“How did you make the bomb?” Sweetness asked.
“It’s mostly just aluminum and iron oxides. Stuff you can get at hardware stores. I had some lying around.”
“Isn’t there a less dramatic way to get rid of him?” I asked. “We just need to make him disappear. No body, no murder.”
Sweetness takes some nuuska and jams it into his gum. “Dad worked as a welder at the shipyards. He got me a job there one summer. They got barrels of acid in shipping containers. They’re for industry, like paper and nuclear factories. We could just stick him in one and seal him up.”
Milo’s eyes sunk deeper into their black pits as he pondered. “Do you remember what kinds of acid?”
“Hydrochloric and hydrofluoric are two that I remember.”
Milo half grinned. The less-than-gentle giant knew such big words.
I tried to sip my coffee. It was still too scalding to drink. “There are workers around the shipyard. And we have to dump out part of the barrel so he fits in it. So we need an empty barrel. And those barrels are big and heavy. We need something to pick it up with so we can tip the full barrel and pour part of the acid into the empty one. And we need protective clothing, head to toe, in case we slosh it and get it on us. The concept is right, but we can’t do all that at the shipyards.”
Milo slapped the table, slopped everyone’s coffee and burned Sweetness’s fingers. “Goddamn it,” he said.
Milo laughed. “I got it. Filippov Construction. Everything we need is there, and we have the privacy.”
Filippov Construction had been closed since Arvid murdered its owner, Ivan Filippov, a few weeks ago, and his wife, Iisa Filippov, disappeared. The business specialized in industrial waste disposal. Work there had ceased, the site stood empty.
“How do you know they have acid, and the right kind?” I asked.
“I read their inventory.” He looked at Sweetness and, for the sake of one-upmanship, because Sweetness knew big words, said, “I remember almost everything I read. They have sulfuric acid. It’s not as effective as hydrochloric or hydrofluoric for our purposes. The body will take some weeks to dissolve. It will turn to goo, then viscous liquid, and eventually just be gone. Not even a trace of DNA will be left.”
“And the other problems I mentioned?” I asked.
“There are six two-hundred-twenty-gallon barrels of sulfuric acid, and four empty barrels designed for storage. Closed-loop portable tanks that meet safety requirements. Reusable three-eighths-inch-thick stainless steel construction with extra protection for valves and fittings. Minimum one-hundred-psi pressure design meant to be handled with a forklift, so Sweetness can use one and tip the forks to pour acid from one container to another. And of course, all the protective clothing is there, too.”
“Maybe after, we should take the car to the woods and burn it up with your bomb,” Sweetness said.
“I can’t picture the place re-opening within the next few weeks while the gangster decomposes to goop,” I said. “Sounds like a plan.”
I drove for the first time since my surgeries. It was no problem. My knee was more than strong enough to depress the pedals without bad pain. We took my Saab and located the Ford with the body in the trunk. Milo has master keys that fit almost any vehicle. He and Sweetness took it-I was trying to make them spend more time together-and I followed them to Filippov Construction, in an industrial park in Vantaa.
Milo picked the gate lock. Sweetness hit his flask. The area was surrounded with a heavy chain-link fence topped with two strands of barbed wire and lined on the inside with corrugated green fiberglass, so no one could see in.
We drove into a spacious asphalt lot filled with small-grade heavy equipment. A couple Bobcat dozers, a cherry picker, a forklift and other machines, along with industrial waste, yet to be disposed of, and containers to hold it. I stayed outside in the morning sunshine while Milo and Sweetness suited up.
They came out looking like mad scientists from a bad sci-fi movie, covered head to toe in everything from respirators and goggles to rubber aprons. They carried tools to open the barrels and set to work. They decided the best method was to dump the gangster in the empty barrel and then cover him over with acid.
They backed his Ford up to the tank and popped the trunk. Lifting him out was no easy task. He had been dead just long enough for rigor mortis to hit its peak. He was ironing-board stiff. Luck was with them, though, because he had lain in the trunk in a near fetal position. Otherwise, they would have had to break nearly every bone in his body to make him flexible enough to fit in the barrel. Luckily as well, Sweetness was with us. He lifted the gangster by himself from an awkward position, using only his arms, as there was no way to angle himself so he could get his back into it. Milo and I never could have accomplished it.
They opened the barrel of acid and the empty barrel, too. Sweetness fired up the forklift and, slow but sure, began drizzling sulfuric onto the gangster.
I wore no protection and leaned against my Saab, a good thirty-five yards away, to keep from breathing the fumes.
“I hope I haven’t interrupted you at an inopportune moment,” a quiet voice said to me.
It scared the shit out of me and I jumped.
Sweetness must have seen sudden movement in his peripheral vision. He kept cool and eased the forks back, stopped pouring. He gestured with a black-rubber-glove-covered hand to Milo and pointed in my direction. They came toward us, taking off their headgear and gloves as they moved. I saw Milo rip a hole in the back of his paper suit, and saw what was coming.
The man beside me waited without speaking. He wore a black cloth bomber jacket, jeans and boots. His head was shaved. He had large and ornate French paratrooper wings tattooed on the sides of his head. He looked like the devil incarnate.
Milo smiled as he neared, and reached into the hole in his paper suit. He drew down on Satan, but the man produced his pistol so fast that it seemed magical. “Deputy Dawg,” he said, “will never outdraw Yosemite Sam.”
Milo scowled and lowered his Glock, beaten. “Who are they?”
“American cartoon characters. I have a great affection for classic American cartoons. My favorites are Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner.” Satan paused. “I don’t think guns are necessary,” he said. “Shall we put them away?” He made the first gesture by replacing his Beretta in the holster at the small of his back.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“A man of wealth and taste.” It was as if he’d read my mind and thought about Satan and came up with the Stones riff.
He introduced himself as Adrien Moreau. He was a French policeman, Finnish by birth, but spent fifteen years in the French Foreign Legion, hence his name. He’d exercised his right as a Legionnaire and taken French citizenship and identity. He asked if we could have a private conversation while my colleagues finished disposing of the body in the barrel of acid, and I agreed.
The looks on their faces said they didn’t like missing out on the conversation with this interesting new character, but they respected my wishes and went back to sloshing acid without complaint.
“I believe you and I could have a mutually beneficial relationship,” Moreau said.
“And how might that be?”
He tried not to laugh, but the upturned corners of his mouth reflected amusement. “I’ve been following you for some days. I watched you commit a robbery last night. You looked like a bizarre version of the Three Stooges turned criminal. Your trigger-happy friend fumbled with lock picks. You stood nearby on crutches, and the big man reminded me of the monster Grendel from the Beowulf legend. I could help you improve your technique in this regard, but I have a more specific and practical matter in mind.”
“Under whose authority?”
“I am employed by Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure. The DGSE is France’s external intelligence agency. It functions under the direction of the French ministry of defense and works in conjunction with the Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence, DCRI, in providing intelligence and national security, including paramilitary and counterintelligence operations abroad. I am a superintendent in the Action Division. We are responsible for planning and performing clandestine operations and other security-related operations.”