had been living.”

  Noah sipped his coffee, mainly
to wet his dry lips. “What did they find?” he asked.

  “Georges was gone.” Jean raised his palms up. “But the camp…”

  “What of it?” Duncan asked.

  “A disaster, apparently.” Jean exhaled a puff of air. Worry and frustration stole his usual youthfulness; he suddenly looked much older. “There were papers and documents scattered all over the station. Moreover, the hygiene was far from ideal. There were open food containers and…human waste…spread throughout the interior of the facility.”

  Duncan frowned. “The bugger must have gone completely mad.”

  “So it seems,” Jean said.

  “They found no trace of Georges?” Elise asked.

  “It’s the dark of winter in the Arctic,” Jean said. “There is no light. Of course, they have searched the area carefully, but without his phone there is no way of tracking where he went. So far…rien.”

  Duncan slurped his tea. “First, those unhinged e-mails to his sister. Now this. Sounds to me like the poor sod’s brain was loaded with your prion.”

  “How long has he been gone?” Elise asked Jean.

  “Inside the station, the lights were still on and the generator was still running. The Coast Guard believes he left days earlier. A week, at the most.”

  “Left?” Elise said. “You mean died, don’t you?”

  Jean nodded solemnly. “I don’t see how he could possibly survive, no matter what supplies he took with him.”

  Noah reached for his cup again. “Those papers scattered around. Did they tell you what was written on them?”

  “They faxed them to Geneva,” Jean said. “For the most part, they were illegible. The notes that could be read made little or no sense, but of course, I will have copies sent to you.”

  Noah nodded. “And his laptop? Did they find any recent notes or e-mails on it?”

  Jean shook his head. “They did not find it.”

  Noah stiffened and slowly put down his cup. “Manet walked out into the freezing darkness with his computer but not his phone?”

  “The man was losing his mind,” Duncan pointed out.

  “Or, at least, we’re supposed to think he was,” Noah said, and all eyes turned to him. “Georges seems to have spread this prion, inadvertently or otherwise, to friends and family through his ice and water. Someone, maybe Manet himself, has gone to a hell of a lot of effort to bury that bit of history. Now, our source disappears without a trace. A supposed victim of the disease he spread. But there is no body to autopsy, and probably never will be.