The agents took an interest in his time in prison as well. What cell had he been in? Whom had he spoken with? How had he met the Skulls’ Larsson? They wanted to know how Salmela had gotten his head injury. He gave them the same yarn he gave while still in prison: he had tripped on the stairs. In truth, Salmela’s enemy had paid a prison guard for the hit.
The agents weren’t convinced by his story, but they accepted it.
They pried into the origins of his debt and his recent experiences with the Skulls. Salmela had complained about his headache and was allowed to rest in the bedroom for half an hour. He had assumed that Suhonen had told the agents about those encounters. The rest did him some good and he ate some more. He’d stay quiet about the hike in the Nuuksio forest.
“Alright, then,” said Aalto, drawing a hand over his long face. “We’ve made good progress here and your honesty is encouraging. I think we’re on the same wavelength.”
Salmela was suspicious of this, but didn’t respond. The cops might think they were on the same wavelength, but he didn’t share the sentiment.
“You have kids?” Salmela asked Aalto.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have to trust you, so tell me.”
Aalto was taken aback. “Yes. Two little girls.”
“What’s your wife’s name and profession?”
“What?”
“What church were you married in? Where do you live?” Salmela pressed on.
Aalto was irritated. “We can get back to that once we’ve worked together a while.”
Salmela nodded. Clearly a one-sided relationship that wouldn’t last.
“Let’s get back to the matter at hand,” said Aalto. “We still have a lot to talk about, and we’re already in the critical phase.”
“What?”
“You’re already on the inside,” Aalto elaborated.
“What do you mean?”
“Typically, in these cases it takes a long time to get the informant on the inside, but not in your case.”
“Okay,” Salmela caught his drift. He had a job at the Skulls’ compound and the cops wanted intel from there. “What do you want from me?”
“We need to know who hangs out there. Who meets with the bosses, like this Larsson. What do they talk about? If they have parties, we need you to bring us the cigarette butts.”
“How come?” asked Salmela, remembering the marijuana butts in his pocket. Hopefully the cops wouldn’t find them.
“We can find out who was there by extracting DNA and comparing it to the database. If someone you don’t know seems important, bring us his beer glass and we’ll get the prints. Of course, if you sense the risk of getting caught, forget it. Don’t put yourself in danger.”
“Okay” said Salmela again. It seemed simple, yet left him with a foul taste. He wanted out of the Skulls, but now he was being squeezed between them and the police.
“But the most important thing is that you keep your ears open and tell us if you notice any conflicts or tension. If anything really urgent or sudden happens, you’ll call my number, but otherwise we’ll meet weekly at this apartment or another.”
“You have a lot of these, then?”
“Enough,” Aalto smiled.
“I don’t suppose anyone lives here?”
“No.”
Salmela thought for a second. Now it was his turn to ask the questions, “What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“To be safe for the rest of my life.”
Both agents nodded their heads. “Your safety is our highest priority.”
That was a smart answer, but it didn’t convince Salmela.
“These Skulls are brutal. If they find out I’ve been talking to you, I’m dead.”
“They won’t find out from us. If you let it slip yourself, all we can do is react, but I can guarantee nobody will find out through us.”
“I just can’t believe you can actually wipe out the Skulls. They think I owe them twenty grand, so if I want to live, I have to pay up.” Salmela paused before continuing. “How do we deal with that?”
“While the state can print money, they don’t do it for the police,” said Aalto. “Not even if we beg. Once we have something to go on, we’ll be able to pay you an appropriate amount to help with your financial needs.”
The promise seemed nebulous to Salmela. “So you’ll only pay when you get something. But if I can’t bring you anything, you pay nothing?”
“It’s not like that either, but my boss doesn’t cut blank checks.”
Salmela stared Aalto in the eyes. “So maybe I should talk to your boss?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t know who you are, nor do we want him to. Within the NBI, you have a code name that we can’t reveal to you. Your real name and code name are sealed in a safe.”
“You never answered my question about the debt.”
Aalto took a sip from the water bottle on the table. “It’s like this, Salmela. Right now, your value is about the same as this water. If I end up sitting at my desk staring at the screen, I won’t get thirsty. Coffee will do fine. But if you get me to run, sweat and get my heart rate up, then that’s worth something, and you’ll get your money. It all depends on you.”
Right, of course, Salmela thought. He was regretting his decision already.
“One more thing,” he said. “How long you think it’s going to take?”
“We don’t know. A couple weeks, a couple months, a couple years. If you’re in that compound every day, it’s bound to yield some intel we can work with.”
Salmela felt cold. The Skulls wanted him for a year and the cops for two. His mind conjured the image of a grill at a hot dog stand, with sausages pressed between two iron grates.
One of the agents rose and walked over to the stereo, perhaps wanting something more cheerful to lighten the mood.
A familiar hit sounded from the speakers. The singer’s ragged voice belted out, “You’re a beer glass on the bar, glossed by thirsty sips… The black rock of Islam, smoothed by countless lips.”
Hell, Salmela thought. He rearranged the rhyme in his head, “A losing poker hand, give up the chips.”
* * *
Suhonen pulled his unmarked silver Peugeot into a parking space on the roof of the Prisma grocery store in southern Espoo. He seemed to recall having been to this store before, but wasn’t sure. All Prismas were alike-if you’d been to one, you’d been to them all.
The undercover detective didn’t know why Juha Saarnikangas wanted to meet in Espoo of all places. Perhaps his informant had some business in the western suburbs or maybe the man had moved. The last Suhonen knew, Saarnikangas had lived across town, somewhere in East Helsinki.
The ex-junkie had asked Suhonen to be at the parking ramp at six. Now it was five minutes till. The store was closed on Sundays and only a few cars remained. Suhonen spotted Juha’s white Ducato van near the entrance of the store.
He pulled up to the side of the van. Saarnikangas watched from the driver’s seat as Suhonen got out of his car and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Did you move or something?” asked Suhonen.
Juha wiped some crumbs from his ragged army jacket. His dirty brown hair emerged from beneath a black beanie cap.
“What do you mean?”
“What are you doing here in Espoo?”
Saarnikangas grinned. “Friend of mine lives around here. I’m doing a little remodeling for him.”
Suhonen was skeptical. A few years ago, while in the clutches of a heroin addiction, the man would have scarcely been able to hold onto a hammer. Though now he could probably manage to hold on, Suhonen doubted the former art student would even know which end was up.
“Plumbing or wiring?”
Saarnikangas ignored the ribbing. “Neither, I’m putting in a parquet floor… You wanted to meet?” Juha looked impatient.
“About your friend Karjalainen.”
“Right. I gathered that much over the phone, but why couldn’t you just ask about it then?”
“I want to see your face when you answer,” said Suhonen with a steady gaze.