“Think about it. His career as a Formula One race car driver lets him race in all of the Formula One grand prix races.”
“Where?”
“Monaco. Singapore. Abu Dhabi. Australia. . . . China. . . . Japan . . . India. . . .”
“Racing cars,” said Skrautvol. “The perfect cover for any illegal activity.”
“Indeed. Devin Archer also races in Latin America. He crisscrosses the globe with a large crew and his cars and huge containers of equipment and parts . . . that cover allows him to smuggle drugs in plain sight.
“His containers probably don’t get searched much because he’s such a media darling and all the politicians come out to greet him wherever he lands. He also travels throughout the world with his Archer Racing School . . . he and his father train and coach new drivers who want to learn the latest and best techniques and strategies.”
“Do you think that you can question him? . . . I need to find out who had him charter a boat in Norway to bring nine passengers over to Scotland.”
“I’d love to but I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been searching our databases and the Internet while we’ve been on the phone. Turns out that Devin Archer is in Paris France right now . . . attending a meeting of FIA.”
“What’s that?”
“The Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile . . . it started the grand prix races more than one hundred years ago . . . it promotes grand prix racing and it sets down car and race standards.”
“Chief Superintendent . . . you really know a lot about all of this.”
“I used to be a big fan. I always tell my son . . . ‘Listen matey . . . I would have been a professional race car driver if it hadn’t been for my father . . . a constable . . . pushing me into the force.”
“I appreciate your help,” said Skrautvol.
“Are you going to have the French pick up and interrogate Devin?”
“Even better. Sohlberg is down there at Interpol headquarters. I’m sure that he and his French buddies are going to love meeting Devin Archer.”
“Keep me posted. I’d love to see Devin the Smuggler’s career crash and burn.”
Chapter 22/Tjueto
LYON, FRANCE; JULY 31, OR
THREE MONTHS AND 19 DAYS
AFTER THE DAY
The construction crew had been removing paving stones on Place du Maréchal Lyautey ever since the project had begun in early April. Remodeling to the park had started on the northwest corner and a bevy of workers had moved their way counterclockwise at a snail’s pace. On that last day of July the workers had finally reached the corner of Rue Tronchet and Rue Malesherbes.
“Oh no!” bellowed Sohlberg. “Not again. I slept so little with my insomnia and now this.”
Rattling jackhammers shattered Sohlberg’s peace of mind. He gritted his teeth. The sidewalks across the park were also being ripped up and now it was his building’s turn to suffer the loss of the sidewalk in front of the building.
The first workers arrived at seven o’clock that morning and they woke Sohlberg up and the rest of the neighborhood with their pneumatic racket. An hour later more workers arrived to remove benches and garbage can receptacles and other fixtures that had to be pulled out of the park before the paving stones themselves could be ripped up.
The garbage can receptacles were difficult to extract. They consisted of a circle of thick strips of steel that had been welded to a steel base which flared out of a steel tube encased in a 32-inch column of cement below the ground surface. A metal grate had been soldered to the steel strips a few inches above the steel base. The grate served as a floor for the aluminum garbage cans.
A husky worker with an acetylene torch kneeled before a garbage receptacle. He was about to start cutting away the steel fortress when he noticed a burlap-wrapped package that someone had jammed between the steel bars into the narrow shelf between the steel base and the metal grate.
“What is this?”
The package was about 4-inches thick and 9-inches long and 7-inches wide. No amount of pulling or pushing was going to liberate it. The worker waved at his foreman.
“What’s going on?”
“I can’t use the torch with that thing stuck in there.”
The foreman took a look and jumped back. “You idiot. That could be a bomb.”
“What?”
“We’ve been told over and over that one day some Jihad terrorist will plant a bomb at a public place.”
Four hours later the bomb squad discovered that the package did not contain explosives but rather a Glock 19 Gen4 9x19.
The gun arrived at the forensics lab and the technician immediately discovered that a 15-bullet clip was still inside the weapon and that 3 bullets were missing. The technician also observed tiny droplets from blood spray on the barrel. She called her supervisor and said:
“I need someone from blood to collect samples and take pictures.”
After photographs and specimen collection it was time for fingerprinting. She found that the gun had been wiped clean before its last use. The shooter had then used gloves. The blood spray was the only biological evidence on the weapon. Two hours later the lab’s deputy director placed a telephone call to Gendarmerie Colonel Jacques Daudet.
The deputy director introduced herself. She explained the discovery of the Glock at the park.
“Sorry,” said Daudet. “But what has all this got to do with me out here in the boondocks?”
“Colonel . . . we have a match.”
“A match? . . . What are we talking about?”
“We have a match for the gun used in April to murder this woman . . . Azra Korbal. . . . I have the missing gun right here in front of me.”
“Really? . . . Tell me more.”
“The bullets in the clip are the exact same type as the bullets that killed her. We shot the gun with one of the remaining bullets in the clip . . . the slug and shell are a perfect match with the two slugs that killed Azra Korbal and with the two shells found at the crime scene.
“We’re also running D.N.A. analysis on blood droplets that we found on the gun. I’ll call you as soon as we have a match with the victim.”
~ ~ ~
At exactly 9 PM Commissaire Laprade knocked on the Sohlbergs’ door. Sohlberg opened the door. He knew that disaster loomed as soon as he saw Laprade’s ashen face. “Come in.”
The two detectives went inside the library. Sohlberg turned on the stereo and played it at the loudest volume. The men sat next to each other in the sofa such that they could whisper into each other’s ears.
“Earlier today some construction workers found the gun that killed Azra. It was clean . . . no fingerprints at all . . . but her blood was on the weapon.”
“So why the worried look?”
“Sohlberg . . . the construction workers were in Place du Maréchal Lyautey . . . the gun was less than fifty yards from your home.”
“Uuuggh. That explains all the commotion with the sirens and the bomb squad.”
“Rob Agnew somehow found out and he hightailed it to the lab to get more information. He told the lab director . . . who’s a good friend of mine . . . that you killed Azra and hid the gun in the park.”
“What? . . . That’s so stupid. Why would I hide a gun in a park next to my house when I could’ve thrown it away in any river or pond or lake?”
“Don’t ask ‘why?’ Don’t waste your time claiming it’s too ‘stupid’ for you. . . . What you need to ask is . . . who is framing you for murder?”
Nausea rippled through Sohlberg. He remembered the faces of all of the prime suspects that he had come across in homicide investigations. He also remembered the convicted ones. He remembered their weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth and the way that he used to scoff at them when they cried about being innocent or framed. Sohlberg’s conscience was somewhat relieved because he had always treated suspects and convicts with respect. One thing above all salved Sohlberg’s conscience
. He had always looked into the possibility of a suspect’s innocence—no matter how far-fetched or ludicrous. He had done the same for convicted murderers who contacted him from time to time.
“Sohlberg . . . are you listening to me? . . . You’re being framed for murder . . . you’re probably close to getting arrested.”
There was nothing else to say. He was indeed one step closer to being pushed into a dark bottomless abyss from which there was no return.
Chapter 23/Tjuetre
LYON AND PARIS, FRANCE;
AUGUST 1 AND 2, OR THREE
MONTHS AND 20 AND 21 DAYS
AFTER THE DAY
Sohlberg and Laprade met for ice cream at René Nardone in the Old Town. The two men frequented the 114-year-old artisanal maker of premium ice cream throughout the summer. They joined other patrons at the sidewalk tables and quickly devoured the gelid masterpieces.
“Done?” said Laprade.
“Let’s order some ice cream cones for the road.”
By chance they lucked out and found a taxi which dropped them off at the Vieux-Lyon subway and funicular station. The red train crept up the steep hill. They got off at the Théâtres Romains station and strolled in the sweltering afternoon to the Ancient Theatre of Fourvière.
“I love coming up here,” said Sohlberg.
The 2,000-year-old Roman amphitheater was dug into the hillside near the Fourvière Basilica. The archeological site afforded the two detectives charming views of the city below. Best of all the heat scared off visitors. They could speak freely without having to worry about anyone eavesdropping on them.
“I got a strange phone call,” said Laprade. “Commissaire Élodie Brisac rarely calls me and only for emergencies. She’s based in Paris.”
“What’s going on?”
“Your government sent my government an official request. . . . The head honchos in Oslo and Paris want her to question this playboy race car driver who’s involved with a Columbian coke cartel.”
Sohlberg thought long and hard about the information. “The request should’ve gone through Interpol. . . . This affects Operation Locust. . . . Why cut us out?”
“Brisac also found it odd. That’s why she called me.”
“What else?”
“The race car driver was implicated by a man in Norway who was involved in a shootout that left nine dead.”
“Nine . . . in peaceful little Norway?”
“Yes,” said Laprade. “Nine dead in Tromsø.”
“Who’s the lead up there?”
“Chief Inspector Kristina Skrautvol. . . . Know her?”
“Yes.” Sohlberg’s throat tightened. She must have been forced to leave him out of loop.
“Can you call her?”
“I could. But she has to have very good reasons for not getting in touch with me or Interpol.”
“Do you trust her?”
“She will contact us at the right time.”
“Let’s hope so. Brisac invited us to help her question the sub tomorrow in Paris. She sent me the file. I’ll forward it to you. Wanna come?”
“Are you kidding me? . . . Of course.”
~ ~ ~
The following morning Sohlberg and Laprade repeated the elaborate counter-surveillance measures that Sohlberg had undertaken when he took the bullet train to visit the informant in Brussels. As soon as they left Lyon’s train station the two men found an empty section in the carriage where they could talk in private.
“What’s wrong?” Laprade said. He couldn’t help noticing that the voluble Norwegian had been unusually dour and reticent since they had met earlier that morning at the underground parking lot of the Cité Administrative d'État building on Rue Garibaldi.
“I saw Rob Agnew yesterday . . . with my lawyer.”
“What did that jackass say . . . or bray?”
“He’s threatening to call my superiors in Norway if I don’t sit in for an interview and for a polygraph sometime during the next two weeks. . . .”
“Ridiculous.”
“If I don’t go along he promised that he’d tell them that I’m a prime suspect in a murder . . . a suspect who refuses to cooperate with Internal Affairs. A suspect whose home is fifty yards from where the murder weapon was discovered.”
“What would happen if he contacted your bosses?”
“Have you ever swallowed a nest of angry hornets?”
“Not recently.”
Sohlberg sighed. “If Agnew contacts my bosses in Oslo and tells them that I’m a murder suspect then I’d get recalled A.S.A.P. back to Oslo . . . if I was lucky I might be put on paid leave. But it’s more likely that I’d be suspended without pay . . . and then terminated in a few months if not weeks.”
Laprade glowered. “Don’t you have friends to protect you?”
“I have friends . . . but not in high places.”
“Not good. You can’t let them call you back to Norway. What did you or your lawyer tell Agnew?”
Sohlberg smiled. “Günther Nenning called his bluff . . . told Agnew that he could contact anyone in Norway . . . but that if I got sent back home then Agnew would have no prime suspect to question . . . or kick around anymore.”
“I love it,” said Laprade. “What did the idiot say . . . how did he react?”
“Agnew looked surprised. Said he’d Think about it.”
“Well. At least your lawyer bought you some extra time.”
“But that’s all it is . . . extra time. It doesn’t solve my problems. . . .”
“What are your problems?”
“First . . . if I’m charged with Azra’s murder . . . well . . . you never know if you can beat a murder charge. . . .”
“How true,” said Laprade. “A murder trial is the ultimate lottery . . . a nasty game of chance with lots of downside.”
“Suppose it never gets to that point . . . I still can’t afford to lose my job now that I’ve only got six more years before retirement. . . . Nor does it solve the mystery of who killed Azra Korbal and why.”
“I wouldn’t be so pessimistic,” said Laprade. “I think we’re moving along . . . making progress . . . slowly but surely. You yourself told me that you’re sure that the solution is in the case files that you’ve been going over with a finetooth comb. You’re on the right track . . . her work probably got her killed. It’s the only logical . . . rational approach. It’s the only thing you can do.”
“But I haven’t found anything promising or obvious . . . nothing that points at the person who killed Azra.”
“Maybe you have. But you just don’t know it.”
Laprade’s words stuck to Sohlberg’s mind like gum on a shoe.
~ ~ ~
The two detectives waited at the main entrance of Gare du Nord for Commissaire Élodie Brisac.
“Brisac is ruthless . . . and very experienced,” Laprade said. “She’s had Devin Archer followed since yesterday. Brisac has a lot of nasty tricks for him if he tries to lawyer up . . . or give us the slip. She’s not someone to mess with.”
Laprade’s comments left Sohlberg expecting Commissaire Brisac to be a cruel-faced crone. A marked police Peugeot pulled up to the curb. Sohlberg was surprised by Brisac’s youth and good looks. Her wavy blonde hair and soft green eyes endowed her with the glamorous cachet of a beautiful movie star.
Commissaire Brisac drove Sohlberg and Laprade to the ultra-luxurious Hotel Plaza Athénée on Avenue Montaigne. A doorman received them at the front door and he immediately called the manager on a walkie-talkie radio. The mousy administrator paled when he saw the three grim-faced detectives in his lobby.
“I’m Lucien Jospin . . . the manager.”
Brisac wasted no time on introductions or explanations. She waved her badge at the manager and said:
“We’re here to see Monsieur Devin Archer . . . now.”
The fidgety administrator escorted the detectives up to Eiffel Suite 361. During the elevator ride Lucien Jospin sweated so profusely that Sohlberg wondered i
f they were headed to a fatal ambush.
~ ~ ~
The skinny wreck of managerial nerves was about to knock on the door when Brisac grabbed his arm. She pointed at the electronic keyhole.
Monsieur Jospin understood what she wanted. The agitated manager showed his reluctance with a frown. He extricated a master keycard from his coat pocket. Silently and quickly he slid the keycard in and out of the door’s electronic control. Brisac shooed him away. The overwrought Jospin quietly ran down the hallway to the elevators.
Brisac pushed the door open. The three detectives spread out in the sumptuous suite. At 1,406 square feet it was larger than most one-bedroom apartments in Paris. A long and silver-framed window offered a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower. The expensive decor included a grand piano. The Haussmannian mini-palace looked and smelled of royalty and Old Money until Devin Archer walked out of the bedroom.
The disheveled race car driver was only dressed in a filthy t-shirt and boxer shorts. Devin Archer’s rank body odor clashed with the aristocratic elegance of the hotel. He shouted:
“What the. . . .”
Brisac identified herself and showed him her badge. She said in decent English:
“Sit down. Anyone else in here?”
“Eh . . . yes. Two . . . two gals I met at a party last night. . . . They’re my . . . they’re my date . . . they’re taking a shower.”
Laprade and Sohlberg waited with the race car driver while Brisac drew her gun and searched the bedroom. She ordered two terrified young women in their 20s to go downstairs to the lobby—barefoot and wrapped in wet towels. Commissaire Brisac picked up the phone:
“Hello? . . . Front desk please. . . . Hello. This is Commissaire Élodie Brisac. Yes . . . I’m the one who was in the lobby with your manager. Please tell Monsieur Jospin that I’m sending him two young women suspected of prostitution.
“Yes . . . that’s what I said. The girls are on their way downstairs in the elevator. Have Monsieur Jospin hold them in his office until I give him further instructions. Is that understood?
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 25