Eddie saw his opportunity.
“Helen, I'm here because I care a great deal about Peter and Benny. They're like brothers. I only want to do what's best for them, and they need to go home," said Eddie, stepping into her line of vision.
She looked at Eddie, moving closer, while carefully choosing her words.
"Mr. Niemi cannot meet with you right now because they arrested him early this morning," she said in a hushed volume.
Eddie's eyes opened wide, but he regained control of his reaction.
"Why?"
"Obviously, they think he did it," she said with a whisper. "They think he killed Stuart."
Eddie flashed through the scenarios.
"I appreciate you telling me this, Helen. Where is he being held?"
"I'm not sure, but it was the Kotka police. On his way out, he made me promise not to tell anyone," she said. "But I'm hoping you can help him."
"Has he contacted his lawyer?"
"I'm sure he will. But, Mr. Alonso, I've known Victor for over a decade. He can overbear at times, but he cannot do something like this. Deep down, he's a kind man, not a killer."
"Did the police say anything to you?"
"They said that they may interview me. And they took his phone and two tablet computers. As for Peter and the boys, I honestly don't know who's in charge right now. I suppose Franz or Dr. Lehtinen or, heaven forbid, Jack."
"Yes, I've tried to contact Jack, and I'm speaking with Anna now."
They exchanged phone numbers, and Eddie excused himself.
On the way down the elevator, Eddie texted Anna.
"They arrested Victor in Stuart's death. I can't reach Jack. I'm looking for Franz. Stay out of sight. I don't know who to trust right now."
She replied instantly.
"Dmitry announced a new coach for Kotka. And we've lost control of Kognitio.”
Helen waited for the elevator camera to confirm Eddie had exited the building, before slipping into Victor’s office with her phone in hand, closing the door.
38
Within the hour, they packed and brought Peter's belongings to him. Jack opened his laptop to show him an online account in his name at ZTB, the preferred global banking partner of Russia's elite in Bern, Switzerland.
"This is you, my man," said Jack, pointing at the screen. "See that? That's payday numero uno."
Peter stared at the deposit verification, $250,000, made during his walk over to the house.
"You guys were pretty confident I'd sign," said Peter.
"Oh yeah. If you didn't, I'd never show you this," said Jack without his usual grin.
"So, none of this seems real," said Peter, with wrinkled eyebrows and half a grin. "Like, how would I access this money?"
Jack tapped a few keys, bringing up a password reset screen.
"There's your user ID. Now type in a new password," said Jack, as he looked away.
Peter thought for a second, then entered a long string of characters and symbols.
"There, it's done. Now it's all yours. You'll get payments every two weeks. Here's your Mastercard Black card tied to the account. It's good worldwide with a nice list of freebies. I don't even have one," said Jack, handing it to Peter.
A smile came over Peter's face as the tension released from his forehead. Maybe this was real, he thought. Maybe he was as great as they said, definitely better than Benny and the others left behind. He remembered his dad always telling him to grab opportunity with both hands. Finally, this might make him proud. Although Russia wasn't the place he ever imagined he would end up, this was his shot.
"This is great, Jack, thank you. I'll call my mom and give her the good—"
"Nope, no time for that. We gotta get you to the airport. There's a charter waiting for us to St. Petersburg," said Jack standing up and ushering Peter to the door.
"OK, I'll call her in the car," said Peter pulling out his phone.
Vlad stepped inside the front door and took the phone out of Peter's hand.
"I'm sorry, Peter, but you are now an employee of a very private organization. We will issue you a new, secure phone when we get to St. Petersburg. But for now, we need to keep this one for your protection."
"And, we're late," said Jack as he escorted Peter down the front steps into an obsidian black Mercedes AMG G-class SUV idling at the curb.
During the one hour flight from Kotka to St. Petersburg, Josef sat next to Peter with his iPad streaming edited game film from Stockholm. Vlad sat in the single-seat near the pilot's secure door while Jack jabbered away in Russian on his phone in the back of the twelve-seat Gulfstream. Aleks sat behind them with Bose headphones covering his ears while he slept.
"Peter, what I noticed first about your play is your decision making,” said Josef. “You have a strong skill of finding not just an open man but the best option among many. This is why I have chosen you. We must work from this strength and build your other skills."
Josef tapped the screen as he talked, as Peter’s eyes wandered.
"Here, your vision to see Aleks making this run is superb. You have a connection, which we will exploit."
Peter tried to focus on his new coach's words, but his brain was buzzing with a mix of happiness and doubt, not to mention hearing Jack’s fluent Russian. He peeked a few times out the portal window to see the Gulf of Finland narrowing into the bay on the western edge of St. Petersburg. As the plane began its descent, Vlad walked over to Peter with an envelope.
"Here is your passport and identification. When you are in Russia, you need to carry these with you at all times," he said, with a stern face. "Also, here is the security code to your apartment. You will need to show your ID to the guard at the entrance to the complex."
The look on Peter's face made Josef smile.
"Do not worry, Peter, you will be very safe. Russia is just a place where we need to keep everyone where they belong. We all work better that way," he said, placing his hand on top of Peter's forearm.
The plane came to a stop on the airport tarmac. Peter and the others walked down the steps to an identical G 63 SUV. Vlad loaded Peter's luggage in the back and spoke an address in Russian to the driver. Through the tinted windows, Peter could still make out the edge of the airport grounds where they passed through a security gate without stopping. They traveled at a high rate of speed out of the city proper to the small town of Pushkin, named for the great Russian poet and once an imperial residence in the 18th century. Now, it served as a luxury suburb of St. Petersburg with trendy shops and restaurants interspersed with elaborate residential villas.
The van stopped at an iron gate surrounding lush gardens and three-story brick buildings set at odd angles to each other. The guard at the entrance leaned in through the driver's window to get a headcount. Seeing everyone display their ID, Peter did the same. The guard gave a confirming head nod to the driver and opened one side of the gate, allowing the vehicle to squeeze through.
They drove to the far end of the complex to building 7, greeted by a woman dressed in a green business suit with a nametag. She smiled and led them down a long hall and up an elevator to the third floor where Peter used his key card to enter his suite. Jack and Josef let Peter walk in first and watched from behind as he stood inside the foyer, his head slowly turning from left to right and back again.
"Yeah, that's right. Peter Borg's in the big time now!" said Jack slapping him on the shoulder.
Peter started a slow walk into the great room with two-story windows overlooking a man-made lake with fountains. White sofas with gold trim faced an enormous television screen on the wall. To the right, a grand staircase wound up to a loft area complete with a pool table, video games, and a bar. The kitchen's massive granite countertops and shining stainless steel appliances could feed an entire team.
"Dude, this will be awesome," said Peter, looking back at Aleks.
"Uh, this one is all yours. I am down the hall," said Aleks. "Mine is not as big."
Josef walked up to Pe
ter to shake his hand.
"Welcome home, Peter. I shall let you get settled. Training tomorrow at 7am," said Josef pointing to his watch.
"Yes, sir, I can't wait," said Peter offering a handshake but getting another limp, cold grip.
"Yep, we out, dude," said Jack as he and Aleks headed for the door. "Enjoy life, man!"
"Do not forget about the ID and passport," said Vlad, standing by the door.
"I won't," said Peter. "Oh, and what about the phone?"
"Soon," said Vlad as he closed the door behind him.
Peter plopped down on the satin sofa and stared at the three remotes in front of him. He picked up one and pressed a button only to have the lights dim and blackout curtains lowering from the ceiling. Surprised, he pushed it again to make them open, then set the remote down, not wanting to touch anything else.
He felt a tinge of doubt and anxiety, but then an odd, soothing calm came over him. This was the right thing to do, he thought. He looked around the apartment with a smug grin.
39
They were strange bedfellows. Perched on the top bunk sat a tattooed man in his early forties with straggly, red hair and a whisper-thin goatee dangling from his chin. He hunched to avoid hitting his head on the gray, concrete ceiling. Below him lay a man ten years older, with groomed salt and pepper hair and beard. He had muscular arms and a large frame. Still, his new, mandatory orange jumpsuit could not hide the expanded waistline that resulted from his luxury lifestyle.
The holding cell was eight feet square with no window, and a single light bulb recessed behind shatterproof acrylic. The concrete bunk, covered by a half-inch pad, was on the same wall as the toilet. This was the first stop in the local legal process, meant to hold recent arrestees until charged, ordinarily within forty-eight hours. They accused the redhead of beating a man with a beer bottle at a local bar, but he repeated his alibi every few minutes to his new cellmate. The story changed a bit every time, as did the man’s mental state. With each retelling, Victor Niemi fumed with rage, not at his new acquaintance, but at whoever killed Stuart Pennington, then framed him. He vowed revenge, not with violence, but with lawsuits that would drain every drop of life out of the real killers.
They allowed him a daily, one-hour meeting with his lawyers, who at this point did not know who to point the finger at. Victor could not offer any credible suspects. His lead attorney asked him more than once if he had anything else to confess. Besides being cleared of the crime, Victor wanted to avoid revealing every detail about his operation. All the arresting officer had told him was that there was circumstantial evidence tying him to a plot to kill Stuart. They had not yet concluded whether it was a murder or an accident, but there was enough suspicion to convince a Kotka judge that Victor was a suspect and at risk to flee. His legal team had tried for a quick release on bail. The judge refused until prosecutors could provide more details.
Early the next morning, although it could have been the middle of the night as far as he knew, they awakened Victor to meet with a visitor. The guards secured his hands and feet and led him down the hall to a private conference room. There was a vertical slit window, no wider than three inches, above a metal table anchored to the floor. They told him to wait in the room while they brought in his guest. With no chairs, Victor stood in front of the window, squinting into the sunshine, not knowing when he would see it again. The door opened, and a man entered wearing a blue, button-down shirt, bland tie, and jeans. Around his neck hung a lanyard with a badge and photo ID hanging at his chest. Victor sized him up at just over six feet tall and maybe thirty years old. His Scandinavian blond hair and fair complexion pegged him as a local, and Victor wrote him off as the local detective. The guard informed them he would be right outside then closed the door.
“Mr. Niemi, my name is Markus Ara,” he said, avoiding a handshake with a handcuffed man.
Standing in the sunlight, Victor looked back with no reply.
“I’m here to help you if you cooperate,” said Markus.
“I say nothing without my attorney present,” said Victor.
“I understand. Let me start by saying I realize you did not kill Stuart Pennington,” said Markus.
“OK, I can agree to that,” said Victor, his stare softening.
“We think a hired operative killed him.”
“Who’s we?” said Victor.
“So, this is where we need to come to an agreement. Everything I tell you from this point forward must stay between you and me. That excludes your family, friends, and, most of all, your attorneys. If you share any of it, your life will be in grave danger. Can you promise me confidentiality?”
Victor’s eyes looked Markus up and down. “Sure.”
“Again, my name is Markus Ara. I am a special agent with Suojelupoliisi, the Finnish Security Intelligence Service, better known as Supo.”
“Yes, I know what Supo is,” said Victor, with an eye roll.
“A few emails from your private account were copied and forwarded anonymously to the local prosecutor. In one thread, you imply that you want Stuart Pennington out of the picture and will pay to make that happen,” said Markus opening the manila folder he had been holding.
“Bullshit,” said Victor, staring at the folder.
“Yes, I agree. When I became involved in the investigation, I asked for your tablet computers, and our technical team traced the source of those emails. They did not come from your IP address and were without your MAC address timestamp. Instead, they routed through servers we know have bad guys on the other end,” said Markus.
“So, tell them that so I can get out of here!” said Victor, pointing to the door.
“Not so fast, Mr. Niemi. We also found several irregularities with one of your business partners,” said Markus checking his notes.
“Who?”
“Dmitry Bogdanov.”
Victor scoffed. “He’s a pussycat who acts like a big deal,” said Victor.
“On that, I have to disagree. We have been watching Mr. Bogdanov’s operations for two years. We suspect he is a covert supplier of human assets and weapons to several initiatives meant to destabilize sovereign governments.”
Victor looked back at the sliver of sun coming through the window. Until now, he had avoided the full details of Dmitry’s background. His latest conversation in Warsaw gave him more reason not to dig deeper. He wasn’t sure he wanted to learn more.
“So, how does that involve me?” said Victor.
“If Mr. Bogdanov is doing what we think he’s doing, then you are a known business associate and, possibly, can be charged as an accomplice.”
“But I had no idea about any of that.”
“That’s for a jury to decide,” said Markus closing the folder and putting it back at his side. “But, your cooperation would help convince them otherwise.”
Victor thought for a moment.
“Do you think Bogdanov killed Stuart?”
“Not directly, but possibly at his request. That’s our working hypothesis,” said Markus. “What can you tell me about Dr. Anna Lehtinen?”
Victor looked up in surprise.
“I can tell you she had nothing to do with any of this,” said Victor. “She’s a brilliant neuroscientist working for me.”
“What about Eddie Alonso?”
“Never heard of him. Who is he?”
“An American soccer coach who has been in the country for two weeks watching your team,” said Markus. “We have a witness who saw Dr. Lehtinen, Mr. Alonso, and Stuart Pennington together at the Ansalahti the night of his death.”
Victor flashed through scenarios in his mind. Was Stuart going behind his back to find out about Kognitio? Or did Anna crack and tell him? Were they working with Dmitry? Who’s Alonso?
“I don’t know,” said Victor finally.
“What don’t you know,” said Markus.
“I know nothing. I can’t help you,” said Victor turning away.
“Mr. Niemi, I can get you released fr
om this cell in ten minutes, if you agree to cooperate. Think it over. My offer stands for 24 hours,” said Markus as he knocked on the door to be let out. “If you change your mind, tell the guard that you want to call Supo. They know who I am.”
After they escorted Markus out, the guard returned to take Victor back to his cell. The other inmates were awake now, taunting him with wolf whistles and spitting in his direction. The redhead greeted him with a new version of his story. This time it was a Nigerian gang who beat up the guy in the bar. Victor tuned him out and lay down on his bunk, pressing his hand over his eyes. He tried to sort out who he could trust and who he needed to add to his list of revenge.
40
Eddie checked out from the Ansalahti, preferring an undisclosed location until he found more answers. With Stuart dead and Victor in prison, his only mission was to get Peter and Benny out of the country. Perhaps he would help the others and expose the entire program, but not until they were airborne. He might leave Anna behind to fend for herself if needed, as he was reasonably sure any surgeon could remove the implants.
Without knowing the intricate details of Kognitio, he knew it required proximity to the controlling device. How far he wasn't sure, but getting the boys hundreds of miles away should suffice. In the short term, befriending Anna would serve its purpose if only to ensure she wasn't double-crossing him. Logic first, emotions second. That’s what he kept reminding himself. Make a plan to extract the boys from the academy, get to the Helsinki airport safely then board any westward plane. But before he contacted anyone, his first step was convincing Peter of the imminent danger. Anna confirmed his fear that Kognitio may be to blame not only for his headaches but also for his strange reversal of allegiances.
As he walked towards the road that would take him across the island to a cluster of tourist hotels, he sent a text to Peter and Benny. He hoped that alerting them together would help Peter reconsider his recent behavior.
The Playmaker Project Page 20