Against the Wall (2 page)

Sara rifled through the jacket. “Shit, he’s packing,” she said and pulled out a Glock 26.

Larsson laughed. “And you’re surprised?”

She handed the pistol to Larsson and he stuffed it in the waistband of his pants. He directed Suhonen to sit, then came around and sat down opposite him. A narrow coffee table stood between the two men. Sara remained standing behind Larsson.

“Who are you with? Pistoleros?”

“What are Pistoleros?” Suhonen played dumb. Though the Skulls and Pistoleros were not currently engaged in open warfare, Suhonen knew very well the tensions between the two gangs.

Larsson struck Suhonen on the cheek with the barrel of his pistol. Not very hard, but it hurt. The taste of blood filled his mouth. He felt around with his tongue, wondering if he had a broken tooth.

“What the…”

“There’s more where that came from. Talk.”

“If I tell you, can I go?”

Larsson nodded.

“Alright, alright…I ain’t got nothin’ to hide. I was sitting at the Corner Pub in Kallio when this guy comes up and offers me a hundred euros if I can find out where this blonde lives. He figured it’d be somewhere in Ruoholahti, so I waited around at the Metro station till I spotted her. And here she is.” Suhonen gestured toward Sara.

Larsson stared at Suhonen with suspicion. “Why did he want her address?”

“He said he saw her in some porn flick, and he just wanted to know… Hey, can I go now?”

“Kill him,” Sara said. “He wanted to bang me.”

Larsson glared at her. “Listen, what good does it do if we kill him. Nothing. Then again, I don’t care…if you want him dead, then…”

Suhonen acted worried. “Listen, I have money. Let me go, and it’s yours.”

Larsson laughed. “How much?”

Suhonen glanced at his jacket, then back at Larsson, who nodded, indicating that he could look through the pockets. Suhonen counted his money onto the table briskly.

“Uh…forty-two euros.”

Larsson laughed out loud. “Uh…forty-two euros. Heh-heh… Listen, Suikkanen. Ten will do.”

“Just ten,” he said, though he knew very well what Larsson meant. Suhonen slid a single wrinkled bill onto the table and stuffed the rest back into his pocket.

“Moron! Ten grand.”

Suhonen gaped at him. “I don’t have that kind of…”

“Well, figure something out or I’ll let this bloodthirsty blonde have her way with you.”

Suhonen shook his head. “Uhh…right, I think I can raise it. If I sell my motorcycle.”

“You have one hour.”

“One hour?” Suhonen looked pained. “That’s impossible.”

Larsson nodded. “Call somebody. I don’t care what you do. You owe me ten.”

“Ten grand?” Suhonen protested. Larsson just waved his pistol.

Suhonen thought for a second, though he knew exactly who he would call. He dug his cellphone out of his pocket.

“Put it on speakerphone,” Larsson demanded.

“Alright, alright,” Suhonen said and scrolled down the list to Anna’s number. Hopefully she’d know to play along. The phone rang a couple times.

“Hello,” answered Sergeant Anna Joutsamo, slightly riled. “Where in the…”

Suhonen interrupted quickly.

“Listen, Suikkanen here,” he began, hoping she would catch the alias and recognize the act.

“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.

To hell with this. This guy better have some valuable info. The caller had promised him some key intel for his next gig, and Jerry needed the work. The man had told him that the meeting spot had to be absolutely secluded so nobody could see them together.

Eriksson glanced around again: no people. It seemed that at any moment, a moose might emerge from the tree line. Jesus. Was this really Helsinki? He liked places where the trees grew through the pavement.

The damp forest smelled of earth. Eriksson could detect the sweet, penetrating scent of pine needles. It reminded him of the air-freshener that used to hang from the rear-view mirror of his first car.

Near a bend in the road, a red plastic mailbox emerged from the darkness. Eriksson could make out the number “8” painted in white. From there, a narrow driveway led to a clearing in the middle of the woods. Eriksson patted the FN pistol in his right jacket pocket. He smiled to himself. Was he really this nervous about a little walk in the woods?

The meeting would probably be quick and easy—he’d be back in the bar in no time for a few more beers.

There was no name on the mailbox, not that he expected one. The light from a streetlamp stretched about a hundred fifty feet into the darkness, to where the driveway curved right. The tire tracks were worn deep, and in the middle, a strip of grass was readying itself for winter.