* * *
Repo cautiously glanced out into the front yard through the kitchen curtains. The streetlamp on Marina Road was off. He could see the cars down at the soccer field, but couldn’t make out anything closer up. Repo knew that the police were out there, though.
The house was dark, because Repo didn’t want to give the police any unnecessary advantage. Light shone from the aquarium in the living room, as he hadn’t been able to figure out how to turn off the timer. On the other hand, it was good that the house wasn’t totally dark. The police had night-vision equipment. He didn’t.
Repo carefully closed the curtain. The arrival of the police officer with long hair had thrown off his plans. Had Saarnikangas squealed on him after all? Originally he was going to leave Fredberg and his wife in the house and set up the dynamite on a timer to go off in an hour. That was no longer possible. Plenty had gone awry: Karppi’s death and now this hostage situation. He needed to come up with a new plan, but thinking gave him a headache.
Fredberg sat in a chair less than ten feet away. Repo had tied him to it with double zip ties, tightly pulled around both wrists and ankles, and then looped around the chair. There was no way Fredberg could wriggle free.
The judge sat still in the chair, and a ten-foot wire led from the strapped explosives to Repo’s detonator. The device, which was about the size of a TV remote, lay on the table. Repo had left the safety on.
Fredberg’s gaze followed Repo incessantly. Repo sat down at the table and picked up the detonator. “Are you afraid of dying?”
“I don’t know,” the judge said. His forehead itched, but he couldn’t scratch it. “I’ve never thought about it in terms of being afraid, because it’s inevitable, a given fact.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, although I consider myself a Christian by convention rather than conviction.”
Repo stared Fredberg in the eye. The judge was trying to look somehow dignified, even though his hair was a mess and he was wearing nothing more than pajamas.
“I lost my faith in God eight years ago.”
“What hap…?” Fredberg started, quickly swallowing the rest of the sentence.
“Were you going to ask what happened?”
“I was, but I already figured out the answer.”
Repo didn’t immediately respond.
“Who was it who said, ‘That which is not just and fair may not be law’?”
“What do you mean?”
“Answer!” Repo roared, causing Fredberg to flinch.
“Olaus Petri, of course. In the 1530s. All judges know that.”
“I read those principles in the prison library. They compared judges to God.”
“Yes, well.” Fredberg chose his words with care. “I’d say that’s reading a little too much into it.”
Repo’s eyes remained locked on Fredberg’s. “Because the judge is charged by God to judge rightly, he must strive with all his might to know what justice is,” Repo cited from memory. “The judge acts at God’s command.”
Fredberg didn’t dare to contradict him. “I believe that’s correct.”
“God urges us to mercy, and according to Olaus Petri, justice must include mercy as well.”
“I fully agree with you.”
“So why wasn’t any shown in my case?”
Fredberg tried to remember the case, but he couldn’t recall the details.
“If the court acted wrongly, that can be corrected. I can personally look into the case and act as your advocate.”
“You should have advocated for me eight years ago,” Repo said. “Now it’s my turn to be the judge.”
* * *
Sitting alone in the lead vehicle, Joutsamo dug her cell phone from her pocket. Takamäki, Turunen, and Helmikoski had gone for a round to get a better picture of the situation. The snow had turned to rain, but slush still covered the ground.
The number rang six times before a sleepy voice answered. “Römpötti.”
“Good morning!” Joutsamo said, feigning perkiness.
“Anna, what the hell?” the reporter growled. “It’s three in the morning.”
“That’s right, We’ve still got an hour to play before the bars close. Come party.”
“Give me a break,” Römpötti moaned. “I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep all week. And now I probably won’t be able to fall back asleep.”
Joutsamo was amused by how slowly the human brain worked when it was roused from slumber. “Come on! Let’s go!”
“No!” Römpötti shouted. “No way!”
Joutsamo decided to end her teasing. The risk was that Römpötti would hang up and turn off her phone. “Listen. It’s about work. Are you sure you’re awake?”
“Work? At this hour?”
“Yup. Cops never sleep.”
“Neither do reporters, at least not this one. Tell me,” Römpötti said, her voice more alert.
“We found the escaped convict in Lauttasaari. He’s holed up in a house on Marina Road . There’s a pretty big police operation going on here.”
A slapping sound filled the air. Joutsamo glanced up and saw a red helicopter landing further down the soccer field. The air current from the rotors whipped the water-drops harder into the van’s windshield.
“The air ambulance just arrived.”
“Holy shit! I’ll call a cameraman and be right over.”
“There’s one more thing. He has a hostage.”
“Wow. That’s not good. You know who it is?”
“Yes. Fredberg, chief justice of the Supreme Court.”
Römpötti was silent for a second. “You gotta be kidding me. That’s a huge story.”
“And a serious situation.”
“Are you going to get him out of there alive?”
“We’re doing our best.”
“How close can I get? We’re going to broadcast straight from the scene.”
“Takamäki said your team can come onto the soccer field. I don’t know exactly what he has in mind.”
Römpötti’s voice was thoughtful, “Is that so? Are we going to be part of some police operation?”
“He’ll probably tell you more himself, but I can always call some other network and see if they want to bring a van up on the field.”
“We’re on our way.”
Joutsamo looked at the helicopter, which had cut its engine. The blades of the rotor still spun, drooping lazily. All of the ingredients for a massive catastrophe were in place.
CHAPTER 20
THURSDAY, 4:10 A.M.
LAUTTASAARI, HELSINKI
Turunen brought a thermos into the lead van and produced three paper cups from his pocket. “Sorry, all I got was coffee. Black, no sugar.”
“No worries,” Joutsamo said. She was sitting at the computer. Takamäki was next to her.
“None at all,” he agreed.
Turunen pulled the side door shut and sat down in the passenger seat. He set the cups down next to the laptop and poured out steaming java.
Joutsamo got hers first. “What’s the situation?”
“Same as an hour ago. Both are in the dining room. Haven’t moved,” the SWAT leader informed them. Takamäki knew that the SWAT team had a device they used to see people’s movement through walls. The system worked like radar, except the waves transmitted by the equipment penetrated walls and bounced off people. They hadn’t managed to set up cameras to produce any helpful images.
Earlier, Turunen had also laid out the plan for entering the home. Since Repo was apparently not in possession of a firearm, they only had to deal with one threat: the detonator. If it was the release-type, they would have to successfully cut the wire between the explosives and the detonator, which would require a major diversion. In practice their best chance was if a police officer was allowed to bring food or something else to the house. The problem of course was that there was presumably plenty of food inside the house.
Their other opportunities would arise if Repo fell asleep or if somehow they could catch him off guard when the detonator’s safety was on.