Sohlberg and the White Death

by Jens Amundsen

  Sohlberg was not surprised. He had read many credible reports about wide-spread corruption in Russia’s government. “So the Russians sold the chemist?”

  “Yes. The Samper Family bought him for thirty million U.S. dollars.”

  “What about the Russians who are in the legit drug business with the 'Ndrangheta . . . did these Russians agree to the kidnaping of the chemist?”

  “Eventually. They weren’t happy about this. But what are they going to do when the right hand steals from the left hand inside the Russian government? . . . Mogilevich himself got five million dollars to give up his piece of the legit business with the chemist.”

  “Strange,” said Laprade. “Pigs like him don’t give up feeding on the trough. He’ll be asking to get back in for more . . . he won’t quit.”

  “What choice did he have? . . . If Semion Mogilevich opposed it then Putin’s friends in the Kremlin would use any one of a dozen government agencies to destroy or outright kill Mogilevich and his top people.”

  “How and why do you know all of this inside information?”

  “Because of my wife. . . . Violeta Zapatero . . . through her mother she’s a cousin of Carlos Samper . . . the family boss.”

  The three detectives instantly realized the extreme value of Devin Archer as an informant loaded with inside information. The wife had never turned up in any file on Devin Archer. Sohlberg wasted no time. He took the lead:

  “How does the Samper Family take their cocaine out of Columbia?”

  “They don’t.”

  “What?” said a greatly surprised Sohlberg. He had never believed the reports that several of his informants had given him about the Columbians not being involved in the delivery of their product to Europe.

  Devin Archer did not notice Sohlberg’s surprise. He continued:

  “Like I said . . . the Columbians don’t ship the stuff to the Italians. It’s the 'Ndrangheta that comes to pick it up in Columbia . . . twice a month.”

  “Where? . . . How?”

  “They own huge container ships that they bought real cheap in Singapore after the Great Recession of 2008. The ships come from Europe . . . some go through the Panama Canal into ports like Buenaventura or Tumaco in the Pacific Ocean or Esmeraldas down south in Ecuador.”

  “Where else?”

  “Barranquilla up in the Caribbean . . . or their favorite . . . Puerto José in Venezuela.”

  “Why is that port their favorite?”

  “Because the 'Ndrangheta own four oil tankers that sail into the port along with oil tankers from all over the world . . . of course the Italians don’t pick up oil . . . they load up on cocaine . . . and the Venezuelan army and cops and president get a nice payoff.”

  “Where do the boats then go?”

  “We’re not sure. But we’ve heard rumors that they go to northern Africa . . . Morocco. Then the coca is shipped off to Spain and the rest of Europe.”

  “How?”

  “That we don’t know.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sohlberg drank the last of his hot chocolate. He was now one step closer to taking down Ishmael and the 'Ndrangheta. He had a lot of work ahead—all of the information on ships and ports had to be confirmed and further investigated. But he was elated at having hit the mother lode of information on how the 'Ndrangheta imported the white powder. Unfortunately the exact details of the Italians’ money laundering were still a mystery.

  The Norwegian decided to switch topics. He didn’t want Devin Archer to understand the true worth of his information. “Did the Italians go along when the Russians sold the chemist to the Columbians?”

  “No. The Pelle-Vottari Family would never have agreed to selling the chemist. The legal drug project was their baby. Edvard Csáky was their man. The Pelle-Vottari Family pumped in most of the seven hundred million U.S. dollars required to patent the drugs and get them approved for human use. They’re not sure who betrayed them . . . but they’re in a rage over the kidnaping of the chemist. He was the ultimate goose of the golden eggs.”

  Sohlberg wanted to smile. This piece of information confirmed what his European Union bureaucrat had told him about Ultra and Edvard Csáky. “Couldn’t they find a substitute for the man?”

  “I doubt it. The Pelle-Vottari Family planned on making billions more from other designer drugs made by Csáky. I heard that he was close to designing a painkiller that is ten times more addictive and powerful than oxycodone. The word on the street is that the Pelle-Vottari planned on marketing the drug as a substitute for heroin and methadone. They were going to make a killing from Edvard Csáky. So . . . I’m sure that the Pelle-Vottari Family is doing its best to find out what happened to the chemist.”

  “Of course,” said Sohlberg. He was amazed at the boldness of Ishmael and the 'Ndrangheta in using him and Laprade to find their chemist through official law enforcement channels. “Now . . . let’s talk about the two Asians in Ervin Vikøren’s boat. What were they doing there? . . . Why were they on that boat?”

  “Carlos Samper wanted them for protection.”

  “Protection? . . . What protection?”

  “Money and protection always go together. One gives you the other. Chicken and the egg. If you have money then you can buy protection from the government. If you have protection from the government then you can make money. Like I said . . . chicken and the egg if you know what I mean.”

  “What was the protection?”

  “The Sampers bought two North Koreans from the Russians. The Koreans had escaped into Russia from their nutcase country. They got caught at the border and ended in the hands of the same crooked Russians in the F.S.B. who sold Edvard Csáky.”

  “A package deal?”

  “Always the best . . . two for the price of one. That’s how the two North Koreans were sold to Samper for fifteen million each.”

  “Thirty million dollars? . . . Why such a high price?”

  “Because the Samper Family learned well from Jorge Luis and Juan Ochoa and the brothers’ sweetheart deal with the Columbian government. If you pay enough money then you can avoid long prison sentences and forfeiture of your assets. The Sampers wanted to buy the North Korean defectors and turn them over to the C.I.A. in exchange for heavy-duty protection in Washington D.C.”

  Sohlberg had the sinking feeling that the North Koreans were somehow related to the nuclear suitcase engineer that Ishmael had offered as a reward for the return of his chemist. The Norwegian detective nevertheless had to ask Devin Archer the question in a roundabout way:

  “Did the North Koreans design drugs like Edvard Csáky?”

  “Hell no! . . . They design nuclear bombs. They worked directly under Ju Kyu Chang. He’s the head of North Korea’s missile and nuclear program.”

  Laprade and Sohlberg briefly glanced at each other. Domenico Pelle had no intention of handing over any nuclear bomb engineer to them. That prize was not his to give. The nuke designers had been destined for American hands until they met Death in Norway.

  Sohlberg pointed at his newest informant and said:

  “How do you know this?”

  “I saw a notebook and a folder that the Russians sold to Carlos Samper as part of the Russian’s sales pitch to the Samper Family. The folder had classified intelligence reports from the K.G.B. and later the F.S.B. on North Korea’s nuclear program.”

  “What about the notebook?”

  “The notebook came from the two North Koreans. The Russians made them write down everything they knew . . . the notebook even had hand-drawn maps of secret nuclear facilities all over North Korea and lists of the scientists and administrators.”

  Despite the warm and sunny July weather each of the detectives felt that a dark chill had crept into the room. The seductive exuberance of Paris in the summer seemed like a distant promise.

  Sohlberg put away his cup. He was about to ask his next question when he realized that the notebook and file were surely locked away in a safe at any one of the drug lord’s well-protec
ted compounds in Columbia. It was going to be close to impossible to retrieve the documents from heavily-armed gangsters. Sohlberg nevertheless threw a Hail Mary pass and as calmly as possible he said:

  “Where does the Samper Family keep this notebook and file?”

  “In the safest place on earth . . . the very best place to keep treasures.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Switzerland of course. The Cantonal Bank of Zurich.”

  Chapter 24/Tjuefire

  MONZA AND COMO, ITALY;

  AUGUST 5, OR THREE MONTHS

  AND 25 DAYS AFTER THE DAY

  Francesco “Two Kings” Zappia was not an old man. But he felt very old. He also missed smoking his favorite El Rey del Mundo cigars from Cuba. He always used to carry two King of the World cigars in his shirt pocket. Now he carried a little box of nitroglycerine pills for his heart. At 64 he knew that he should be enjoying himself at the prime of his life. But he felt played out.

  Finished.

  At the end of his days.

  The stress from his business affairs was slowly but inexorably squeezing the life out of him.

  A four year prison sentence for tax evasion had not done him or his family any good when he had been in his mid-50s.

  His brother Antonio would probably die in prison after the court of appeals upheld a 12 year sentence for tax evasion and bribing government officials in charge of contracts for public works. His cousins Alessandro Manno and Cosimo Barranca had it worse with 16 and 14 year sentences respectively for the same crimes. And his nephews Carlo Barbaro and Antonio Pesce paid the ultimate price: the French police in Marseille shot them dead for allegedly brandishing guns that turned out to be cell phones.

  “I heard cars. Are they here?”

  “I think so. Let me go look.”

  ~ ~ ~

  His niece left him sitting on his favorite chair in the broad stone terrace. A lush garden surrounded him. He had once delighted in the views and the flowers but no more. Disastrous family affairs were draining the joy out of his life. His wife’s stroke depressed him. A month ago she was fine and now she was blind and could not speak or take care of herself. Her devastating and incapacitating illness left him with one less reason to wake up every morning.

  Despite his personal setbacks Francesco “Two Kings” Zappia continued laboring as the elected titular head of all families in the 'Ndrangheta organization. Unlike the majority of his predecessors Zappia was more than just a figurehead. The capos trusted and respected the head of the Barbaro Family because he took his capo crimine responsibilities seriously. As a “First Among Equals” he could not dictate to the other bosses. But his word carried tremendous weight because he was a natural diplomat who always strived to build peace and consensus among the capos.

  With great fairness Francesco Zappia assigned new territories and businesses between the families. He organized joint protective measures against outsiders who tried to chisel into the many legal and illegal businesses of the families. When necessary he imposed the death penalty upon high-level members who had intentionally or unintentionally betrayed the organization. Those Judases included Salvatore Valente—his carelessness with government wiretaps had led to hundreds of tax evasion convictions which included Francesco Zappia’s 4-year sentence.

  The most important part of his job required that Francesco Zappia come up with the best method of importing and distributing cocaine in Europe. He had hit on a perfect solution thanks to Domenico Pelle. The capo crimine had also devised fool-proof methods of laundering and then investing hundreds of millions of dollars and euros and other cash currency that flowed every month into each family’s coffers. He also owed that achievement to the indispensable Domenico Pelle.

  Inevitably Francesco Zappia’s status as capo crimine had taken its toll. His mind and body were beyond exhausted. An awful diet and a lifetime of El Rey del Mundo—Choix Suprême—Hermoso No. 4s had left him with 60% coronary blockage. The two cigars no longer graced his shirt pockets.

  ~ ~ ~

  His niece returned alone. “Uncle . . . your guests are here. Are you sure that you want to see them?”

  “Send them in my child. Let’s not be rude. I called the meeting.”

  “You look very tired. They can come back tomorrow.”

  “I’m fine,” said Francesco Zappia. He felt as energetic and healthy as one of the Incorruptibles—long dead saints that the Catholic Church displays in glass coffins above altars and crypts because the bodies do not decay. He stared at the nearby chapel and wondered if he and his wife should be buried inside the ancient building. The irony of living in a converted Franciscan monastery was not lost on him. He regretted having spent a fortune over the decades to renovate and modernize the 800-year-old property near Monza. But security concerns required a walled fortress in the countryside northeast of Milan.

  Armed guards, closed circuit cameras, motion- and weight-sensors, and a 12-foot stone fence circled 200 acres of productive farm land, orchards, and olive groves that surrounded the monastery. His residence—the main stone building—was itself surrounded by ten acres of lawn gardens on split levels separated by fragrant bay leaf hedges.

  “Francesco,” he called out to his 9-year old grandson who was playing among the flowers. “Don’t kill the bees. They’re good for us. They get inside the flowers and help make fruits and vegetables.”

  Two Kings Zappia was glad to be living with his grandchildren. But he was also sadly resigned to the fact that all of his grandchildren preferred Milan in northern Italy to their ancestral homeland in southern Italy. He could see the changes in the children of his two sons and three daughters. All of the kids and young adults instinctively sought out the luxurious and sophisticated attractions of Milan over the rough and primitive simplicity of Calabria.

  ~ ~ ~

  Three men walked out of the shadows of the covered portico.

  “Let’s sit out here in the garden,” he said to his guests. “We’ll drink something refreshing.”

  Francesco’s favorite niece served him and his guests a chilled aromatic grappa from his own vineyard of Picolit grapes near the city of Pordenone, about 40 miles northeast of Venice.

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Thank you my Angela.”

  A plain but not ugly Angela Belloco nodded and left the room. The wide-hipped and broad-faced daughter of Giuseppe Bellocco had lived with her uncle Francesco for the better part of a decade. She had sought his protection ever since her seventeenth birthday. That’s when her father had gone into hiding to escape the authorities.

  Angela Belloco became increasingly fanatical in her Catholicism after her father was chased down, arrested, convicted, and sent to prison under a harsh 18-year sentence for his role as a 'Ndrangheta capo bastone or underboss of the Bellocco family based in Rosarno.

  The capo crimine gazed fondly at his niece while he thought about the three men who sat around him. “Angela has always been such a blessing to my family . . . and now she’s become a treasured angel ever since my wife had her stroke.”

  “Angela is a very good woman,” said the heavy-set and cueball-bald Pasquale De Stefano. The 60-year-old served as the Number Two man in the powerful De Stefano Family which had loaned him out to work as Zappia’s # 2 Man. Absolute trustworthiness and lack of ambition made him the perfect right-hand man for Zappia. He had the only qualification required of all # 2s in government, politics, and business—unquestioning loyalty that bosses need to survive. “A virtuous and loyal woman like her is exceptional in my opinion.”

  Giancarlo Imerti raised his tall, skinny, and colorless cold glass which greatly resembled him. “To the Belloco Family . . . they know how to bring young ladies up the right way . . . in the old ways.”

  “That they do,” said Francesco Zappia. He looked deeply into the coal-black eyes of the Number Three man in the Condello-Imerti Family. They had lent him out to be Zappia’s # 3 Man. Like all # 3s in the criminal and legit worlds Giancarlo Imerti�
�s main qualification was the blind obedience that all legit and criminal organizations need for their day-to-day operations. “Giancarlo . . . perhaps you will help me find a husband for Angela. . . . Surely some giovane d’onore in your family or the Condello Family would make a good match.”

  For a split second the 48-year-old Giancarlo Imerti hesitated. “Why not? . . . Let me think about a suitable young man of honor for her.”

  “I would be in your debt.”

  “Don Zappia . . . it is the other way around . . . we would be in your debt if your niece consented to marry anyone in the Condello or Imerti family.”

  Domenico Pelle added:

  “Angela will make a fine wife.”

  Francesco Zappia nodded in agreement if not appreciation at the highly-educated and surgically enhanced Number Four man in the organization. The advice of his brilliant consigliere had made all of the families wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. Thanks to Domenico Pelle each of the families in the 'Ndrangheta enjoyed an investment income that now equaled all income from criminal operations. Those legitimate investments would soon liberate every family that wanted to leave behind a life of crime. Domenico Pelle’s money laundering and investment activities had catapulted each of the twelve largest 'Ndrangheta families into the rarified world of legit billionaires. Like all # 4s throughout the world his primary qualification was the intelligence and vision that all organizations need to prosper.

  The ailing Two Kings capo softly said:

  “It’s true . . . Angela would make fine wife. She should marry. But I will not deny her religious feelings. She’s pure . . . in heart and body.”

  “Does she want to be a nun?” asked Pasquale De Stefano.

  “I don’t think so. But who knows what is in a person’s heart?” said Zappia. He smiled at his Number Two before shifting his twinkling eyes to Giancarlo Imerti. The thin # 3 Man smiled back.