"Yes, why?"
"And are you Dr. Anna Lehtinen?" asked Markus.
"Yes. Why are you following us?" asked Anna.
"Well, I tried calling both of you, but neither of you answered."
Eddie remembered the call he had ignored.
"May I ask a few questions regarding Stuart Pennington?" said Markus.
Eddie looked at Anna for confirmation, and they both nodded. Markus motioned for them to continue walking down the beach.
"I assume you've heard of his untimely death?" said Markus.
They nodded again.
"I am investigating the circumstances of that event. Dr. Lehtinen, I understand that you are employed by Victor Niemi at the FC Kotka Academy?"
"I am an independent consultant, not an employee," said Anna.
"Do you know where Mr. Niemi is now?"
"I believe he is in jail, which is ridiculous. I doubt he had anything to do with that," said Anna.
"What makes you so sure?" said Markus.
"Why would he? He hired Stuart and was very fond of him," she said.
Eddie touched her elbow as a signal to consider her answers carefully.
"Mr. Alonso, what is your role with the team?" asked Markus.
Eddie turned to look at Markus, who insisted on walking slightly behind them.
"I don't have an official position. I coached two of the players back in the US, and one of them has been struggling. So, on behalf of his mother, I came over to check on him," said Eddie.
"Struggling? In what way?" said Markus.
"Headaches, mood swings, odd behaviors," said Eddie.
They had reached the end of the public beach, stopping to face each other.
"Which player is that?" said Markus.
Eddie hesitated.
"I'm not OK sharing that with you," said Eddie.
"Fair enough," said Markus. "When was the last time you talked to this individual?
"A few days ago," said Eddie.
The special agent reached into his back pocket for his phone. He tapped a few times on the screen then held it out for Eddie and Anna to view.
"Do you know this person," he asked, pointing to a young man walking alongside two others towards a private plane.
In the fading daylight, Eddie leaned forward to examine and then pulled back abruptly. "No idea," said Eddie with no expression. His right hand was behind Anna tapping her twice as another warning to keep her poker face. She glanced at the photo and then shook her head.
"No, sorry," she said.
Markus held their gaze for a moment, putting the phone back in his pocket.
"We took that yesterday morning at Kotka airport," said Markus. "Those three were heading to St. Petersburg. We are interested in who they are and why they were in a private jet chartered by a Russian company."
"Sorry we couldn't help," said Eddie. "So, you're saying Stuart's death was not an accident?"
"I did not say that. I said we're looking into the details surrounding it," said Markus.
Anna broke an uncomfortable pause. "Well, Markus, unless you have more questions for us, we will head back," she said.
"None for now, but how can I reach each of you?"
Anna gave her the main number of the academy, and Eddie suggested he could go through Anna to contact him. Markus handed them each a business card and shook their hands.
"If you have anything else to share in the meantime, please call me. My mobile is on the back," he said, waiting for any last clues. "But remember that withholding information could put your player in more danger. And it just might be a crime."
Eddie gave a half-smile and took Anna by the arm as they reversed their course back to her cottage. Markus watched them head down the beach and then crossed the long grass again towards the road.
Anna peeked over her shoulder.
"Keep walking," said Eddie.
"Eddie, that was Peter in the photo,” she whispered.
"Yes, I know," said Eddie, as his eyes searched the horizon for answers. "The real question is, who were those others?"
"And why in the world did they go to St. Petersburg?" said Anna. “I think we should cooperate with this Supo guy. They’re kind of a big deal here.”
“Not yet. I want to find out where Peter is first,” said Eddie.
“I think we just did,” said Anna.
Darkness had fallen, hiding the waves crashing next to them. They could only see a few feet in front of them until Anna's porch light appeared like a distant ship.
"Is Kognitio capable of brainwashing someone?" asked Eddie. "I mean, like affecting their judgment or free will?"
"Not my Kognitio. Our version only supplements tacit knowledge and enables communication between two chip-enabled brains.”
"But?"
"But, I don't know what Dmitry may have added to it."
Eddie looked up into the moonless sky.
"Then I'll leave in the morning," he said.
"Leave?"
"I need to get Peter out of there."
"Not alone."
"Yes, alone. But first, I need you to give me what Peter has,” said Eddie pointing to his forehead. “Then, I need you to show me how to remove his.”
"Oh sure, because it's not like teaching you brain surgery or anything," said Anna, giving Eddie a glare.
“You said it’s a grain of sand just under the scalp,” said Eddie. “That can’t be that difficult to remove.”
“Why do you need one?” asked Anna.
“Synthetic telepathy. I need to send him a message without saying anything,” said Eddie, tapping his finger to his temple.
"Well, we better get started," said Anna, as they reached her cottage. "We have six hours."
43
The red-haired man was particularly agitated the following morning. He explained, in great detail, how his arrest was part of a complicated and ongoing plot to end freedom of speech in Finland. After a sleepless night, Victor was almost ready to agree with him, just to shut him up. He thought about the offer of cooperation from the young special agent who had visited him. The last thing he needed was an intelligence agent sniffing around his dubious cognitive enhancement methods. While Markus seemed smart, Victor was sure that he could feed him enough bullshit to at least send him down some rabbit holes while he figured out his next step from outside the jail. He needed access to a phone, even if it was monitored. The only way to avoid prosecution was to get out from under the planted evidence and discover the truth. And that started with Anna and the American coach.
He heard the guards making their way down the corridor with the day's breakfast, a dry bagel, banana, and a plastic bottle of water. The red-haired man had fallen back asleep after his early morning tirade. Victor met them at his cell door as they slid the tray through the slot at the bottom.
"I want to talk to Supo," said Victor quietly.
"And I want to talk to Santa Claus,” said the younger guard with a snort and a sneer.
The senior guard, a man of about sixty years old with thick glasses, peered at Victor through the bars giving him a subtle nod as they moved down the row with the food cart.
Victor gnawed on the bagel but added his brown banana to the redhead's tray. He sat on the floor and leaned his head back on the cold, gray wall, washing down his breakfast with the lukewarm water. This was just one more obstacle in his way, he thought. Just another challenge to changing the world again. No revenge needed, just clearing the barriers from his path. He even reconsidered the red-haired man's treatise on individual rights in the new Finland.
It was mid-afternoon when the senior guard returned. He opened the cell door for Victor, but this time only handcuffed him, leaving his legs free of shackles. They went to the front booking station where two days earlier they charged him with murder. The guard removed the handcuffs and left the room, passing the local prosecutor, young enough to be Victor's son, who was on his way in. He informed Victor that he was no longer a suspect in Stuart Pen
nington's death and was free to leave after signing two documents. Victor scanned both noting the first absolved him of his charges while the second document included language about voluntary cooperation with the Finnish Intelligence Service. There seemed to be no connection between the two documents. Victor glanced up at the prosecutor who returned a blank expression of neither approval nor disappointment, just the tedium of processing paperwork handed down from his superiors. After gaining the signatures, the prosecutor pushed a metal basket towards Victor, containing the clothes and belongings taken from him upon arrival at the prison. The guard escorted him to a private restroom where he changed, checked his phone and wallet, and then walked out the main entrance into the sunshine.
Leaning against a Volvo sedan was a man still dressed in a blue, button-down shirt, bland tie, and jeans.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" said Markus, smiling.
"Better than yesterday," said Victor, disappointed that he couldn't get twenty steps out the door without his promise of cooperation initiated.
"How about we start the day over with a real breakfast?" said Markus, standing up and circling to the driver's door.
"As long as there's coffee," said Victor, opening the passenger door.
They drove fifteen minutes out of town to a diner connected to a gas station. The parking lot was empty except for the few cars belonging to the staff. These were the establishments that Victor would speed by in his Tesla needing neither fuel nor whatever was the special of the day. He rarely ate in public, preferring private dining rooms in fear of an embarrassing food mishap that the watchful eye of paparazzi might capture. His world was all about control. Plan every detail, every variance, every counter-argument. Encountering the masses, even a few lonely souls in this diner, only introduced unwelcome variables to Victor Niemi's universe.
They had their choice of seating, so Markus picked a booth in the far back corner. The vinyl-backed bench seat was a garish blue, almost Kotka blue, with a table that had once been pure white but now was more of a hazy gray with chips to the Formica. Oversized, plastic menus laid in front of them with silverware rolled-up in paper napkins. A large, elderly woman, who should have been well past her working years, greeted them with a tired smile. Famished, Victor ordered a full breakfast of rolled oat porridge smothered with raspberries and cream along with a side plate of open-faced, meat and cheese sandwiches. Markus opted only for coffee.
"First off, thank you, Mr. Niemi, for agreeing to cooperate with us," said Markus, adding three packets of sugar to his mug. "As you learned this morning, the local prosecutor has dropped all charges as we have provided the city with proof that the evidence against you was falsified."
"And the other nonsense about Bogdanov and me?" said Victor.
"They know nothing about that, and frankly, they won't be looking very hard," said Markus. "It's clear you have plenty of friends in this town."
"Not to mention in Helsinki. The prime minister is on my list of calls as soon as I'm done with you."
"The prime minister is well aware of your cooperation and our visit here," said Markus with a sip of his coffee.
Victor appreciated Markus' confidence. He preferred dealing with people who knew their stuff and were unafraid of standing their ground. With a bead of sweat on her forehead, the waitress returned with Victor's food, greasy but plentiful. Victor asked for a cleaner set of silverware, holding up the fork as evidence of poor dishwashing. She apologized, almost breaking down as if that was the last straw before her overdue retirement. She retreated to the kitchen with a shuffle.
"So, what do you need from me?" asked Victor as he wolfed down spoonfuls of porridge.
"Tell me about Kognitio," said Markus, spooning more sugar into his coffee.
Victor swooped down on the sandwiches, then pushed the plate towards Markus as an offer to share. "Not much to tell. It's a software program we use to track player development," said Victor with a shrug. "Tracks workouts and stuff."
"Quite a name for such a simple purpose," said Markus, holding his hand up to the sandwiches.
"Dr. Lehtinen came up with it. Sounds Finnish, right?" said Victor, with a chuckle.
"You hired one of the best, young neuroscientists in Europe to develop a workout tracking app?" said Markus, peering over his coffee cup.
"I didn't hire her, she's a consultant," said Victor as he examined a piece of cheese before popping it in his mouth.
"I'd like to see the system if that's OK with you," said Markus.
The stalemate had come sooner than Victor expected. No one would see his software, his competitive advantage, until he talked to Anna.
"Sure, I can arrange that," said Victor with a shrug. "I need to call Anna anyway, so I'll set it up. Next week?"
"Tomorrow would be better," said Markus with the fixed gaze of a hungry wolf on a rabbit.
"I'll see what I can do," said Victor, pushing away the remainder of his greasy meal. "Is that it for today?"
"Yes, for today. We will need to keep in touch, so please respond to my calls promptly."
Victor took out his phone and turned it over in his hand.
"I'll bet you've already found a way to keep in touch," said Victor holding up the phone.
"Victor, that would be an invasion of privacy. That's illegal in Finland," said Markus placing two €10 notes on the table to cover the breakfast.
"Actually, a colleague of mine in prison has plenty to say about that," said Victor, dropping a €500 note on top of Markus' money. "That's her tip."
44
Peter heard the door knock in his dream. From the urgency of the five raps, he believed it was his Dad letting him know that he had overslept his alarm again. Panicking, he tried to determine if he was late for school. He jumped from his childhood bed to open the door, trying to appear awake and ready to go. But the knocking continued, even after he swung the door open to find no one there. Then his subconscious played that little game with him, where he realized he was dreaming about a noise in real life. He forced himself awake to a much different scene. He was in his luxury apartment outside of St. Petersburg, and the knocking was coming from the front door in the other room.
“One sec!” he called out as he grabbed a t-shirt off the floor.
Another knock.
“Yes, I hear you, ya crazy Russian!” he said, picking up a pillow.
He swung open the door and flung it at his target.
The man ducked and then looked up with no expression.
“Oh, wow, I am so sorry, sir. I thought you were Aleks,” said Peter with wide eyes.
“That is no problem, Peter. Is this how you greet friends in Minnesota?”
He delivered the line with such seriousness and calm that Peter couldn’t tell if he was joking.
“No, of course not. Would you like to come in?” said Peter, opening the door wider.
The visitor’s sad, brown eyes brightened a bit as he entered the room. Dressed in his usual dark suit and white shirt, Dmitry Bogdanov had foregone his red tie giving him a less intimidating demeanor. Peter retrieved his pillow from the hallway and followed him in.
Dmitry surveyed the surroundings.
“I have not seen these apartments finished, only the architectural plans,” he said, nodding.
“They’re very nice,” said Peter slipping on a pair of sandals and running his fingers like a comb through his hair.
Dmitry walked over to the white sofa. With a single button press on the remote, he opened the blinds. The first hint of daylight brightened the room. Standing there in his shorts and t-shirt, Peter felt like he was still in a dream, the one where he shows up to school in his underwear, having not studied for the test. In front of him was the teacher, a mysterious power broker who comes and goes in certain moments but never reveals much to anyone. Now, he was alone with him for an unannounced pop quiz. Peter tried to wake himself but realized this was no dream.
“So, you like it here?” said Dmitry, seating himself on the sofa.<
br />
“Yes, very much. Thank you,” said Peter, walking around to the far end of the sofa but only sitting on the arm.
“I remember being your age. Close to here,” said Dmitry pointing out the window. “My father would bring me to Leningrad matches. Always the same result, victory. I do not recall ever seeing a defeat here.”
“Did you play?” asked Peter.
“I wanted to. But we had other priorities as I grew older,” said Dmitry, his voice trailing off.
Peter wished Aleks would make his morning appearance at his door, but it was still too early. He thought he would try to move the conversation along.
“So, Mr. Bogdanov, how can I help you today?”
Dmitry looked over at Peter with a wide grin, the first that Peter had ever seen. It was warmer than he expected, almost pleasant.
“I like you, Peter, all business. You realize that football is only a small fraction of what I do.”
“Well, I’ve heard that you’re very wealthy. So, yes, I assumed it wasn’t all tied up in FC Kotka,” said Peter.
Dmitry chuckled an open laugh.
“You are correct. Kotka is a toy I play with. My only interest in them is Dr. Lehtinen’s technology. And my only way of seeing it for myself was to buy into Victor’s tiny little club.”
Peter was unsure if it should impress him that Dmitry was so candid. He had watched too many movies where the bad guy reveals everything right before he kills someone.
“Yeah, I mean, the virtual gaming system is incredible. Yuri and Josef showed us the latest version yesterday with the new brain-reading thing —”
“Synthetic telepathy,” said Dmitry, helping Peter with the term.
“Yes, that. It’s amazing stuff.”
“And we have only, how do you say, scratched the surface. There are applications well beyond just sports. Think of all the places where small teams need to work together for a common goal. Now they can communicate at a deeper, primal level instantly,” said Dmitry squinting his eyes.
The Playmaker Project Page 22
