Sohlberg and the White Death

by Jens Amundsen

  “Enough!” yelled Sohlberg. “You’re crazy and maybe even a dirty cop.”

  “You’re an ingrate. I took the money to save you and me from getting a hole in the head like Azra Korbal! . . . You are such a virgin Boy Scout!”

  A half-hour later Sohlberg finally spoke. Someone had to start off the round of apologies. “Sorry I’m such a pain in the neck. I’ll order something else next time instead of my hot chocolate or mineral water.”

  Laprade let out an exaggerated sigh. “You’re an antisocial rebel when you refuse to drink or smoke in France.”

  “A man only has two things in life. His family and his integrity. Lose them and you have nothing in the end.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The fields glowed yellow in their late summer glory. The two detectives were now four miles from the border with Switzerland. Laprade slowed down to 5 mph as soon as he saw the bridge where the D7 Highway passes over the E-62 Highway. Immediately after the bridge Laprade turned right and pulled into a narrow 2-lane road.

  A metal gate blocked the men.

  “Will you do me the honors?” Laprade handed Sohlberg a special key.

  The Norwegian got out of the car. He used the key that the highway patrol uses to open gates to side roads where gendarmerie highway patrols park their cars or motorcycles in wait for speeding drivers. After Sohlberg locked the gate behind them the Citroen purred up the road and turned right into northbound D7.

  “Before I forget . . . Pierre did some snooping around on Azra Korbal. Don’t complain about him maybe interfering with Locust. He had to do it since he just can’t let someone like Korbal operate under his nose in France without taking a sniff at her.”

  “I’m not complaining,” said Sohlberg who wanted to grumble about the possibility of French intelligence screwing up his investigation. But he decided not to further irritate his partner.

  “Pierre,” said Laprade, “is one hundred percent sure that Azra Korbal was a Russian plant. The only people who could completely hide her identity are the F.S.B. or the Mossad.”

  “What about the C.I.A. or the British?”

  “Nah. The Yanks are amateurs when it comes to human spies. The Brits are good but they’re broke. They wouldn’t have gone through such expense or trouble to get someone inside Interpol.”

  “So,” said Sohlberg. “Someone in Moscow or Jerusalem went to a lot of trouble to cover up her true identity.”

  “Pierre doubts if it’s the Mossad. They’re very focused on Israel and its enemies. I agree with Pierre that the top people in the Kremlin would be very very interested in checking out how much Interpol knows about their links to organized crime.”

  “Like Semion Mogilevich and Domenico Pelle.”

  “Exactly,” said Laprade.

  “Think about it. Why would a Russian judge release Mogilevich when he’s on the F.B.I.’s list of Ten Most Wanted Fugitives? . . . Why would the government of Ukraine have destroyed his criminal files?”

  “I still don’t understand why Semion Mogilevich has so much power inside Russia.”

  Sohlberg laughed. “Because it’s easy in the New Russia . . . Mogilevich bribed . . . blackmailed and strong-armed his way into owning a big fat chunk of Russia’s biggest natural gas pipeline. He then doles out cash and stock ownership to Russian politicians out of his three billion dollar stake in RosUkrEnergo . . . which is of course headquartered in Zug Switzerland.”

  The Norwegian’s blood pressure always rose when he thought about the corrupt and secret owners of the Swiss-registered pipeline company that sells billions of dollars of natural gas every year to Europe from giant reservoirs in Russia, Ukraine, and Turkmenistan.

  ~ ~ ~

  The ascending road delivered the two men from the furnace in the valley. At the higher altitude the air cooled. The winding road narrowed down to one lane and it offered splendid views of the valley, mountains, and sloping fields. A stop for a picnic almost seemed in order as the road looped up the broad foothills between the villages of Raclaz and La Fontaine.

  “I can’t believe this,” shouted Laprade before he slammed on the brakes and smashed his hand down on the horn.

  A caravan of gypsies from Spain blocked the road. A small group of men were lifting one of the trailer campers which had lost its tires after the rear axle shattered. Old cars and rusty camper trailers lined the road and fields. Children ran after each other in games of wild abandon. The Romani gathered for an early dinner under a nearby tree. Five men sang a haunting flamenco melody while strumming their sad guitars.

  With a jealous eye Sohlberg surveyed the free. They were not prisoners to a boss or a career or a pension plan. He identified with those who roam the world and belong nowhere. For a brief moment Sohlberg wished that he and Emma could run off and leave everything and everyone behind.

  Laprade screamed. The freemen on the road ignored him.

  “C’mon,” said Sohlberg. “Let’s help them. Otherwise we’re going to be here a long time.”

  “No way. Damn gypsies.”

  Sohlberg was about to get out when the sunburnt men pushed a makeshift flatbed trailer under the camper. A few minutes later the road cleared. Laprade drove the Citroen past the sweating men. Sohlberg clearly heard them talking about his companion. One phrase iced his blood.

  “Ochi . . . moarte.”

  The gitanos knowingly muttered that Sohlberg’s partner had the Eye of Death.

  ~ ~ ~

  They crossed the Rhône River in the dusk and soon entered the charming village of Collonges on the foothills of the French Alps. Sohlberg looked up to see the stars. He saw nothing but a black mass. The height of the mountains next to the village surprised him. Laprade turned right at the intersection with Farm Road D984B. The village disappeared in the darkness.

  Sohlberg loved the view of the expansive valley that stretched out below them. Little lights were splashed here and there on the valley floor. The lights reminded Sohlberg that somebody out there was enjoying a peaceful and crime-free life.

  “Here we change cars,” said Laprade as he pulled the Citroen off the road and down an unpaved road. A mile later they reached an abandoned barn and stable.

  “You’ve been busy. When did you have time to arrange all of this?”

  “Pierre likes to help his war buddies.”

  Laprade opened the padlock to the barn and he drove out a black and boxy 4-door tin can known as the Fiat 124.

  “Where did you get this relic?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Neat rows of stacked gasoline containers and kerosene cans on the side of the barn caught Sohlberg’s interest. “What’s this for?”

  “For you to fill up the Citroen’s gas tank.”

  Sohlberg lifted a heavy 5-gallon container by the handle. “I don’t know much about car engines. But I don’t think French cars run on kerosene.”

  “Leave those cans alone. Don’t worry about it.”

  Sohlberg wondered if the kerosene was meant to light an improvised funeral pyre for his corpse.

  Did Laprade bring me out to the countryside on false pretenses to kill me?

  Is Laprade going to kill me now that I know he took bribes from Ishmael?

  “What’s next?” said Sohlberg as calmly as possible to conceal an increasing sense of doom.

  Laprade opened the trunk of the Citroen. He pointed at one of two sets of vintage French clothing that he had bought at a flea market. “We’re changing. Everything. Even your underwear. This also means shoes. Socks. Pants. Shirts. Wristwatch. Ring. Wallet and that includes your badge. Everything. Don’t forget to put on the beret and use the coat to hide your gun.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Do it. We can’t be recognized. Just do it.”

  A reluctant Sohlberg changed alongside Laprade. They folded their clothes neatly and put their bundles and shoes and wallets and other belongings into the Citroen’s trunk. Both men looked like down-and-out French pensioners who could
not afford clothes made after the 1950s.

  “Good,” said Laprade. “You almost look French.”

  “I almost smell like one . . . I stink with all the sweat that’s saturated on these clothes. When are you people ever going to take showers?”

  “Showers are for wimps.”

  Laprade walked to the Citroen and reached under the driver’s seat. He pulled out a .38 Special.

  Sohlberg recognized the weapon as a Holek revolver made by Alfa Proj—a gun manufacturer in the Czech Republic. The serial number was filed off.

  “Extra protection,” said Laprade.

  Sohlberg looked at the gun.

  Is that the gun that will end my life?

  The Citroen would not fit inside the barn. The weathered and splintery wood door obstinately bulged and refused to close. Laprade spent ten minutes pushing and cursing before he was finally able to padlock the door. Meanwhile Sohlberg tried hard to figure out why they were changing cars and outfits. One possibility was that he was being anonymously dressed for his last undercover job as an unidentified corpse in some little country morgue. That also meant his wife would never find him once he was buried in a common grave for paupers and vagrants.

  “Alright-y,” said Laprade. “Let’s take a break. I’ve got bread and cheese in the trunk of the Fiat . . . and some wine for me and . . . organic mineral water for you.”

  Stars spilled across the moonless sky. The men sat on the grass and ate and drank in silence.

  “I checked all of the Azra Korbal translation files.”

  “And?” said Laprade.

  “A pattern emerged. She started doing the occasional translation for me. Azra turned out to be fast and accurate. She also stayed late when needed and worked over the weekend or holidays. That’s an extreme rarity for anyone at Interpol. Everyone is strictly nine to five . . . Monday to Friday. So I came to depend on her more and more.”

  “You liked her. You liked being around her. She was pretty and attractive. Admit it.”

  “I admit that she was attractive. But that’s not why I relied on her to do translations. You don’t really understand me or my values. I would have wanted her around me and liked her even if she had been a bald toothless hag. Why? . . . Because I valued Azra for her accuracy and work ethic. That made her attractive to me. I would never even think of working with a woman I have a crush on . . . let alone inviting her to meet my wife.”

  “Okay,” said Laprade. “You’re boring.”

  “And safe. I don’t look for trouble. I don’t destroy what’s good in my life.”

  “And never will. . . . Go on with what you discovered.”

  “Azra worked on translating every one of the major informants on 'Ndrangheta projects . . . including all of the tips that we got about their shipping activities. She knew almost everything that we had discovered about the 'Ndrangheta. . . .”

  “This is a disaster,” said Laprade.

  “It’s more than a disaster. . . . Ninety-five percent of our informants in 'Ndrangheta projects died within a few weeks or months after she discovered their true identity.”

  “Did she know that we had informants who told us about the 'Ndrangheta buying . . . for pennies on the dollar . . . dozens of oil tankers and container ships that the Great Recession left empty and floating off Singapore?”

  “Yes. She also knew how the Italians converted parts of the ships’ structures into giant holds for cocaine. She knew that the ships only make port in countries where the 'Ndrangheta paid for protection from the government.”

  Laprade cursed. “This is sickening. She had access to all of the information that we got from informants around the world.”

  “Yes.”

  “So she knew how the 'Ndrangheta registered their ships in Panama and Liberia?”

  “Yes,” said Sohlberg.

  “She knew how the Italians paid off the top people in those governments to refuse any country’s request to stop and search the boats on international waters?”

  Sohlberg nodded as a queasy disgust tightened around his throat and stomach.

  “Azra Korbal knew that we had information on how the Italians bring the cocaine into Morocco?”

  A squeamish nod from Sohlberg.

  “How they offload the snow and store it in warehouses that the Moroccan army safeguards for the 'Ndrangheta?”

  Another nod.

  “How the royal family and generals in Rabat take fifty million dollars a month from the 'Ndrangheta?”

  Nausea tightened its grasp on Sohlberg.

  “How the Italians use drone aircraft to transport the cocaine from Morocco into Spain . . . Italy and France?”

  Sohlberg’s stomach gurgled and growled in acid reflux. He could see his career ending in the flames of scandal and the rotting debris of failure.

  Laprade cursed. “Did Azra know that our informants told us that after their drones land the 'Ndrangheta break down the shipments into one pound packages . . . for distribution all over Europe through dozens and dozens of 'Ndrangheta family couriers who are impossible to catch?”

  Sohlberg nodded. The Norwegian’s heart skipped a beat.

  “So Azra Korbal knew everything that we knew about Ishmael’s just-in-time delivery system for 'Ndrangheta inventory inside Europe?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Did Azra know that Randall Johnson told us that Ishmael wanted to take over Johnson’s company and start hiring engineers from Boeing and General Atomics . . . the same guys who make drone aircraft for the American military?”

  Sohlberg almost retched. “Yes. That’s why Randall Johnson and so many of our informants started disappearing. Dying. Mysterious accidents. Suspicious deaths. It wasn’t until after we spoke with Devin Archer that I finally got suspicious about the incredibly high death rate for the informants who tipped us off about the 'Ndrangheta using big ships to bring cocaine from Columbia to Morocco . . . and then using large-size drones to fly the coke into Spain and Europe.”

  “So there’s your answer. Sohlberg . . . that’s it! . . That’s why Domenico Pelle had Azra Korbal killed. He knew that we were on to him. Pelle needed to cover his tracks.”

  “Or,” said Sohlberg, “his partners in the Kremlin did it for him . . . before we got suspicious about Azra.”

  Laprade looked at his wristwatch. “Time to go. Did you bring the flashlight? . . . I brought one in case you forgot.”

  “I remembered.”

  “Make sure you carefully review everything he gives you.”

  “Are you micro-managing me? . . . Anything else you want to boss me around with?”

  “Just checking.”

  Sohlberg squeezed his fist in the utter darkness. “You do your job. I’ll do mine.”

  ~ ~ ~

  At one o’clock in the morning Laprade drove the Fiat on D984B east to the tiny village of Pougny. They crossed the railroad tracks and passed one home on the right and one on the left.

  “He should be here in a few minutes.”

  Laprade turned off the engine and pulled over into the muddy shoulder. A narrow one-lane bridge stretched over the Rhône River. No lights illuminated the bridge and it was free of border guards and customs house. The inky river glided by silently. Without a moon or electric lights the night’s murkiness wrapped the steel truss bridge in threatening shadows.

  After five minutes Sohlberg said:

  “He better not cancel. I want this over and done with.”

  “So do I.”

  A set of piercing halogen headlights rushed towards them along a road on the Swiss side of the river. Dogs barked somewhere in the Swiss village of Chancy across the river. A shiny black car stopped about fifty yards before it reached the bridge. The car vanished as soon as the driver killed the headlights. The vehicle moved again and inched further along until it parked off the road by the end of the bridge.

  “That’s him. Let’s go.”

  Sohlberg and Laprade sauntered to the middle of the dark bridge. The water
gurgled and slithered below them. A blackish figure left the car and walked towards them.

  A terse whisper came out of Domenico Pelle:

  “Where’s my chemist?”

  Laprade exhaled loudly. “Show us the documents that I asked for. We want some proof that you can actually deliver us the North Koreans who are working on a nuke.”

  “Give me my chemist first.”

  “No.”

  Domenico Pelle cursed. “Alright. I’ve got a copy of four pages of top-secret documents with me.” He reached for his inside coat pocket and pulled out some folded papers. “This is all you get.”

  “My partner,” said Laprade, “will check out the documents. If they look interesting then you will get what you came for. . . .”

  “You better deliver Edvard Csáky to me tonight.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get what you need.”

  Sohlberg took the papers from Pelle’s hand. The detective shined a pencil-thin MagLite flashlight on the pages. A stiff cold wind swooped down from the Alps and over the river. The pages flapped around into an unreadable blur. Sohlberg moved next to Pelle so that the Italian’s body would block the wind.

  “Hurry. It’s cold.”

  Sohlberg took his time reviewing the documents. He was not about to start taking orders from a criminal let alone one responsible for so much death and misery with his Columbian white powder.

  “Are you done? . . . I’ve got places to go to. I’m running out of time.”

  Sohlberg finished reading the document—a bunch of gibberish copied from Wikipedia. He looked up and was surprised to see that Laprade now had his gun trained on him. “What is this?”

  “The end of the road for you,” said a laughing Domenico Pelle.

  Sohlberg stared at Laprade. “I should have known it was you.”

  “Give me your gun.”

  “No.”

  “Kneel.”

  Sohlberg sneered. He turned around and gave his back to Laprade and the gangster.