Jarkko Sipila - Vengeance

“So this dope deal,” Ristola muttered. He was dressed in a black sweater.

Suhonen had already explained the key points over the phone. He had suggested that the mule should be followed to determine who would receive the shipment. He walked over to the window and sat on the sill.

“The ship comes in at ten,” Suhonen answered. “Three hours from now.”

“Time isn’t the problem.”

“What is then?”

“Men. Two of our teams are tied up on a coke case. I don’t have the manpower to take this on,” Ristola explained.

“I could certainly…”

Ristola laughed. “One Suhonen equals ten narcotics officers. Of course. But a real surveillance op in downtown Helsinki would call for a few more Suhonens. Tech can’t help either, since we don’t know what she’ll do once she’s off the boat…”

“You know a Sergei Zubrov?” asked Suhonen as he slid a copy of the Velodrome photograph to the lieutenant.

He looked at the photo. “This one here looks familiar. Gutierrez or something like that.”

“Gonzales.”

“Yeah, that’s it, but this Russian-looking guy I don’t know. Sergei Zubrov, huh?” Ristola said, handing the picture back. “What’s this about?”

“I snapped these a couple days ago. Gonzales and Zubrov were meeting in the parking lot of the Velodrome.”

“Do you have an open case on these guys?”

“No. Just curiosity. Gonzales is interesting because he’s connected to the Skulls. I chatted with an Estonian colleague about Zubrov. He’s some kind of a drug boss in Tallinn, and somehow linked to tonight’s dope shipment.”

“Can’t be that big if I’ve never heard of him.”

“Apparently not. Though his association with the Skulls makes him an interesting customer.”

“Of course, I get it. But I can’t pull guys off this cocaine case. They’ve been working on this for months. Surveillance eats up a hell of a lot of time,” Ristola explained. “Of course, we can’t let the dope into the country either.”

“I suppose not,” said Suhonen.

“Let’s take her out at the harbor and interrogate her. You can have one of our men. That should be enough.”

Suhonen was disappointed. “Okay…”

“One is enough?”

“It’ll have to be.”

Ristola stared at the wall opposite his desk, where several framed diplomas from the Scotland Yard and German Central Police drug trafficking courses hung. He was silent for a moment. “You know what, Suhonen?”

“What?”

Ristola turned to face him. “Our best times are behind us. Resources are constantly being cut and the cases are getting harder. Trivial protocol directives get tighter by the day, and on top of that, our undercover teams are stretched way too thin. The only thing missing is an American-style law that makes evidence inadmissible if some minor procedure is violated. It’s all going to hell.”

Suhonen said nothing. Just wait until we adopt a law like Estonia’s, where a change in testimony expunges all previous statements. Then Narcotics will be in real trouble, he thought.

“Take Toukola with you to the harbor. Technically, he leads your little troop and this is my case. You can sit in on the interrogations with the woman. I assume Takamäki knows about this.”

“Yeah,” said Suhonen. “Let’s just hope we find her.”

THURSDAY, 9:45 P.M.

HOTEL KALASTAJATORPPA, HELSINKI

The room was dark. Tapani Larsson lay on his back on the hotel bed, watching the flicker of the television on the white plastered ceiling. Sara was still staring at the blaring TV, but Larsson didn’t hear a sound.

In prison, he had had to learn to block out the noise from his ears and mind.

He had lain the same way on the bunk in his cell. This one was just softer.

The thick walls of the pen had smelled of pain. That he hadn’t been able to shut out. Now he smelled the sweet scent of champagne in a half-empty glass on the nightstand.

Larsson recalled a line from the film Deer Hunter where a Frenchman named Julien remarked, “When a man says no to champagne, he says no to life.” In the film, Julien recruited players for Russian roulette.

He had had plenty of time in prison to watch movies.

The prison psychologist had wanted to meet with him. Larsson wondered why he had consented. Maybe just for something new. The shrink had asked about his childhood and adolescence. She had been especially interested in his relationship with his parents. Larsson had fed her a lot of crap, but he really hadn’t known what to say about his parents. He remembered them as cold and distant, though he recalled that his dad had slapped him on the ear when he was ten. Some years later, he hit back. But that episode was minor compared to the stories of other inmates.

If he was wronged, he always took vengeance-maybe sooner, maybe later, but without question. He saw no alternatives, though he didn’t tell the shrink that.

The psychologist had done her homework. She knew Larsson had gone to the Helsinki School of Economics and wondered why he had become a career criminal when he had the opportunity for honorable work.

Larsson had ended the conversation then and there, and had asked the guard to escort him back to his cell. Honorable work. What was honorable about raking in five grand a month as the VP of some company? He didn’t want to be like his father. Damned middle-class dreams of a house and car. Larsson was interested in money and power, both of which he obtained through violence.

Of course, her next question would have been what it feels like to commit a crime. That was just a stupid question. It didn’t feel like anything. Was it supposed to feel like something? It just happened-nothing special about it. He could have proved it with a few left hooks, but that would just have lengthened his sentence.

Larsson had never regretted the choices he had made. His fellow business students had been good customers of his small-time marijuana operation. At its peak, he had earned about twenty grand a month. Larsson had hunted down the guy who had ratted him out to Narcotics. His first stretch in prison lasted a year. After that, Tomi had paid for his betrayal in cash, and received two broken arms as a bonus. Say you fell on your rollerblades, Larsson had barked as he left Tomi groaning on the floor of his apartment.

The rat hadn’t dared to go to the cops again.

Maybe he should pay another visit to Tomi, just out of principle. Maybe the guy would have a wife, two kids, a house and a nice car. He could repo the car as additional compensation for the old offense. Interest was always accruing. At least it would be fun to see the look on Tomi’s face when he rang the doorbell.

Tomi was sound evidence that nobody could be trusted. The guy had bought some weed and got busted soon after. Of course, the chump squealed on the spot. The Skulls were different, though. Trust was sacred within the brotherhood.

Larsson laughed. Just look at Niko Andersson. The guy was fat, ugly and stupid. Years ago, when he was standing trial for a bank robbery, the prosecutor had asked him why he had robbed the bank. Niko said simply, “Because that’s where the money was.” The prosecutor had no further questions.

Niko would never betray him, nor would any of the Skulls’ men. They wouldn’t dare. Tomorrow he’d see his brothers again.

* * *

The ship’s hull was neon green, with a giant ribbon pattern woven through the middle. It reminded Suhonen of the flames that biker gangs used to decorate their leathers. As it neared the wharf, the dull yellow floodlights of the West Harbor softened the bright paintwork on the ship.

The undercover cop had heard from Estonia that the woman had boarded the ship alone. She had been wearing a dark red coat, a skirt and black leather boots.