Vengeance (17 page)

    
Salmela guzzled what was left in his glass and took a fresh one with him. He wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving an unattended beer in front of Ear-Nurminen and Macho-Mertala.

    
The barkeep weaved through the crowd and Salmela followed him behind the bar. “Over there by the door,” he gestured. Salmela knew very well where the bar’s landline was.

    
“Hello,” Salmela said into the receiver. Through the din, he couldn’t hear a thing. He set the beer on a shelf and jammed a finger in his free ear.

    
“Hello?” he repeated.

    
“Hey,” said a man’s voice. “What’s up?”

    
The noise was loud enough that Salmela didn’t recognize the caller immediately. “Niko?”

    
“Correct,” the voice said coldly. “When you gonna pay up?”

    
“I don’t have the money.”

    
“That’s what I thought. And that’s why I paid for the beers.”

    
“Thanks, man,” Salmela said hesitantly.

    
A short silence on the other end. Salmela wasn’t sure if Niko had hung up or if he just couldn’t hear. “Sorry, I can’t hear. Really loud over here,” he said to be sure.

    
“Then tell them to shut up when I’m talking,” Niko snarled. His dramatic pause hadn’t gone over like he planned.

    
Salmela glanced at the packed bar. He wasn’t about to start shouting at this mob. He strained to listen more closely.

    
“Okay, I think it’s better now.”

    
“I need the money.”

    
“Right, right. Yeah, I’m trying everything,” Salmela sputtered, realizing now why Niko had called the bar’s landline—the call wouldn’t show up on Salmela’s cell phone record.

    
“Not enough.”

    
“C’mon. Don’t go jumping to conclusions,” he said, glancing around nervously. Maybe he’d been led to the phone just so some heavy could see who to beat up.

    
Nobody seemed interested in Salmela, nor could anyone hear the conversation.

    
“Tomorrow morning at nine in front of the Olympic Stadium.”

    
“Niko, I can’t get it by then.”

    
“Then just bring yourself,” he said, and asked Salmela to repeat the time and place.

    
The call ended and Salmela emptied his beer with two gulps. Fuck.

    
The bartender shot him a stern look.

    
“Everything alright?”

    
“Yep,” he answered calmly. “He bought us another round.”

    
The bartender nodded and lined up three more mugs.

    
The speakers were blaring Finnish rock:
“You’re a news rag in a restaurant, scattered and torn. A card deck in a locker room, wrinkled and worn.”

    
Precisely, thought Salmela as he gathered up the beers.

* * *

Larsson parked the Beamer in the parking lot of an apartment building in the Lauttasaari section of west Helsinki. He’d have to get another set of wheels—this one attracted too much attention.

    
The gangster boss had received a bullet proof vest and a 9mm Beretta 92FS from Aronen. The hefty gun was strapped under his arm, and with the bulky vest, Larsson’s leather coat wouldn’t zip up.

    
The white apartment buildings lay perpendicular to the road. Sara Lehto’s apartment was in the one with the grocery store on the end.

    
Larsson opened the ground-level door with his key and bounded up to the second floor two stairs at a time.

    
He stopped in front of her door to listen for a moment. Just the TV. He opened the door.

    
“Hey,” he said.

    
The lights were on but nobody answered.

    
“Hey,” he said, louder, stepping into the living room.

    
Sara was curled up on the sofa in a pink top and tight shorts, watching TV. The room was sparsely furnished. When she noticed the movement, she startled. “Oh, hey.”

    
The TV was playing the same
Rome
series she had watched back at the hotel. Larsson started to take off his jacket.

    
“This is really good. I just bought the second season on DVD.”

    
This time it was Larsson’s turn not to respond.

    
“Oh yeah,” she went on. “We’re out of milk. If you want some for your coffee in the morning, go get it from the store downstairs.”

    
“Huh?”

    
“Out…of…milk,” she said slowly.

    
Larsson shrugged his jacket back on without a word. If he didn’t get his coffee in the morning, the day would go to hell. And coffee called for milk.

SATURDAY,

OCTOBER 24

CHAPTER 11

SATURDAY, 8.50 A.M.

KAARTI POLICE STATION, HELSINKI

“I’m not so sure,” said Skoog, the Assistant Chief of the Helsinki Police Department. Surly and graying, Skoog was sitting behind a desk piled with tall, orderly stacks of paper. The man worked long days, often weekends too.

    
Takamäki and Suhonen had explained the possibility of planting an informant inside the Skulls. Salmela hadn’t been identified by name.

    
“What do you mean not so sure?” Suhonen said, irritated.

    
“It’s a hell of a big operation just to ensure the informant’s safety. You guys…er, we’d be in deep shit if it fails and the guy gets killed.”

    
“Well, true,” Takamäki conceded. In his time, Skoog had run some heavy cases. The chief knew what he was talking about.

    
“How much manpower can the VCU devote to this?”

    
“I don’t know,” Takamäki answered honestly.

    
“You should,” the assistant chief said bluntly, “In the critical phase, I’d bet 24-hour surveillance alone will require over a dozen officers.”

    
Suhonen raked his fingers through his black hair. “Is it really necessary to follow the informant 24-7?”

    
Skoog’s cutting stare fell on Suhonen.

    
“In ops like this, yes it is. I’ve led a few of these in my time.”

    
Suhonen was beginning to regret having made such a big deal out of it. The case could have been handled much more simply, but then Salmela wouldn’t be able to pay off his debts.

    
“But I’m glad you came to discuss it,” Skoog said.

    
Great, Suhonen thought.

    
“So, what should we do?” asked Takamäki.

    
“An undercover operation of this scale falls under the NBI’s purview,” said Skoog. “I’ll get in touch with them and set up a meeting for you guys. We’ll see what they say. Until then, keep the case on ice.”

    
“Got it,” said Takamäki.

    
Skoog fixed his eyes on Suhonen. “That goes for you especially. No solos. If we’re going to take advantage of this opportunity, let’s do it right.”

* * *

Salmela reached the Olympic Stadium right on time. There’d be no point in making excuses. He didn’t have the money and was prepared to pay the price.

    
His head was pounding hard enough that whatever he had coming couldn’t possibly make it worse. He remembered the beers at the corner table last night, but the trip home was a fog. Maybe his friends had walked him home. Luckily, he had remembered to set his alarm for eight in the morning. A cold shower had helped, but only as long as the water had run. It had rinsed the vomit off the shower floor, too.

    
Across the street from the Olympic Stadium was an Irish bar. Salmela had the fleeting impulse to grab a cold pint for his nerves. It would do him good, but the bar didn’t open till nine—still a couple minutes away.

    
He lit a cigarette, which tasted terrible.

    
Salmela had flipped up his collar and pulled on a black wool cap. This afforded some protection from the biting wind, but inside, he was shivering.

    
The Skulls were ruthless, but even they wouldn’t kill a laying hen. They’d just pluck it to make a point. That’s what Salmela hoped, anyway. Just in case, he had left a letter addressed to Suhonen on the sofa, informing the officer of whom he had gone to meet, and why.

    
Salmela had considered calling him too, but were the cops to swarm the area, he would surely wind up dead, labeled as a rat.

    
The wind rattled the cords on the nearby flag poles, but otherwise it was quiet. A couple of young girls in parkas with backpacks slung over their shoulders walked by Salmela. Cars drifted lazily past. The city awakened slowly to Saturday morning.

    
Salmela paid no attention to the passersby. When his ride came, it would stop right in front of him.

* * *

Sami Aronen’s stride was wide like a cowboy’s—his muscled thighs made him walk slightly bow-legged. The weapons expert wore a pair of sharp-toed cowboy boots, black jeans and a frayed denim vest pulled over his leather jacket. But he bore no colors. Sometimes those garnered too much attention.

    
The Velodrome parking lot was quiet. Aronen had left Larsson’s BMW at the corner of the cycling stadium and strode over to its wall to take a leak. He checked the time: 8:59 A.M. In one minute, Gonzales would still be on time—in two, he’d be late.

    
Aronen unzipped his pants and pissed on the wall. He wondered fleetingly how many walls he’d watered like this over the years. This was probably his first cycling stadium, so congratulations for that. So far, the only mosque had been in Afghanistan.