Sohlberg and the White Death (29 page)

No one answered at the first house which almost looked abandoned. This was a common and sad reality of life in the Arctic. Many of the original homeowners had passed away and the heirs wanted nothing to do with such desolation. Cars however were parked around the second home.

“Great,” said Rasch to himself. “They’re home.”

Sonja and Bjørnar Ditlefsen were rarely home during the summer because they owned Ditlefsen Arctic Fishing Guide Company which specialized in deep-sea fishing. They took clients from all over the world to fish in the Norwegian Sea for giant species of halibut and cod which often surpassed 6 feet in length and 200 pounds in weight. Their clients also loved to catch difficult-to-fish varieties of coalfish and redfish and seawolf and monstrous-looking sea devils.

No one answered when Constable Rasch rang the bell and knocked on the door. He walked around the house to the back where he found the Ditlefsens cleaning fishing gear in a large red barn. The handsome couple in their late 50s possessed rugged good looks that would’ve made them a nice living as models for catalogues of outdoor clothing-and-gear companies like L.L. Bean or Patagonia. Husband and wife looked alarmed when they spotted the constable. They put down their hoses and brushes.

“Hello,” said Bjørnar Ditlefsen. “Is there any problem?”

“No. I’m just dropping by to ask some questions and see if you can guide me in the right direction.”

Sonja Ditlefsen smiled. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“Well . . . I meant that I need someone to guide me in the
Who’s Who
of boat captains and airplane pilots who hire out their services. . . . I’m gathering background information on anyone you might know who might lease their airplane or boat to transport a group of folks in or out of Troms County . . . say nine or ten people . . . maybe tourists . . . foreigners. Do you know anyone like that?”

Sonja Ditlefsen wrinkled her nose. “Would they be in some kind of illegal activity?”

“Maybe . . . maybe not.”

Fru Ditlefsen looked at her husband and then at Rasch. “We see him around but don’t know him personally. We’ve heard about him from our guides and colleagues. They say he’s a rogue fisherman . . . that he’s stolen a lot from Per Moen . . . who’s sworn to kill him if he ever catches him near his fish shack.”

Rasch’s heart skipped a beat. “Interesting.”

“Constable,” said the husband, “keep in mind that no one has any evidence . . . but this man is supposedly into poaching
and
anything else that brings him cash flow.”

“Oh?” said Rash. “Tell me more.”

“We’ve heard that he’s got a huge mortgage on his boat. Matter of fact two of our guides . . . the Ingebrigtsen brothers . . . asked for time off so that they could help him with a big charter that he had in mid-July.”

“We offered the brothers more money to stay with us,” said Fru Ditlefsen. “We needed them badly because we’re booked solid this summer.”

“They turned us down even after we offered them forty percent more pay.”

“And we haven’t seen or heard of them.”

“Who’s the person they were going to work for?”

“Ervin Vikøren. Lives on Reinøya Island.”

“Where can I find the Ingebrigtsen brothers?”

“In Tromsø. But you won’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve called and called them . . . even dropped by their apartment. . . . No one answers. Their sister told us they were shipping out to Scotland.”

“Where in Scotland?”

“She didn’t know.”

~ ~ ~

At 4:32 PM a pale and bleary-eyed Giske and a tanned and hale Rasch trooped into Skrautvol’s office for a status update meeting. They sat around the conference table where Skrautvol had placed copies of Jørgensen’s 32-page report on geo-referencing.

Skrautvol went over the results of her meeting with Dr. Jørgensen.

Haakon Giske raised his eyebrows. “This is good. . . . Isotopes . . . the new detectives.
Isotopes
. . . . What will they think of next?”

Skrautvol wasn’t sure if the detective was dishing out sarcasm or compliments about geo-referencing. He certainly looked the worse for wear. “Inspector Giske. No doubt the isotopes are high-tech stuff . . . but there’s still nothing like good old-fashioned snooping.” She summarized the evidence that she had uncovered in Finland and at Niko Magga’s property.

“Ah,” said Giske, “this is very good. We’re making progress. I can feel it in my bones if not my poor liver.”

Skrautvol nodded. “Sorry about that. I’ll gladly sign time-off papers that you need to help you recuperate from your bar excursions.”

 “Not for now. But thanks. My snooping dredged up a couple of names. None panned out. They’re all boat captains and airplane pilots who are strictly into weed-n-speed routes that bring in lots of pot and meth into the area. They all laughed at the idea of wasting valuable time and effort and cargo space on human trafficking when drugs pay more and don’t need bathroom breaks or food or hand-holding.”

“So that leaves you Constable Rasch. How went it?”

A jubilant Skrautvol and Giske could hardly believe the mother lode that Rasch had dug up.

“We need to get the Ingebrigtsen sister’s D.N.A. and compare it to the nine victims,” said Skrautvol. “We need to find out if she’s related to the two men with the hacked-off faces. I have a feeling that those two are the Ingebrigtsen brothers. I’ll have the crime lab compare their D.N.A and see if they are a match.”

Giske rubbed his stubbled face which was in need of a shave. “Yes. That’s probably them. Those are the extra two bodies.”

“We,” said Skrautvol, “have to design a trap for all those persons who were accessories and accomplices to the nine murders in Norway and the two murders in Finland. Magga already fell into a trap of his own making. We need to move on to the next set of chumps who obviously think we’re very stupid. And that chump is . . . Ervin Vikøren. Of course we first have to find out if he’s alive . . . or among the nine victims.”

The detectives and constable hashed out a plan to put the poacher under discrete surveillance if their investigation revealed that Vikøren was still among the living in Troms County. The three police officers then came up with a clever plan on how to question him. They also prepared an official request for the Scottish Police Service to look for the Ingebrigtsen brothers.

Giske drummed the desk impatiently with his fingertips. “Are we going to contact the Russians and send them pictures of the tattoos?”

“I’ve thought about it,” said Skrautvol. “But at this point in our investigation I’d hate to tip off any corrupt Russian government official who might be involved in this case. They’re not exactly working for the cleanest government on the planet.”

“Very true,” said Giske. “But sooner or later we’ll have to make inquiries over there.”

“No doubt. . . . Gentlemen . . . now that we have credible evidence that Finland and Scotland and Russia are in the picture it’s time for us to send off an official inquiry to Interpol. I will probably call someone I know at Interpol . . . he’s from the Oslo politidistrikt . . . and our country’s advisor to Interpol’s General Secretary . . . Chief Inspector Harald Sohlberg.”

A dyspeptic Giske belched. “An Oslo sharpie? . . . A city slicker
par excellence
? . . . Someone’s Golden Boy at the Ministry of Justice?”

“Actually . . . no.”

“No?”

“Sohlberg’s the one who many years ago arrested two Supreme Court justices . . . for bribery and corruption . . . on live television . . . during prime time.”

“Oh yeah. I remember the poor sap. A hero of our time . . . a superfluous man. But remind me . . . wasn’t he shoved out. . . . Exiled?”

“Of course,” said Skrautvol. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Chapter 20/Tjue

LYON; BRUSSELS; LUXEMBOURG:

JULY 30, OR THREE MONTHS AND

18 DAYS AFTER THE DAY

At 7:00 AM Sohlberg ran down the stairs in his building and jumped into Laprade’s Peugeot.

“So,” said Sohlberg, “who’s the informant that you arranged for me to meet?”

“Uffe Qvistgaard. Danish citizen. A European Union bureaucrat . . . based in Brussels. He’s been helping French intelligence.”

“Why?”

“I’m not going to discuss the particulars. Let’s just say that there’s a lot of industrial espionage in the world and the boys and girls at D.G.S.E. found someone who was willing to pass along certain information in exchange for certain favors.”

“Is he being blackmailed? . . . Is he some kind of pervert? . . . A drug addict?”

“No . . . . No blackmail in this case. Let’s just say that big French companies like Arianespace in space rockets . . . Dassault and Safran in defense technology . . . and Sanofi in pharmaceuticals like to know that they’re being protected by the government. In exchange they pass the hat and contribute a little spare change for deserving individuals like Uffe Qvistgaard.”

The two men got stuck in rush-hour traffic as they headed one mile south to
La Part-Dieu
district—the business heart of Lyon. Sohlberg picked the area because a river of pedestrians constantly flowed in and out of office buildings, the city’s main train station, and a giant shopping center. The district’s centerpiece was
Le Crayon
or The Pencil: a cylindrical rosé-colored 42-floor tower built for Crédit Lyonnais Bank.

“Have you heard from the idiots at Infernal Affairs?”

“No,” said Sohlberg. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t want them bothering you. I’m tempted to drive over to Rob Agnew’s home near the Salvagny golf course and beat him senseless if that moron dares to harass you again.”

“No need,” Sohlberg said. “My lawyer—”

“Wait a minute. I looked up Nenning’s rates. How can you afford such a pricey lawyer?”

“Mathias Otterstad. He’s an old friend from Norway . . . made a fortune investing other people’s money.”

“A thief in a suit.”

“Not everyone who has money is dirty.” Sohlberg shrugged. He accepted the fact that Laprade was never going to leave behind the emotional and financial poverty of his childhood. Laprade had mentioned his brutal and abusive mother. His overworked father never protected him because the poor man spent all his time struggling to feed and clothe three children on a paltry waiter’s salary and tips. “Laprade . . . let’s stick to the real problem. Agnew keeps pestering my lawyer for a formal sit-down interview with me . . . videotaped and under oath. . . . Nenning keeps postponing the interview. And it’s been very calm at the office. Surreal . . . no one has bothered to drop any hints that I’m the prime suspect in the Korbal case. No one at the office has made me feel unwelcome.”

Laprade grunted. “Maybe they want you working there so they can keep closer tabs on you . . . or to make it easier for them to frame you.”

“I’ll have to risk it . . . won’t I?”

“What a man doesn’t risk . . . he doesn’t win.”

Laprade took Rue Garibaldi southbound and discretely checked the rearview mirror from time to time. “No one’s following us.”

“Not yet.”

“Last night I went for dinner at a little bistro near my place and ran into Michel . . . Michel Neyret.”

“What? . . . He’s out after
eight
months? . . . I thought he wasn’t going to be given pre-trial release.”

“He’s free as the wind.”

“He’s not even being held in isolation at the prison hospital?”

“Free. Free. Free. Waiting for trial. Rumors are that he might plea bargain for a lesser charge.”

“Are you kidding me?” said Sohlberg.

“Neyret has a lot of dirt on senior government officials . . . ditto for Lyon’s business elite.”

Sohlberg found it hard to believe that Neyret might walk after a brief stint in prison. A year ago Lyon's deputy Chief of Police had been arrested for accepting bribes from international drug barons while posing as
Lyon’s Super Cop
—the hero who bravely fought gangs, drug dealers, and jewelry store thieves.

The Neyret facade had imploded two years ago when an accountant tipped off Sohlberg and Laprade that Neyret was receiving monthly wire transfers for $ 1 million U.S. dollars at a Swiss bank account. The sender in Milan Italy also plied Neyret with a Ferrari and a Rolls Royce.

Laprade placed Neyret under surveillance and lo and behold Laprade discovered that Neyret had checked into the same luxury hotel on the same days that Ishmael stayed at the hotel in Saint-Tropez. Further surveillance yielded photographs of the two men sitting on the deck of Ishmael’s yacht near the coast of Corsica.

Wiretaps disclosed hundreds of incriminating Neyret conversations on dirty deals. For example, his underlings liked to buy the silence of inconvenient witnesses with monthly 1-kilogram gift boxes of cocaine—Lyon’s version of the
Harry and David
fruit-of-the-month club.