City of Exiles (9781101607596)

by Nevala-lee, Alec

  Taking a pair of binoculars from Lindegren, she turned to regard the scene up ahead. Around her, the street was deathly quiet. For a moment, she could see nothing except the curtain of snow. Then picking out a dark figure moving against the whiteness, she saw that the tactical team was almost in place.

  Wolfe tracked them through the glasses. The Finnish special operations unit, known as the Karhu team, or the Beagle Boys, consisted of veterans of the Helsinki police. She watched as the entry team, a stick of four men, slid noiselessly into place. Whenever the snow parted enough for her to see what was happening, she noted that they were dressed in helmets and hardshell, their carbines fitted with flash suppressors. Farther back, a perimeter team had taken up position behind the cars at the curb, the scopes and breeches of their rifles swathed in black fabric.

  At her side, Lindegren had grown silent, watching tensely as the entry stick mounted the porch. Leaving a spare body shield and fire extinguisher on the steps, they stacked up at the door, two on the knob side, a third covering them from behind, with the breacher ready to come forward with the ram.

  The street grew still, so quiet that Wolfe could hear the officers beside her breathing. Looking into the snow, which fell so noiselessly, she had just enough time to hope that Karvonen was there and the girl still alive when, through the binoculars, she saw the lead officer give the signal to move.

  The breacher came up, the battering ram in both hands, and swung it forward. As the door splintered and fell open, the sound was muffled by the distance, so that his actions seemed oddly delicate. Then the breacher stepped back, clearing a space, as the second officer flung something through the gap.

  A loud crack and burst of light came through the open door as the flashbang grenade went off. With a shout, the entry stick rushed inside, except for the breacher, who stayed back to serve as a doorman. At once, the radios came to life, the static bristling with voices in Finnish.

  Wolfe lowered the binoculars, her hands numb inside their gloves. As she looked at the house up the street, she heard another burst of radio chatter. “What are they saying? Is he there?”

  Lindegren was listening attentively to the radio. “No,” he responded at last. “There’s no sign of Karvonen. But they’ve found something else.” He looked up. “I think you’d better go inside.”

  Without waiting to be told again, Wolfe handed him the binoculars and began to run toward the house, kicking up divots of the fresh snow as she went. It took her only twenty seconds to cover the distance, the wind rising around her, but when she reached the front steps, she had to wipe particles of ice from her eyes.

  Wolfe entered the foyer, which was very cold, the snow blowing in through the broken door. An officer of the perimeter unit, his rifle pointed toward the floor, motioned for her to come forward. She followed him down the hallway, the carpet of which was covered in boot prints of slush. At the end of the hall, she halted before the bathroom door, which was guarded by a pair of officers.

  She looked inside. On the floor of the bathroom, handcuffed to the sink, was Laila Saarinen. Laila was glaring at them. She was alive, but furious, and as Wolfe stared, she began to spit and curse angrily.

  Wolfe lowered her eyes. Scattered on the tile were an assortment of bottles and other containers, evidently swept from the sink in anger, and small commas of freshly cut hair. Taking in the sorry scene, and the woman at the center of it, Wolfe saw at once what had happened. She turned to Lindegren, who had appeared at the door. “I need to talk to her now.”

  Lindegren nodded. “Okay. You can take the lead, if she’ll listen. I’ll be back soon.”

  As the rest of the unit resumed their search of the house, Wolfe knelt next to Laila, who had lapsed into a murderous silence. “Laila, my name is Rachel Wolfe. You speak English?”

  Laila only glowered back, her eyes like knives. A second later, she gave a curt nod.

  “Good,” Wolfe said. “I know that this is hard for you. But I need you to tell me where he is.”

  No response. Laila turned away, looking around the bathroom, as if taking it in for the first time. Watching her, Wolfe felt a strange stab of pity. Laila had been responsible for an act of horrific violence, but in the end, she had been discarded, the glory she had envisioned gone. And as Wolfe looked at the other woman now, she saw that she could use this.

  “Listen to me,” Wolfe continued, speaking as gently as she could, although she knew she was running out of time. “I know it must hurt, but you need to help us. He promised to take you with him, didn’t he?”

  More silence. Hearing footsteps, Wolfe glanced up and saw Lindegren standing in the doorway, a pair of bolt cutters in his hands. She stood aside as he came into the bathroom and said something to Laila, who did not respond. Opening the bolt cutters, he set their jaws around the handcuffs and cut the chain in two. Before Laila could move, he neatly locked a second set of cuffs around her wrists and hauled her up. He turned to Wolfe. “What now?”

  “Bring her to the living room,” Wolfe said. “There’s something I want to show her.”

  Wolfe let them go first, then followed them to the front of the house. The living room was freezing, a drift of snow gathering in the foyer. Catching the eye of an officer standing a few steps away, Wolfe gestured at the broken door. “Could you please do something about this?”

  As the officer went to fix the door, Wolfe turned to Laila, who was seated on the couch with Lindegren standing behind her. A television set stood in one corner. Picking up a remote from the coffee table, Wolfe fumbled with the controls, then finally managed to turn it on. As soon as a picture appeared, she began scrolling through the channels, looking for something that she could use.

  At last, she found a news program with a man being interviewed in English. It was Stavisky. Judging from the backdrop, he was still at the energy conference taking place elsewhere in the city, and as she turned up the volume, she heard a note of exhaustion in his voice:

  “—but the evidence is overwhelming,” Stavisky said, his haggard face looking into the camera. “This crash was the work of the Russian security services. They’ve targeted an opposition leader who threatened them, with a weapon they’ve used before. We have documents to prove it. And although we need to wait until all the facts are in, I believe that Yuri Litvinov will have to resign.”

  “You see?” Wolfe said quietly, her eye on the screen. “I don’t know what he told you, but this man, Lasse Karvonen, was a Russian assassin. He’s been responsible for at least four deaths already. Maybe you thought you were helping your country, but all you did was allow Russian intelligence to take out a member of the opposition. He used you. Just as he’s used other women. You aren’t the only one.”

  When she turned to Laila, she saw hot tears flowing down the other woman’s cheeks. She had guessed right. This wasn’t a knowing collaborator, but a woman who thought she was hurting her country’s enemies, even as she was playing into their hands. And while Wolfe knew that it was important to tread carefully, a voice in her head insisted that she press this advantage now.

  Keeping the television on, Wolfe sat next to Laila. She thought briefly about putting an arm around the other woman’s shoulders, which had begun to heave silently, but in the end, she simply said, “If you want to make things right, you can start here. Tell me where Karvonen is.”

  After a long pause, Laila answered in a shaky voice. “I don’t know where he went.”

  Wolfe glanced at Lindegren, who was watching them closely. “What did he tell you?”

  “That he was an agent with Finnish intelligence,” Laila said dully. “He wanted me to help him. I believed it. I thought I was going after Russia at last. After all they had done to this country—”

  “You did what you thought was right,” Wolfe said. “We don’t need to talk about that now. But what did he say when he left?”

 
“He said that we were going away together. That they would give me a new life, a new name.” Laila wiped her eyes. “Then, in the bathroom, he took out the knife. He forced me to my knees and cuffed me to the sink. And he said that he was sparing me because I was a Finn.”

  Wolfe was struck by this. It was an unexpected side to the man she was hunting, the first sign he had shown of anything like mercy or tenderness. “And did he say where he was going?”

  Laila shook her head. “No. I don’t know where he is. Except—” She paused, then turned to Wolfe. Although she had regained some of her composure, her face was still as pale as death. “I know the name he’s been using to travel. I saw it on his passport. It says Dale Stern—”

  50

  Karvonen was behind the wheel of his rental car, his wipers pushing away the snow, when he began to reconsider his plan. He was nearing the bridge that led to the Katajanokka district, his radio turned to news of the crash. Outside, traffic had slowed and the sky had grown dark, his headlamps illuminating the endless waves of white that stood between him and the canal.

  His destination was the passenger harbor at the other end of the island, from which he would take a Viking Line ferry to Stockholm. Karvonen, who was no fool, had not discussed his plans with anyone else. With the operation over, his handler would be tempted to tie up any loose ends. As a result, Karvonen had resolved to lie low until he had taken additional measures to ensure his own safety.

  All the same, he had already compromised his safety in at least one significant way. Looking out at the rear lights of the car before him, he thought of his last encounter with Laila. Even as he drew the knife, he had experienced a strange failure of nerve. Instead of cutting her throat as planned, he had taken out the handcuffs, which he had bought on an impulse on an earlier excursion. Perhaps, he thought now, he had known all along that he would falter.

  As his car finally crossed the bridge that spanned the canal, creeping forward in the snow, he saw that traffic ahead had come to a standstill. Although it was hard to make out much of anything in the storm, he saw the flash of hazard lights. Looking more carefully, he observed a number of police vehicles parked across the road. Behind them, carpeted in snow like the hulking remains of dinosaurs, were two trucks that had skidded and crashed.

  To his left, through a gap in the snow, he saw that he had reached a side street. For a moment, he weighed a possible detour. Then, signaling for a turn, he headed away from the main road.

  Moving forward at a crawl, he took in his surroundings. On his right was the park, beneath the looming shadow of Uspenski Cathedral, which stood on a spur of rock. To his left ran the canal, with the lights of government buildings visible across the water. Picturing the layout, he saw that if he continued north, he could skirt the island, eventually working his way down to the terminal, which would be faster than inching through traffic.

  It was only then that he noticed the vehicle in his rearview mirror. Looking closer, he saw that a Black Mary, a police van, had detached itself from the accident scene and was now just a few lengths behind. Karvonen turned his eyes back to the road, then glanced at the mirror again. The van couldn’t really be following him. He had done nothing to attract its attention.

  A second later, the van flashed its blue lights, and he heard the squeal of the siren. He cursed softly to himself, then eased over to the side of the road, his hands tight on the wheel.

  Behind him, the van parked as well, then shut off its siren, although its lights continued to flash. Karvonen studied the van in the mirror. It was hard to tell, but there seemed to be only one man inside. The officer did not emerge at once. Instead, he remained behind the wheel, visible only in outline, although it looked to Karvonen as if he was talking on his radio.

  Karvonen glanced from side to side. They had halted in an area only a few steps from the entrance to the park. The street ahead was empty. Through the snow, he could see the outlines of a deserted café. Aside from the sound of his radio, which he now switched off, everything was silent.

  At last the door of the van opened, and the man behind the wheel climbed out. Karvonen watched in the mirror as the officer shut the door, then came closer, a flashlight, turned off, in his hands. As the officer approached, Karvonen kept an eye on him. Very slowly, he reached up and unzipped his jacket partway. Then he put his hands back on the steering wheel.

  When the officer was close enough, Karvonen pressed the switch on his armrest to roll down the window. With snow and cold air already beginning to drift through the gap, he gave a nod to what turned out to be a junior constable. “Good evening. Anything wrong?”

  “Hands on the wheel, please,” the constable said, turning on his flashlight. Karvonen squinted into the glare. Even with his eyes half shut, he could tell that this was nothing but a kid in winter blues, not yet thirty, the customary Glock holstered at his side. After looking him over for another moment, the constable turned the light off. “Please step out of the car.”

  Karvonen gestured at the storm, as if the other man had failed to notice it. “Is this really necessary? If I’ve done anything wrong—”

  “Please step out of the car, sir,” the constable said flatly. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  After a pause, Karvonen opened his door and, with the air of a man who has resolved to be helpful, climbed out of the car, hands raised. Feeling snow trickling down his collar, he relaxed his face into an expression of harmless goodwill. “There must be some kind of mistake.”

  The constable, standing three paces away, put a hand on his sidearm, but did not draw it. “Is your name Dale Stern?”

  Karvonen’s smile only widened, but he knew at once that his cover had been blown. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Turn around and put your hands on top of the car,” the constable said. “Slowly.”

  “All right, but I still don’t see why.” Karvonen began to turn, his eyes passing unhurriedly across the scene. The street was still empty. There was no sign of movement in the park. After noting all these things, he completed his turn, then made as if to put his hands on the roof. Instead of doing so, however, he simply slid a hand into his jacket and drew the gun from its holster.

  He pivoted back, gun already cocked and raised, and found himself looking into the constable’s startled eyes. Before the other man had a chance to move, Karvonen pulled the trigger twice.

  The sound of the shots was swallowed up by snow. A pair of holes appeared in the constable’s thick jacket, one at the center of his sternum, the other an inch or so lower. The two men stood eye to eye for another moment. Then the constable crumpled to the ground.

  Karvonen holstered his pistol. At first, looking down at the body, he did not quite understand the line he had crossed. All he could think about was the constable’s final question. The police knew the name on his passport, which meant that they also knew his car. To get out of the city, he would need to abandon the vehicle and find another way to the harbor. From here to the terminal, he estimated, was half a mile by foot. Meaning that he had to leave now.

  He turned away from the dead man. Behind him, the driver’s-side door was still open. Reaching inside, he unlocked the rear door and opened it. On the backseat lay the carrying case with the shotgun inside. He pulled out this bag and slung it over his shoulder, then shut the door.

  Karvonen was about to head around to the trunk when the rear passenger window disintegrated. He turned, his mind just catching up with the sound of the gunshot, and saw that the constable was lying on his stomach in the snow, looking up at him, his elbows braced against the ground. The constable’s face was pale, his grip on the pistol wavering, but there was a grim determination in his eyes as he aimed the gun as best he could and fired again.

  The second shot was closer. Karvonen felt the breath of the bullet against the side of his face as another window shattered. The constable re
adied a third shot, correcting his aim by a fraction of an inch, but by now Karvonen’s own pistol was out, and it was with a sense of something like incredulous indignation that he raised the gun and put one last bullet through the constable’s head.

  With that, the constable collapsed a second time, his strings cut. The fresh streak of red visible against the snow caused something inside Karvonen to snap. His gun still in hand, he went up to the dead man and kicked the Glock away. Then, furious, he began to kick the body itself, its limbs flopping uselessly against the ground, making angels in the powder.

  “You idiot,” Karvonen hissed at the countryman he had killed. “You stupid shit—”

  He kicked the body harder, his anger rising as he perceived the full meaning of what he had done. A third kick sent a dart of pain arrowing up his right leg. He cursed, sensing that he had hurt something, but was still about to deliver a final kick when he heard shouts in the distance.

  Karvonen looked up. For an instant, the curtain of snow parted, giving him a view of the scene on the other side of the canal. Across the narrow slice of water, a row of figures was yelling and pointing in his direction.

  “Good,” Karvonen said to himself, knowing that he was dangerously on the verge of losing control. Holstering his pistol, he shouldered the bag with the shotgun and headed away from his car, the headlights of which were still blazing into the darkness. Following his first instinct, he headed uphill, moving into the park. With every step, the pain in his leg increased.

  He forced himself to think. The ferry terminal was to the east. Up ahead, veiled by snow and wind, he could see the outline of the cathedral, a tower of brick, its copper spire topped by an onion dome. As he looked up at it now, he saw that if he continued in this direction, he would end up at the far end of the park. From there, he could proceed to the harbor.