The Bodyguard (17 page)

I had heard about the censorship during Soviet times, but I hadn’t thought it would still be alive and kicking. Maybe the rednecks I had met at a bar in Queens one night had been right: while the political system changed, Russia didn’t. It was still an evil empire that Americans needed to battle with a strong arsenal of weapons.

It was the collection. Shortly before seven we hopped onto the tram heading out to the Pasila TV station. As we passed the ice hockey arena, Helena received a text message.

“It’s from Saara. Five weeks of sick leave. Crap! And we’re so busy with the election and all. It’s impossible to find a new assistant right now, especially someone who knows how to do the work. Everyone else is already involved with the elections. Damn!”

The car turned toward West Pasila. It came to an abrupt stop when a drunk almost walked in front of it. Helena would have hit her chin on the seat in front of her if I hadn’t quickly stuck out my arm. I hadn’t noticed before how slow her reaction time was, although she sure could talk. We got out of the car before it turned toward East Pasila and walked through the police station to Radio Street.

“Wait, why am I worrying when the answer is walking right next to me? You can be my temporary cabinet assistant! There hasn’t been a peep from Tiku since Reiska told him to take a hike, and all my other stalkers have left me alone, too. What do you say? Let’s kill two birds with one stone.” Helena looked at me.

“And you don’t have to pay me because I’ll be on the cabinet’s payroll. Thank you, taxpayers. I don’t suppose you can deduct a bodyguard’s pay on your taxes? Isn’t it considered part of your general household expenses?”

“Thank God it’s not a household expense yet,” Helena laughed. “But seriously, Hilja, would you do it?”

“What’s the pay like?” I asked, and when Helena mentioned a sum that was significantly lower than what I usually charged, I hesitated. Then again, it was better than unemployment and having to endure those humiliating visits to the unemployment office. “But I don’t know a thing about politics! Vanhanen is the prime minister, Niinistö the speaker of the House, and Väyrynen is in the cabinet—that’s all I know.”

“You can be in touch with Saara on the phone and through e-mail, and she’ll be happy to help you. You can go meet her at the hospital tomorrow if you want.”

Helena was good at convincing people. No wonder she had received so many votes in the last cabinet election. Of course, her suggestion made sense. We had already gotten used to each other; maybe we even liked each other. I also appreciated the steady stream of money going into my bank account.

While Helena was debating environmental and energy policies on the Friday night broadcast, I went to get my gun. Between the show and the time in the makeup chair, she’d be busy for about two-and-a-half hours, so I was in no hurry to get back to Pasila. I stuck around the train station. I took an open window seat at the small bar and did some people-watching. I saw all types: folks from the countryside who came to spend the weekend in the big city, others running around aimlessly, lovers. Should I try calling David again?

That’s when I saw him: a dark young man carrying an artist’s case. I immediately recognized him from Mrs. Voutilainen’s sketch. Yuri Trankov. I dropped my energy drink and ran after him. He ambled down the steps from the train station to the market square and didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He turned toward the National Theater but stopped at the station corner to light a cigarette, and that’s when I decided to take a chance. I approached him.

“Evening,” I said, trying to muster the expression of a woman who is interested in the opposite sex. “Can I bum a cigarette off you?”

Trankov glared at me. “I no speak Finnish.”

“Do you speak English? Would you give me a cigarette, please? I’ll pay, one euro.”

Trankov sighed and pulled out his cigarette case. I was in luck: it was a western brand, not some cheap Russian stuff. He lit the cigarette for me and waved his hand when I offered him the euro coin.

“What do you have in that case?” I continued in English. “Are you an artist?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you paint? Hey, do you need a model?” I flashed a smile that was positively whorish and managed to not puke on my shoes with disgust.

“I don’t paint people,” Trankov cut me off.

“What do you paint then? Some boring squares that you see at a modern art museum?” Art galleries had been everywhere in New York, but I hadn’t spotted many works of art I would have put up on my wall, except for the one of the mailman with the split beard I’d seen at MoMA. It had reminded me of Uncle Jari.

“Animals. People like to commission pictures of their pets.” Trankov was now looking around, hoping someone would walk by to rescue him from this overeager woman.

“Animals! How exciting! Is your work displayed anywhere? I’d be interested in a painting of a lynx.” I let my voice drop during the last sentence.

“A lynx?” Trankov wasn’t fazed. “I don’t think you’re allowed to keep them as pets in Finland.”

“It would be more like a memento. To remember a friend who had a lynx fur coat. My neighbor on Untamo Road in Käpylä bought a lynx painting from a Russian painter. Was that you?”

“Could be.” Trankov threw his cigarette down and stepped on it. “You should let friends dressed in lynx fur lie. I don’t paint anyone dead. Not women or animals. And it’s much nicer to be alive than dead, isn’t that right, Ms. Ilveskero?
Da svidaniya
.”

Trankov turned around and crossed the street, climbed the National Theater stairs, and disappeared inside. When I got there, the lobby was empty and the usher rushed over to tell me that they weren’t selling any more tickets that day.

This was absurd. It was the day of Anita’s funeral, the best possible day to deliver some new threats, to play cloak and dagger. But this wasn’t a game. I ate men like Tiku Aaltonen for breakfast, but Valentin and I would never send heart-shaped cards to each other—only bullets to the heart.

17

The following month disappeared into thin air. I worked at the cabinet performing completely uninteresting tasks.

I met Anita’s maid, Felicia Karhunen, at a café in Kamppi, but she didn’t know anything more about Anita’s business. I tried hinting at how I wouldn’t mind coming over to Anita’s place to reminisce, but Felicia didn’t have the keys any longer—the condo had been put up for sale. Because I knew the security system I could have broken in, and in bitter memory of Anita I almost considered it, but at the same time I heard her accusatory voice in my head, so I didn’t dare. If I were caught, I would look even more suspicious to Laitio.

Cecilia Nuutinen-Kekki stopped keeping in touch. I suppose there had been nothing in Anita’s will for me. I hadn’t been expecting a generous thank-you as her loyal underling, but I had hoped her will would have offered some clues about her murderer. Maybe it just really had been Paskevich’s desire for revenge. But even he hadn’t been able to buy the coveted oceanfront property in Kotka—the papers said it had been purchased by a businessman named Usko Syrjänen. I memorized his face from the accompanying pictures. He was going to use the land to build a gated country club for an elite group of carefully selected members.

“Finland doesn’t offer private clubs of this caliber, where you don’t have to worry about reporters and cell phone cameras. I know from international experience,” said Syrjänen, whose womanizing was in the same category as Paskevich’s, in an interview. “If there aren’t enough customers from Finland, we will certainly have interest across the border to the East.”

“Sounds like an overpriced brothel,” sighed Helena when I told her the news. “Clever businessmen always find a way to circumvent the law.”

The cabinet was a strange world for me, and I had to work hard to understand even half of what was happening. The weekend after Anita’s funeral, I finished installing the rest of the security system at Helena’s place, and as there were still no new threats, I became her full-time assistant. Apparently Tiku Aaltonen had been the only one who’d been stalking Helena, but Reiska’s rough treatment had convinced Tiku to leave her alone. I traveled with Helena from one election event to another and took care of her correspondence and calendar. As a temporary job it was all right, but I knew it wouldn’t hold my interest for long. Five weeks was nothing, though. I’d be willing to spend that much time working as a nanny or a shop detective.

There had been a big brouhaha about the way some men behaved in the cabinet during the previous spring, so I had assumed they’d learned their lesson. It didn’t look like it, though: a new employee piqued some men’s interest; especially the men whose eyes were at breast level when I wore four-inch heels. Helena wondered how anyone could even walk in them, and I have to say I even surprised myself. I was more used to sneakers or hiking boots. Wearing high heels and looming at six foot two, this Lehmusvuo assistant couldn’t be avoided. When I was shorter and wore no makeup, I looked like a completely different person. I bought a couple of miniskirts the size of a mudflap. Those men could just blame me, which they would, if they couldn’t help themselves. My leather pants also made for an interesting atmosphere in the elevator.

Because I had no idea of the pecking order at the cabinet or its cliques, I would sit with anyone in the cafeteria. I found it odd when one blond man was upset when I sat down next to him; perhaps he imagined I was trying to hit on him? A couple of days later I found out that he was the minister of defense. I did my best to memorize names and connect the faces, but I just couldn’t be bothered to do so for such a temporary job. Admittedly, it was pretty amusing when groups of visitors stared at me as if I were someone important, too.

I couldn’t forget David, so I was pleasantly surprised when I received an old-fashioned letter from him, postmarked Kotka. It was waiting for me when I returned to my apartment after another confusing day at work.

“
Kära Hilja
,” it began.
Dear Hilja
.

I was touched that he had addressed me like that, although I knew that Swedes would call anyone a dear. David said he’d tried unsuccessfully to reach me by phone and e-mail, and then had resorted to using the phone number service to locate mine. I hadn’t been keeping in touch with him—was I angry with him? He was sorry he’d had to leave so quickly and unexpectedly, but he’d had no choice; it was for an important work-related matter that couldn’t wait. After that he’d found himself in Madrid, and had actually brought me something from there. Could we meet? He was coming to Helsinki on the week of October 25 and would be staying at the Hotel Torni.

It was the week before the municipal elections, when Helena had multiple speaking engagements in and around Helsinki, and I was supposed to accompany her. On Wednesday evening she was going to a cabin where members of the Green League would be holing up to work on last-minute strategy, so I could take a few hours off then. David hadn’t left me his e-mail address, so I called him.

“Hi, this is Hilja. Sorry I didn’t call you sooner. My phone fell into a puddle and died, and the SIM card was permanently damaged, too.” David would see right through this obvious lie, but I didn’t care.

“It’s so nice to hear your voice! How are you?”

Just his voice made my insides quake. I was ready to go wherever he asked. We agreed to meet. After the call I just lay on my mattress and tried to calm down. A man who could provoke such a reaction in me was dangerous. Nonetheless, I was already counting the hours until I would see him again. Through the wall I could hear Riikka’s music; she was playing Vuokko Hovatta’s song “Favorite Animals.”
And a buzzard descends fast through the clouds in Saksalanharju / and you, then you have lynx in your eyes.

Despite my best efforts, I got caught up in the elections. Helena was an angel, listening to people complain about how her party was the brainchild of Stalin, or that it was run by a bunch of environmental anarchists, or that it was beholden to the bourgeoisie. When such comments were peppered with too many curse words, I’d take a step forward like a bodyguard.

The day before my date with David, I was going through Helena’s mail as usual. Curiously, one of the envelopes was from Kotka, and because Kotka now reminded me of David and Anita, I read the letter. Usually I placed the sane letters in a pile for Helena to read; the ones from the loonies went straight into the recycling bin. Helena would be a fool to read all that garbage and upset herself. Some of the letters she received could very well have been reported to the police.

Inside the envelope from Kotka was a map. It didn’t contain a cover letter or a return address. And it wasn’t a regular topographical or road map; it looked like a map showing property lines. The more I looked at it, the more familiar it seemed. The map depicted a cape stretching out into the ocean, away from other properties. It was the cape Anita had dreamed of buying; the one that Usko Syrjänen had purchased. Why would anyone send this to Helena? Was it to tip her off about a suspicious business transaction involving this piece of land?

I knew Helena still hadn’t told me everything, and I could play the same game. I photocopied the map and left the original in the pile of general correspondence. We’d be going straight to Kirkkonummi for the night after an election event in Siuntio, so I wouldn’t have time to look at the map closely tonight; plus, I already had other things to think about, like my upcoming rendezvous. I searched the envelope for fingerprints or hair, looking for any clues as to who the sender might be. But there were none: the address on the envelope was the work of a printer and the stamp was nondescript.

On Wednesday morning I was up by six. Stars were sluggishly making their way out of the dark sky, but the herd of commuters headed toward Helsinki was already in evidence on the freeway. I was so horny I had to go for a run to burn off some of the extra energy. I would’ve had an even harder time that morning had I not been ridiculously busy later. Helena was going to give a speech in Swedish in Tammisaari on election day, and I’d promised to go through it because she wasn’t sure of her grammar. My Swedish wasn’t perfect, either, but two pairs of eyes were better than one.

The door between our offices was open while Helena was meeting with a Russian journalist, Marina Mihailova, a frail woman in her sixties, who was an editor for a blog that was constantly changing servers and web addresses because of its criticism of the Kremlin. Helena and the woman spoke in Russian, but I understood a few words here and there. They talked about a gas pipeline that was going to be laid under the Gulf of Finland and how freedom of speech was faring in Russia. I could have sworn that at one point they mentioned Kotka. Had Mihailova sent Helena the map?

When Mihailova said “nyuteenen,” a Russian-accented version of “Nuutinen,” I started paying closer attention.

“Potshemu?”
Helena asked.
Why
?

“She knew what they were going to do to the place. Now it wasn’t just a question o
f . . .
” I couldn’t understand Mihailova’s next sentence, but then she said the name Valentin Fedorovich. There were thousands of them in Russia, but I knew that Paskevich had used Feodorovich as his alias.

Helena asked whether Mihailova was sure about this, and Mihailova said she had no doubt in her mind. Then Helena’s cell phone went off and I had to answer it; she’d left it in my office and had asked me to interrupt her meeting with Mihailova only if it was extremely important. The call came from a journalist, checking in on what Helena’s predictions for the election were. I said Helena was unavailable while listening to Mihailova say her good-byes.

“Good-bye, Marina Andreyevna.” Helena kissed the woman on both cheeks. Marina Andreyevna Mihailova was barely five feet tall, and the usually fragile-looking Helena stood like an Olympic shot-putter next to her, while I felt like a giant.

“Good-bye, Helena, and God bless you!”

“God bless you, too,” said Helena, although she was agnostic as far as I knew. “Hilja will walk you downstairs. It won’t be long until the train leaves.”

Mihailova was going back to Moscow. I missed the Moscow churches with their shiny onion domes. Mihailova wore a thick woolen skirt and sturdy shoes, and you couldn’t have told her apart from the hundreds of
babushkas
selling knickknacks at the train station. And here she was, a dangerous dissident. When we said good-bye, her tiny hand squeezed mine firmly. I watched her walk slowly across the square in front of the building, as if each step was causing her pain. Nobody seemed to be following her, but I watched her until she disappeared between Kiasma, the modern art museum, and the Sanomatalo business center.

“I hope I’ll see Marina Andreyevna again,” Helena said when I returned to her office.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“She has a cancerous tumor and the Russian security police’s special forces are after her. I don’t know which is worse. Marina knows that she doesn’t have much time, which is why she’s not afraid to speak her mind.

“About what?”

“A lot of things, including Russia’s energy policies. They have an effect on Finland, too. Just think about it—all those gas pipelines and nuclear waste. We’re dependent on all this energy the Russians produce. Why do you think most of my colleagues keep their mouths shut about events across the border? We don’t need to worry about being occupied, but if Russia decides to turn off the gas and nuclear valves, it will kill our economy.”

We went for a vegetarian lunch in the annex staff cafeteria with a couple of Helena’s friends; they were Social Democrats who were against nuclear power. My contract would be up in a week, and the staff was already waxing poetic about Saara Hirvelä’s spelt bread and mushroom quiches. Helena probably didn’t need a bodyguard. I admit the thought made me a bit sad.

The cabin that would be used by the election crew had previously been trashed by some homeless people. Like a good maid, I rolled up my sleeves and started cleaning. When people began entering the cabin, I took off and Helena didn’t ask me where I was going. Hotel Torni was only a few blocks away from Kamppi square, but I felt like I was stepping into a different world. I called David to let him know I had arrived.

I always liked to meet my lovers at hotels. They were transitory places; nobody’s everyday life got in the way there. When married men invited me to their homes I always declined, even if they owned a penthouse with a view of Central Park, or an island villa near Hiittiset. I didn’t want to see their children’s toys, or wear their wives’ slippers, or think about who had washed the sheets and towels I was using. In a hotel all of those things were mine, if only temporarily.

David came down the elevator and when I saw him, I had to muffle a cry: he had hair! The black, curly mess was obviously a wig, but why was he wearing it to meet me? He smiled at my confusion while he led me into the elevator.

“Is that the gift you brought me from Spain? You scalped Señor José in the bullfighting ring?”

“Why should women be the only ones allowed to wear wigs? A man can play with hair, too, right?” David said coolly. I remembered again how he’d passed me on Helena’s street when I’d been dressed up as Reiska. Of course he had recognized me. But if David worked for Europol he had to be wearing the wig for a reason. Come to think of it, his eyes looked strange, too. Before, his eyes had been bluish gray; now they were dark-blue with small brown speckles. I wondered what name he’d used when he checked in.