The problem had gone. Either the vehicle had found a parking space or left the area, I didn't give a shit which. I stood up slowly and had a look around, then rammed the pistol into his neck. With my other hand I got hold of his shoulder and started to pull.
He got the drift. I wanted him on his front. The car rocked slightly with his exertions, but it didn't matter, there was nobody around to notice.
Once he was on his stomach, I got hold of one of the plasticuffs, looped it round his wrists and pulled it tight.
Then I wrapped the second comforter around him, still making sure he had room to breathe.
The Volvo started on the first time. I headed left, out onto the road, away from the hotel. I only hoped that Sergei was doing the same.
I headed east out of Helsinki, toward the highway. The RV was at Vaalimaa, over one hundred miles away.
I hit the seek button on the radio and turned up the volume to drown out the noise of the heater. I drove, thinking about everything and nothing. Twice I saw the flashing lights of a heli.
Eventually I passed the Vaalimaa service station. This was truckers' heaven, the final stop before Russia. They used it as a meeting point so that they could move on in convoy. Hijacking was rife in the Motherland. In among them, somewhere, was our vehicle, with welded compartments for us all to play Us.
Vaalimaa was just a few miles from Sergei's tame checkpoint. Six miles north of the town was the lakeside house.
I turned off the radio and reached into the glove compartment for the digital scanner, which Sergei had tuned into the police channel. It was about the size of a cell phone. The plan had been to use it from the time we exited Helsinki. That was another reason I needed Sergei: He spoke Finnish.
I tried to make sense of the squelchy radio traffic, but didn't have a clue what I was listening to. What I was hoping not to hear was, 'Volvo, Volvo, Volvo,' because then it would be odds on that I had a one-way ticket to havoc.
I checked every turnout and minor gravel road for any hint of activity.
There was nothing.
My lights hit the marker I was looking for, Mailbox 183, a red plastic pedal bin on a white pole. I turned right, onto a deeply rutted track that led into the forest.
It was only a few hours since we'd last driven up it. About thirty feet in, a white-painted chain, suspended between two poles, barred the way. Attached to it was a wooden sign saying, in Finnish, Fuck Off, Private Property.
I left the engine running and got out of the car, checking in the headlights for recent sign of another vehicle. The compacted ice was giving very little away.
I looked carefully at the point where the last link of the chain was looped over a hook screwed into the right- hand pole, but could see nothing in the shadow cast by the Volvo's headlights. I took the weight of the chain so the first links came loose and pulled gently. I could feel the pressure of the cotton that still fastened it to the hook, and then the sudden pressure release as it broke. No one had been through here who shouldn't have.
I drove over the chain, then jumped out and replaced it. To the side, under a pile of stones, the reel of cotton thread was just where I'd left it. I tied the first link to the hook again, replaced the reel and got back in the car.
The pines were so tall and close to the track it was like driving through a tunnel. After a thousand feet the trees retreated, leaving a stretch of open ground about the size of four football fields. I knew that in the summer it was all grass and tree stumps because there were framed pictures of it in the house, but now everything was covered by a three-foot-deep blanket of snow.
The driveway dipped slightly and the two-story house was caught in the beam of my headlights. There were no lights on inside, no vehicles outside.
The driveway led to a wooden garage with enough room for three cars.
Both buildings were made of timber and painted dark red with white window frames, and wouldn't have looked out of place in the Yukon during the Gold Rush.
I drove into the garage. A huge stack of firewood filled the whole of the back wall. A door on the far left led to the other side of the house and the lake.
I killed the engine, and for the first time in hours there was almost total silence. No gunfire, shouts, sirens, helos, or car heaters, just low-volume hiss and mush as Finnish police talked Finnish police stuff on the scanner. I didn't really want to move.
The entrance was in the gable end of the main building, and the key was hidden in the log pile-very original. I went inside and was hit by wonderful warmth. The heaters worked off the electrical supply and we'd left them all on. The labor-intensive wood fire was for vacationers; besides, chimney smoke would have advertised our presence.
I threw the light switch and went back to the car for Valentin.
The ComfortEr had kept him alive. but only just. After two hours in the trunk he was shaking with the cold.
'Right, come on, up, up.' I moved his legs over the ledge and pulled him out by his body armor. He couldn't do much with his hands behind his back, but he seemed to be concentrating most on not having the ball fall to the back of his mouth and choke him. Fair one; that was why I'd used it.
I guided him inside as his legs started to come back to life and sat him on an old green velour sofa next to a radiator. The decor was functional, just bare wooden floors and walls, and the downstairs was one very large open space. A stone fireplace stood opposite the door, and three wooden pillars, each about a foot in diameter and evenly spaced, helped to support the floor above. Most of the furniture, apart from the sofa, was chunky pine, and the place smelled like a timber yard.
I pulled hard on the duct tape around Valentin's face. He winced as the adhesive took neck and eyebrow hair with it. His skin was cold, the color of a dead cod.
He spat out the ball, coughing and spluttering. I was the typical Brit abroad: When in doubt, just keep to your own language and shout. 'Stay there.' I pointed at the radiator, not that he would be going anywhere plasticuffed up. 'You'll be warm in a minute.'
He looked up and nodded. A gust of wind whistled under the eaves. I expected Vincent Price to turn up any minute.
I went back to the car and retrieved the scanner, putting it on the kitchen table. Every fifteen seconds or so there was some traffic on the net, but no detectable note of urgency, as there would be if they were sending in the helicopters. There wasn't any slow, deliberate whispering, either, so hopefully they weren't trying to sneak up on me. Maybe, who knew?
Next priority was to make coffee. The kitchen counter stretched along the wall behind me. I went over and checked the kettle for water.
Standing waiting for it to boil, I watched Val shivering. He was sitting close enough to the heater to make it pregnant. He'd had a hard life, judging by the lines on his face. But he still had his Slavic good looks: wide cheekbones, green eyes and dark-brown hair, the gray at the temples making him look pretty dignified for a hood.
I had to hand it to him, the boy had done well: Meres, BGs, the best hotels, and a great-looking mistress. I was jealous: My future was looking the same as my past.
The water boiled as I opened a package of crackers that was on the counter. I munched on one and emptied the kettle onto ground beans in a coffeemaker.
Val had his knees up and was trying to use his body to flick his overcoat around him. His face was starting to regain its color and his eyes followed my every move.
The team's kit had been piled into bags to the left of the main door.
Sergei and I had planned to return here after delivering the Money to St. Petersburg-me to drive to Sweden and then, via ferry, to Germany; him to clean up this place. I picked up a canvas duffel bag and threw it on the table. Holstering the pistol, I fished inside for more plasticuffs, putting three interlocking strips together to make one long one. Moving around the table, I gripped Val's shoulders, then dragged him over toward the central pillar and pushed him down on his ass against it. I plasticuffed his upper right arm to the support, then, with the
