“I again called the two Istanbul phone numbers that you gave me . . . the same people answered. They weren’t amused by my calling them a fifth time and. . . .”
“And?”
“The people I spoke to at both numbers again said that they have never heard of the Korbals . . . each of them insisted that they’ve owned their phone numbers for decades.”
“You believe them?”
“They sounded credible. I imagine this will have to be checked out.”
A surprised Sohlberg took a deep breath. As soon as he had taken the midnight telephone call asking him to come out to Heyrieux he had felt that Azra Korbal and her awful death were going to lead him into strange places and circumstances.
Ziedan waved goodbye. Sohlberg spent an hour lost in thought. Frustration drove him to the third floor office of Turkey’s official Advisor to Interpol—Chief Superintendent Namik Apakan of the Turkish National Police.
~ ~ ~
“Hello,” said Sohlberg in his decent English. “I’m Harald Sohlberg. I sent you an e-mail.”
The 60-year-old Namik Apakan cleared his throat and deigned to look up at Sohlberg. The rotund Turk frowned. His thick lips puckered. Apaken’s pink head glistened like a freshly cut melon under the flourescent lights. The Turk directed his perpetually arched eyebrows at Sohlberg. Fat manicured fingers popped out from behind the desk to reluctantly invite Sohlberg to take a seat. Hooded eyes of sooty coal drifted away as soon as Sohlberg sat down in front of Apakan’s desk.
“I’m here again because we can’t get hold of Azra Korbal’s family.” Sohlberg pulled the chair closer to Apakan’s desk. The surface of the desk was clear of papers and other clutter.
Apakan’s empty desk top and passive non-responsive silence reminded Sohlberg that Namik Apakan belonged to the majority of law enforcement officers who had been sent to Interpol as a reward before their retirement. Sohlberg wondered if Apakan saw him as part of the troublemaker minority of competent but controversial law enforcement officials who are exiled to Interpol. Those troublemakers are warehoused and quarantined at Interpol until their bureaucratic sins are forgotten or forgiven with the passage of time.
“So,” said the stone-faced Apakan. The Turk was known at Interpol for speaking in the language of insinuation or the suggestion thereof. His every word and phrase could just as easily be interpreted as a threat or a compliment or a suggestion or an insult or an obscenity. “You . . . you have more . . . on this dead woman?”
“Yes . . . I have more on the murdered translator.”
“The one killed by her lover?”
“That hasn’t been established.”
Apakan yawned with the absolute apathy of a soon-to-retire bureaucrat. “So . . . why are you here in my office?”
Sohlberg felt like getting up and slapping the lazy Turk. “I’m here because we can’t get hold of Azra Korbal’s family to give them the bad news.”
“Who says that you have to call her family? . . .”
Sohlberg glared in disbelief.
“Where,” said Apakan, “is it written that they have to hear bad news . . . as you call it . . . from you or Interpol?”
Sohlberg gripped the edge of the desk. He leaned forward as if getting ready to punch the Turk. “It’s written in the handbook of caring co-workers. You should read it.”
“Never heard of such a thing.”
“Have you heard of incompetent bureaucrats who make it to the top ranks because they firmly believe that they must do the least amount of work and never rock the boat.”
“Rocks on a boat?”
“Do you know the meaning of desk-jockey . . . paper-pusher . . . brown-noser?”
“Jockey? . . . In a horse race?” Apakan yawned again. “Paper pushing? . . . Brown-nosing? . . . Is that a sport from Norway?”
Sohlberg’s bitter laugh got stuck in his throat.
Apakan continued his insulting insinuations. “People like you resent authority and rational thinking. There’s a place for people like you. Don’t you think?”
“I think that I resent stupidity and blind unquestioning obedience.”
“What is more stupid than wasting time on a dead secretary?”
“Azra Korbal was a professional interpreter. Not a secretary.”
“I,” said Apakan with the grandeur of a sultan. “I really do not understand why you have to contact a dead woman’s family . . . or . . . were you two very close? . . .”
Sohlberg had enough with the insinuating Turk. “Have you killed any Armenians recently? . . . What about some Kurds? . . . Any massacres you care to share with me?”
“I think I have heard enough from you Mister Sohlberg. You are a man who resents authority. I know all about you . . . your type . . . you are a troublemaker. I’ve heard the talk about how you arrested Supreme Court judges in your country for bribery. That was a publicity stunt on national television . . . was it not for your career?”
“It did nothing for my career.”
“Then you are a bigger fool.”
“Apakan . . . are you going to help me find Azra Korbal’s family or not?”
“I’m sure that you’re somewhat busy and have better things to do than next-of-kin notification. Aren’t you busy on more important matters? . . . Why don’t you let the French police do their job? . . . It’s up to them to call the dead woman’s family. It’s up to them to ask Turkey’s National Polis for help if they need to find the dead woman’s family. Don’t you think? . . . Surely you in Sweden—”
“Norway.”
“Norway. Oh yes. Norway. That country.” Apakan twirled his drooping black moustache and he looked at Sohlberg with as much interest as one would normally reserve for a small fruit fly.
“What about Norway?”
“I . . . I . . . well . . . I forgot what I wanted to say. Anyway. . . . If this woman’s missing family is a problem . . . then I don’t see how it’s your concern or a problem for Interpol. Let the French worry about finding her next of kin. Or . . . don’t you trust them?”
Apakan lifted his left hand and stared at his manicured fingernails.
Sohlberg got the hint that their meeting was over.
As soon as Sohlberg passed through the office door the Turk lifted the phone and dialed.
“Hello? . . . I’m being harassed . . . I need to talk to a Human Resources manager. . . . Yes. That one will do. . . . Hello? . . . I want to report someone who threatened me. . . . Harald Sohlberg. He’s a racist. He hates Turks. The man’s a terrorist sympathizer. He supports the Kurdish P.K.K. terrorists . . . killers. Bad people!”
Apakan filled the personnel manager’s ears with elaborate defamations. After he hanged up Apakan dialed Internal Affairs.
“Hello? . . . I have a tip . . . about the Azra Korbal case. . . . Yes . . . the interpreter who was murdered. . . . Write this down . . . investigate it carefully . . . Harald Sohlberg was having an affair with the woman. She was pregnant with their love child. That’s why he killed her.
“How do I know? . . . That’s confidential!”
The Turk slammed the phone down. He briefly grimaced before lapsing into his career of inertia.
~ ~ ~
At noon Sohlberg met Bruno de Laprade at Cafe de la Bibliothèque. The men sat outside to take in the lovely views and warm sunshine and cool breezes by the Saône River.
“I’m starving,” said Laprade. The shorter and barrel-chested commissaire looked more like an anti-social menace than a police detective. Violence always seemed imminent with Laprade thanks to his thick neck, ham fists, and bulging eyes of blue ice. “I could eat a horse. Have you ever tried horsemeat?”
“No thanks,” replied Sohlberg. He noticed that three well-dressed and good-looking women a few tables away were ogling his table companion. The Norwegian disliked any attention since he preferred to conceal himself under a clever facade of cheap and ill-fitting clothes that literally became a cloak of invisibility. Sohlberg worked hard at fading from plain
sight as a faceless and timid and dumb bureaucrat of no account. He resented how easily Laprade attracted inquiring looks with his shaved head, bristling black moustache, and brusque manners.
“Bah . . . This is an outrage!” Laprade reviewed the menu one more time. He shot a piercing glare at the waiter who hesitated before setting a basket of bread and butter on the table.
“But monsieur—”
“Enough,” growled Laprade. “This rip-off joint has jacked up the prices again. We’ll have the bouillabaisse.”
The waiter hastily retreated into the kitchen.
The two detectives often gathered for a quick lunch at the convenient restaurant on Avenue Adolphe Max in Lyon’s Fifth Arrondissement. The small café had fantastic views of Notre-Dame de Fourvière. Sohlberg never tired of looking at the cathedral and its four towers high atop Fourvière hill. He loved the city and its glorious architecture and food and was secretly glad that Interpol had ordered him back to headquarters as Norway’s official Advisor to the General Secretary.
Sohlberg looked around to make sure that no one was within earshot. “Where were you when I called you from Azra Korbal’s home? . . . Why didn’t you take my call?”
“First of all . . . it’s none of your business where I was. Second . . . I didn’t take your call because I was busy. You’re not my boss . . . so stop asking dumb questions. Or are you questioning me because I’m a suspect in your mind?” Laprade leaned forward and let his malignant glare finish the talking for him.
“Look . . . I’m sorry. I’m not implying anything . . . it’s just that I really needed you there. . . . I’m not French. I don’t speak the language that well.”
Laprade ripped the bread apart and smothered it with butter. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’ve kept calling Azra Korbal’s parents during the past four weeks. I enlisted her boss at Interpol and he’s been calling them at their Istanbul number. But no luck. Seems it’s a wrong number.”
“Interesting,” said Laprade while he chewed away at the bread. “But why did you call her parents? Was it to get information about Azra?”
“I did it because my wife and I liked Azra a lot . . . she was intelligent and personable and one of the best translators I ever came across. . . . She spoke excellent if not perfect Arabic . . . Bulgarian . . . English . . . Italian . . . and Russian. . . . I just wanted to reach the Korbal family first and let them know what happened to their daughter before some journalist called them for a comment.”
“Well,” said Laprade, “Colonel Daudet hasn’t been able to reach the next-of-kin either. Imagine what would’ve happened if you had quit after no one answered the phones she listed. . . . No one would’ve thought twice about checking up on her family. I’m glad that you thought of Ziedan and had him call Istanbul and stay on the phone until someone answered.”
“Ziedan also wanted to talk to Azra’s family . . . give them his condolences.”
“Nice. . . . Anyway . . . I passed the information that you got from Ziedan on to my friends at the D.G.S.E.”
“Excellent.”
The waiter served the two bowls of bouillabaisse and disappeared.
Laprade shoveled a heaping spoonful of octopus into his mouth. “I asked the D.G.S.E. to take a look at Azra Korbal since it’s very strange that the people at the phone numbers she listed insist that they’ve owned those phones for years and have never heard of her.”
“Thank you.” Sohlberg smiled. He couldn’t have been happier with Laprade using his old military contacts to call in a favor at the General Directorate for External Security. Sohlberg had no doubts that France’s intelligence agency would come through with good information on Azra Korbal. The agency had a sterling reputation for the high quality information that it gathered on foreign countries and citizens. In fact, the D.G.S.E. had turned over information to the CIA about al-Qaeda plans for the 9/11 attacks one year before Osama bin Laden actually brought death and terror to the USA. “So . . . what did your spy pals find out?”
“Are you ready for a couple of surprises?”
“No,” said Sohlberg. “But go ahead.”
“Azra Korbal’s parents live in Frankfurt Germany. They teach at a Montessori school.”
“What?”
“It gets better. Your Azra Korbal is a fiction. Interpol’s Azra Korbal does not exist.”
A nauseating dizziness flashed through Sohlberg. “What? What did you say?”
“Interpol’s translator is not Azra Korbal.”
“So who was she . . . what’s her real name?” said Sohlberg. His own voice sounded distant if not alien to him. He simply could not believe how easily the young woman had duped him and his wife and Interpol—the world’s largest international law enforcement agency.
“D.G.S.E. doesn’t know her real name . . . all they know is that the real Azra Korbal died five years ago in a car crash . . . a head-on collision in Ireland . . . near Dublin.”
Sohlberg gaped open-mouthed for a few seconds. “But what about her fingerprints? . . . Interpol sent her fingerprint card to the prosecutor here in Lyon who’s in charge of her murder investigation.”
“The card is worthless. No one shows up for those fingerprints in any database. Nothing. We haven’t been able to trace the fingerprints to any country . . . which means that some government isn’t telling us the truth . . . or some criminal has a lot of connections and pull.”
Sohlberg shook his head. “So . . . for all we know she could’ve been a plant from one of the criminal cartels that we’re investigating in Operation Locust. . . .”
“Yes. Or she could just as easily be an agent for British or Russian or Israeli or American intelligence.”
“How did she ever get past the Interpol background check?”
“Sohlberg . . . that’s going to be the million dollar question at Interpol. You know how it’ll go down . . . Human Resources will blame Internal Affairs and vice versa. Interpol’s President and the Executive Committee will be out for blood but the Secretary General will blame Turkey.”
“I’m sick of this whole thing.”
“Likewise my friend,” said a sympathetic Laprade.
The men finished the main course and moved on to a dessert of Nougat de Montélimar. The two detectives never tired of eating Lyon’s famous delicacy—chewy white squares made of honey and roasted pistachios and almonds.
Laprade devoured a second serving of dessert and said:
“At least there’s a silver lining in all of this.”
“There is? . . . What?”
“We’re not to blame.”
Sohlberg coughed a dry cough as a substitute for laughter. “True. They can’t blame us advisors to the General Secretary. Nor can they blame any country’s National Central Bureau.”
“Except for Turkey.”
“They are the ones who confirmed her identity when she got hired.”
“Yes,” said Laprade. “But they will insist that they got misleading and contradictory information.”
“How so?”
“The Turks will say that they were only asked to confirm there was a real Azra Korbal. They’ll insist that no one asked them to confirm whether she was dead or alive.”
Sohlberg shook his head. “This is ridiculous. So who was the real Azra Korbal?”
“Until she died in a car crash at age twenty she worked as a high school teacher . . . she taught English and French and Arabic at a private Catholic school in Dublin.”
“Really? . . . This is all a surprise. I just can’t believe it.”
“Believe it because we’re stuck with the inconvenient fact that she died five years ago . . . one year before your Azra Korbal showed up to work here at Interpol.”
“Are your sources absolutely sure about that?” Sohlberg’s heart pounded against his chest. He lost track of what Laprade was saying. His mind reeled as he considered whether Azra Korbal had leaked information about Operation Locust to outsiders or—even worse—to crimina
l organizations ensnared in Locust. “Sorry . . . what did you say?”
“I said ‘Yes’ . . . my sources are absolutely sure that the real Azra Korbal died a year before your Azra Korbal started working here. They’re sure because the real Azra Korbal’s heart and kidneys got donated after the car crash . . . my D.G.S.E. contact spoke with the transplant surgeons . . . D.G.S.E. is sending agents right now to take a D.N.A. sample from her parents in Germany and a D.N.A. sample of the heart in the recipient in Ireland . . . they should be able to match the heart D.N.A. to her parents’ D.N.A.”
“Someone is making fools out of us,” said Sohlberg as a red splotch spilled across his face and neck. “I want to interview her boyfriend again.”
“Be my guest. You sure you want to go visit him in that disgusting hell-hole?”
“Whatever it takes.”
~ ~ ~
Sohlberg and Laprade finished eating their repast without exchanging a word. After paying the bill Sohlberg dug into his pocket and put down the waiter’s tip on the table. Laprade hated paying tips. He refused to acknowledge the pervasive reality of gratuities in the restaurant industry or the likelihood of retaliatory deposits of spit or worse in the food if he did not leave a tip.
“Going back to the office?”
“No,” said Sohlberg. “I need time to think. I’ve got a lot on my mind with Azra’s death. I’m . . . I’m also sure that we’re going to have to be much more careful with security.”
Laprade smiled. “I already ordered round-the-clock protection for your beloved Emma. A plainclothes will be guarding her even when you’re around. We’re also keeping a record of every telephone call to your place.”
“Thank you. I’ll let her know when I get home.”
“Need a ride?”
“No. I’ll walk . . . I’ve got some shopping to do . . . also . . . I read an article about some interesting buildings that I want to see near the Catholic University.”
“Sohlberg the frustrated architect.”
At one point in high school the Norwegian detective had considered becoming an architect. But the probability of starving had been too great to justify such a career choice.
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 3