Estonian kroon. He placed the three stacks on the counter, like an expensive shell game.
For a few moments, no words were spoken. The man glanced briefly toward the door, and the street beyond. They were indeed alone. He placed his right forefinger on the stack of euros. Aleks put the other currencies away, unclipped the bills. He counted off 3,000 euros, roughly 4,500 US dollars. “If one of these items were to be available here,” Aleks said, “would this be adequate compensation?”
The man’s eyes flashed for a moment. “It most certainly would,” he said. “Would you excuse me?”
“Of course.”
The man disappeared into a back room, emerged moments later. In his hand was a beautiful walnut case. He opened it. Inside was a thing of beauty, a stunning specimen of craftsmanship. The blade was hot-blued Damascus, as were the bolsters. The scales were premium white mother of pearl, the titanium liners were anodized purple, the back bar was inlayed with four pieces of abalone. It was an authentic Barhydt.
“I shall have this,” Aleks said.
“Very good, sir.” The man brought the box to the rear of the store. He slipped the polished case into a felt bag, drew closed the gold twine. Moments later he walked around the counter carrying a handled shopping bag with VILLEROY TERARIISTAD on the side. He handed the bag to Aleks.
Before leaving, Aleks looked at his watch, a gold Piaget he wore on his left wrist, the crystal facing in. Being a purveyor of fine things, Aleks knew the man’s eye would be drawn to the timepiece. What Aleks wanted the man to note was not the expensive piece of jewelry, but rather the elaborate tattoo on Aleks’s wrist, the black star peeking out from beneath his shirt cuff.
When Aleks glanced up at the man, the man was looking at him directly. Aleks did not have to say a further word.
There was no box, no bag. There was no Barhydt. No money had changed hands, no commerce had been conducted. In fact, the tall man with the pale blue eyes and small ragged scar on his left cheek was never there.
Paulu was vennaskond, a fellow thief. But vennaskond were not merely thieves, they were brothers, and adhered to a strict code. Steal from one, you steal from all. A vennaskond was never without someone at his back.
In his early thirties, Paulu was slight of build, but quite robust, with fast movements and a nervous energy that never allowed him to keep still. He had grown up in the city and was therefore never at peace, never at rest. He wore his black hair straight back. A pair of gold hoops ringed his right ear lobe. He displayed his tattoos with unabashed pride on his forearms and neck.
They met on a secluded section of the western shore of Lake ulemiste, just a few miles south of Tallinn city center. The main airport was on the eastern side, and every few minutes another plane roared overhead. The two men spoke in Estonian.
“When will he arrive?” Aleks asked.
“Eleven. They say he is quite punctual.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Not much,” Paulu said. “I told him you have a daughter, a daughter who is pregnant with the child of a Lithuanian. I told him you were in the market to sell the baby.”
“And you are certain he is the man who made the deal to sell my Anna and Marya?”
Paulu nodded. “Through his minions, he made the deal. He has been in the black market for children for many years.”
“Why haven’t I found him before?”
“He is expensive and secretive. There are many people afraid of him, too. I had to meet with three other men first. I had to pay them all.”
This angered Aleks, but he pushed the feeling back. Now was not the time for anger. “He will come alone?”
Paulu smiled. “Yes. He is this arrogant.”
Ten minutes later, bright headlights split the darkness. A vehicle topped the hill; a candy red American SUV with chrome wheels. The sound system blasted Russian rap.
Another gaudy vory, Aleks thought.
“That is him,” Paulu said.
Aleks reached into his pocket, pulled out a rubber-banded roll of euros. He handed it to Paulu, who pocketed the roll without looking at it.
“Where do you want me?” Paulu asked.
Aleks nodded to the hill to the west. “Give this five minutes. Then go.”
The smaller man hugged Aleks once – a man he had never met before this night, a man to whom he was bound in ways even deeper than blood – then slipped onto his motorcycle. Moments later he was gone. Aleks knew he would watch from the nearby hill much longer than five minutes. This was the vennaskond way.
When Paulu’s bike was out of sight, the SUV cut its lights. The man soon emerged. The Finn was big, nearly as tall as Aleks, but soft in the middle. He wore a tan duster, cowboy boots. He had thinning ice white hair to his shoulders, a yeasty, wattled neck. He wore red wraparounds at night. He would be slow.
His name was Mikko Vanska.
Vanska smelled of American cologne and French cigarettes.
“You are Mr Tamm?” he asked. Tamm was Estonian for oak. They both knew it was not a real name.
Aleks nodded. They shook hands cordially, lightly. The distaste between them was thicker than the smell of spent airplane fuel in the air.
“I understand you have something to sell,” Vanska said.
Something, Aleks thought. This was how this man thought of the children, of Anna and Marya, as if they were objects, some sort of commodity. He wanted to kill him right there and then.
Vanska reached inside his coat, extracted a pack of Gitanes, put one between his lips. He then took out a gold lighter, lit the cigarette, drew on it deeply. All quite dramatic and unimpressive. All leading up to a discussion of money.
“There are many expenses on my end,” Vanska began, as expected.
Aleks just nodded, remained silent.
“I have traveled a good distance to be here, and there are a number of people – highly placed people – who must be paid.” At this, Mikko Vanska removed his sunglasses. His face was bone-pale, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. He was a drug addict. Aleks surmised meth.
“What is your profession?” Vanska asked.
“I am a farrier,” Aleks replied. While it was true that he shod his own horses, there was something in the tone of his reply that told Vanska it was not exactly the truth. The man ran his hand through his greasy white hair. He looked out over the lake, then back.
“You do not have a child to sell at all, do you?”
Aleks just stared at the man. It was answer enough.
Vanska nodded. He smiled, crushed out his cigarette with the toe of his boot. He used the movement to slide back the hem of his coat. The move was not lost on Aleks.
“Do you know who I am?” Vanska asked.
“I do.”
The man shifted his weight. Aleks relaxed his massive shoulder muscles, poised to strike. “And yet you waste my time. You do not do this with Mikko Vanska. Tallinn is my city. You will learn this.”
Aleks knew it was pointless trying to finesse men like Vanska. They looked at him as if he were some sort of rube, a provincial from south-eastern Estonia. “Let us just say it is a tragic character flaw.”
Mikko laughed, a raspy sound that echoed among the trees. “I am going to leave now,” he said. “But not until you pay me for my time. And my time is very expensive.”
“I think not.”
Vanska looked up. It was clear he did not hear this sentiment often. Before he could make a move or a reply, Aleks had the man off his feet, face down on the muddy earth, the air punched from his lungs. An instant later Aleks had the man’s weapon removed from the holster at the small of his back. It was an expensive SIG P210. He continued to pat him down, found nothing else. He lifted the dazed Vanska back up to his feet.
