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 Soderlund’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 Soderlund. 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 Kamp.”
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 prime 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.
Kate has never been to Turku. I get back in the car. “Kate, how would you like to go on a road trip tomorrow, to Turku? It’s about two hours east of Helsinki.”
“Just us?” She sounds hopeful.
“No, I have to do some cop stuff, but Milo and Sweetness will come with me, so I thought maybe Mirjami and Jenna could go with you. You can give your new Audi a good breaking-in. My brother Timo has a farm near there. After we do our business and you do your sightseeing, if he’s available, we could pay him a visit.”
She’s in happy-drunk mode at the moment. “Sounds fun,” she says.
We go home. I thank Jyri’s aunt, give her a fifty, pre-pay a taxi for her, send her home and get on the horn. Kate passes out on the couch.
I promised Moreau he could accompany me while I conduct interviews. He promised to teach Milo how to use the advanced weaponry he bought, doesn’t need, and doesn’t know how to use. Sweetness has never fired a gun. We’re searching for, I believe, military trained killers, perhaps mercenaries. He needs to learn to shoot. I’d like to kill all these birds with one stone.
“I have business in Turku anyway,” Moreau says. “It suits me.”
I tell him to meet me here at eight a.m.
Step two. Call my brother. This is harder. “Jesus, Kari,” he says, “I haven’t heard from you in two years, seen you in four. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I have some business in Turku and thought I’d drop by, if that’s OK with you.”
“It’s more than OK. It would be great. I hear you have a baby now. You gonna bring her?”
“Actually, I may bring a few people. Cops and their women. And we’d like to do a little weapons training while we’re there. Is that all right with you?”
Anger creeps into his voice. “For a minute there, I thought you wanted to see me. In fact, you want something from me. That’s it. Right?”
The truth is, I don’t give damn if I see him or anyone else, because of my lack of emotions. But I’m trying to do what I view as my duty toward my family, and I neglected my duty toward him when I felt emotions because of those emotions. It’s easier now. “No, I want to see you. I can shoot guns anywhere. I’m a fucking cop, if you recall. We have practice ranges. I can come see you and not shoot, if you prefer. Or I can go to a practice range and not see you, if you prefer that.”
He goes quiet for a minute. “Just tell me why you haven’t come to see me.”
I tell the truth. “I don’t know. Why haven’t you come to see me?”
He’s quiet again. “It’s complicated. Just fucking come visit. Take target practice with a panzer if you want. And you’re all welcome to stay the night. We have lots of room.”
“It’s good to hear your voice, big brother,” I say.
“Yours too.” He rings off.
Next, Milo. “We’re going on a road trip tomorrow. Bring that nuclear arsenal or whatever it is you bought. Moreau is going to teach you to use it.”
“Cool! Where are we going?”
“Different places around the Turku area. We’ll probably stay the night, maybe at my brother’s place. And Mirjami is invited.”
“I don’t know if she can come. She might have to work.”
I recall that Mirjami told Milo she loves me. She pays me no undue attention. I find this strange. “Tell her if her love for me is true, to trade out shifts or something. Kate is coming in a separate car, and it will suck for her if she’s alone. In fact, she probably wouldn’t come and be disappointed.”
Milo says he’ll try. I tell him to be here at eight.
I make a similar call to Sweetness, and invite Jenna. It’s no problem for her, she doesn’t go to school and she’s unemployed. The girls are too young and immature to become close friends with Kate, but she seems to enjoy their company, at least on a superficial level.
I save the worst for last and call Jaakko Pahkala. I have a love-hate relationship with him. I love hating him. His little rat face, his squeaky voice, his attitude-everything about him annoys me. Pre-brain op, I would have gotten an adrenaline hate surge just by picking up the phone to call him. He refers to himself as a journalist, and is employed as such on a
freelance basis by our most yellow skank rags. He loves skank. Lives and breathes skank. The uglier and more loathsome, the more he reveres it. Also, he’s petty and malicious. He once tried to have me fired because I refused him an interview.
Jaakko is like vile medicine. Sometimes it’s required, and in the same vein, at times he has his uses. This is one of them.
He answers his phone. “Inspector Vaara, this is an unexpected pleasure. How may I be of service to you?”
“I’m starting a new publication,” I say, “and I’d like you to be editor.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“‘Editor’ is euphemistic. You’re the sole employee, the publication date is uncertain, and you’re not to let anyone know the publication exists until I authorize you to do so.”
“And the nature of this publication?”
“We’re going to revamp the classic Be Happy.”
“The best magazine ever made in Finland,” he says. “I’m honored.”
I describe it as the minister defined it to me, but with my own spin on it. “It’s to be a hate rag under the guise of a scandal sheet. For instance, Lisbet Soderlund. You’ll paint her black, invent vicious details concerning her private life, and leave the reader feeling she was a traitorous slut who deserved to die.”
“My, my, Inspector. That is the skankiest skank that ever skanked a skank.”
“You’ll go after blacks, Jews and Muslims. Blame all our social ills on them. Picture 1920s American KKK hate materials, or pre-war German and French hate propaganda. I assume you’re familiar with those styles. As with the old Be Happy, do some career destruction. It’s OK if we get sued, but stay just on the side of the line where we don’t have criminal charges pressed against us for incitement of racial violence.”
“My familiarity with those styles would be better termed expertise,” he says. “I have a large personal collection of the literature.”
“In your first mock-up issue, go after the leading center and left political figures, as well as celebs. A lot of drug-and-alcohol-problem material, nympho and fag accusations, with the requisite images.”
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