Precisely, thought Salmela as he gathered up the beers.
* * *
Larsson parked the Beamer in the parking lot of an apartment building in the Lauttasaari section of west Helsinki. He’d have to get another set of wheels-this one attracted too much attention.
The gangster boss had received a bullet proof vest and a 9mm Beretta 92FS from Aronen. The hefty gun was strapped under his arm, and with the bulky vest, Larsson’s leather coat wouldn’t zip up.
The white apartment buildings lay perpendicular to the road. Sara Lehto’s apartment was in the one with the grocery store on the end.
Larsson opened the ground-level door with his key and bounded up to the second floor two stairs at a time.
He stopped in front of her door to listen for a moment. Just the TV. He opened the door.
“Hey,” he said.
The lights were on but nobody answered.
“Hey,” he said, louder, stepping into the living room.
Sara was curled up on the sofa in a pink top and tight shorts, watching TV. The room was sparsely furnished. When she noticed the movement, she startled. “Oh, hey.”
The TV was playing the same Rome series she had watched back at the hotel. Larsson started to take off his jacket.
“This is really good. I just bought the second season on DVD.”
This time it was Larsson’s turn not to respond.
“Oh yeah,” she went on. “We’re out of milk. If you want some for your coffee in the morning, go get it from the store downstairs.”
“Huh?”
“Out…of…milk,” she said slowly.
Larsson shrugged his jacket back on without a word. If he didn’t get his coffee in the morning, the day would go to hell. And coffee called for milk.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 24
CHAPTER 11
SATURDAY, 8.50 A.M.
KAARTI POLICE STATION, HELSINKI
“I’m not so sure,” said Skoog, the Assistant Chief of the Helsinki Police Department. Surly and graying, Skoog was sitting behind a desk piled with tall, orderly stacks of paper. The man worked long days, often weekends too.
Takamäki and Suhonen had explained the possibility of planting an informant inside the Skulls. Salmela hadn’t been identified by name.
“What do you mean not so sure?” Suhonen said, irritated.
“It’s a hell of a big operation just to ensure the informant’s safety. You guys…er, we’d be in deep shit if it fails and the guy gets killed.”
“Well, true,” Takamäki conceded. In his time, Skoog had run some heavy cases. The chief knew what he was talking about.
“How much manpower can the VCU devote to this?”
“I don’t know,” Takamäki answered honestly.
“You should,” the assistant chief said bluntly, “In the critical phase, I’d bet 24-hour surveillance alone will require over a dozen officers.”
Suhonen raked his fingers through his black hair. “Is it really necessary to follow the informant 24-7?”
Skoog’s cutting stare fell on Suhonen.
“In ops like this, yes it is. I’ve led a few of these in my time.”
Suhonen was beginning to regret having made such a big deal out of it. The case could have been handled much more simply, but then Salmela wouldn’t be able to pay off his debts.
“But I’m glad you came to discuss it,” Skoog said.
Great, Suhonen thought.
“So, what should we do?” asked Takamäki.
“An undercover operation of this scale falls under the NBI’s purview,” said Skoog. “I’ll get in touch with them and set up a meeting for you guys. We’ll see what they say. Until then, keep the case on ice.”
“Got it,” said Takamäki.
Skoog fixed his eyes on Suhonen. “That goes for you especially. No solos. If we’re going to take advantage of this opportunity, let’s do it right.”
* * *
Salmela reached the Olympic Stadium right on time. There’d be no point in making excuses. He didn’t have the money and was prepared to pay the price.
His head was pounding hard enough that whatever he had coming couldn’t possibly make it worse. He remembered the beers at the corner table last night, but the trip home was a fog. Maybe his friends had walked him home. Luckily, he had remembered to set his alarm for eight in the morning. A cold shower had helped, but only as long as the water had run. It had rinsed the vomit off the shower floor, too.
Across the street from the Olympic Stadium was an Irish bar. Salmela had the fleeting impulse to grab a cold pint for his nerves. It would do him good, but the bar didn’t open till nine-still a couple minutes away.
He lit a cigarette, which tasted terrible.
Salmela had flipped up his collar and pulled on a black wool cap. This afforded some protection from the biting wind, but inside, he was shivering.
The Skulls were ruthless, but even they wouldn’t kill a laying hen. They’d just pluck it to make a point. That’s what Salmela hoped, anyway. Just in case, he had left a letter addressed to Suhonen on the sofa, informing the officer of whom he had gone to meet, and why.
Salmela had considered calling him too, but were the cops to swarm the area, he would surely wind up dead, labeled as a rat.
The wind rattled the cords on the nearby flag poles, but otherwise it was quiet. A couple of young girls in parkas with backpacks slung over their shoulders walked by Salmela. Cars drifted lazily past. The city awakened slowly to Saturday morning.
Salmela paid no attention to the passersby. When his ride came, it would stop right in front of him.
* * *
Sami Aronen’s stride was wide like a cowboy’s-his muscled thighs made him walk slightly bow-legged. The weapons expert wore a pair of sharp-toed cowboy boots, black jeans and a frayed denim vest pulled over his leather jacket. But he bore no colors. Sometimes those garnered too much attention.
The Velodrome parking lot was quiet. Aronen had left Larsson’s BMW at the corner of the cycling stadium and strode over to its wall to take a leak. He checked the time: 8:59 A.M. In one minute, Gonzales would still be on time-in two, he’d be late.
Aronen unzipped his pants and pissed on the wall. He wondered fleetingly how many walls he’d watered like this over the years. This was probably his first cycling stadium, so congratulations for that. So far, the only mosque had been in Afghanistan.
That damned gig. In the end, it had all gone to hell, but it didn’t bother him anymore. In the peacekeeping forces, war was like a game. There, he never knew whether his comrades would sacrifice their lives for his. In the Skulls, every man would-without hesitation.
Aronen felt the pressure subside. A quick shake, a zip and he headed back to the car.
Nine on the dot. Aronen had just begun to grumble when a dark blue Volkswagen Golf swung into the parking lot.
He recognized Gonzales, who drove toward him, braked and stopped the car six feet off.
Aronen had always considered Gonzales to be a schemer, but what did that matter? These types existed all over the world, even in Afghanistan. And they always thrived, regardless of their country or form of government.
Gonzales left the engine running and rose from the car. The usual grin and quick lift of the sunglasses. It was his version of the military salute: hand to the temple. The men had known each other for years-before Afghanistan Aronen had moonlighted as a carpenter for Gonzales.
“How are things?” Gonzales asked.
“Alright,” he said brusquely.
“Where’s…” Gonzales managed to say before spotting the Beamer about ten yards off. “Oh, over there.”
Aronen tossed him the keys. “Nice ride.”
“Yeah. Larsson like it?”
Aronen nodded. “Little too showy, though.”
Larsson had called Aronen at three A.M. and ordered him to switch cars first thing in the morning. The early morning call hadn’t bothered Aronen, since he hadn’t been able to sleep anyway.
Gonzales laughed aloud. “Damn right it is-that’s the point! But yeah, I get it… What’s in the works now that Larsson’s back?”
“Durus, iratus, crudelis,” Aronen rattled off without a trace of a smile. The Skulls had done some research on the net to come up with their own “Olympic Motto” to counter the famous “citius, altius, fortius,” or, “faster, higher, stronger.” As expected, the Skulls’ Latin grammar was sloppy, but it meant-or at least it was supposed to mean-tougher, angrier, crueler.
“Right, of course. Not surprised at all. That batch of speed…” he started before deciding to change the subject. “…well, this Golf is a little pokier than the Beamer, but she does OK: two-liter engine and a couple hundred horsies. Any problems or need service, just give me a call.”
Aronen had to admit-he liked the way Gonzales operated. When the guy made a promise, he kept it. Of course, that worked both ways, too: if Gonzales was promised something, it was kept. To a T, not just in the ballpark. Aronen didn’t even have to ask about the car’s documents-they would be in order.
But the drug shipment hadn’t gone so well, at least in part.
“Glad you brought up the dope. Pretty interesting that the mule got smoked right in the harbor. Know anything about that?” Aronen said.
“I heard about it, but that’s all.”
“Well, if you hear something, call.”
“I’ll try to keep me ears open.”
“Don’t try. Do it. Good news is the other batch turned out to be the good stuff-75 percent pure. We’ll be able to cut it four, five times.”
Gonzales smiled. “That’s what the Russian promised… But, be sure to cut it before anyone uses it. I’ll check on that leak… And there’s an envelope in the front seat. Twenty grand, just like you asked.”
“Good,” Aronen nodded. He believed Gonzales, and certainly wouldn’t touch the money. You never knew where it would end up or if fingerprints or DNA would be lifted from it.
“Anything else?” Gonzales grinned.
“Nope.”
Gonzales took a couple steps toward the Beamer then turned. “I have another deal that should bring in a decent amount. I’ll need some help from you guys, but we can talk about that in a couple weeks.”
“Oh,” Gonzales continued. “And I left a little present in the trunk.”
* * *
Niko Andersson rolled down the window and barked at Salmela, “Get in.”
The Skulls’ matte black Chevy Nova had stopped in front of the Olympic Stadium. Salmela glanced around as though in a last ditch effort to look for help. None was there. He dragged himself to the car.
Roge, the bull, was driving, Niko rode shotgun and Osku was sitting in the back seat.
Andersson had to wrestle himself out of the two-door coupe and tilt the seat forward. Salmela squeezed past him into the back seat.
“Morning,” Niko muttered as he sank back into the car.
Salmela didn’t respond.
The Chevrolet puttered off westward along Helsinki Avenue.
“You got the money?” Niko asked without looking back.
Salmela stayed quiet.
“Answer me when I ask you a question!”
“No.”
“No what?” Niko sneered.
“No money…to pay my debt,” Salmela said quietly.
“You’ve had plenty of time, and nothing to show for it.”
“I tried.”
“No excuses.”
Salmela fell silent.
The coupe reached the intersection of Sture Street. They passed the Linnanmäki Amusement Park on the right and Roge drove down the hill under the train tracks.
“We’ve got a problem-and that problem is you,” Niko remarked coolly.
* * *
Aronen parked the VW Golf in front of a gas station and glanced at the time: 9:30 A.M. He had some extra time, as Larsson was to be picked up at ten.
The gas tank was full, but a cup of coffee would do him some good. The Lauttasaari Shell was a familiar spot. Aronen remembered the old arcade bar, long gone now. On the far side of the fuel pumps was a stodgy convenience store with a few pedestal tables.
Inside, the ex-soldier poured himself a cup of coffee and paid the 1.50 euros. A young woman next to him was playing slots and the beeping grated on Aronen’s ears. He went back to the counter and ordered a hot dog. It was ready in a minute.
Save for the woman at the slots, there were no other customers. That was good. He wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. Lying to his former army buddies about his new gig was tiring. Not that there was any shame in it, much to the contrary, but talking about the Skulls inevitably led to too many questions.
Aronen flipped through a newspaper left on the table, but couldn’t focus.
His phone rang. The caller’s number was unidentified.
“Yeah?” he growled into the receiver.
“Sami Aronen?” asked a woman’s voice.
He didn’t recognize the caller. “Who are you?”
A short silence on the other end. “Don’t hang up, just listen for a bit. I’m a reporter named Sanna Römpötti and I’d like to chat with you.”
Aronen thought for a second. He could’ve hung up, but curiosity got the better of him-at least for the moment.
“Where’d you get this number?”
“From a police interview transcript. You were a suspect in a pizza shop extortion case and the police had this number in the file.”
Alright, fair enough, Aronen thought. Maybe it was careless to keep the same number for so long, but on the other hand, he never used this line for business. “What do you want?”
“Well, since you’re the acting boss, at least on the outside, I thought maybe we could talk. So the cops won’t have all the say,” she said. Römpötti had formulated her strategy in advance. This was probably the only way to get the gangster to talk.
“What kind of story you doing?” Aronen asked. He didn’t want to let anything slip about the gang, not even to correct her error about who was leading it. She had done her homework, but apparently didn’t know about Larsson’s release.
“I’m interested in your organization in general, particularly in how you’ve ended up at odds with the Helsinki police. It’s surprising to me that the police consider you a criminal organization when, at least in the pizza shop case, the court ruled otherwise.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Will you promise to think about it?”
“Can’t promise anything, but I’ll get back to you.”
“When?”
“After I’ve thought about it.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll text you my number.”
The call ended and Aronen turned back to his coffee and hot dog, both now tepid. The woman was still at the slots, and had definitely been listening to the conversation. Whatever. He hadn’t said anything suspicious.
His phone alerted him to an incoming text. Aronen hesitated then saved it to his contact list.
CHAPTER 12
SATURDAY, 10:00 A.M.
NBI HEADQUARTERS, VANTAA
The air conditioner was humming quietly. “Think the room is bugged?” Suhonen wondered.
Takamäki grinned and sipped his coffee.
“Wouldn’t surprise me at all,” Suhonen continued.
The lieutenant wasn’t sure if Suhonen was serious or not.
The two men were seated in a clean, blue-themed conference room at the headquarters of the National Bureau of Investigation in suburban Helsinki. Whereas the Helsinki police used flip charts and grungy white boards, the NBI used smart boards and overhead projectors.
The table had space for sixteen. There were no windows to offer a view, but several large dragon trees sat in the corner. The plants were healthy enough that somebody other than an NBI agent had to be watering them. A silver thermos and paper cups rested on the table.
Suhonen was surprised at how much the room resembled the conference room at the Estonian Cent
ral Police headquarters.
The meeting had been set for ten o’clock. They had driven here directly from Assistant Chief Skoog’s office. Lieutenant Jaakko Nykänen, the head of intelligence for the NBI, had met the men in the lobby and escorted them upstairs. The stout, walrus-whiskered Nykänen was a familiar face. Before transferring to the NBI, he had worked for Takamäki in the Helsinki VCU, though that had been many years ago.
“What do you think?” Suhonen asked, sipping his coffee.
“Tough to say. It’ll probably depend on their caseload.”
Nykänen came back into the room along with another agent. Each was wearing a gray suit, white shirt and blue tie. The second man, Jouko Aalto, stood just under six feet tall, and had a lean face and neatly trimmed hair. Takamäki had on a blazer and polo shirt, and Suhonen, his trademark leather jacket. His black hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“Sorry it took a while,” Nykänen rasped. About ten years ago, he had lost part of his voice box after being shot in the throat on a VCU raid.
“Is that your uniform here?” Suhonen asked, pointing to the pair’s identical outfits.
Nykänen smirked. “Coincidence. Do you know Jouko?”
Takamäki nodded. He had met Jouko Aalto previously, but the man was a stranger to Suhonen.
Nykänen gestured toward Aalto and explained that he was in charge of coordinating the NBI’s undercover operations, a part of the intelligence group.
The NBI men took their seats and poured themselves a cup of coffee.
“So, you had a project proposal?” Aalto began in a dry voice. His lips barely moved and his expression was rigid. “Typically, these initiatives would get channeled through the supervisory branches of the police departments to the PCB-committee, where such matters are resolved…”
Aalto rattled off a synopsis of multilateral work between Police, Customs and Border officials, collectively known as PCB. Suhonen was sure his eyelids would start to sag if this Aalto droned on with his bureaucrat-speak any longer.
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