Sohlberg and the White Death (44 page)

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—”

“Enough!” yelled Sohlberg. “You’re crazy and maybe even a dirty cop.”

“You’re an ingrate. I took the money to save you and me from getting a hole in the head like Azra Korbal! . . . You are such a virgin Boy Scout!”

A half-hour later Sohlberg finally spoke. Someone had to start off the round of apologies. “Sorry I’m such a pain in the neck. I’ll order something else next time instead of my hot chocolate or mineral water.”

Laprade let out an exaggerated sigh. “You’re an antisocial rebel when you refuse to drink or smoke in France.”

“A man only has two things in life. His family and his integrity. Lose them and you have nothing in the end.”

~ ~ ~

The fields glowed yellow in their late summer glory. The two detectives were now four miles from the border with Switzerland. Laprade slowed down to 5 mph as soon as he saw the bridge where the D7 Highway passes over the E-62 Highway. Immediately after the bridge Laprade turned right and pulled into a narrow 2-lane road.

A metal gate blocked the men.

“Will you do me the honors?” Laprade handed Sohlberg a special key.

The Norwegian got out of the car. He used the key that the highway patrol uses to open gates to side roads where gendarmerie highway patrols park their cars or motorcycles in wait for speeding drivers. After Sohlberg locked the gate behind them the Citroen purred up the road and turned right into northbound D7.

“Before I forget . . . Pierre did some snooping around on Azra Korbal. Don’t complain about him maybe interfering with Locust. He had to do it since he just can’t let someone like Korbal operate under his nose in France without taking a sniff at her.”

“I’m not complaining,” said Sohlberg who wanted to grumble about the possibility of French intelligence screwing up his investigation. But he decided not to further irritate his partner.

“Pierre,” said Laprade, “is one hundred percent sure that Azra Korbal was a Russian plant. The only people who could completely hide her identity are the F.S.B. or the Mossad.”

“What about the C.I.A. or the British?”

“Nah. The Yanks are amateurs when it comes to human spies. The Brits are good but they’re broke. They wouldn’t have gone through such expense or trouble to get someone inside Interpol.”

“So,” said Sohlberg. “Someone in Moscow or Jerusalem went to a lot of trouble to cover up her true identity.”

“Pierre doubts if it’s the Mossad. They’re very focused on Israel and its enemies. I agree with Pierre that the top people in the Kremlin would be very
very
interested in checking out how much Interpol knows about their links to organized crime.”

“Like Semion Mogilevich and Domenico Pelle.”

“Exactly,” said Laprade.

“Think about it. Why would a Russian judge release Mogilevich when he’s on the F.B.I.’s list of
Ten Most Wanted Fugitives
? . . . Why would the government of Ukraine have destroyed his criminal files?”

“I still don’t understand why Semion Mogilevich has so much power inside Russia.”

Sohlberg laughed. “Because it’s easy in the New Russia . . . Mogilevich bribed . . . blackmailed and strong-armed his way into owning a big fat chunk of Russia’s biggest natural gas pipeline. He then doles out cash and stock ownership to Russian politicians out of his three billion dollar stake in RosUkrEnergo . . . which is of course headquartered in Zug Switzerland.”

The Norwegian’s blood pressure always rose when he thought about the corrupt and secret owners of the Swiss-registered pipeline company that sells billions of dollars of natural gas every year to Europe from giant reservoirs in Russia, Ukraine, and Turkmenistan.

~ ~ ~

The ascending road delivered the two men from the furnace in the valley. At the higher altitude the air cooled. The winding road narrowed down to one lane and it offered splendid views of the valley, mountains, and sloping fields. A stop for a picnic almost seemed in order as the road looped up the broad foothills between the villages of Raclaz and La Fontaine.

“I can’t believe this,” shouted Laprade before he slammed on the brakes and smashed his hand down on the horn.

A caravan of gypsies from Spain blocked the road. A small group of men were lifting one of the trailer campers which had lost its tires after the rear axle shattered. Old cars and rusty camper trailers lined the road and fields. Children ran after each other in games of wild abandon. The Romani gathered for an early dinner under a nearby tree. Five men sang a haunting flamenco melody while strumming their sad guitars.

With a jealous eye Sohlberg surveyed the free. They were not prisoners to a boss or a career or a pension plan. He identified with those who roam the world and belong nowhere. For a brief moment Sohlberg wished that he and Emma could run off and leave everything and everyone behind.

Laprade screamed. The freemen on the road ignored him.

“C’mon,” said Sohlberg. “Let’s help them. Otherwise we’re going to be here a long time.”

“No way. Damn gypsies.”

Sohlberg was about to get out when the sunburnt men pushed a makeshift flatbed trailer under the camper. A few minutes later the road cleared. Laprade drove the Citroen past the sweating men. Sohlberg clearly heard them talking about his companion. One phrase iced his blood.

“
Ochi . . . moarte
.”

The
gitanos
knowingly muttered that Sohlberg’s partner had the
Eye of Death
.