“The old Citroen?”
“The one and only.”
Sohlberg leaned closer to Laprade. “Are you going to kill someone on this trip?”
“Take it easy. We’re going to save people . . . not to destroy them. You’ll see.”
~ ~ ~
Sohlberg employed the usual counter-surveillance tactics on his way out to his meeting with Laprade. A very dead Domenico Pelle did not change the fact that plenty of members of the 'Ndrangheta remained free and at large. Sooner or later they would retaliate. Sohlberg worried about the fact that no one knew the whereabout of Two Kings Zappia and Giancarlo Imerti.
Who’s to say that one or both of these two mobsters haven’t put a contract on me or Laprade?
He would have to watch his back for the rest of his life.
The turquoise-colored Citroen waited for Sohlberg on Rue Raimu. He sat on the passenger side and looked at the backseat. A hood covered the head of a thin man. Chains bound the man’s handcuffed wrists to his shackled feet.
Laprade raised his finger to his lips. Sohlberg remained silent during the three hour drive out to Challex. The sun of late summer brushed the land with an amber glaze.
The tiny village was two miles north of the bridge where Domenico Pelle had met Death. The Rhône River flowed past them on the right. Laprade pulled into a narrow grassy area on the left as soon as they passed a curve.
Laprade turned to face the shackled man in the back seat. “Don’t even think of getting up. Stay down. If I see that you’re trying to get up then I’ll blow your head off. Don’t move until we come back.”
The two men got off the car. Laprade locked the doors and they walked along the road for about 50 yards. The detectives crossed a low bridge over a creek and they waited at the midpoint on a narrow sidewalk.
On the Swiss side of the creek a man jumped out of an Audi which was parked on a paved lot on the right. Hans Bonhoeffer headed straight to the bridge. He stood a yard from the two detectives. “Where’s my son?”
Sohlberg studied the man’s face. It was hard to tell if he had brought the ransom for his son. Sohlberg turned to look at Laprade and he panicked. Laprade reached under his suit. Sohlberg wondered if a pistol and gunshot were next.
Laprade took out a crumbled box of Gitanes unfiltered Brunes. He put his lips around the cigarette and slipped the box back into his coat’s interior pocket. He lit the cigarette with a sterling silver lighter. The lighter had a gold inlay with the emblem of the French Foreign Legion—stylized flames that pour out of a round hand grenade. Laprade took his time smoking.
“Where’s my son?”
“Where are the papers?”
“Show me my son.”
“No. First things first. You show us the papers that you copied.”
“Why?”
“We need to make sure that you got inside the vault of the Cantonal Bank of Zurich . . . that you actually copied the notebook and file that Carlos Samper bought from the Russians. We need to make sure that the papers are genuine . . . that they’re about the North Korean nuclear program and not the porn collection of some Columbian drug lord.”
Hans Bonhoeffer blanched. “You better bring me my son. I’m not responsible for what’s in those papers”
“Oh yes you are. If you didn’t bring us the material that we’re looking for then you don’t get your son. Period. This is the best deal you’re going to get from us.”
“I first want to make sure that you brought my son.”
“He’s in a car . . . back there.”
The Swiss lawyer frowned. He took a long hard look at the Citroen. “I don’t see anyone in the car.”
“He’s in the back seat,” said Laprade. “Technically your son is an escaped convict. He’s wanted and will remain a wanted man until his capture. Make sure that he never leaves Switzerland. If he ever gets captured outside of Switzerland he will be executed.”
“Why?”
“We can’t have him blabbing about how his escape was arranged . . . how he arrived straight into his Daddy’s arms as part of a deal with the authorities.”
“I don’t like your threats.”
“You better like them because this threat should be a great motivator for your son to stay on the straight and narrow path.”
“Alright,” said Bonhoeffer with the sad resignation of a man who knows that he’s got a losing hand with a reckless idiot for a son. “Here are the copies.”
Laprade put his hand out. Sohlberg saw something drop into Laprade’s open palm.
“Wait here,” said Laprade.
The detectives walked back to the Citroen. Laprade inserted a thumb drive into his computer tablet. He transmitted the files to his friend Pierre. Laprade’s cell phone rang four cigarettes later. The caller spoke at length. Laprade ended the call by saying:
“Okay. We’ll do it.”
Hans Bonhoeffer, Jr. thrashed about and tried to remove the hood over his head by wriggling his head against the seat. “No! . . . Please. . . . Don’t kill me. I swear I never said a word about you guys. I never told them who gave me the coke.”
“Shut up,” said Laprade. “You’re going home to papa and mama. Don’t ever talk to anyone about your little trip out here or I’ll personally hunt you down and cut your throat. . . . Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t ever even think of leaving Switzerland unless you’re very dead inside a coffin. . . . Or that will be the way you get shipped back to your parents. Understand?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Now . . . tightly close your eyes. I’ll cut your eyes out of your skull if you open them when I pull off the hood. Okay?”
“I’ll keep them closed.”
“As soon as you leave the car keep walking . . . and do not look back after I drop you off at the border. Do not take the sunglasses off until your father tells you that he drove past the Firmenich factory. If I see you pull off the glasses then I will catch up with you and kill you. I’ll repeat the instructions to your father.”
“My father?”
“Yeah. Who do you think would waste their time rescuing you? . . . There aren’t too many people I know who want to help a failed drug trafficker. By the way . . . it’s time for you to find a new hobby or line of work because you’re not cut out to be a criminal.”
Laprade went around to the back of the car. He slipped off the hood and put a pair of wraparound sunglass on Hans Junior. A thin layer of cardboard had been glued to the inside of the sunglasses and then sprayed with black paint. The commissaire pulled Bonhoeffer Junior out of the car. Laprade took off the chains and the leg shackles but not the handcuffs. The detective said:
“The handcuffs stay until we get to the border. Now walk. And keep your trap shut.”
The guard and his prisoner marched down the road. Sohlberg opened the passenger door but Laprade lifted his hand to indicate that Sohlberg should stay in the car.
Sohlberg took out a set of binoculars from the glove box. He watched Bonhoeffer Senior who was clearly overcome. The government lawyer wiped tears off his face. Laprade and his prisoner got closer and closer to the border.
As soon as he reached the middle of the bridge Laprade grabbed a key out of his pant pocket. He unlocked the handcuffs and watched father and son walk to their car. The Bonhoeffers drove away without incident.
Sohlberg sighed. At least no one had been shot to death.
Laprade started the Peugeot’s engine. He made a u-turn on Route de la Plaine to head back to Lyon. “Well. That’s done.”
“The prodigal son returns.”
“We’ll see,” said Laprade. “Some people never learn.”
~ ~ ~
Less than 80 yards from the border Sohlberg noticed an odd sculpture that he had seen on the way to the meeting with Bonhoeffer. The ugly red metal sculpture looked like the turbine blades of a jet airplane.
Laprade slowed down. He took a sharp right turn where Route de la Plaine curved to the north
at the intersection with Chemin de Moulin. Sohlberg was about to make a comment about the hideous sculpture when he saw a police motorcycle that was parked behind the small white building next to the sculpture.
A siren wailed. Lights flashed. The helmeted gendarme was right behind them in less than five seconds.
Laprade cursed and said:
“What’s wrong with this idiot? . . . I was way under the speed limit.”
They crossed a narrow bridge. A long stretch of guardrail prevented Laprade from pulling over. He instead turned left into a gravel parking lot at the front yard of a country home. The motorcycle cop parked in the back and to the side of Laprade.
A black Peugeot sedan roared down the street. The vehicle screeched to a stop behind the Citroen.
“This doesn’t look good,” said Laprade. “Did you bring your gun?”
“Yes,” said Sohlberg. He wondered if this was a clever set-up in which the motorcyclist or someone else would kill him. He wondered if this was Laprade’s doing or a roadside assassination by the 'Ndrangheta. Either way he didn’t see how he was going to come out unscathed.
Laprade put his hands up high on the steering wheel. “Don’t reach for your gun until I say so.”
The motorcycle cop got off the police edition Yamaha FJR1300. The gravel crunched under the gendarme’s boots. Sohlberg wondered how long it would be before the bullets started flying and whether he would be able to get off a shot.
Laprade’s cell phone rang.
The motorcyclist walked towards Laprade without taking off his helmet. The gendarme lifted the visor and said:
“Monsieur . . . I would answer the phone if I were you.”
Laprade reached for his cell phone and said, “Hello?” The detective frowned. “Procedures? . . . Since when do we follow procedures? . . . This wasn’t necessary. You should’ve just asked. I would have given it to you.”
The burly driver of the black Peugeot got out of the vehicle. The gorilla in a suit approached Laprade and said:
“Hand it over.”
“Enjoy it,” said Laprade while he reached into his coat for the thumb drive that Bonhoeffer had given him.
The car and the motorcycle left towards Lyon.
Sohlberg felt little drops of cold sweat roll down his face and scalp. “What was that all about?”
“Pierre wanted the documents handed over to his people at the D.G.S.E. He said he was just following procedures.”
“Since when do spies follow procedures?”
“That’s what I told him.”
“So we’re done with this North Korean stuff?”
“Not exactly. I told Bonhoeffer to give me two copies of whatever documents he found inside the safe. I have the other thumb drive in my coat.”
~ ~ ~
An enormous harvest moon floated above the horizon. The red orb seemed eager to foretell a tale of death, disaster, and destruction. Laprade sped down the A40 Highway to Lyon. They passed gloomy and narrow valleys in the western edge of the French Alps.
Sohlberg peered into the darkness. “Did Pierre say anything after you sent him Bonhoeffer’s goodies?”
“No. . . . And that’s what worries me. I get nervous whenever someone in the intelligence community gets tight-lipped. . . . I need you to find someone at Interpol . . . someone we can trust . . . to translate the documents for us.”
“How many pages?”
“Twenty-four.”
“I’ll call Rageh Ziedan. He will pick the right person.”
Sohlberg took out his cell phone and called Ziedan. “Hello my friend. I need someone we can trust to translate a couple of pages written in Russian. This is top secret. Nobody can ever talk about what’s mentioned in the documents.”
“I understand.”
“This person must be absolutely reliable.”
After a few seconds the head of Interpol’s translation department said:
“Eva Perebinossoff. . . . She’s the best person we have at Interpol for translating Russian documents. Eva grew up speaking Russian at home . . . she studied Russian and Russian literature at the Sorbonne. Her parents are Gerard and Beatrice Perebinossoff. Her great-grandfather was a Russian aristocrat who came to France to escape the Communist revolution.”
“Excellent,” said Sohlberg. “Let’s meet early tomorrow.”
“I will reserve a secure room for you.”
Sohlberg ended the call and turned to Laprade. “Ironic . . . isn’t it?”
“How so?”
“Our translator is a descendant of a Russian exile and she’s about to expose the ugliest secret about the communists who took over so many countries so long ago.”
“Payback is good.”
Sohlberg glanced out the window and stared at the red harvest moon. “You should know.”
~ ~ ~
The following morning Eva Perebinossoff met Laprade and Sohlberg at the Locust-only room inside Interpol’s tenth floor basement. She read the documents that Sohlberg had printed out. She did a second and a third reading and then said:
“Do you want me to write down a translation . . . or do you want a verbal interpretation?”
“Verbal,” said Sohlberg. “Time is of the essence.” He also hated leaving behind a big fat paper trail that had to be carefully shredded and incinerated.
An hour later Sohlberg profusely thanked Madame Perebinossoff. “Of course . . . you will never mention this to anyone at all.”
“I understand.”
~ ~ ~
Sohlberg and Laprade walked towards Laprade’s new Peugeot SUV in the far recesses of Interpol’s underground parking lots. The azure of the flourescent light varnished everything and everyone in the lifeless blue hue of death.
A queasy disorder churned their stomachs while the two men tried to mentally digest the unappetizing information that they had just discovered.
“Interesting,” said Laprade. “Interesting.”
Sohlberg curled his lips. “Think of it . . . the insanity . . . North Korea wants to finish and win the Korean War against the Americans . . . sixty years after they signed a truce.”
“No doubt about that.” Laprade started the car’s engine. “Pyongyang wants a couple of nuclear explosions in major American cities . . . just like Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda.”
“And,” said Sohlberg, “if those nukes go off then—”
“If? . . . No my friend. You heard how North Korea’s nuclear program has advanced so quickly. . . . They already manufactured a working prototype of a nuclear trigger. It’s a matter of when . . . when will some nutcase from North Korea or Pakistan or elsewhere set off an atomic bomb in a big city in America or Western Europe. That’s when Hell will start looking good . . . looking like a real nice place to move into.”
Chapter 29/Tjueni
LYON, FRANCE: SEPTEMBER 27 AND 28,
OR FIVE MONTHS AND 15 AND 16 DAYS
AFTER THE DAY
Emma Sohlberg raised a strategic eyebrow at her husband and said:
“I can’t believe that you still haven’t opened any mail since I left or arrived.”
“I did. I paid the bills.”
“Yeah. But only because Madame Bonnaire sorted the mail every day and then hounded you until you actually paid the bills.”
“My Love. . . . Do you see how much I need you? . . . It was horrible when you were gone.”
She pointed at two boxes of mail on the dining room table. “Take them to the library. Open and read each letter. No dinner until you go through every piece of mail. Get going. Now!”
~ ~ ~
Two items of mail from Russia puzzled and disturbed Sohlberg. The first item was a large manila envelope with a July 12 postmark from Moscow. The second and third items were two postcards with a July 13 postmark from St. Petersburg. The sender of all three pieces of mail was Ivan Navalny. He had written the two postcards in French. But the words were all mixed up—as if written down at random.
Ivan Navalny? . . . Why wo
uld he write to me?
A year ago Sohlberg had briefly met the policeman from Moscow during a conference on organized crime in Vienna. After shaking hands Navalny had smiled and said in perfect English:
“It’s an honor to meet a man like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sohlberg. . . . I know all about you . . . how you stood up to the powers that be . . . how you arrested corrupt justices of your Supreme Court and paid the price for your integrity.”
The man had obviously done his research or heard from informed sources.
But why send me this mail? . . . What’s the real message behind the code? . . . How am I going to break the code?
Sohlberg stared at the contents of the July 12 manila envelope—a letter-sized poster of a Russian icon and a cryptic handwritten message on a sticky “Post It” note stuck to the poster.
A label on the back of the poster identified the man in the icon painting as the martyred Saint Adrian of Nicomedia standing next to his martyred wife St. Natalia. Sohlberg went on the Internet and looked up a list of saints in the Eastern Orthodox Church. He discovered that St. Adrian (or Hadrian) is the patron saint of arms dealers.
Okay . . . Navalny is sending me a message about arms dealers. . . . But what is the message? . . . Where is the message?
For the umpteenth time Sohlberg read the handwritten note on the sticky “Post It” note. Navalny had simply written in English:
CLEAR DAY.
What does this mean?
Sohlberg next grabbed the two July 13 postcards sent from St. Petersburg. Navalny had changed his handwriting style for the postcards in French. It looked more like a young woman’s loopy cursive style. That was clever. Russia’s intelligence agencies were unlikely to pay much attention to postcards from a young French tourist.
Sohlberg wrote down all of the words in each postcard. He started moving the words around in each sentence. Some of the words—prepositions, adverbs, and adjectives—were missing. But they could be figured out. The first sentence soon made sense. In less than twenty minutes Sohlberg had deciphered the first postcard. The second postcard took a little longer. The two postcards electrified Sohlberg.
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 34