Helsinki White iv-3

  Helsinki White

  ( Inspector Vaara - 3 )

  James Thompson

  James Thompson

  Helsinki White

  Prologue

  It’s May second, a sunny Sunday, a chilly spring evening. I walk around downtown, check out the main drags. The outdoor bars are packed, everyone drunk and happy. Yesterday was Vappu-May Day, the heaviest drinking holiday of the year-and most of these people have been drunk non-stop, morning to night, since they got off from work on Friday. Morning drinking delays hangovers. Eventually, the price has to be paid, but they can be sick at work tomorrow, on the company dime.

  Raucous laughter emanates from everywhere. I stop under the clock in front of the main doors of Stockmann Department Store, the biggest and best in the city. I sometimes shop here because they almost always have what I want, and specialize in quality merchandise, even though the prices they charge for convenience and quality are highway robbery.

  The clock is a traditional meeting place, central to everything downtown. It’s become a habit. People just say, “Meet you under the clock,” and nothing more need be discussed. Lovers especially are drawn to the spot. I’m waiting on Jyri Ivalo, the national chief of police. We’re far from being lovers. I would describe our relationship as mutual enmity combined with respect. I trust him implicitly, however, because he fears me. The clock says five minutes of four. I’m right on time.

  I’m a policeman and hold the rank of inspector. Because of the dime novel versions of some high-profile investigations as related by the media, my name, Kari Vaara, is synonymous with hero cop. Jyri is my boss. Ours is an unusual arrangement. There is no customary chain of command. I work directly under him with no intermediary authorities. The work I do is covert.

  In a safe-deposit box, I have a video of him engaged in a fetishistic sex act involving a dildo up his ass a short time before a woman was murdered, at the murder scene, with the victim. Even though it was key evidence in the Filippov murder, I suppressed the video, which is both humiliating, and if you can manage to forget the horrific way his sexual partner was maimed and killed just after the filming, hilarious as well. The video would destroy his life.

  A Romanian beggar prostrates herself on the sidewalk. Knees tucked under her. Head to ground, face hidden. Withered brown hands outstretched in an unspoken plea, a rosary interlaced between her fingers. A tough way to earn a living.

  When Romania joined the European Union, and citizens from other member nations gained the right to come into the country and stay for ninety days without a visa, some resourceful Romanian entrepreneurs got the brilliant idea of hiring the most wretched souls they could find, bus them to other countries, and organize begging into a lucrative business venture.

  The good citizens of Helsinki were outraged. The beggars were eyesores. The Gypsies set up a makeshift camp, and as winter drew near, city officials feared they would freeze to death and bought them plane tickets back to Romania. The good citizens of Helsinki were outraged because they had to pay the airfare. The weather is improving, the Roma are drifting back. The good citizens of Helsinki are outraged once again. Something must be done.

  Like the rest of the Nordic countries, Finland is going through an ugly extreme right-wing phase with strong anti-foreigner sentiments. I used to think Finns hate in silence. No longer. After my brain surgery, I wasn’t allowed to drive for a month and often relied on public transportation. One day, I took the tram. Two elderly women, one on a walker, asked the driver, a black immigrant, a question about where to get off to reach their destination. He answered in accented but understandable Finnish. The two grannies sat in front of me and spoke in loud voices, to make certain he could hear, and discussed how fucking niggers ought to learn to speak the goddamned language.

  The grannies garnered guffaws. This sparked wit and inspired a teenager to tell a joke. “What do you get when you cross a nigger and a Gypsy? A thief who’s too lazy to steal.” Hee-haws all round. The driver had the right to kick them all out of the tram, but he didn’t respond. He was used to it.

  A gang of pretty young girls surrounds me, laughing, licking ice cream cones, swaying to and fro to the rhythm of a boom box blaring techno. The girls ignore the Rom beggar, shimmy around her, lick their ice cream. Despite the cool temperature, they’re dressed pre-summer hopeful, exposing a bit of flesh. I decide the adage is true: sunlight makes breasts grow. They check me out with sidelong glances. It’s because of the cane I carry. It’s made of ash and cudgel thick. The handle is a massive, solid gold lion’s head, weighs about eight ounces. One eye is a ruby, the other an emerald. The mouth is wide open, and I hold it with my left index finger curled behind its razor-sharp sparkling steel fangs.

  The light changes. I take a last glance at the girls before moving. Looking down the street, I remember that I once shot and killed a man only a stone’s throw from here. The sidewalks were crowded, like today, but it was summer, warm and sunny. There was a time when the thought would have depressed me. Now I couldn’t care less.

  I see Jyri coming toward me, on the other side of the street, at the junction of Mannerheimintie and Aleksanterinkatu. I walk to the corner and wait for the crosswalk light to change. I have the Rolling Stones song “Gimme Shelter” stuck in my head. The Stones and techno syncopate, reverberate and annoy.

  Sulo, or Sweetness, as my lovely American wife has dubbed my new young protege, would say, they bop, bebop, rebop some more. Sweetness admires and emulates me. One of the forms Sweetness’s veneration had taken for me is renunciation of his former obsession with death metal for a love of jazz.

  Jyri’s smooth way of moving reflects confidence. His suit is impeccable and coif perfect. I don’t know him well, but believe him to be a complete narcissist. Egocentric, sybaritic, amoral, at one with himself, and untroubled by his all-inclusive lack of empathy for others. Whatever he is, it works for him. His career is marked by one achievement after another. We meet on the traffic island in the middle of the four-lane street, don’t waste time with greetings or handshakes.

  He gives me a large manila envelope containing dossiers of criminals and their planned activities. I pass the national chief of police two envelopes filled with cash, a hundred and fifty thousand euros in hundred-euro bills, the skim for Jyri and other politicos from yesterday’s heist. It was a Vappu to be remembered. We trade the envelopes.

  “Would you and that American wife of yours be interested in an evening out with me and some of my friends and colleagues?” he asks.

  The concept fascinates me. I can’t imagine socializing with Jyri and his cronies.

  “The evening is on me. An excellent jazz band is playing, and some people would like to meet you.”

  So he’s run his mouth, and our black op is now an unknown shade of gray. “It’s not much time to arrange a babysitter, and I’ll have to ask Kate.”

  “Call now and ask her. Promise her that I’ll arrange a dependable babysitter.”

  I move a couple of steps and turn away from him for privacy. Kate has a terrible hangover and I expect a firm no. I extend the invitation and mention that she’ll meet people that might be valuable contacts in her work as general manager at Hotel Kamp.

  She takes me aback, agrees without protest. “Sure,” she said, “sounds great. Thank him for me and tell him I’ll look forward to it.” She pauses. “Can I bring Aino along?” Her assistant restaurant manager, new best friend, and object of my desire.

  Kate was puking this morning. Enthusiasm? We ring off.

  I turn back to Jyri. “We’d love to. OK if she brings a friend? She’s good-looking,” I add, because I know pussy-crazed Jyri would crawl through hell soaked in gasoline for the chance to even glimpse a beautiful woman.

>   He smiles, as if truly pleased. “Of course. Great. Invite your team as well, and tell them they’re welcome to bring dates if they like. The babysitter will be at your place at eight thirty.” He turns on his heel and his brisk walk, probably due to the hundred and fifty K in his hands, says he’s on cloud nine.

  The purpose of the dossiers is to provide info for me and my black-ops crew to target criminals, so we can rip off their money, drugs and guns.

  I can remember, almost word for word, the conversation Jyri and I had during the Filippov investigation, when he talked me into heading up a black-ops unit while begging me to suppress evidence against him.

  “I’ll give you anything you want,” he said, “just make this go away.”

  “That’s a problem for you,” I said. “I don’t want anything.”

  He leaned toward me. “I’ve been thinking of putting together a black-ops unit. Anti-organized crime. The mandate is to go after criminals by whatever means necessary, to use their own methods against them. No holds barred.”

  “We already have such a group. Our secret police. They’re called SUPO.”

  “There’s a problem with SUPO,” he said. “They don’t work for me.”

  “So you want to be some kind of Finnish J. Edgar Hoover?”

  “Yes.”

  I laughed in his face. “No.”

  “You think I don’t know you, but I do,” he said. “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 rubber-hose 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 seven cops in Helsinki investigate human trafficking full-time. Here 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 nation every year, most on their way to their destination countries. With our limited law enforcement resources, we can’t possibly make even a dent in the human slavery 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 sensed my interest.

  “Milo”-referring to my partner-“knows black-bag work,” he said. “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.”

  Milo learned black-bag work because he’s a voyeur. He B amp;Es homes just to go through people’s things. He’s a violent nutcase with an IQ of a hundred seventy-two.

  “I’m not killing anybody,” I said.

  “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 said. “Computers. Vehicles. Surveillance gear.”

  “In two weeks, Swedish and Finnish Gypsies are going to make a 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’ll get you more money for equipment later.”

  “No.”

  Frustration gripped him, resonated in his voice. “I told you I know you, and I do. You hate your job. You’re frustrated because you can’t make a difference. You’re a failure. To your dead sister.” He brings up the high death toll from a previous investigation: “To Sufia Elmi and her family. To your former sergeant Valtteri and his family. To your dead ex-wife-and in your personal life-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’ve failed everyone you’ve touched. You’ll take this job to make up for it. I’m offering you everything you ever wanted.”

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “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’ll think about it.”

  “No one ever finds out anything about my involvement in this case,” he said. “I’ll organize everything, get you the manpower. Fix this for me,” he said, “and run my black-ops unit.”

  I bought into Jyri’s specious diatribe like the naive fool that I am. I’ve helped no one, but hurt several people, and there are more to come. I’ve succeeded only in alienating my wife, the person I remember being dearest to me.

  There’s a great myth believed by nearly everyone that Finland is corruption-free. Police and politicians are scripture pure, dedicated to the good of the nation beyond all things. Foreigners even write about it in travel guides for tourists. The best thing going for our black-ops unit is that no one would believe such a thing could exist, or that corruption could be so widespread at such high levels of government.

  I run a heist gang. I’m a police inspector, shakedown artist, strong-arm specialist and enforcer. Three months ago, I was an honest cop. I’m not sure I care how or why, but I reflect on how I could have undergone such a drastic change in such a short time. Jyri wanted me to recruit some other tough cops, but I refused. More than four people is too many in on a secret. The group is just me, Milo, and Sweetness. Milo is a sick puppy, but he’s grown on me over time because of his enthusiasm. Sweetness is a baby-faced behemoth, whom I hired out of sympathy, because of his size and capacity to commit violent acts without enjoying them, and to piss Jyri off. Which it does. Jyri refers to him as “the oaf.” Sweetness often seems a simpleton, but he’s far from it.

  To quote Sweetness: “Life just is. Ain’t no reason for nothing.”

  1

  A little over three months before my meeting with Jyri, Kate gave birth to our first child, a girl, on January twenty-fourth.

  It was an easy birth, as childbirths go, no more difficult than squirting a watermelon seed out from between her fingers, only sixteen hours from her first contraction to me cradling our child in my arms. When I first held her, I felt a wealth of emotions I didn’t know existed, and I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but I loved Kate tenfold more for the gift she had given me.

  She was an easy baby. Didn’t cry much. Often slept through the night. She wasn’t officially named until her christening, but we chose to call her Anu. A simple and pretty name, pronounceable by Finns and foreigners alike, important in a bi-cultural marriage.

  Our bi-cultural marriage changed me. When I met Kate, like many Finnish men, I was unable to utter the words “I love you.” I’ve heard women complain more than a few times that their husbands don’t tell them they love them. The typical answer: “I told you I loved you when I married you. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.” But she told me often, with sincerity and without shame. I learned to return the sentiment. At first, it was awkward for me. Before long though, I learned to say it first, it felt natural, even good, and I couldn’t understand why it had ever been difficult.

  I had been suffering severe migraines for the better part of a year. I thought they were the result of stress related to Kate’s pregnancy-she had miscarried twins the previous December, and I was scared that it would happen again-but Kate insisted I had tests run. My brother, Jari, is a neurologist. I went to him and he sent me for an MRI. The day we brought Anu home from the hospital, it fell upon him to tell me that I had a brain tumor.

  Kate and I had always had a great relationship, were best friends as well as husband and wife, but there was a sticking point that stood between us. My failure to tell her about my past or current events in my life, especially if they’re unpleasant. She isn’t as bad as, say, characters on American television shows who throw hissy fits upon finding out that their spouse had a one-night stand twenty years ago and five years before the couple even met, and believe the lives of their spouses, even their deepest and most private tho
ughts and emotions, must be open books. But a couple times, Kate has found out things about me that shocked her, and she’d like me to open up, at least a little, so she can know and understand me better. It’s hard for me, just not my nature. Kate said she viewed my failure to tell her about events relevant to our life together as a form of lying. And it disturbed her that I kept much of my past under lock and key.

  I saw her point, and promised to try to learn to be more open. But she was a new mother, radiant, full of joy. I debated on how long to let her be happy before telling her I might die. I decided on two days. I probably would have put it off longer, but the biopsy to determine the nature of the tumor was scheduled in two days, on the twenty-eighth. It would have been hard to fabricate an explanation of why part of my hair was shaved off and I had a stitched-up surgical incision, and I figured she needed at least a day to get used to the idea.

  I sat with Kate on the couch, asked her to prepare herself, and took her hand. “The results from the MRI came back,” I said, “and I have a brain tumor.”

  Her face fell and tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. She tried to speak and faltered. When she managed it, her voice cracked. “How bad?”

  I explained the situation as best I understood it, as Jari had explained it to me, and told her that I would have a biopsy the day after tomorrow and it would give us the answer to that question.

  I said the best case scenario was that I had a meningioma, a tumor that originates in the meninges, the thin membranes that cover the brain and spinal cord. If so, it could be removed by a craniotomy and, with luck, I might suffer no permanent consequences at all and be back home in three days, maybe even be back to work in a couple weeks. I would require no chemo or radiation therapy, no nothing. It could, however, possibly cause problems with my speech or balance, weakness, even paralysis. Physical therapy could hopefully remedy these problems, if needed, and with luck I could be back to normal, or close to it, in only a few months.