Sohlberg and the White Death (47 page)

Commissaire Georges Fauré introduced himself and said:

“I’m a colleague of Bruno . . . he asked me to keep you posted on developments. . . . I was the senior officer in charge of the scene at your apartment when you had that scare with your housekeeper and the two idiots from Interpol.”

“I remember.”

“Forensics says that the explosive device is the work of a brilliant designer. The bomb-maker used a plastic explosive from England . . . it was set to go off only after the car engine had been turned on a specific number of times . . . that allowed whoever planted the bomb plenty of time to escape.”

“How did the bomber get access to Laprade’s car?”

“We think the bomb was planted in the car sometime during the first week of August when you and Laprade went to Paris . . . that was the only time when the bomber had unlimited access to wire the car and plant the bomb. The army sent over a team to help our forensics people. They say it’s going to take a couple of weeks if not months to figure out who did this.”

“I’ll pass on your message to Laprade. What were the final numbers on casualties . . . deaths?”

“Marine Venner of course. . . . Then there’s the poor man who was driving behind Venner with his elderly mother. The son and mother are dead. They got the worst of the blast from the gas tank.”

“Awful,” said Sohlberg.

“There’s more . . . a nurse who just happened to walk in front of and to the right of Laprade. She died on the spot. Her colleague lost both legs and an eye. A dozen more were wounded . . . mostly from glass.”

“Oh my God.”

“It is bad. . . . How is Bruno?”

“Better than expected,” said Sohlberg. “He’s on his way to full recovery.”

“I’d hate to be the poor bastard who ordered this outrage. They’re going to be sorry and find out what real Hell is like once Bruno is done with them.”

“I’m sure,” said Sohlberg who immediately remembered the bridge at Pougny. He wanted to say, “It’s been six weeks since Domenico Pelle got his perpetual timeshare in Hell.”

~ ~ ~

Two days after the bomb Sohlberg and Laprade met for an early lunch at Cafe de la Bibliothèque. Pedestrians stared at the man with a thin bald row of angry red stitches on his scalp. The two detectives watched the young couples in love who walked arm in arm along the Saône River.

“Hard to believe that we met here only four months ago to talk about Azra Korbal and her non-existent family,” said Sohlberg. “Everything feels like it happened several lifetimes ago . . . her murder . . . the funeral . . . the bombs . . . everything.”

Laprade threw a folded newspaper on the table. “Read it. Top column on the left.”

The article in
Le Progrès
started out with a description of how a French fisherman had found large pieces of a thoroughly decomposed Domenico Pelle in the Rhône River. The reporter quoted a local gendarme who declared that:

“The Italian crime figure was too far gone for accurate forensics. But we did find one bullet in his torso. We recovered his driver’s license inside a sock when his foot washed up in a shoe on a river bank. Comparison testing for D.N.A. with a family member in prison confirmed his identity.”

Sohlberg read on with anxious interest. Unnamed sources stated that Swiss, French, and Italian law enforcement could not figure out who had jurisdiction over his murder because no one could tell with certainty in which country Domenico Pelle had been shot to death.

The reporter wrote that:

“The death of Domenico Pelle is most likely due to a settling of scores tied to old grievances inside the 'Ndrangheta. The organization is in disarray. A power struggle has broken out, specially after the retirement of
capo crimine
Francesco Zappia, who has gone into hiding. One major figure, Giancarlo Imerti, has disappeared. A coordinated attack by Interpol resulted in the arrest of hundreds of 'Ndrangheta soldiers and dozens of bosses.”

Laprade laughed. “I told you that no one would miss Ishmael . . . that no one would raise a stink about another dead mobster.”

“Yeah. But we now have to worry about Two Kings Zappia and Giancarlo Imerti coming after us. What are you going to do . . . kill both of them?”

“I will do what I have to do. . . . I’m not afraid of these men.”

“We’re not supposed to be the judge . . . jury . . . and executioner.”

Laprade snorted. “Domenico Pelle was going to kill us. He came close to putting me under. What more do you want?. . . I don’t know about Norway . . . the land of the Nobel Peace Prize and other fantasies . . . but here in France we have a right to self-defense . . . even when it’s pre-emptive.”

“Yes but—”

“But nothing. What’s done is done,” said Laprade. “It’s time to move on and get over it. I’ll pick you up at one o’clock in Vénissieux . . . just like the last time. Make sure you take the train from the Saxe-Gambetta station. I’ll be waiting for you in the same side street . . . and the same car.”

“The old Citroen?”

“The one and only.”

 Sohlberg leaned closer to Laprade. “Are you going to kill someone on this trip?”

“Take it easy. We’re going to save people . . . not to destroy them. You’ll see.”

~ ~ ~

Sohlberg employed the usual counter-surveillance tactics on his way out to his meeting with Laprade. A very dead Domenico Pelle did not change the fact that plenty of members of the 'Ndrangheta remained free and at large. Sooner or later they would retaliate. Sohlberg worried about the fact that no one knew the whereabout of Two Kings Zappia and Giancarlo Imerti.

Who’s to say that one or both of these two mobsters haven’t put a contract on me or Laprade?

He would have to watch his back for the rest of his life.

The turquoise-colored Citroen waited for Sohlberg on Rue Raimu. He sat on the passenger side and looked at the backseat. A hood covered the head of a thin man. Chains bound the man’s handcuffed wrists to his shackled feet.

Laprade raised his finger to his lips. Sohlberg remained silent during the three hour drive out to Challex. The sun of late summer brushed the land with an amber glaze.

The tiny village was two miles north of the bridge where Domenico Pelle had met Death. The Rhône River flowed past them on the right. Laprade pulled into a narrow grassy area on the left as soon as they passed a curve.

Laprade turned to face the shackled man in the back seat. “Don’t even think of getting up. Stay down. If I see that you’re trying to get up then I’ll blow your head off. Don’t move until we come back.”

The two men got off the car. Laprade locked the doors and they walked along the road for about 50 yards. The detectives crossed a low bridge over a creek and they waited at the midpoint on a narrow sidewalk.

On the Swiss side of the creek a man jumped out of an Audi which was parked on a paved lot on the right. Hans Bonhoeffer headed straight to the bridge. He stood a yard from the two detectives. “Where’s my son?”

Sohlberg studied the man’s face. It was hard to tell if he had brought the ransom for his son. Sohlberg turned to look at Laprade and he panicked. Laprade reached under his suit. Sohlberg wondered if a pistol and gunshot were next.

Laprade took out a crumbled box of Gitanes unfiltered
Brunes
. He put his lips around the cigarette and slipped the box back into his coat’s interior pocket. He lit the cigarette with a sterling silver lighter. The lighter had a gold inlay with the emblem of the French Foreign Legion—stylized flames that pour out of a round hand grenade. Laprade took his time smoking.

“Where’s my son?”

“Where are the papers?”

“Show me my son.”

“No. First things first. You show us the papers that you copied.”

“Why?”

“We need to make sure that you got inside the vault of the Cantonal Bank of Zurich . . . that you actually copied the notebook and file that Carlos Samper bought from the Russians. We need to make sure that the papers are genuine . . . that they’re about the North Korean nuclear program and
not
the porn collection of some Columbian drug lord.”

Hans Bonhoeffer blanched. “You better bring me my son. I’m not responsible for what’s in those papers”

“Oh yes you are. If you didn’t bring us the material that we’re looking for then you don’t get your son. Period. This is the best deal you’re going to get from us.”

“I first want to make sure that you brought my son.”

“He’s in a car . . . back there.”

The Swiss lawyer frowned. He took a long hard look at the Citroen. “I don’t see anyone in the car.”

“He’s in the back seat,” said Laprade. “Technically your son is an escaped convict. He’s wanted and will remain a wanted man until his capture. Make sure that he never leaves Switzerland. If he ever gets captured outside of Switzerland he will be executed.”

“Why?”

“We can’t have him blabbing about how his escape was arranged . . . how he arrived straight into his Daddy’s arms as part of a deal with the authorities.”

“I don’t like your threats.”

“You better like them because this threat should be a great motivator for your son to stay on the straight and narrow path.”

“Alright,” said Bonhoeffer with the sad resignation of a man who knows that he’s got a losing hand with a reckless idiot for a son. “Here are the copies.”

Laprade put his hand out. Sohlberg saw something drop into Laprade’s open palm.

“Wait here,” said Laprade.

The detectives walked back to the Citroen. Laprade inserted a thumb drive into his computer tablet. He transmitted the files to his friend Pierre. Laprade’s cell phone rang four cigarettes later. The caller spoke at length. Laprade ended the call by saying:

“Okay. We’ll do it.”

Hans Bonhoeffer, Jr. thrashed about and tried to remove the hood over his head by wriggling his head against the seat. “No! . . . Please. . . . Don’t kill me. I swear I never said a word about you guys. I never told them who gave me the coke.”

“Shut up,” said Laprade. “You’re going home to papa and mama. Don’t ever talk to anyone about your little trip out here or I’ll personally hunt you down and cut your throat. . . . Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t ever even
think
of leaving Switzerland unless you’re very dead inside a coffin. . . . Or that will be the way you get shipped back to your parents. Understand?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Now . . . tightly close your eyes. I’ll cut your eyes out of your skull if you open them when I pull off the hood. Okay?”

“I’ll keep them closed.”

“As soon as you leave the car keep walking . . . and do not look back after I drop you off at the border. Do
not
take the sunglasses off until your father tells you that he drove past the Firmenich factory. If I see you pull off the glasses then I will catch up with you and kill you. I’ll repeat the instructions to your father.”

“My father?”

“Yeah. Who do you think would waste their time rescuing you? . . . There aren’t too many people I know who want to help a failed drug trafficker. By the way . . . it’s time for you to find a new hobby or line of work because you’re not cut out to be a criminal.”

Laprade went around to the back of the car. He slipped off the hood and put a pair of wraparound sunglass on Hans Junior. A thin layer of cardboard had been glued to the inside of the sunglasses and then sprayed with black paint. The commissaire pulled Bonhoeffer Junior out of the car. Laprade took off the chains and the leg shackles but not the handcuffs. The detective said:

“The handcuffs stay until we get to the border. Now walk. And keep your trap shut.”

The guard and his prisoner marched down the road. Sohlberg opened the passenger door but Laprade lifted his hand to indicate that Sohlberg should stay in the car.

Sohlberg took out a set of binoculars from the glove box. He watched Bonhoeffer Senior who was clearly overcome. The government lawyer wiped tears off his face. Laprade and his prisoner got closer and closer to the border.

As soon as he reached the middle of the bridge Laprade grabbed a key out of his pant pocket. He unlocked the handcuffs and watched father and son walk to their car. The Bonhoeffers drove away without incident.

Sohlberg sighed. At least no one had been shot to death.

Laprade started the Peugeot’s engine. He made a u-turn on Route de la Plaine to head back to Lyon. “Well. That’s done.”

“The prodigal son returns.”

“We’ll see,” said Laprade. “Some people never learn.”

~ ~ ~

Less than 80 yards from the border Sohlberg noticed an odd sculpture that he had seen on the way to the meeting with Bonhoeffer. The ugly red metal sculpture looked like the turbine blades of a jet airplane.

Laprade slowed down. He took a sharp right turn where Route de la Plaine curved to the north at the intersection with Chemin de Moulin. Sohlberg was about to make a comment about the hideous sculpture when he saw a police motorcycle that was parked behind the small white building next to the sculpture.