Now she turned back to the lead investigator. “Look, we need to focus on the situation here,” Wolfe said. “The device that brought down the plane was planted by a Finnish citizen, a man named Lasse Karvonen. And it’s almost certain that he had help at the airport.”
The other investigator, who had been listening intently, broke in. “We don’t know that for sure. We don’t even know if there was a device at all. And if there was, it might have been planted in London.”
Looking at the two men, Wolfe felt the political machinery already locking into place. She took a breath, willing herself to be patient. “Listen. Karvonen’s background implies that he was chosen for his contacts in Finland. I think he’s here. Tell me, please, who had access to the plane.”
Wolfe saw an exchange of glances between the two investigators. Finally Harju motioned her over to the laptop, where he called up an airport directory. “It spent the night at a fixed-base operator. They provide ground services for private planes. Police are already checking the employees.”
Studying the screen, Wolfe saw that this was the only place where the device could have been planted. “I want to see it for myself.”
“Fine,” Harju said, more quickly than she had expected. “I’ll have someone run you over now.”
A few minutes later, Wolfe found herself in the backseat of a van, being driven to the ground handler’s office at the airport’s southwest corner. Outside, it was bitterly cold, with a rumor of snow on the way. She suspected that Harju had granted her request mostly to get rid of her, which was fine.
As they drove across the tarmac, her driver silent behind the wheel, she was left alone with her thoughts for the first time since her arrival. Events since the crash had unfolded with a nightmarish clarity, and at times, she had felt close to being overwhelmed by despair. And the only way to keep it at bay, she knew, was to work all the harder, like the good Mormon she had once been.
They pulled up at an office in the shadow of the hangar, the parts department set off to one side. Wolfe climbed out of the van, the wind stinging her face, and headed in. Beyond two sets of sliding doors lay a waiting area, its television set turned to coverage of the crash.
At reception, she was met by the operations manager, a bulky figure with a key card hanging from his neck. Looking into his fixed, glassy smile, Wolfe saw that he was having one of the worst days of his life. “I called a minute ago. You said you could show me your files?”
“Yes, of course,” the manager said in halting English. “Please, right this way—”
He ushered her over to the reception desk, where a group of workers was staring at a second television, their eyes wet. In a back room, Wolfe caught a glimpse of an airport police officer, who was speaking with another employee. “The police are interviewing everyone?”
“Yes. Talking with workers one at a time. The rest were asked to come from home.” The manager indicated a stack of files on the counter. “You can go through these if you like.”
Wolfe looked apprehensively at the mountain of folders, which was nearly two feet high. “Is there anyone on staff with particular experience with air-conditioning or ventilation?”
“A few. Let me see.” The manager thumbed quickly through the files, coming up with a stack of five. “These are the ones. But none of them could have anything to do with this—”
“Thanks,” Wolfe said, cutting him off. She studied the names. Four men, one woman. This was a start. Then she opened the files and saw that they were, of course, in Finnish. She swore silently to herself, then wrote the names down. “Were any of them here last night?”
“Yes, at the usual time,” the manager said. “None are here right now. The mechanics usually come in later. You need me to translate?”
Flipping through the indecipherable pages, Wolfe thought of something that Ilya had said. Words would only betray her. You had to look past the words, with their easy but misleading answers, to perceive the underlying reality. “Not yet. I want to see where they work.”
“Of course. Follow me.” The manager headed for a set of doors at the rear of the office, glancing down briefly at her thin sweater. Just before the exit, they passed a rack of hats, jackets, and other souvenirs, each embroidered with the ground handler’s insignia. Reaching out, he took down a thick purple parka and handed it to her. “Take it. On the house, yes?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Wolfe took the parka and put it on. It was implausibly hideous, but as she pulled it around her, she found herself grateful for its warmth. “Thank you.”
With a smile that seemed less forced than before, the manager unlocked the door and led her outside. Heads lowered against the wind, they crossed the tarmac and approached the hangar, a blue-and-white structure with room for three planes. Going up to the side, the manager unlocked the door with his key card. Wolfe noted this. “You keep records of who goes in and out?”
He opened the door and motioned for her to go first. “We checked. No record of anyone entering while the plane was here. But there is a maintenance door in the back. If you have a key, you can go in without a card.”
Wolfe headed inside. “And do most of the workers have access to a key?”
The manager nodded as he followed her into the hangar, which was clean and deserted. Two private planes were parked inside, the third space ominously vacant. Around the edges of the floor stood forklifts and pallets, with a cluster of rolling tool chests at the center. On the wall, a digital sign in two languages marked the number of days without an accident. Its display was blank.
As they crossed the concrete floor, Wolfe asked, “How hard would it be to access the plane without anyone knowing?”
The manager seemed to consider this. “Possible at night. Planes can be left alone for hours, unless they need repairs. This one did not.” Evidently troubled by his own words, the manager cleared his throat uneasily as they mounted a set of steps to the second level. “Here we are.”
Wolfe looked around. They had reached an upper floor of the hangar, set against the wall, with a row of lockers and cubbyholes. The doors of the lockers were closed, but on the shelves above, there was a jumble of work boots, tools, and manuals. She stared at the mess, trying to see past the objects to their absent owners, hoping that something, anything, would give her a sign—
She paused. A book on the shelf had caught her eye. Extending her hand, she slid it out and studied the spine. The title, Rukouksia Sairasvuoteelta, meant nothing to her, but the author was John Donne.
Something about the book bothered her, as if she had seen it somewhere else. “Whose locker is this?”
The manager frowned at the book. “Laila Saarinen. She’s one of our mechanics—”
Wolfe remembered the name. It was one of the five employees, and the only woman, with experience working on ventilation systems. And as she looked at the book now, she recalled at last where she had seen it before.
She closed the book, already reaching for her phone. Her heart began to pound as she turned to the manager, remembering the books on Karvonen’s shelves, and dialed the airport police. “It’s her.”
48
The soil in the garden was stiff with frost, so it took a few tries before the spade finally broke through. Karvonen took up clods of the hard earth until he had made a hole about eight inches deep, then propped the shovel against the side of the house and tossed in a handful of components, followed by his phone. Finally he doused the whole thing with lighter fluid and threw in a match.
Feeling the soft push of warmth against his face, he knew that he had waited too long. He should have taken care of Laila hours ago, when she had first returned from the airport. By then, any role she had to play in the operation had been concluded, and there had been nothing to gain from delaying. Yet he had been seized by an uncharacteristic indecisiveness, causing him to postpone things to the po
int where it was threatening to interfere with his plans.
He thought back to her happiness earlier that day. She had looked at least ten years younger, as if all the old weight of anger and resentment had been transferred to the device on the plane. To an extent, he had shared in her joy, although he knew from experience that this lightening of the spirit never lasted.
Even so, after he had placed the call that activated the device and made the rest of the process inevitable, he, too, had felt exhilarated. He had done what no other man could do. At times, it seemed that he had willed this entire operation into existence, carrying it out down to the last detail. And although news of his crime would soon travel to all corners of the world, there were aspects of what he had done that would never truly be known, except by his handler and, to an extent, by Laila.
This was why he felt so tenderly toward this girl of his former country, who knew so much about him and yet so little. After the call had been made, instead of killing her, he had, unforgivably, made love to her again. And as he remembered this now, he found that he could still smell her on his skin.
As the flames began to die down, Karvonen saw clearly what he had to do. Once the phone and other components had been reduced to a pile of ash and melted plastic, he took up the spade once more, tossed a few shovelfuls of earth across the smoldering residue, and tamped it down so that no trace of the hole remained. Going back into the house through the rear door, he noticed that a few flakes of snow were drifting down from overhead.
Inside, the house was empty, with Laila dispatched on a minor errand. Glancing at the clock, Karvonen saw that she should have been back by now. Part of him hoped, oddly, that she had fled on her own, saving him the trouble of taking care of her. He thought about calling her from the phone in the kitchen, but instead, he set about performing his last few necessary tasks.
He began by packing up his equipment. The Sig Sauer was still nestled snugly in the holster under his coat, while his puukko knife hung from his belt. Bringing the shotgun out from behind the sofa, he loaded it, then slid it into its carrying case. In a country with one firearm for every two citizens, the gun itself would not attract attention, but the shells would raise questions. He had carefully poured wax into the cartridges, turning them into a lump that would explode inside a man’s body.
Karvonen had just finished stowing the gun when he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Going over to the window, he looked through a gap in the curtains and saw Laila emerging from her Volvo.
Before she could catch him watching her, he turned away from the view. Taking off his coat, he set the bag with the shotgun next to the fireplace, although he kept the pistol in its shoulder holster. Last of all, as he heard the key in the door, he reached out for the photograph on the mantelpiece, which he had turned down, and restored it to its proper position.
The door opened as Laila came inside, the shoulders of her jacket lightly dusted with snow. As she stamped her boots on the threshold, Karvonen went up to her. “What took you so long?”
“I had to wait in line at the station,” Laila said, removing her coat and unwinding her long scarf. “But we’re set for Oulu.”
“Good.” Karvonen shut the door. As instructed, she had gone to Helsinki Central and bought a ticket for a train headed north, using her own credit card, ostensibly to create a false trail.
“I’ve been listening to the news on the radio,” Laila said, kicking off her boots. “Rumors are flying about the crash. Someone in Russia—the deputy prime minister, I think—said they’re sure it was pilot error, even though no investigation has taken place at all. Can you believe it?”
Karvonen heard indignation in her voice, as if she was furious at being deprived of full credit. “It doesn’t matter. The real story will come out soon. By then, both of us will be gone.”
Laila turned to him, reaching up to clasp her arms around his neck. “Now can you tell me where we’re really going?”
Karvonen smiled and freed himself gently from her embrace. “I’ll tell you once we’ve left the city. Don’t worry. We’ve prepared a new life for you. You’ve done well today, and if you like, we can put you to work on other projects. But there’s something you need to do for me first.”
He led her by the hand to the bathroom, the door of which was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he revealed the sink, on which he had placed an assortment of barbering supplies and hair dye. Most of these items had been purchased half an hour ago, on a quick trip to the drugstore. He had decided that the bathroom, which would dampen the noise, would be the safest place.
Laila looked into the bathroom with evident uncertainty. “You want to cut my hair?”
“Just as a precaution,” Karvonen said soothingly. “It will be easier if we do it now.”
She hesitated. Karvonen knew that she was proud of her long hair, which was perhaps the most attractive feature of an otherwise unremarkable face. At last, however, she went inside, her expression set, heading for the sink. Following her in, he shut the door softly behind them.
Once they were alone together, he found himself, to his surprise, cutting her hair for real. After spending so many years in fashion, he had naturally picked up a few tricks, so it was with a practiced air that he dampened her hair with a wet comb, then went to work with the scissors, gathering and cutting it one section at a time. Laila herself said nothing, her face closed off, so that there was no other sound in the room except for the quiet snip of shears.
As he combed and cut, Karvonen regarded the process as if he were working on a photograph, just another act of retouching. A few tiny alterations, he knew, were enough to transform a particular face into something quite different. The changes did not need to be radical. A clone stamp here, an airbrush tool there, and you had a different woman altogether.
When he was finished, however, he was displeased to find that the haircut only made Laila seem younger and more trusting. The face that stared at him from the mirror was, in fact, that of the girl on the mantelpiece, the one whose eyes had troubled him so unaccountably. “Are we done?”
“Not quite,” Karvonen said. He set the scissors on the edge of the sink, then picked up the package of hair coloring. Pulling on the gloves, he prepared the dye according to the enclosed instructions, combining the ingredients in the larger bottle. As he did, he caught a faint whiff of something chemical, like ammonia, which reminded him of the darkroom.
Karvonen told himself again that this would mean nothing. Like erasing a picture, which, once gone, was only a memory. Then he turned to Laila and smiled. “Close your eyes.”
Laila obeyed. And it was only then, when her eyes were finally shut, that he put down the bottle and drew his knife.
49
Wolfe was in the front seat of the police van, headed for Laila Saarinen’s house, when the news came over the radio. Her blue-and-white Volkswagen Transporter was following a pair of unmarked trucks carrying the tactical unit, barely visible through the snow, which was growing heavier by the second. Although it was only three in the afternoon, the sun was already going down.
Behind the wheel of the van sat a senior constable, Timo Lindegren, of the Helsinki police. He was a big, friendly officer, red in the face, dressed in his winter field uniform, which consisted of a fur cap and coveralls tucked into black boots. A junior officer sat in the backseat, his manner quiet and respectful. Since identifying Laila, Wolfe had sensed the attitude toward her subtly changing. Even Harju, the airport investigator, had asked her to call in an hour for an update.
In the meantime, she had been closely following the reports on an English radio station, and it was the latest dispatch that caught her attention. Reaching out, she turned up the volume: “—refused to comment, although a state commission has been announced to investigate the allegations—”
Lindegren, who had been focusing on the road, glanced over at h
er. “What is it?”
“It’s Joseph Stavisky,” Wolfe said, listening to the broadcast. “His site has published files implicating Russian intelligence in the crash. I was wondering when they would be released.”
As the broadcast continued, the announcer stated that several news outlets were reporting that a neurological device had been used to bring down the plane. After noting that a number of public figures had called for the resignation of the head of the FSB, the station shifted to another story just as the van slowed to a stop. Lindegren shut off the engine. “We’re here.”
Wolfe looked out the windshield. Up ahead, through the falling snow, she could see a quiet residential street with modest houses and ample lawns that were already turning to fields of white. Laila’s home, the layout of which they had studied using plans from the municipal office, stood just up the block, a yellow house with a frosted hedge. A Volvo was parked out front.
Opening her door, Wolfe climbed out of the van, grateful for the jacket she had obtained at the airport. The other officers climbed out as well, flakes of snow adhering to their eyebrows and caps, and positioned themselves along the empty road. This was the outer perimeter, with a second one set up at the block’s other end. Farther up, Wolfe saw officers from the tactical unit descending from their vans, preparing to get in place for the raid.
At her side, Lindegren held something out. “Here. I thought you might need this.”
Wolfe, turning, was surprised to see that he was handing her a sidearm, a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster. With a smile, she accepted it, removing her jacket to put it on. It was the first time she had worn a gun in nearly a year, and as she pulled it into place, she realized only now how much she had missed it.
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