The Bodyguard (9 page)

I heard footsteps in the forest. It sounded like a human. Soon a man dressed in camo was visible through the trees. He wore a baseball cap and had binoculars hanging from his neck; from his size and the way he moved, it was clear that it was David Stah. He was still following me.

I felt for the soothing weight of the gun in my holster. I’d never been a great shot and I didn’t particularly like handling guns, but they were a part of my job and I had to keep up my skills. Mike Virtue had drilled it into my brain: a gun was the weapon of last resort for defense and protection. He’d had some unpleasant encounters with the National Rifle Association because he supported the laws mandating background checks for potential gun owners.

Stahl might be a quick draw, or not—I had no idea. I pretended to whittle the branches as if I didn’t have a care in the world, thinking that a mushroom knife could work as a weapon. I kept Stahl in view out of the corner of my eye. I knew my size wouldn’t help me, as Stahl was clearly larger. When he stepped on a branch so loudly that I couldn’t pretend to ignore him anymore, I lifted my gaze, acting as if I didn’t recognize him. He walked straight up to me and I had to restrain myself from pulling out my gun. I felt the sweat forming on my lower back and under my breasts.

“
Hej
,” greeted Stahl in Swedish, and then took a closer look at me. “Isn’t this funny! We just met yesterday—you’re the one who told me how to get to Kopparnäs. I decided to book a room at the inn for a few days. The forests here are so beautiful for hiking.”

He spoke Swedish like Russians often do, with soft “l” sounds. His accent was clearly Finland Swedish, not the Swedish they spoke in Sweden. He spoke effortlessly, and based on my knowledge of the language, flawlessly. I assumed Swedish was his first language, which was a bit surprising for a Paskevich hit man.

“What sort of mushrooms grow around here? Have you found any porcini?”

I couldn’t remember how to say “gypsy mushroom” in Swedish and I didn’t want to start guessing.

“Not many porcini, but the yellow foot are already out. And these,” I showed him the gypsy mushrooms in my bucket.

“You’re obviously pretty handy,” Stahl smiled, pointing at the handle, which was now ready to be attached to the bucket. The damp slivers of willow had been easy to bend into durable knots. I remembered what I’d learned at the security academy: don’t let your hands shake.

“All you need is a sharp knife,” I said and showed him my mushroom knife. I didn’t put it back in the bucket—he could grab it from there.

“Do you live around here, or are you just visiting?” Stahl asked. I was still trying to figure out what the Russian etiquette would be for encountering a strange person in a forest. Around here people left others alone, or at least they didn’t come this close to you to pick mushrooms. Stahl, however, selected one right in front of my feet, looked at it for a bit, then tossed it away.

“It had worms. I do have a knife, but I’ll need to borrow a mushroom basket from the innkeeper tomorrow. They are so tasty, these mushrooms, especially with a dollop of
smetana
. There were times when my family lived on them,” Stahl said.

I had to remain calm and under no circumstances let him get behind me. He couldn’t shoot me without leaving some blood or other bit of evidence, but I was sure that he could break my neck in a split second. The lake glimmered behind the trees, and it would be easy to dispose of a body there. A guy like Stahl had to have a gun with a silencer. Mine wasn’t equipped with one—it had been purchased legally. If I shot him first, how would I be able prove that it was done in self-defense?

I wanted to get up, but instead I focused on cleaning the mushrooms in my bucket while eyeing him in my peripheral vision. Let Stahl reveal his cards first. His camo, boots, and the army-type backpack looked a little less like soldier’s gear than they had in the early morning light. He took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his brow. Was he getting nervous, or was he too out of shape to walk in the forest? His bald head was marked by small tufts of hair, which he apparently shaved since there was so little of it, anyway. When he starting taking off his backpack, I sat up. He hunched over and turned away from me for a second. Now would be a good time to pull out my gun and get the man talking. I lifted up the bottom of my anorak so I could reach for the holster under my arm. Stahl got up, holding something metallic. A thermos.

“Want some coffee? I think there’s enough for two, although I only have one mug.”

“No, thank you.” I took my hand out of my jacket. Stahl walked a few steps away to find a big-enough rock and sat on it. He poured the coffee into a metal mug and drank it fast, as if he were quenching his thirst.

“Are you from around here?” he asked again. “How familiar are you with the forests? The innkeeper mentioned something about a tower for bird watchers. Do you know where that might be?”

“I’m not from around here, no. I’m borrowing my friend’s cabin.” I told him the same story I’d given the few nosy villagers who had approached me at the Degerby Deli. “And if you’re looking for the bird-watching tower, you’re going in the wrong direction. It’s north of the inn, on the left side of the road.”

“Would you be able to take me there sometime? I’m on vacation and there aren’t too many other tourists now.”

“I might be leaving tomorrow, and I have some stuff to do.”

“Too bad. Maybe I could buy you a drink at the inn once you’re done hunting for mushrooms?”

I didn’t give him an answer right away. Good thing there were plenty of mushrooms in the forest clearing for me to pay attention to—even some chanterelles. I figured I had no choice but to stay with Stahl to keep an eye on him. I just couldn’t believe he’d somehow drifted into Kopparnäs and had no idea who I was. If that was the case, what was he doing sneaking around my cabin in the wee hours of the morning?

Maybe Stahl underestimated me and really thought I didn’t know who he was. He was playing a game of cat and mouse, but this time, domesticated feline Stahl was up against a lynx, and even a cat wouldn’t know what to do when a lynx attacked.

Mike Virtue had constantly berated me for being too impulsive and taking unnecessary risks. I silenced him inside my head, turned to David Stahl, and smiled. “I can’t come to the restaurant in these dirty clothes. But isn’t the bar open until ten? I could meet you at around eight. Would that work?” I chirped sweetly.

A wide smile spread across Stahl’s face.

“That would be great! I look forward to it. Well, maybe I’ll go look for that bird-watching tower now and leave you to your business.” He emptied his coffee mug and put the thermos back in the backpack, then hesitated a moment before he walked toward me. Did he actually think he had gained my trust this quickly? Was he about to attack?

Instead, he stood in front of me with his hand extended out.

“Sorry, I should probably introduce myself. I’m David, David Stahl.” He pronounced his first name
dah-vid,
like a Swede. “I’m not really from anywhere, but I’m a Finnish citizen, although I don’t speak the language. I’ll tell you more about it this evening.”

“Hilja Ilveskero,” I responded and shook his hand.

“I’m sure this evening will turn out to be very interesting.”

9

Once it looked like Stahl had truly taken off, I followed the shore road south. Hidden from any bystanders, I took my phone apart, but still couldn’t find a tracking device. Stahl must have somehow known where I was.

I was tired of mushroom hunting, but I had an idea: the forest offered ingenuous ways to get rid of difficult people. Morel season was unfortunately over, and nobody would be careless enough to eat unrecognizable white mushrooms. But an inexperienced mushroom lover could easily confuse harmless gypsy mushrooms with web caps—even with deadly web caps if the gourmand was sufficiently clueless. Just like the morel, the deadly web cap had three crosses next to it in the mushroom guide to indicate how likely you were to die from eating it. But unlike morels, the deadly web caps would never become edible, even if you boiled them three times for five minutes each.

After searching for a while, I found two web caps. I wrapped them in a napkin I had in my pocket and, just to make sure they wouldn’t touch the other mushrooms, I grabbed a bunch of fir branches and leaves to keep them separate from the others in my bucket. Two of these web caps would be plenty to kill a grown man. Stahl would end up poisoned slowly like Alexander Litvinenko, that officer of the Russian Federal Security Service: first he wouldn’t know what hit him, and by the time he did, it would be too late. His organs would be irreparably damaged. And nobody could ever prove that I’d been the one to serve Stahl this deadly mushroom stew, even if the staff at the Kopparnäs Inn told the authorities that they’d seen me hanging around him.

Most likely Paskevich had sent Stahl to find out what I’d told the police and whether I connected Paskevich to Anita Nuutinen’s murder. As always, I figured it was best to lie as little as possible. I’d pretend to be a lonely but libidinous single woman so that it wouldn’t seem that outlandish if I was with a stranger.

Did I say pretend? It had been years since I’d dated anyone, and all my previous relationships had ended in disaster. Stahl would know about that if he’d done his homework on me.

Once back at the cabin, I sliced the deadly web caps into small slivers with my scissors, tossed them into a pan, and fried them. Then I disinfected both the pan and the scissors. I had a clean glass jar in the cupboard that was perfect for storing my homemade poison. It even fit in my purse. After that I took a shower and decided to get as dolled up as I could.

This was pretty much like disguising myself as Reiska—I just had to come up with an alternative identity. I’d bought makeup and a tight, glittery shirt for those times when I’d need to accompany my clients to fancy parties. I decided to wear black leather pants instead of my red velvet miniskirt; it would be easier to bike in them. I’d have to carry the high-heeled shoes in my saddlebag. With them on, I’d only be a few inches shorter than Stahl. They were pretty good for kicking, too—the stiletto heels had a steel core. They were red, like the ones my mother used to have. The foundation I caked on felt like a mask and my eyelashes, lengthened by mascara, tickled my face. I didn’t put any lipstick on until I was ready to head out the door. The red shade matched my shoes.

My gun fit well in a zippered compartment in my purse. I wrapped the mushroom jar in a napkin and put it in the same pocket. People always assumed that women’s purses were heavy and full of stuff, so nobody would think twice if the bag bulged a bit. I could also use the bag as a weapon if I got into a fight. I put a flashlight and headlamp in the saddlebag, along with my shoes; it would be dark before nine.

I felt a bit nervous, which made sense because I was technically going on a date. I took the shore road again and rode my bike slowly to avoid sweating. I left my bike in the parking lot, although there wasn’t a bike rack. Lights illuminated the yard and I could hear a woodpecker at work. I took my jacket off in the foyer and stopped by the restroom to rearrange my hair. Even the jovial Botero poster on the restroom wall didn’t lighten my mood—looking in the mirror, all I saw was trepidation.

Only the waitress and Stahl were in the restaurant, and they were chatting in English. He was holding a cocktail, and based on its strong odor, I figured it contained calvados. Stahl took a couple of steps toward me, took hold of my hand, and gave me a kiss on each cheek. He’d shaved his head again and I could detect a faint whiff of cologne. He was wearing a black jacket, black jeans, and a white button-up shirt, but no tie. He stared at my leather pants with an appreciative look that he made no attempt to hide.

“Hi, Hilja. What would you like?”

“Do you have any sparkling wine?” I asked the waitress. She said she’d take care of it. It was the perfect drink for the woman I was trying to be. Stahl led me to the back of the room to a table with a flickering candle on it. He put down his drink and then pulled out my chair, waiting until I sat down before moving to the other side of the table. I saw the entire room; he didn’t. That setup suited me just fine.

“They have pepper steak or chicken breast with cheese on the menu tonight. I’ll go for the steak—all that walking in the forest has made me hungry. I was just thinking about a suitable red wine to go with it. This will be my treat, of course. I invited you, after all. It seems obvious to me, but such matters need to be spelled out for you Finnish women.”

I never said no to free food, especially when I didn’t know where my next paycheck was coming from. After the waitress brought my drink, Stahl lifted his glass and we clinked glasses. The wine was semisweet and I could feel it in my nose. Then we sat in silence for a while.

“You said, ‘you Finnish women.’ Didn’t you say you were a Finnish citizen?” I asked, doing my best to look him in the eye. His eyes were light gray and deep set. He had high cheekbones and wrinkled eyelids. Come to think of it, was he wearing colored contact lenses to change his natural eye color?

“You have a great memory. I’m a Finnish citizen, but I’m of mixed heritage. My father was a Soviet citizen, but he was born in Kohtla-Järve in Northern Estonia. My grandfather had moved there to work in the mines after Estonia became part of the Soviet Union. Or, ‘was liberated,’ as they used to say in those days. My grandmother was Estonian, too, from Narva to be exact, but she found her way to the mines, as well. My mother is Finnish, from Tammisaari, pretty close to here. My parents met in Tartu, in Estonia, where they both studied in the early ’70s. Mother majored in Russian, and her great-grandmother had arrived in Finland from Saint Petersburg during the revolution, so I guess I have a bit more than just a quarter of Russian in me. After a couple of years of marriage and an agonizing wait, my father was allowed to leave Soviet Estonia and move with his family to Tammisaari, where I was born. Once Estonia gained independence, we moved back to Tartu. My teenage years were tough; it was hard to live in Estonia while all my friends were in Finland. After that there were all sorts of issues, but now things are better. Where in Finland are you from?”

The waitress came back for our order, and I decided to go with the steak, as well. Stahl chose the red wine with an obvious expertise that impressed a wine ignoramus like myself. He repeated his question when the waitress left.

“Me? I’m a full-fledged Finn. I grew up in Kaavi in Northern Savonia. On my mother’s side I’m a Savonian, but my father was from Lappeenranta, where I was also born.”

“Was? Is he dead?”

“He’s dead to me.” I took another gulp of my wine that was quickly disappearing. Who cared if I told him the truth about my past? Maybe it would make him realize he wasn’t dealing with some young innocent girl.

“So you don’t live here, then? Do you still live i
n . . .
what was that, Kaavi?”

“No, I live in Helsinki.” He should have known that.

“Alone?”

“I have a couple of roommates. No pets.” I made an attempt at a flirty laugh. “How about you?”

“I have to travel between Tartu, Moscow, and Finland because of work, but unfortunately I don’t get to come to Finland very often. Last time I was here was a couple of weeks ago. I had to go to Kotka with my boss. Now that I finally have some vacation time, I decided to head to Finland and just happened to land in Kopparnäs. I thought I’d take some time over the weekend to go to Tammisaari, to see my old haunts. I haven’t really kept in touch with anyone, but I probably still know a couple of people there. My grandparents are both gone, and my mom was an only child. My sisters are a decade younger than me and I never knew how to relate to them. They live in Tartu. Do you have any siblings?”

I managed to say no before the wine arrived. The waitress poured our drinks with an amused expression on her face, as if she knew that David Stahl had a fat wallet and an impressive pile of credit cards. Rich bastard, living off blood money. I could drop my fork and ask him to get me another one from a nearby table—he’d oblige, pretending to be ever the gentleman, and I’d have a few seconds to slip the poisonous mushrooms onto his plate.

“I’m an only child. What have you been doing in Moscow? I was just there last week and I’m pretty familiar with the city,” I continued as the waitress walked away.

“I’m a consultant in the construction business, which is why I need to travel so much. What do you think of Moscow?”

We made small talk about Moscow bars and museums until the food arrived. I assumed Stahl would mention that a Finnish businesswoman had been shot dead in central Moscow just this past week, but he didn’t even hint at it. Instead, he regaled me with stories about bouncers and women trying to hit on him, working hard to prove to me that he didn’t care for prostitutes. I remembered Paskevich and his companions. I suppose his employees would have had a chance to take advantage of such perks, too.

The peppered steak was served with green-pepper gravy, garlic potatoes, and some vegetables, but no mushrooms. Darn. Then again, only a tiny sliver of a deadly web cap would be enough to destroy his liver and kidneys. I decided to wait for a while to find out what Stahl was after. If he hadn’t been hired by Paskevich, I would have almost liked him. He was funny without making stupid jokes, listened without interrupting, and made me feel like a human being; my persona as a sexy, flirty woman started to feel just right.

“What took you to Moscow so often?”

“Same as you—business. I’m a guard of sorts. But let’s not talk about it now—I’m on vacation, too.” I looked at how he cut his steak: he handled the knife as confidently as a surgeon. Was he the one who shot Anita and then gave her stuff to the dying alcholic?

“A guard? I never would have guessed.”

“Why not?” My angry tone startled him.

“Don’t get me wrong—my mother taught me that women can do anything, and I have learned that the hard way myself. You just don’t see
m . . .
you just don’t seem like someone who wants to control others.”

“Was that meant as a compliment?” I forced myself to smile, but inside I was fuming. Damn him. He’d pay for underestimating me. Of course he’d do his best to shake my confidence. I thought about what was in my purse: the gun and the poisonous mushrooms. Was it time to ask for that fork?

We ate in silence for a while. I looked at the life-size picture of a white-tailed eagle hung over the bar. The eagle’s wingspan was easily more than six feet. Its talons were hooked, ready to attack its prey. I could almost feel the whooshing of its wings. The bird could destroy a four-pound pike, which would be no match for him.

The other paintings in the room—scenes of forests or trees in full foliage—were less aggressive, each done in a surprisingly different style. David began laughing at the song that was playing on the radio. It was by Lordi, the Finnish heavy metal band, and had won the Eurovision song contest. To change the subject, we started chatting about music. David liked heavy metal, but also enjoyed progressive rock, like the music of the American band System of a Down. I’d never even heard of them, which prompted such an extensive lecture about their work that we were almost done with dinner by the time David’s talk ended. When he described music his eyes lit up—the topic was clearly close to his heart.

“Do you want to hear their music? I have a couple albums on my MP3 player. It’s in my room.”

“Why should I like the same kind of music as you?” My words came out in a sultry purr. My eyes narrowed like those of a lynx.

“Well, you don’t need to, but I’d like you to hear it.” He mopped up the rest of the gravy with the tail-end of a garlic potato and slowly lifted the fork to his lips, enjoying the last morsel. “System of a Down’s music is even better than this steak. This steak is just Pink Floyd next to it. You do know who Pink Floyd is, right?”

The waitress had been eyeing us and carried our plates away before I even realized that I’d missed my chance to spike David’s food. She asked if we wanted dessert. We decided on coffee, calvados, and an apple tart. The bottle of red wine was more than half empty, so the waitress poured the rest of it into our glasses. The wine smelled masculine, with overtones of sweat and leather.

“Sorry, but I have to ask. What did you mean when you said that your father is dead to you?” David looked at me over his glass.

I lifted my glass to my lips and drank. I decided to tell him the story—then he’d know I wasn’t completely harmless.

“The last time I saw my father I was four years old, about thirty years ago. We lived in Lappeenranta at that time, near the Kimpinen athletic fields. I don’t remember much about the town—just that it had an enormous lake and that my mother would push me in a stroller in the shade of the giant beech trees. My parents got married young, when they were about twenty. They’d met at a summer dance. She was studying in Joensuu to become a teacher and he was in the army in Rissala. After his stint was over, they moved to Lappeenranta where he found work as an electrician. I suppose Mother thought she’d finish her studies eventually. But that time never came.”