Sohlberg and the White Death

by Jens Amundsen

  Life’s been very good without Ida.

  And now he was running errands for his cocaine contacts in London and these dangerous people wanted him to secretly bring human cargo into Scotland.

  Why?

  What kind of people would go to such trouble and expense to avoid detection?

  At least he had stowed onboard his trusty Beretta 92 FS semi-automatic handgun. His beloved sawed-off 12-gauge pump-action Remington 870 shotgun was hidden away behind an array of deep-sea fishing tools—gutting knives and harpoons and gaffs and monster hooks that could also serve as battle-tackle. All of his little friends might just come in handy.

  Chapter 10/Ti

  TROMS COUNTY, NORWAY: MONDAY

  JULY 18, OR THREE MONTHS AND

  6 DAYS AFTER THE DAY

  Only 1,242 miles separate Tromsø from the North Pole. The same amount of miles separate Alaska’s Prudhoe Bay from the North Pole. Tromsø however is much warmer and more hospitable to human life thanks to the Gulf Stream. The current hauls warm waters all the way up to Norway from the sunny hot climes of Florida and the Caribbean. But geography—like the stars—is not at fault for human events.

  “I’ve never seen so many bodies,” said Constable Lars Rasch of the Troms politidistrikt. He did not exaggerate. Rasch had never come across one homicide victim during his five years as a policeman in the northernmost city of Norway. He stared at the row of frozen bodies buried in the permafrost.

  “Look like sardines in a can . . . don’t they Rasch?”

  The constable said nothing. Instead he looked in disgust at Per Moen—the owner of the fish shack which had become a tomb for nine corpses. Rasch turned his gaze upon the sea. The morning’s storm had washed the sky and the ocean and the islands in depressing shades of gray that seemed to merge into one mournful salute to the dead.

  “Hey Rasch . . . how soon can you move the stiffs out? . . . I need to store my stock out here. It’ll cost me a fortune if I have to move my inventory elsewhere. . . . I imagine I’ll be compensated for my building getting torn apart to get these popsicles out of here . . . no?”

  Rasch grunted. Over the years he had heard a lot of gossip about Per Moen. But now he knew for a fact that Moen was a man obsessed by one thing only—the bottom line.

  “Look . . . we’ll discuss this later.”

  “No. Now. Let’s talk now. I don’t want your people ripping up my land when they dig up the stiffs. I swear I’ll sue the police if you don’t put everything back to the way it used to be. This might just ruin my fishing operations if you keep blocking me from access to my land and my fish shack and my dock.

  “Rasch . . . don’t you understand?

  “I need this shack to keep my fish cold in the permafrost below . . . I can’t afford refrigeration. My great-grandfather found this spot . . . and now you’re going to ruin me! . . . I swear I’ll sue for millions and get you fired if I’m not allowed back in tomorrow.”

  “Do whatever you need to do. But right now you need to leave this crime scene.”

  “Hey Rasch you little jerk . . . ever since you joined the police you’ve been acting like you’re a real big man in town. I remember when you went to school with my little brother and he used to beat the daylights out of you.”

  “Are you leaving or not?”

  “Alright . . . alright. Save the tough guy looks for someone else.”

  Rasch sighed as soon as he was alone. He knew that he too would soon have to leave the area that he had cordoned off with police tape. Forensics promised him they’d be over to start processing the shack within the hour. He wondered if he had compromised the crime scene by ripping up so many of the wood floor planks with Moen.

  One of the corpses caught Rasch’s attention. A large white towel covered a barefoot man. The blood-soaked and frozen-stiff towel read:

  WELCOME TO TROMSØ!

  Constable Rasch could not help thinking that Tromsø had turned out not to have been all that hospitable or welcoming to the nine bodies which had been buried face down or sideways. He had a hard time imagining why all but one of the victims appeared to have been riddled with bullets. Two had been shot point-blank in the back of the head. He wondered who had buried the dead so unceremoniously under Moen’s fish shack in a remote location on the island of Reinøya. Even worse: someone had cut off the hands from each of the bodies.

  Rasch surveyed the macabre scene. He closed his eyes but he knew that he would never get the gruesome images out of his mind.

  “Let’s see,” said Rasch to himself, “if I can get the old city slicker out here.”

  The constable took out his cell phone and dialed his boss who was at headquarters just 30 miles south of him. While Rasch dialed he noticed what appeared to be a square booklet next to one of the bodies.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What . . . nine bodies?” said Chief Inspector Fredrik Waldemar Hvoslef of the Troms politidistrikt. “Shot? . . . Hands cut off? . . . Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” said Constable Rasch while he stared at the nine corpses. “All but one of the bodies have lots of bullet holes . . . two bodies have them point-blank in the head . . . I’m seeing big exit wounds in the front or the top of their heads.”

  “Arrange for the autopsies . . . call in forensic services to help you.”

  “I already did. Aren’t you coming?”

  “I . . . I can’t,” said Chief Inspector Hvoslef. He did not like leaving his comfortable and warm offices at 122 Grønnegata in downtown Tromsø. Nor did he want to travel on a small boat to the crime scene because he easily got seasick. He could also drive his car to the crime scene but the transplant from Oslo rarely left the small island of Tromsøya where most of the city was located.

  “You can’t?”

  Hvoslef felt the contempt in Rasch’s voice. The constable seemed to ignore the fact that Tromsø sits 186 miles north of the Arctic Circle. In Hvoslef’s mind this cruel geographical fact meant that he faced imminent death year-round if he left the city limits to venture into the Arctic wastelands. Even during the summer months Chief Inspector Hvoslef felt threatened by the vast empty wilderness that surrounded him.

  “Sir . . . I think you need to come out here. I found a passport and an Interpol badge next to one of the bodies.”

  “What?”

  “Yes . . . the pictures on the badge and passport match the dead man’s face perfectly.”

  “Where’s the passport from?”

  “Russia. According to the badge and passport the man’s name is Nicolai Dvorkovich.”

  Chief Inspector Hvoslef realized that he’d have to venture out of his warm safety zone. He absolutely hated the outdoors with a passion. He also detested the Arctic police district that he had been assigned to three years ago. He was obsessed with the idea of freezing to death in the Land of White Death. He perfectly understood why the Russian explorer Valerian Albanov had consigned that name to the dangerous regions north of Norway. And yet Hvoslef knew that he had no choice but to venture out to the crime scene.

  “Sir? . . . Can you hear me?”

  “Yes! . . . I’ll be over there.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “I told you not to get involved.”

  “It’s done. Besides . . . I had to. What do you think? . . . That I could just walk away?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not me.”

  “Since when are you . . . a poaching thief . . . such a moral and upstanding citizen?”

  “Enough.”

  “You steal cod and halibut and salmon . . . other men’s catch. I told you to stay away from Moen’s place. Sooner or later he’s going to think that you put the bodies in his fish shack.”

  “Stop.”

  “This will bring us trouble. Big trouble.”

  “Enough.”

  “They will find out it was you.”

  Ervin Vikøren looked out to the sea and scanned the horizon. His blue eyes burned with Viking vigor. “No one will find us.”

  “Th
ey will find us.”

  “Enough.”

  “You’ll see . . . you can’t stop this. I can’t believe you got us into such a mess. This is not good. We’re in big big trouble.”

  He shook his head and started planning how to ambush and kill anyone who landed on his island.

  ~ ~ ~

  Seasickness tormented Chief Inspector Hvoslef. Nausea continued to plague him even two hours after he had landed on the northwest shores of the island of Reinøya.

  Constable Rasch leaned over and said, “Are you okay?”

  Without any conviction Hvoslef nodded and weakly said, “Yes.”

  The austere cliff-scraped landscape. The odd-shaped mountains. The thin and sporadic green plants and brush. These all served as grim reminders to Chief Inspector Hvoslef that this was indeed the Land of White Death and that he must return to town as soon as possible. Anorexic clumps of Downy Birch seemed ominous if not cruel hoaxes in comparison to the lush Scandinavian forests that grew south of the Arctic Circle. Shrieking seagulls added a dirge that promised death or madness.

  Hvoslef’s discomfort increased even more when he saw Leif Jørgensen the Third.

  “Chief Inspector,” said the 68-year-old doctor, “what have we here?”

  “Nine dead men. Two were shot execution-style in the back of the head.”

  Hvoslef went on to give the doctor a brief summary of the investigation thus far. He intensely disliked the medical examiner who had an imperial air of intellectual superiority.

  Except for Hvoslef everyone in Tromsø felt that Jørgensen’s arrogance was well-earned. The brilliant doctor was the third generation of Leif Jørgensens MDs who had served as highly-respected medical examiners of Troms County.

  Hvoslef eyed the balding doctor and his angular bird-like features and loathed him even more. He disliked intelligent and accomplished professionals such as Version 3.0 of Leif Jørgensen. The good doctor had worked for decades as a professor of forensic pathology at the University of Tromsø’s School of Medicine and at the University Hospital of North Norway.

  Suicide was the leading cause of death in Troms County. But Leif Jørgensen MD continued a family tradition that his father and grandfather had started. He always checked off the box marked ACCIDENT instead of the box marked SUICIDE for the sake of the surviving family members and the dead one’s memory. And that’s why the people of Troms County adored the Leif Jørgensens. The natives also appreciated the fact that the Jørgensens had never left Tromsø for Oslo. The educated and wealthy tended to immigrate in overwhelming numbers from the forlorn and melancholy land.

  “Well now,” declared Jørgensen, “I guess it’s time to find out what really happened to these folks.”

  Hvoslef’s face reddened at the slight implied in the comment. He hated the insinuation that Jørgensen the medical doctor—and not Hvoslef the police detective—would discover what had really transpired at the crime scene. Hvoslef decided it was time to cut the doctor down a little. “Jørgensen . . . it’s rather obvious that each of these nine men have been murdered with gunshots. Isn’t it now?”

  “No. It’s not obvious. . . . I won’t know the cause of death until I fully examine the bodies. I already see other wounds on their bodies. . . . One of them may have been strangled . . . I don’t think he’s been shot. I can see a deep red line that goes all the way around his neck. Those wounds may or may not be fatal. . . . I won’t know that until all of the bodies have been removed and the autopsies completed. Then I will determine the exact cause of death. Also . . . all or some of these individuals might have head wounds that I can’t see under their hair. Or they may have drowned or been drugged or poisoned first.”

  “Why would anyone shoot these nine men if they were already dead?”

  “Nine men? . . . You’re wrong on that count. Chief Inspector . . . one of your nine men is a woman. The third from the right.”

  Waves of anger and nausea rolled inside Hvoslef. He almost threw up and later wished that he had done so on the doctor’s expensive and elegant clothes. “I think . . . I’m going to. . . .”

  “Yes. What? . . . What are you going to do?”

  Hvoslef’s rage worsened with the sickening thought that he was forever stuck with the only expert in Tromsø and Troms County who was authorized to render forensic opinions on a person’s cause of death by the Norwegian Commission of Forensic Medicine.

  Soon after arriving at Tromsø to assume his new position Hvoslef had tried to fire Jørgensen and replace him with a younger and more pliable and less experienced candidate. But under Norway’s Criminal Procedure Act only the Commission had the power to choose who could testify as a forensic expert in criminal proceedings and who could perform autopsies and write autopsy reports which had to be filed with the Commission.

  “Hvoslef are you sick? . . . You’re absolutely green. Let me get my stethoscope and bag.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Later that day Ervin Vikøren came back to his cabin. The rustic building was nestled in the upper portion of a sloping valley that overlooked the sea. He dropped his enormous frame into the squealing sofa.

  “The cops are out there in force . . . dozens and dozens of them . . . plus a bunch of scientist types in white smocks. They’ve got five big boats . . . and two helicopters.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “Yes and no. I took the boat towards Ringvassøya . . . pretended I was fishing . . . I used the old binoculars.”

  “I hope you didn’t go back into Hansnes.”

  “No,” he lied.

  “Someone in that stinking town is bound to put two and two together.”

  “Bah. They’re idiots.”

  “They have nothing else to do but gossip and spy on everyone.”

  “They won’t.”

  “Who are you kidding? . . . They knew we were a couple long before your wife knew and she used to keep very close tabs on you.”

  He said nothing. No one ever won an argument with her. She was ten years older and acted too often like his boss. But she was smart and willing to live the hard life of the woman of a fisherman and a poacher and a thief and she ran his businesses well and exhausted him in the sack. He grunted and got up.

  “Where are you going?”

  He left the cabin and despite her harridan screams he felt very sure about himself and his decisions. He went into the brush to check the tripwires that surrounded their cabin and they were tight and ready to trigger the deadly and silent missiles that would shoot out of the handmade crossbows that he had built several years ago for such an eventuality.

  “Come back here! . . . You need to clean the nets. I told you to clean them yesterday.”

  He hid behind a clump of Downy Birch and gently picked up one of the crossbows which he aimed in her direction. She was standing by the front door. She was clueless as to his intentions or his aim. He wondered what she would do if the steel-tipped bolt thudded deep into the wall next to her.

  What if I instead shoot her in the head by accident with my crossbow?

  Anything could happen out here in the wilderness. Anything.

  Chapter 11/Elleve

  LYON, FRANCE: MORNING OF TUESDAY

  JULY 19, OR THREE MONTHS AND 7 DAYS

  AFTER THE DAY

  Chief Inspector Harald Sohlberg glanced at the clock by his bed.

  4:01 AM

  He had barely started to fall asleep when his thoughts about the upcoming meeting with Ishmael took off at full speed. Insomnia scattered his thoughts—they ran off like wild horses. His wife’s palpable absence worsened his mental turmoil.

  4:32 AM

  Ishmael was the perfect name for the informant at the center of Operation Locust. Old Testament Ishmael caused major if not perpetual upheaval when he split off the Muslims from the Jews and Christians. Sohlberg had picked his latter-day Ishmael to rip up the tribes of the underworld.

  4:33 AM

  He kept thinking about Ishmael and what would be said and not said and what w
ould be learned and not learned. He went over the rules for informants to make sure that he didn’t get played for a fool.

  Rule # 1: the informant must never be trusted.

  Rule # 2: the informant must never be believed wholeheartedly (see Rule # 1).

  Rule # 3: the informant will never tell you all of the truth all of the time (see Rule # 1).

  Rule # 4: the informant will only tell you some of the truth some of the time (see Rule # 1).

  Rule # 5: the informant will always use you for his or her own benefit or profit or both.

  Sohlberg reluctantly looked at the clock again.

  4:34 AM

  ~ ~ ~

  Domenico Pelle woke up at 5:00 AM. He had a lot to do that day. Pressing obligations waited for him in Milan. He hated traveling to Lyon. Too much of his valuable time would be consumed. But he enjoyed staying at Le Royal—his favorite luxury hotel in downtown Lyon.

  The Italian got out of bed. He pulled the curtains and peeked out the window. A glimmer of sunlight tinged the sky. The giant public square of Place Bellecour was as empty as his growling stomach. Pelle called room service for breakfast and was told to call back when the restaurant opened at 6:30 AM.

  He began planning what he was going to do as soon as he arrived back home in Italy. But first he had to take care of an urgent problem: a simple case of thievery over the weekend. The theft was absolutely intolerable and likely to cause a lot of headaches for him and his family and the business. People and profits would be hurt unless he took extreme action.

  ~ ~ ~

  Laprade and the widow Theillaud took their breakfast on the terrace. The cloudless sky promised another scorching day. The couple enjoyed the cool mountain air which invigorated them as well as the vibrant carnations and roses in Laprade’s garden.

  “Are you going to see your dying friend at the hospital?”