Sohlberg and the White Death (16 page)

The best part of Old Lyon was the confusing network of
traboules
which linked the buildings with covered passageways and spiral staircases. The merchants of Lyon had built the
traboules
in medieval times to reach transport boats on the Saône River because Fourvière Hill forced the city streets to run parallel to the river’s banks. The
traboules
made it close to impossible for anyone to be followed surreptitiously.

“Where are you?” said Sohlberg.

“I’m already here in Lyon.”

“Don’t forget to go to the train station . . . the Gare de Vaise.”

“I remember.”

“Use the key that I left you at the dead drop. The key will open a locker at the train station’s baggage storage. You will find a green jacket in the locker. Make sure you put it on.”

“I will.”

“Make sure that you keep the jacket on you. It’ll make it easier for our people to identify you.”

“And follow me?”

“That too.”

“Alright. . . . How do I get to Old Lyon from the train station?”

“Take the subway . . . get off at the Old Lyon station.”

“I’d prefer to—”

“I don’t care about your preferences.” Sohlberg needed the informant to follow detailed instructions on how to get to the bookstore because Commissaire Laprade had posted plainclothes all along the route to make sure that no one was following the informant. “Forget about what you prefer. This has all been carefully planned for your safety. Take the subway and get out at the Vieux Lyon station . . . head north on Rue Saint-Jean which will take you past an old Cathedral on your right. . . . Walk through the small plaza . . . you’ll see where Rue Saint-Jean continues . . . stay on that street and go past the intersection with Rue de la Bombarde . . . you will soon see the Mandragore medieval boutique at Number Fifty-two on your left. Did you get all of that?”

“Yes.”

“Keep going another twenty meters and you will see the bookstore’s building on your right. There’s no number on the building . . . only a small brass symbol of the sun. Go to the small door on the left and then walk up to the second floor. You will see little signs with the bookstore’s name in the
traboules
. . . these are covered passages and spiral staircases in the Old Town. The signs will guide you with arrows and instructions.”

“Alright.”

“Make sure that you’re wearing the green jacket that we left you in the luggage storage at the train station. You need to wear that jacket so our people know it’s you.”

“At what time do we meet?”

“In two hours,” said Sohlberg. “Nine o’clock.”

The informant said something that static blocked. The call ended.

~ ~ ~

Sohlberg left the apartment after arming the alarm and carefully locking two Millenium deadbolts that had been especially manufactured to keep out intruders. He went down the echo-filled stairs of the grand old building on Rue Malesherbes between Rue Tronchet and Cours Franklin Roosevelt. The detective crossed the lovely tree-lined park of Place du Maréchal Lyautey which still had a cool and fresh morning feel to it.

Without Emma even the city looks sad. I wonder what she’s doing.

In an empty area of the park he stopped to send a text message to Commissaire Laprade in which he confirmed the 9 AM meeting with Ishmael at Laprade’s safe house. Sohlberg then hurried to buy a bottle of homeopathic sleeping pills from the little pharmacy at the corner with Rue Molière. He preferred this drug store because the one next to the subway station rarely carried natural sleeping remedies. He also took the detour to see if any of the targets of Operation Locust might have put him under surveillance. Sohlberg was sure that a contract for his assassination was not out of the question.

If I don’t get any sleep I will probably start making lots of mistakes . . . which could easily become fatal for me and others in this case.

He retraced his steps towards his abode and looked for anyone who might be spying on his apartment building. Sohlberg loved the spacious apartment in the elegant neighborhood that came free of charge and courtesy of Interpol. The agency owned the furnished apartment which it used to temporarily house visiting police chiefs from member nations. Sohlberg had demanded the apartment when his bosses at Interpol ordered him to come back to Lyon and run Operation Locust.

Sohlberg’s well-trained eyes scanned the park and streets and buildings for suspicious activity. It had been a long time since he and other Norwegian police officers had been trained by former KGB officers in the art of surveillance and counter-surveillance and for that he was grateful. He had even grown used to the possibility if not the probability of surveillance and retaliation that came along with a major investigation like Operation Locust. But danger was not first and foremost on his mind at that minute. Instead a sad yearning came over Sohlberg as he approached the tree-sheltered boulevard of Cours Franklin Roosevelt.

I should never have started Operation Locust. . . . I wish we had stayed in the U.S.A. and never crossed paths with Azra Korbal. She’d be alive if it wasn’t for Locust. Why did she have to live a life of deceit?

Sohlberg strolled on Cours Franklin Roosevelt towards the Foch subway station. Out of habit he almost walked all the way to Bernachon to pick up chocolates for himself. But he then remembered that this little bit of chocolate heaven was—like most small businesses—closed four weeks from late July to late August.

The subway “A” line took Sohlberg across the Rhône River and then down south to the city’s narrow peninsula or
presqu'île
in downtown where the Rhône and Saône rivers converge. He got off at the Place Bellecour station and headed to the enormous plaza to wait for Commissaire Laprade. Sohlberg looked around. He again had the odd sensation that someone was following him.

But who?

The treeless expanse of Place Bellecour emphasized the lack of people in the city. The central statue of a mounted Louis XIV almost disappeared in the enormity of the city’s main square. Sohlberg put on his sunglasses to avoid the glaring sunlight. Fourvière Hill dominated the skyline with the blinding white towers of Notre-Dame de Fourvière. The basilica’s four chess-piece towers crowned the city from its grand location.

Temptation beckoned. Sohlberg caved in.

“I will have this . . . and this,” said Sohlberg while he pointed at the tasty pastries at Pâtisserie Pignol. He had never passed the store without stopping to buy some delicious treat. He wolfed down the entire bag of pastries within minutes of paying for his purchase.

Sohlberg stood by the front door. He studied everyone who passed by while he waited for Laprade. The Norwegian looked for signs of surveillance. He found nothing that indicated he was being watched. That alone worried him because it could be a sure sign that experts were at work.

The city’s forlorn emptiness depressed Sohlberg. Few tourists came to Lyon and the majority of the native population across France had departed
en masse
to the countryside and the beaches for France’s devoutly observed summer vacations. But Sohlberg knew one man in France who would never consider taking a vacation and that man was one of the few men who scared him—Commissaire Bruno de Laprade.

~ ~ ~

For many years Laprade and his comrade-in-arms had talked about their time together.

Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation.

Central African Republic.

Chad.

Congo.

Iraq during the First Gulf War.

Ivory Coast.

Kosovo.

Mali.

Rwanda.

Yugoslavia.

The importance of all those places grew as illness took over the life of Laprade’s friend. With the approach of death the two men remembered the fallen and the wounded. In words and in thoughts they cherished
Honor and Fidelity
—the motto of the French Foreign Legion or
Légion Étrangère
.

They mostly remembered the good times. Very good times of days gone by at the Second Foreign Parachute Regiment. They had joined at age 18 and never regretted their military service.

Wars and rumors of wars.

Armed interventions.

Police actions.

They remembered all of the massacres perpetuated under the cover of United Nations resolutions and all the other fig leaves that politicians throw on their rotten problems. The two soldiers remembered “
Mission Accomplished
” and many more platitudes that politicians throw at voters to make them feel good about the carnage of war.

The men had spoken with nostalgia even about their worst times together. But they never spoke about the time in Kosovo when the sick one had come back to rescue Laprade from certain capture and torture while braving mortar and machine gun fire and slim odds of both men getting out alive.

When the illness got worse they spoke less. Some days they just sat together in silence while the sick one slept and the healthy one chain-smoked. Of course smoking wasn’t allowed inside the hospital or in the little garden outside. But who was going to order the dour commissaire—a brute—to get rid of his cigarette?

Pancreatic cancer had ravaged his old pal into a shriveled husk. During the bad days the former comrade no longer recognized Bruno de Laprade. But the detective continued to visit his lonely friend every day at the Hôpital de la Croix-Rousse in north Lyon.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

His friend’s only response was labored breathing. Laprade’s anger rose at the sight of Death letting his friend linger in pain and suffering despite the best efforts of the medical profession and pharmaceutical industry. The commissaire felt like punching and beating someone to death. But the Grim Reaper was beyond his reach. So were all of the diseases that plague mankind.

~ ~ ~

An enraged Commissaire Laprade grunted as he took one more look at Sohlberg’s text message on his cell phone before leaving the hospital. He boarded the subway’s “C” line south to downtown and soon fell into a glum reverie.

Laprade reviewed his life and he was somewhat glad about having retired from the Legion after 20 years. That allowed him at age 38 to start a new career at the Judicial Police—formerly known as the
Sûreté nationale
. Investigating criminal cases during the last 10 years had been enjoyable but for the fact that in France the judicial police operate under the orders and supervision of an Investigating Magistrate from the judicial branch. That meant that in too many cases the magistrates tended to interfere. Or they tried to pester the commissaire in charge of the case to give a ludicrous minute-by-minute accounting of absolutely everything that was being done and not done in an investigation.

Laprade made his daily call on Operation Locust to Magistrate Emmanuelle Desmeulle. He liked her because she rarely interfered with his cases. The commissaire left a message on her phone:

“The meeting is on for this morning. We’ll see what he has to say.”

He dialed Sohlberg’s cell phone. “I’m on my way. Be there in six minutes or less.”

“I’m already here.”

“Then don’t eat the all of Pignol’s stock . . . leave some pastries for me and the rest of the world.”

“Well . . . you know how it is . . . when us Vikings pillage . . . well . . . we pillage.”

Laprade had never seen anyone eat as much food as Sohlberg. He was also amazed at how the slim Norwegian detective could be married to such a large woman. In Laprade’s eyes the charming Emma Sohlberg was fat. But Sohlberg always described his wife as
Rubenesque.

Emma Sohlberg could not compare with the exquisitely toned widow Theillaud. Of course—to Emma Sohlberg’s credit—she had plenty of curves in the right places. And Laprade admired how well the Sohlbergs got on and how loving they were to each other. He also appreciated how the couple often invited him to lunch or dinner and how they never asked questions about his past or his personal life.

~~~

Sohlberg had already gone in one more time into Pignol for another haul of pastries when Laprade walked up to him.

“Did you leave any for me?”

“One or two.”

Laprade bought a large selection of Pignol delicacies for himself because he would probably not drop by again in the afternoon. He turned and looked at the empty-handed Norwegian. “Aren’t you going to buy more?”

“Why not?”

With pastry bags in hand the men took the subway and got off at the Vieux Lyon station. Laprade had to walk a tad slower while Sohlberg took his time looking at the ancient streets, buildings, and hidden courtyards of medieval Lyon.

A matronly clerk waved them to the back office once they reached the cramped quarters of
Flaubert et Cie.
An impossibly narrow staircase took them up two floors and past three heavily armed plainclothes. The two detectives stopped briefly at a small room on the second floor where a recording technician told them she’d start recording as soon as the informant entered the room upstairs.