“Be a damn church if guns are checked at the door,” Larsson muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The saloon doors creaked again, and a short-haired man stepped in. Sami Aronen, the Skulls’ weapons expert, bellowed, “Larsson!” The men went through the same patting ritual.
Aronen was a few years older than Larsson. The size of his biceps and the lack of a beer belly showed he was in excellent shape. Close-shaved hair and three-days of stubble capped off his steely looks.
“Good to see you again,” said Aronen.
“Same.”
Niko and Aronen formed the gang’s current nucleus, since half of the members were doing time. Larsson trusted both as much as he trusted anybody.
Aronen had been a member for a couple of years now. He had served in Afghanistan with the Finnish peace-keeping forces some years ago, but was discharged after punching a Swedish officer in a bar fight. When a sergeant hits a captain, he’ll take the blame, regardless of the reason.
As luck would have it for Aronen, the Finnish forces were in Northern Afghanistan’s ISAF-operation under Swedish command and the loud-mouthed captain happened to be the unit’s judge advocate officer-Aronen never stood a chance. He was one of the few Skulls that had never been in prison. For the swing at the Swedish officer, he was fined and received a dishonorable discharge from the Finnish Army, where he had worked as a weapons specialist in several regiments.
Larsson drank his Pepsi straight from the can.
“Larsson, let’s sit down,” said Niko, gesturing toward the wooden tables in front of the bar. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here, so I asked the others to come over at half past twelve.”
* * *
Suhonen was sitting in the same Customs control room at the West Harbor as he had on the previous night. The director of port security had arranged to replay the video of the previous evening’s passengers. Then, the undercover cop had seen it live, now he could see it on tape.
Unlike in real life, video allowed him to pause, rewind and fast forward. The previous evening, the police had only been looking for a woman in a red coat, but another mule had also disembarked. Who? They had spotted Karjalainen, the junkie, but what about after Marju Mägi?
The director hadn’t asked why Suhonen wanted to see the footage again. It had been enough that Suhonen had asked for it. They also had footage of the parking lot, which Suhonen and Toukola hadn’t needed the night before. All of the footage was on a hard drive, so Suhonen could switch between cameras and zoom in on passengers.
The director had also shown Suhonen how to print the images. They could be emailed as well.
Before leaving the control room, the director had lamented the fact that facial recognition software wasn’t fully functional yet. In the future, cameras would be able to identify people based on their facial structure. Facial metrics-the distance between one’s eyes or between one’s nose and ears, the length of one’s chin measured from the bottom lip-were unique to each person. Every person with a driver’s license or passport photograph, for example, would receive a unique facial ID. Computers would be able to match that ID to individuals captured on security camera footage. However, the director knew that the current systems still had a 25 percent failure rate, even under near-laboratory conditions
With corresponding legislation, the technology would be implemented in Finland. He had surmised that the legislation would be passed under the guise of counter-terrorism. If passengers could be positively identified before boarding, those deemed dangerous could be picked up then. It would be even better if the system were integrated with the police database.
That done, it was only a matter of determining who would be deemed dangerous, thought Suhonen. A history of nights in the drunk tank probably wouldn’t qualify. At least the shipping lines would make that argument, since they’d lose their best customers.
The footage swirled on the screens. Karjalainen, the junkie, wobbled across the monitor and Suhonen printed off a screenshot. Same with Marju Mägi. The shot could be used as evidence in court, but Toukola probably wouldn’t need it. A short while later, Suhonen watched as he and Toukola were trailing Mägi in the concourse. He tried to track Karjalainen outdoors, but the man had escaped the cameras. The outdoor wide-angle lens showed the cops escorting Mägi into the van.
Then Suhonen reviewed the footage of the remaining passengers in the gangway, but saw no familiar faces. Perhaps it would help if people were identified on screen, along with their criminal histories. Perhaps it would be nice if they integrated the software with people’s movements based on their cell phone signals, as well as their credit card purchase histories. In principle, this was all fully possible.
Passenger traffic thinned out, then dried up completely. Suhonen hadn’t noticed any suspicious passengers. On the other hand, Marju Mägi wouldn’t have aroused any interest without the tip from Estonia.
Suhonen pondered the situation. His friend, Salmela, had directly implicated himself in a drug smuggling operation. The twenty ounces already found would earn him the same punishment as Mägi: about two and a half years. Salmela wouldn’t survive another prison term-he barely seemed to be surviving on the outside.
Suhonen would have to pump Salmela for more details about his connections to the Skulls.
CHAPTER 9
FRIDAY, 12:30 P.M.
SKULLS’ COMPOUND, HELSINKI
Eight men were seated in the main room of the Skulls’ headquarters. Larsson sat on a tall stool next to the bar, the others around the tables. Larsson glanced at Aronen, who nodded.
“Except for Steiner, looks like everybody is here, so let’s get started,” Larsson said in a calm voice. “I’ve known many of you for a long time. A few faces are new to me, but I can say this: We’re all brothers. If that weren’t true, none of us would be here. If anyone feels otherwise, then now is the time to leave.”
His bald, tattooed head glistening, the vice president scanned his throng of toughs. Nobody moved.
“There you have it. No hesitations, no sideward glances. That is how the Skulls operate. Each of us is an individual, but the individuals constitute one brotherhood. Trust is our cornerstone. Together, we are what we are.”
He had mulled over this speech many nights in his cell. There, it had seemed perfect, but now he questioned whether it was too sentimental.
The men’s eyes were riveted on Larsson. Good, at least nobody was laughing. If someone had even dared smile, Niko would have slammed the guy to the floor and put a boot through his teeth.
“This is not news to you, but I want to talk about it because it’s important. Each of you is my brother. That means that even if my life is going to hell, I can still be happy about your successes. There is no envy amongst us.”
Larsson held another pause then continued. “It means that no matter how hungry I am, you’ll always get half my food. If someone needs money, I’ll give half my own. If someone hits you, I’ll hit him back-no questions asked. If someone steals from you, I’ll beat the shithead to the ground. There is no right and wrong, only brotherhood. I am ready to die for any of you. And you should be ready to do the same.”
“We have plenty of dead heroes, and there will be more. The S.W.A.T team shot Korpela just last year. Kahma and Jyrkkä suffered the same fate a few years earlier. They acted on our behalf without thinking of themselves and fearing nothing. Brotherhood always took precedence. They thought about us. Each of you must be ready for anything.”
“Do you understand?” Larsson asked, nearly shouting.