The Bodyguard (19 page)

“I told her not to eat that two-day old smoked fish, but no, she didn’t want to let food go to waste. Please don’t tell anyone; she’s so embarrassed about this,” I whispered. “I’ll make sure that she’s okay, poor thing.”

The party leader had already turned back to the numbers on the screen, so I was able to leave Tavastia without a hassle. Helena had turned north from Hangontie. I hailed a cab at the nearest hotel. I had to get to my apartment to retrieve my gun, bulletproof vest, backpack, and a change of clothes. And I’d need a car. I asked the cab driver if he knew of a rental car place that was open twenty-four hours. The driver said he could take me anywhere, as long as I paid for the ride, but I wanted to go alone. The cab driver was a man of about sixty and didn’t look like the action-hero type who would have been useful to me. He said he’d find out about the rentals while he waited for me. He was sure there’d be a place still open at the airport.

Jenni and Riikka were watching the election night coverage; Timo Soini’s satisfied mug was on the screen. It was just as well that my roommates were preoccupied; I could get my gun and pack up three rounds of ammo without making them suspicious. My gun had fifteen slots for bullets; I loaded it up and then slipped it into my holster under my arm. I left the vest off for now. I also packed Reiska’s gear with me just in case I needed a disguise. I asked to use Riikka’s printer and made a copy of the Hiidenniemi map, although I had no idea whether it had any connection to Helena’s disappearance. I dropped my passport into a waterproof bag, where I also kept two driver’s licenses, mine and Reiska’s. I also grabbed my laptop and the dongle I could use to connect to the web anywhere, as well as a backup battery for my cell phone. A couple of energy bars, a water bottle, moist towelettes, and thermal underwear, and I was all set. I wore my outdoor gear because the rain just didn’t want to quit.

“You should go to the airport; they have a lot of options,” the cab driver told me. “Where are you going in this weather, hon? Is it far?”

“I’m not sure; it might be a long drive.”

“Going after your boyfriend?” the driver asked, all sympathetic, but I didn’t have the energy to come up with an elaborate story. I just said it was for work.

Getting a rental car was easy. I told them I didn’t know yet when I would return it, but my credit was good so they didn’t have to worry about me. When I drove the Opel out of the airport, it was raining so hard that the windshield wipers had a tough time keeping up. I took Ring 3 westward and hoped that I’d have a tailwind. The ring road was the fastest way to reach Hanko Road, and luckily most of it was well lit. I was speeding, going seventy miles an hour when the limit was forty, flying through yellow lights. If any cops were out there in this weather, I’d have a hell of a time convincing them not to confiscate my license on the spot. The Opel slid on the rain-slicked road for a moment as I passed a huge Russian car carrier, but I quickly had it under control again. The tracking device was riding shotgun with me, and I followed its green dot out of the corner of my eye. Since I’d left the airport, the dot had been moving slowly, almost at a walking pace. I tried calling Helena once more, but she didn’t answer. My guess was that Helena didn’t even have her phone any longer, and might not even know where it was.

In Espoo I swerved into a Finnoo Road gas station to buy a cup of coffee and to check in on Helena. I punched in the code. When the information flashed on the screen, I cursed in every language I knew: it showed she was in Tivergiken, Bromarf.
Durak
. Idiot. I should’ve figured this out.

Helena was in Valentin Paskevich’s oceanfront villa in Bromarf. I’d let Helena go alone to Kirkkonummi, and Paskevich had kidnapped her. Yet another client of mine was about to meet her maker with Paskevich.

I paid for my coffee and downed it in two gulps, then ran to the car. Bromarf was about sixty miles away, and luckily I had already memorized the route to Paskevich’s villa. I flew onto the ring road; before the two lanes merged into one, I managed to pass a slow-moving Toyota Corolla that was swerving from side to side, as if someone completely wasted was behind the wheel. I was now driving seventy-five and hoped no elk were wandering on the road.

Should I call the police? If Paskevich had approached Helena, she would have called me, as I’d told her to let me know of any changes in her schedule. Kidnapping a representative was a serious crime that couldn’t be hidden from the media once the police got involved. Besides, Helena hadn’t been gone long enough to qualify for a missing persons report. No, it was better to work alone, although I didn’t know what was waiting for me in Bromarf.

If Paskevich killed Helena, too, I wouldn’t let that bastard live.

19

I sped down rainy Hanko Road as if my life depended on it. Towns flew by: Kirkkonummi, Siuntio, Inkoo, Karjaa. I kept trying to reach Helena on her phone without any luck. I knew I shouldn’t assume that Helena’s tracker was still on her. They may have even spotted the device and were using it to lure me.

There was an accident on the long straight stretch after Karjaa’s off-ramp. A small red Audi traveling toward Hanko had slid off the road; the police and first responders were already on the scene. There were hardly any cars on the road, but traffic was still stalled on the one lane. The driver had just been removed from the crushed metal and was being placed on a stretcher. I saw a glimpse of a woman, bleeding.

When I finally got to Tammisaari, I looked at the map and then turned north a couple of miles past the city center. The speed limit changed from forty to fifty. The road was clear; everyone was at home, waiting to see the final election results on television. A pair of glowing eyes flashed in the darkness, and a white cat braving the pouring rain stared at me as if it could’ve used a ride.

The route became winding, leading to an ever-narrowing unpaved road. The rain had washed away enough of the soil that I began to worry about a mudslide; I didn’t want my car to end up in a ditch. I drove through the huge puddles covering the roadway without knowing how deep they actually were. I got stuck in the mud in a bend on the road, and it took a while to get enough traction to get going again. The road leading up to Paskevich’s villa was so narrow that if a bicyclist had been in front of me, I would have been unable to pass him. I spotted a widened section of the road built for U-turns. I parked facing the opposite direction so that I’d be able to get out of there fast if necessary. According to my calculations, Paskevich’s hideout was only three hundred yards away. I left my backpack in the car, pulled on all my gear, and brought only the bare essentials that would fit in my pockets and in a small pouch that hung from my neck.

I didn’t know what sort of security system Paskevich had at his villa. The place was difficult to reach, thanks to the meandering roads; approaching the oceanfront property by water would’ve been much easier. I hadn’t looked at the aerial image of the property, so I didn’t know whether there was a fence around the estate, which included a thirty-seven-hundred-square-foot villa, a waterfront sauna, a guest cottage, and a garage. If the property’s security fence ended at the waterfront, then I would need to steal a boat to get in. Paskevich may have set up a motion detector around the perimeter of his property—I might have a welcoming party of bloodhounds and armed guards waiting for me. I had to elude them if I wanted to find Helena. I worried that my tracking monitor would get soaked in the rain and conk out, so I stopped to check it. Apparently Helena was at the villa.

A gust of wind beat rain into my face; I felt the water seeping through my shell. I stepped into a deep puddle and could feel the water filling my shoes. When I was a kid, I walked around in the dark all the time, but this sort of pitch black was unfamiliar to me—except for that one time in New York when the power went off when I was on the subway. It had taken a moment for people to pull out their lighters and cell phones. The flickering flames had caused panic among some of the travelers; if a fire had spread in an enclosed space like that, it would have been a disaster. This time, I was alone in the black.

Soon lights began flashing in the darkness. I was getting closer to the yard and the windows beyond, and I didn’t see a fence anywhere. I stopped again, this time to figure out where the lights equipped with motion detectors might be and where to walk to avoid setting one off. Although I waited to hear the approach of growling dogs, I didn’t notice any doghouses or leashes.

Nobody seemed to take notice of me when I circled the house. The curtainless windows occasionally flashed with human shapes. They were too blurry for me to decipher. I walked over to the dark guest house, and jumped back when a light was thrown on me. It looked like motion detectors were working there, and the light spread all the way to the shore and the sauna, where smoke was coming out of the chimney. The garage doors were closed. I called Helena once more; it was no use. I would’ve given up a lot to hear her voice and know she was alive.

I sneaked to the back of the house again and came up with a plan to get inside. I should have dressed up as Reiska—the disguise might fool Paskevich and his men for a while, whereas they would most likely recognize me as Hilja. They’d first followed Anita and then Helena, in each case choosing the perfect moment when the bodyguard was overwhelmed and not doing her job. So what right did I have to protect myself here? I should just walk in and claim I had a flat tire, or that I was completely lost, confused by the rain and the darkness.

I was so nervous that I needed to pee. I walked deeper into the forest and unzipped my pants. Immediately, rain washed over my butt; trying to prevent the drops from getting on me was futile. I took a gulp of my energy drink, tossed the can into the woods, and begged the forest spirits for forgiveness. I was now ready to enter the lion’s den. I walked nonchalantly through the yard. There were a couple of steps leading up to the front door, but the west side of the house had another door, probably for servants. I was headed toward that entrance when suddenly a bright beam of light hit my face. The side door flew open and a flashlight aimed straight in my eyes blinded me.

“There you are, finally!” an angry male voice said in accentless Finnish. “We’ve been waiting for a good thirty minutes. And don’t start making excuses; you should’ve been here. Get inside already!” The beam of light was going down my body; I was still half blind.

“Are you deaf, or don’t you speak Finnish? We specifically asked for a Finnish girl; that was the whole point of this deal! Get a move on. You’re already late enough.”

I complied just to get out of the rain, and because the other viable option—running into the dark forest and risking getting shot or having to start shooting at others—didn’t sound great, either. The man motioning me to get inside was the type who spent half of his life at the gym. His red hair was shaped into a crew cut was and he had a tattoo on his neck that poorly matched his pale, freckled skin. When I stepped inside, he was still eyeing me.

“Wow, those are some clothes,” he said. “Well, I guess you can’t be out in the rain in something skimpy. There’s just nothing sexy about what you’re wearing. Let’s see if you’ll even fit into the clothes we have for you—you’re pretty tall. Weren’t you supposed to be a size four? Take off that hat.”

I swiped the hood off my hair.

“Short hai
r . . .
we should have a wig somewhere. And makeup does wonders. Where did you leave your car?”

“I was dropped off.”

“What? But we had agreed on complete confidentiality, right, Sarita? Who brought you?”

“My—my friend Pete. I told him I was going to a friend’s cabin to help clean it for the winter. He doesn’t know why I’m really here.”

“Pete, huh? Well, it’s better that way. Follow me; I’ll show you your room and your outfit. Valentin’s gotta have his little birthday treat.”

I recalled the red car on the side of the road and a young woman on a stretcher. Sarita had been on her way here, but her car flew off the road and landed on its roof in the ditch. I had better act as Sarita, no matter what I had to—I didn’t want to finish that thought.

The redhead led me upstairs to the end of a hallway and then turned on the lights in the room—it looked like a scene out of a cheap porno film. The walls, curtains, and bedspread were made of red silk and velvet. A large gold-framed mirror was attached to the ceiling above the four-poster bed; another mirror stood on the floor, and the third was next to the dresser. There were black vinyl and various leather straps on the bed, and next to it were high-heeled red shoes that were at least a size too small for me. The dresser had a pile of handbags on it, with makeup and perfume spilling out of them.

“Wear these—I’ll come back to check on you soon. Valentin is getting impatient.”

The good news was that if Paskevich had ordered himself a hooker for his birthday, he didn’t have any immediate plans to kill Helena. Or was I, or the unknown Sarita, the appetizer before Paskevich would devour the main course? Was he turned on by violence?

I took off my wet coat and pants and hung them up. I caught a glimpse in the mirror of a woman wearing a woolen shirt and thermal underwear. There were all sorts of kinky people in the world—there had to be a couple of men who’d find my current clothes a huge turn-on. My gun holster bulged under my shirt and I had no idea where to hide it. Sex shops didn’t usually sell clothes that were designed to provide ample cover for a gun.

What did they expect me to wear, anyway? At least the vinyl chaps almost completely covered my crotch—but my butt was entirely visible. There were no panties included, so I assumed the idea was to walk around with everything up for grabs. The cap was black leather, and the tangle of strings was some sort of a weird shirt that exposed the breasts but made the wearer look tied up. A gun holster was under the strings. In it was a fine reproduction of a 9-millimeter Beretta that could have fooled an inexperienced bank teller, maybe even a cop who was easily flustered. The handle was similar to the one on my gun. Did Paskevich like having a gun held to his head? I had seen enough of New York and its sex dungeons that I didn’t even raise an eyebrow at people’s desires. If Paskevich wanted to play with the toy gun, I may not have the chance to switch it for the real one. Who knows; Valentin’s preference might be to point the gun at others.

I put all the clothes on except for the holster, the shoes, and the cap. Then I went over to the dresser. The redhead had mentioned something about a wig, and I found a blond braid in a box. It was straight out of an Elovena oatmeal ad. I used bobby pins to fasten it onto my hair and hid the seams with a black leather strap that I had found in another box. The redhead peeked in through the door.

“How much longer?”

“I need to still put my makeup on. Did you have any preference on color or style? And I can’t wear those shoes—they’re way too small.”

“You told me you were a size 7!”

“No I didn’t, I told you I was a size 8! Was I talking to you on the phone, or some other deaf guy?”

“Shut the hell up! Let me see what I can find. A couple of weeks ago there was this transvestite entertaining Valentin’s friend Heinz. I’ll see if he left any of his shoes here. Just put on plenty of makeup: black eyes and red lips. You know, like a real naughty girl. Chop, chop!”

I was close to tossing the redheaded lumbering fool down the stairs, but I could handle name calling for now—I had more important things to focus on. He ambled back into the hallway, where I heard him open another door. I went through the handbags for powder, applied foundation on my face and lined my eyes with black. I chose dark-gray glittery eye shadow and caked on enough to scare a drag queen. I pretend to be Reiska playing a woman, a sex toy. I wanted to look extra crude, so I spread lipstick all over my nipples. All this makeup would hopefully prevent Paskevich from recognizing me right away. Getting dressed up like this wasn’t too different from transforming into Reiska, or wearing a dress and high heels to Anita’s fancy parties.

“This is all I could find. Hope Valentin likes them!” The tattooed man threw high-heeled black boots at me. They looked too big for my feet. It was better that way.

“What was your name again? I already forgot,” I asked the man, who had apparently arranged this meeting between Sarita and Paskevich. “And when am I getting paid?”

“I’m Sami. That’s all you need to know, and you’re just Sarita. You’ll get the money tomorrow morning—you promised to spend the entire night here, remember? I don’t know if that damned Trankov has some other plan going on, as he dragged some broad here, too, but that woman doesn’t look like Valentin’s type at all. In her fifties and wrinkly. I’m afraid you’ll be too tall for him, but he really wanted a Finnish woman. What does that even mean? Someone with a long back and short legs?”

“Fuck you, Sami,” I said in a nonthreatening tone. It was more like one-upmanship, showing that I knew rough language, too. “Go over the plan once more with me, will you? What was it you wanted me to do?”

“I don’t want anything—it’s all for Valentin. Rumor has it that he gives himself a new prostitute each year as a birthday gift. He’s turning fifty-five today. Dude’s been downing Viagra for days, so get ready. Oh right, the ropes! Valentin loves it when cowgirls lasso him. Just don’t tie him up too tight. Hang on, I’ll go get them.”

Sami took off. I wanted to kiss my heaven-sent boots. I swiftly tied my gun around my right ankle with a couple of leather straps. This was still risky; although the gun was pointing toward the floor, who knows what could happen during the rough ride Sami had promised I was in for. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hide any additional ammo in my clothes.

Sami came back with the ropes and gave me a once-over.

“Hey, you don’t look half bad. I’d fuck you, but I’m faithful to my wife. You know how to make a lasso?”

Charlie Davis was a Nebraskan and some sort of a teen rodeo star back in his youth. At the academy he’d shown us how to tie a lasso and throw it, and I’d even put these skills to use when I had to pull our neighbor’s cow out of a bog one summer. This was after Uncle Jari had died, when I was packing up his belongings at the cabin. The neighbors had been pulling the cow from the swamp, but none of them had been able to throw a rope far enough to reach her.