“I’m in deep shit and need your help.”
“Suikkanen, what the hell! What now?” Joutsamo snapped.
“Look, I’ve got a little problem,” Suhonen continued. “I need a favor. I got this situation where I owe ten grand to a pretty unhappy customer, and he wants it right now.”
“Ha, how’d you end up owing that kind of money?”
“Well…the story of my life. You know, debt can sneak up on a guy pretty quick,” Suhonen rambled.
“Okay,” Joutsamo said in a voice that signaled she had gotten the message. “Well, what do I gotta do?”
“You gotta sell my bike for ten grand. Maybe call Turunen-he asked about it last spring. But I need the money right away. Can you bring it…” Suhonen looked inquiringly at Larsson. “Where?”
“The Hietalahti market.”
Suhonen turned back to the phone. “You hear that? The Hietalahti market in one hour.”
“And what if Turunen’s not around?”
“He’s around. I saw him this morning. He’s got the money, too.”
“Okay, I’ll be in the parking lot in my blue van.”
“Thanks,” Suhonen said.
“You’re a piece of work, Suikkanen,” Joutsamo barked and hung up the phone.
Larsson looked at Suhonen. “Your girl?”
“Nah…my little sis.” Suhonen chuckled. “You think the missus would’ve agreed to that? She’d have said, ‘Shoot him three times to be sure. Twice in the head and once in the nuts.’”
Larsson cracked a smile.
* * *
The market was quiet; even the gulls had stopped their laughing. It was just before 10 P.M., though it was still light out. Helsinki summer nights were as light as its winter afternoons were dark. The parking lot was largely empty-most locals had fled to their summer cabins.
Larsson kept his right hand in the pocket of his leather coat. “Don’t do anything stupid or you’re the first to go.”
Sara kept to the other side of Larsson, hanging back a bit. They walked in a line toward the south side of the market. Old Market Hall on the far left was another reminder of Helsinki’s Russian past. The one-story brick building was a former stable, built in 1903 for Czar Nicholas II’s cavalry. The Russians had left Helsinki in 1917, but returned during the Second World War in bombers. Fifty years later, they had regained control of the market place, as it had become the main hub for cashseeking Russians selling cheap vodka and cigarettes.
Suhonen spotted the blue van in the middle of the parking lot.
“That’s my sister’s van. She’s probably waiting in the front seat.”
Larsson nodded. He could make out a dark-haired woman sitting in the driver’s seat about fifty yards away.
“What does she do?”
“Look at the van,” Suhonen answered. A sign on the sliding door read Vesala Electric in big, white letters. “Just a small business, but she does alright.”
Larsson seemed satisfied, and nodded. The trio marched on in silence. When they came within fifteen feet of the van, Larsson gave brief instructions. “Get the money from your sister and give it to Sara. If it’s all there, you’re off the hook. If you go to the cops, I’ll kill your sister first, then you.”
“Okay,” Suhonen said, and pulled to the front of the line. Larsson and Sara slowed down. Joutsamo rolled down the window.
“Evening,” she said in a serious tone.
“Hey, sis. You got the money?”
“Yup. But Turunen wouldn’t pay more than nine Gs for the bike. I made up the difference myself; you can pay me back later. This better be important.”
“Thanks.”
Larsson started to fidget. “The money,” he snarled.
“Where is it?” Suhonen asked.
Joutsamo made steady eye contact as she extended a thick envelope out the window. Suhonen grabbed it and handed it to Sara.
Sara tore it open and cursed. Larsson turned to look: nothing but newspaper clippings. Suddenly, the sliding door on the van flew open. Three SWAT officers pointed MP5 submachine guns at the pair. “FREEZE! POLICE!”
Joutsamo slid out of the van and leveled her pistol at Larsson.
“Don’t move!”
“Fucking snitch!” Larsson hissed at Suhonen, then glared helplessly at the SWAT team. The submachine guns stared back.
Suhonen stepped behind Larsson, slapped a pair of cuffs on him and took back his Glock and Larsson’s CZ. Joutsamo put Sara in cuffs and ordered one of the SWAT officers to check the pair for weapons.
“Fuck. He’s a cop…it was a trap!” Larsson uttered as the truth finally dawned. Sara Lehto’s face was pinched as she burst into tears.
MONDAY NOVEMBER 24
CHAPTER 1
PAKILA TEBOIL STATION, HELSINKI
MONDAY, 9:55 P.M.
A man in a hooded jacket strode past the gas station, his gait restless and jumpy. To Juha Saarnikangas, there was something familiar about him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Saarnikangas sat in the dumpy coffee shop at the gas station, staring out the window into the darkness. He watched as the man drew slowly away, continuing north on Pakila Street. The window was sorely in need of washing; here in the armpit of Beltway One, it was a weekly job. On the other side of the Beltway, apartment buildings gave way to townhomes and single-family houses.
The man in the hooded jacket paused beneath the yellow glow of a streetlamp. The dim lighting altered the colors, but he guessed that the man’s jacket was either blue or green. Beneath his broad hood, he could make out the visor of a baseball cap, which darted nervously this way and that.
The pavement was wet, though it wasn’t raining anymore.
Juha was sure the man had done time. Somehow fellow criminals were easy to spot.
“You reading this?” A bald man in a leather jacket pointed to a tabloid on the table.
“Go ahead,” Juha said, and the man took it. He was probably the driver of the blue Volvo taxi, which sat in the parking lot of the gas station. It was parked next to Saarnikangas’ decrepit Fiat Ducato. The taxi gleamed in metallic colors, while Juha’s van was consumed with rust.
Juha reached instinctively for his coffee cup, but it was empty. He had a narrow face and greasy brown hair that reached the collar of his green US Army jacket. His thoughts whirled as he looked out the window. A blue pickup truck roared down the road. The bald man had disappeared.
He wondered if this hooded character was connected to his job, as he didn’t know exactly what it was. He had been given a new phone and orders to wait at the Pakila Teboil at 10 P.M. sharp. There was nothing to do but wait.
Juha regretted that he had given away that newspaper. Sitting here alone would seem more natural if he had something to browse through. He tried to avoid any suspicious movements, but inevitably his right foot began to bounce the moment he lost concentration.
What the hell was he waiting for anyway? But he couldn’t afford to turn it down.
* * *
A dense grove of firs flanked the dirt road on both sides. Streetlights were few and far between, and Jerry Eriksson pulled back his hood. Dark hair emerged from the band of his cap, just brushing the tops of his ears. Beads of sweat trickled down his spine and soaked into the elastic band of his boxers.
Eriksson cursed. Walking was Vallu Kononen’s specialty, not his. He remembered watching Kononen’s world-championship winning walk on TV sometime in the mid-nineties. Eriksson wasn’t sure on the exact year, but remembered that it had been during a youth hockey camp, a place where he had spent plenty of time. But that was then and this was now. Brashness and toughness had served him well in hockey, as they still did.
Now he had to hoof it. With four beers in his system he didn’t dare drive. He wasn’t one to take stupid risks. He had taken a taxi as far as Oulunkylä, a bedroom community in northeastern Helsinki, and set out from Pirjo’s Tavern on foot. Though the walk was a good mile or more, taking a cab all the way wouldn’t have been smart.