I approach the museum along the main road through the village. My logic is that I’m less likely to attract attention coming along the main road than if I were to approach the museum from the forest – assuming, that is, there is still someone at the museum waiting for me. Be that as it may, that is the place I must visit first. It’s my only hope.
I try to keep my thoughts on the task at hand, but I guess I must still be in shock. My mind is racing, my emotions bubbling to the surface. I’m driving a dead man’s snowmobile along a snow-covered road in a remote eastern-Finnish village, I am bleeding profusely, and my wife has been kidnapped. You never plan for things like this. I slow down a bit, eventually bring the vehicle to a stop and switch off the engine.
The museum car park is empty. I see the car park first, then the museum itself. In a way, everything looks just as it should: the lobby is fully lit, the office window is dark, and light from the meteorite room seems to spill out into the woods on the other side. I climb off the snowmobile. Moving is difficult. My whole upper body aches as though someone were squeezing my sternum in their fists. I walk towards the building and stop only when I can see into the museum through the broken window of the meteorite room. I wait and listen. It seems as though the noise of my arrival hasn’t attracted the locals. I wait a moment longer, leave the shelter of the trees and walk towards the window.
The display room appears empty. Once I am certain of it, I think of walking round the museum and entering through the front door, but I realise this is unnecessary given the circumstances. Karoliina and Leonid wanted to get their hands on the meteorite, but the meteorite has gone. I climb in through the window, trying to avoid the shards of broken glass. It’s impossible. The floor is covered with glass from the broken window and the smashed glass display cabinet. I see my iron field kettle. The room looks as though a group of vandals has performed a military strike. The next room is as it should be; nothing has changed. I walk up to the row of uniforms, move the grey sleeve of one of the coats, take my rifle and listen again. Finally I am convinced I am in the War Museum alone.
My condition is getting worse by the minute. I know it and can feel it, the pain in my chest becoming more acute all the while. I know I need to get to a hospital, fast. But I’m also painfully aware that the nearest hospital is an hour’s drive away and that Krista is still missing. In the staffroom I find a packet of low-dose painkillers. I swallow half the packet with cold water and rinse my hands. Everything I have touched is stained with blood. I too am covered from head to toe in blood and must surely look like I did after my encounter with the roadside bomb in Afghanistan. I wipe the blood from the screen on my phone to see if there are any new messages. There aren’t.
I feel woozy, I need to sit down. Sitting hurts too, as though a fresh knife is being thrust into my chest. I undo my coat and look down.
It doesn’t look good. It looks like…
Papers in the breast pocket. I look at them without touching. They are covered in blood, but I can still make them out. I wipe my hands on my trouser leg, pull the thin pile of papers from my coat pocket and place them on the coffee table. They have remained just clean enough. I look at them with a sense of deep confusion as a fragile hope begins to awake within me.
The left-hand paper is the threatening letter taped to the door of the church hall. Along the lower edge of the paper runs a black line left by the printer, so faint it is barely noticeable. The middle paper is the letter left on our kitchen table. That too shows a faint line at the bottom. The paper on the right also shows a faint line at the bottom of the page, but the content of that piece of paper is of a very different nature.
My personal workout programme, compiled for me by Räystäinen.
It is almost four in the morning. Driving the snowmobile causes me excruciating agony, but there is no other vehicle at my disposal. And I don’t care. I don’t think it really matters what I think or feel. Perhaps it’s only right that I feel like this. I don’t know. That aside, I now know exactly what I have to do. Krista, only a moment more, I say to myself. I’m on my way.
The lights are on at Hurme Gym. At this time of night I doubt it’s because there’s anyone doing a series of squats or working on their abs. I climb from the snowmobile, grab the rifle and trudge through the deep snow down the hill through the dense forest. I approach Hurme Gym from the side: the gym is situated in a building at the eastern end of the industrial park. I approach from the west. I make my way along the wall, the rifle at the ready.
In the middle of the building there is an opening in the wall, presumably some kind of loading bay. When I arrive at the opening, I peer inside and am startled. A Volkswagen Jetta is neatly parked right beside the loading area. The same Jetta, in fact, that I saw at the church-hall car park just before discovering the first letter. But this car doesn’t belong to Räystäinen; he has an SUV. And that vehicle is nowhere in sight. There are several different tyre tracks in the snow. Is there someone else inside too, someone other than Räystäinen?
I pull the phone from my pocket and search for the registration number. I notice my hands are trembling. It’s not just because of the cold, I know that. The car belongs to Räystäinen’s wife, who, according to the registration details, lives at an address in Kajaani, hundreds of kilometres to the north. It takes a moment before I realise I haven’t seen Tarja round the village for a while – or anywhere else, for that matter. Then I recall Räystäinen mentioning that Tarja would be happy to take his SUV but nothing else. So that’s what he meant: Räystäinen has been using his wife’s car. I push the phone back into my pocket and see that the door of the loading bay is standing ajar.
I hear a series of dull thumps, regular and with metronomic precision. When I open the door slightly more, I hear a whirring sound. The sounds come together, and I get it.
Räystäinen is running.
On the treadmill at the front of the gym. The door is at the rear of the room. Räystäinen has his back to me. His pace is somewhere between a jog and a run. I raise the rifle to my shoulder and step inside. I walk towards the machines, the rifle aimed and ready, occasionally turning to look behind me. From the corner of my eye I can see myself in the various mirrors around the gym. A bloodied man with a rifle in his hands and a missing wife.
I approach Räystäinen from the side now, and begin to walk towards him. He is glistening with sweat, his steps thumping regularly, but there’s something heavy on his chest, something weighing him down. And this isn’t the only thing pulling him forwards somewhat. His hands are attached to the railings at the sides of the treadmill, taped round the wrists so that releasing them by himself would be impossible. I approach him one careful step at a time. Then stop.
His chest has been taped too – almost like mine. The tape is holding up something strapped round his abdomen. From beneath the tape run a series of strings, each of which is attached to the railings.
I walk round one of the exercise bikes and approach Räystäinen, my rifle at the ready. A moment later he sees me to his left. Something in his eyes lights up.
‘Help me,’ he gasps and continues running.
I point the rifle at him and allow my eyes to scan the gym.
‘Is there anyone else here?’ I ask once Räystäinen is directly in front of me.
He shakes his head. The movement is minimal. He looks like a man who is trying to conserve energy. Droplets of sweat fly from him, his face is covered in red-and-white blotches.
‘Help me,’ he repeats.
He doesn’t speak so much as utter sounds through frantic breathing. That’s what it sounds like, at least.
‘Where is Krista?’ I ask.
Räystäinen continues running. I can see he is building himself up to speak.
‘They … took…’
‘Who?’
‘Karol…’
‘Karoliina and the big man? They took Krista?’
Räystäinen nods.
‘You took her first,’ I say. ‘Isn�
��t that right? Why?’
‘Help,’ he shouts.
I point the rifle at him. ‘Did you take her?’
He nods.
‘Why? Why did you take Krista?’
‘Money … Bankruptcy … The gym…’
My finger is on the trigger. My mind is consumed with rage, a rage born of jealousy. It is a dark power, cold and numb.
‘You took my wife because your gym is about to go under, is that it?’
Räystäinen gives another nod, small and almost imperceptible. He continues running. I look down at his chest and examine more closely what has been strapped to him. The strings tied to the railings are all attached to a metallic pull ring that I recognise instantly. Beneath the ring is an oval object that I can readily identify despite the tapes covering it. I know a grenade when I see one. I can also say with some certainty that this is not the grenade that was stolen from the War Museum.
The set-up is actually very simple. If Räystäinen speeds up, the string behind him will tighten with fateful consequences: the pin will release, the lever will rise, and the grenade will explode. If he slows down, however, the string in front of him will tighten – with the same result. Räystäinen himself is bound to the treadmill by the wrists, so he can neither escape nor untie himself. All he can do is keep running.
I lower the rifle. ‘Is Krista okay?’
‘Yes … just now…’
‘She was okay a moment ago?’
A nod.
‘They took … her … and my house keys … Can you help…?’
It’s a question, I realise that. I think about this for a moment. With the rifle still in my hand I walk to the reception, open the fridge, take out a bottle of sports drink and return to Räystäinen. I open the bottle and raise it to his lips. He gulps it down like a thirsty dog or a horse. The bright-blue liquid splashes all around us, but most of it ends up in his mouth until the bottle is empty.
I look at Räystäinen, the kidnapper, the writer of threatening letters.
‘What time does your first customer arrive?’
‘What?’
‘What time does your first customer arrive?’
‘Six.’
I look at the clock on the wall. It’s just gone four. I walk towards the front door.
13
The hum of the treadmill, the beat of the steps, regular and deliberate, the heavy breathing, the rattling and spluttering. It takes a moment before I realise that this is my own heartbeat, my own breath. I am no longer anywhere near Räystäinen; I am on the other side of the village. The wound in my chest feels as though it has spread throughout my body, radiating pain with every heartbeat. By now my breathing is nothing but panting; I’m literally sucking in the air.
I sit on the snowmobile for a moment longer, then shrug the bag over my shoulder, pick up the rifle and start walking. It’s not far to go. The stretch of forest between the two roads is only two or three hundred metres across. In my present condition, however, that’s some challenge. Not to mention the items I’m carrying: the rifle and the sports bag with the four-kilo dumbbell. The house comes into view, and I stop. I go through my plan once more; it is simple and based entirely on the premise that I can take the pair by surprise. The lights are on, so there are people at home – whatever that means on a night like tonight. The last fifty or so metres up to the house are nothing but a stretch of thin birch trees, dried and riven with hoarfrost and providing only minimal cover. I hope nobody is looking out of the window or moving around outside the house.
It’s a 1970s red-brick bungalow, and I approach via the backyard. I reach the boundary of the moon and the artificial light, and cross over. The electric light seeping through the curtains makes the snow look jaundiced; I raise my feet through this golden-yellow snow and make my way onwards. As I finally lean against the brick gable wall, I am shivering with cold and exhaustion.
For a moment I try to breathe as quietly as possible, with the result that I end up having to gasp for breath more frantically than before. All I can do is pant and hope there is nobody there to hear it. I move towards the back door.
The terrace at the back still bears the trappings of summer. Now the patio table, the deckchairs and barbeque are covered in a layer of snow a metre thick. I reach the table and notice three things. A narrow path leads through the snow from the table to the back door. On the other side of the table is a tin can from which faint smoke rises. And the air is filled with the smell of tobacco.
This is the smoking area.
And with the smoking area in such regular use, the same must apply to the back door. And in that case I doubt the door is locked…
I crouch down, lie as low as I can behind the table. The door opens and closes, light spills out into the yard as though thrown from a bucket. Footsteps crunch against the snow. I hear the sound of a cigarette lighter. Then I hear nothing. Of course not. How much noise does someone make smoking a cigarette? My problem is a simple one. Right now I dare not breathe. Before long I will have to.
The smoker shifts position, the snow again crunching beneath footsteps. I realise I will have to take a breath in two seconds, three at most. The decision has been made for me.
I stand up without knowing what to expect. In the same movement I lift the rifle, prop it against my shoulder and aim…
Right between Leonid’s eyes, it would appear.
He is standing at the other side of the table, almost diametrically opposite me. For a moment he stares into the black hole at the end of the barrel, then raises his eyes, as if to widen his perspective, looks me in the eye. We remain surprisingly calm, given the situation must be a surprise for both of us.
‘Quiet,’ I say in English.
Leonid says nothing. Smoke rises from his cigarette. The lamps behind the curtains must be very bright, because there’s plenty of light on the terrace.
‘Let’s go inside,’ I say and wave the barrel an inch, two.
Leonid does not move.
I sharpen my aim. ‘Or shall I go in alone?’ I ask.
Leonid looks at me for a moment longer. Perhaps he sees the blood on my clothes and face, but eventually he turns. The snow crunches again. I walk round the patio table and follow him, the rifle aimed and ready. Leonid grips the door handle.
‘Stop,’ I say.
Leonid keeps his hand on the handle. Again I am forced to improvise. And I have to hurry. My condition is worsening all the while. I know it’s only a question of time until my strength runs out, and that’s when I’ll make a mistake, one that I might not be able to correct.
‘Let’s go inside slowly and calmly,’ I say. ‘Stay right in front of me. I want you to remain between me and Karoliina at all times. Every second. You understand?’
Leonid doesn’t answer. I nudge the end of the barrel into his back. I think of Krista, and I guess I must have shoved him with considerable force.
‘Yes,’ Leonid replies. ‘In front.’
‘Good. Open the door.’
Leonid opens the door slowly. It’s bright. Leonid steps inside, and I follow behind him.
We are right in the middle of the living room. I see both Karoliina and Krista. Seeing Krista causes a whirlwind inside me, something I try hard to control. She sees me. She is sitting on a long sofa, her face turned towards me, Leonid and the door. One of her eyes is red and swollen; it looks as though she’s been in a boxing ring without any protection. The bruise takes the most direct route right into my heart, wrenching my chest open, just like the knife before it. I force myself to focus.
Karoliina is sitting with her back to me and Leonid, and she is holding a pistol. Again I prod Leonid in the back. He gets my drift and stops. I stand slightly to the side of him, just enough so I can aim the rifle at Karoliina too.
She turns. ‘Shut the damn door…’
She sees us, and her expression shifts from annoyance to confusion, from confusion to burgeoning interest.
‘Reverend,’ she says, this time in Finnish.
‘I have the bag,’ I tell her, turn my body somewhat and show her the bag behind Leonid’s back.
Karoliina looks first at the bag, then at me.
‘And I have your wife,’ she says. ‘You should thank me for that. I followed Räystäinen. I saved her.’
‘Krista,’ I say. ‘Stand up and walk behind me.’
‘Krista,’ says Karoliina, and raises the pistol towards Krista with startling speed. ‘Stay right where you are.’
Krista remains sitting on the sofa. She says nothing. I recognise her expression. She is tired and annoyed. She might be frightened, but more than that she is furious. I perfectly understand her. On my chest I sense that any minute the sauna towels and duct tape will no longer serve their purpose. More of my own warm blood seems to be pumping out across my chest and stomach with every heartbeat; it feels as though I am bathing in it. The trembling is getting worse all the while, and my hands are quivering so much that I’ll need six cartridges, not one.
‘I want the meteorite,’ says Karoliina.
‘You can have it in exchange for my wife. You give me Krista, I’ll give you Leonid and the meteorite.’
‘Leonid?’ she asks. She sounds genuinely bewildered.
Leonid naturally hears his name and realises we are talking about him. I assume he and Karoliina exchange glances; that’s what it looks like. After that, everything happens very rapidly. Karoliina moves more quickly than at any point before. She swings the hand with the pistol.
‘Darling…’ Leonid manages to utter before the back of his head separates from the front.
In the wintery quiet of the house, the shot is like an explosion. Leonid falls backwards, and it’s like watching a building collapse; I am about to end up beneath him. I can’t fire – I have to lower the rifle and save myself from the weight of this towering man. My movements are slow and cumbersome, of that I am painfully aware. Karoliina fires again. Leonid takes another two bullets, of which he will be wholly unaware. At the same time he saves my life.
Little Siberia Page 22
