people in power.” He pointed at the cover of L'Express . The magazine’s lead article exposed the collapse of Greek society into drugs, poverty, prostitution, and suicide after the European Union and International Monetary Fund imposed “necessary measures to preserve the banking and financial systems of Europe as well as the bond ratings of Greece and the European banks that hold Greek bonds and debt.”
A few minutes passed while Laprade read the magazine and softly cursed politicians around the world. Eventually he fell into a meditative silence which meant that he was studying the roses and carnations in his garden.
Madame Theillaud blew on her piping hot coffee and read the local Le Progrès newspaper. She nibbled on a croissant while she studied him. “What’s wrong? . . . You look worried.”
“I might have a problem. . . .”
“Who?”
“An honest man. Totally scrupulous. Cannot be bought or corrupted.”
“In other words . . . a dangerous man.”
Laprade’s eyes shifted away from her and the truth of her words. Sohlberg could eventually become a problem—a liability that had to be eliminated.
~ ~ ~
Police work numbs the mind and soul. Sohlberg felt nothing by the end of the work day. But then Laprade called him. The two men agreed to rendezvous at 5:00 PM.
After undertaking counter-surveillance measures the two detectives met near Interpol at the Lyon MAC or Museum of Contemporary Art— Musée d'art contemporain de Lyon . The MAC was always empty one hour before closing time unless a popular exhibit was showing. The enormous and empty galleries afforded the two men just the right amount of privacy. The enclosed spaces also let them keep tabs on anyone who might be following them or trying to eavesdrop.
Both men stared in disbelief at some of the ugly and nonsensical junk that passed for modern art.
Sohlberg spoke softly. The giant canvases of bad art absorbed his voice. “I sent Emma off to a safe place.”
“You think the French police can’t protect her?”
“I do. But you know the old saying . . . you can’t put all your trust in one basket.”
Laprade shrugged a Gallic shrug that said, “Nothing ever changes.”
Sohlberg appreciated that Laprade did not ask where his wife had sought refuge. He would’ve had to lie. And Laprade would’ve discovered it was a lie. Some things are best left unasked and unanswered.
The men moved on to the next hideous painting of a giant doll attacking a city.
Sohlberg pointed and guffawed. “This must be a joke.”
“Modern art is neither modern nor is it art.”
Sohlberg was surprised at Laprade’s wit. “How true. . . . What did forensics have to say about the computer I found in her car?”
“Good news and bad news. The good news is that there’s no information about Ishmael or Operation Locust on the computer’s hard drive or on the thumb drive. The bad news . . . there are plenty of transcripts of meetings with informants in non-Locust cases that you and other Interpol advisors are working on. . . .”
“What cases?”
“They’re all over the map. Bribes for European Union bureaucrats in Brussels . . . kickbacks for shady middlemen in arms deals for fighter jets sold by England and France . . . money laundering . . . the usual.”
“Not good,” said Sohlberg. “What do your D.G.S.E. pals have to say about the D.N.A. from the real Azra Korbal?”
“The D.N.A. of the transplanted heart matched the D.N.A. of the parents of Azra Korbal. . . . Don’t ask me how they got samples from the transplant recipient or her parents.”
“I can’t even imagine how they did that. Anything else?”
“A bicycle.”
“A bicycle?” said Sohlberg.
“I spoke with Daudet. . . . He’s hard-working and clever. I’m impressed.”
“What’s he up to?”
“Bicycles. . . . He told me that as soon as he arrived at the crime scene he noticed a fresh set of bicycle tire tracks on the road outside . . . and on the muddy
A few minutes passed while Laprade read the magazine and softly cursed politicians around the world. Eventually he fell into a meditative silence which meant that he was studying the roses and carnations in his garden.
Madame Theillaud blew on her piping hot coffee and read the local Le Progrès newspaper. She nibbled on a croissant while she studied him. “What’s wrong? . . . You look worried.”
“I might have a problem. . . .”
“Who?”
“An honest man. Totally scrupulous. Cannot be bought or corrupted.”
“In other words . . . a dangerous man.”
Laprade’s eyes shifted away from her and the truth of her words. Sohlberg could eventually become a problem—a liability that had to be eliminated.
~ ~ ~
Police work numbs the mind and soul. Sohlberg felt nothing by the end of the work day. But then Laprade called him. The two men agreed to rendezvous at 5:00 PM.
After undertaking counter-surveillance measures the two detectives met near Interpol at the Lyon MAC or Museum of Contemporary Art— Musée d'art contemporain de Lyon . The MAC was always empty one hour before closing time unless a popular exhibit was showing. The enormous and empty galleries afforded the two men just the right amount of privacy. The enclosed spaces also let them keep tabs on anyone who might be following them or trying to eavesdrop.
Both men stared in disbelief at some of the ugly and nonsensical junk that passed for modern art.
Sohlberg spoke softly. The giant canvases of bad art absorbed his voice. “I sent Emma off to a safe place.”
“You think the French police can’t protect her?”
“I do. But you know the old saying . . . you can’t put all your trust in one basket.”
Laprade shrugged a Gallic shrug that said, “Nothing ever changes.”
Sohlberg appreciated that Laprade did not ask where his wife had sought refuge. He would’ve had to lie. And Laprade would’ve discovered it was a lie. Some things are best left unasked and unanswered.
The men moved on to the next hideous painting of a giant doll attacking a city.
Sohlberg pointed and guffawed. “This must be a joke.”
“Modern art is neither modern nor is it art.”
Sohlberg was surprised at Laprade’s wit. “How true. . . . What did forensics have to say about the computer I found in her car?”
“Good news and bad news. The good news is that there’s no information about Ishmael or Operation Locust on the computer’s hard drive or on the thumb drive. The bad news . . . there are plenty of transcripts of meetings with informants in non-Locust cases that you and other Interpol advisors are working on. . . .”
“What cases?”
“They’re all over the map. Bribes for European Union bureaucrats in Brussels . . . kickbacks for shady middlemen in arms deals for fighter jets sold by England and France . . . money laundering . . . the usual.”
“Not good,” said Sohlberg. “What do your D.G.S.E. pals have to say about the D.N.A. from the real Azra Korbal?”
“The D.N.A. of the transplanted heart matched the D.N.A. of the parents of Azra Korbal. . . . Don’t ask me how they got samples from the transplant recipient or her parents.”
“I can’t even imagine how they did that. Anything else?”
“A bicycle.”
“A bicycle?” said Sohlberg.
“I spoke with Daudet. . . . He’s hard-working and clever. I’m impressed.”
“What’s he up to?”
“Bicycles. . . . He told me that as soon as he arrived at the crime scene he noticed a fresh set of bicycle tire tracks on the road outside . . . and on the muddy
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