“In ops like this, yes it is. I’ve led a few of these in my time.”
Suhonen was beginning to regret having made such a big deal out of it. The case could have been handled much more simply, but then Salmela wouldn’t be able to pay off his debts.
“But I’m glad you came to discuss it,” Skoog said.
Great, Suhonen thought.
“So, what should we do?” asked Takamäki.
“An undercover operation of this scale falls under the NBI’s purview,” said Skoog. “I’ll get in touch with them and set up a meeting for you guys. We’ll see what they say. Until then, keep the case on ice.”
“Got it,” said Takamäki.
Skoog fixed his eyes on Suhonen. “That goes for you especially. No solos. If we’re going to take advantage of this opportunity, let’s do it right.”
* * *
Salmela reached the Olympic Stadium right on time. There’d be no point in making excuses. He didn’t have the money and was prepared to pay the price.
His head was pounding hard enough that whatever he had coming couldn’t possibly make it worse. He remembered the beers at the corner table last night, but the trip home was a fog. Maybe his friends had walked him home. Luckily, he had remembered to set his alarm for eight in the morning. A cold shower had helped, but only as long as the water had run. It had rinsed the vomit off the shower floor, too.
Across the street from the Olympic Stadium was an Irish bar. Salmela had the fleeting impulse to grab a cold pint for his nerves. It would do him good, but the bar didn’t open till nine-still a couple minutes away.
He lit a cigarette, which tasted terrible.
Salmela had flipped up his collar and pulled on a black wool cap. This afforded some protection from the biting wind, but inside, he was shivering.
The Skulls were ruthless, but even they wouldn’t kill a laying hen. They’d just pluck it to make a point. That’s what Salmela hoped, anyway. Just in case, he had left a letter addressed to Suhonen on the sofa, informing the officer of whom he had gone to meet, and why.
Salmela had considered calling him too, but were the cops to swarm the area, he would surely wind up dead, labeled as a rat.
The wind rattled the cords on the nearby flag poles, but otherwise it was quiet. A couple of young girls in parkas with backpacks slung over their shoulders walked by Salmela. Cars drifted lazily past. The city awakened slowly to Saturday morning.
Salmela paid no attention to the passersby. When his ride came, it would stop right in front of him.
* * *
Sami Aronen’s stride was wide like a cowboy’s-his muscled thighs made him walk slightly bow-legged. The weapons expert wore a pair of sharp-toed cowboy boots, black jeans and a frayed denim vest pulled over his leather jacket. But he bore no colors. Sometimes those garnered too much attention.
The Velodrome parking lot was quiet. Aronen had left Larsson’s BMW at the corner of the cycling stadium and strode over to its wall to take a leak. He checked the time: 8:59 A.M. In one minute, Gonzales would still be on time-in two, he’d be late.
Aronen unzipped his pants and pissed on the wall. He wondered fleetingly how many walls he’d watered like this over the years. This was probably his first cycling stadium, so congratulations for that. So far, the only mosque had been in Afghanistan.
That damned gig. In the end, it had all gone to hell, but it didn’t bother him anymore. In the peacekeeping forces, war was like a game. There, he never knew whether his comrades would sacrifice their lives for his. In the Skulls, every man would-without hesitation.
Aronen felt the pressure subside. A quick shake, a zip and he headed back to the car.
Nine on the dot. Aronen had just begun to grumble when a dark blue Volkswagen Golf swung into the parking lot.
He recognized Gonzales, who drove toward him, braked and stopped the car six feet off.
Aronen had always considered Gonzales to be a schemer, but what did that matter? These types existed all over the world, even in Afghanistan. And they always thrived, regardless of their country or form of government.
Gonzales left the engine running and rose from the car. The usual grin and quick lift of the sunglasses. It was his version of the military salute: hand to the temple. The men had known each other for years-before Afghanistan Aronen had moonlighted as a carpenter for Gonzales.
“How are things?” Gonzales asked.
“Alright,” he said brusquely.
“Where’s…” Gonzales managed to say before spotting the Beamer about ten yards off. “Oh, over there.”
Aronen tossed him the keys. “Nice ride.”
“Yeah. Larsson like it?”
Aronen nodded. “Little too showy, though.”
Larsson had called Aronen at three A.M. and ordered him to switch cars first thing in the morning. The early morning call hadn’t bothered Aronen, since he hadn’t been able to sleep anyway.
Gonzales laughed aloud. “Damn right it is-that’s the point! But yeah, I get it… What’s in the works now that Larsson’s back?”
“Durus, iratus, crudelis,” Aronen rattled off without a trace of a smile. The Skulls had done some research on the net to come up with their own “Olympic Motto” to counter the famous “citius, altius, fortius,” or, “faster, higher, stronger.” As expected, the Skulls’ Latin grammar was sloppy, but it meant-or at least it was supposed to mean-tougher, angrier, crueler.
“Right, of course. Not surprised at all. That batch of speed…” he started before deciding to change the subject. “…well, this Golf is a little pokier than the Beamer, but she does OK: two-liter engine and a couple hundred horsies. Any problems or need service, just give me a call.”
Aronen had to admit-he liked the way Gonzales operated. When the guy made a promise, he kept it. Of course, that worked both ways, too: if Gonzales was promised something, it was kept. To a T, not just in the ballpark. Aronen didn’t even have to ask about the car’s documents-they would be in order.
But the drug shipment hadn’t gone so well, at least in part.
“Glad you brought up the dope. Pretty interesting that the mule got smoked right in the harbor. Know anything about that?” Aronen said.
“I heard about it, but that’s all.”
“Well, if you hear something, call.”
“I’ll try to keep me ears open.”
“Don’t try. Do it. Good news is the other batch turned out to be the good stuff-75 percent pure. We’ll be able to cut it four, five times.”
Gonzales smiled. “That’s what the Russian promised… But, be sure to cut it before anyone uses it. I’ll check on that leak… And there’s an envelope in the front seat. Twenty grand, just like you asked.”
“Good,” Aronen nodded. He believed Gonzales, and certainly wouldn’t touch the money. You never knew where it would end up or if fingerprints or DNA would be lifted from it.
“Anything else?” Gonzales grinned.
“Nope.”
Gonzales took a couple steps toward the Beamer then turned. “I have another deal that should bring in a decent amount. I’ll need some help from you guys, but we can talk about that in a couple weeks.”
“Oh,” Gonzales continued. “And I left a little present in the trunk.”
* * *
Niko Andersson rolled down the window and barked at Salmela, “Get in.”
The Skulls’ matte black Chevy Nova had stopped in front of the Olympic Stadium. Salmela glanced around as though in a last ditch effort to look for help. None was there. He dragged himself to the car.
Roge, the bull, was driving, Niko rode shotgun and Osku was sitting in the back seat.
Andersson had to wrestle himself out of the two-door coupe and tilt the seat forward. Salmela squeezed past him into the back seat.
“Morning,” Niko muttered as he sank back into the car.
Salmela didn’t respond.
The Chevrolet puttered off westward along Helsinki Avenue.
“You got the money?” Niko asked without looking back.