Helsinki White

by James Thompson

  “One would assume that they were told they wouldn’t be allowed to die until they revealed the location of the rest of the drugs and money they’ve stolen,” Jyri said. “Of course, they couldn’t. I’ve seen the dossiers of these men. They’ve trafficked in hundreds of women and subjected many to unthinkable abuse. Now they’ve paid, and gangsters will no longer be searching for the real thieves, meaning you and yours. You have indeed done something to, as you put it, ‘help people.’ That was my gift to you.”

  He deletes the image. I thank him. Now I can believe that, in some small way, justice has been served by my activities. I go back to my seat beside Kate.

  Real Finn boss Topi Ruutio stops by and one of his redneck nationalist supporters comes to worship. We’re speaking English and the devotee, loud, drunk and rude, tells Kate to learn to speak fucking Finnish. He must think it will score points with Ruutio, who seems like a nice guy. Ruutio calls him an ill-mannered cunthead and tells him to fuck off.

  On the way out, Milo hands Kate a set of car keys. He points down the street at a brand-new Audi S4. “That belongs to you,” he says.

  “Why?”

  Milo looks at the ground, hands in pockets. “I upset you the other day when I slipped and you found out about the body dump and I wanted to make it up to you.”

  Kate is second-day drunk and weaving a bit. She kisses his cheek. “You think you can buy my affection,” she says, “but you can’t.”

  He reddens, turns away. She giggles. “You don’t have to, I already like you. But if you want to keep showering me with expensive gifts, I’ll let you.”

  The guy that yelled at Kate is smoking in the corner of the patio as we come out. No one is looking. Sweetness ambles over and slaps him. Even openhanded, the blow lifts the guy off his feet, onto his back. He rolls over and pushes himself up onto all fours, tries to get up. Sweetness rests his foot on his back, puts his weight into it and slams him hard onto the ground. “Be rude to her again,” he said, “and I’ll kill you.”

  Sweetness walks away. The guy stands up. In the streetlight, I see the slap left about a thousand millimeter–sized little blood blisters on his cheek and jaw. He reaches in his mouth and pulls out a molar, then another tooth, and another tooth, and he cries.

  I drive Kate home in her new Audi.

  27

  I get up early the next morning. I have a post-op checkup with my brother Jari. In his office, we do the usual stuff. He tests my reflexes and blood pressure and so on, but mostly we talk.

  “Do you have any physical problems at all? Coordination. Weakness. Headaches. Any more seizures?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “What about going flat? Have you had any improvement there, felt any emotions?”

  “Of a kind,” I say. “I don’t feel anything, but sometimes I like or want things.”

  I pick up my cane. “Like this. I love this thing, would sleep with it if I could.”

  “What about people?”

  “Women. I see a beautiful girl, it drives me crazy. Picture the wants of a six-year-old combined with the libido of a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Have you acted on those feelings?”

  “No, but I could. I don’t seem to care about what I do, either. My existence is binary. Want/don’t want. Like/don’t like. Will/won’t. I have no shades of gray.”

  “What about your family. Anything there?”

  “Not a damned thing. I practice smiling in the mirror. I remember what my feelings were, and act according to what I think I should do based on memories. It seems to work. I know what my duties are, and I fulfill them.”

  “I advised you to talk to your wife about this. Have you done it, or even considered it?”

  “No, and I won’t. I don’t think Kate could accept it.”

  He leans forward in his chair, rests his elbows on his desk and his head on his hands. “It’s been three months. No progress at all doesn’t bode well. You need your wife and her support.”

  I say nothing.

  “Do you really think you’ve hidden the change in yourself from her? How do you think this is affecting her?”

  I think of the gifts she now accepts, knowing the source of the money that bought them. She never would have even contemplated accepting them a short time ago. She’s trying to find a way of coming to terms with what I do now, and she refuses to complain because I asked her, openly and honestly, before all that has come to pass began. I realize, although she isn’t coming to terms with it, that it isn’t fair to hold her to the agreement, because she didn’t understand what it might entail. Nor did I.

  I was naïve and used. Arvid once told me that my naïveté would be the death of me. For the hundredth time, I think: this black-op was never for the forces of good. I was misled. I’m a rogue cop and a criminal. Sooner or later, I’ll outlive my usefulness and they’ll find a way to get rid of me. Probably set me up, discredit me, and see that I get a long prison sentence. The public will applaud such excellent skank. The mighty brought low. Even a savior of children. I can’t quit because first I need to find a way to not only get free of the corrupt politicos that control me, but to destroy them in order to do it.

  It occurs to me that her acceptance of the Audi last night symbolizes Kate’s acceptance of the situation, that she’s so fed up that she doesn’t care anymore, and maybe my marriage is in trouble.

  “Doctor-patient privilege,” I say. “I do things that are illegal, with the blessing—no, under the mandate—of the establishment. Some of them are ugly. I don’t hide them from her—or many of them, anyway. They bother her. I don’t know if it bothers her because I do them, or because I’m untroubled by them.” I don’t mention her two-day drunk. It was Vappu, might mean nothing.

  “Do you take the tranquilizers I prescribed for you?”

  “No. Nothing makes me nervous.”

  He sighed, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

  “As your doctor, brother and friend, I’m advising you to have an open discussion with your wife, go on sick leave, stop whatever it is you’re doing, and seek psychotherapy. I’ll find you a good therapist. You’re not getting better on your own, and you need rest and assistance until your brain repairs itself.”

  I stood up and thanked him. “I’ll give everything you said consideration.” I left, having no intention of doing any such thing.

  28

  Noon. The Nyland Yacht Club. The whole gang from last night reappears, except for Aino. She had to go to work. Breakfast libations. Mimosas. Bloody Marys. Beer. The legal blood alcohol content for piloting a boat is twice that for driving a car. You can get pretty smashed and stay law compliant. Everyone dresses warm, coats with sweaters underneath. It’s forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and cold on the Baltic, especially with the boat in motion.

  Living with a foreigner causes unusual habits. Kate can conceptualize minus temperatures in Celsius, but not the plus side of the thermometer, so I’ve gotten in the habit of automatically converting in my head for her benefit. Now I often think in Fahrenheit too, but only on the plus side.

  The prime minister has a thirty-one-foot motorized cruiser, a sharp-looking newer vessel. Below deck, it has three double-berth cabins, a big saloon and galley, a head, and seating for navigational equipment.

  I text messaged Milo before we left the house, told him I wanted heroin and a throw-down gun hidden in the vessel, along with a GPS tracker, so we always know where it is, and keys to the boat, in case we wanted to use it. I had in mind that it would make for a more convenient way to dump bodies.

  We set sail, make our way out to deeper waters, and the blender starts churning. It’s got a motor strong enough to power a car. Down in the saloon, mojitos and frozen drinks made of dark rum and fresh fruit start flowing for the women. I stay away from the hard stuff, crack a beer, find the fishing gear. I pull in perch, pike and sea trout. Milo and Sweetness felt ill at ease around the politicians, without me alongside them for the purpose of social lubrication.
They looked for me, saw my catch, now seven decent-sized fish, and took the other two deck chairs on either side of me.

  Sweetness had never fished before. I taught him the basics: casting and reeling, how to avoid tangling a line, how to bring a fish in and get it off the hook. He caught his first fish, a good-sized pike, and got little-kid excited. Milo is a good fisherman. The other men come up on deck and sip scotch, to fight the chill, they say. They watch us reel in more fish, want a turn at it themselves. We give up our seats. The interior minister says he’d like a word with me.

  We lean against the rail. The wind covers our voices. I hand him an envelope. I decided to deliver his cut personally today. This is one of the things he would like to discuss with me. At present, he takes a fifteen percent cut, which goes to necessities, such as the Kokoomus party’s campaign funds. And yachts. I don’t say it. He doesn’t know I’m out of the drug-dealer-destruction business for the moment.

  He needs another five percent bump out of the slush fund. Not retroactive, just from future earnings. He knows I don’t like it and offers an explanation. The money is to go to the Real Finns.

  I ask why he would ensure that his competitors have adequate campaign funds.

  The interior minister asks me about my political views. I say I envision some kind of democratic fascism. I believe in democracy, but media manipulation and information control has rendered voters incapable of making informed decisions. He agrees, cites the Finnish plan to join NATO that has been crammed down the throat of the public. The minister calls my views simplistic but astute, and shares his own views. The minister waxes wistful.

  Finland, not so long ago, he explains, was a paradise for the worker, the common man. Politics, like every other aspect of life, has been globalized. Finland once took care of its citizens. Education. Medical care. The poor. But in fact, all the way back to the post–Second World War days of Kekkonen, it was always a scam, just what it took to keep voters happy, not altruistic concern for the public welfare. The higher powers in government never really gave a damn. Now, the ideals are gone. The USSR fell and Socialist ideals died with them. Finland’s far left and Communists got old, tired, apathetic and greedy, and the pretense of a caring government evaporated. Now, like almost everywhere, it’s every man for himself.

  He sighs, miffed. “The ranks of Real Finns,” he says, “are growing by leaps and bounds. They’re scaring the shit out of the other center and left parties with talk of leaving the EU, going back from the euro to the Finnish markka, their politics of hate, blaming the country’s social ills on foreigners. Those parties are suffering mass defections. Kokoomus is the party of the rich, and those who wish to be rich. The fear factor is the key to winning the election. Liberals, knowing they don’t stand a chance, will vote for Kokoomus, because it’s the best way to keep Real Finns out of office. There are seventeen parties. The more momentum Real Finns gain, the more it will pressure members of the other fifteen parties to vote for Kokoomus, out of simple terror. Any show of weakness by Real Finns might give voters hope and encourage them to vote for their party of choice.

  “Real Finns, being the party of the common man, receive common donations, and not enough. Veikko Saukko had promised a million euros in campaign funds for Real Finns in early 2009, almost a year and a half ago, then reneged because the party’s anti-foreigner stance wasn’t strong enough. Saukko is a man given to temperamental mood swings, and in fact, he likes me,” the minister said. “I still hope to get him to come up with the promised cash.”

  I take the envelope back out of his hand. “You want something from me. After we discuss it, we can discuss money.”

  He wrapped his arms around himself, bunched himself up against the cold and laughed. “Most people fear me,” he said. “You couldn’t give a fuck less. Why is that?”

  I shrug. “It’s not my nature.”

  “I’ve found a truism in life,” he said. “People good at one thing tend to be good at others. You’ve proven yourself adroit in the assignments given you.”

  I say nothing.

  “Veikko Saukko began in the scandal-sheet business and has a great fondness for dirt.”

  I laugh. “You want me to be minister of propaganda and start a hate rag?”

  “Yes. And call it Be Happy.”

  “What level of dirt?”

  “Deep and evil left-wing gossip filth. An attack on Lisbet Söderlund’s character should dominate the first issue. A ‘Thank God that scourge of the nation is dead’ type of thing. Discredit leftists as Commies, fags, dopers, reprobates, nigger lovers. Fearmongering—armed blacks are organized, preparing to kill good, innocent, white God-fearing Finns—should be a major theme. Scatter it in with celeb skank to hide the purpose of the rag. It will impress the hell out of Saukko. Can you do that?”

  I know just the guy, my old pal Jaakko Pahkala. “I can. I have to decide if I will. Tell me a couple things. Your guests, and I think they’re your cronies, are from various political parties. Why is that?”

  “Mutual interest.”

  “Such as?”

  “For instance, to use the previous example, NATO. It makes little practical sense for Finland to join it, yet we’re making it happen.” He laughed. “I mean, can you really picture NATO defending little Finland if Russia sends tank divisions rolling across our border? We have no oil. There’s nothing to be gained by NATO in coming to Finland’s defense. However, joining NATO means the creation of positions of power with great prestige. It means contracts for weapons systems with companies that people on this boat own stock in. Energy to power the systems. It means more wealth for the wealthy.”

  “At the expense of the Finnish taxpayer.”

  “Inspector, this is the way the world has always been. I can’t apologize for that.”

  “And another question. What happened to my predecessor?”

  “Your predecessor?”

  “Yes. I did have one, didn’t I?”

  He pauses, rubs his chin, deciding whether to tell me the truth. “He and his team are all dead. Their approach was low-tech compared to yours. They went to St. Petersburg to assassinate a human trafficking ring. They failed. They were military, by the way, not cops.”

  I give him back the envelope. “Yes, I can start your skank rag and up the tithe. In return, from time to time, I’d like information, and military-grade equipment.”

  “Information such as?”

  “Wait a second.”

  I don’t know where Milo is and if he should be seen doing whatever he’s doing. I call him and put it on speakerphone. “Tell the interior minister what it was you wanted to monitor cell phones.”

  “A GSM A5.1 Real Time Cell Phone Interceptor. It’s undetectable. Handles up to four base stations, up to quad band, and up to twenty phones,” Milo says.

  The minister says, “I’ll get you two of them.”

  I ring off.

  “You know the whereabouts of all the Real Finns leaders at all times?” I ask.

  “Well, my people do.”

  “This race war must be stopped, and I intend to solve the murder of Lisbet Söderlund. Tomorrow, I want to interrogate Roope Malinen.”

  “I don’t want him hurt.”

  “That’s up to him,” I say, “and it’s part of the deal. Most leaders of racist organizations are criminals and to a certain degree hucksters, using hate in order to unify supporters and profit from it in one way or another, not because of true ideology. I think that’s his profile, and I suspect he knows something about the murders. I’m going to get it out of him.”

  A cold wind gusts and rocks us. “All right. He’s yours if you don’t kill him. May I speak to your wife?”

  “It depends on why.”

  “It’s about Hotel Kämp.”

  I nod. She’s downstairs in a circle of gossiping hens, drunk and talking overtop one another. I call her aside. The three of us go to an empty cabin. She’s weaving, and it’s not just the rocking of the yacht. She giggles. “The pri
me minister is an excellent host. My glass always seemed to be full. I think I drank more than I thought I did.”

  The minister says to her, “I want to bug your hotel. When foreign dignitaries come—say, Vladimir Putin—their private conversations could be used as an edge in negotiations. It’s for the good of your adopted nation.”

  Solemn, Kate nods agreement. “That,” she says, “is an excellent idea, and I would be proud to serve the nation. I’m on maternity leave, though, and not in charge. You need to ask Aino, whom you met last night.”

  “I’m sure encouragement from you would go a long way,” he says. “Or if Aino doesn’t agree, we can simply wait until your maternity leave is over.”

  I don’t tell her what a giant mistake she made, or that she made a promise that goes against everything she stands for. The hotel will be used for honey traps. Diplomats and certain businessmen will be recorded engaging in illicit sexual liaisons. Failure to succumb to blackmail will result in the destruction of their careers and personal lives.

  I decide I won’t tell her. She goes back to drinking fruity frozen rum drinks with Mirjami and Jenna and her new political pals.

  29

  It’s a little after six p.m. when we start the drive home from the yacht club. Kate is drunker than I thought. She’s got that female drunk thing going on, by turns giggly and weepy. She’s been drinking three days running. I’m not sure if this is just her first exposure to hanging out with a hard-drinking female crowd, keeping up with them drink for drink without paying attention and realizing how much she’s consuming, or if something is troubling her and causing this uncharacteristic behavior. For me, it was a workday that entailed socializing. I had only two beers.

  I stop and pick up some baby formula. Her breast milk is alcohol toxic. It unsettles me that she didn’t take that into consideration before getting smashed. Again. Kate waits in the car while I shop. I get a text message. “Tomorrow, Roope Malinen will be at his summer cottage on the island of Nauvo, near Turku.” The message includes the GPS coordinates for the cottage.