Free Sohlberg and the White Death by Jens Amundsen Page A

inside the White House or the Kremlin and see or hear everything. You could also fly a small device . . . like a small bird . . . next to someone and blow up their head with a quarter-pound of high explosives.”
    “How would you commercialize this? Who would you first start selling it to?”
    “Military intelligence . . . law enforcement.”
    “I like that,” said Domenico Pelle with a smile. He visualized making a fortune from such sales while at the same time covertly intercepting law enforcement’s information for his own profit and benefit. “How much money do you need to start working on a prototype?”
    “Ten million for the first six months. I’ll probably need fifty million to produce a reliable model.”
    “I will give you the money.”
    “What do you want in return?”
    “Half your company.”
    “No. That’s too much.”
    “Mister Johnson. I have many partners to take care of . . . many mouths to feed.”
    “Now that I sold you the five drones I can easily go out and raise the money myself.”
    “Come here Mister Johnson.”
    “Why?”
    “I want you to look at my cheese press.”
    The American’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “No thanks. I’ve seen enough.”
    “But you haven’t seen enough. Mister Johnson.”
    Pelle nodded. A young Italian tough from an isolated three-hut village near Monte Pecoraro in Calabria stepped forward. He took out his pistol and shot the American through the left knee. A deafening blast echoed in the creamery. Screams and blood spurted out of the American.
    “No . . . . Please! . . . No,” begged the American.
    The Calabrian aimed for a head shot.
    “Mister Johnson. I don’t think you’ve seen enough.”
    “Yes. Yes. Oh yes. You can have whatever you want.”
    “Carlo. Finish him off and then drop him in the cheese press . . . dead or alive.”
    The American howled. “I swear I’ll do anything. Anything . . . Please!”
    “Okay. You win Mister Johnson.”
    “Oh God. . . . Oh God.”
    “Don’t bring God into it. This is business and nothing more. But Carlo is a nice boy. He will take you to my doctor to get that knee treated.”
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
    The meeting with the American left him cold.
    What did the fool think? . . . That I was going to haggle for a tiny bit of ownership in his company?
    He sold his soul to me when he took my first dollar.
    He’s just like all those other morons who sell their souls to me when they put my white powder up their noses and veins. Funny how they always think that they can function as if nothing ever happened.
    Sooner or later I will need to get rid of the American.
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
    At night the stars seemed so bright from his bedroom window. A full moon threw its cold light on his face. He was wide awake.
    The business at Interpol needs to be closed. The winding down of that business has to go far beyond the dead translator. She of course had to go first. The Russians should never have put her in there. It’s time to get rid of the Norwegian and the Legionnaire.
    The moon floated away.
    Sohlberg. Laprade. Each man is dangerous in his own way. They are even more dangerous together. Sooner or later they will figure out everything and turn against me.
    Sohlberg. Laprade. They’re not that stupid. Neither am I.
    Only the truly stupid believe that others are more stupid.
    Only imbeciles rely on other people’s stupidities to get away with something.
    It’s time for Sohlberg and Laprade to go bye-bye.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 6/Seks
     
    PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA:
    JUNE 13 AND JUNE 14, OR
    TWO MONTHS AND 2 DAYS
    AFTER THE DAY
     
    Ju Kyu Chang closed his eyes and slurped the last of the noodles in his ox bone soup. In his mind’s eye he could still see last night’s dinner—thinly sliced beef and scallions swimming on top of the milky-white soup. It had been three months since he and his family had last eaten any type of meat, chicken, or fish. They subsisted on rice and vegetables which left him hungry and