Nights of Awe (18 page)

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Authors: Harri Nykanen

BOOK: Nights of Awe
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I remembered Toivola and called him. He was still at work. “Did you get the gunpowder-gas results yet?”
“Not yet. I lit a fire under them, though, and they promised to get them to me today.”
“What about the shell?”
“Tomorrow at the earliest.”
“Call me as soon as the results come in… even if it’s late.”
“Will do.”
“What gunpowder-gas test results?” Huovinen asked.
“If traces of gunpowder are found on Ben Weiss’s hands, then he was most definitely one of the shooters at Linnunlaulu.”
“Let’s hope to God they are, then. That’ll shut the ambassador up,” Huovinen said hopefully. “Your brother called, too.” Eli was acquainted with Huovinen, but not well enough to call him without good cause.
“Why?”
“Tried to wheedle information about the investigation. He had heard a rumour that the killings had something to do with the Jewish congregation. And before that, I got a call from the chair of the Jewish congregation.”
“Silberstein?”
“Yup. Asked the same thing. Has every Jew in Finland been recruited to snoop on us?”
“So it would seem.”
I told him that Meyer, who had confirmed Ben Weiss’s fur-dealing alibi, was a Jew, and so was the antiques dealer whose stolen vehicle had been used at Vartiokylä and probably at Linnunlaulu too. I also told him that my brother and the chair of the Jewish congregation had already paid me a visit.
Huovinen looked at me gravely.
“The way you talk about it, it sounds like you don’t believe in coincidences.”
“At least I believe that Meyer lied to me. And that if he lied, he was protecting Weiss. I can’t think of any other reason for protecting him except that Weiss isn’t who he was pretending to be. The cooperation between him and Meyer sounds fishy anyway. Meyer had dropped out of the race ages ago, so why would an eager young fur dealer want to work with him? There are better partners to be found in Finland, Jewish ones too.”
“Do you believe that your brother and Silberstein could have got information we don’t have yet through their own channels?”
“I believe that they are in some way involved without knowing it, as are Meyer and Oxbaum. Their Jewishness alone doesn’t explain everything.”
Simolin knocked on the open door and said: “You want to come watch the tape?”
“What tape?” Huovinen asked.
When I told him about the parking stub found on Weiss’s body and the footage shot by the Parliament security camera, Huovinen got excited.
“Are you serious? I want to see it too.”
We went into the conference room, pulled up chairs, and sat down in front of the TV.
Simolin turned on the VCR. The clock was running at the bottom of the screen. It was still five minutes to the time that the parking stub was dispensed. Simolin fast-forwarded, and a white minivan flashed across the image.
“Stop!” I ordered.
The white vehicle was at the right edge of the camera’s field of view. The camera was about ten yards from the meter. It was impossible to make out the licence-plate number, but Simolin tossed out a guess.
“Probably the stolen minivan.”
The minivan approached and stopped. Simolin went up right in front of the TV.
“That’s it, I can already make out the plate.”
The vehicle backed up next to the meter. The passenger door opened, and a blond man stepped out.
“Definitely, that’s him,” Simolin repeated.
“That Weiss?” Huovinen asked.
“Yup.”
Weiss dug into his pockets and walked towards the meter, stopped, studied the coins he had pulled out, fished out a couple, and dropped them into the meter. While waiting for his stub, he glanced around and noticed the camera.
“He noticed the camera,” remarked Huovinen.
Weiss turned his back to the camera. After getting his stub, he started heading for the vehicle. At the same moment, the driver’s door opened and a dark-haired man twisted himself out.
“Got ’em both,” Simolin said excitedly.
The dark-haired man pointed a remote key at the van to lock the doors. The van’s lights flashed, indicating they were locked. He took a few steps in Weiss’s direction, and his face was clearly visible. Weiss gesticulated an order to him. The man appeared confused, glanced directly at the camera out of instinct, turned, and stroked his jaw with his left hand. It was as if someone had pressed my internal pause button. My stomach wrenched.
“Go back to the dark-haired guy,” I said.
Simolin rewound and stopped at the point where the man stepped out of the van. He went around to the pavement and turned towards the camera.
I saw a hard, muscular face and close-cropped hair. The man was tall and lean.
Huovinen looked at me.
“What now?”
“I want close-ups of both men.”
“Can I fast-forward now?” Simolin asked.
“Go ahead.”
The men walked in the direction of Mannerheimintie and stepped off-screen.
I pondered what I had seen. The security camera was blurry and it had been hard to distinguish the men’s faces. Still, I was sure. I knew the dark-haired man, even though he had changed and aged twenty years. I was sure of it.
His name was Dan Kaplan. He had moved to Israel in 1985 to do his military service there and never came back. Before that, he had been my best friend since first grade. He had picked up the thoughtful chin-stroking from a Clint Eastwood Western that we had seen together.
You couldn’t fool Huovinen. He asked: “Do you know him?”
I nodded.
“I think he’s my childhood friend. His name is Dan Kaplan. I saw him last ten years ago when I was in Israel. At that time he was a major in the army’s special forces.”
“What the hell is he doing here?” Huovinen wondered out loud.
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Not trading furs, I bet,” Simolin said.
My phone rang. It was Toivola.
“Those boys went all out, the gunpowder results came back in record time. They’re positive.”
“Thanks. Now go home and get some rest.”
“I think I will. I already called the old lady and asked her to heat up the sauna.”
“You’ve earned it ten times over.”
Toivola laughed in satisfaction. People were given far too little praise these days.
I said to Huovinen and Simolin: “Traces of gunpowder were found on Weiss. In other words, he was at Linnunlaulu and fired the gun.”
Huovinen rose so suddenly that he almost knocked his chair over.
“Make sure it’s Kaplan and put out an APB on him… what do you think, is he dangerous?”
“If he wants to be.”
“Do you think he wants to be?”
“It looks like it.”
“Mention in the APB that he’s dangerous and possibly armed.”
“Are there any better pictures of him?” Simolin asked.
“I took some photos of him on my trip to Israel, but they’re already ten years old.”
“His family must have more recent ones,” Huovinen suggested.
“I’ll try to get my hands on them.”
13
 
It was the seventh day of the month of Tishri, and the ten days of repentance were already leaning towards Yom Kippur. Jews believe that there is a book in heaven in which a person’s every deed, word and thought is recorded. The book opens on the second day of the New Year holiday and God reads what each person has done. Based on this, he decides our fates: who must suffer death, who may live, who will be made poor and who rich, who may live in peace, and who will be cast into ruin.
However, this judgment is not final. Everyone has ten days to reflect on their deeds and pray to God for forgiveness. During the ten days of repentance, one must settle one’s quarrels, pay one’s debts, and ask for forgiveness from those one has trespassed against. Only after that may one hope for mercy and forgiveness from God.
 
During the ten days of repentance, attendance at the synagogue was much higher than normal. Now it was almost packed.
Looking from the podium, the
bimah
, the Kafkas sat at the front right. In addition to me, there were only two Kafkas present, my brother Eli and his son Leo. Eli was sitting hunched over so far that he looked almost like a dwarf among the tall chairs. His yarmulke grazed the back of the bench in front of him. Knowing my brother, the position was excessively pious. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye but didn’t say anything.
The seats to our right were reserved for the Oxbaums, and the Weintraubs were at our left. The Kaplans sat, from our perspective, behind the Weintraubs. Their family was represented solely by Salomon Kaplan, Dan’s father.
After the service ended, I loitered in the foyer. My brother Eli came over to me, looking put out.
“What now? Don’t try and tell me you’re here to pray.”
“Of course I am. I have plenty of things to repent for.”
My brother greeted people walking past on both the right and the left. He was clearly an important and well-known person in the congregation, which was no surprise to me. The surprise was how rapidly it had all happened. Just a few years back, he had, at least when he was drunk, laughed at the silliness of the activities of the congregation’s “old guard”. Now he appeared to be one of its mainstays.
“I want a word with you a little later,” I said.
Eli frowned. My tone was clearly too bossy when you took into account that he was, after all, the older brother. He didn’t answer, he just kept on walking.
The next person to stop and talk to me was my now-retired English teacher, and before long my former religion teacher joined us. When they left, I was approached by the leader of the Maccabi table-tennis club, who reminded me that I would be welcome in the club veterans’ series.
Veterans’ series sounded so bad that I immediately drove it from my mind. In my high-school years, I had been the greatest talent in the history of the club, and I would have been accepted for grooming for the national team. But when Karmela Meyer and her D cups entered the picture, my adolescent hands found better things to do.
It wasn’t until the police academy that I took up ping-pong again and immediately rose to the top ranks of the police-guild table-tennis club. At least there was one thing I was better at than my brother.
I forgot all about ping-pong when I saw a grey-haired, bearded man with a black, silver-tipped cane exit the sanctuary. I positioned myself in such a way that he was almost forced to bump into me.
I turned and faked surprise.
“Mr Kaplan! It’s been a while.”
Kaplan couldn’t see well without his glasses, but as he came closer he recognized me.
“Ari! Is that you?”
“It’s me, Mr Kaplan.”
“You’ve become a real celebrity. I’m very proud of you.”
I’d always liked Salomon Kaplan. I had spent a lot of time in their home, and they had always treated me like a son. If it was mealtime, they would set a place for me; if it was teatime, a cup would be poured for me, too. I was a shy child, but Salomon Kaplan and his wife Ethel had broken through my defences.
Salomon Kaplan was a master tailor by profession and Ethel was a housewife. She had died a couple of years back. It had been a tough time for Salomon, because his and Ethel’s marriage had been a real, genuine love story. I never once heard them fight.
I was envious of Dan for many reasons, but most of all of his parents and the love they showed their children.
“Being on TV a few times doesn’t make you a celebrity,” I said modestly.
“I’ve read about you in the papers, too.”
“It’s just the job.”
Kaplan appeared a tad reproachful, but only a tad.
“Ari, we don’t see you here at the congregation very often.”
“I’ll try to mend my ways.”
Salomon smiled. “There are probably a few too many of us old codgers standing in the way.”
I decided that it was the right moment to get to the point.
“Have you been to Israel to see Dan lately?”
“I don’t have the energy any more, I can’t stand those long flights. They’ve even been pestering me to move, but there’s far too much commotion and hubbub there. Everybody talks too much.”
I chuckled. Salomon sounded like my Uncle Dennis.
“Has Dan become talkative too?”
“Well, not Dan of course, but his wife is a real motor-mouth.”
“How’s Dan doing, is he still with the army? I haven’t heard from him in years.”

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