~ ~ ~
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. . . .”
After the autopsy no one had stepped forward to claim the remains of the woman who had posed as Azra Korbal. The provincial government of Rhône-Alpes paid for her cremation and a simple cardboard box. Sohlberg contacted Interpol’s Human Resources department which sent him to the Accounting Department which refused to pay anything or make any contribution. According to one of the more human and sympathetic of the bean counters:
“Mademoiselle was an hourly employee. Nothing more. She only had a health and dental plan. Her benefit plan didn’t include funeral expenses. She had no death benefits.”
“Obviously not,” replied Sohlberg. “Death rarely has benefits.”
Sohlberg appealed to General Secretary Ron Noble in an e-mail that went unanswered. Laprade, Sohlberg, and Ziedan therefore paid for the cherry wood box, the onyx urn, and the cinerary niche at a mausoleum out of their own funds.
And now it was time for the funeral of Azra Korbal on that lovely day.
Sohlberg hated funerals. But he had to arrange one for the Jane Doe who pretended to be Azra Korbal. If not for Sohlberg’s intervention her unclaimed ashes would have been buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave.
Harald Sohlberg’s personal code required that the Abandoned and the Murdered receive one last respectful goodbye even if the world and the Dead One’s own family and friends have deserted them. He started observing that tradition soon after he made the rank of inspector. With three other colleagues in the Oslo Police district he had personally paid for the burial of a murdered 14-year-old girl whose family of drunks and drug addicts refused to be bothered with her death or funeral.
“Laprade,” said Sohlberg, “thanks for pulling strings and calling favors.”
“No need to thank me.”
Commissaire Laprade lied. Funerals in France have never been an easy matter. Large cities like Lyon have few cemeteries and even fewer available resting places. Laprade fixed the problem. The French detective called an old friend at the Ministry of the Interior. He asked her to use her aristocratic family network to procure an almost impossible-to-obtain burial spot at a mausoleum in the Cimetière de la Guillotière Nouveau. Sohlberg, Ziedan, and Laprade then split the enormous bill for Jane Doe’s mausoleum internment at the regal cemetery.
“Well,” said Sohlberg, “here they are.”
~ ~ ~
A taxicab dropped off Fru Sohlberg and Madame Ziedan at the main gate on Avenue Berthelot. The women got inside Laprade’s enormous SUV and he drove the group off to the crypt. The cemetery was laid out in circular rings and the narrow roads were lined with elaborate tombs that ranged from neoclassical Greek temples to marble or granite slabs watched over by awesome sculptures of angels, children, dogs, and other guardians and companions of the dead.
Emma Sohlberg pointed at a dignified tall man who was dressed in a dark suit and standing in front of the mausoleum. “Good. I thought he wasn’t able to make it.”
“Who is he?” said Laprade.
“Jonathon Stone. He’s a retired American pastor that some friends suggested. I had no idea what else to do . . . I asked him to say a few spiritual words . . . even though none of us knew if Azra had any religious preferences.”
After introductions the group hovered around a simple table covered in white cloth. Three large floral arrangements stood on separate tripods behind the table. Sohlberg laid the cherry wood box with the urn on the table. A dark empty crypt high up in the white marble wall waited to receive her remains.
Rev. Stone clutched the edge of the table. “Thank you everyone for attending this special and sacred occasion. We are gathered here today to lay to rest this young woman. . . .”
The words faded away as Sohlberg began to plan the strategy to find out who killed the young woman and who ordered her death and why.
“In Corinthians we are told that ‘No eye has seen . . . no ear has heard . . . and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love Him. . . .’”
A visit to Frankfurt Germany was in order. Sohlberg just had to interview the parents of the real Azra Korbal. He would start off by showing them a picture of Interpol’s Azra Korbal and finding out if they knew her under another name.
“One Peter One . . . verse twenty-four . . . reminds us that ‘All men are like grass . . . and all their glory is like the flowers of the field . . . the grass withers and the flowers fall. . . .’”
Sohlberg also planned on interviewing the family and friends and acquaintances of the real Azra Korbal.
“James Four-fourteen tells us . . . ‘Your life is like the morning fog . . . a mist . . . it’s here a little while . . . then it's gone.’”
Sohlberg’s plans had been set in motion as soon as he had found out that the Empty Suits at the top floor of Interpol wanted no outside agencies working on the Azra Korbal case. According to a memo: “Interpol’s Internal Affairs Department is best suited to investigate the murder of Azra Korbal.”
“Weeping may endure for a night . . . but joy comes in the morning.”
Sohlberg studied the pretty floral arrangements. He had looked over the flowers and read the senders’ cards after shaking hands with the minister. The arrangement on the right came from the Sohlbergs and Laprade. The one of the left was paid for by the Ziedans and others in the translation department. The middle arrangement was enormous and the card said:
IN MEMORY OF AZRA KORBAL
— INTERPOL.
A flicker of doubt raced across Sohlberg’s mind.
Why would Interpol have sent such a lavish arrangement after they refused to pay for anything?
“On that glorious resurrection morning promised to everyone regardless of their faith or belief—”
Sohlberg ran up to the arrangement. He grabbed it and threw it behind a large tombstone that was more than four feet in length and height and at least one foot in thickness.
“What are you doing?” said Rev. Stone. “What’s going on?”
Sohlberg shouted:
“We didn’t order those flowers. They can’t be from Interpol. Everyone . . . listen . . . we need to move away now. . . . Laprade . . . call the bomb squad.”
The little group of mourners scurried away quickly. They stood behind Laprade’s car for cover.
Rageh Ziedan gave a pitying look at Sohlberg. “Don’t you think you’re getting a little too paranoid?”
Sohlberg was about to answer when a powerful blast sent a shock wave and debris into the air. The marble tombstone was gone—shattered into tiny pieces that rained down on the mourners. Forensics later determined that the tombstone had shielded them from ten pounds of nails and screws embedded in Semtex plastic explosive.
Visitors to the cemetery ran towards the bomb site to offer help.
Sohlberg grabbed Rev. Stone’s arm. “You arrived before us . . . did you see who brought in the arrangement?”
“It was already here. All three arrangements were already here.”
A cemetery worker told Laprade that a black van had delivered two of the floral arrangements and that a red minivan had dropped off the large arrangement. No one remembered seeing any business names on the vehicles. The card on the bomb turned out to be as untraceable as the rest of the materials.
Police, forensics teams, and a bomb squad worked frantically in the cemetery. Four hours later a cemetery worker was allowed to climb up a ladder and place the urn with the ashes of Azra Korbal inside the crypt.
~ ~ ~
Laprade dropped off the
Ziedans at the Saxe-Gambetta subway station. He then drove the Sohlbergs home. Traffic and pedestrians swirled about them. People went in and out of restaurants and bars. It was as if nothing had taken place at the cemetery.
Sohlberg wanted to get out of the car and scream:
“We just survived an assassination attempt! . . . Can you believe it? . . . We’re alive!”
No one would really have cared or listened. The banality of modern city life depressed Sohlberg.
The sun sank behind the hills of Lyon as placidly as if nothing had taken place at the cemetery. The incandescent orb ignored the funeral of Azra Korbal and the attempted murder of six. There was nothing new under the sun—someone lived; someone died. Tomorrow the sun would rise again on the miasma of human problems.
~ ~ ~
Laprade spent the rest of the evening with the Sohlbergs at their apartment. After a late dinner Fru Sohlberg served a local delicacy from Pâtisserie d'Ainay where the artisan bakers created a sublime version of Coussin de Lyon. They devoured the heavenly little cushions of foam-like chocolate ganache enveloped in pale green marzipan.
After the men cleared the table and washed the dishes Fru Sohlberg announced she would retire to read in bed and leave the men to talk shop.
~ ~ ~
“If we’re not careful too much time will pass in Azra’s case,” said Sohlberg. “Leads will dry up. It will become an unsolved case . . . then a cold case” His eyes narrowed. “I hate unsolved cases. They drive me borderline insane. An unsolved case is like a sore in your mouth that you keep painfully tonguing over and over until it heals.”
Laprade nodded. “I agree. We have a cold case in the making . . . right under our noses. By the way . . . I finally received the toxicology report. Azra had no drugs at all in her system. On the other hand her boyfriend was too intoxicated by the heroin to shoot a gun at anyone . . . including himself.”
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 4
