Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

Markkanen came abreast of him and jerked him into an alley to the right. Finally, their shoes had traction.

“Fuck! Really stupid, but damn brilliant, too,” Markkanen seemed impressed. He pushed Suhonen further into the alley and waited near the entrance. He pulled a bandana over his face and tugged his stocking cap down over his eyebrows. “Now it’s my turn,” he hissed, crouching down. “Here comes the other one.”

Suhonen looked on, bewildered.

Unaware of the danger, Nieminen came around the corner, and Markkanen jerked him into the alley. The force knocked him to the ground a couple steps from the sidewalk. His nightstick clattered onto the pavement. Markkanen sat on the officer’s chest, and pressed a knife to his throat.

Oh shit, Suhonen thought, approaching the pair from behind.

“So you’re some tough street cop, huh?” Markkanen rasped, pushing the thin-bladed stiletto against his neck. One small movement and it would sink through the skin. Deep.

The cop lay motionless under Markkanen’s weight.

“No, you’re no street cop,” he hissed.

Nieminen didn’t respond.

“You’re a milk-lipped little shit, go back to the academy.”

Suhonen watched Nieminen’s eyes widen and he took his Glock out of the waistband of his jeans. He aimed it at the back of Markkanen’s head and tapped him on the shoulder with the other hand.

“We gotta go,” Suhonen said, his voice tight. Was Markkanen insane?

He didn’t look up, but kept his eyes fixed on Nieminen, cackling. “You had your fun. Now it’s my turn. Why shouldn’t I butcher this pig?” he growled, pressing the knife deeper. A faint line of blood appeared on Nieminen’s neck.

Suhonen saw the movement and nearly pulled the trigger.

“We have to go,” Suhonen hissed. “Now!”

The cop tried to wriggle out from beneath Markkanen’s knife, looking as though he’d throw up any moment. Suhonen kept his gun trained on Markkanen’s head, grabbed his collar from behind, and jerked hard.

“Now!”

Markkanen got up and folded the blade back into its handle. Suhonen stayed behind him and thrust the Glock back into the waistband of his pants.

The cop was still lying on the ground.

Markkanen smiled excitedly, eyeing a grave-looking Suhonen. “This reminds me of my younger days…follow me,” he said and dashed down the alley.

Suhonen glanced back at the officer lying on the pavement. He wasn’t moving, but had no serious wounds. The cop would be okay, he thought and bolted after Markkanen.

Kallio was a labyrinth of courtyards, cellars and attics, through which they navigated to get from one block to another. Beneath the streets was also a network of service tunnels and parking ramps which helped to throw off anyone in pursuit.

* * *

Sergeant Partio hurried up the street, afraid he’d find his partner cuffing the two or somehow blowing Suhonen’s operation.

The cop reached the corner of the alley and peered carefully around it. He glimpsed Nieminen immediately, sitting with his back against the wall. Otherwise, the alley was clear.

Partio bent down next to the sobbing Nieminen. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m not hurt.”

“What in the world were you doing?”

“I went after ’em, but one of ’em tackled me and put a knife to my throat. Think I was scared?”

Partio stared at his partner. “Why didn’t you obey my orders? I told you to stay with me.”

“But that guy hit you.”

“He didn’t hit me.”

Nieminen looked up, and Partio offered him a hand. He took it, and the older officer hauled him to his feet.

“It was an act,” Partio explained. “That was a VCU detective…he’s on some case. For some reason he had to prove he was tough.”

“Huh?”

“He whispered to me before I took the punches. It was nothing. Just play-acting.”

Nieminen rubbed his neck and felt the tender spot. “Play-acting?”

Partio nodded. “If I give you an order, you obey. Don’t even think about running off on your own.”

Nieminen went weak in the knees, and he grabbed onto his partner for support. “If that was play-acting, then he’s in with a pretty rough company.”

Partio smiled. “Undercover operatives are an odd breed, but we cooperate when we can.”

They walked slowly down the hill toward the cruiser at the intersection.

“How we gonna report this?” Nieminen asked.

“What do you think?”

“Attempted murder, that’s what I think.”

Partio roared with laughter. “Nonsense. The whole thing was an act. Suhonen wasn’t serious, nothing could have happened.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Whatever you say.” Nieminen shook his head.

“Try to see it from Suhonen’s perspective. What does he need?”

“I dunno, lots of meds?”

Partio laughed again. “Anyone who enrolls in the academy could use some meds. We gotta play along with him, so we’ll need some units out here quick. If someone actually hit me, all of Kallio would be blue and white.”

“So we’re gonna report it?” Nieminen asked.

The pair had made it back to the car, and Partio climbed into the driver’s seat. He flicked on the cherries, but left the siren alone. “Not exactly. We’ll call for half a dozen units to look for a ‘drunk driver.’ The night’s young enough that there should be plenty of idle units about.”

“You mean call in a fraudulent report?”

“It’s not fraud, we’re just giving Suhonen a little extra breathing room. Life isn’t always so black and white.”

Nieminen turned on the passenger’s side interior light, flipped down the sun visor and opened the mirror. He craned his neck, looking for the thin red stripe left by the knife.

Partio threw the car into gear and turned towards Brahe Field. He glanced at his partner. “Ugly looking scratch. Where’d you get that?”

“Hard to say,” he said, pausing, “Must have nicked myself shaving.”

Partio smiled.

NYHOLM’S TOWNHOUSE,

NORTH HELSINKI

THURSDAY, 11:33 P.M.

Jouko Nyholm was sitting on his sofa with a cognac in his hand. The flat screen TV was showing late night news. The customs inspector didn’t care about NATO relations; he just stared blankly at the screen.

His wife was out and about somewhere. Nyholm couldn’t decide whether to go to a bar or to sleep.

The living room was on the lower level. Though fifteen years ago the interior was stylish, it had deteriorated along with the owners’ marriage.

The door opened-was she home already? he wondered. It wasn’t like her. When the wife went out, it was usually for the evening, or even all night.

He glanced at the door, it was Kristiina. Laundry day, he thought before noticing her pained expression.

“What’s wrong?” Nyholm asked.

The girl’s blond hair was tangled, and her eyes puffy. She was still crying, but managed the words, “He’s dead.”

Nyholm rose and hesitated, wondering if he should hug her. He hadn’t done that for at least five years.

“Who’s dead?”

She sobbed, “Jerry… My boyfriend…”

She was still wearing her long, pale overcoat. Her hands rested limply against her hips. She began to sob again.

“There, there,” said Nyholm, but instead of hugging her, he laid his hand on her shoulder. He tried to remember how he used to comfort her when she was younger-he had taken her into his lap and combed his fingers through her soft, blond hair.

He helped her out of her jacket and hung it. “Slip off your shoes, let’s go into the kitchen.”

She did as she was told and shuffled over to the table.