Sohlberg and the White Death (5 page)

Sohlberg shook his head. “So . . . for all we know she could’ve been a plant from one of the criminal cartels that we’re investigating in Operation Locust. . . .”

“Yes. Or she could just as easily be an agent for British or Russian or Israeli or American intelligence.”

“How did she ever get past the Interpol background check?”

“Sohlberg . . . that’s going to be the million dollar question at Interpol. You know how it’ll go down . . . Human Resources will blame Internal Affairs and vice versa. Interpol’s President and the Executive Committee will be out for blood but the Secretary General will blame Turkey.”

“I’m sick of this whole thing.”

“Likewise my friend,” said a sympathetic Laprade.

The men finished the main course and moved on to a dessert of
Nougat de Montélimar
. The two detectives never tired of eating Lyon’s famous delicacy—chewy white squares made of honey and roasted pistachios and almonds.

Laprade devoured a second serving of dessert and said:

“At least there’s a silver lining in all of this.”

“There is? . . . What?”

“We’re not to blame.”

Sohlberg coughed a dry cough as a substitute for laughter. “True. They can’t blame us advisors to the General Secretary. Nor can they blame any country’s National Central Bureau.”

“Except for Turkey.”

“They are the ones who confirmed her identity when she got hired.”

“Yes,” said Laprade. “But they will insist that they got misleading and contradictory information.”

“How so?”

“The Turks will say that they were only asked to confirm there was a real Azra Korbal. They’ll insist that no one asked them to confirm whether she was dead or alive.”

Sohlberg shook his head. “This is ridiculous. So who was the real Azra Korbal?”

“Until she died in a car crash at age twenty she worked as a high school teacher . . . she taught English and French and Arabic at a private Catholic school in Dublin.”

“Really? . . . This is all a surprise. I just can’t believe it.”

“Believe it because we’re stuck with the inconvenient fact that she died five years ago . . . one year before
your
Azra Korbal showed up to work here at Interpol.”

“Are your sources absolutely sure about that?” Sohlberg’s heart pounded against his chest. He lost track of what Laprade was saying. His mind reeled as he considered whether Azra Korbal had leaked information about Operation Locust to outsiders or—even worse—to criminal organizations ensnared in Locust. “Sorry . . . what did you say?”

“I said ‘Yes’ . . . my sources are absolutely sure that the real Azra Korbal died a year before
your
Azra Korbal started working here. They’re sure because the real Azra Korbal’s heart and kidneys got donated after the car crash . . . my D.G.S.E. contact spoke with the transplant surgeons . . . D.G.S.E. is sending agents right now to take a D.N.A. sample from her parents in Germany and a D.N.A. sample of the heart in the recipient in Ireland . . . they should be able to match the heart D.N.A. to her parents’ D.N.A.”

“Someone is making fools out of us,” said Sohlberg as a red splotch spilled across his face and neck. “I want to interview her boyfriend again.”

“Be my guest. You sure you want to go visit him in that disgusting hell-hole?”

“Whatever it takes.”

~ ~ ~

Sohlberg and Laprade finished eating their repast without exchanging a word. After paying the bill Sohlberg dug into his pocket and put down the waiter’s tip on the table. Laprade hated paying tips. He refused to acknowledge the pervasive reality of gratuities in the restaurant industry or the likelihood of retaliatory deposits of spit or worse in the food if he did not leave a tip.

“Going back to the office?”

“No,” said Sohlberg. “I need time to think. I’ve got a lot on my mind with Azra’s death. I’m . . . I’m also sure that we’re going to have to be much more careful with security.”

Laprade smiled. “I already ordered round-the-clock protection for your beloved Emma. A plainclothes will be guarding her even when you’re around. We’re also keeping a record of every telephone call to your place.”

“Thank you. I’ll let her know when I get home.”

“Need a ride?”

“No. I’ll walk . . . I’ve got some shopping to do . . . also . . . I read an article about some interesting buildings that I want to see near the Catholic University.”

“Sohlberg the frustrated architect.”

At one point in high school the Norwegian detective had considered becoming an architect. But the probability of starving had been too great to justify such a career choice.

~ ~ ~

Sohlberg enjoyed walking on the wide and low-span Bonaparte bridge over the Saône River. At the midpoint of the bridge he stood and looked north and south to catch pleasing views of glorious old churches and broad forest-covered hills and tree-lined streets flanked by charming buildings. The architectural styles ranged from Roman ruins and Medieval and Renaissance buildings in the Old Town to a perfect mix elsewhere of Baroque, Classical, Rococo, Empire, Third Republic, and Art Nouveau.

Discreet. Be discreet.

Sohlberg pretended to observe the sights from the bridge while he covertly scanned about to see if anyone was following him.

No one. Let’s see if I’m being followed.

He headed eastward at a fast clip to buy exquisite dumplings for dinner later that night. Dumplings meant a trip to Quenelles Giraudet near the corner of Rue du Plat and Rue Colonel Chambonnet. No one tailed him. The endless variety of dumplings forced Sohlberg to buy five each of four different types of fillings which included the Sohlbergs’ favorite dumpling of chicken and morel mushroom.

The detective stood by the store’s front door. He pretended to fumble with the bag while he looked up and down the street. No one looked familiar. Perhaps no one was tailing him. Sohlberg decided to forgo the architectural tour of the neighborhood around the Catholic University. He headed straight home to spend time with his wife.

~ ~ ~

Église Saint-Nizier and its eye-catching Gothic architecture always fascinated Sohlberg. He remained on the lookout for solo or tag-team surveillance. He stopped briefly to admire Lyon’s City Hall—Hôtel de Ville. He enjoyed the building’s lavish rococo style. The detective surveyed the people around him.

No one. So far. And yet I feel I’m being watched. Whoever it is must be very good.

Who is it . . . one of the gangsters in Operation Locust?

Maybe Laprade asked his colleagues in the police or D.G.S.E. to spy on me.

Throughout the long stroll to his abode Sohlberg also fought against an avalanche of emotions. He felt an infinite sadness over the young woman’s death. At the same time a deepening anger welled in him against her for having assumed a false identity.

Who was the woman who posed as Azra Korbal?

Why was she killed?

Who murdered her?

~ ~ ~

Later that afternoon Laprade called the Baumettes prison in Marseille to arrange for Sohlberg to visit the boyfriend. Otelo Carvalho and his lawyers had rushed into a guilty plea. He was sentenced to ten years for possession of heroin with intent to distribute.

“What do you mean we can’t see him?”

“You can’t. He’s dead.”

“What?”

“He died two days ago.”

“How?”

“He had needle marks in his arms . . . looks like a heroin overdose.”

“That means nothing. Someone could’ve shot him up with heroin . . . or someone could’ve—”

“Could have. Should have. Might have. This ain’t a luxury hotel. Commissaire . . . for fifty euros anyone can hire a killer inside. We’ve got plenty of lifers and psychos in here who’d kill another prisoner for less than fifty euros. And that doesn’t include all the gangs inside and outside. So stop wasting our time!”

Laprade cursed and screamed at the prison bureaucrat. But the commissaire only got to yell at a dial tone.

The news came as no shocking surprise to Laprade. The drug underworld spread its influence far and wide and deep. Its virulent reach and viciousness knew no limits or boundaries. No immunity existed for any country or institution from the Ebola of modern society.

Just three weeks ago Laprade had received an official e-mail from Paris explaining that:

“Cash and drugs were indeed stolen from criminal suspects and hidden inside a false ceiling at the North Marseilles Police Building . . . 12 officers have been indicted . . . all 70 active duty officers in the Anti-Criminal Brigade of Northern Marseille are under investigation for drug dealing, extortion, and other corruption.”

“Merde!” muttered Laprade. “Merde!”

Chapter 3/Tre

LYON, FRANCE: MAY 15, OR

THIRTY-THREE DAYS AFTER

THE DAY

A noise in the street woke Sohlberg up at 3 AM. His mind swirled with thoughts about the mystery of Azra Korbal’s murder and her true identity.

Does anyone ever get to truly know another person?

That question inevitably led back to Azra Korbal. His anger built up as he thought about her deception.

Two hours later his mind finally calmed down.

He loved hearing the deep and satisfied breathing of his wife. The rhythmic inhalations and exhalations soothed him. And yet he resented Emma’s ability to fall sleep as soon as her head met a pillow. She was a stranger to insomnia and would sleep through any racket. The loud drip of a leaky faucet was enough to keep him wide awake at night. He wondered how both of them could be so different.

Emma surprised him all the time. Just yesterday she had made a minimum monthly payment on a credit card balance that they could have easily paid off in full. Sohlberg had to admit that he never really understood his wife even after 20 years of marriage.

Does anyone ever get to truly know another person?

What is Emma dreaming about?

What does she think about when I’m gone during the day?

The mystery of their happy marriage astonished him.

Pleasant marital memories lulled Sohlberg into sleep when he remembered that today was the funeral for Azra Korbal.

~ ~ ~

A warm and sunny day somehow seemed poignantly appropriate for the funeral of a young woman. The ceremony was set to begin at exactly 6:15 PM so that everyone had time to come in after the daily grind of so many mindless and ultimately meaningless chores.

“This beautiful day reminds me of her,” said Sohlberg. “Azra was always happy . . . full of energy.” The dreamy-eyed detective gazed at the cloudless blue expanse of sky that stretched to infinity. He held on tightly to the cremation urn with Azra Korbal’s ashes and after a while he noticed his reflection in the passenger-side window. He was graying and gaunt and he wondered how many more years or days he had left on this plane of existence. “She always made little jokes that were funny because they were not.”

Rageh Ziedan smiled. “Without a doubt she had
joie de vivre
. I miss her a lot . . . I often have to stop myself from calling her extension to ask for help on a complicated translation.”

The two men waited with Bruno Laprade in his official police-issued Peugeot SUV at the main gate of the Cimetière de la Guillotière Nouveau. This funeral—like most other funerals—brought on reminders of mortality to the survivors.

Sohlberg relaxed his grip on the rectangular cherry wood box that Emma Sohlberg had found a week ago after shopping all over Lyon. He wanted a final look. He opened the top of the box to inspect the green onyx vase nestled deep within the dark velvet interior. After closing the box he looked around.

The 150-year old cemetery in the upscale Eighth
Arrondissement
was too formal a resting place for Azra Korbal. Sohlberg said:

“I wish we could’ve found her a spot in the countryside. Maybe on a hillside overlooking a small valley. That would’ve been more like Azra . . . outdoorsy . . . sunny . . . informal . . . refreshing.”

Ziedan nodded again and said:

“We all tried. But we ran out of time. . . .”

Laprade raised his right hand. “Listen you two. There was nothing you could have done to prevent her death. You were very kind to her and you befriended her with your wives and treated her with respect. It’s not your fault that she died. It’s not your fault
how
she died. What matters is how you treated her when she was alive . . . and how you are treating her now that she is dead.”

Ziedan and Sohlberg kept quiet as they mulled over Laprade’s words. He continued:

“Whoever she was . . . your Azra Korbal got herself in a difficult situation that was not likely to end well. Who knows why she did what she did. Maybe she was forced into lying and pretending . . . or maybe she saw that as a normal part of her work. Who knows. . . . We might never find out why she stole Azra Korbal’s identity . . . or why she came to work at Interpol. It ended badly for her. That we can’t change. So . . . it’s time to focus . . . time to make sure that all those responsible pay dearly for her murder. That’s one more thing that we can do to honor her and her memory when no one else will do it. . . .”