The Einstein Pursuit (2 page)

Unfortunately, his business cards disagreed.

Dial was the director of the homicide division at Interpol, the largest international crime-fighting organization in the world. His job was to coordinate the flow of information between police departments any time a murder investigation crossed national boundaries. All told he was in charge of 190 member countries, filled with billions of people and hundreds of languages.

One of the biggest misconceptions about Interpol was their role in stopping crime. They seldom sent agents across borders to investigate a case. Instead they used local offices called National Central Bureaus in the member countries. The NCBs monitored their own territory and reported pertinent facts to Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon. From there, information was entered into a central database that could be accessed by agencies around the globe.

Interpol’s motto:
Connecting Police for a Safer World.

Dial was fully committed to a ‘safer world’, and he was more than willing to do his part. That was why he had left his position at the FBI to work for the Europe-based organization. At the time, the decision to accept the job was a no-brainer. Not only was he the first American to be named as a department head at Interpol, but he had been asked to run the new homicide division.

How could he possibly turn that down?

Initially, Dial was thrilled with his position. He wrote the rules. He set the budget. He hand-picked the personnel in his department. On a few occasions, he even went into the field to work on high-profile cases. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. It was his way of staying sharp while he transitioned from a field agent to an administrator.

Plus, he loved doing it.

Being a cop was in his blood.

Over the years, Dial had never seen the harm in working on an occasional case – especially if he followed the local laws and customs. However, the new secretary general disagreed. He felt the personal involvement of a division head in an open investigation could lead to bad press or, even worse, an international incident. Dial had protested fiercely but was told in explicit terms that his participation in an active case would lead to his suspension and/or termination.

That was four months ago.

Since then, Dial had written and rewritten his resignation several times.

The wording still wasn’t right, but it would be soon.

After all, there are only so many ways to say
shove it
.

Dial had just entered Interpol headquarters, an impressive fortress overlooking the Rhône, when he spotted a familiar face sneaking outside. Unlike most of the analysts who roamed the hallways in pressed shirts and polished shoes, Henri Toulon stood out from the crowd.

And not in a good way.

Known for his gray ponytail and his horrible disposition, the hard-drinking Frenchman had been cited for so many work violations over the years he should have been fired long ago. Sleeping during important meetings. Coming and going as he pleased. Using the nearest restroom, regardless of its intended gender. All were worthy of discipline, but Dial had overlooked his bad habits and promoted him to assistant director because he realized something that few people did: Toulon was a brilliant son-of-a-bitch.

And that wasn’t just an expression.

Dial had met Toulon’s mother on three occasions, and there was little doubt she was the meanest person on the planet. Like Darth Vader in a dress. In fact, her looming presence explained nearly everything about Toulon – from his bad attitude to his drinking problem.

The only thing it didn’t explain was his greasy ponytail.

There was
no
excuse for that.

Dial glanced at his watch and realized it was awfully early to be taking a break, even for a misfit like Toulon. Dial immediately assumed something tragic had happened in the world, something so bad that the son of the Antichrist had to sneak outside for a breath of fresh air.

That is, if it was possible to get fresh air while smoking.

Dial followed him to find out.

By the time he caught up to Toulon, the Frenchman was sitting on a bench with a half-burned cigarette in his mouth. How he had smoked it so quickly was a mystery. His body was slouched, his head hung low. His eyes were closed, and he was humming a song to himself. As he did, ashes landed on his shirt like dirty snow.

Dial stared at him for several seconds, but Toulon didn’t notice. He didn’t think Toulon was reckless enough to drink at work, but he still had to ask. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘Not yet,’ Toulon answered without raising his head. The cigarette bobbed in his mouth as he spoke, threatening to fall from his lips at any moment. ‘I’m saving that for later.’

‘Troubles at home?’ Dial wondered.

Toulon straightened his back and cracked his neck. He took a long, final drag from his cigarette, then stamped out the ember with his tennis shoe. ‘No. At work.’

‘But you just got here.’

‘No,’ he said sharply, ‘I’ve been here all night.’

‘Really? Why’s that?’

Toulon squinted at him quizzically, wondering whether Dial was feigning his confusion. Eventually he realized that he wasn’t. ‘Because
you
scheduled me for the late shift.’

Dial laughed. He had completely forgotten about that week’s schedule. Toulon was being punished for a disgusting incident involving a co-worker’s lunch. ‘Well, you deserved it.’

Toulon cracked a mischievous smile. ‘
Oui
. You’re right, I did.’

‘If you agree with me, why are you pouting?’

‘I’m not pouting; I’m relaxing. I foresee a long day.’

‘Why? What happened?’

Toulon reached into his pocket and found his pack of cigarettes. He lit up a second time and inhaled the smoke deeply. ‘Large explosion in Stockholm. The fire is still burning. We don’t have many details – at least not yet – but it appears to be intentional.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘While
you
were sleeping.’

Dial knew if the homicide division had been notified, someone must have been killed. He only hoped casualties would be limited at that late hour. ‘How many dead?’

‘It’s too soon to say,’ Toulon said in between drags. ‘But if my hunch is correct, the morgue will be full of Swedes.’

Dial groaned at the thought. Not only for the loss of life, but also because of the paperwork. ‘Let me see that pack of cigarettes.’

Toulon did as he was told. ‘Careful, they’re a bit stronger than what you Americans prefer. And why do I not know that you smoke? What else have you been hiding from me?’

Dial took the cigarettes and tucked them inside his jacket. ‘I don’t smoke. And neither do you until we have some more answers.’ With that, he turned and walked back toward the entrance. ‘I’ll see you upstairs in five minutes.’

Back inside the building, Dial took a deep breath and headed upstairs to start his day. He sensed it would be a rough one. In his office, he hung his suit coat on the wooden rack in the corner, then made his way to his desk. In the front center of the workspace, where most people would have put an engraved nameplate, Dial kept a plastic milk crate filled with hanging green folders. It had served as his inbox for years.

He stared at it, wondering what horrors it held today.

Important cases were loaded into the back end of the crate and slowly made their way toward him as he worked through the never-ending stream of information supplied by police forces from around the world. Reports were collected by his division, organized by his secretary and funneled into this murderer’s row for his analysis.

He wondered if the Stockholm blast was lurking in the lineup.

He shook his head, realizing that it didn’t matter.

Right now, he needed to focus his full attention on the first file.

In his mind, it was the least he could do.

After all, someone had been murdered.

Dial had just finished reviewing his second file of the day when Toulon barged into his office without knocking. He slammed the door behind him.

‘Nick,’ Toulon said – which sounded like “Neek” when the Frenchman tried to say it. ‘The early reports were true.’

‘Stockholm?’ Dial asked, making sure they were on the same page.

‘
Oui
. It appears the entire staff was in the building at the time of the explosion. The parking lot was filled with cars.’

‘How many dead?’ Dial asked.

‘At least twenty, probably more. We won’t have a solid figure until they have had a chance to sort through the rubble.’

‘Any survivors?’

Toulon shook his head. ‘Not likely. From what I’ve heard, nothing could have survived. The place was an inferno. It’s still smoldering now.’

Dial nodded in understanding. Fire scenes were the worst. ‘Let’s get the list of names they put together from the cars. Check the nationalities of everyone involved.’

‘
Oui
.’

‘And get me a list of our top agents in Sweden. I want to know who we have in Stockholm who can answer our questions.’

‘Of course. Anything else?’

‘No. That’s it for now.’

Toulon nodded, but he didn’t leave the room. Instead, he just stood there, staring at Dial as if it would be rude to talk without his permission.

‘What is it?’ Dial snapped.

‘I have yet to determine how this incident hit our radar so quickly. If this happened overnight and they haven’t identified a single victim, why were we notified?’

Dial shrugged. It was a good question, one he hadn’t considered until that very moment. Based on preliminary reports, he had assumed the case had been brought to his attention because it had met the basic criteria for Interpol’s involvement, meaning it was an international incident of some kind. But Toulon was correct: if the explosion had occurred in Stockholm and no borders had been crossed in the commission of the crime, then Dial had no authority in the case.

This was a matter for the Swedish police, not Interpol.

‘Start there,’ Dial said. He opened the top drawer of his desk and grabbed Toulon’s cigarettes. He tossed them back to Henri as if they were a reward for his insight. ‘But first, go home and get some sleep. You look like shit.’

Toulon placed the Stockholm file at the back of Dial’s inbox and headed for the door. When he opened it, he inadvertently collided with a young man who was attempting to enter. As they stepped back from one another, Toulon bowed and tipped an imaginary cap. ‘So good to see you,
mademoiselle
.’ Then he pushed by the visitor and continued forward without waiting for a response.

Dial knew Toulon well enough to detect his sarcastic tone.

Then again, Toulon did little to hide the way he felt.

For his part, the young man looked equally disgusted by the encounter. He set his jaw and crumpled his nose, as if his unplanned interaction with Toulon was both the most insulting and the most repugnant thing he could envision.

‘Sebastian,’ Dial said drily. ‘Why are you in my office?’

Sebastian James was the special assistant to the Interpol secretary general. He was the product of some of the world’s finest educational institutions, and he had worked his way up through the ranks of Interpol by means of successful politicking, rather than years of field service. Few people could place his nationality, as he spoke several languages without the hint of an accent. He would regularly demean those he considered beneath him in a tongue they couldn’t understand – and he considered nearly everyone to be beneath him.

To reinforce his ‘holier than thou’ demeanor, he was always impeccably dressed. From his Hermès ties to his Bruno Magli shoes, he made every attempt to exude importance. He was angling for Interpol’s top post – at least for starters – and everyone knew it.

In short, he was the type of guy that Dial despised.

‘You’re going to Stockholm,’ James announced.

‘On whose orders?’ Dial demanded.

He knew James didn’t have the authority to send him out for coffee, much less a trip to Sweden, and he wanted James to admit it.

‘The secretary general,’ James clarified. ‘He’s sending you there …
today.
Pack your bags. Your plane leaves in less than two hours.’

Dial leaned back in his chair. ‘I think I’ll wait to hear from him, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘He sent me to tell you, and my word is the same as his.’

‘Is that so? Does
he
know you feel this way?’

James’s face turned bright red. He was about to clarify his remark, but Dial cut him off before he had a chance. ‘What’s so important in Stockholm?’

‘There was an explosion,’ James informed him. ‘At least twenty dead. Maybe more. It’s all over the morning news.’

‘I’m familiar with the incident,’ Dial said, thankful that Toulon had brought it to his attention. The last thing he needed was to be briefed by James. He didn’t have the time or patience to wade through the asshole’s long-winded explanation. ‘I’m waiting for the NCB report. I’ll have it by the end of the day.’

‘You’re not getting it,’ James countered. ‘The secretary wants
your
report by the end of the day. We’re not leaving this to the NCB. There’s too much at stake.’

Dial didn’t flinch. There was nothing about his body language that suggested he had any intention of going. ‘Once again I ask: what’s so important in Stockholm?’

James realized Dial wasn’t going to jump to attention without a full explanation, so he pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘It would appear the victims of last night’s tragedy represent a multitude of nations from around the world. And I’m not referring to tourists. It seems that several highly respected scientists somehow found their way to the same laboratory in Sweden. We’ve been fielding calls all morning. Delegates want to know why their countrymen were targeted, and by whom.’

The General Assembly, the controlling body that governed Interpol, was comprised of delegates from every member country, and was responsible for most aspects of Interpol’s operation: finances, staffing, agenda, and so on. Its power in the organization was virtually absolute.

Dial nodded in understanding. ‘Everyone feels they’ve lost their best and brightest. That they’ve been robbed of the next super-genius. Is that it?’