“Yes.”
This makes me laugh in his face. “No,” I say.
His face twists so much that he reminds me of a gargoyle. “You think I don’t know you, but I do,” he says. “You suffer from a pathetic need to protect the innocent. You think you’re some kind of a Good Samaritan in a white hat, but you’re not. You’re a rubberhose cop, a thug and a killer, as you’ve demonstrated. You’ll do anything to get what you view as justice. Let me give you an example of how badly we need this kind of unit. Only about a half dozen cops in Helsinki investigate human trafficking. In Finland and the surrounding countries, thousands of gangsters orchestrate the buying and selling of young girls, and hundreds or thousands of those girls pass through this country every year. With our limited legal resources, we can’t possibly make even a dent in the humanslavery industry. Picture all those victims and how many of their bright shiny faces you could save from abject misery, abuse and terror, from being raped time and time again.”
He’s got something there.
Jyri senses I’m beginning to be intrigued. “Milo knows black-bag work,” he says. “He’s a genius with great computer skills, and he’s also a killer. He could be your first team-member acquisition. Then you can staff it with whoever you want.”
“I’m not killing anybody,” I say.
“I’ll leave that to your discretion.”
“Milo is a loose cannon and a liability.”
“Milo is a nervous puppy. He needs a firm hand to guide him. Yours.”
“It would take a hell of a lot of money,” I say. “Computers. Vehicles. Surveillance gear.”
“In two weeks, Swedish and Finnish gypsies are going to make a big drug deal for Ecstasy. A hundred and sixty thousand euros will trade hands. You can intercept it and use the money for the beginning of a slush fund.”
I’m tempted, but not that tempted. “No.”
Frustration wells up in his face. For a second, I think he’s going to punch me. “I told you I know you, and I do. I can see into your soul. You hate your job. You’re frustrated because you can’t make a difference. You’re a failure. To your dead sister. To Sufia Elmi and her family. To your sergeant Valtteri and his family. To your dead ex-wife. To your dead miscarried twins and, as such, to your wife. To that pathetic school shooter Milo capped. You’re a failure to yourself. You failed everyone you’ve touched, and you’re going to have to save a hell of a lot of people before you can make it up. You’ll take this job to save yourself. I’m offering you everything you ever wanted.”
He’s worked hard at building a dossier on me to have all this information at his fingertips. He’s been considering me for this position for a long time. “Why me?” I ask.
“Because of your aforementioned annoying incorruptibility. You don’t want anything. You’re a maniac, but you’re a rock. I can trust you to run this unit without going rogue on me.”
I’d like to dismiss the idea, but I can’t. “I’ll think about it.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. It shocks me. “No one ever finds out about any of this,” he says. “I’ll organize everything, get you the manpower. This evening, you and Milo oversee while they tear apart Filippov’s and Linda’s apartments and his business. Rip the walls down to the studs with crowbars if you have to, but you find that evidence, show it to me, then burn it.”
I don’t trust Jyri. I’ll find the evidence and keep it, in case of a contingency, such as betrayal. “Okay,” I say.
He shakes my hand with both of his. “Fix this for me,” he says, “and run my black-ops unit.”
I’m not ready to agree yet-I don’t want to give him the satisfaction-but I know that I will.
38
On the way to Porvoo, Snow and fierce winds batter my Saab, make it hard to keep it on the road. My phone rings. It’s Milo. I don’t answer. It rings again. I don’t recognize the number but answer anyway. “Vaara.”
“This is the interior minister.”
I’m feeling a bit flip. “How ya doin’?”
“I’m fucking pissed off is how I’m doing. You were supposed to bury the Arvid Lahtinen matter. I’m told you now claim he’s a war criminal. That wasn’t what you were instructed to do.”
What a fucking asshole. “I only repeated what Arvid told me.”
He screams in my ear. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what that old man says! There are no fucking Finnish war criminals!”
“In fact,” I say, “that’s not true. Several thousand Finns were accused of war crimes-usually killings of or violence toward POWs, according to the standards of the Nuremberg principles-and hundreds were eventually convicted.”
He keeps yelling. Louder now. “Listen, fuckwit, I repeat, there are no Finnish war criminals! Get that through your thick head!” He calms down, lowers his voice. “Write the report the way you were told, or I’ll have you fired. You’ll never work as a cop again. We clear?” He rings off.
I’m not concerned. If he hadn’t hung up on me, I would have told him to fuck himself. His ire doesn’t surprise me. One of the anomalies of Finnish self-understanding, regarding the war, is that these trials have failed to make any impact on the national consciousness whatsoever, and most people would say there are no Finnish war criminals. I suspect most Finns of our generation would be shocked to learn otherwise.
I’m looking forward to lunch with Arvid and Ritva. I haven’t enjoyed the company of others besides Kate so much in a long time. Arvid opens the door before I knock. He’s been waiting for me.
“You’re late,” he says.
Arvid looks tired, seems nervous. Maybe the war-crimes accusations have gotten to him. For the first time since we met, he seems old to me. “I got hung up with a case. Is it a bad time?”
He points at a snow shovel in the corner of the porch. “Ritva isn’t feeling well. I have to tend to her for a little bit. The boy that shovels snow for us didn’t come today. Could you do it for me?”
I suppress a smile. He’s treating me like I’m twelve years old. “Sure, I can do it.”
“Come in and make yourself at home when you’re done.”
He closes the door.
It’s minus eighteen, but shoveling his porch and walk only takes about twenty minutes, and I don’t mind doing it for him.
Afterward, I go inside and take off my boots and coat. He’s got a good blaze going, and I warm up in front of the fireplace. He comes downstairs and sits at the table, tells me to join him. I sit across from him.
“Got any cigarettes?” he asks.
I lay a pack and a lighter on the table in between us. “I didn’t know you smoke.”
“I don’t much, but once in a while, I get the yen.”
He goes to the kitchen, comes back with two cups of coffee and an ashtray. “Son,” he says, “I’m not up to making lunch today. If you’re hungry, I’ll make sandwiches for you.”
“That’s okay, I don’t much feel like eating.”
He gives me his appraising look. “How’s your head?”
“Hurts.”
“They know what’s causing it yet?”
“No. I’ll have some tests run soon. What’s wrong with Ritva?” I ask.
“We suffer from old people’s maladies. She’ll get past it.”
We share an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. I get the idea he has a lot on his mind and would rather be alone to sort it out. We smoke and drink coffee in silence for a while.
“Got any interesting cases?” he asks. “I mean, besides mine.”
I nod. “Some real interesting stuff. I shouldn’t talk about them, though.”
He forces a smile. “You want to hear all my secrets. You’re going to have to tell me yours if you want to get
