Laprade waved at the bartender and shook his head to cancel the order.
~ ~ ~
The warm breezes over the Saône River reinvigorated Sohlberg. The two men stood at the doorway of Chez Patrick and filled their lungs with the mellow summer perfume of trees and river. They walked up Rue Carrand toward Laprade’s Peugeot which was half way up the cobblestone street.
Sohlberg said, “Want to come over for dinner?”
“Thanks but I’m tired.”
They approached Laprade’s car. Sohlberg looked to his right. A puppeteer from the world-famous Guignol Theater stood on the sidewalk by the front door of the theater. He was working his magic with two puppets. The marionettes were dressed as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. The hilarious puppets welcomed patrons who were waiting in line for that evening’s performance.
“Look,” said Sohlberg.
Laprade nodded. “I hear they also do great daytime plays for children.”
A small crowd gathered around the puppets and their master and for a few seconds Sohlberg wondered if Domenico Pelle and others in the 'Ndrangheta organization were masterfully pulling his and Laprade’s strings.
Sohlberg turned to Laprade once they got inside the car. “You know . . . so much of our profession depends on carefully and accurately observing people . . . things . . . events.”
“Yes. That’s true for the good detective.”
“I think about that and I wonder . . . what do we really know about Domenico Pelle? I mean . . . we really haven’t observed him up close and personal. Here’s a guy who pretended to be Rico Gerardi for how long? . . . Almost three years! . . . He fed us all sorts of information leading to gigantic drug busts. And yet we didn’t even know it was him and not Rico Gerardi who was our real informant.”
“I agree. I don’t like him. He’s a sly and slippery character who slithered in under our radar screen. A member of the 'Ndrangheta organization sure doesn’t go around snitching for altruistic purposes. He had to have used us for his own benefit or for his crime family’s profit.”
Sohlberg sighed. “He’s manipulating us. Do we really want to help him find his scientist?”
“I say yes since a nuclear suitcase or backpack could really do some serious damage if it ever exploded in a major city. Imagine the panic . . . imagine the terror of waiting for the next one to explode.”
“But,” said Sohlberg. “What if he made up the nuclear thing to trick us into helping him get his chemist back? . . . What if he can’t deliver the so-called nuclear engineer?”
“It’s a risk we have to take. Don’t forget that we’re also manipulating him. We took down a lot of people thanks to his information . . . we really hurt the drug business of the American and Sicilian Mafia . . . and the Camorra in Naples. We also got tons of information that exposed corrupt cops . . . for example we learned about Michel Neyret here in Lyon.”
“But are we really manipulating Domenico Pelle? . . . I think it’s been a one-way street so far.”
“Sohlberg . . . you’re in denial about a basic reality of police work.”
“And that is? . . .”
“We have to make compromises with snitches. That’s part of the equation. Judas got his thirty pieces of silver. Confidential informants don’t work for free.”
“I understand the ugly side of working with snitches.”
“That’s why we have to help Pelle find his chemist. It’s no big deal. Or . . . do you want to pull out . . . or call off Operation Locust?”
“No. We’re too deep inside the depraved jungle of Domenico Pelle. We have to keep going into his Heart of Darkness.”
Laprade stared at the puppets across the street. “Then what’s the problem?”
“Where do you and I fit in the equation? . . . I don’t think Ishmael’s equation is for our benefit. I even wonder if his equation includes reducing us to zero.”
“Are you implying that he’s going to hurt us . . . ruin us . . . or worse?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m outright saying it. . . . The man reduced Rico Gerardi to zero . . . we have Gerardi’s shrunken head to prove it. Now . . . a man like Ishmael doesn’t get his hands dirty killing anyone . . . least of all a low-level snitch . . . but he fixed it so that Gerardi met his end. And I’m sure it wasn’t a pretty ending. So . . . yes . . . I’m telling you that Ishmael is going to be trouble for us. Lots of it. Count on it.”
“I’m not afraid of him or any lowlife.”
Sohlberg sighed and said, “Nor am I. But we have to be careful. Very careful.”
“I’ll take all appropriate measures.”
“Good.”
~ ~ ~
Sohlberg arrived home and read a note from his housekeeper. The cursive handwriting of Juliette Bonnaire was barely legible.
Monsieur,
Please go through your mail.
You have not been opening your mail since madame left on her trip.
I received a phone call informing me that the electricity will be cut off tomorrow if you do not pay by noon. The bill is 30 days past due.
I will start leaving the bills and past due notices next to the phone in the front hallway desk. I will leave the rest of the mail for you in the living room.
To prevent clutter in the living room, I am putting a big stack of old mail in your bedroom.
In the refrigerator you will find some galettes that I made with tomatoes from my garden.
Chapter 13/Tretten
OSLO AND TROMSØ, NORWAY:
THURSDAY JULY 21, OR THREE
MONTHS AND 9 DAYS AFTER THE DAY
Chief Inspector Kristina Skrautvol could smell a rat a mile away. She was experienced at rat detection because the job required her to deal with all sorts of criminals—from petty fools to dangerous felons. She also had a fine nose for rats because she had suffered too many boyfriends who ranged from awful jerks to dumb self-centered couch potatoes. Over the years she learned a lot about intensely toxic if not deranged boyfriends. Kristina Skrautvol had even invented the word boyfiend for the worst of her lovers. But the rat in this case wasn’t a mile away or a criminal or a boyfriend or a boyfiend. The rat sat in front of her and that rat was the odious Ivar Thorsen—her boss and Commissioner of the Oslo Police District.
“Skrautvol . . . you do understand that this is not a permanent assignment . . . correct?”
“Correct.”
“I hope it’s perfectly clear that you are not replacing Chief Inspector Hvoslef . . . it’s just that he’s been sick and had to take a temporary medical leave. He’s here in Oslo right now taking his treatment. It’s nothing major and he’ll soon be back on the job. . . . Okay?”
Skrautvol nodded although she and most of the force knew that Fredrik Hvoslef had been admitted into a psychiatric ward following his very public nervous breakdown when he barricaded himself inside his office in downtown Tromsø.
“I hope you don’t think I’m unhappy with you or your work by my sending you to Tromsø.”
“Of course not.” Skrautvol raised her right eyebrow which was reserved for when she heard bald-faced lies.
“Tromsø isn’t the horrible Siberia that folks make it out to be.”
“Of course not.” She raised her eyebrow again.
“A stint in the Troms politidistrikt would look good on anyone’s curriculum vitae.”
Skrautvol raised her left eyebrow which was reserved for dubious claims. No one in the Oslo district would intentionally seek—in their right mind—an assignment to Norway’s northernmost county. The only exceptions were Oslo police officers who were natives of Troms County or those who were married to a Troms native. Even winter-hardened Norwegians thought that Tromsø was too close to the North Pole. Natives of Oslo and southern Norway felt that their fjords were as balmy as San Diego and southern California when compared to the isolated and stark hinterlands of northern Norway. She looked at Thorsen askance and said with some hesitation:
“I’m curious as to why th
e Troms district needs me. The district is adequately staffed to cover the seventy thousand or so residents. They have plenty of inspectors and chief inspectors. I’ve met some of them at conferences and they’re quite talented.”
“Perhaps. But they don’t have that many homicides up there. They’re also not used to complex murder cases. Let’s just say that the homicide bench is not that deep in Tromsø or the Troms district. They’re light on homicide experience . . . they’re not even close to our expertise down here in Oslo. That’s why Hvoslef was sent up there. Too bad he couldn’t adjust to the long winter nights. On the other hand who can blame him? . . . I understand that they don’t see the sun at all from late November to late January.”
“I’ve heard about that.”
“Oh . . . one last thing Skrautvol.”
“Yes . . . what?”
“Hvoslef was working on a very . . . well . . . let’s call it . . . an unusual case . . . not difficult or controversial by any means but unusual. . . . Yes that’s what it is. Unusual.”
Commissioner Thorsen was a lousy liar and she could tell that he was trying to convince himself about his lies. She leaned closer to him and said:
“Just how unusual?”
He leaned away from her. Thorsen found her large size on the intimidating side. She easily outweighed him by 200 pounds.
“Very unusual . . . nine victims.”
“Nine victims. . . . What type of victims?”
“Homicide. Unfortunately that is the situation up there. Just a minute . . . don’t give me that skeptical look. You don’t have an impossible case to investigate just because we have nine dead bodies. No ma’am! . . . This is quite the opportunity of a lifetime for you.”
She felt like asking him if she looked that stupid. “Commissioner Thorsen . . . it sounds to me like this is quite a mess. And yet I’ve never heard a word of this.”
“We’ve kept a tight lid on it. That’s the one good thing about a massive crime in the middle of nowhere . . . no one knows anything about it. It’s like who hears a tree falling in an empty forest? . . . The media knows absolutely nothing about this. We’ve kept our lips shut so you need to do the same.”
Skrautvol got up to leave. Thorsen stared at her exuberant curves which he found as shocking as the fact that she was five inches taller than him. But he was blind to the fact that she was very well endowed in the I.Q. department.
“Anything else sir?”
“Uh . . . uh . . . oh yes! . . . One of the victims had a passport and Interpol badge that identified him as Nicolai Dvorkovich . . . a lieutenant colonel with the Moscow City Police. According to forensics the documents look genuine. . . . But with Russia you never know.”
“So this man might have been a Russian policeman who might have been working with Interpol?”
“Exactly. And that’s why the P.S.T. is in charge of that part of the investigation. Do you hear me? . . . They’re going to find out whether the man was in Russian law enforcement. The P.S.T. will then send their findings over to the Foreign Ministry. It’s an international matter . . . not a police matter. Keep your nose out of it. You hear me? Let our spy agency do its job. The higher-ups will know what to do. That part of the investigation is way above your pay scale . . . you hear me?”
Skrautvol nodded. But she had zero faith in the ability or skill of any political appointee of any government agency. She figured that the PST—the Norwegian Police Security Service—probably employed good worker drones like herself. But its chief, Janne Kristiansen, had been forced to resign after she had blabbed in public to a parliamentary committee about PST intelligence operatives inside Pakistan. “I hear you.”
“Also . . . you are not to have any communications with your pal Sohlberg until we have absolute confirmation that this Nicolai Dvorkovich person actually existed and actually worked as a Russian police officer. And that will only happen after the P.S.T. and Foreign Ministry give us the green light.”
“But—”
“But nothing. If the dead man was a Russian policeman and a member of Interpol then it’s up to Interpol to tell Sohlberg . . . if and when Interpol decides to tell him. Understand?”
“Yes. But—”
“Don’t call Sohlberg until we find out whether the victim was in Russian law enforcement and a member of Interpol.”
“But—”
“But nothing. If it turns out that the dead man was Russian police . . . and part of Interpol . . . then it’s up to Interpol to tell Sohlberg.”
“But—”
“But what?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m good friends with Sohlberg and his wife. So I might be talking with him on social matters.”
Thorsen chortled. “That would be your problem . . . not mine. Regardless . . . I want nothing said to him about the case. Now . . . I want you to leave for Tromsø today or tomorrow at the latest. We’ll cover your airfare and stay at the Thon Polar Hotel.”
“Who else is working the case up there? . . . Or will I be the only one investigating nine murders?”
He glared at her impertinence. “Mind you . . . no one will be assisting you. . . . You will be part of a team . . . one constable and one inspector. Both men know a lot about the case. The constable was the first responder . . . he’s spent many years as a constable . . . both men are natives . . . they know the locals very well . . . you’ll benefit from their knowledge of the case and the area. That way you won’t have to start from scratch if you know what I mean . . . no need to reinvent the wheel and all that. . . . Now . . . I suggest you get packing and try to get up there today.”
“Today?”
“Yes. Go home. Pack up. There are a couple of flights that you can catch today. It’s a short flight . . . less than two hours . . . you can land in Tromsø today and still have a productive afternoon and evening . . . what with the midnight sun you will probably be able to visit the fish shack where someone buried the nine victims.”
“But—”
“Time’s a-wasting!”
As soon as Kristina Skrautvol left Commissioner Thorsen’s office he smiled at his brilliance.
Perfect!
He wanted the National Police Commissioner to think that he was a dependable and loyal “team member” who had graciously and immediately volunteered to help the Troms police district by sending off one of his homicide detectives. And yet he didn’t want to lose one of his better men or favorite detectives. Nor did he want the Troms district commissioner to look good by solving nine messy murders.
Yes. It’s best if a not-too-smart single woman is sent up there.
Thorsen was beside himself. His sophisticated plans meant that the yahoos in backwater Troms would soon dislike or hate Skrautvol for her obnoxious honesty and bluntness as much as he did. He also counted on them—like him—finding her enormous size to be repulsive in the extreme. Of course there was also the matter of her spiked and unruly bleached hair and the noxious cloud of tobacco smoke that hung about her. He sighed and was glad to be rid of her.
~ ~ ~
The long fingers of Norway’s northern fjords dug into wrinkled mountain ranges. Except for a few small buildings and long stretches of empty roads the barren landscape below yielded scant signs of human habitation. Green fields of native summer plants struggled to thinly cover the land. The view from the airplane reminded Kristina Skrautvol of one choice phrase: the abomination of desolation.
Skrautvol took a catnap during the 90 minute flight. She was exhausted from having to rush home and pack up and then run out to the airport for the next-to-last flight to Tromsø. She packed her uniform in the luggage and dressed in civilian clothes for the trip because her official police uniform had assumed boa constrictor properties by getting tighter and tighter around her during the past five months as she had put on more pounds.
~ ~ ~
The landing was uneventful at the airport by the western edge of Tromsøya Island. But the passengers at the gate stared at Skrautvol
when the uniformed, broad-shouldered, and six-foot-six Constable Rasch approached the group and yelled out:
“Chief Inspector Skrautvol?”
“Yes . . . yes,” she said with embarrassed resignation when every eye turned on her.
“Welcome!”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have any luggage to pick up?”
“No. I’ve only got my carry-on.”
“Chief Inspector . . . would you like to go out to the fish shack where we found the nine bodies?”
“Not today. It’s almost eight o’clock . . . I’m sure your family is waiting for you.”
“I told my wife you were arriving tonight . . . so she’d understand.”
“No. That’s alright. I want both of us to be rested for tomorrow.”
“Of course. But it’s also okay if you want to go out there. We here in the Troms district can handle the same odd hours that Oslo officers work on cases. It’s no problem.”
Skrautvol smiled. She closely inspected the constable while they did a walk-and-talk to the car. They spoke at length about exactly how the Troms district office operated and who was who and what were the most pressing issues and controversies in the office and what were the most important cases under investigation.
“Sounds like the Troms district is efficient and well-run.”
“Thank you Chief Inspector. But we have to be since we cover such a large area . . . with lots of wilderness.”
After quizzing Rasch she found him to be serious and competent. She also appreciated his enthusiasm and felt reassured that her time would not be wasted in Tromsø—at least not by Constable Rasch.
Just before she got inside the marked car C.I. Skrautvol looked up at the cloudless cerulean sky. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She felt as if the endless sky and immense land were going to devour her.
Constable Rasch noticed how she paled. He said:
“Anything wrong? . . . You okay?”
After an uncomfortable silence Chief Inspector Skrautvol managed to softly whisper:
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 14