Authors: Jarkko Sipila
“His little brother Ripa plays hockey with our Joonas. Supposedly, this Osku has lots of money.”
“Wouldn’t doubt that,” said Suhonen.
“He bought Ripa some fancy phone and now Joonas has to have one.”
The car zoomed under an overpass. A lighted sign on a brick building displayed the temperature: 41° F.
“Sounds like more of a problem for dad than for Detective Lieutenant Takamäki,” Suhonen chuckled.
CHAPTER 17
SUNDAY, 4:00 P.M.
OLYMPIC STADIUM, HELSINKI
Salmela was fed up. He rounded the north end of the soccer stadium and headed toward the Olympic Stadium. According to his directions, he was supposed to come to the statue of Paavo Nurmi, the famous distance runner who won nine Olympic gold medals in the ’20s.
Salmela wouldn’t have complained if it weren’t for the rain, which only seemed to mock him. Over the phone, a man had told him to go to the Sörnäinen Metro station in East Helsinki, then take the subway downtown to the central train station, and loop through the Kamppi Shopping Center before taking the streetcar to the Olympic Stadium.
The man had introduced himself as Aalto, and told him that they wanted to be sure that nobody followed him. So far, nobody had. And why would they, Salmela thought.
He reached the agreed-upon corner just as a gray Ford Focus pulled up. The driver pushed a button and the window slid down. His eyes met Salmela’s. The driver was in his thirties, with neatly-trimmed hair and a baggy blue hoodie. “Get in,” he said.
“Who’re you?”
“The police are your friends,” he said simply.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, that’s why I’m here. The situation has been deemed safe—you should get in now.”
Salmela climbed in the passenger side. “How many of you guys are involved in this?”
“Plenty,” the driver said and sped off. “As a matter of protocol, we’ve been watching, and nobody has followed you. I have orders from Aalto to bring you to the meeting place.”
The driver turned northbound onto Urheilu Street.
“What kind of a guy is this Aalto?” Salmela asked.
“What kind of a guy does he seem like to you?”
Salmela watched Töölö’s pale-green high school drift past on the left. “Pretty damn careful.”
“That’s just how he is. Doesn’t take any risks, which is good as far as I’m concerned. That’s why I can’t talk to you.”
“But you already have.”
“Not anymore. You’re in the hands of professionals.”
They passed the Finnair Soccer Stadium and continued northward. Salmela recalled his meetings with Suhonen. Those had been different—somehow peaceful, even. Often they had met over beers at the Corner Pub, but after his spell in prison, that had ended. Maybe Suhonen didn’t think the place was safe anymore.
More recently, Suhonen had always picked him up at some agreed-upon spot and they had chatted at a gas station or some other public place. Last time, Suhonen wouldn’t even agree to meet at the usual Teboil café. And now this. Salmela wondered who had changed, he or Suhonen.
They passed the Helsinki Ice Center on the right and the driver continued straight through the intersection. Oddly, having lived in Helsinki most of his adult life, Salmela had never been in this neighborhood before. The buildings looked like they were from the sixties. He wasn’t even sure what this part of town was called.
What if this was just a test from the Skulls? Would they check to see if he’d talk to someone he believed was a cop? And if he did, well… Well, what then? He had already been to the cliff in the Nuuksio forest—what else could they do? Except, perhaps, to make his death more unpleasant than a bullet in the mouth.
A painful death was something to fear, but Salmela no longer had anything to look forward to in life. He had no family to live for, nor was there any purpose for the rest of his journey. His own mistakes had cost him everything. His marriage had fallen apart while he was in prison. His son had been shot. He had no friends, save for the guys at the Corner Pub and Suhonen. They were the only ones who cared.
And now, of course, the Skulls and the NBI. Damn.
They passed a hospital on the right. Parked cars on both sides of the street narrowed the lanes.
The wheels were spinning in Salmela’s head. He tried to gather his thoughts and quiet the pulsating pain in the back of his head. Suhonen was an old friend and things had always worked both ways with him. He gave Suhonen information the police needed, and in return, Suhonen helped him out from time to time. This exchange was mutually beneficial, and its scale minimal. Salmela had never considered himself a nark.
Now the whole ordeal seemed more complicated. Suhonen had urged him to agree to it—said it would be his ticket to a new life. But was that really possible? So far, he hadn’t succeeded. His efforts had earned him a job as the Skulls’ toilet cleaner, and now as an informant for the NBI. Escape seemed impossible.
His headache was steadily seizing more space in his skull. Maybe it would pass if he quit thinking, just listened, and did as he was told.
The driver braked and stopped in front of a tan three-story stucco building. Salmela immediately noticed the fire escape scaling the outside wall. It would be easy to burglarize the building.
“That’s it. Someone in the stairwell will tell you where to go.”
“Okay,” Salmela said, and got out.
He dodged the puddles in the front yard and hurried toward the building.
The white-framed entry door was oddly tall. Salmela stopped and wondered whether the door would bring him more trouble or redemption. He wasn’t sure, but the Ford standing behind him compelled him onward. He could run, of course. Mannerheim Street wasn’t far. There he could catch a bus, and head someplace where nobody was interested in Eero Salmela. But they would find him—if not the Skulls then the police. In the end, there was really no difference between the two, he thought.
He ascended the seven steps and paused briefly in front of the door. Salvation or hell? Unable to decide, he pulled the door open.
A man behind the door startled him. He wore a suit, a short haircut and was holding out his hand.
“Hello. I’m Aalto. We have a lot to talk about. Let’s go up to the second floor.”
“What’s up there?”
“An apartment. It’s our safe house—one of many. We can speak privately there. Nobody will bother us or suspect anything. It’s completely secure.” Aalto headed up the stairs.
Salmela followed close behind.
Halfway up, Aalto turned around. “Are you hungry?”
“Well, a little.”
“Good. We have sandwiches up there.” He had used the same question many times before in similar situations. He had no real reason to ask the question in the stairwell, but it created a sense of security. Naturally, the informant was nervous. But if the police had time to talk about sandwiches on the stairs, it would calm down the prospective informant. At the same time, it created the illusion that the police were actually interested in the person, not just the information they possessed.
The door to the apartment was ajar and Aalto went in first. This too was pre-planned: an underlying message that the police were looking out for the informant’s safety. The informant didn’t have to enter a strange place alone with the police behind their back.
Aalto knew that emotions were made of simple things.
The two-room flat was modest, but not barren. In the entry hall was a row of coat hooks and a shallow table. The bedroom featured a double bed, and in the living room were a small dining set and two loveseats. The walls were decorated with a few uninspiring prints. Despite its dreariness, the apartment was clean.
The NBI had numerous apartments across the country for just these types of situations. They could be used to interview informants, to lodge participants of the witness protection program, and even as a base for undercover surveillance operations. Of course, neither the Interior Ministry nor the police were listed as the official owners. The flats usually belonged to fronting companies that then rented the apartments to the NBI, making it difficult for the criminals to identify or locate them. Nearly all of the apartments had wound up in the state’s hands after an elderly person died and no next of kin were found. The Interior Ministry and its subordinate organizations, such as the police departments, didn’t have the money to buy apartments on the open market.
Aalto invited Salmela into the living room. An older, portlier cop named Lind was seated at the dining table. Fifty years old and sporting a thick mustache, Lind could have been a regular at just about any corner pub. His voice was low and soothing, but his gaze was cutting.
“Hello,” said Lind, offering his hand. “Glad you came.”
These words too were scripted, ensuring that the cops didn’t say, “Glad you could make it,” or, “Glad you’re here.” Instead, he specifically said, “Glad you came.” It implied that Salmela had made the choice himself.
Salmela shook hands with the man. Aalto and Lind were in some respects opposites of one another: a stiff suit and a street-smart cop.
* * *
Suhonen knocked on the doorframe. Narcotics Detective Toukola was sitting alone in an office he shared with four other cops. The space was almost identical to the VCU’s, one floor up.
“Hey there,” said Toukola.
Suhonen had been hoping to talk earlier, but Toukola’s evening shift didn’t start until four.
“Busy?” Suhonen said as he stepped into the room.
“No, not yet anyway.”
Toukola was dressed in jeans and a red hooded sweatshirt. On the night shift, he was responsible for reacting to whatever happened in the field. If all was quiet, he would work on existing cases, fill out overdue paperwork or just drink coffee. Nonetheless, a case could arise suddenly from, say, a routine traffic stop where officers stumbled upon a large stash of dope.
“Hard to say if that’s good or bad,” Suhonen commented.
“What, are you crazy? Of course it’s good.”