Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

Nyholm remained standing, but looked a little calmer.

“Sure, I knew that…of course.”

“Well, why didn’t you mention it when you were looking into Eriksson’s background?” Snellman said quietly.

Takamäki had a sudden image of an exchange between a father and son, who’d been caught stealing apples.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just couldn’t. It…it…”

Snellman’s gaze hardened. “Just spit it out, Nyholm,” he snapped. “We don’t have all day to listen to your blubbering.”

Nyholm’s expression went cold, and he slowly drew his hand from behind his back. It was holding a black pistol.

Both Takamäki and Snellman flinched.

“Shit Nyholm! What are you doing?” Snellman bellowed.

Nyholm raised the gun and pointed it at the men seated at the table. “Stay where you are. Don’t move.”

Takamäki felt like getting up, but decided it was better to obey. His own gun was back at Police Headquarters, locked in the bottom drawer of his desk.

Nyholm pressed the gun against his own temple. His expression was stoic.

“Don’t do it,” Snellman said.

Nyholm turned towards Takamäki. “Eriksson met my daughter last spring and quickly found out what I did for a living. Of course, I checked his record. Her life was messed up already, and there was nothing I could’ve done about it anyway. Then the blackmail started…”

Takamäki listened to the outburst. “What blackmail?”

“Eriksson wanted information on our surveillance ops. They were trafficking electronics, primarily to Russia through Finland. The paperwork always said rubber gloves or toilet paper. All I had to do was tell them whether the shipment was slated for inspection. They paid me for it.”

“Mole!” Snellman roared.

The gun didn’t waver from his temple. “That’s right. I told my wife I was gonna kill him, this Eriksson. When I heard he’d been found dead, I thought I might be a suspect. But the scheme went on. Another guy named Markkanen took Eriksson’s place. I don’t know if that’s his real name, but his number is in my cellphone.”

His gaze was still locked on Takamäki. “With that number, you should be able to track him down.”

“Who’s behind this?”

“Yes, I figured that out too. It took a little effort since they hid the scheme behind fronting companies. You’ll find the paperwork in my office. The Finnish side is headed by a man named Kalevi Lindström. The Russian side has several names, but I’m sure there are even bigger bosses behind them. Any other questions?”

Takamäki noted the man’s unusual calm.

“This isn’t necessary,” the lieutenant said quietly. “Shooting yourself won’t solve anything.”

“Hmph, especially not in my office,” Snellman grumbled. “You’d make a terrible mess.”

“Be quiet,” Takamäki snarled.

Nyholm looked at Takamäki. His finger tightened around the trigger.

“Yes, it will.”

Takamäki tried again. “Let’s just talk about this. You’ve helped us already, and we need you for the investigation. Your situation’s not easy, but it’s not that bad either. We have time to talk. Let’s work out the issues, one at a time.”

Nyholm’s trigger finger started to quiver.

“I’m here to listen,” Takamäki said again. “Don’t.”

Nyholm lowered the gun to his side and wept. “I can’t do anything…not even this,” he said and fell to his knees.

Takamäki bolted out of his chair toward Nyholm, who was shaking and sobbing loudly. The gun was still visible, dangling from the man’s hand. Takamäki twisted it free and set it on the coffee table.

Snellman was still sitting in his chair. “Goddamn!”

“You said it.”

“Take him to jail.”

Takamäki glanced at Nyholm, then took out his cellphone.

“I think we’ll send him to the hospital first.”

* * *

Suhonen got out of his car. The southern tip of Hernesaari wasn’t an official parking lot; it was mostly used as a pier for dumping snow into the sea. Only a few decades earlier, it had been an island, but had since been connected to the mainland with landfill. It sported a shipyard, a helicopter port, some office buildings, and of course, a hockey arena.

The wind swept across the bay, and the trees on the island of Pihlajasaari were visible less than a half mile away.

Markkanen had seen Suhonen pull up, and he got out of the car.

“Hello,” Suhonen said, zipping up his leather jacket.

Markkanen gave a nod, went to the trunk of his car and opened it. Suhonen joined him. Inside the trunk was the same hockey bag he had used for the pig’s head. Suhonen guessed it contained something else now, though the nauseating stench remained.

“Well, what now?” Suhonen asked. Markkanen had called him fifteen minutes earlier to say that plans had changed and arranged a meeting in the remote, vacant lot.

“Suikkanen, the situation has changed.”

“Huh? You don’t want me to swipe the cash?”

“No. The old man wants to meet me at four. I don’t know what he wants, maybe to pay up.”

“Should I do the job after that?”

“Maybe,” Markkanen said. “We’ll see how it goes, but now I need you to watch my back.”

Suhonen nodded. “Sure, I can do that, as long as the pay’s the same.”

“This one’s only worth a grand.”

“What do you mean only a grand?”

“Cuz you’re just back-up,” Markkanen snapped.

“Two grand.”

“Alright,” he relented.

Suhonen gave him a hard look. “A grand up front.”

Markkanen smiled, but fished out his wallet, counted off ten one-hundred-euro notes and handed him the money.

“Happy?”

Suhonen stuffed the cash into his pocket and grinned.

“Let’s get to business then.”

Markkanen stooped down, pulled the hockey bag out of the trunk and opened it. Inside was a long, skinny black-and-white bag, intended for junior hockey sticks. On the side, large letters spelled out, “FAT PIPE.”

“This is for you,” he said, handing the bag to Suhonen. “Just a loan. It’s loaded.”

Suhonen opened the zipper enough to peek inside, and immediately recognized a Franchi Spas pump-action shotgun. The Italian assault weapon was prized by military and police task forces worldwide. Its magazine could hold eight rounds.

Suhonen looked up at Markkanen. “So, this is where the going gets tough.”

“You know how to use it?”

Suhonen had fired a similar weapon in training, but Suikkanen wouldn’t have had that opportunity.

“I’ve used a shotgun, but not this kind.”

“It’s easy. The safety’s next to the trigger. Switch it off…pump it and the shell goes in…then pull the trigger. Booom! A manly sound.” Markkanen grinned.

“Okay,” Suhonen said. “Might as well get the money out of the safe at the same time.”

Markkanen looked at Suhonen. “Suikkanen, I don’t know what’s gonna happen in that apartment, and frankly, I don’t like not knowing. But I’m going in there alone, and you can either wait in the car or outside in the courtyard. Just stay close. He might have help inside.”

“If you need me, how do I know when to come in? If I hear gunshots, or what?”

Markkanen grinned. “You’d be too late then.”

He dug a small plastic box out of the hockey bag and opened it. Inside were a handful of electronic devices.

“What’s this?”

Markkanen took out a box the size of a matchbook with a three-foot-long cord attached to it. He held up the end of the cord. “There’s a microphone in here. I’ll have this with me.”

“This is so James Bond. Where’d you get this stuff?”

“I bought it in London a while back.” He grinned, then handed a similar box to Suhonen. This one had an earpiece on the end. “You get the receiver. You’ll be able to hear what’s happening. The code word is ‘cognac.’ If I say that, get your ass inside. Is that clear?”