“It’s about Hotel Kamp.”
I nod. She’s downstairs in a circle of gossiping hens, drunk and talking overtop one another. I call her aside. The three of us go to an empty cabin. She’s weaving, and it’s not just the rocking of the yacht. She giggles. “The prime minister is an excellent host. My glass always seemed to be full. I think I drank more than I thought I did.”
The minister says to her, “I want to bug your hotel. When foreign dignitaries come—say, Vladimir Putin—their private conversations could be used as an edge in negotiations. It’s for the good of your adopted nation.”
Solemn, Kate nods agreement. “That,” she says, “is an excellent idea, and I would be proud to serve the nation. I’m on maternity leave, though, and not in charge. You need to ask Aino, whom you met last night.”
“I’m sure encouragement from you would go a long way,” he says. “Or if Aino doesn’t agree, we can simply wait until your maternity leave is over.”
I don’t tell her what a giant mistake she made, or that she made a promise that goes against everything she stands for. The hotel will be used for honey traps. Diplomats and certain businessmen will be recorded engaging in illicit sexual liaisons. Failure to succumb to blackmail will result in the destruction of their careers and personal lives.
I decide I won’t tell her. She goes back to drinking fruity frozen rum drinks with Mirjami and Jenna and her new political pals.
29
It’s a little after six p.m. when we start the drive home from the yacht club. Kate is drunker than I thought. She’s got that female drunk thing going on, by turns giggly and weepy. She’s been drinking three days running. I’m not sure if this is just her first exposure to hanging out with a hard-drinking female crowd, keeping up with them drink for drink without paying attention and realizing how much she’s consuming, or if something is troubling her and causing this uncharacteristic behavior. For me, it was a workday that entailed socializing. I had only two beers.
I stop and pick up some baby formula. Her breast milk is alcohol toxic. It unsettles me that she didn’t take that into consideration before getting smashed. Again. Kate waits in the car while I shop. I get a text message. “Tomorrow, Roope Malinen will be at his summer cottage on the island of Nauvo, near Turku.” The message includes the GPS coordinates for the cottage.
Kate has never been to Turku. I get back in the car. “Kate, how would you like to go on a road trip tomorrow, to Turku? It’s about two hours east of Helsinki.”
“Just us?” She sounds hopeful.
“No, I have to do some cop stuff, but Milo and Sweetness will come with me, so I thought maybe Mirjami and Jenna could go with you. You can give your new Audi a good breaking-in. My brother Timo has a farm near there. After we do our business and you do your sightseeing, if he’s available, we could pay him a visit.”
She’s in happy-drunk mode at the moment. “Sounds fun,” she says.
We go home. I thank Jyri’s aunt, give her a fifty, pre-pay a taxi for her, send her home and get on the horn. Kate passes out on the couch.
I promised Moreau he could accompany me while I conduct interviews. He promised to teach Milo how to use the advanced weaponry he bought, doesn’t need, and doesn’t know how to use. Sweetness has never fired a gun. We’re searching for, I believe, military trained killers, perhaps mercenaries. He needs to learn to shoot. I’d like to kill all these birds with one stone.
“I have business in Turku anyway,” Moreau says. “It suits me.”
I tell him to meet me here at eight a.m.
Step two. Call my brother. This is harder. “Jesus, Kari,” he says, “I haven’t heard from you in two years, seen you in four. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I have some business in Turku and thought I’d drop by, if that’s OK with you.”
“It’s more than OK. It would be great. I hear you have a baby now. You gonna bring her?”
“Actually, I may bring a few people. Cops and their women. And we’d like to do a little weapons training while we’re there. Is that all right with you?”
Anger creeps into his voice. “For a minute there, I thought you wanted to see me. In fact, you want something from me. That’s it. Right?”
The truth is, I don’t give damn if I see him or anyone else, because of my lack of emotions. But I’m trying to do what I view as my duty toward my family, and I neglected my duty toward him when I felt emotions because of those emotions. It’s easier now. “No, I want to see you. I can shoot guns anywhere. I’m a fucking cop, if you recall. We have practice ranges. I can come see you and
He goes quiet for a minute. “Just tell me why you haven’t come to see me.”
I tell the truth. “I don’t know. Why haven’t
He’s quiet again. “It’s complicated. Just fucking come visit. Take target practice with a panzer if you want. And you’re all welcome to stay the night. We have lots of room.”
“It’s good to hear your voice, big brother,” I say.
“Yours too.” He rings off.
Next, Milo. “We’re going on a road trip tomorrow. Bring that nuclear arsenal or whatever it is you bought. Moreau is going to teach you to use it.”
“Cool! Where are we going?”
“Different places around the Turku area. We’ll probably stay the night, maybe at my brother’s place. And Mirjami is invited.”
“I don’t know if she can come. She might have to work.”
I recall that Mirjami told Milo she loves me. She pays me no undue attention. I find this strange. “Tell her if her love for me is true, to trade out shifts or something. Kate is coming in a separate car, and it will suck for her if she’s alone. In fact, she probably wouldn’t come and be disappointed.”
Milo says he’ll try. I tell him to be here at eight.
I make a similar call to Sweetness, and invite Jenna. It’s no problem for her, she doesn’t go to school and she’s unemployed. The girls are too young and immature to become close friends with Kate, but she seems to enjoy their company, at least on a superficial level.
I save the worst for last and call Jaakko Pahkala. I have a love-hate relationship with him. I love hating him. His little rat face, his squeaky voice, his attitude—everything about him annoys me. Pre–brain op, I would have gotten an adrenaline hate surge just by picking up the phone to call him. He refers to himself as a journalist, and is employed as such on a freelance basis by our most yellow skank rags. He loves skank. Lives and breathes skank. The uglier and more loathsome, the more he reveres it. Also, he’s petty and malicious. He once tried to have me fired because I refused him an interview.
Jaakko is like vile medicine. Sometimes it’s required, and in the same vein, at times he has his uses. This is one of them.
He answers his phone. “Inspector Vaara, this is an unexpected pleasure. How may I be of service to you?”
“I’m starting a new publication,” I say, “and I’d like you to be editor.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“‘Editor’ is euphemistic. You’re the sole employee, the publication date is uncertain, and you’re not to let anyone know the publication exists until I authorize you to do so.”
“And the nature of this publication?”
“We’re going to revamp the classic
“The best magazine ever made in Finland,” he says. “I’m honored.”
I describe it as the minister defined it to me, but with my own spin on it. “It’s to be a hate rag under the guise of a scandal sheet. For instance, Lisbet Soderlund. You’ll paint her black, invent vicious details concerning her private life, and leave the reader feeling she was a traitorous slut who deserved to die.”
