Sohlberg and the White Death

by Jens Amundsen

  “Okay. So what is your point?”

  “If you run out of money you’re finished.”

  “Isn’t that true for everyone on this planet?”

  Chapter 26/Tjueseks

  LYON, FRANCE: AUGUST 11, OR THREE

  MONTHS AND 30 DAYS AFTER THE DAY

  Sohlberg and Laprade gathered at Emma Sohlberg’s favorite tearoom and coffeehouse—A Chacun Sa Tasse or To Each His Cup. The enchanting coffeehouse was located on the groundfloor of an old triangular building and it was tastefully decorated. But the real attraction for the two detectives was that in the early afternoon hours all of the comfortable sofa chairs were empty. Sohlberg ordered and paid for a cappuccino for Laprade and a hot chocolate laced with black pepper and paprika for himself.

  “Ah,” said Laprade. “This is coffee. Not that burnt garbage from Starbucks.”

  Sohlberg grinned. He always enjoyed Laprade’s nasty comments about American products and companies. His favorite was Laprade calling Coca-Cola and Pepsi “the black waters of Yankee imperialism”.

  “You said you have good news.”

  “I do my Nordic friend. Remember Daudet?”

  “Of course.” said Sohlberg whose memory of the human bulldog was unlikely to fade away any time soon. “Gendarmerie Colonel Jacques Daudet struck me as a dedicated officer . . . unlikely to botch an investigation.”

  “You’re a good judge of character. He called me with some interesting news this morning. Turns out that he and his men canvassed every single home and business within a two mile radius of Azra Korbal’s cottage. They weren’t able to talk with several of the homeowners who have been away on vacation or one thing or the other. You’re lucky that Daudet the bulldog bit hard on that bone and wouldn’t let go. He tracked down every single person and hounded them until he got interviews out of them.”

  “What did he find out?”

  “Bernard Collomb . . . one of the farmers on Chemin des Oranges . . . was sleeping when he heard his dogs barking inside the house that night . . . he steps outside to discover what was the problem. The man’s house can’t be seen from the road because it’s behind a large stone fence and a lot of big trees. Lo and behold he sees this small white minivan on the road and a man unloading a bicycle from the cargo door in the rear of the vehicle.”

  “Really?” said Sohlberg. “This could be a major break in the case.”

  “It is a major break. . . . Farmer Collumb gets furious because the minivan is parked on his driveway . . . which is unpaved . . . it looks like one of many private roads that lead to the fields. Collumb doesn’t like the look of the man or why the man is out so late. He doesn’t want the man to block the road or his driveway . . . Chemin des Oranges is extremely narrow. . . . The farmer plans to drive his tractor out to one of his fields in a few hours.

  “Before the farmer can say anything . . . the man on the bicycle takes off in the direction of Azra Korbal’s home. The farmer gets mad and walks down the driveway to leave a note on the windshield and read the license plate in case he has to call the police to tow away the car from his driveway. He gets a hell of a scare because when he approaches the minivan he finds another man in the driver’s seat.”

  “Good,” said Sohlberg. In his excitement he gulped the hot drink with gusto and scalded his mouth and throat. He didn’t care. “I like where this is going.”

  “The driver sees him and gets really nervous. Farmer Collumb thinks that’s from him unexpectedly sneaking up on the driver. The driver gets out and looks shocked. White as a sheet. The farmer complains and asks the driver what the heck they’re doing out there with one guy taking off on a bicycle in the dark.

  “The driver speaks in bad French with a heavy Italian accent. He mumbles all sorts of explanations until one of them finally makes sense. He tells Collumb that the bicyclist is racing in the Tour de France and that he has to train in hiding from any competing teams that might be spying on them . . . specially the Americans. The man offers Collumb money to let him wait there for his friend. The farmer says no and doesn’t think more about it.”

  “Did he get the plate numbers?”

  “The farmer remembers them perfectly. Daudet ran the plates . . . the minivan is owned by a company down south in Nice . . . and that company is owned by people who are associated with Roberto Cima . . . another 'Ndrangheta underboss who recently moved to France.”

  “Isn’t he with the Piromalli Family?”

  “Yes . . . good allies of the Molè Family . . . they’re all from the same town . . . the port of Gioia Tauro.”

  Sohlberg nodded. He wanted to smile or laugh but he could not. Infinite relief flooded him with a euphoric sensation that brought him close to sobbing. He was no longer the prime suspect. The dogged investigation of Col. Daudet was finally producing the leads that would reveal the real murderer. “Ah! . . . At last. . . .”

  “Interesting how it’s all coming back in a circle. The Piromalli Family and the Molè Family are business partners with Ishmael and his family. I pointed this out to Daudet. I told him you and I have been trying to break up the big players that import cocaine into Europe. Daudet’s no fool. He knows that the 'Ndrangheta are the biggest of the players and that one or more of the targets of our investigation are framing you for the murder of Azra Korbal.”

  Sohlberg could barely stand the unbearable joy that he felt. “When is Daudet planning on dragging this Roberto Cima character in?”

  “Daudet wanted to pick him up this evening and start the interrogation.”

  “The man won’t talk.”

  “Of course not. But his name and relationships link him to Ishmael.”

  “It all goes back to Ishmael . . . doesn’t it?”

  “That’s why I asked Daudet to hold off for a few days. I told him we need to check out some people so he can squeeze more information out of Cima.”

  “What are you planning?” said Sohlberg with suspicion.

  Laprade smiled. “A meeting with Ishmael.”

  “But he’s being cagey. He hasn’t answered our messages.”

  “He will. I left him one that will get his attention. I told him that we found his chemist . . . that he can come over and pick him up.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Greed is always the perfect trap.”

  “I,” said Sohlberg with some hesitation, “have something . . . something else to tell you.” The Norwegian wondered if he was making a mistake. Bruno Laprade—like any other law enforcement official—could very well be in the payroll of a drug cartel. And there was no telling how Laprade would react with his explosive temper.

  “What?” snapped Laprade. “What?”

  Sohlberg chose his words carefully. If Laprade was on someone’s payroll Sohlberg had to make sure that Laprade did not see him as an immediate threat. “I’m not the only who’s being set up for the big fall. You are also being framed. Someone opened an account for millions of dollars and euros in your name. . . .”

  “What?”

  Sohlberg studied Laprade’s reactions which seemed genuine and some proof of innocence. “You have two million U.S. dollars in a numbered account at U.B.S. and one million euros at Credit Suisse. Plus . . . I found out that you have an account at Lombard Odier for two million euros.”

  “Who told you this? . . . Our Swiss friend . . . Bonhoeffer? . . .The FINMA lawyer with the druggie kid?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Five days ago he sent me a message . . . my name has been added to your bank accounts. We will be ruined if this ever gets out in the public eye. . . . We’re going to be lynched as two very dirty cops . . . and one or both of us will be accused of killing Azra Korbal.”

  “Merde!”

  “Forget about the merde,” said Sohlberg. “I need the truth from you. . . . Did you know about these accounts? . . . Are they yours?”

  “I know about the accounts. And . . . yes . . . they’re mine.”

  “How did
you ever make so much money?”

  “Bribes from Ishmael.”

  “What?” said Sohlberg. “How long has this been going on?”

  “A long time . . . back to when Ishmael started pretending that he was Carlo Gerardi. He would never have fed you any information unless he had someone working on the inside to keep tabs on you.”

  “Why did you do this?”

  “To buy you and me some time.”

  “Time?” said Sohlberg as he frowned in disbelief. “Time for what?”

  “Time to keep you and me alive. Do you think that Domenico Pelle is a sweetheart of an informant? . . . He’s going to kill us as soon as he thinks that we’re of no more use to him.”

  “Laprade . . . when were you planning on telling me about your bribes from Ishmael?”

  “When you needed to know about it.”

  “Which was when?”

  “When you found out. I knew you would. You’re very good at snooping around.”

  “I don’t see how we’re being protected by you taking the equivalent of six million U.S. dollars in bribes.”

  “Ishmael trusts me because he thinks that I can be bought. That’s why he passed so much information to us the past three years. Sohlberg . . . your life is safe as long as he thinks that I’m giving him secret inside information about what you’re doing to bring him down.”

  “What have you told him?”

  “Lies. Partial truths. He has no idea that you’re about to get arrest warrants in France and elsewhere for him and his buddies in the 'Ndrangheta.”

  “Very good,” said Sohlberg. And yet he wasn’t sure if Laprade was telling him the truth.

  Chapter 27/Tjuesyv

  LYON AND POUGNY, FRANCE: AUGUST 16, OR

  FOUR MONTHS AND 4 DAYS AFTER THE DAY

  Sleep escaped Sohlberg. He chased it throughout the night but it eluded him. Agitated thoughts tumbled around his mind as he prepared for his meeting with Laprade. Sohlberg mentally reviewed the files that he had been poring over during the past four months. Laprade was right. Sohlberg had indeed discovered an obvious pattern and promising information in the Azra Korbal files. But he had not recognized the pattern or the information until yesterday.

  Did I miss it because I’m so sleep deprived?

  ~ ~ ~

  Sohlberg’s workday at Interpol started and ended in a haze. His insomnia blurred everything around him. He nevertheless did his best to prepare for next week. He had all-day meetings of the 7-country committee that oversaw Operation Locust. The Norwegian found it fitting that the Select Committee on Special Operations always met in the coffin of a windowless and soundproof conference room in the fourth floor.

  Operation Locust is going to bury people . . . maybe even me and my career.

  Sohlberg expected to be grilled without mercy by the committee when he presented his request for arrest warrants from France, the USA, Norway, and Spain for Domenico Pelle and major 'Ndrangheta capos and underbosses. Sohlberg could count on his own and Laprade’s vote for two out of seven votes. The third vote would probably come from Bryce Tanner—the FBI deputy director who represented the USA.

  The fourth vote would come from Iraq—America’s newest colony in the Middle East. The representative from Spain would have to go along since his country was deeply involved as a landing and transit point for 'Ndrangheta cocaine shipments.

  At the five o’clock quitting hour Sohlberg’s sleep-deprived brain was about to shut down when his personal cell phone rang.

  “I’m thinking of buying a set of double doors for my upstairs bedroom.”

  “I,” said Sohlberg, “was thinking of doing the same thing at home. What kind of double doors?”

  “Wood of course. Maybe white pine.”

  “Are you sure you can get them at the right price?”

  “Yes,” Laprade said. “I got a quote of six forty.”

  “Not bad. Let me know if you need help picking them up or putting them in.”

  “That’s why I called. Come over to my house anytime this evening and we’ll go get them.”

  The code words in the conversation sent Sohlberg to the Cité Internationale building complex.

  ~ ~ ~

  At 6:40 PM Sohlberg walked down the east staircase between the second and third floor of the building where the French law firm Cabinet Ratheaux had offices. He reached under one of the handrails and pulled a small piece of paper that was taped to the bar. Laprade’s note instructed him to take the # 4 bus down south to the Saxe-Gambetta station where he was to board the D subway line all the way south to Gare de Vénissieux.

  Although his trip was uneventful Sohlberg kept looking for both subtle and obvious signs of surveillance. He got off at Vénissieux—a suburb of Lyon.

  Sohlberg crossed Boulevard Ambroise Croizat and he rushed northwards on the wide street at a steady clip. He broke out in torrential sweat from the sweltering summer heat. Three minutes later he turned left into the bushes where a flight of steps led him down to Rue Raimu.

  Laprade was waiting for him in an old 4-door Citroen DS sedan with fading turquoise colors. “How do you like this clunker? . . . It’s forty years old!”

  “Interesting,” said Sohlberg as he got into the backseat. He reclined flat on the leather seat and covered himself up with a musty and dark wool blanket riddled with tiny moth-nibbled holes. The flea-market blanket and the shark-nosed car with futuristic curves reminded Sohlberg of the exotic France that he used to enjoy visiting as a little kid with his parents. “Where did you get this car?”

  “Borrowed it.”

  “You stole it?”

  “Don’t worry about it. They won’t miss it. It’s an old couple . . . he’s a retired professor . . . they’re on vacation visiting one of their children in the U.S.A.”

  The engine roared to life. Laprade swerved through a maze of drab streets in a mixed-used neighborhood where factories and warehouses surrounded middle-class homes like muggers on a dark alley. Sohlberg sulked in the backseat while Laprade drove in silence. After a few minutes the Norwegian’s insomnia fled and he fell deeply asleep.

  ~ ~ ~

  The commissaire brought the smooth-riding Citroen to a stop ten miles out of Lyon on the E-611 Highway. Laprade studied Sohlberg’s face and said:

  “Alright. Come up front and stop your pouting. I’ll let you drive. Why do you always have to be in control? . . . You need to relax. . . . Okay? . . . You Norwegians are very uptight about everything. This is France. Latin France . . . we’re not Teutonic obsessive compulsives. We do things differently here in France.”

  Laprade reluctantly moved to the front passenger seat. Sohlberg drove in silence for a long broiling stretch of road under the solar conflagration.

  “You,” said Sohlberg, “ever think about the contradictory nature of our job?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “We spend so much time with criminals. We’re almost part of their lives. They’re definitely a big part of our lives. I mean . . . here we are . . . spending gobs of our free time today on our way to meet this scum of Pelle.”

  Laprade shrugged. “It’s our job . . . we’re like the exterminator. He has to spend time finding and killing rats.”

  “I don’t know about that comparison. . . . But I’ve always thought we have an ironic job. We in the legit world have to sink down into the gutter with the criminal element while some of them are trying to get out and leave for a new life.”

  “They’re all cockroaches. I hate cockroaches.”

  The men stopped to stretch their legs. They switched places. A surly Laprade drove northeast to the E-62 Highway. The 90-mile trip to the border with Switzerland took much longer because Laprade made five side trips to eliminate the possibility that they were being followed. The men perspired heavily as the earth released the early evening heat up into the sky. A row of thunderstorms darkened and lit the horizon to the south.

  “I heard from my friend Pierre . . . the spy at D.G.S
.E.”

  “Does he steal cars too? . . . Or does he run a chop shop on weekends?”

  “Sohlberg! . . . Are you interested or not? . . . This is France . . . like it or not we do things very differently here than in your perfect little fantasy world of Norway. When in France you do things our way. Okay?”

  “I—”

  “Shut up or get out of the car right now. You’re so out of touch with reality. All rules are off when you deal with people like Ishmael. Don’t you understand?”

  “Obviously not. After all I’m working with a man who accepted a six million dollar bribe from Domenico Pelle.”

  “Sohlberg . . . I already explained why I had to do it.”

  “What are you going to do with the money?”

  “I’m not returning it to Ishmael. I’ll put it to good use.”

  “What good use?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it . . . if we get to the bridge alive.”

  “Who put my name in your bank accounts?”

  “Pelle . . . which is why I’m sure that he’s getting ready to knock us off and then smear our posthumous reputations . . . he will make sure that people find out that we have six million dollars of bribe money in Swiss bank accounts.”

  “I really wish you hadn’t taken the money. You shouldn’t have. . . . It makes a very messy situation.”

  “Sohlberg. I’m really getting tired of you being such a prude. . . . Yes . . . you’re a boring prude. Don’t you see it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Hot Chocolate I Don’t Drink Coffee or Smoke. . . . Mr. No Alcohol I’ll Drink A Mineral Water. I’m sick of your health and diet obsessions. It’s ridiculous! . . . You’re an embarrassment. I feel I’m out fighting crime with some virgin Boy Scout.”

  “What?”

  “Whenever I’m around you I can’t curse or smoke or drink as much as I want. You should have seen the dirty looks you gave me when we first met and I invited you to a strip bar to look at some nice girls. Please! . . . And then you’re this impossible Mr. Always Faithful to his Wife . . . Mr. Never Look At Some Broad with a Nice—”