“We offered the brothers more money to stay with us,” said Fru Ditlefsen. “We needed them badly because we’re booked solid this summer.”
“They turned us down even after we offered them forty percent more pay.”
“And we haven’t seen or heard of them.”
“Who’s the person they were going to work for?”
“Ervin Vikøren. Lives on Reinøya Island.”
“Where can I find the Ingebrigtsen brothers?”
“In Tromsø. But you won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve called and called them . . . even dropped by their apartment. . . . No one answers. Their sister told us they were shipping out to Scotland.”
“Where in Scotland?”
“She didn’t know.”
~ ~ ~
At 4:32 PM a pale and bleary-eyed Giske and a tanned and hale Rasch trooped into Skrautvol’s office for a status update meeting. They sat around the conference table where Skrautvol had placed copies of Jørgensen’s 32-page report on geo-referencing.
Skrautvol went over the results of her meeting with Dr. Jørgensen.
Haakon Giske raised his eyebrows. “This is good. . . . Isotopes . . . the new detectives. Isotopes. . . . What will they think of next?”
Skrautvol wasn’t sure if the detective was dishing out sarcasm or compliments about geo-referencing. He certainly looked the worse for wear. “Inspector Giske. No doubt the isotopes are high-tech stuff . . . but there’s still nothing like good old-fashioned snooping.” She summarized the evidence that she had uncovered in Finland and at Niko Magga’s property.
“Ah,” said Giske, “this is very good. We’re making progress. I can feel it in my bones if not my poor liver.”
Skrautvol nodded. “Sorry about that. I’ll gladly sign time-off papers that you need to help you recuperate from your bar excursions.”
“Not for now. But thanks. My snooping dredged up a couple of names. None panned out. They’re all boat captains and airplane pilots who are strictly into weed-n-speed routes that bring in lots of pot and meth into the area. They all laughed at the idea of wasting valuable time and effort and cargo space on human trafficking when drugs pay more and don’t need bathroom breaks or food or hand-holding.”
“So that leaves you Constable Rasch. How went it?”
A jubilant Skrautvol and Giske could hardly believe the mother lode that Rasch had dug up.
“We need to get the Ingebrigtsen sister’s D.N.A. and compare it to the nine victims,” said Skrautvol. “We need to find out if she’s related to the two men with the hacked-off faces. I have a feeling that those two are the Ingebrigtsen brothers. I’ll have the crime lab compare their D.N.A and see if they are a match.”
Giske rubbed his stubbled face which was in need of a shave. “Yes. That’s probably them. Those are the extra two bodies.”
“We,” said Skrautvol, “have to design a trap for all those persons who were accessories and accomplices to the nine murders in Norway and the two murders in Finland. Magga already fell into a trap of his own making. We need to move on to the next set of chumps who obviously think we’re very stupid. And that chump is . . . Ervin Vikøren. Of course we first have to find out if he’s alive . . . or among the nine victims.”
The detectives and constable hashed out a plan to put the poacher under discrete surveillance if their investigation revealed that Vikøren was still among the living in Troms County. The three police officers then came up with a clever plan on how to question him. They also prepared an official request for the Scottish Police Service to look for the Ingebrigtsen brothers.
Giske drummed the desk impatiently with his fingertips. “Are we going to contact the Russians and send them pictures of the tattoos?”
“I’ve thought about it,” said Skrautvol. “But at this point in our investigation I’d hate to tip off any corrupt Russian government official who might be involved in this case. They’re not exactly working for the cleanest government on the planet.”
“Very true,” said Giske. “But sooner or later we’ll have to make inquiries over there.”
“No doubt. . . . Gentlemen . . . now that we have credible evidence that Finland and Scotland and Russia are in the picture it’s time for us to send off an official inquiry to Interpol. I will probably call someone I know at Interpol . . . he’s from the Oslo politidistrikt . . . and our country’s advisor to Interpol’s General Secretary . . . Chief Inspector Harald Sohlberg.”
A dyspeptic Giske belched. “An Oslo sharpie? . . . A city slicker par excellence? . . . Someone’s Golden Boy at the Ministry of Justice?”
“Actually . . . no.”
“No?”
“Sohlberg’s the one who many years ago arrested two Supreme Court justices . . . for bribery and corruption . . . on live television . . . during prime time.”
“Oh yeah. I remember the poor sap. A hero of our time . . . a superfluous man. But remind me . . . wasn’t he shoved out. . . . Exiled?”
“Of course,” said Skrautvol. “No good deed goes unpunished.”
Chapter 20/Tjue
LYON; BRUSSELS; LUXEMBOURG:
JULY 30, OR THREE MONTHS AND
18 DAYS AFTER THE DAY
At 7:00 AM Sohlberg ran down the stairs in his building and jumped into Laprade’s Peugeot.
“So,” said Sohlberg, “who’s the informant that you arranged for me to meet?”
“Uffe Qvistgaard. Danish citizen. A European Union bureaucrat . . . based in Brussels. He’s been helping French intelligence.”
“Why?”
“I’m not going to discuss the particulars. Let’s just say that there’s a lot of industrial espionage in the world and the boys and girls at D.G.S.E. found someone who was willing to pass along certain information in exchange for certain favors.”
“Is he being blackmailed? . . . Is he some kind of pervert? . . . A drug addict?”
“No . . . . No blackmail in this case. Let’s just say that big French companies like Arianespace in space rockets . . . Dassault and Safran in defense technology . . . and Sanofi in pharmaceuticals like to know that they’re being protected by the government. In exchange they pass the hat and contribute a little spare change for deserving individuals like Uffe Qvistgaard.”
The two men got stuck in rush-hour traffic as they headed one mile south to La Part-Dieu district—the business heart of Lyon. Sohlberg picked the area because a river of pedestrians constantly flowed in and out of office buildings, the city’s main train station, and a giant shopping center. The district’s centerpiece was Le Crayon or The Pencil: a cylindrical rosé-colored 42-floor tower built for Crédit Lyonnais Bank.
“Have you heard from the idiots at Infernal Affairs?”
“No,” said Sohlberg. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I don’t want them bothering you. I’m tempted to drive over to Rob Agnew’s home near the Salvagny golf course and beat him senseless if that moron dares to harass you again.”
“No need,” Sohlberg said. “My lawyer—”
“Wait a minute. I looked up Nenning’s rates. How can you afford such a pricey lawyer?”
“Mathias Otterstad. He’s an old friend from Norway . . . made a fortune investing other people’s money.”
“A thief in a suit.”
“Not everyone who has money is dirty.” Sohlberg shrugged. He accepted the fact that Laprade was never going to leave behind the emotional and financial poverty of his childhood. Laprade had mentioned his brutal and abusive mother. His overworked father never protected him because the poor man spent all his time struggling to feed and clothe three children on a paltry waiter’s salary and tips. “Laprade . . . let’s stick to the real problem. Agnew keeps pestering my lawyer for a formal sit-down interview with me . . . videotaped and under oath. . . . Nenning keeps postponing the interview. And it’s been very calm at the office. Surreal . . . no one has bothered to drop any hints that I’m the prime suspect in the Korbal ca
se. No one at the office has made me feel unwelcome.”
Laprade grunted. “Maybe they want you working there so they can keep closer tabs on you . . . or to make it easier for them to frame you.”
“I’ll have to risk it . . . won’t I?”
“What a man doesn’t risk . . . he doesn’t win.”
Laprade took Rue Garibaldi southbound and discretely checked the rearview mirror from time to time. “No one’s following us.”
“Not yet.”
“Last night I went for dinner at a little bistro near my place and ran into Michel . . . Michel Neyret.”
“What? . . . He’s out after eight months? . . . I thought he wasn’t going to be given pre-trial release.”
“He’s free as the wind.”
“He’s not even being held in isolation at the prison hospital?”
“Free. Free. Free. Waiting for trial. Rumors are that he might plea bargain for a lesser charge.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Sohlberg.
“Neyret has a lot of dirt on senior government officials . . . ditto for Lyon’s business elite.”
Sohlberg found it hard to believe that Neyret might walk after a brief stint in prison. A year ago Lyon's deputy Chief of Police had been arrested for accepting bribes from international drug barons while posing as Lyon’s Super Cop—the hero who bravely fought gangs, drug dealers, and jewelry store thieves.
The Neyret facade had imploded two years ago when an accountant tipped off Sohlberg and Laprade that Neyret was receiving monthly wire transfers for $ 1 million U.S. dollars at a Swiss bank account. The sender in Milan Italy also plied Neyret with a Ferrari and a Rolls Royce.
Laprade placed Neyret under surveillance and lo and behold Laprade discovered that Neyret had checked into the same luxury hotel on the same days that Ishmael stayed at the hotel in Saint-Tropez. Further surveillance yielded photographs of the two men sitting on the deck of Ishmael’s yacht near the coast of Corsica.
Wiretaps disclosed hundreds of incriminating Neyret conversations on dirty deals. For example, his underlings liked to buy the silence of inconvenient witnesses with monthly 1-kilogram gift boxes of cocaine—Lyon’s version of the Harry and David fruit-of-the-month club.
~ ~ ~
Laprade honked the horn as soon as the traffic light turned green. “Look at these idiots. They just can’t accelerate. Alright . . . here we are . . . call me as soon as you get back.”
Laprade stopped the car and let Sohlberg get out in front of the Cité Administrative d'État building at 165 Rue Garibaldi. Sohlberg entered the enormous 13-story building that took up an entire city block. The building housed countless government offices and it provided the perfect cover to shake off anyone who might be tailing them. Laprade drove down another hundred yards and turned left into Rue du Docteur Bouchut. He parked on a driveway next to the modern glass building at the corner and he spent the next hour pretending to wait for Sohlberg.
Once inside the building Sohlberg executed a complicated set of surveillance counter-measures. He rode an elevator to the tenth floor and scampered to a bathroom that let him exit into another hallway. He took the stairwell down three floors and then crossed an entire floor packed with bureaucrats. Sohlberg then waited ten minutes inside a stairwell on the west side of the building.
Although the building was packed with people not a sound could be heard inside the stairwell. It was as noisy as an abandoned mausoleum. No one seemed to be following.
Sohlberg took off his reversible windbreaker jacket and turned it inside out. His garb went from blue to brown in an instant. For good measure he put on a lightweight dark-brown wool driving cap which could be easily rolled up and concealed in the jacket’s pocket. The jacket and cap helped him throw off any surveillance.
Another flight of stairs led him down to a service elevator that dropped him off on the ground floor. Sohlberg walked out to Rue Servient through a side door. A few minutes later he reached the Part-Dieu-Servient tram station in front of the towering Le Crayon. The T-1 tram line whisked him to the next stop—Lyon’s colossal train station—Gare de Lyon Part-Dieu.
A throng of travelers swallowed up Sohlberg as soon as he passed through the train station’s busy Vivier Merle entrance. He checked for surveillance and went in and out of two restrooms before heading out to the gate where the TGV bullet train was about to depart for Paris.
“All aboard!” yelled the conductor.
Sohlberg ran down the platform and jumped into the last door of the last carriage at the last minute. The doors closed. No one could have followed him into the train.
The detective smiled. He had taken the precaution of leaving his personal and work cell phones at home. Therefore, no one could trace his movements through those cell phones. He had also removed the battery and anonymous prepaid SIM card for a disposable cell phone that he only used for traveling in Europe. He slipped that phone and its battery and SIM card into the interior pocket of his reversible jacket.
Despite his precautions Sohlberg could not shake off the mystifying sensation that someone was following him.
I wouldn’t put it past Internal Affairs to place me under surveillance. . . . Ishmael would also like to know what I’m doing today.
The train was scheduled to reach Paris in 2 hours thanks to TGV speeds of 200 mph. The landscape was nothing but a blur.
~ ~ ~
Sohlberg again undertook extreme counter-surveillance measures at the beautiful Gare du Nord train station in Paris before jumping on the Thalys bullet train to Brussels. He arrived in just 90 minutes at the Brussels Midi/Zuid train station. He walked north on Avenue de Stalingrad to his destination less than a mile away.
At Place Rouppe—at the corner of Rue de Chasseur and Avenue de Stalingrad—he turned right at the traffic circle and went inside the world-class restaurant of Comme Chez Soi. He pretended to look at the menu while he glanced out the window to see if anyone was following him.
The maître d' approached him with suspicious eyes and said:
“Ah. Monsieur. Thinking of a table? . . .”
“Maybe.”
Sohlberg’s embarrassed smile confirmed the headwaiter’s impression: Sohlberg’s crummy wardrobe indicated a complete inability to pay the restaurant’s exorbitant prices.
“Monsieur . . . please understand that we have a dress code.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. I’m not here for lunch. I’ll just take a business card with your phone number and call later if we can make it tonight for dinner.”
The acerbic waiter nodded a curt dismissal at the detective.
Sohlberg went outside and stood by the restaurant’s door. He studied the pedestrians and cars in the circle. Nothing and no one unusual stood out. He glanced at his watch to make sure that he was on time. The detective turned right. He strolled past one building on his way to a narrow corner building that had just two windows in each of the four floors above the ground floor.
A yellow pot on the right window of the second floor meant that it was safe to proceed. The building presented itself as a secure little fortress without any windows on the ground floor.
At exactly 1:11 PM Sohlberg approached the enormous gate. He pressed the buzzer for the second floor apartment—three long and two short rings. The gate’s electric lock snapped open with a loud clanging noise.
Sohlberg tramped up a flight of stairs. He rapped three quick knocks on a thick wood door. The peephole darkened at Apartment 2-B.
“Tom? . . . Is that you?” said a man’s deep voice in English with a heavy French accent.
“It’s me. Dickie sent me. How are you Harry?”
The door cracked open. “Come in.”
A gloomy twilight trickled into the run-down room through a dirty window which faced an interior lightwell. The shabby office was unfurnished except for an old desk and chair at one end and two ratty sofas that bordered on collapse at the other end of the room. Sohlberg’s host closed and locked the door.
“Go o
ver there.” The beefy and unfriendly young man in a cheap suit pointed Sohlberg to the sofas while he walked over to sit behind the ruined desk. The bulk under his left arm hinted at a submachine gun.
A nondescript man sat on one of the moldy sofas. Uffe Qvistgaard was in his late 50s and one of thousands of faceless bureaucrats who labored in obscure government offices of the European Union.
~ ~ ~
The pale Uffe Qvistgaard stood up. A limp appendage flopped wet and cold into Sohlberg’s hand in what passed for a handshake in EU bureaucratic circles. The two men sat down on separate sofas. Qvistgaard began speaking in English with a slight Danish accent:
“Your friend Laprade asked me to get some information.”
“Yes. Go ahead. But first tell me a little about yourself.”
“I’m Uffe Qvistgaard . . . I have a doctorate in organic chemistry and a master’s in business administration. I work for the European Commissioner for Health and Consumer Policy . . . the commissioner is in charge of the Directorate-General for Health and Consumers . . . or SANCO . . . as it’s better known.”
“SANCO . . . of course,” said Sohlberg who had little knowledge of the byzantine structure of the EU and its European Commission with headquarters in Brussels.
“Under the European Commissioner you have the Deputy Director General for Consumers and Health . . . and she’s responsible for the B . . . C and D Directorates.”
“Yes. Of course . . . the directorates.”
“The D Directorate is for Health Systems and Products.”
“I understand.”
“I’m in the D-One Directorate . . . we’re responsible for strategy. My job there is to coordinate the D-Five and D-Six Directorates . . . the D-Five is responsible for the legal authorization of medical products . . . and the D-Six Directorate is responsible for the quality and safety and efficacy of medical products.”
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 21