“Salme… Uhh, Salmiakki is a long-time criminal, primarily running stolen goods. He’s divorced, done time, and his son was shot to death in a drug deal gone bad. I believe his story; he wants out of the game, but can’t because of his debt. As a result, he has to depend on someone stronger, and since the Skulls betrayed him, the cops can step in.”
“Not exactly levelheaded, then,” Aalto remarked.
“Not exactly,” said Suhonen. “But he’s not dumb, either. And don’t bother appealing to his sense of justice. For him, the opportunity to break out of his current circumstances will be enough.”
Nykänen interjected. “But he understands that more than likely, he’ll wind up in prison?”
“Yeah. We went through that yesterday. Salmela…”
“Salmiakki,” Aalto corrected him.
“Salmiakki knows he’ll take the rap for the twenty ounces-for his own security. It wouldn’t look good if we busted everybody else and he got off scot-free. I promised him we’d make things comfortable for him in prison.”
Aalto frowned. “We can’t promise him anything.”
“We talked about it,” Suhonen reworded. “But it’s kind of awkward if he’s expecting results and all he gets is talk.”
“We’ll try to help him afterwards, of course,” said Nykänen.
The word “try” was a big problem for Suhonen. If an informant put his life on the line for society, it wasn’t enough for the police to just “try.” The system should have clear rules.
Aalto went down his list. “At any rate, it’s clear that we’ll be overseeing the case. The fact that Suhonen is so close to the subject is a clear conflict of interest.”
Takamäki nodded. “We’ve talked about that.”
“That way we can be sure the situation will be handled professionally, and that the informant has a genuine desire to talk to the police. He won’t be doing this just to please Suhonen anymore, but only for the sake of revealing important matters to the authorities. That works for his own benefit, too.”
This case might even work out, thought Suhonen. If he didn’t believe that, he would never have given up his own informant. True, Salmela’s head injury had already driven him to the sidelines, so he wasn’t privy to much valuable intel anymore. He spent most of his time at the corner table of the Corner Pub. But Suhonen’s primary concern was Salmela’s welfare. The operation would provide a chance, however slim, for Salmela to get out-not through the front door, but through the back.
Aalto went on, “I’ll be one of his handlers myself. Another one, a specialist, will come from my own group. Both of us will attend all meetings with Salmiakki. We’ll pay all of his expenses in cash and his real name will go in the NBI’s safe. Does this Salmiakki happen to have a dog?”
“No,” said Suhonen, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the thermos.
“Pity. Walking the dog is always a convenient way to meet. We’ll think of something else. For security reasons, it’s imperative that NBI agents are the only ones to meet with Salmiakki. Is that clear, Suhonen?” Aalto stressed.
Suhonen nodded.
“I have the informant’s address and phone number here. Do you have any idea where Salmiakki is now?”
“I’d bet on three spots. He’s either at home, at the Skulls’ compound or on the way there,” said Suhonen.
“You don’t have Salmiakki under surveillance?”
Takamäki shrugged. “No. We don’t have enough resources for that. And there’s been no need for it.”
Aalto’s expression was grave. “So let me get this straight. Your informant is at the headquarters of a criminal organization with no security measures?”
“Why should there be?” Suhonen asked. “I don’t have time to babysit them all. These guys are criminals-they don’t like being followed. They come to me when a competitor tramples on their toes or they want to get back at someone. The third reason is when another criminal is completely out of control and the related police activity is bad for business.”
“Pretty old-fashioned thinking,” Aalto remarked.
“Maybe so, but that’s how you get street intel. Maybe you guys should invest some time in traditional police work yourselves.”
Aalto looked over at Nykänen, who seemed uneasy. “The NBI takes care of organized crime. You take care of the street crimes.”
Suhonen wanted to ask him where, exactly, organized crimes occurred. If not in the streets and alleys, then where? The NBI could have all the white collar criminals they wanted.
“One more thing we should make clear, so we all understand,” Suhonen said. “Under no circumstances does Salmiakki want to wind up testifying in court. We can only use him for getting intel, which will guide further police operations.”
Nykänen nodded. “We’ve been thinking the same thing. With Salmiakki’s help, we’ll know where to be, and when, but nobody else will know about his role.”
“Any questions?” Aalto inquired.
Takamäki cleared his throat. “Meetings. Where and when?”
“Here at NBI headquarters. I’ll let you know when,” Nykänen said. “Anything else?”
Suhonen drank the last of his coffee. “Are you guys going to be taking the drug case too?”
“No,” said Nykänen. “Our objective here is the Skulls and anyone affiliated with them, especially Mike Gonzales. Narcotics will continue to investigate the drug trafficking case. We can combine the cases later as necessary.”
* * *
The Skulls’ compound was quiet. Salmela was alone at the bar, wiping down the counter. From a custodian’s perspective, the previous night had been rather mellow-the place didn’t look much different from the way he had left it.
He had arrived at the compound at just past nine. With walking, the bus commute had taken nearly an hour. The previous night, Salmela had skipped the Corner Pub, bought a six-pack of beer and watched TV. He had burned the letter to Suhonen. It was irrelevant now. The conversation with Suhonen replayed continually in his head, but he didn’t let it bother him. Nowadays, things just happened, and he didn’t have much control over them.
Roge, who was on guard duty that morning, had opened the door. Salmela hadn’t earned the code for the keypad yet, and likely wouldn’t for a long time.
Roge had wanted to talk about last night’s hockey games, but that fizzled quickly since Salmela didn’t know the scores. Soon, Roge got bored, turned to his billiards, and Salmela hung his jacket in the broom closet and got to work. The toilet was an easy task now that the first big cleaning was out of the way.
Salmela could tell by the smell of the ashtrays that someone had been smoking weed. A few spent doobies confirmed it. He stuffed the butts in his pocket. By saving a few weeks worth of remnants and rerolling them, he could have a couple new joints to sell. That would fetch him a few euros.
At the corner of the bar was a plastic garbage pail half filled with empty cans and bottles. If nobody emptied it, Salmela planned to do it himself and keep the deposits.
The steady crack of the billiard balls stopped and Salmela looked up. Roge was chatting with a bald, tattooed man whose back was turned to Salmela, but he recognized him as the same Skull he had met in prison.
Roge said something and Tapani Larsson turned to look at Salmela. Larsson nodded and strode briskly toward him.
Salmela considered his options quickly: bottles, both full and empty, were all about, but Larsson likely had a gun, and Roge certainly did. He’d have to make do with words, and if there was trouble, he’d either survive or not. He was powerless. Others made decisions for him, just like in prison.
Larsson approached the other side of the bar.
“Hey there,” the man flashed a grin. “I guess we’re old friends.”
“Yeah,” said Salmela. “Helsinki Prison, right?”
Larsson nodded. “I remember you. You did a few jobs for us-and very well.”
“Still am.”
“Gotta pay your debts, huh?”