Sohlberg and the White Death (7 page)

Sohlberg hated exposing his wife to danger. She could’ve easily been maimed or killed at the cemetery. It was time to get her out of harm’s way.

She will fight me on this. But she has to leave to a safe place . . . far away.

If she resisted his plans he would slowly but surely wear her down—the same way that he wore down his criminals.

Sohlberg made a mental list of trusted people who could safeguard Emma.

One name came up. Sheriff Joe Perdue—his friend in Idaho. He would know where to hide and protect Emma Sohlberg. Idaho was a long way from Lyon and any possible threats. The sheriff of Lemhi County owned a small cabin in the remote River of No Return wilderness. The end of the world would be a safe place.

Chapter 4/Fire

PARIS AND LYON, FRANCE: JUNE 12,

OR TWO MONTHS AFTER THE DAY

The lunch hour was almost over. The Greek immigrant smiled and ate another Algerian date. He caressed the face of his 8-year-old daughter.

“Daddy . . . are you going to come with us to the park?”

“No. I have to go back to work.”

“But you used to play with us.”

“Sorry. But I have to work . . . we’ve got bills to pay.”

 His daughter frowned and shook her thick curls. She did not understand the complexities of life. She did not understand why they had to leave Athens and Greece with 100 borrowed euros in his wallet and the clothes on their backs. She did not understand why her father had lost his government job to austerity measures after the 2008 Crash or why he had been unemployed for so many years during the so-called recovery. She did not understand why she had to learn a new language at a new school in a new country. She did not understand how close they had come to living in the mean streets of Athens. Instead she ran back to the kitchen and clung to her mother’s skirt.

“Do you want more to eat?” said his wife.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

Achilles Tsoukalas sighed contentedly while his wife prepped their son and daughter for an outing to the park. Thanks to his new employer they had been able to move into a rented apartment in Bondy. It was a poor suburb of Paris. But it had public transportation. Bondy was better than living in that hell-hole of Clichy-sous-Bois. They would finally be safe from the drug-dealing gangs of Arabs and Africans who robbed, raped, murdered, and rioted without the slightest intervention of the authorities. The police had simply given up and retreated. A heart of darkness ruled the hopeless government projects of Clichy-sous-Bois. Other immigrant ghettos across Europe were no better.

“Alright,” said his wife. “We’‘ll be back in two hours.”

The former sergeant in the Greek army went to work in his children’s bedroom. It served double-duty as his temporary office and factory. He pulled a box of wires, electrical components, and other equipment from among a chest filled with new dolls, games, and toys.

Achilles Tsoukalas expected that within a year he would save enough cash to move into the middle class suburb of Champigny-sur-Marne. He planned on buying a large old house with enough space to accommodate a workshop in the basement. He would never again have to put up with superior French or German sneers as an unwelcome and needy immigrant on welfare.

No sir! No more insults.

Achilles Tsoukalas would never again have to put up with the pitying or disgusted looks that he got from relatives and friends. He had hit them for tiny loans that soured the relationships as soon as the debts went unpaid. They had lived with family and friends throughout Greece and invariably overstayed their welcome. A few hours before they were forced to live in the streets, the Tsoukalas family had moved to Germany and then to France in a futile search for employment.

During a temporary gig as a gypsy cab driver he had a chance encounter with someone who knew someone who knew someone. Achilles Tsoukalas would never again be unemployed or go begging for a job. His employer had plenty of bomb-making projects for an experienced munitions specialist.

~ ~ ~

Bruno Laprade enjoyed the early morning hours at his rustic home in the countryside northwest of Lyon. The seductive aroma of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee filled the kitchen. He shoved the plunger down in the Melior
cafetière à piston
and poured out two cups of coffee. He shambled out to the terrace while balancing the two cups in his gigantic right hand and four croissants in his equally massive left hand. A small table beckoned and he took in the panoramic view of Lyon, the Rhone valley, and the faraway Alps.

The detective lived in a 100-year old home on Route du Mont Thou. A healthy pension and lots of savings from his days at the French Foreign Legion had been put to good use. Laprade savored the solitude of ten acres of forests that he had bought high on Mont Thou and its 2,000-foot summit. He loved the sense of security that he got from his home’s thick fieldstone walls. Of course his pack of deadly attack dogs guaranteed maximum safety.

“Sit,” he said.

Laprade’s three Doberman Pinschers and four German Shepherds immediately obeyed. They had been expertly trained in the Czech Republic at a former KGB academy.

“Here you go.” Laprade broke two of the croissants into smaller pieces which he tossed at his seven guards. Each dog caught the piece in mid-air. “Not bad . . . eh?”

The dogs sat in silence and in an orderly file until he ordered them to go on patrol.

Laprade drank the exquisite coffee and said, “Why can’t humans be as obedient or patient?”

At first the amorous widow Theillaud from the nearby town of Lissieu said nothing.

“The world,” said Laprade, “would be a better place if people were as loyal
and
obedient
and
patient as my dogs.”

She stared at him. His gaze fell upon the spectacular breasts that lurked under her silk blouse. Madame Theillaud responded by appraising her lover with a cool look. She said:

“Obedience and patience are taught . . . aren’t they? . . . Besides why complain? You obey no one and nothing. You are definitely
not
a patient man.”

Laprade laughed.

“Would you hate people less if they were as loyal and obedient as your dogs?”

“Yes. I’d probably like people a whole lot more. . . . But keep in mind that I don’t
hate
all people . . . just some of them.”

“I stand corrected.”

“At least I have feelings about them. I know too many psychopaths who have zero feelings about other human beings.”

“Like murderers?”

“Of course,” said Laprade. “It’s a common mental illness among criminals . . . and people in power.” He pointed at the cover of
L'Express
. The magazine’s lead article exposed the collapse of Greek society into drugs, poverty, prostitution, and suicide after the European Union and International Monetary Fund imposed “necessary measures to preserve the banking and financial systems of Europe as well as the bond ratings of Greece and the European banks that hold Greek bonds and debt.”

A few minutes passed while Laprade read the magazine and softly cursed politicians around the world. Eventually he fell into a meditative silence which meant that he was studying the roses and carnations in his garden.

Madame Theillaud blew on her piping hot coffee and read the local
Le Progrès
newspaper. She nibbled on a croissant while she studied him. “What’s wrong? . . . You look worried.”

“I might have a problem. . . .”

“Who?”

“An honest man. Totally scrupulous. Cannot be bought or corrupted.”

“In other words . . . a dangerous man.”

Laprade’s eyes shifted away from her and the truth of her words. Sohlberg could eventually become a problem—a liability that had to be eliminated.

~ ~ ~

Police work numbs the mind and soul. Sohlberg felt nothing by the end of the work day. But then Laprade called him. The two men agreed to rendezvous at 5:00 PM.

After undertaking counter-surveillance measures the two detectives met near Interpol at the Lyon MAC or Museum of Contemporary Art—
Musée d'art contemporain de Lyon
. The MAC was always empty one hour before closing time unless a popular exhibit was showing. The enormous and empty galleries afforded the two men just the right amount of privacy. The enclosed spaces also let them keep tabs on anyone who might be following them or trying to eavesdrop.

Both men stared in disbelief at some of the ugly and nonsensical junk that passed for modern art.

Sohlberg spoke softly. The giant canvases of bad art absorbed his voice. “I sent Emma off to a safe place.”

“You think the French police can’t protect her?”

“I do. But you know the old saying . . . you can’t put all your trust in one basket.”

Laprade shrugged a Gallic shrug that said, “Nothing ever changes.”

Sohlberg appreciated that Laprade did not ask where his wife had sought refuge. He would’ve had to lie. And Laprade would’ve discovered it was a lie. Some things are best left unasked and unanswered.

The men moved on to the next hideous painting of a giant doll attacking a city.

Sohlberg pointed and guffawed. “This must be a joke.”

“Modern art is neither modern nor is it art.”

Sohlberg was surprised at Laprade’s wit. “How true. . . . What did forensics have to say about the computer I found in her car?”

“Good news and bad news. The good news is that there’s
no
information about Ishmael or Operation Locust on the computer’s hard drive or on the thumb drive. The bad news . . . there are plenty of transcripts of meetings with informants in non-Locust cases that you and other Interpol advisors are working on. . . .”

“What cases?”

“They’re all over the map. Bribes for European Union bureaucrats in Brussels . . . kickbacks for shady middlemen in arms deals for fighter jets sold by England and France . . . money laundering . . . the usual.”

“Not good,” said Sohlberg. “What do your D.G.S.E. pals have to say about the D.N.A. from the real Azra Korbal?”

“The D.N.A. of the transplanted heart matched the D.N.A. of the parents of Azra Korbal. . . . Don’t ask me how they got samples from the transplant recipient or her parents.”

“I can’t even imagine how they did that. Anything else?”

“A bicycle.”

“A bicycle?” said Sohlberg.

“I spoke with Daudet. . . . He’s hard-working and clever. I’m impressed.”

“What’s he up to?”

“Bicycles. . . . He told me that as soon as he arrived at the crime scene he noticed a fresh set of bicycle tire tracks on the road outside . . . and on the muddy flagstone walkway to the cottage.”

“I saw that he had marked the area off.”

“Daudet had the tracks photographed before the rain started and washed them away.”

“Excellent.”

“He also made a cast of the tire tracks in the mud by the front door of the cottage. Daudet looked around the cottage and property for bicycles and found none. He checked with neighbors and friends and found out that Azra and her boyfriend didn’t own or use bicycles.”

“So . . . the killer used a quiet and unobtrusive bicycle to reach the cottage?”

“Looks like it. Daudet went out with other gendarmes to canvass the neighborhood . . . they covered a half-mile area in every direction from the cottage . . . they found a farmer who remembered seeing something odd.”

“What? . . . When?” said Sohlberg.

“He says that barking dogs woke him up . . . he looked at his clock and it was around the time when Korbal’s neighbors heard the gunshots and called the gendarmes. . . . The barking dogs were in the direction of Korbal’s home . . . the man stayed by his window for about fifteen minutes wondering why the dogs kept barking . . . then he saw . . . in a distant road . . . someone going very fast on a bicycle. He wondered why anyone would be out so late on a bicycle.”

“Really?” said Sohlberg. He desperately tried not to get his hopes raised and then dashed. “Did the farmer see the bicyclist?”

“He was too far away. The gendarmes are canvassing all of the homes and farms along the road where this witness saw a man . . . or a woman . . . on a bicycle.”

“So . . . a bicycle is how the killer arrived and got away. Silent. Very effective. Not likely to attract attention.”

“Sohlberg . . . it’s almost as if someone is dedicated to avoiding prosecution at all costs and yet they want to leave enough clues behind to make sure that we know that Azra Korbal was assassinated in a professional hit.”

“I agree. If they wanted an undetected murder they should’ve kidnaped or lured Azra Korbal away from her house . . . killed her . . . and then made sure that her body permanently disappeared. Acid. Concrete. A wood chipper. That way there would always be doubts as to whether she was alive somewhere. Instead they chose this kill method . . . one that would inevitably expose her double-life and false identity.”