Misterioso

mafia is-”

“You of all people should know,” said Norlander coolly.

“The more I know, the more I realize how much I don’t know,” Laikmaa said sagely. “Cases dealing with all forms of organized crime land on my desk, from simple protection and collection rackets to matters that reach all the way up to the highest imaginable levels. The only common denominator is the desire to exploit the new opportunities. Some think we’re looking at the naked face of the market economy; others say it’s the natural continuation of state terrorism. In either case, what’s most apparent is the complete lack of, shall we call it empathy, or perhaps an intrinsic sense for the essence of democracy. As always, people are grabbing as much as possible for themselves, at others’ expense. It makes no difference whether the state is an absolute power or nonexistent.”

Laikmaa rummaged through the multitudes of documents and somehow managed to find the right one.

“All right,” he said. “Regarding your earlier questions on the phone, I don’t exactly have anything new to offer. The Viktor X gang is a constellation of Russians and Estonians operating primarily in Tallinn. They’ve started making forays into Sweden since the Finnish market will soon reach saturation point. We don’t really know how far they’ve gotten-whether a contact network has already been established, or whether a regular smuggling operation is under way-but we do know that there’s no lack of ambition.

“As we’ve said, they execute traitors with a shot to the head; that’s a consistent trademark, and I’ve never seen any deviations. They use ammunition from the weapons factory in Pavlodar, Kazakhstan, as we’ve already discussed. There’s no doubt about any of this. But you need to know that most of the groups use the same ammunition and that here in Tallinn the evasive Viktor X’s group is quite a small, marginal enterprise. Seven or eight gangster rings have divided up Tallinn and eastern Estonia into districts, and they avoid crossing each other’s boundaries.

“We know very little about their contacts higher up with the larger intra-Russian mafia. If we disregard Yugoslavia, right now Estonia tops the charts for European murder statistics. We have more than three hundred homicides a year in this country, and Tallinn has one of the highest murder rates in the world. That’s the background that you need to be aware of when you step out onto our streets.”

“Is it your department that’s known as Commando K?” asked Norlander.

“No, we’re the criminal police. Commando K is our antiterror group. They’re our extended arm-and the only actual physical weapon that we have against our gangsters. They do have a tendency to go a little too far, but they remain our only real force. We’re the ordinary criminal police, handling the investigations. Commando K is purely an assault team.”

Laikmaa fell silent, rifling through the papers to pull out another document.

“What we know is that Viktor X is mixed up in the protection operation for a Swedish media firm that’s trying to establish itself in Russia and the Baltics by producing a daily business newspaper, among other things. Internationally, the firm calls itself GrimeBear Publishing, Inc. I don’t know what it’s called in Sweden, but I think they have almost a monopoly on the media in your country. Seems rather strange for a democracy. Or am I mistaken?”

Norlander hadn’t a clue about any of this. He jotted it down in his notebook and then abruptly changed the subject. “I’ve got a new lead. A Juri Maarja. He’s behind the smuggling of refugees to Gotland.”

“He’s not alone.” Kalju Laikmaa looked pensive.

Norlander saw that he’d mentioned a sensitive topic. Laikmaa was apparently considering how much he could reveal. Norlander decided to help him out. “We’re not interested in the refugee traffic itself. It is what it is. We’re only interested in the connection to the serial killings.”

“And what sort of connection is that?” Laikmaa asked skeptically.

Norlander didn’t reply. He tried to appear inscrutable rather than uncertain.

Only now did it occur to him how vague that connection actually was.

“So,” said Laikmaa when he realized that he wasn’t going to get an answer, “you get to keep your secrets and I have to reveal mine. Is that what our contract looks like?”

“Ich bin sorry,” Norlander managed to say. “This investigation has to do with national security. And as you said yourself, this office may be bugged, long distance.”

“I was being sarcastic,” said Laikmaa, beginning to understand the nature of the man with whom he was talking. “Never mind. Juri Maarja speaks Swedish, which may be of some interest to you. He lived in Sweden for many years without ending up in any police records. He’s close to Viktor X; that much we know. We also know that he’s one of many who deal in smuggling refugees. We have orders from the highest authority not to be too rigid when it comes to that particular type of smuggling. The Baltic countries are overflowing with refugees who think that Sweden is heaven. Apparently they’re using an old map.”

Norlander gave him a stony look. Laikmaa evidently had more on his mind.

“There’s something more,” said Norlander coldly.

Laikmaa sighed heavily and looked as if he were trying to think about good Baltic-Scandinavian relations, and about their dependence on Swedish aid. He was really thinking about the deportation of Baltic refugees back to the Soviet Union and about Swedish business interests in the Baltics.

The multifaceted meaning contained in that sigh went right over Norlander’s head. He heard only Laikmaa’s response.

“I’ve spent days interrogating one of Maarja’s more prominent drug dealers, one Arvo Hellat. But in vain. We’re going to have to let him go in a couple of hours, for lack of evidence. He speaks Swedish. From Nucko, if that means anything to you. Would you like to have a try?”

Norlander stood up without a word. He was getting closer.

Laikmaa led the way down corridors, both above- and below-ground, to the prison. Accompanied by a couple of guards, they arrived at a steel door, where they stopped.

“I think it’s best if I’m present,” said Laikmaa. “Don’t worry, I don’t speak a word of Swedish. But it violates the rules to allow a foreign police officer to be alone in an Estonian cell. I’m sure you understand.”

Norlander nodded, hoping that his disappointment wasn’t too obvious.

They went in. The man in the cell had long hair and looked Finnish. Viggo Norlander pictured Arto Soderstedt in his mind and let the image stay there.

Arvo Hellat studied both mafia fighters and said something sarcastic in Estonian. Laikmaa replied tersely and pointed at Norlander, who cleared his throat and began talking. It was liberating to speak Swedish. No more “Ich bin sorry.”

“You’re close to Juri Maarja, and that means you’re close to Viktor X. What do you know about the murders of three Swedish businessmen during the past week?”

Arvo Hellat looked surprised. He glanced at Laikmaa, who shrugged and said something in Estonian that meant either “answer” or “the man’s insane.” Hellat replied in a strange Estonian-Swedish accent with peculiar diphthongs and ts and gs and ks that came in odd places. Norlander could barely understand him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Hellat. “What do those murders have to do with me?”

Norlander was really only there to look. Window-shopping, he told himself. He wasn’t going to let this man out of his grasp.

“The good superintendent doesn’t understand a word we’re saying,” Norlander said in the icy tone that by now almost came naturally to him. “Is Viktor X involved in the murders of the Swedish businessmen? Let me point out that I’m here on a special assignment and have the power to make things very unpleasant for you.”

Arvo Hellat was even more astonished. He stared at Norlander for a good long time, then burst into loud laughter. “You don’t know what you’re playing with!” he blurted out. “By comparison, fire is ice cold!”

Norlander left the cell with the image of Hellat engraved on his mind.

Laikmaa followed, astonished, as they walked down the corridors. “Did you find out anything?” he asked in his American-tinged English.

“Enoff,” said Norlander.

They returned to Laikmaa’s office. The superintendent sat down to continue their discussion.

Norlander remained standing. “I’m going home now,” he said.

Laikmaa frowned. “You’ve only just arrived. We still have a lot to discuss.”

“I’m satisfied. Thanks for all your help.” He headed for the door, then turned around and asked, “Oh, that’s