* * *
Jouko Nyholm was sitting at his desk at the Customs office. The morning had been bearable, but now sweat began to bead up beneath the inspector’s collar.
Markkanen’s call had violated the email protocol they had agreed on. Once again, he was told to sift through confidential Customs intelligence on some ship and its cargo. This time, Nyholm hadn’t dared, since all computer searches were archived and could be easily retrieved.
He was convinced the police were onto him. The connection from Eriksson to his daughter, and then on to him was too obvious. Chances were, his phone was already tapped and his computer activities were under surveillance. He struggled to remember what words he had used with Markkanen. Could they reveal the entire scheme?
Now he’d have to lay low. He had told Markkanen that the coast was clear. And maybe it was, but Nyholm wasn’t sure. Ships and their cargoes were continually analyzed, right up to the point of arrival.
How could he get out of this? To begin with, he had to calm down and give the impression that everything was fine. Why the hell had he come to work? He should’ve just called in sick; that would’ve been easiest…the flu or something.
“Hello.”
The low voice startled Nyholm. It was Snellman; he hadn’t even heard any footsteps.
Nyholm spun around in his chair and tried to smile. No sound escaped his lips.
“What’s wrong?” Snellman asked. “Something bothering you?”
He coughed. “The flu has me on the ropes.”
“Hmm, well, don’t leave just yet. That detective lieutenant called to say he’s coming to ask about something again. He wouldn’t say what it was over the phone. I might need you, so take two aspirin and sweat it out.”
Nyholm’s throat was so dry and constricted he nearly vomited.
CHAPTER 24
HELSINKI PRISON
FRIDAY, 1:10 P.M.
Eero Salmela sat in the visitors’ area of the prison compound, waiting. He was alone, apart from the blue-uniformed guard who had escorted him out of the cell block. The guard stood by the wall.
The large, elongaged room contained half a dozen tables fitted with low Plexiglas dividers. The tables had two, sometimes three plastic chairs bolted to either side.
Most of the room was below ground level. The windows, high up on the walls, were just above grade level.
Salmela had already been waiting for five minutes. He glanced at the brawny guard, who was staring blankly at the opposite wall. He pitied the guard: someday he would get out of here, but the guard’s job tied him to this shit pen for life.
The door opened, and a second guard brought in a big man wearing a leather jacket. The man’s demeanor was confident, yet somehow uncertain. Salmela had never met him, but could immediately tell that the man had done time before. He wasn’t surprised.
The guard led the visitor to the table. “You both know the rules. No contact, no matter how much you love each other. If you want that, you need to apply for a family room.” Then he withdrew to the wall.
The big man sat on the chair. “How long you in for?” he asked, trying to appear sympathetic.
“What’s it to you?” Salmela rasped. The noise level in the visiting room was always at a whisper. Nobody wanted to be heard by the next table, and even less by the guards. “I’m not counting anyway… What do you want?”
The man squinted his eyes. “Shit, you want me to go?”
“Whatever. Doesn’t matter to me.”
He remained silent, looking at Salmela. “Name?”
“What’s yours?” Salmela shot back. In case the guards asked, both the visitor and the prisoner needed to know each other’s names.
“Markkanen.”
“Salmela.”
Markkanen nodded. “Okay. I’ll keep this short. Tell Larsson I need Korpela again. Everything’s under control, no problems. I’ll take care of the money and the other demands.”
Salmela nodded, reflecting. For Larsson, that might be enough, but he wanted to know more. The guy clearly didn’t know who or what rank he was dealing with. “How much?”
“Same as before.”
“Not enough,” Salmela said. If he was to negotiate on the Skulls’ behalf, he might as well act the part. Nothing was ever enough for them.
“What do you mean ‘not enough?’ A deal is a deal.”
Salmela wanted more background on this deal, even if it wasn’t very smart.
“C’mon. You need help-we do that, but it don’t come free. Thirty percent more.”
“What?” Markkanen groaned.
Salmela’s face was rigid. He tried to guess at what Larsson might demand. Money for sure, but the Skulls couldn’t send an assassin after just anybody. Larsson would definitely be interested in the target.
“You heard me.”
“Okay. Thirty.”
Salmela accepted the offer. “Someone’s gonna call you on the cell today. If he asks about your bro, then it’s a go. But if he asks about your sister, no deal.”
“Understood.”
“You sure? Girls usually say no, so that’s a refusal.”
“Nice code.”
“One more question: who’s the target?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Don’t be stupid. Loyalty is all that matters in here.”
Markkanen sized up Salmela. Who was this guy? He’d made the contact through the usual channels, so there was no reason to doubt the guy was representing the Skulls. Something was not quite right, though. Most messengers just rattled off information, but this guy was negotiating. Maybe this Salmela was some kind of lieutenant or something, though Markkanen didn’t know much about the Skulls’ hierarchy.
“Well, okay,” he began. “A guy from Lahti named Suikkanen. He thinks he’s hot shit, but he’s not. I want him gone.”
Salmela tried to seem indifferent. “What’s he look like?”
“Early forties. Wears a leather jacket and has a long rap sheet. Short, dark hair.”
Salmela nodded. Aside from Suhonen’s alias, he didn’t know any other Suikkanens who’d match that description. What had his old friend gotten mixed up in now?
* * *
Suikkanen was a convenient pawn, Markkanen thought. Very convenient.
It was nearly 1:30 P.M., and the Corner Pub was beginning to fill up in honor of Friday. It probably had more to do with the fact that their beer was the cheapest on the street today.
Suikkanen brought the coffees and sat down on the other side of a table pock-marked with cigarette burns.
Suhonen and Markkanen leaned in closer. They kept their voices to a murmur.
“Did the Mercedes guy pay up?”
“No,” Markkanen said. “He laughed in my face and said he’d save the pig’s head for Christmas.”
Suhonen sipped his coffee. “Should we try again, maybe a bit more persuasively?” He clenched his fist.
Fool, but a gift from heaven, Markkanen thought. “That’s what I was thinking, though it won’t do me any good if you just kick the shit out of him.”
“You want the money, right?”
“Precisely. The guy lives in the same complex where the garage is. There’s a safe in his apartment with cash in it. Not sure how much-I just know he’s loaded.”
“So whaddya want me to do?” Suhonen asked.
“Simple. Go to his apartment, make him open the safe, and bring me the money. I’ll collect my debt and the rest is yours.”
“Just leftovers?”
“Five grand no matter what, of course.”
Suhonen raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. What kind of guy is this?”
“Name’s Kalevi Lindström. He’s a businessman selling black market goods to Russia. He runs a tight ship, but otherwise he’s soft. You shouldn’t have any problems.”
Suhonen narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“I can’t jeopardize the relationship. We’re in the middle of a couple deals.”