“Had they been tipped off, they would’ve arrested her right away in the terminal. That’s how it usually works, anyhow.”
“Well, that could be, but it doesn’t change the outcome.”
Suhonen was glad that he and Toukola hadn’t arrested her, but had stayed further back among the other travelers. “I can ask around in Narcotics. Won’t do you much good now… But she had the whole four pounds?”
“Yeah. Apparently she’s made the trip a few times before, too. Tapes the stuff to her sides and just walks off the boat. Simple but effective, they say. Not this time, though.”
“Who was the middle man?”
“Some Estonian shithead. Niko knows him.”
Suhonen mulled over Salmela’s story. According to his friend, the mule should have had four pounds, but they only found twenty ounces on Marju Mägi. Had Salmela been swindled? What role did the Skulls and Niko play in the scheme?
“Well, let’s think about it. I have an idea what we can do next, but I need to do some research first,” said Suhonen.
Salmela nodded. “Okay.”
Suhonen rose and began to clear the dirty dishes off the table. “This pad of yours is quite the dump. I’ll just clean a little if you don’t mind.”
Salmela didn’t say anything, just stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. A butt tumbled over the rim onto the table, but Salmela didn’t bother to pick it up.
Suhonen opened the window, scraped everything off the table into a couple of yellow plastic bags and began to gather the dirty clothes from the floor into one bag, and the empty bottles and cans into another.
After a good hour, the dishes were washed, the floors swept and the apartment was almost in better shape than Suhonen’s own.
He didn’t pry any more about Niko or the Skulls. He’d have time to get back to that later.
CHAPTER 8
FRIDAY, 11:50 A.M.
SKULLS’ COMPOUND, HELSINKI
The building, originally a two-story warehouse, was situated in an industrial area in north Helsinki. At some point, it had been used as a vehicle inspection office, but now the Skulls owned it. Located just five miles from downtown Helsinki, the former warehouse was still remote enough to serve as their headquarters.
The compound was on the left side of a cul-de-sac. A grove of birches stood behind the building, and further still was Beltway One. On the south end of the street was a filthy sports dome, where junior soccer star hopefuls practiced in the winter. Next to the dome were a few rusty shipping containers, and on the shoulder of the pot-holed street, giant sections of concrete tubing were scattered about. The Skulls’ compound was about a hundred yards from the nearest building.
Tapani Larsson drove the BMW sports car through the open gate into the yard, and parked it next to a few cars. He recognized the gang’s black Chevy, but the other vehicles were unfamiliar. Larsson had driven Sara from the suite to her apartment in Lauttasaari, where the Skull VP was bunking.
The yard was large enough to suit the needs of a vehicle inspection office. In the back was a test track where the engineers had tested car brakes.
The concrete building was encircled by a chain link fence that seemed too flimsy to Larsson.
He was happy that, rather than continuing to rent, the Skulls had bought the building last year. On paper, it was owned by a fronting company.
The logic was simple: If you own your house, you can’t be evicted. They had rented the downstairs garages to a repair shop for some extra income. Larsson parked the Beamer in front of the door.
The downstairs door was locked and Larsson punched in the code-it was still the same. The door seemed flimsy as well, he thought, but maybe that was just because the doors he had seen in the last year and a half were considerably thicker.
Just inside was a former service desk, and directly opposite the entrance was a stairway leading upstairs. At one time, a door had stood there. The walls were white, as offices generally were, though these were much dirtier. Larsson noticed a few posters of various metal bands hanging on the walls. The floor was filthy, as though it hadn’t been cleaned for years, and the stench of dust hung in the air.
Still nobody around. Larsson was getting pissed. They had talked about getting security cameras, but he hadn’t seen a single one. Anybody could walk right in.
The narrow stairwell was painted black, except for the rough-sawn wainscoting. Photos of the wild parties held there decorated the walls.
The stairs led directly to the second floor. At the top was a pair of saloon doors.
Larsson pushed through the doors, one of which advertised its need for oil.
A bull-like thug looked up from his game of billiards. “Who are you?” he snorted, his broad, flat nose and wide nostrils flaring in unison with his eyes. In comparison to his short legs, his massive shoulders and torso seemed unwieldy.
“The devil himself,” Larsson hissed. “You on guard duty?”
The man kept the cue in his hand. “Nobody’s on duty in the daytime.”
The stairs entered into the middle of a vast, dark room, which was furnished like a Wild West saloon, though the windows were covered with thick black cardboard.
Larsson was still standing at the top of the stairs. A bar opened up to the right, along with several tables, and in the corner sat a large flat-screen TV and an Xbox. The left side was more open: a pool table in the middle and behind it, a small, knee-high stage for bands. In the far left corner was a pinball machine. Larsson knew that the office, which he would soon reclaim, was behind the bar.
“Who are you?” Larsson demanded.
The man set his jaw before answering hesitantly, “Roge.” This guy didn’t look like someone he should mess with, he thought.
“Roge, huh. You here alone?”
A toilet flushed in the background and a smaller, goateed man stepped into the room from a door behind the pool table. “My turn?” he asked before noticing the visitor at the top of the stairs.
“Two of you here?” noted Larsson.
“You must be Tapani Larsson,” the little guy said, advancing. He dried his hands on his jeans.
“And you?”
“Osku, hang-around member. Same as Roge here.”
Osku offered his hand, but Larsson breezed past him into the room.
A huge man stepped out of the office behind the bar. “What the hell is…”
Niko Andersson spotted Larsson. “Larsson! The devil himself!”
He pounded over to Larsson and the men embraced, smacking one another on the back.
“Good to see a familiar face here,” Larsson said.
“Yeah. Meet Roge and Osku. They’ve got potential.”
Larsson shook their hands.
“Something to drink?” asked Roge, as he squeezed behind the bar.
“I’ll take a water.”
Roge glanced at the rows of bottles inside the glass-door fridge. “Sorry. No water. We got Pepsi. And diet.”
“Sure.” Larsson mumbled.
“Which?”
“Doesn’t fucking matter.”
Roge grabbed the first can he struck upon and hurried it over to Larsson.
“Notice anything?” Niko asked. “We fixed up some things.”
“Looks pretty much the same to me.”
“Osku, let’s get some light in here!” Niko hollered.
Osku walked briskly to the end of the bar and snapped on a row of switches. The lights along the bar lit up in blue and red, and a spotlight illuminated the pictures on the walls.
Larsson nodded. “The downstairs is total shit, though.”
“Still working on that,” Niko admitted. “We’re going to build a coat check down there as well as a guard station.”
“A coat check? This some kind of speakeasy?”
Niko laughed. “No. But in case we ever need one, we’d have it. We could install a gun safe too, so we don’t have any accidents. Heh-heh!”