The Lion of Justice (6 page)

I remembered that I needed to use her computer, so I asked to borrow her laptop for the night. I told her I’d spend the night at Hotel Torni, having paid for it already and wanting to pamper myself. I needed some time to think. Once I found out what David’s USB stick held, I’d know what was safe to tell her.

She knew I was up to something but let me have the laptop. I promised to be back early the next evening with my belongings from Mrs. Voutilainen’s apartment, and Monika would be done with her appointment by then. I offered to go with her, but she said she wanted to go alone. I told her to go to bed. Once the excitement was gone from her eyes, she turned pale again, like a raw piece of dough.

A group of Japanese tourists was waiting for the elevator to access the upper floors at the hotel. I began to climb the stairs, but after a couple of floors, I was blocked by a gate, so I snuck back down and squeezed myself into the elevator with the Japanese ladies. They were shorter than me by a good fifteen inches and had such small bones that I could have easily snapped their wrists or necks.

I resisted a drink at the bar and got off on my floor. Dusk had shrouded Helsinki. Lights twinkled in the streets and parks, and in the distance a sailboat glimmered with festive lanterns, probably having a party. David had loved sailing. Goddamned David! It was time I figured out what he was hiding.

I turned the computer on, and it whirred. The desktop image was a plate of fruit salad. Oranges, mangos, cantaloupes, and kumquats glowed in shades of orange. The yellow of a lemon and pineapple competed with red cherries and strawberries. It was Monika’s power picture from years before, and apparently she hadn’t felt the need to change it. My computers never had desktop images or personalized screensavers revealing anything about me. Besides, I didn’t even have a digital copy of the picture I would have used. I had a couple of faded pictures of Frida that Uncle Jari had gotten developed all the way in Kuopio, in case pictures of a lynx in Outokumpu or Kaavi would have raised some unwelcome questions. I carried the pictures in my journal, inside a small plastic pocket, and hardly anyone got to see them. When I was in Spain with David, we’d had one of the pictures on our wall, the one where Frida is lying down with her head in my lap and I’m scratching her neck. Looking at the picture I could still hear Frida’s purring and feel the warm, soft fur rising under my palm as she breathed.

I inserted the USB stick, and there was only one folder, created a week before I traveled to Tuscany. The title was weird: “copper/
mednoi
.” I opened the folder and cursed. It was all in Russian. I clicked through the files and found a map, where most of the place names were in Swedish, although a few had been translated into Finnish. At first glance the topological features of the map looked familiar, and when I looked closer I realized it was the Kopparnäs camping grounds, its archipelago, and Pickala’s golf course near a large villa. All of these were mere miles away from my cabin in Torbacka.

The next map appeared to be an architectural sketch, and the area looked completely different. Fake islands appeared between actual islands, and the pristine shores of Kopparnäs were packed with new houses. Some were private residences, others large housing complexes. The area was surrounded by fences, and the sea had been marked with borders. The map didn’t reach the golf course or villa.

I knew the Cyrillic alphabet and some basic expressions but had not used Russian for over a year, and I was rusty as I tried to understand the writing over the maps. I understood
domi
and
kvartiri
, houses and apartments. The large building in the center looked like a concert hall.

I scrolled down below the maps. It looked like the file had been scanned from a paper document, because there was Finnish writing underneath. The handwriting was barely legible.

“Environmental permits. Decide who? Next minister? Russians are no threat. Return to Porkkala. Ask about election funding. Cur partner better than ex? Risk analysis better than Vasiliev’s.”

There was a familiar logo at the bottom of the file. I associated the logo with multipronged business ventures and had seen it in news coverage of election funding scandals. The logo belonged to Uskon Asia Inc. and portrayed a building resembling a temple, sketched with three lines. The owner, Usko Syrjänen, had been Boris Vasiliev’s business partner. Vasiliev had died aboard Syrjänen’s boat when David had blown it and its crew into smithereens. Syrjänen had denied involvement or knowledge of Vasiliev’s activities to sabotage the oil pipe in the Baltic Sea; he claimed their only connection was planning to build an international recreation center into Kotka’s Hiidenniemi. So what was Syrjänen planning to do to the campgrounds in Kopparnäs, and why did David have these papers?

6

I woke up around four in the morning and looked outside. I felt David near me, and it seemed like he had something to say. I checked my phone and e-mail, but there was nothing. I kept watching the sleeping, quiet city. Only a couple of cars buzzed on the street, and a lone pedestrian took unsteady steps near the Old Church Park. Although I didn’t believe in anything that couldn’t be logically explained, such as telepathy, I tried opening myself up to David and his messages. The only message I felt coming through was a clear command: “Call Laitio and tell him about Carlo Dolfini’s body.”

Bummer. I was planning on doing it anyway, although I knew it would cause problems. Chief Constable Teppo Laitio and I had a strange love-hate relationship. I think he liked me more than I liked him, and he had been visibly annoyed when he’d guessed my feelings for David. I couldn’t stand people who could see through me like that.

Unable to fall asleep again, I turned on the computer. I hadn’t requested a password for the hotel network, but there were plenty of unprotected Wi-Fi connections. Using them was risky, but searching for information about a businessman named Usko Syrjänen should be harmless; his face was constantly plastered on the covers of tabloid magazines and newspapers.

Syrjänen had made his fortune by selling cars in the 1980s and expanded his business to real estate during the recession of the early 1990s. He’d taken huge risks buying a bankrupt estate, empty office spaces, and small-town schools that had been closed. Somehow he lucked out. As soon as the recession was over, he was able to sell some of his property and turn a large profit. He used some of the land to build holiday rental villas, nursing homes, and karaoke bars. He’d successfully snatched the villa in Hiidenniemi from my former employer Anita Nuutinen, and he was planning to build more structures on the land of a heavily guarded private club. Unfortunately for him, neighbors didn’t want to sell any of their land. In an interview for a local newspaper, Syrjänen complained about a lack of an all-inclusive holiday resort where international superstars and Finnish celebrities could spend their free time without running into curious “regular people.” Syrjänen claimed that wealthy people would prefer vacations in Provence or the Caribbean over staying in Finland if they could leave behind the everyday annoyance of being recognized. He knew what he was talking about.

The decks of his swimming pool were frequented by a variety of beautiful women, intent on getting money out of him. It looked like Syrjänen had learned from his mistakes and was now seeking privacy after his divorce the previous fall. Websites time stamped a couple of weeks ago indicated that there was a new love in his life: a twenty-eight-year-old Russian model named Julia.

Syrjänen hadn’t uttered a word about the events that had led to the destruction of his boat, the
I Believe
, and the death of his Russian business partner and his minions. He was buddies with a number of leading politicians, such as the Finnish prime minister, and had provided funding for multiple campaigns. They may have convinced Syrjänen to keep quiet in the name of the country’s security—ordinary folks didn’t need to know what was going on behind the scenes. They’d never understand that sometimes people in power had no choice.

I wondered when Syrjänen had made his Kopparnäs notes. The document was last saved this spring, but that didn’t mean he created it then. David had worked in Hiidenniemi as Boris Vasiliev’s bodyguard and drove his boat, so the document could be over two years old. When I’d run into him in Kopparnäs, I had assumed he was after me, but now it seemed he had other reasons for scouting the area. I checked whether Syrjänen’s logo had changed recently, but that three-lined column drawing had been in use since 1986.

Syrjänen had known David. Did he think David survived the explosion? Only a handful of people in Finland knew about his mission. I knew the top politicians were mostly trustworthy, but it wouldn’t be the first time one of them let a secret slip while sitting in a sauna with a friend. Mike Virtue had been flabbergasted when I told him about the sauna traditions of Finnish politicians. They really went naked into a sauna with the leader of another country? Didn’t they realize the potential of taking secret footage and using it as blackmail? And was it really smart to reveal to other leaders what you looked like naked? You could be considered weak in a negotiation that way. In his usual forward style, Edgardo had asked Mike if he meant that men with smaller dicks wouldn’t be respected when confronted by a man with a larger one. Mike had nodded, and I swear he also blushed. I described to the class how business in Finland was often conducted in saunas, and Mike made us map out the potential risks.

Nudity wasn’t the only cause for Mike’s disapproval. In the saunas, a live fire roared in a fireplace or a wood-burning stove, boiling the water and causing temperature changes of 212 degrees when people left the sauna to frolic outside in the snow. When I added that negotiations often included drunkenness in addition to rolling naked in snow banks and diving into the lake or the sea through a hole cut into the ice, Mike exclaimed that he’d tell his clients to never take part in this crazy ritual. But I had earned the respect of my classmates: Finns sure had balls! Afterward, some of the men in my class tried to convince me to go to a Finnish sauna with them, and I declined.

I did another search for a recent picture of Usko Syrjänen and took a few more moments to memorize what he looked like. There was nothing special about him. He was in his fifties and medium height, and he kept himself in shape by golfing and skiing. His shoulders were wide like a swimmer’s, and he had a slight paunch. His legs seemed a bit short compared with the rest of him. Syrjänen loved wearing cowboy boots and referred to himself as a self-made man. He stopped wearing glasses after his laser eye surgery, but in most of the pictures, he was squinting under his heavy lids, with large bags under his eyes. His mouth was small, his lips narrow, his chin covered in whiskers.

The sky to the east began to gather light, and purple streaks were spreading over Käpylä. I turned the lights off and shut the computer down, but it took a while to stop my mind from running. I kept thinking about the Kopparnäs map, mixed with memories of how I’d run into David while picking mushrooms on the shores of Kvarnträsket and how hard it had been not to feed him the poisonous ones. I was still carrying the dried milk-cap mushroom pieces with me in a small vial. They wouldn’t have as quick an effect as cyanide, so I couldn’t rely on them for myself. They were reserved for my enemies. You never knew who’d turn out to be one. I drifted into restless sleep.

When I finally woke up, I had to get dressed in record speed to make it down for breakfast. The staff was already clearing some of the food when I shoved my way through to slap frozen berries, scrambled eggs, bacon, salted herring, and a helping of rye bread onto my plate. The frozen berries tasted pretty good on an empty stomach. I’d been too preoccupied to eat the day before. I ignored the annoyed waiters who made sure I heard them clearing dishes and took my time eating and drinking my three cups of coffee. Only then did I feel nourished enough to call Teppo Laitio, but not until I’d brushed my teeth. I realized I should have brought him a cigar or two; most of the time he worked from his apartment on Urheilu Street, smoking was not allowed at the Bureau, and Laitio’s mind was at its sharpest when shrouded in a thick cloud of smoke.

“Ilveskero! I’ll be damned. Where are you?” he said.

“Hotel Torni.”

“Ha! A maiden in a tower, huh? Aren’t you being Sibelian?” Laitio laughed at his joke. It went completely over my head. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“A dead body.”

“What? Where?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. You’re tapped for sure. Can we meet?”

“Bullshit. My phones aren’t tapped. Maybe you should see a shrink for your paranoia.”

“Can we just meet at your place?”

I heard the lighter click. Laitio needed a smoke. “Come over around one thirty. Rytkönen should be gone by then.”

I didn’t ask who this Rytkönen was; I wasn’t interested. Laitio drew a deep breath, and I could almost smell the cigar smoke. His employer had offered to pay for a class and hypnotist to help him quit smoking, but Laitio declined; he wasn’t the one with a smoking problem—society had a problem with it. I could imagine what Mike Virtue would’ve said about Laitio’s attitude. “Remember that those who protect others must set their own needs aside while on a mission. Sleepiness, thirst, and full bladders do not exist. And the only way you can forget about them is to practice your concentration skills.” The academy in Queens had offered classes in meditation and sitting in complete silence, which had seemed weird to most of us. These classes on emptying your mind were easy for me; meditation seemed to be a distant relative to the ice fishing trips with Uncle Jari, where we’d sit in silence for hours.

I was supposed to be checking out of the hotel, but I wanted to try reaching the mysterious Kassi first. I didn’t want to wait to get a phone card, so I’d call from another room in the hotel. I pulled on a pair of gloves, slipped into the hallway, and checked for any maids with their carts. There were none on my floor. I walked down the stairs to the floor below. No carts there, either, but the door to one of the rooms was open. I went inside, closed the door, picked up the phone, and dialed Kassi—an immediate answer: “The number you have dialed cannot be reached. Please try again later.” I called the national number service and was informed that there was no information attached to Kassi’s number. I should’ve guessed that.

My annoyance was quickly interrupted by the jangling of keys at the door. It must have been the maid. I went into the bathroom and closed the door. If she came into the bathroom, I could always try to act like an idiot who had wandered in, wanting to know what the other rooms looked like.

I heard a door open, then some glass clinking. To my relief the room door was opened again and closed, but I didn’t leave right away; the maid might have still been in the hallway. I counted to five hundred and left. I went back to my room to get my stuff and left it with the front desk. I’d forgotten to get a key from Monika, so I couldn’t move in yet.

I needed to get out and do something besides sit at the computer, so I took a stroll to Töölö. Along the way, I read tabloid headlines about the ash cloud and travel in chaos. As I passed the parliament building, a politician was being interviewed about the event. I thought I’d met him when I worked for Representative Helena Lehmusvuo as a bodyguard and temporary assistant. That short stint made me realize that the parliament was not meant for sane people.

Although crocuses were already in bloom in Töölönlahti Park, the weather was still nippy, and I picked up my pace. I could have used the warm clothes I’d left in the Untamo Road apartment, as the thin parka I wore was no good against this wind. Because I had plenty of time on my hands, I walked around the ice rink and the soccer stadium. A women’s team was practicing, and a couple of full-time drunks were shouting and cheering, fueled by several beers from the looks of the empty bottles around them. I stepped into Reiska’s shoes for a moment and imagined how he watched women: the breasts on that blond were bouncing nicely, the tight pants on the brunette showed her round butt. When I became Reiska, I wanted to be a man all the way, thoughts included. Suddenly, Reiska seemed to want to take over. Maybe I could use him for reaching out to Kassi; Reiska was such a clumsy guy that he could easily fat-finger a wrong number, especially if he was a couple of beers in.

The sky was shrouded in thick, dark clouds that were sending down drizzle, so I rang Laitio’s buzzer early to get out of the cold rain.

“Is that Ilveskero?” he said through the speaker. “Come on in, although Rytkönen is still here.”

I walked up the stairs to the top floor, avoiding elevators; I didn’t trust them, and the elevator in Laitio’s apartment looked ancient. Once I’d spent a great deal of time in an elevator with five other people in a forty-story skyscraper in New York; one of them had worn a gallon of perfume and another pissed himself from sheer terror. I managed not to panic, thanks to Mike Virtue’s teachings.

It was smoky upstairs. Laitio, his wife, and a grumpy cat named Kokki occupied the larger apartment, and Laitio had turned the adjacent one-bedroom apartment into a work and smoking office, and he’d left the door open. The average Finnish neighbor would have barged in to complain about the cigar smell in the hallway, so I had to wonder what sort of threats Laitio used to keep his neighbors at bay. I walked in and slammed the door to announce my arrival. A man I had not seen before walked out of Laitio’s office. He couldn’t have been much taller than five foot two, but he adequately compensated for his height with his muscles; his shoulders were as wide as David’s, and his thighs were about to burst out of his white cotton pants.

“Teppo is in the bathroom,” he said. Just what I wanted to hear. “How are ya? I’m Mara Rytkönen, inspector from the foreign unit of the National Bureau of Investigation.” He extended his hand.

I didn’t shake it right away because I thought he was lying. He had no business in the police academy looking like that, but I realized there were other routes to reach an inspector position. His handshake was just as I’d expected; if I’d been any other woman, I would have shrieked in pain. I squeezed back hard. Although we were about the same weight, I was taller and could take him down with a judo throw, unless he was equally skilled in martial arts and could put me in a choke or an armlock.

“Ilveskero,” I told Rytkönen when he finally released his grip.