Eero Salmela, “Ear” Nurminen and “Macho” Mertala were pounding cut-rate beers. Each of them had been coming and going all day, stopping in and out of their corner table. Of course, spending time here called for money-either your own or borrowed. Stolen money was fine, too.
The conversation dealt mostly with recent activities. If things were actually going well, they told their friends that everything was going to hell. And vice versa. Anything and everything was a joke.
Weakness had to be concealed. They had all learned that in prison. Two criminals at a table could talk about real misfortunes, but three was one too many.
Ear-Nurminen, sporting a thick beard and dated eyeglasses, piped up. “So, you guys know what my social security check and a woman’s period have in common?”
Salmela and Macho shrugged their shoulders.
“Both arrive once a month and last about a week.”
All three laughed.
Ear-Nurminen had to sit further away from the table so his tremendous belly had room. According to the official story, he had received the “Ear” nickname because of his cauliflower ears, but the unofficial story had it that when he was younger, he had crept around apartment buildings and eavesdropped on people’s lives through the mail slots.
Macho-Mertala was around thirty, narrow-faced and wore a jean jacket. He had burglarized dozens of grocery stores and kiosks, but when he told the stories, they changed to department stores and electronics shops.
“Fuck,” Macho began and the others raised their mugs.
“To memory,” Salmela said, his mug in the air.
“To memory,” Macho wheezed.
The men drank. Their toast was to the memory of “Fuck” Jore, who had died just last summer. The bushy-browed Jore, a long-time member of their group, had received his nickname for his rather liberal use of the F-word. In his usual way, he had made the mistake of mocking a violent and mentally insane outpatient who was bumming a cigarette a few blocks from the Corner Pub, and took a knife in the gut for it. The ambulance had come quickly, but the eighteen stab wounds were too much for the doctors.
The killer had been found not guilty by reason of insanity and was committed to a mental hospital. Every now and then, rumors circulated in the Corner Pub that the guy had been spotted nearby.
“Jore was a good man. His heart was in the right place, but his tongue was twisted all wrong,” Ear-Nurminen grumbled. At a minimum, every third word that Jore uttered had been “fuck.”
Salmela remembered a time when he had disdained the drunks-Jore, Ear-Nurminen, and Macho-at the corner table. Big talk about the past and no hope for the future. But he didn’t care anymore. He felt he belonged with them.
Actually, crime didn’t interest him anymore. He wanted out. He’d rather sit in the pub with friends, shoot the breeze and marvel at the youth of today. That was enough for him, but his old debts were a problem. To be precise, the problem was the party to whom he was indebted. Before he could ever withdraw into retirement to hoodwink the welfare office and tell tall tales to the rookies, he’d have to pay the Skulls.
Now he had the opportunity. The money for the speed was all there, even if he had had to borrow all of it. It had demanded focus and tireless work, but he had succeeded against all odds. The middle-man had been paid, and the shipment was due to arrive any day.
The girl Saarnikangas had recommended hadn’t even wanted to talk about smuggling, but with the middle man’s help, he had found a mule.
Salmela was a man with a plan. Once he sold the dope to the buyer, he’d pay back the Skulls, plus keep a few grand for himself.
The scheme seemed a little complicated now, but if he could only concentrate for a couple of days, it would be over and all would be well. His head pounded every so often, but not so much that he didn’t know to keep quiet about certain things, even among his buddies at the Corner Pub. These certain things were two: the scheme underway and the wad of cash in his billfold.
“Life is life,” Salmela said, quoting Matti Nykänen, Finland’s greatest ski jumper. Famously flawed, Nykänen had battled alcoholism, launched an unsuccessful singing career, fallen on hard times, and even done a stint in jail for the drunken stabbing of his girlfriend.
The mugs rose once more for Jore.
“Wonder if we could get Matti Nykänen to play a show here?” Macho thought aloud. “I know a few guys who’ve hung out with his crowd.”
“Fuck,” Ear-Nurminen went on, raising his mug again. “Sure wouldn’t find me here if he did.”
Macho gave his buddy a scornful look.
Ear-Nurminen hacked loudly, clearing his throat, “Gotta give him credit for the gold medals, and he’s an old felon too, but he damned sure doesn’t know how to sing.”
“That’s why he’d fit right in,” Macho cackled. “An ex-con whose best years are behind him, but can barely manage a hum nowadays. That’s why he’s one of us.”
“Okay, you organize it, I’ll come.”
Salmela glanced at his phone. No missed calls. It would come…for sure. Probably tomorrow. He’d find out where the shipment was stashed, and just forward the location to the buyer. Hell, no. He’d have to meet the mule at the harbor, of course. That’s how it went. Then he’d have to hide it somewhere, but not at home. Maybe bury it somewhere. Then he could sell the location of the stash. That’s how it’d be. He reminded himself to focus.
Then he’d pay his debts and focus on retirement without any threats or obligations.
The pain at the juncture of his skull and spine began to throb again. Best not to think too much. He tried to empty his head of thoughts.
Hey, he was among friends at the Corner Pub. Things would work out. No worries, no woes.
He emptied his pint. “Hurry up, you old fools. The next round is on me.”
“Wow,” Macho grunted and tossed back his mug. Ear-Nurminen finished last by three seconds-his glass had been the fullest.
CHAPTER 5
THURSDAY, 5:20 P.M.
PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS, HELSINKI
This Zubrov was still one strange bird. There was a Sergei Zubov who played in the NHL, but that was definitely a different guy. Over the course of the day, Suhonen had drunk half a dozen cups of coffee, made about fifteen phone calls and sifted through as many police databases as possible.
Now he was even more pleased he had gone to Tallinn, even if only for a small morsel of data. He had found nothing in the Finnish databases.
Of course, there were other possibilities. Perhaps Zubrov had changed his name or had several identities. Suhonen had searched using the names “Sergey, Serghey, Zhubrov,” as well as many other alternatives and combinations. He didn’t buy the notion that Zubrov was just a law-abiding citizen, meeting Gonzales at the Velodrome to chat about the weather.
Something was up, and it drove Suhonen nuts that he didn’t know what.
Joutsamo returned. He had no idea where she had been, nor did he care.
“You find anything on that Sergei?” the Sergeant asked.
“Nope.”
“Well, we at least know what he looks like if he ever actually commits a crime.”
“Yup.”
Joutsamo’s attitude irritated Suhonen. Organized crime investigations should focus on these “Zubrovs” earlier and nail them for crimes in the making. Once the murder, robbery, assault or drug deal had taken place, it was too late.
Suhonen believed that the police lacked preventative tools and needed more capable undercover officers. He had spent a lot of time thinking about it, and inevitably, the United States and September 11, 2001 came to mind. Intelligence organizations had several indications of a possible terrorist attack, but they were unable to connect the dots. On top of that, the U.S. intelligence community had forgotten the importance of human assets in the field. Because they had relied too heavily on technology, which the enemy had learned to circumvent, the connections between the terrorists and their plot remained undetected until it was too late. Effective prevention required field work.