James Thompson - Helsinki Blood

I agree. “Let’s drink to your success,” I say. We pour them down our necks and light cigarettes.

“If you hadn’t tackled him, Pitkanen would have killed us both,” he says.

“Yeah, he would have.”

Milo pours us another. “Thanks for that.”

Brothers in blood, brothers in arms. “What did you do with him?” I ask.

“Drove him out to the countryside, packed his mouth with Semtex to get rid of dental records, then duct-taped his hands to his face to blow off his fingers, the point of course being to destroy his prints. And then, well, you can imagine the result. I walked about ten kilometers through woods until I came to a road with a bus stop, so no one would recall me being in the vicinity.”

With practice, we’ve become quite good criminals.

He points at a cardboard box, taped up, addressed and ready for mailing. “You thought releasing the info on prostitution would take attention away from us. It’s too late in the day and a Friday. It has to wait until Monday. I can mail these and plaster all our related documentation on the Internet then. Also, I can fly all the sex- and murder-related recordings of the chief and the minister at the same time.”

“Check with me first. The situation has changed. After today, you don’t need anything to deflect attention from you. And the bad guys don’t have a chance to make any moves before the doors are busted in, and there will be no confusion about who is who. The prostitution ring and murder investigations will drain police manpower and create a media circus. Generate a lot of confusion. Let’s choose our moment carefully.”

“You’d better go,” Milo says. “I have to make some changes to the manifesto. Skim through Breivik’s, then make some changes to mine. Claim that Breivik and Malinen were in contact and belonged to the same neo-Templar organization. Little stuff like that.”

I stand, and we share a brotherly hug. “You’ll make it happen,” I say.

He smiles. “From your mouth to God’s ear.”

I wake up, feel immediate fear and trepidation. I force myself to put those things away and ask Kate if she’d like to go out for the day. Maybe antiquing. I don’t want to stay in the house. The temptation to stay glued to the television and watch events unfold will be too great.

She agrees. She loves the Mercedes SL we leased, and she finds any excuse to drive it a good idea. We go to a few places, make frequent stops to rest my leg and fortify myself with beer. People around us talk. We hear snippets of conversation about a bomb and disaster. Then, in early evening, I suggest we dine out. We make it home just before the ten o’clock news, and finally, I give myself permission to learn the aftermath of today.

Everything was recorded on security camera tapes. Veikko Saukko’s head exploded like a melon slammed against an invisible wall. The chief and the minister got out of their golf cart near the green on the ninth hole. They disappeared into molecules. Where once was a golf cart, there was only a smoking pit. Newspeople quote Malinen’s manifesto. Those on the scene at his summer cottage aren’t allowed inside, but say police have informed them that Malinen has committed gun suicide, placed a.50 caliber Barrett rifle under his chin and pulled the trigger with his toe. They don’t say it, but this means his corpse is headless.

There is no talk of conspiracy or frame-up, only conjecture about why a prominent figure, both a member of parliament and unofficial leader of hate groups, would commit such an act. They show clips of him speaking in public in which he appears unbalanced. Psychologist consultants put their two cents in. I don’t have to watch long to know that Milo and Sweetness will walk away from this, that we’re all now free, that we and our families are safe.

I thought I might feel remorse because of this drastic and murderous act, but I feel only relief. I feel a sudden urge to make love to my wife.

• • •

ON TUESDAY, the shit hits the fan once again. Passports of hordes of women forced into the human slave trade are delivered to the police. Addresses in Finland and abroad accompany them. After orders from me, Milo releases videos of the chief and the minister with apparent murder victims on the Internet. Apartments used as houses of prostitution, under the auspices of Russian diplomats, are raided. Dozens of arrests are made. It’s a good day.

I receive a call from the prime minister. “Would it be possible for you to visit me here in my office today?” he asks.

“I’m sorry to decline, but I’m in Porvoo and unable to drive. The bumpy bus ride is hard on my injured knee. I would prefer not to.”

I hear the agitation in his voice. “Then may I visit you in Porvoo?”

No way I can get out of that one. “I would be honored.”

He arrives an hour later, exchanges pleasantries with Kate. I pour us old and rare single-malt scotch from Arvid’s collection, and citing warmth and sunshine, we go out to the backyard for privacy.

“I assume you’re responsible for blackening the reputations of the dead,” he says.

I don’t try to deny it, just say nothing.

“I’ve seen the dirt you collected, via Jaakko Pahkala.”

“The interior minister mandated me with the task of collecting it,” I say. “How was it he put it? He had observed that people adroit at one task usually succeed at others. I succeeded.” I add, “Beating him was cruel and unnecessary.”

“An interesting complaint, coming from you. Fuck Jaakko Pahkala. Osmo gave you the mandate of collecting dirt on my political rivals, not the hierarchy of the National Coalition Party.”

“I’m compulsively thorough,” I say.

He gets down to business. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Or rather, peace and tranquility. I doubt you or anyone can give me those things. They spring from within.”

“No, but I can see to your professional well-being.”

“I’m thinking of retiring.”

He takes a step back, looking me over. “I admit, you look none too well.”

“I was shot up badly.”

“No more bullshit,” he says. “The videos of the minister of the interior and the head of the national police force, both members of my party-although they won’t be missed-will lead to an investigation of their cronies and allegations of corruption, which are largely true. If you release the rest of your blackmail material involving the National Coalition Party, it will cause me a hell of a lot of hardship spending my time on damage control instead of furthering governmental agendas. Some officials will be tendering their resignations, including the commissioner of the National Bureau of Investigation. Delete your dirt-and I mean give me your word that it is destroyed, no longer exists-I’ll see to it that you get his job.”

This is so silly that I guffaw. “You know that even if I swore that I would destroy it, it would never happen.”

He can’t help himself, gets the giggles and laughs along with me. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll get rid of my dirt on you.”

He sighs relief. “Good enough.”

The irony is great. Jyri Ivalo asked me to head a black-ops unit so he could become the Finnish J. Edgar Hoover. He’s dead, and if I wish, power of that magnitude will fall to me.

I drink off the rest of my scotch and offer the prime minister a smoke. He declines. I light up. “A lot of people are in line for that job ahead of me.”

“That’s my problem, not yours. The public loves you. You’re a romantic figure. You solve major cases, get shot to pieces, march on despite it. From my perspective, dirt or no dirt, you’re the best choice.”