“Yes.”
“Doesn’t he have any family?”
“I don’t think so . . . none that I know about.”
“No woman in his life?”
“None as far as I know.”
“Maybe he has a man?”
“None that I know about.”
“You know very little about him,” said the widow Theillaud.
Laprade wondered if his friend Gerard was a homosexual. Perhaps. But it really didn’t matter. The important fact was that the man had risked his own life to rescue Laprade from certain death when the two men had been on a secret mission in Serbia for the French Foreign Legion. They had shared so many hardships during their time in the Legion. And yet Laprade knew so little of the man. The detective said:
“How well can you ever know anyone?”
Madame Theillaud shrugged and drank her coffee.
~ ~ ~
The expected call finally came in at 7:00 AM.
Sohlberg looked at the caller’s number. He stood up to leave the dining room where he had been reading local newspapers and enjoying a simple breakfast of croissants from one of the many bakeries in the Sixth Arrondissement. The open windows admitted a sultry breeze that promised another hot day.
Juliette Bonnaire had just started vacuuming. The 60-year-old housekeeper liked to start cleaning the house before it got too hot. The Sohlbergs paid her handsomely to do minimal housework because they liked how she wanted a job to supplement her flimsy pension.
“Madame Bonnaire,” he shouted while the cell phone rang. “You don’t have to turn off the machine. I’ll take the call in another room.”
Juliette Bonnaire opened her mouth and was about to say something but then she just smiled.
The detective took the main hallway to the little guest bedroom near the dining room. He was amazed at how the difficult case always intruded on his off-hours. Operation Locust was well named because it ate up all of his free time. The phone stopped ringing after the third ring.
Sohlberg closed the door. He wondered what would be the latest twist in Operation Locust—an Interpol and multi-agency investigation across twelve countries in Europe and the Americas. Locust was all about tracking down the identity of the higher-ups who imported and distributed high-grade cocaine and heroin into Europe.
The phone started ringing again.
For Sohlberg the genesis of Operation Locust felt like some distant memory from antiquity.
Almost three years ago his friend Jesse Hernandez—a Boston Police detective—had alerted him about a routine arrest at Boston’s Logan International Airport. Two passengers in a taxi cab had refused to pay the full fare. The male and female passenger punched the driver. A search of the pregnant female’s luggage revealed a tiny packet of crack cocaine. The male passenger turned out to be a wanted Italian who ran an international ring of drug mules. The insolent trafficker was Federico “Rico” Gerardi and he got law enforcement’s undivided attention when he said:
“Give me and my woman a break and I’ll give you guys a big fat break. I’ll tell you everything I know about the biggest players in the business.”
Rico Gerardi received a suspended sentence for himself and a drastically reduced sentence for his careless girlfriend. The informant was released back into the underworld to gather information. His woman remained in state prison for two years to serve her sentence, deliver her baby, and insure her boyfriend’s cooperation. The baby was placed in temporary foster care. Lilianne Timmermans then had one more year to go in a supervised work-release program.
Sohlberg was based in New York City at the time. He was called in to interview Gerardi because the Norwegian was in charge of Interpol’s investigation of worldwide drug smuggling by organized crime based in Europe. Sohlberg still remembered the informant’s last words before leaving Boston:
“I’m gonna do you guys a lot of good. Yeah . . . Rico is gonna put you in with the big time players . . . the whales . . . it’s time that you go fish the big boys and not little fish like me.”
The Boston Police and the Suffolk County Sheriff's Department and the DEA and the FBI and all of the other federal alphabet bureaucrats agreed that the trafficker was worth releasing because the informant-to-be was a cousin of Elio and Bruno Gerardi. The two Italian bothers were well-known for their drug trafficking bona fides as members of Sicily’s Cosa Nostra.
The phone rang again.
~ ~ ~
Sohlberg looked forward to meeting the Sicilian. Sohlberg had grown tired of traveling to dead letter drops all over Europe where the Sicilian left handwritten notes. The information had led to spectacular drug busts.
The always-suspicious detective wondered how the informant managed to get such good information. But it really didn’t matter because drugs off the street equals lives saved. It also didn’t matter because it was just a matter of time before the Sicilian Snitch would meet a horrible death at the hands of his employers or their competitors. The informant’s employers had zero tolerance for snitches and they would inevitably put two and two together and reduce the mule’s existence to less than zero. Sohlberg’s bosses would miss Rico Gerardi if the informant was downsized into an early grave. The bosses had fallen in love with the colossal drug busts that made Interpol look very very good.
The mind-boggling numbers broke records. The word on the street was that a reward of $ 3 million U.S. dollars had been offered by the America and Sicilian mafia—along with the Camorra in Naples—for the identity of the snitch or snitches whose betrayals were beyond the pale.
Case in point: the Genovese Family and their partners in the Huang Chinese triad gang lost $ 97 million (street value) of high-grade Afghan heroin that was seized from a Chinese cargo ship unloading Nike tennis shoes from Pakistan at the Port of Tacoma in Washington State.
The second drug bust almost destroyed the Brancaccio family in Sicily when they lost $ 103 million (street value) of high-grade cocaine that was seized from a Panamanian vessel loading sulfur at the Port of Houston in the State of Texas.
The third drug bust enraged the Licciardi family and other Camorra capos in Naples when $ 132 million worth of meth precursor chemicals were seized from a Malaysian boat picking up scrap metal at the Newark docks of the Port Authority of New York.
The phone stopped its incessant ringing for a few seconds before it started up again. The fifth call irritated Sohlberg. But he did not answer—as pre-arranged with the caller.
Rico Gerardi also fingered mobsters who imported cocaine and heroin from distributors based in Eastern Europe, Syria, Turkey, and Russia. The informant’s solid tips led to the arrest and conviction of dozens of soldiers and underbosses from the Cosa Nostra in Sicily and the Camorra in Naples. Soon enough the snitch provided Sohlberg with plenty of Albanian, Corsican, Russian, and Bulgarian names. A couple of the names came attached with police and military titles. One- and two-star generals were also in the action.
After two minutes the phone rang again. This time the call ended abruptly midway through the first ring as previously agreed upon. The final call came in exactly one minute later. Sohlberg picked it up on the pre-agreed second ring.
“Can you talk?”
Sohlberg barely recognized the caller’s voice. But it had been more than two years since he had last spoken to the promising informant from Italy.
“Yes. We can talk.”
“I need to meet with you,” said the man in heavily accented English with a voice as pleasant and melodic as gravel tumbling around in a galvanized pail. “Are we meeting at your office?”
“No,” said Sohlberg.
“But I need to see you and your friend today. And I mean now! . . . Stuff’s happening. Serious stuff. . . .”
“That may be the case. But I want you to live.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Interpol headquarters are always under surveillance by the criminal element. It’s no secret that the Sicilian mafia keeps their eye on Interpol headqua
rters to see who comes and goes. They sell that information to interested buyers all over the world.”
“Wait a minute . . . are you telling me I’m in danger?”
“Not unless you show up at headquarters or any of our offices.”
“What if I need protection?”
“You’ll get it. But don’t ever drop by any Interpol office if you want to live to retirement age or die from natural causes.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Call it whatever you want . . . but the Sicilians’ local people take pictures of every license plate of every vehicle that comes in and out of headquarters . . . the same goes for the face of every person who enters and leaves headquarters. . . . They have telephoto lenses that can pick up a pimple from 500 yards. You never know who will connect the dots.”
~ ~ ~
The informant lapsed into a long silence as well he should have. “Alright . . . where do we meet?”
“It’s a discrete location in Vieux Lyon . . . Old Lyon . . . it’s a bookstore . . . Flaubert and Company . . . they buy and sell old and rare books in a four-hundred-year-old building.”
“Who do I ask for?”
“No one. Just ask the cashier if they have any books written by French crusaders. She will send you to the back.”
“I’d like to meet somewhere else. Vieux Lyon is too confusing. . . .”
“No. This is the only place.”
The caller remained silent as if testing Sohlberg’s resolve. But the Norwegian would not change his mind. The detective had not picked the lovely old city center for its beauty. He chose the old part of town because it was a maze. Even an amateur could shake off an experienced surveillance team in the endless labyrinth of narrow twisting lanes lined with shops and cafés.
The best part of Old Lyon was the confusing network of traboules which linked the buildings with covered passageways and spiral staircases. The merchants of Lyon had built the traboules in medieval times to reach transport boats on the Saône River because Fourvière Hill forced the city streets to run parallel to the river’s banks. The traboules made it close to impossible for anyone to be followed surreptitiously.
“Where are you?” said Sohlberg.
“I’m already here in Lyon.”
“Don’t forget to go to the train station . . . the Gare de Vaise.”
“I remember.”
“Use the key that I left you at the dead drop. The key will open a locker at the train station’s baggage storage. You will find a green jacket in the locker. Make sure you put it on.”
“I will.”
“Make sure that you keep the jacket on you. It’ll make it easier for our people to identify you.”
“And follow me?”
“That too.”
“Alright. . . . How do I get to Old Lyon from the train station?”
“Take the subway . . . get off at the Old Lyon station.”
“I’d prefer to—”
“I don’t care about your preferences.” Sohlberg needed the informant to follow detailed instructions on how to get to the bookstore because Commissaire Laprade had posted plainclothes all along the route to make sure that no one was following the informant. “Forget about what you prefer. This has all been carefully planned for your safety. Take the subway and get out at the Vieux Lyon station . . . head north on Rue Saint-Jean which will take you past an old Cathedral on your right. . . . Walk through the small plaza . . . you’ll see where Rue Saint-Jean continues . . . stay on that street and go past the intersection with Rue de la Bombarde . . . you will soon see the Mandragore medieval boutique at Number Fifty-two on your left. Did you get all of that?”
“Yes.”
“Keep going another twenty meters and you will see the bookstore’s building on your right. There’s no number on the building . . . only a small brass symbol of the sun. Go to the small door on the left and then walk up to the second floor. You will see little signs with the bookstore’s name in the traboules . . . these are covered passages and spiral staircases in the Old Town. The signs will guide you with arrows and instructions.”
“Alright.”
“Make sure that you’re wearing the green jacket that we left you in the luggage storage at the train station. You need to wear that jacket so our people know it’s you.”
“At what time do we meet?”
“In two hours,” said Sohlberg. “Nine o’clock.”
The informant said something that static blocked. The call ended.
~ ~ ~
Sohlberg left the apartment after arming the alarm and carefully locking two Millenium deadbolts that had been especially manufactured to keep out intruders. He went down the echo-filled stairs of the grand old building on Rue Malesherbes between Rue Tronchet and Cours Franklin Roosevelt. The detective crossed the lovely tree-lined park of Place du Maréchal Lyautey which still had a cool and fresh morning feel to it.
Without Emma even the city looks sad. I wonder what she’s doing.
In an empty area of the park he stopped to send a text message to Commissaire Laprade in which he confirmed the 9 AM meeting with Ishmael at Laprade’s safe house. Sohlberg then hurried to buy a bottle of homeopathic sleeping pills from the little pharmacy at the corner with Rue Molière. He preferred this drug store because the one next to the subway station rarely carried natural sleeping remedies. He also took the detour to see if any of the targets of Operation Locust might have put him under surveillance. Sohlberg was sure that a contract for his assassination was not out of the question.
If I don’t get any sleep I will probably start making lots of mistakes . . . which could easily become fatal for me and others in this case.
He retraced his steps towards his abode and looked for anyone who might be spying on his apartment building. Sohlberg loved the spacious apartment in the elegant neighborhood that came free of charge and courtesy of Interpol. The agency owned the furnished apartment which it used to temporarily house visiting police chiefs from member nations. Sohlberg had demanded the apartment when his bosses at Interpol ordered him to come back to Lyon and run Operation Locust.
Sohlberg’s well-trained eyes scanned the park and streets and buildings for suspicious activity. It had been a long time since he and other Norwegian police officers had been trained by former KGB officers in the art of surveillance and counter-surveillance and for that he was grateful. He had even grown used to the possibility if not the probability of surveillance and retaliation that came along with a major investigation like Operation Locust. But danger was not first and foremost on his mind at that minute. Instead a sad yearning came over Sohlberg as he approached the tree-sheltered boulevard of Cours Franklin Roosevelt.
I should never have started Operation Locust. . . . I wish we had stayed in the U.S.A. and never crossed paths with Azra Korbal. She’d be alive if it wasn’t for Locust. Why did she have to live a life of deceit?
Sohlberg strolled on Cours Franklin Roosevelt towards the Foch subway station. Out of habit he almost walked all the way to Bernachon to pick up chocolates for himself. But he then remembered that this little bit of chocolate heaven was—like most small businesses—closed four weeks from late July to late August.
The subway “A” line took Sohlberg across the Rhône River and then down south to the city’s narrow peninsula or presqu'île in downtown where the Rhône and Saône rivers converge. He got off at the Place Bellecour station and headed to the enormous plaza to wait for Commissaire Laprade. Sohlberg looked around. He again had the odd sensation that someone was following him.
But who?
The treeless expanse of Place Bellecour emphasized the lack of people in the city. The central statue of a mounted Louis XIV almost disappeared in the enormity of the city’s main square. Sohlberg put on his sunglasses to avoid the glaring sunlight. Fourvière Hill dominated the skyline with the blinding white towers of Notre-Dame de Fourvière. The basilica’s four chess-piece towers crowned the city from its grand location.
Temptation beckoned. Sohlberg caved in.
“I will have this . . . and this,” said Sohlberg while he pointed at the tasty pastries at Pâtisserie Pignol. He had never passed the store without stopping to buy some delicious treat. He wolfed down the entire bag of pastries within minutes of paying for his purchase.
Sohlberg stood by the front door. He studied everyone who passed by while he waited for Laprade. The Norwegian looked for signs of surveillance. He found nothing that indicated he was being watched. That alone worried him because it could be a sure sign that experts were at work.
The city’s forlorn emptiness depressed Sohlberg. Few tourists came to Lyon and the majority of the native population across France had departed en masse to the countryside and the beaches for France’s devoutly observed summer vacations. But Sohlberg knew one man in France who would never consider taking a vacation and that man was one of the few men who scared him—Commissaire Bruno de Laprade.
~ ~ ~
For many years Laprade and his comrade-in-arms had talked about their time together.
Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation.
Central African Republic.
Chad.
Congo.
Iraq during the First Gulf War.
Ivory Coast.
Kosovo.
Mali.
Rwanda.
Yugoslavia.
The importance of all those places grew as illness took over the life of Laprade’s friend. With the approach of death the two men remembered the fallen and the wounded. In words and in thoughts they cherished Honor and Fidelity—the motto of the French Foreign Legion or Légion Étrangère.
They mostly remembered the good times. Very good times of days gone by at the Second Foreign Parachute Regiment. They had joined at age 18 and never regretted their military service.
Wars and rumors of wars.
Armed interventions.
Police actions.
They remembered all of the massacres perpetuated under the cover of United Nations resolutions and all the other fig leaves that politicians throw on their rotten problems. The two soldiers remembered “Mission Accomplished” and many more platitudes that politicians throw at voters to make them feel good about the carnage of war.
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 11