“I looked into it,” said Giske. “First I checked the missing person lists that embassies submit to the Foreign Relations Ministry in Oslo and none matched any of our vics. Then I checked out airline and shipping companies and the ferries . . . and none reported any missing passengers. . . . Chief Inspector . . . a lot of giant cruise ships come up here during the summer . . . they’re packed with tourists from all over the world . . . plus we get tourists who fly in or they drive up here or take the bus.”
“And nothing?” The cigarettes beckoned. Her two Russian favorites—Sobranie Black and Belomorkanal—spoke to her in the international language of the smoke deprived. She lovingly fingered the thin outline of a sterling silver cigarette case of Sobranies inside her pant’s right-side pocket. She then did the same with a gold case of Belomorkanals on the left pocket.
“Nothing.”
Skrautvol pinched her thigh to stop herself from calling for a cigarette break. “Are there any Russian or East European or Asian immigrants living up here . . . how’s the refugee community?”
“Small. Three Pakistani brothers who own a kebab restaurant in tourist row. Two Russian border guards who defected in the Sixties . . . they walked and hitchhiked their way across Finland until they got here one summer. But our Russians are very much alive and accounted for . . . they’re in their eighties and married to Norwegian women. We have no East Europeans as far as I know. But we are also blessed with five Vietnamese refugees. One’s a mechanic from Oslo who works here during the summer only . . . he does repairs for the big cruise ships . . . he seems legit . . . then there’s four gang members . . . street-level drug dealers . . . mostly into pot but one’s diversifying into Ecstasy and meth.”
“What say you Constable Rasch?”
“Nothing to add. . . .”
“What about the Welcome to Tromsø! towel that was full of blood and wrapped around one of the men? . . . Were you able to trace where that towel came from?”
“Yes and no,” said Giske. “It’s from China . . . where else? . . . A wholesaler from Oslo sells thousands of them every year to all of the hotels and tourist shops in town. We’ll never find out who’s the buyer or owner of that towel . . . it’s like trying to track down the buyer or owner of a pair of chopsticks in Tokyo or Shanghai.”
~ ~ ~
“Alright,” said Skrautvol. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about the case last night . . . we are still left with some odd facts that don’t add up. . . . Why did someone take the time and trouble to strip the clothes and shoes and personal belongings off the dead before burying them under the fish shack? . . . The nine didn’t bury themselves . . . or cut off their own hands . . . did they? . . . Then there’s the two men who were mutilated . . . their faces destroyed beyond recognition. . . . Why just those two? . . . Was it because they’re locals that someone would recognize and send us off in the right direction?”
“No one’s been reported missing.” Giske slurped more of his coffee. “Of course friends or family may not know they’re missing. That’s why Rasch and I take a look every morning at the missing person reports.”
“Good.”
“On the other hand,” said Giske. “Family or friends might know that some or all of the nine are dead and they have a good idea why the dead got that way . . . so they don’t report anything to the police. The friends or families themselves may have stuff to hide.”
“Very good. All true.” The siren song of tobacco slowly faded away from Skrautvol’s ears. “Here’s another thing that bothers me. Most of the vics appear not to be from here. So someone must know how they got here . . . by air . . . land . . . or sea.”
Giske swabbed his coffee-dripping chin with his shirt sleeve. “We already looked into that puzzle. We took a pic album of our vics . . . the seven with recognizable faces . . . to the airlines and hotels and cruise ships and charter boats and ferries and tour guides . . . all the tourist restaurants and bars . . . and nothing. We even went to the Esso gas station in Hansnes . . . it’s the closest town to the fish shack . . . and none of the employees recognized anyone in the album. . . .”
“What about other gasoline stations?”
“We’re in the process of visiting all gas stations in a hundred-fifty mile radius . . . we called them on July nineteenth . . . the day after we found our nine dead vics . . . we asked them to save all video for the month of July . . . we still need to go out there and show every one of their employees the photo album just in case our nine arrived by car.”
“I’m impressed. You’ve been very thorough.”
“We,” said Giske, “have to be thorough because that’s how we do things. We’re not a bunch of lazy or dumb cops just because we’re out here in the sticks. No sir. We’re not going to let Oslo look down its nose at us and say that the hicks in Tromsø botched the case or that we can’t do the job.”
“No one’s saying that.”
“Maybe not you . . . but we hear what’s said through the grapevine.” Giske tilted the mug up high over his mouth and let the last drops fall into his cavernous mouth before belching. “Sorry but my acid reflux is worse in the morning. Anyway . . . I don’t think I’m going out bucknaked on a cactus limb when I say that it seems to me that all of our victims were trying to avoid being recognized at all cost.”
“Have you checked in with the illegal immigrant community to see if someone knows one or more of our victims? . . . How big is the illegal immigrant community in Tromsø?”
“Nothing as bad or large as down south in Oslo.”
Rasch blushed.
Skrautvol waved her right hand as if to say, “Everyone’s entitled to their opinion . . . right or wrong.”
Giske put down his coffee mug. He stared straight into Skrautvol’s eyes. “Chief Inspector . . . go ahead . . . you or Rasch can turn me in to the thought police who want everyone to think that Norway is one happy paradise for refugees and illegal immigrants.”
“I’m here to solve nine homicides . . . not social problems.”
“Good! . . . Anyway . . . we’ve already done our rounds with the illegals . . . we heard their gossip about newcomers and goings-on and there was nothing about our nine vics. . . . We showed the pics to everyone in our cozy community of illegals up here . . . and again . . . nothing.”
“So how did these nine get to Troms County?. . . Or are some of them residents?”
Silence.
“Where’s the person or persons who buried them?”
Silence.
“Gentlemen . . . I have no doubt that we will discover who are the nine dead and why they were killed if we find out how they got here and who buried them in the fish shack near Hansnes.”
Giske folded his arms. “What do you want to do?”
“Gentlemen . . . we’re done checking out all of the legit ways that these nine dead vics got here to lovely Tromsø and Troms County. Now it’s time to look at the illegal ways to get here.”
“I agree,” said Giske. “But how much time and effort will that take?”
“We need to do it.” Skrautvol leaned forward and looked into each man’s eyes. “We need to take a close look at small planes or boats for hire since our victims got killed up in Ringvassøy Island . . . which is not exactly attracting millions of tourists as if it were the Hawaii of Norway. . . . The final resting place of our nine dead is in a cove about three miles north as the crow flies from the little town of Hansnes . . . which sure isn’t Honolulu. . . . Hansnes doesn’t even have a traffic light. So . . . as far as time and energy are concerned . . . all I can say is that we will have to wear out the shoe leather.”
“And our livers,” added Constable Rasch.
“Livers?”
“Yes . . . Chief Inspector,” said Rasch. “If charter captains and pilots aren’t at sea or in the air then they’re mostly drinking themselves blind at bars or at home.”
Skrautvol pursed her lips. “Very good. Livers and shoe leather it is then. Let’s follow these two lines of
inquiry for a week. . . . I also want to open a separate inquiry into the men with the mutilated faces . . . the ones with pulla bread from Finland in their stomachs. Since we’re closest to Sweden and Finland I’d like to go visit Finland—”
“A little interruption,” said Giske. “Before you make any foreign inquiries you need to keep in mind that Oslo . . . yes . . . the Minister of Justice himself . . . has made it perfectly clear that we are not to contact any foreign law enforcement unless and until we have real evidence in hand.”
“I know. When I got this assignment I was specifically told not to contact the Russians or Interpol until we knew more. But it’s an obvious issue that has to be investigated . . . isn’t it?”
Giske spoke softly under his breath. “But. . . .”
The worried looks on the two men’s faces amused Skrautvol. “Gentlemen . . . I’m not going to disobey orders or expect you to do the same. But I’d like to do some tourist stuff while there’s good summer weather. I also want to get a feel for the area and how the victims might have come in to Troms County . . . and why that pulla bread got inside our two victims’ stomachs.”
The two men silently accepted her proposed subterfuge. Skrautvol was sure that she saw the briefest of smiles break on Giske’s face. As usual Rasch kept his facial expression parked in neutral.
“Alright gentlemen. Let’s meet back here one week from today at ten-thirty in the morning and go over what we’ve found. And now the hard part . . . let’s split chores. Who wants to find the rent-a-captain who brought these people to Troms . . . and who wants to find our mystery graveyard digger or diggers out in Hansnes?”
“I’ll sacrifice my liver,” said Giske who did not look like a stranger to the bottle.
Skrautvol and Rasch managed to avoid smiling at Giske volunteering for the bar scene.
“I imagine,” said Skrautvol, “that you’ll go in plainclothes.”
“Absolutely. The minute they see a police uniform in those bars they’re as talkative and friendly as pigs at a bacon convention.”
Rasch smiled this time. He lifted his hand to volunteer for rural duty.
“Okay,” said Skrautvol. “You’ll go out to Hansnes and start looking for our undertaker. As for me . . . I’ll split my time assisting you out in the field and—”
“Wait,” said Giske. “The men in the bars I’m going to visit are not the kind of men who will talk to a woman about anything.”
Skrautvol raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way . . . but the bars I’m going to only have women who are looking for a good time or a quick buck . . . in other words . . . tramps and hookers.”
“Ah,” said Skrautvol. “The ultimate man cave?”
Chapter 15/Femten
PARIS AND LYON, FRANCE: THURSDAY
JULY 28, OR THREE MONTHS AND
16 DAYS AFTER THE DAY
Achilles Tsoukalas took the subway to his meeting and got off at the Corentin Cariou station in the 19th arrondissement. He crossed Rue Cariou. Two gruff men waited for him in front of a black steel gate next to a railroad bridge. One of the men escorted him past the weed-filled yard to an old, abandoned, walled-up, and graffiti-plagued building that had seen better days as a passenger train station in another century.
He entered a murky room. Another man carefully and methodically searched him for weapons and wiretapping equipment. He passed the security procedures and was escorted to a much darker room. His guardian indicated that he was to stand under a naked and timid light bulb.
A man sat somewhere in the darkness. His commanding voice said in decent French:
“I have another job for you.”
“What would you like?”
“Something for an airplane.”
“How big?”
“Two hundred passengers max. Probably flying with a headcount of one-fifty or so.”
“How soon?”
“Soon but not too soon. I want you to think of something that will pass airport security.”
“Will it be onboard or in the cargo hold?”
“Cargo. But it must destroy the airplane at a great altitude. I want no survivors. Zero. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Also . . . do your very best to leave behind as little evidence as possible. Nothing should be traced back to you. Use common ingredients that anyone can buy anywhere in Europe.”
“That is doable. Difficult but doable”
“How much?”
“Let’s see . . . two hundred passengers on board? . . . I think one thousand dollars per person plus costs. Is that okay?”
“Done.”
Achilles Tsoukalas felt nothing about his employer’s order until he heard the man’s little laugh. The risatina terrified him.
“Sir. . . . Did I say something bad or wrong?”
“No. I was just thinking that you and I are going to be doing God’s work.”
“Sir? . . . How so?”
“There’s a bad man who’s going to get on that airplane. This man has many foolish plans and schemes.”
The bewildered look on Achilles Tsoukalas said all that he needed to say.
“Achilles . . . that’s a nice name. It’s like Achilles Heel. That’s what you will be to my enemies. You will be their fatal Achilles Heel.”
“Yes sir.”
“Achilles . . . do you believe that you and I are doing God’s work?”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“But what if He believes in you?” The obscure man in the darkness laughed the little laugh again. “I can see you are a hard atheist. That’s okay. I guess it helps in our line of work. It doesn’t really matter in the long run. The fact remains that you and I are going to do God’s work even if He doesn’t exist. . . . Do you know why we do God’s work?”
“No sir. Why?”
“Because my grandfather always told me that God laughs at the foolish plans and schemes of mankind. He thought that most men deserve to be scoffed at by the Almighty God.”
“Yes sir.”
“This bad man . . . my enemy . . . needs to be scoffed at by the Almighty.”
“I see,” said Achilles. But he did not.
~ ~ ~
They spoke in code. Early that morning Laprade placed the call to Sohlberg’s personal cell phone and said:
“I heard the price of bread in Poland might double.”
“That’s horrible. I wonder when that might happen.”
“I bet you the price hike will be today . . . no later than three in the afternoon. They say the same thing might happen to the price of tortillas in Mexico.”
“I understand. It could even happen to the price of wood products.”
As soon as they ended the call the two detectives knew that their meeting would be in a secluded open air terrace on the top floor of an office building next to the Hilton Hotel at 3:00 PM that same day.
I heard the price of bread in Poland might double.
“Double” always meant a meeting at one of four locations dispersed in the double row of twenty buildings known as Cité Internationale or International City. The buildings were conveniently located near Interpol Headquarters.
The detectives appreciated how easily they could evade surveillance in the vast multi-use complex. Cité offered them plenty of legitimate reasons to be visiting the covered pedestrian corridor lined with office buildings, hotels, residential housing, and dozens of restaurants and bars. Multiple public transportation stations granted the detectives easy access. So did the underground parking lots.
Cité Internationale also provided ample crowds to get lost in during the day or night. Pharaoh Casino’s slot machines and traditional games brought in a steady stream of visitors at night as did a giant multi-screen movie complex. During the day crowds flocked to the Lyon Museum of Contemporary Art which occupied one of the middle buildings facing Parc de la Tête d'Or—Lyon’s more elegant version of London’s Hyde Park and New York City’s Central
Park.
They say the same thing might happen to the price of tortillas in Mexico.
“Mexico” or anything or anyone Mexican meant the top floor terrace in the office building next to the Hilton Hotel because its founder—Conrad Hilton—had been born in New Mexico.
It could even happen to the price of wood products.
“Wood” and any reference to trees or forests meant a fallback meeting in the east staircase between the second and third floor of the building that housed the French law firm Cabinet Ratheaux.
Laprade and Sohlberg frequently changed their meeting venues throughout Lyon. They didn’t believe in making it easy for anyone to follow them. Unpredictable locations meant that if Laprade and Sohlberg were to be followed then someone would have to throw lots of money and manpower into surveillance. Laprade and Sohlberg also didn’t believe in making it easy for anyone to plant listening devices at known meeting locations.
~ ~ ~
As agreed the two detectives met at the top floor terrace at exactly three o’clock. They had unobstructed views of the Hilton Hotel in the next building. The summer sun bathed the Parc de la Tête d'Or in a brilliant light that failed to expose the schemes and dreams of men and women. White-roofed paddle boats and blue rowboats dotted the grand central lake. Children, parents, and grandparents strolled on the winding paths or they played in the grass or rested under the shade of splendid trees. Depending on the eye of the beholder the pleasant park was either an oasis or a mirage in the harsh and demanding deserts and disappointments of modern life.
“Welcome back,” said Laprade. “How was your little vacation?”
“I had four interesting days in Frankfurt.”
“Find anything on Azra Korbal?”
“Zero. I met with her parents and they didn’t recognize her picture. Same thing with her family and friends. It was a complete bust.”
“Did my pal in Frankfurt . . . at the Federal Criminal Police Office help?”
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 16