The bouncer made another call. This one only lasted about fifteen seconds and Suhonen figured he had only done it to clear the previous number from the phone’s memory.
Suhonen checked the time: 5:22 P.M. With that, they’d be able to pinpoint the call from the bar’s phone records, as long as Takamäki would sign the warrant. That wouldn’t be a problem, since they had obtained warrants for phone booths on lesser grounds.
The bouncer went back to the entryway and stood between the two sets of doors. This guy was definitely an interesting character, Suhonen thought.
CHAPTER 14
TEHDAS STREET, HELSINKI
WEDNESDAY, 5:27 P.M.
Markus Markkanen had called directory assistance with no luck. The number Lindström had given him was either unlisted or prepaid.
Markkanen was sitting in his boxy, blue 300-Series BMW in front of an elegant Art Nouveau building on Tehdas Street. The ’90s Beamer was in need of a wash. The sleet had turned to wet snow, though it was barely below freezing.
A police cruiser crept past, heading east toward the Russian embassy.
Markkanen decided to make the call. Now was as good a time as any. He picked up his cell and dialed the number. It rang three times before someone picked up.
“Hello?” a voice said hesitantly.
“Is this Nyholm?” Markkanen asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“Marko.”
“Marko, huh?”
“Yeah,” Markkanen said. “I have some business with you.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“First let’s hear if you’re Nyholm.”
After a brief silence on the other end, he spoke up, “Yes.”
“Good,” Markkanen said. That Nyholm had revealed his name was a key victory…a glimmer of trust. “Listen, Nyholm. We have a friend in common.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Eriksson.”
Nyholm’s speech quickened. “Eriksson. Right. What about him?”
“He’s traveling and asked me to take care of some things in the meantime.”
“Where did he go?”
“He didn’t say. He left in a bit of a hurry.”
“Is he in any trouble?” Nyholm asked.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“Don’t know that either,” Markkanen said. “But back to business…”
“Listen Marko, how do I know Eriksson sent you?”
Markkanen hesitated a moment. “Because he asked me to contact you.”
“So you’re telling me. He didn’t say anything to me.”
“Probably didn’t have time.”
Nyholm paused. “Eriksson has a tattoo. He said he only tells his closest friends about it…”
“Right,” Markkanen interjected.
“So let me ask you… What does he have tattooed on his left shoulder?”
Oh shit, what the hell was that ink? They had gone to sauna once with Lindström at the luxurious Palace Hotel penthouse. Markkanen remembered the hookers, but… Seemed like it was a number. Yeah. That’s what it was. “It’s a number. Must be an eight.”
“Correct,” Nyholm responded. “And why was Eriksson so pissed off?”
“Aaah… It had something to do with hoops. Some star from Los Angeles had the number eight, but right after Eriksson got the tattoo, the player changed it to something else.”
“That’s good enough,” Nyholm said. “So, you know Eriksson…”
“Yep,” Markkanen managed. He wanted to take a deep breath. Skeptical bastard.
“But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“What do you mean?” The question slipped out before Markkanen realized he should have ignored the comment. He would have rather had this conversation face to face, where at least he could read the other guy’s expressions and body language. Street smarts had taught him how to react to get what he wanted.
“I mean just what I said.”
“Let’s get back to business.” Markkanen said. “You know I’m handling Eriksson’s stuff, which is why I called. I know he had a little arrangement with you, and all I need is some information.”
There was silence on the other end. “Why can’t Jerry take care of it?”
Markkanen spoke in a calm voice; he knew he had already won. This was Nyholm’s last attempt at resistance.
“Jerry’s traveling, so I’m taking care of it… Nothing more. Business as usual.”
“You say your name’s Marko?”
“Yup. Markus actually, but you can call me Marko.” Markkanen eased up a little. He was pleased that at least for now, there had been no need for threats. “Listen… I need some info on a few shipments.”
“Well… Alright,” Nyholm relented.
“A ship named ‘Colleen’ is scheduled to arrive in Kotka tomorrow carrying twenty containers of rubber gloves, amongst other things,” he said, glancing at the notes Lindström had written for him. “They were sent from China, bound for Russia. I need to know whether the containers are going to be inspected or have shown up in any reports. You know the drill.”
“Yeah, I do.”
Markkanen read off the tracking numbers, which would allow Nyholm to pinpoint the cargo.
“I’ll check, but…”
“But what?” Markkanen asked, already eager to celebrate his victory.
“This isn’t a one-sided deal. How much do I get?”
He thought for a moment. Lindström hadn’t told him what the going rate was.
“Time for an inflation adjustment”, Nyholm said, “I need twenty-five percent more, so make it an even ten Gs a month.”
Markkanen thought for a moment. So Eriksson had coughed up eight grand, and now the guy was demanding ten. It wasn’t his money, though. What did he care. “Sounds fair.”
“Listen,” Nyholm said quietly on the other end. “We’re gonna have to keep a low profile for a while, and this can’t be happening very often.”
“Why?”
“Eriksson seems to be a hot name right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, some homicide detective was here today asking questions about him.”
Markkanen closed his eyes and felt a shiver run slowly down his spine. He forced a calm voice. “What was he asking about?”
“I don’t know the details. They seemed to be interested in his connections to Customs.”
Markkanen cursed to himself. “Okay, let’s just be careful. How you gonna let me know about the cargo?”
“For tonight only, we can use the prepaid phones. I’ll send you a text that’ll say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. ‘Yes’ means that you have a problem. Then I need you to open up a free email account and tell me the username and password. After this, all our exchanges will go through that account. Don’t send any emails, though. Just save your messages as drafts. We’ll both have access to the account, so we can check the draft messages to communicate.”
“Sounds good.”
“And cash only. I’ll post a draft email on the account telling you where to send it and how,” Nyholm instructed.
The call ended.
The job was done. Markkanen thought he had done pretty well, though he felt uneasy hearing about the cops. But he could deal with that too.
He started the car. The wipers struggled to clear the snow off the windshield.
* * *
Eero Salmela was lying on the bottom bunk in his cell. The junkie on the top bunk was asleep, breathing heavily. At one end of the cell was a small window. The bright lights from the yard cast an outline of the window onto the ceiling. The bars were sharply defined.
Salmela couldn’t sleep, and he looked at his watch. The glowing hands read quarter after ten.
At dinner, Salmela had heard about Raitio’s tumble down the stairs. Apparently, his left knee was in rough shape. So far, the prison hospital had been caring for him, but surgery was inevitable. According to the rumors, his knee would never recover, and he’d limp for the rest of his life.