Sohlberg and the White Death (23 page)

“I imagine,” said Skrautvol, “that you’ll go in plainclothes.”

“Absolutely. The minute they see a police uniform in those bars they’re as talkative and friendly as pigs at a bacon convention.”

Rasch smiled this time. He lifted his hand to volunteer for rural duty.

“Okay,” said Skrautvol. “You’ll go out to Hansnes and start looking for our undertaker. As for me . . . I’ll split my time assisting you out in the field and—”

“Wait,” said Giske. “The men in the bars I’m going to visit are not the kind of men who will talk to a woman about anything.”

Skrautvol raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way . . . but the bars I’m going to only have women who are looking for a good time or a quick buck . . . in other words . . . tramps and hookers.”

“Ah,” said Skrautvol. “The ultimate man cave?”

Chapter 15/Femten

PARIS AND LYON, FRANCE: THURSDAY

JULY 28, OR THREE MONTHS AND

16 DAYS AFTER THE DAY

Achilles Tsoukalas took the subway to his meeting and got off at the Corentin Cariou station in the 19th
arrondissement
. He crossed Rue Cariou. Two gruff men waited for him in front of a black steel gate next to a railroad bridge. One of the men escorted him past the weed-filled yard to an old, abandoned, walled-up, and graffiti-plagued building that had seen better days as a passenger train station in another century.

He entered a murky room. Another man carefully and methodically searched him for weapons and wiretapping equipment. He passed the security procedures and was escorted to a much darker room. His guardian indicated that he was to stand under a naked and timid light bulb.

A man sat somewhere in the darkness. His commanding voice said in decent French:

“I have another job for you.”

“What would you like?”

“Something for an airplane.”

“How big?”

“Two hundred passengers max. Probably flying with a headcount of one-fifty or so.”

“How soon?”

“Soon but not too soon. I want you to think of something that will pass airport security.”

“Will it be onboard or in the cargo hold?”

“Cargo. But it must destroy the airplane at a great altitude. I want no survivors. Zero. Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Also . . . do your very best to leave behind as little evidence as possible. Nothing should be traced back to you. Use common ingredients that anyone can buy anywhere in Europe.”

“That is doable. Difficult but doable”

“How much?”

“Let’s see . . . two hundred passengers on board? . . . I think one thousand dollars per person plus costs. Is that okay?”

“Done.”

Achilles Tsoukalas felt nothing about his employer’s order until he heard the man’s little laugh. The
risatina
terrified him.

“Sir. . . . Did I say something bad or wrong?”

“No. I was just thinking that you and I are going to be doing God’s work.”

“Sir? . . . How so?”

“There’s a bad man who’s going to get on that airplane. This man has many foolish plans and schemes.”

The bewildered look on Achilles Tsoukalas said all that he needed to say.

“Achilles . . . that’s a nice name. It’s like Achilles Heel. That’s what you will be to my enemies. You will be their fatal Achilles Heel.”

“Yes sir.”

“Achilles . . . do you believe that you and I are doing God’s work?”

“I don’t believe in God.”

“But what if He believes in you?” The obscure man in the darkness laughed the little laugh again. “I can see you are a hard atheist. That’s okay. I guess it helps in our line of work. It doesn’t really matter in the long run. The fact remains that you and I are going to do God’s work even if He doesn’t exist. . . . Do you know why we do God’s work?”

“No sir. Why?”

“Because my grandfather always told me that God laughs at the foolish plans and schemes of mankind. He thought that most men deserve to be scoffed at by the Almighty God.”

“Yes sir.”

“This bad man . . . my enemy . . . needs to be scoffed at by the Almighty.”

“I see,” said Achilles. But he did not.

~ ~ ~

They spoke in code. Early that morning Laprade placed the call to Sohlberg’s personal cell phone and said:

“I heard the price of bread in Poland might double.”

“That’s horrible. I wonder when that might happen.”

“I bet you the price hike will be today . . . no later than three in the afternoon. They say the same thing might happen to the price of tortillas in Mexico.”

“I understand. It could even happen to the price of wood products.”

As soon as they ended the call the two detectives knew that their meeting would be in a secluded open air terrace on the top floor of an office building next to the Hilton Hotel at 3:00 PM that same day.

I heard the price of bread in Poland might double.

“Double” always meant a meeting at one of four locations dispersed in the double row of twenty buildings known as
Cité Internationale
or International City. The buildings were conveniently located near Interpol Headquarters.

The detectives appreciated how easily they could evade surveillance in the vast multi-use complex.
Cité
offered them plenty of legitimate reasons to be visiting the covered pedestrian corridor lined with office buildings, hotels, residential housing, and dozens of restaurants and bars. Multiple public transportation stations granted the detectives easy access. So did the underground parking lots.

Cité Internationale
also provided ample crowds to get lost in during the day or night. Pharaoh Casino’s slot machines and traditional games brought in a steady stream of visitors at night as did a giant multi-screen movie complex. During the day crowds flocked to the Lyon Museum of Contemporary Art which occupied one of the middle buildings facing
Parc de la Tête d'Or
—Lyon’s more elegant version of London’s Hyde Park and New York City’s Central Park.

They say the same thing might happen to the price of tortillas in Mexico.

“Mexico” or anything or anyone Mexican meant the top floor terrace in the office building next to the Hilton Hotel because its founder—Conrad Hilton—had been born in New Mexico.

It could even happen to the price of wood products.

“Wood” and any reference to trees or forests meant a fallback meeting in the east staircase between the second and third floor of the building that housed the French law firm
Cabinet Ratheaux
.

Laprade and Sohlberg frequently changed their meeting venues throughout Lyon. They didn’t believe in making it easy for anyone to follow them. Unpredictable locations meant that if Laprade and Sohlberg were to be followed then someone would have to throw lots of money and manpower into surveillance. Laprade and Sohlberg also didn’t believe in making it easy for anyone to plant listening devices at known meeting locations.

~ ~ ~

As agreed the two detectives met at the top floor terrace at exactly three o’clock. They had unobstructed views of the Hilton Hotel in the next building. The summer sun bathed the
Parc de la Tête d'Or
in a brilliant light that failed to expose the schemes and dreams of men and women. White-roofed paddle boats and blue rowboats dotted the grand central lake. Children, parents, and grandparents strolled on the winding paths or they played in the grass or rested under the shade of splendid trees. Depending on the eye of the beholder the pleasant park was either an oasis or a mirage in the harsh and demanding deserts and disappointments of modern life.

“Welcome back,” said Laprade. “How was your little vacation?”

“I had four interesting days in Frankfurt.”

“Find anything on Azra Korbal?”

“Zero. I met with her parents and they didn’t recognize her picture. Same thing with her family and friends. It was a complete bust.”

 “Did my pal in Frankfurt . . . at the Federal Criminal Police Office help?”

“Yes. I called him . . . he put me in touch with a detective in Frankfurt . . . Hans Böll . . . he specializes in missing persons at the
Landespolizei
for Hesse.”

“Excellent. I’ve always liked how the
Bundeskriminalamt
helps foreign law enforcement find the right person to work with at the state level . . . specially in a big state like Hesse.”

“Böll was very kind. He went with me to all the meetings and he searched all databases . . . and nothing.”

Laprade squinted in the blinding light while he cleaned his sunglasses. “As we thought . . . someone with a lot of resources and connections picked a complete stranger to pose as Azra Korbal.”

“We’re back to Square One . . . she was planted inside Interpol by a foreign intelligence service or one of the drug cartels.”

“Or both,” said Laprade. “Pierre reminded me that drug cartels often work with intelligence services. The C.I.A. has a lot of heroin cartel members on its Afghan and Pakistan payroll . . . working on all sorts of operations.”

“I might have a tip or a lead . . . Hans Bonhoeffer . . . our friend from Switzerland . . . he called me yesterday and dropped a hint about ‘
That problem in Lyon
. . . .’”

“His words?”

“Yes. We need to go see him. He complained that you haven’t really helped him with his son. Why don’t you go with me and—”

Both men’s cell phones rang at the same time. They looked at each other and reached for their phones. Simultaneous incoming calls never bode well in law enforcement.

Sohlberg read the number on the Caller ID screen. The call was from the land line in his apartment. He immediately answered. His elderly housekeeper—Juliette Bonnaire—was barely understandable. She was breathless:

“Monsieur . . . some men are banging on the front door . . . they’re yelling for you and Madame Sohlberg to open the door . . . they are trying to get inside. They say they are with the police.”

“I’ll be right over there. Don’t open the door . . . I don’t care who they say they are!”

Laprade heard his caller’s message and shouted:

“Stop them! Don’t let them inside the apartment. Call for backup.”

Laprade and Sohlberg ran to the hallway and waited for the elevator together. Laprade punched the basement floor button once they got inside the lift. Normally one of the men would have waited 10 to 15 minutes after the other left the meeting site such that they would not be seen leaving together. But not today.

“Come in my car,” said Laprade. “I’ve got sirens and lights.”

Laprade’s turbo-charged Peugeot roared to life. He turned on the siren and its piercing scream filled the underground parking lot with an insane echo. The 4x4 all-road SUV model hugged the tight curves leading up to the ground floor and it exploded out of the ramp from the parking lot.

~ ~ ~

The Peugeot flew straight across the northbound lanes and it plowed through the shrubs in the center median. Tires screeched as other drivers slammed on their brakes to avoid hitting them on Quai Charles de Gaulle. The SUV almost rolled over when Laprade turned the vehicle to the left to get out of the median and into the southbound lanes.

“Hey,” said Sohlberg. “Be careful!”

Sohlberg’s apartment was less than one mile south. Laprade turned on the police radio but Sohlberg couldn’t make out what the urgent voices said in lightning-fast French.

Lights blazing the police SUV flew past Interpol Headquarters as Laprade swerved in and out of traffic. When drivers responded too slowly to the siren and blaring horn, Laprade swerved to the right and climbed up on the sidewalk to speed past the clump of open-mouthed drivers. The police vehicle hit speeds of more than 90 mph.

“Careful . . . be careful,” said Sohlberg softly as his surroundings blurred past him. Life itself narrowed down into a tunnel of fear and rage.

Will we get there in time to protect my old housekeeper from getting killed like Azra Korbal?

The Winston Churchill Bridge flew over them as Quai Charles de Gaulle became Avenue de Grande Bretagne. The road continued with two lanes but the traffic drastically slowed down. Laprade turned the car up unto a broad pedestrian walkway that faced the river and he floored the accelerator. They quickly got past the bottleneck and bounced back on the road when they reached a ramp that veered off to the right under the next bridge.