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.
3
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.’