by Paul Levine
Ahead of me, Kharchenko crossed a walkway of rough-hewn Jerusalem stone. The setting sun was a fireball that shot sparks across the semicircular black granite wall. The reflecting pool seemed ablaze, as if flaming oil had been poured on the water.
The Japanese were peering at the wall, which was etched with photographs of the horrors of the Holocaust. I followed Kharchenko slowly around the exhibit, walking under wooden trellises laced with white bougainvillea vines, aware of the contrast between this peaceful garden and the tortured exhibits, which so fascinated the tourists.
Kharchenko paused to read the words etched into the granite. I couldn’t tell if he was waiting for someone, or if he was genuinely interested. I examined the etchings, too, recoiling at the photos of emaciated bodies in the death camps, reading the familiar inscription by Anne Frank: “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” I passed two bearded men dressed in black suits and black hats, their heads bent, their lips moving in silent prayer.
I followed Kharchenko through a narrow tunnel with a lowered ceiling, a claustrophobic place that displayed the names of Auschwitz, Dachau, Buchenwald, and the others. Then I came into the open where a towering bronze sculpture of a tattooed arm reached toward the sky. Clambering up the arm were tormented bronze figures of parents and children, the aged and infants, all crying out in pain and despair, portraits in misery. An outstretched hand at the top of the sculpture seemed to represent both despair and hope. This was a piece of art I understood, at once exquisite and heinous, a nightmare that was reality.
***
I saw her before he did. She stood near the lily-covered pool, watching the reflection of the towering arm in the rippling sun-tinted water. The long platinum hair peeked out from under a white hat with a broad brim and a black velvet band on which was fastened a black velvet rose. The A-line skirt was knee-length and white with black snaps down the front. The snaps were undone to mid-thigh. The matching top had long, puffy sleeves and the same black snaps down the middle. Her shoes were black with stiletto heels, and lifted her to an even six feet, give or take an inch. Black wraparound sunglasses shielded her eyes, and a black leather bag hung on a strap from her shoulder.
Kharchenko walked toward her. She didn’t nod, toss her arms around him, or kiss him hello. Neither said a word. The Russian simply moved to her side, and they strolled to a nearby concrete bench and sat down.
I took up a position behind them, where I could read the names on the memorial wall and watch the back of Kharchenko’s head at the same time. He leaned close to the blonde and whispered in her ear. She nodded, glanced to one side, reached down, opened her bag, and handed him an envelope. He slipped it into his inside coat pocket without looking at it. From the other pocket, he removed a document and gave it to her. She placed it in her purse. Then Kharchenko opened his carry-on bag, reached inside, and removed a cardboard tube. He seemed to offer it to her, but she shook her head. He shrugged and replaced the tube in his bag.
She touched her hand to the side of her face and pushed her long straight hair back under her hat, and her head turned my way. She seemed to be scanning the area. I got a quick look at her profile—fair skin, an upturned nose—as I lowered my head and raised my Wall Street Journal. I turned a couple of pages. Pork bellies seemed to be doing very well. When I looked up again, Kharchenko was standing. He grabbed his leather bag, said something that might have been good-bye, then turned and headed back toward his waiting taxicab.
Which left me with a choice.
Follow the Russian or follow the blonde. Which wasn’t much of a choice after all.
She didn’t take a taxi or get into a car. She walked. She had a fine, tall-lady walk. I stayed twenty-five yards behind, and she never looked back. She kept up a good pace, heading south on Meridian toward Flamingo Park. Soon, my knee throbbed. Spending all night cramped in an airport chair was not the recommended therapy. I kept my position behind her, thinking about a hot whirlpool, remembering twin cheerleaders a dozen years earlier who thought it would be fun to dump bubble bath into the tub. It was.
I could hear the soft thwock of tennis ball against racket as we approached the park. Then she turned left on Espanola Way, and I followed, staying a bit closer, admiring the muscular curve of her calves, undulating under the white skirt. She crossed a street against the light. She ducked behind a produce truck that was headed toward the Ocean Drive restaurants. I picked up my tempo again. She kept up a good pace. The lady had done some walking in her time. Maybe some sports, too. I watched the bag swing on her shoulder. Whatever Kharchenko gave her was in there.
At the corner of Espanola and Washington Avenue, a small crowd milled through a dozen stands at an outdoor farmer’s market. The blonde lingered in front of a wooden box of yellow and orange mangoes. I came up beside her, reached into the bin, and pulled one up, bringing it under my nose. A rich and lusty fragrance, the skin yielding to the touch. “Nearly ripe,” I said.
She turned and peered at me over the top of her sunglasses. From her expression, she might have been looking at a two-hundred-thirty-six-pound cockroach.
“Better than peaches, if you ask me,” I said.
“I didn’t,” she replied, turned, and walked on.
She passed up the avocados, lychee nuts, and carambolas, and so did I. She crossed Washington, heading toward Collins and the ocean, then turned abruptly into a cramped alley behind a Thai restaurant. I thought for a moment I might lose her, so I broke into a jog and turned the corner, the fragrance of ginger sauces heavy in the air. Then I stopped dead, not six inches from her. She stood near a Dumpster, facing me, hands on hips, scowling.
She said something in a language that sounded like loud snoring. It had a lot of k’s and t’s and, whatever the tongue, probably was the equivalent of, “What kind of asshole are you?”
I didn’t respond. I just looked at her. Pretty. Pouty lips. Blond hair spilling out of the white hat. She looked familiar, but behind the sunglasses, I couldn’t place . . .
“Kusipaa!” she yelled at me. “Idiootti!”
She took a half-step toward me and snap-kicked a knee into my groin. The pain was a spear straight through the spine. I doubled over, and she let fly a fist that came from her hip in a half-circular movement, the mawashi-zuki in karate. This time I saw it coming and pivoted the other way, twisting my bad knee. The punch glanced off my temple but I was off balance, and a second later, I was flat on my back in a puddle of foul-smelling water coming from the Dumpster. I looked up at her with my best choirboy demeanor. “Okay, so you don’t like mangoes.”
“You son of a bitch!” she yowled, with a tiny lilt of a singsong accent. She moved back a step and peppered me with three or four kicks in the ribs. The ribs might have hurt if my crotch hadn’t claimed an exclusive on agony. I got to my knees, reached out and grabbed a slim ankle that was attached to a foot that was trying to kick my brains through my ear. I yanked hard and down she came, right on her nicely tailored rump. The hat spun off her head and the sunglasses slid down her nose.
“Alypaa!”
I kept hold of the ankle and yanked again, as she tried kicking me with the other foot. I dragged her toward me and gave the ankle a twist until she yelled. Then I hopped on top, straddling her, pinning her arms to the cool stones and sitting on her rib cage. Her pale hair was swirled across her mouth, and she looked at me with very blue, very angry eyes.
“Get off me, you big slug!”
“I believe the expression is big lug.”
“Paskianen! You weigh a ton.”
“And you kick like a mule.”
I heard a door bang open and looked up to see an Asian man in a kitchen smock staring at us from the rear of the restaurant. “It’s okay,” I said. “We’re married.”
“I would rather be dead,” she spat, and the man ducked back inside.
She was breathing hard, so I eased a little weight off her. As I did, she tried to buck me off. I kept both hands arou
nd her wrists, and pushed her back down. She struggled again, and I dug my right thumb into the ulnar nerve of her left forearm. Wincing, she fell back.
She shook her head, tossing a long strand of hair out of her face. Then I saw it, a gold pendant on a necklace. A rabbit holding a red egg flecked with tiny diamonds. I looked up from the necklace to her full lips, and it was slowly coming back to me. A blonde in a white bathing suit in the surf. “Jillian from Minnesota! What are you doing here?”
“It’s Eva-Lisa from Helsinki. I’m a Suopo agent.”
“Sue-poh?”
“The Finnish Intelligence Agency, you moron.”
“I don’t believe this. I thought you were a sunburned tourist who wanted a windsurfing lesson.”
“A lesson! From you? Toope! I won the Scandinavian freestyle championship three years in a row. Tell me, what makes men so vain and stupid?”
Practice, I thought.
I stared into her arctic blue eyes trying to figure it out. A windsurfing lass from Finland frolics in the water off Miami Beach, pretending she needs a lesson. Now, she’s playing games with a Russian who most likely held a potato in front of the gun that shot Francisco Crespo. Small world, isn’t it?
“Jillian . . . Eva-Lisa, whoever you are, what are you doing here?” I asked, and not for the first time.
“I told you, I’m on assignment. I am working. What are you doing here?”
I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. I didn’t have a clue.
18
TEARS OF REINDEERS
“You work for Yagamata,” I said, dusting myself off.
We had untangled, said mutual apologies, and were walking toward Ocean Drive. She shook her head. “For the Finnish government under contract to Yagamata, who in turn works for your government.”
No wonder I couldn’t tell the players without a scorecard. “What are you, some kind of spy?”
That made her laugh. “I am little more than a clerk.”
“What were you doing with Kharchenko?”
“Making him a delivery boy for Yagamata.”
“I don’t get it.”
She looked at me from under the white hat and dark glasses. Though I couldn’t see her eyes, I thought they were appraising me. “I am not sure I can trust you.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you, or if I wasn’t, I should have been. The way I figure it, you’re part of a conspiracy to steal Russian art.”
“Nothing is as simple as it seems,” she said.
“Tell me about it. Tell me why an old friend of mine got killed and why I’m getting set up.”
“Give me some time,” she said. “Maybe we are on the same side.” We stopped in front of the News Cafe on Ocean Drive, and she motioned me toward a silver Saab parked at the curb. I let her unlock my door, and I settled into the seat, buckling the shoulder harness.
Eva-Lisa got behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and asked, “Do you know what tonight is?”
“Sunday,” I said, “June twenty.”
“Seuraasaari. Midsommareldarna. Midsummer’s Eve, a national holiday in my country. It is the way we welcome the longest day of the year. In Helsinki tonight it will be cool and clear, and it will not grow dark. The sun will seem to set, but it will hover at the horizon, casting a most beautiful glow. Then it will slowly rise again.”
Of course, Finland, land of the midnight sun.
She swung the car into traffic, heading south past all the trendy sidewalk cafes. “You probably know of the Finnish community in Lake Worth.” When I nodded, she continued. “My father has a house there. It is reminiscent of our home in Tapiola. Very Finnish, made of stone and wood, an authentic sauna on the edge of the lake. My family is in Spain on holiday, and I was going to spend the night alone. If you would like, you may be my guest at the festivities tonight. Just a bonfire, some folk songs, and dancing, but we can talk there about Yagamata and Kharchenko if you wish.”
It sounded better than being chased by Robert Foley, so I said fine, and we turned onto Fifth Street, which led us to the MacArthur Causeway. The ferry to Fisher Island was just pulling out, taking home all the rich folks who need a moat to protect them from the realities of life. We passed the real estate developers’ dreams of Star Island and Palm Island, dredged landfills transformed into million-dollar lots. On the Miami side of Biscayne Bay, we swung onto 1-95 and headed due north. Lake Worth is a few miles south of Palm Beach, a straight shot on the expressway. If I were looking for me, it would be the last place I would look. But then, I wasn’t looking for me. Somebody else was.
***
Despite its substantial Finnish population, Lake Worth is not Helsinki. At midnight, the sun was not hovering on the horizon. The air was not crisp and cool. There was no lemon glow across the water. Instead, mosquitoes hummed around the mercury vapor lamps on the patio behind the large flagstone house. Still, it was pleasant enough, a quiet, placid place unlike Miami. Beyond the patio, a lawn sloped toward a lake. A three-quarter moon hung in the eastern sky, casting a pearly glow on the dark water. A hint of a breeze kept the temperature tolerable, though the air was soggy with tropical humidity. From the rear of the house, a stone path led down the lawn to a small building made of pine. The building sat at the edge of the lake on a wooden dock, and a chimney poked out of the roof. The sauna, my hostess told me, pronouncing it sow-na.
She looked across the water toward a small island. A band played what I took to be Finnish folk songs. Children’s voices carried across the bay. On an outcropping of rock at the island’s shoreline, dozens of trees were lashed together in a pyramid. A dinghy was tied on top, fifty feet above the water.
“It is almost time for the bonfire,” Eva-Lisa said. She had changed into khaki shorts and a matching blouse, and was reclining in a chaise lounge made of light wood and covered with a blue cushion. I sat in a matching straight-back chair looking at her pale, muscular legs.
She told me her father, Reino Haavikko, was in Finnish intelligence, an expert on what used to be the Soviet Union. Then she gave me a quick history lesson. Since the end of World War II, living in the shadow of the Russian bear, Finland has walked a tightrope. It was a Western democracy toeing a line of neutrality while paying homage to its massive, dangerous neighbor.
She said something in Finnish and then translated. “The only good thing from the east is the vodka.” The Finns scorn the Russians for their inefficiency and laziness but dread their armaments and temperament. “Finlandization” became a catchword for the way to get along with the Soviets when the U.S.S.R. was a fearful entity. When the Union broke apart, Finland and the other Scandinavian countries were the first to recognize the independent Baltic states. Now, after more than forty-five years of tiptoeing around the Russians, Finland was ready to profit from them. Along with the rest of the West, the Finns were queuing up to build factories and apartment buildings, to sell tractors and hamburgers and VCR’s to a nation starving for decent shoes, microwave ovens, and Nintendo games.
She poured a red drink from a pitcher. I took a sip. Syrup with a kick. “Poron kyynel,” she said, hoisting her glass.
“Cheers,” I returned.
“No. What you are drinking is Finlandia with lingonberry juice. We call it poron kyynel, tears of reindeers.”
Earlier, she had fed me a platter of four different kinds of herring, a Finnish favorite, plus salmon soup with vegetables and a casserole of potatoes, ham, eggs, and anchovies. Sturdy country fare. While I ate, she apologized again for practicing her placekicking against my ribs. I had looked vaguely familiar, a Russian perhaps, someone dangerous who hadn’t been bought by Yagamata. When I asked what she meant, she clammed up. She seemed to be bursting with the desire to tell me what I wanted to know and more, but something was holding her back.
I had showered and changed into a pair of her father’s gray pants that were too big and a white short-sleeve shirt that was too small. The drink was too sweet but bearable. The company was attractiv
e but evasive. I wasn’t getting anywhere except slightly potted. I like to think of myself as an astute questioner. I can be deft and subtle, can parry and thrust. But sometimes I just wade right in.
“Okay, Eva-Lisa, I’m getting different stories about what’s going on, so how about setting me straight. What were you doing in Miami, and what’s happening here? Who’s behind the theft of Russian art and what’s Yagamata really up to? What’s Kharchenko doing here, and what’s arriving on the freighter? Why did Kharchenko kill Crespo, and why am I being set up for his murder?”
She looked genuinely puzzled. “I don’t know any Crespo. . . .” If that’s all she didn’t know, what she knew could fill a book. “As for what is arriving on the freighter,” she continued, “the manifest says Finnish lumber.”
“And what do you say?”
She smiled enigmatically. “I will answer your questions if you will answer mine.”
I nodded.
“What is on the freighter is the most valuable collection of artwork ever assembled in one place. Ever! It is from the Hermitage and other museums in Russia. My job was inventory control in Helsinki. Today, Kharchenko gave me the bills of lading showing what arrived here. An exact match, the paintings, the jewelry, the historic artifacts. No pilferage, no damage. I always did my job well, except when Yagamata stole a little something here and there, and I had no control over that.” She looked toward the island. The sound of children singing drifted across the lake. “Tell me about Mr. Crespo.”
“He used to hand out towels in a locker room, and lately he’d been working in a warehouse owned by Yagamata. First he gets charged with murdering a Russian named Smorodinsky, then—”
“Who?” She spilled a drop of her blood-red drink.
“Another guy who worked for Yagamata. Smorod—”
“Vladimir or Nikolai?” she asked. Her voice cracked.