Behind God's Back

22

“Nurmio’s gone,” Sillanpää said the instant we met. He had called me at work and asked me to come right over to the site of the stake-out. “He disappeared last night, probably through the basement, and we haven’t seen him since.”

I looked around the apartment from which Security Police agents had been monitoring Nurmio’s doings for over a month. I wondered whose name was on the lease and who paid the rent.

The place was a one-bedroom flat on the third floor. It was furnished as spartanly as possible; there were no unnecessary comforts. That might have encouraged slacking. The only furnishings were a couple of chairs and a table, on top of which lay a laptop and a black notebook. All events of interest were logged in the notebook, along with the time. The kitchen contained a microwave, a coffee machine and a fridge. A digital video camera on a tripod stood at the window, with a SUPO agent sitting at it.

“Pretty lousy stake-out if you didn’t notice anything,” I remarked, taking a look through the camera.

Sillanpää walked over to where I was standing at the window. He raked his fingers through his greasy hair and left it sticking straight up. Then he pointed across the street. A hard rain was whipping the city and the window, blurring the view. Thunderstorms had been forecast for that evening. Autumn had arrived in Helsinki.

“I wouldn’t say so. Nurmio’s place is in that building diagonally opposite. Tough floor plan. There’s a back door in the stairwell that goes to the basement, and from there routes lead in all kinds of directions — including the back yard and the courtyard of the building next door. We had one vehicle parked outside, prepared to follow if Nurmio made any moves. During office hours, we’d get a couple more too, but do you think we have the resources to watch every single escape route and rat hole? We’re already cooking the books to stretch our budget.”

“What are your plans regarding Nurmio?”

Sillanpää walked into the kitchen and took a paper mug from the table. “You want some coffee?”

I nodded, and Sillanpää poured some for me. I sipped it. It was old and strong. Coffee like that kept agents alert during their shift. I dropped in a couple of sugar cubes and stirred it with a plastic spoon. Sillanpää tapped two sweeteners into his cup.

“You wouldn’t believe how many packs of coffee we’ve gone through in a month, and how many kebabs and pizzas. The restaurant’s probably going to go out of business once surveillance ends. I wonder how they’ll claim those kebabs on expenses? Probably the bosses’ entertainment account.”

“Have you started looking for Nurmio?”

“All the places we know of: former girlfriends, criminal buddies, his sister who lives in Vantaa. Nothing. It’s a tough manhunt, because we can’t ask directly. We don’t want him to find out about us.”

“You’d think he already had.”

“There’s nothing to indicate that. We believe he went underground because he saw a drawing of himself in the papers. So thanks a lot. I’d be grateful if you had something in your back pocket that would help us find him. We’ve got so much political pressure on us that we’re starting to split at the seams. The Minister of the Interior knows about this and his calcified veins are about to pop.”

Regardless of how he was talking, Sillanpää didn’t appear particularly stressed.

“Has he had any visitors?”

“Over the course of the stakeout, he only had four visitors, three of whom were women. Nurmio brought them home from a nightclub and they disappeared within a couple of hours. Boom-boom, bye-bye. We stopped them and told them we were narcotic agents. None of them knew Nurmio from before. They just left with him since he lived nearby and was pleasant company. None of them had been given his phone number. All he had told them was that he sold Israeli boat and car chemicals and had lived in Israel for a few years.”

“And the fourth?”

Sillanpää gazed out at the rain sweeping the street as if he found the natural phenomenon truly fascinating. “It’s raining pretty hard… The fourth was Max Oxbaum.”

Sillanpää saw my face, and could tell I was seriously ticked off.

“Sorry. We hadn’t agreed on cooperation at that point. Now I’m playing with an open hand. Oxbaum came here two days before he was killed. He came in the middle of the day and was inside for twenty minutes or so.”

“I suppose you talked to him, too?”

“He was an attorney and a sly old fox. We decided it was wisest to not expose ourselves.”

And now I decided it was time for me to show my hand.

“That story about a Russian gangster visiting Finland was a complete fabrication. You said you were playing with an open hand.”

Sillanpää knew how to maintain a poker face. “Says who?”

“You think Nurmio is here to kill the new Israeli Minister of Justice, Haim Levi, who is coming to Finland in a week.”

Sillanpää considered this for a moment. “All right. Open hand. We didn’t want to tell you about Levi, because we suspected that your brother was involved. We do believe that Levi is the target, but we don’t suspect your brother any more.”

“Why not?”

“Something turned up.”

There was no point pressing him. Sillanpää wouldn’t give me anything more about Eli. On the other hand, what he had told me put my mind at ease.

“Max must have been in touch with Norm. We could compare his telecommunications data with Jacobson’s.”

“Good. Do it.”

“Who paid the rent on his place?”

“Nurmio paid half a year’s rent in advance. The money came through an Estonian bank, a former shell company. Oxbaum bought it three months ago and is on the board. Nurmio’s name doesn’t appear anywhere.”

“I’m assuming you guys tapped Nurmio’s place?”

“No. There was a deadbolt. We decided it was best not to try so we wouldn’t tip him off. Mossad training means noticing visits like that.”

“Regardless of whether or not Nurmio had Mossad training, there’s no point waiting around any more. Let’s go over and see what we can find.”

“You think so?”

“Yup. There must be some clues in there.”

The thought clearly appealed to Sillanpää. “I have to talk to my boss.” He went into the kitchen and made a call. I waited at least five minutes, listening to a hole being drilled into the wall in the next apartment over.

“They’ve been remodelling for two weeks,” the agent at the camera said.

“You guys only have one man staking out at a time?” I asked.

“At first there were two of us, but we used up our overtime pretty fast, so we had to scale back to one.”

Sillanpää returned from his expedition to the kitchen. “OK. We’re good. Our lock guy will meet us there.”

“What about me?” the agent asked as we were leaving.

“You stay here. Warn us if you see him approaching, even though I doubt he’s coming back.”

We waited outside for the SUPO lock specialist to arrive. Once he got there, we negotiated in the car for a minute and then decided to go in through the back door. To get to it, we had to head around to the back and down to the basement. We stopped at a grey door. The door had two locks: a normal house-key lock and a Boda deadbolt. The Boda looked brand new.

Sillanpää gave the order: “Go for it.” He had promised we didn’t have to worry about leaving signs of a break-in; the main thing now was getting the door open. Calling in the building super would have required too much explaining.

The specialist drilled a hole an inch in diameter between the locks, at the point where the door and the jamb met. He slid in a crowbar. One powerful wrench, and the door popped open.

Sillanpää peered in. He didn’t see anything, so he continued in. I followed.

The back door opened onto a hallway with a bathroom off to the side. That led to an unfurnished back room and the street-side storefront, where the large display window had been covered with blinds.

The main room contained a desk, a couple of armchairs, a computer, an almost-empty bookshelf and a dead body. It was lying on its back near the middle of the floor, its half-open eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. A pistol with a silencer lay next to one hand. There was a bullet hole right under the eye, another in the temple.

“Don’t touch anything,” I instinctively ordered Sillanpää. He stopped and looked at the body.

“It’s not Nurmio.”

I had noticed the same thing. The deceased looked like a foreigner.

I bent down and went through his pockets. The wallet held a driver’s licence issued in St Petersburg. According to it, the man’s name was Igor Semeyev.

“Russian.”

“He has a gun, too. What the fuck happened here?” Sillanpää growled.

“Probably what it looks like. There was a shoot-out, and Nurmio shot our friend Igor Semeyev here.”

“No wonder Nurmio split,” Sillanpää said.