Sohlberg and the White Death (19 page)

Laprade had flown from Paris to Miami with a stopover in Washington D.C. His commanding officer wanted S______ H______ to condense five regimental souvenirs into a more portable format. These cranial relics included one from a degenerate warlord from Chad and one from a Serbian paramilitary butcher who slaughtered elderly Croatians and Bosnian Muslims.

The regiment’s five heads arrived through diplomatic pouch at the French embassy in Washington D.C. where Laprade picked them up in person. He then shipped them by U.S. Mail to the luxury suite which waited for him at the PGA National Resort & Spa in the city of Palm Beach Gardens.

S______ H______ failed to make a good impression on Laprade. The owner of Jivaro & Co. looked more like a balding potbellied accountant. But Laprade—like most clients of the headshrinker—enjoyed reading the memorable quotes that appeared in customized posters which hung on the walls of the waiting room of Jivaro & Co.

The more sentimental clients of S______ H______ preferred the poster that read:

A GOOD HEART IS BETTER THAN

ALL THE HEADS IN THE WORLD.

— Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton

Laprade and the less sentimental and more business-like clients appreciated:

WHEN PEOPLE ARE TAKEN

OUT OF THEIR DEPTHS

THEY LOSE THEIR HEADS.

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

~ ~ ~

The cozy and modern neighborhood wine bar of Chez Patrick offered an old-fashioned zinc bar. Laprade often sought solace at the establishment which was one mile north of the safe house at the corner of Quai de Bondy and Rue Louis Carrand.

The two detectives huddled side by side in the back of the bar. They watched families and lovers stroll on the charming tree-lined boulevard next to the Saône River.

“What do you recommend for me tonight?”

The bartender took a good look at Laprade. “For you monsieur . . . we have a house blend of Merlot . . . Cabernet Sauvignon . . . and Carignan aged in the barrel.”

“Carignan? Very good. Now that’s more like it. I thought everyone had ripped up the Carignan varieties and planted Merlot after those European Union Nazis in Brussels demanded that everyone plant fancypant grapes in France.”

“Oui. They have rules and regulations for everything under the sun. But our Carignan comes from a small private estate. The owner is an old-school perfectionist.”

“Good. Where does this Carignan come from?”

“The Languedoc.”

“I know that. I mean where exactly?”

“Hérault. Near the village of Plaissan.”

“Ah. I like that. So . . . yes. By all means. Bring me a glass.”

The waiter turned to Sohlberg.

“I’ll have . . . a hot chocolate.”

The young man’s face registered no disappointment. “Very well.”

The bar was empty. It would soon fill up with ticket-holders for classical music concerts at
Salle Molière
across the street. The owner of Chez Patrick brought their order and left with Sohlberg’s payment.

Laprade grinned. “Thanks for picking up the bill. So . . . what did you find on the Internet while we drove out here?”

“Ishmael’s chemist . . . Edvard Csáky . . . born in Hungary . . . he gets advanced graduate degrees in biochemistry from all the top schools here in Europe. . . . He then does post-graduate work with biochemistry researchers at Oxford . . . moves to the U.S.A. and becomes an American citizen while doing research at U.C. San Diego and then at Scripps Research Institute with this Julius Rebek . . . a well-known Hungarian biochemist . . . after four years he goes to work with Langer Lab at M.I.T. where he studies in Boston under this genius chemical engineer . . . Robert Langer . . . then he heads out to the University of Delaware where he works with a Richard Heck . . . a Nobel Prize winner in biochemistry.

“At age thirty Csáky starts a company in San Diego . . . Enigma Laboratories . . . makes a lot of money thanks to contracts from Genentech and other drug companies like Hoffman La Roche . . . Merck . . . Pfizer. He gets married in La Jolla to some American woman and it seems that their divorce ten years later under California’s community property laws leaves him very
very
angry over her fifty-percent cut of the assets.”

“Ouch.”

“It gets better . . . she turns him in to the federal and state tax authorities because he illegally deducted his massive gambling losses as business expenses. Edvard Csáky is sentenced to two years in Club Fed. . . . He loses custody of their three children. And he loses the company since he had to do a fire sale of all his assets to pay his lawyers and the tax authorities for penalties and interest. It was bad . . . the I.R.S. itself collected twelve million dollars in penalties and interest . . . and she got a ten percent whistleblower reward for turning him in.”

“And you ask me why I don’t marry.”

“Edvard Csáky leaves prison. He renounces his U.S. citizenship and promptly disappears. Pops up in London . . . he gives lectures at scientific conferences in Europe . . . last known address a suburb of Moscow . . . according to a newspaper article from three years ago he works as a consultant for major pharmaceutical companies.”

“This Csáky definitely sounds like someone worth owning,” said Laprade.

“Yes. But what is this guy cooking in the lab for Ishmael and his Russian co-owners? . . . Meth? . . . Ricin? . . . Anthrax powder? . . . What?”

“I need another drink.” Laprade waved at the bartender and pointed to his empty glass for a second serving. “I’m paying this time. What would you like?”

“I’ve got to get home.”

“You’re right,” said Laprade. “So should I.”

“Why don’t you stay? . . . I can get home by myself.”

“No. No. If I stay I’ll drink alone . . . which means I’ll drink too much.”

Laprade waved at the bartender and shook his head to cancel the order.

~ ~ ~

The warm breezes over the Saône River reinvigorated Sohlberg. The two men stood at the doorway of Chez Patrick and filled their lungs with the mellow summer perfume of trees and river. They walked up Rue Carrand toward Laprade’s Peugeot which was half way up the cobblestone street.

Sohlberg said, “Want to come over for dinner?”

“Thanks but I’m tired.”

They approached Laprade’s car. Sohlberg looked to his right. A puppeteer from the world-famous Guignol Theater stood on the sidewalk by the front door of the theater. He was working his magic with two puppets. The marionettes were dressed as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. The hilarious puppets welcomed patrons who were waiting in line for that evening’s performance.

“Look,” said Sohlberg.

Laprade nodded. “I hear they also do great daytime plays for children.”

A small crowd gathered around the puppets and their master and for a few seconds Sohlberg wondered if Domenico Pelle and others in the 'Ndrangheta organization were masterfully pulling his and Laprade’s strings.

Sohlberg turned to Laprade once they got inside the car. “You know . . . so much of our profession depends on carefully and accurately observing people . . . things . . . events.”

“Yes. That’s true for the good detective.”

“I think about that and I wonder . . . what do we really know about Domenico Pelle? I mean . . . we really haven’t observed him up close and personal. Here’s a guy who pretended to be Rico Gerardi for how long? . . . Almost three years! . . . He fed us all sorts of information leading to gigantic drug busts. And yet we didn’t even know it was him and not Rico Gerardi who was our real informant.”

“I agree. I don’t like him. He’s a sly and slippery character who slithered in under our radar screen. A member of the 'Ndrangheta organization sure doesn’t go around snitching for altruistic purposes. He had to have used us for his own benefit or for his crime family’s profit.”

Sohlberg sighed. “He’s manipulating us. Do we really want to help him find his scientist?”

“I say yes since a nuclear suitcase or backpack could really do some serious damage if it ever exploded in a major city. Imagine the panic . . . imagine the terror of waiting for the next one to explode.”

“But,” said Sohlberg. “What if he made up the nuclear thing to trick us into helping him get his chemist back? . . . What if he can’t deliver the so-called nuclear engineer?”

“It’s a risk we have to take. Don’t forget that we’re also manipulating him. We took down a lot of people thanks to his information . . . we really hurt the drug business of the American and Sicilian Mafia . . . and the Camorra in Naples. We also got tons of information that exposed corrupt cops . . . for example we learned about Michel Neyret here in Lyon.”

“But are we
really
manipulating Domenico Pelle? . . . I think it’s been a one-way street so far.”

“Sohlberg . . . you’re in denial about a basic reality of police work.”

“And that is? . . .”

“We have to make compromises with snitches. That’s part of the equation. Judas got his thirty pieces of silver. Confidential informants don’t work for free.”

“I understand the ugly side of working with snitches.”

“That’s why we have to help Pelle find his chemist. It’s no big deal. Or . . . do you want to pull out . . . or call off Operation Locust?”

“No. We’re too deep inside the depraved jungle of Domenico Pelle. We have to keep going into his Heart of Darkness.”

Laprade stared at the puppets across the street. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Where do you and I fit in the equation? . . . I don’t think Ishmael’s equation is for our benefit. I even wonder if his equation includes reducing us to zero.”

“Are you implying that he’s going to hurt us . . . ruin us . . . or worse?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m outright saying it. . . . The man reduced Rico Gerardi to zero . . . we have Gerardi’s shrunken head to prove it. Now . . . a man like Ishmael doesn’t get his hands dirty killing anyone . . . least of all a low-level snitch . . . but he fixed it so that Gerardi met his end. And I’m sure it wasn’t a pretty ending. So . . . yes . . . I’m telling you that Ishmael is going to be trouble for us. Lots of it. Count on it.”

“I’m not afraid of him or any lowlife.”

Sohlberg sighed and said, “Nor am I. But we have to be careful. Very careful.”

“I’ll take all appropriate measures.”

“Good.”

~ ~ ~

Sohlberg arrived home and read a note from his housekeeper. The cursive handwriting of Juliette Bonnaire was barely legible.

Monsieur,

Please go through your mail.

You have not been opening your mail since madame left on her trip.

I received a phone call informing me that the electricity will be cut off tomorrow if you do not pay by noon. The bill is 30 days past due.

I will start leaving the bills and past due notices next to the phone in the front hallway desk. I will leave the rest of the mail for you in the living room.

To prevent clutter in the living room, I am putting a big stack of old mail in your bedroom.

In the refrigerator you will find some galettes that I made with tomatoes from my garden.

Chapter 13/Tretten

OSLO AND TROMSØ, NORWAY:

THURSDAY JULY 21, OR THREE

MONTHS AND 9 DAYS AFTER THE DAY

Chief Inspector Kristina Skrautvol could smell a rat a mile away. She was experienced at rat detection because the job required her to deal with all sorts of criminals—from petty fools to dangerous felons. She also had a fine nose for rats because she had suffered too many boyfriends who ranged from awful jerks to dumb self-centered couch potatoes. Over the years she learned a lot about intensely toxic if not deranged boyfriends. Kristina Skrautvol had even invented the word
boyfiend
for the worst of her lovers. But the rat in this case wasn’t a mile away or a criminal or a boyfriend or a boyfiend. The rat sat in front of her and that rat was the odious Ivar Thorsen—her boss and Commissioner of the Oslo Police District.

“Skrautvol . . . you do understand that this is not a permanent assignment . . . correct?”

“Correct.”

“I hope it’s perfectly clear that you are not replacing Chief Inspector Hvoslef . . . it’s just that he’s been sick and had to take a temporary medical leave. He’s here in Oslo right now taking his treatment. It’s nothing major and he’ll soon be back on the job. . . . Okay?”

Skrautvol nodded although she and most of the force knew that Fredrik Hvoslef had been admitted into a psychiatric ward following his very public nervous breakdown when he barricaded himself inside his office in downtown Tromsø.

“I hope you don’t think I’m unhappy with you or your work by my sending you to Tromsø.”