Authors: Jarkko Sipila
That damned gig. In the end, it had all gone to hell, but it didn’t bother him anymore. In the peacekeeping forces, war was like a game. There, he never knew whether his comrades would sacrifice their lives for his. In the Skulls, every man would—without hesitation.
Aronen felt the pressure subside. A quick shake, a zip and he headed back to the car.
Nine on the dot. Aronen had just begun to grumble when a dark blue Volkswagen Golf swung into the parking lot.
He recognized Gonzales, who drove toward him, braked and stopped the car six feet off.
Aronen had always considered Gonzales to be a schemer, but what did that matter? These types existed all over the world, even in Afghanistan. And they always thrived, regardless of their country or form of government.
Gonzales left the engine running and rose from the car. The usual grin and quick lift of the sunglasses. It was his version of the military salute: hand to the temple. The men had known each other for years—before Afghanistan Aronen had moonlighted as a carpenter for Gonzales.
“How are things?” Gonzales asked.
“Alright,” he said brusquely.
“Where’s…” Gonzales managed to say before spotting the Beamer about ten yards off. “Oh, over there.”
Aronen tossed him the keys. “Nice ride.”
“Yeah. Larsson like it?”
Aronen nodded. “Little too showy, though.”
Larsson had called Aronen at three A.M. and ordered him to switch cars first thing in the morning. The early morning call hadn’t bothered Aronen, since he hadn’t been able to sleep anyway.
Gonzales laughed aloud. “Damn right it is—that’s the point! But yeah, I get it… What’s in the works now that Larsson’s back?”
“Durus, iratus, crudelis,” Aronen rattled off without a trace of a smile. The Skulls had done some research on the net to come up with their own “Olympic Motto” to counter the famous “citius, altius, fortius,” or, “faster, higher, stronger.” As expected, the Skulls’ Latin grammar was sloppy, but it meant—or at least it was supposed to mean—tougher, angrier, crueler.
“Right, of course. Not surprised at all. That batch of speed…” he started before deciding to change the subject. “…well, this Golf is a little pokier than the Beamer, but she does OK: two-liter engine and a couple hundred horsies. Any problems or need service, just give me a call.”
Aronen had to admit—he liked the way Gonzales operated. When the guy made a promise, he kept it. Of course, that worked both ways, too: if Gonzales was promised something, it was kept. To a T, not just in the ballpark. Aronen didn’t even have to ask about the car’s documents—they would be in order.
But the drug shipment hadn’t gone so well, at least in part.
“Glad you brought up the dope. Pretty interesting that the mule got smoked right in the harbor. Know anything about that?” Aronen said.
“I heard about it, but that’s all.”
“Well, if you hear something, call.”
“I’ll try to keep me ears open.”
“Don’t try. Do it. Good news is the other batch turned out to be the good stuff—75 percent pure. We’ll be able to cut it four, five times.”
Gonzales smiled. “That’s what the Russian promised… But, be sure to cut it before anyone uses it. I’ll check on that leak… And there’s an envelope in the front seat. Twenty grand, just like you asked.”
“Good,” Aronen nodded. He believed Gonzales, and certainly wouldn’t touch the money. You never knew where it would end up or if fingerprints or DNA would be lifted from it.
“Anything else?” Gonzales grinned.
“Nope.”
Gonzales took a couple steps toward the Beamer then turned. “I have another deal that should bring in a decent amount. I’ll need some help from you guys, but we can talk about that in a couple weeks.”
“Oh,” Gonzales continued. “And I left a little present in the trunk.”
* * *
Niko Andersson rolled down the window and barked at Salmela, “Get in.”
The Skulls’ matte black Chevy Nova had stopped in front of the Olympic Stadium. Salmela glanced around as though in a last ditch effort to look for help. None was there. He dragged himself to the car.
Roge, the bull, was driving, Niko rode shotgun and Osku was sitting in the back seat.
Andersson had to wrestle himself out of the two-door coupe and tilt the seat forward. Salmela squeezed past him into the back seat.
“Morning,” Niko muttered as he sank back into the car.
Salmela didn’t respond.
The Chevrolet puttered off westward along Helsinki Avenue.
“You got the money?” Niko asked without looking back.
Salmela stayed quiet.
“Answer me when I ask you a question!”
“No.”
“No what?” Niko sneered.
“No money…to pay my debt,” Salmela said quietly.
“You’ve had plenty of time, and nothing to show for it.”
“I tried.”
“No excuses.”
Salmela fell silent.
The coupe reached the intersection of Sture Street. They passed the Linnanmäki Amusement Park on the right and Roge drove down the hill under the train tracks.
“We’ve got a problem—and that problem is you,” Niko remarked coolly.
* * *
Aronen parked the VW Golf in front of a gas station and glanced at the time: 9:30 A.M. He had some extra time, as Larsson was to be picked up at ten.
The gas tank was full, but a cup of coffee would do him some good. The Lauttasaari Shell was a familiar spot. Aronen remembered the old arcade bar, long gone now. On the far side of the fuel pumps was a stodgy convenience store with a few pedestal tables.
Inside, the ex-soldier poured himself a cup of coffee and paid the 1.50 euros. A young woman next to him was playing slots and the beeping grated on Aronen’s ears. He went back to the counter and ordered a hot dog. It was ready in a minute.
Save for the woman at the slots, there were no other customers. That was good. He wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. Lying to his former army buddies about his new gig was tiring. Not that there was any shame in it, much to the contrary, but talking about the Skulls inevitably led to too many questions.
Aronen flipped through a newspaper left on the table, but couldn’t focus.
His phone rang. The caller’s number was unidentified.
“Yeah?” he growled into the receiver.
“Sami Aronen?” asked a woman’s voice.
He didn’t recognize the caller. “Who are you?”
A short silence on the other end. “Don’t hang up, just listen for a bit. I’m a reporter named Sanna Römpötti and I’d like to chat with you.”
Aronen thought for a second. He could’ve hung up, but curiosity got the better of him—at least for the moment.
“Where’d you get this number?”
“From a police interview transcript. You were a suspect in a pizza shop extortion case and the police had this number in the file.”
Alright, fair enough, Aronen thought. Maybe it was careless to keep the same number for so long, but on the other hand, he never used this line for business. “What do you want?”
“Well, since you’re the acting boss, at least on the outside, I thought maybe we could talk. So the cops won’t have all the say,” she said. Römpötti had formulated her strategy in advance. This was probably the only way to get the gangster to talk.
“What kind of story you doing?” Aronen asked. He didn’t want to let anything slip about the gang, not even to correct her error about who was leading it. She had done her homework, but apparently didn’t know about Larsson’s release.
“I’m interested in your organization in general, particularly in how you’ve ended up at odds with the Helsinki police. It’s surprising to me that the police consider you a criminal organization when, at least in the pizza shop case, the court ruled otherwise.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Will you promise to think about it?”
“Can’t promise anything, but I’ll get back to you.”
“When?”
“After I’ve thought about it.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll text you my number.”
The call ended and Aronen turned back to his coffee and hot dog, both now tepid. The woman was still at the slots, and had definitely been listening to the conversation. Whatever. He hadn’t said anything suspicious.
His phone alerted him to an incoming text. Aronen hesitated then saved it to his contact list.
CHAPTER 12
SATURDAY, 10:00 A.M.
NBI HEADQUARTERS, VANTAA
The air conditioner was humming quietly. “Think the room is bugged?” Suhonen wondered.
Takamäki grinned and sipped his coffee.
“Wouldn’t surprise me at all,” Suhonen continued.
The lieutenant wasn’t sure if Suhonen was serious or not.
The two men were seated in a clean, blue-themed conference room at the headquarters of the National Bureau of Investigation in suburban Helsinki. Whereas the Helsinki police used flip charts and grungy white boards, the NBI used smart boards and overhead projectors.
The table had space for sixteen. There were no windows to offer a view, but several large dragon trees sat in the corner. The plants were healthy enough that somebody other than an NBI agent had to be watering them. A silver thermos and paper cups rested on the table.