“How intense?” Turunen asked.
“I was looking at him through the sights of my Glock, and he had a detonator in his hand. The dynamite was strapped around the judge’s body, and I came to the conclusion that, under the circumstances, I wouldn’t be able to bring the situation to a peaceful resolution.”
“Good call,” Turunen said.
“Yeah, maybe. In any case, I got the woman out of the house. She was pretty hysterical, but I got the basics out of her. Repo had broken into the house and woken both of them in the bedroom. She didn’t have any idea who the intruder was, but it had turned out that he had something to do with her husband’s work. He repeatedly claimed to be innocent of some murder.”
“What about the dynamite?” Turunen asked.
“Slim, light-brown sticks that had been strung around Fredberg in some sort of harness. There were wires leading to the detonator in Repo’s hand.”
“What sort of detonator?” Turunen continued, as an ambulance curved onto the field.
“Guess how hard I was trying to figure that out while I had a bead on Repo’s forehead.”
“You didn’t see whether Repo was pressing a button or switch down or whether his finger was on top of it?”
Suhonen looked seriously at Turunen. “If I would’ve been sure it wouldn’t go off when his finger was released from the switch, I would’ve taken the shot. Definitely. I didn’t dare take the chance, because that could’ve meant three bodies.”
Turunen nodded. “Okay. Another good call. Did he have a firearm?”
“Didn’t see one. The woman mentioned a knife, but he didn’t have it in his hand when I saw him.”
Turunen continued his quizzing. “Was Repo drunk or high?”
“Not noticeably, at least.”
Joutsamo asked from the back seat, “Where’s the wife now?”
“Ambulance took her to the hospital. I don’t know which one.”
“Okay,” Takamäki said. “And assess Repo’s state of mind for us.”
“Hmm, what could I say about that,” Suhonen said. “There were probably several pounds of dynamite on those harnesses, so I’d consider him really damn dangerous. He didn’t present any demands, so I’d assume this is some sort of vendetta. Did this Fredberg preside over Repo’s case?”
Joutsamo nodded in the back seat. “Yeah. Fredberg was chair of the Kouvola appeals court when Repo was resentenced to life in prison.”
“So a vendetta,” Turunen huffed. “Suicidal?”
Suhonen shrugged. “The woman remembered him having said, ‘I don’t have any reason to die, but I don’t have any reason to live, either.’ And, he said the same thing to me, but he didn’t blow us up once I got the woman out of there, so in that sense we still might have a chance.”
“Okay,” Takamäki said. “Suhonen, you can get out of here. We don’t need you anymore, and you can’t be involved, given your confrontation with Repo.”
Suhonen smiled. “Hey, I’m not going to argue with you. So I can go take a hot shower now?”
Takamäki nodded, and Suhonen left. After a couple of steps, he stopped. “Oh yeah, I think I’m going to head straight home and return the car tomorrow.”
“Get out of here,” Takamäki said, turning to Joutsamo. “What’s your analysis of the situation?”
“That was basically it. Repo sees Fredberg as having unjustly convicted him of murder. Repo’s father’s death triggered something, and whether he planned it or it was a momentary impulse, Repo decided to escape. Evidently Repo has been staying at his father’s neighbor’s Karppi’s place, who was found dead this morning. At the moment, we don’t know whether Repo was involved in Karppi’s death. We might want to remember that, at least based on my investigation, the guy could actually be innocent in this old case.”
Turunen looked at Joutsamo. “You’re saying he might’ve been innocent and still was sentenced to life?”
“Quite possibly. Even likely,” Joutsamo said.
“And he sat for eight years? Shit, he might be pretty goddamn bitter. If he’s actually sober in there, then the situation’s pretty bad.”
“The thing that makes it even worse is that thirty pounds of dynamite was stolen from a construction site after Repo’s escape and hasn’t been recovered. The explosives could well be from there. Thirty pounds makes a pretty big bang.”
Takamäki’s gaze circled his colleagues inside and outside the van. “Okay. The chief justice is still alive, and Repo didn’t kill Suhonen either, so we might have some negotiating room. Does anyone have any other questions about the background?”
Everyone shook their heads. Outside, a few officers in uniform were hooking up a generator to the lead van and the other vehicles containing all the hi-tech equipment. The team’s computers, radios, and other equipment devoured so much current that the vans weren’t able to generate it themselves, even with their engines running.
“Good. Like Turunen said, we’re up shit creek, but we’re going to make it through this. Helmikoski,” Takamäki said, turning toward the stout man. “What’s the situation now?”
The on-duty lieutenant pulled out a notebook from his breast pocket and flipped through it. “The area has been almost fully cleared. Marina Road has been cordoned off at both ends, and the houses in the vicinity have been evacuated. A police boat has been called in to patrol the water, but it might take an hour or two to get here. So the area is relatively secure, although our command center might be a little too close. As I recall, at construction sites, the safety distance for two pounds of dynamite is about 200 yards, and now we’re less than a hundred yards from that house. And we have men a lot closer. Of course the building would block some of a blast, too.”
“Well, we can’t pull our men out of there until things get really acute,” Takamäki reflected. “Helmets on, everyone.”
“And anti-radiation blankets,” Helmikoski added. “Protects you from the sleet, too.”
“Looks like we’ll have to cut off the expressway and expand the evacuation zone around those nearby homes as well, but let’s call in some expert from the Army or the Safety and Chemicals Agency,” Takamäki said. He didn’t have a precise understanding of the damage a thirty-pound dynamite charge would cause if it detonated inside the house, but he remembered the car bomb that had exploded a few years back in downtown Helsinki. Eight pounds of dynamite had obliterated the car and caused relatively heavy damage to nearby buildings. “Helmikoski, look into these safety zone issues and cut off the expressway.”
“Okay, we’ll set up detours at the Lemissaari and Katajaharju exits.”
Turunen jumped in. “That Lemissaari exit might be too close. It might be better to cut off the expressway back in town and route traffic across the old bridge and along Lauttasaari Road. We’ve also called in TeBo. Their bomb squad will be here as soon as they get their equipment together.” TeBo was an abbreviation for the national Terrorist Bomb unit.
“If this goes on till morning, we’re going to have huge traffic jams,” Helmikoski said.
“Not our problem,” Takamäki replied. “Turunen, what’s the situation in the immediate vicinity of the house?”
“I have eight men stationed around the house. No one will get out without being noticed, but we don’t have the men for a raid. We can bring in another group in a few hours, and then we’ll have the men to go in, too. Since the guy’s a former army explosives expert, that dynamite is ready to blow. Suhonen didn’t see a firearm, but the risk of course lies in the detonator. If it’s the kind that detonates when the finger is lifted off it, we’ve got one hell of a situation on our hands. Usually those switches have some sort of safety, because no one has the concentration to press a button for hours and hours, but the detonator’s still easy to activate, of course. If the standoff continues and he falls asleep, that obviously means the safety is on, but how are we going to know for sure when he’s sleeping in there?”
“Do we have a listening device in the house?”
“Not yet,” Turunen said. “We’re bringing them in as we speak, and once they get here we’ll plant a few on windows. We’ll be able to hear what’s being said inside, and if we hear any snoring, then that’s when we should strike. We’re also bringing a mobile base station, so we can listen in on all cell-phone communication in the area. We’re getting the blueprints for the house, too.”
“Okay,” Takamäki said. “If we had to go inside now, what would be our chance of success?”
Turunen’s expression was grave. “Elimination of the target would be inevitable, and because we don’t know what kind of detonator it is, my best guess is the hostage would have a 50 percent chance of survival. Since we’re dealing with a bomb, the survival probability is that same 50 percent for the policemen entering the building.”
“So it’s not a suitable alternative at the moment, but have a plan ready to go just in case we need it, and have the men entering wearing bomb suits, just in case.”
“Right,” Turunen said. “They’re not comfortable for hours on end, so if things heat up, let me know.”
“Sure.”
Joutsamo felt like mentioning Fredberg’s criminal-coddling interviews. You’d think he’d know how to handle this Repo himself: all he’d have to do is promise him money and a place to live. What did he need the police for?
“So our plan is to let things cool off,” Takamäki clarified. “Let’s allow Repo to settle down, and I’ll contact him by phone. Time is on our side.”
“Should we cut off electricity to the house?” Turunen asked.
Takamäki shook his head. “No. We might need some media assistance here,” he said, glancing at Joutsamo. “Give Römpötti a call.”
Turunen gave Takamäki a perplexed look. “The reporter?”
“Yup. Let’s see if we can defuse his bitterness that way. Helmikoski, when the press starts arriving, set up a lemonade stand over on the far side of the expressway where the reporters can get their information. I’ll try to drop by at some point. The photographers will grouse for a chance to get closer. Let’s promise them a tour at some point, because I don’t want them to start fooling around on that old ski jump,” Takamäki said, gesturing at the hill rising behind him.
“Just so you know, it was torn down thirty-four years ago, back in 1973,” Helmikoski noted.
“What?” Takamäki asked.
“The ski jump,” Helmikoski said in a snarky tone. “But guess what the record was?”
Takamäki, Joutsamo, and Suhonen shot looks of disbelief at the on-duty lieutenant.
“Um, tell us,” Takamäki said.
“96 feet, 9 inches,” Helmikoski said, proud of his knowledge.
Takamäki looked out the van window toward the hill. “Really?”
Helmikoski nodded.
“In Herttoniemi we did 160-footers.”
“Wasn’t the Olympics,” Turunen noted. “I’ll get us keys to the locker room at the soccer field. We’ll make it our break room. We probably won’t even have to wait too long to get a coffeemaker in there.”
* * *
Repo cautiously glanced out into the front yard through the kitchen curtains. The streetlamp on Marina Road was off. He could see the cars down at the soccer field, but couldn’t make out anything closer up. Repo knew that the police were out there, though.
The house was dark, because Repo didn’t want to give the police any unnecessary advantage. Light shone from the aquarium in the living room, as he hadn’t been able to figure out how to turn off the timer. On the other hand, it was good that the house wasn’t totally dark. The police had night-vision equipment. He didn’t.
Repo carefully closed the curtain. The arrival of the police officer with long hair had thrown off his plans. Had Saarnikangas squealed on him after all? Originally he was going to leave Fredberg and his wife in the house and set up the dynamite on a timer to go off in an hour. That was no longer possible. Plenty had gone awry: Karppi’s death and now this hostage situation. He needed to come up with a new plan, but thinking gave him a headache.
Fredberg sat in a chair less than ten feet away. Repo had tied him to it with double zip ties, tightly pulled around both wrists and ankles, and then looped around the chair. There was no way Fredberg could wriggle free.
The judge sat still in the chair, and a ten-foot wire led from the strapped explosives to Repo’s detonator. The device, which was about the size of a TV remote, lay on the table. Repo had left the safety on.
Fredberg’s gaze followed Repo incessantly. Repo sat down at the table and picked up the detonator. “Are you afraid of dying?”
“I don’t know,” the judge said. His forehead itched, but he couldn’t scratch it. “I’ve never thought about it in terms of being afraid, because it’s inevitable, a given fact.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, although I consider myself a Christian by convention rather than conviction.”
Repo stared Fredberg in the eye. The judge was trying to look somehow dignified, even though his hair was a mess and he was wearing nothing more than pajamas.
“I lost my faith in God eight years ago.”
“What hap…?” Fredberg started, quickly swallowing the rest of the sentence.
“Were you going to ask what happened?”
“I was, but I already figured out the answer.”
Repo didn’t immediately respond.
“Who was it who said, ‘That which is not just and fair may not be law’?”
“What do you mean?”
“Answer!” Repo roared, causing Fredberg to flinch.
“Olaus Petri, of course. In the 1530s. All judges know that.”
“I read those principles in the prison library. They compared judges to God.”
“Yes, well.” Fredberg chose his words with care. “I’d say that’s reading a little too much into it.”
Repo’s eyes remained locked on Fredberg’s. “Because the judge is charged by God to judge rightly, he must strive with all his might to know what justice is,” Repo cited from memory. “The judge acts at God’s command.”
Fredberg didn’t dare to contradict him. “I believe that’s correct.”
“God urges us to mercy, and according to Olaus Petri, justice must include mercy as well.”
“I fully agree with you.”
“So why wasn’t any shown in my case?”
Fredberg tried to remember the case, but he couldn’t recall the details.
“If the court acted wrongly, that can be corrected. I can personally look into the case and act as your advocate.”
“You should have advocated for me eight years ago,” Repo said. “Now it’s my turn to be the judge.”
* * *
Sitting alone in the lead vehicle, Joutsamo dug her cell phone from her pocket. Takamäki, Turunen, and Helmikoski had gone for a round to get a better picture of the situation. The snow had turned to rain, but slush still covered the ground.
The number rang six times before a sleepy voice answered. “Römpötti.”
“Good morning!” Joutsamo said, feigning perkiness.
“Anna, what the hell?” the reporter growled. “It’s three in the morning.”
“That’s right, We’ve still got an hour to play before the bars close. Come party.”
“Give me a break,” Römpötti moaned. “I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep all week. And now I probably won’t be able to fall back asleep.”
Joutsamo was amused by how slowly the human brain worked when it was roused from slumber. “Come on! Let’s go!”
“No!” Römpötti shouted. “No way!”
Joutsamo decided to end her teasing. The risk was that Römpötti would hang up and turn off her phone. “Listen. It’s about work. Are you sure you’re awake?”
“Work? At this hour?”
“Yup. Cops never sleep.”
“Neither do reporters, at least not this one. Tell me,” Römpötti said, her voice more alert.
“We found the escaped convict in Lauttasaari. He’s holed up in a house on Marina Road . There’s a pretty big police operation going on here.”
A slapping sound filled the air. Joutsamo glanced up and saw a red helicopter landing further down the soccer field. The air current from the rotors whipped the water-drops harder into the van’s windshield.
“The air ambulance just arrived.”
“Holy shit! I’ll call a cameraman and be right over.”
“There’s one more thing. He has a hostage.”
“Wow. That’s not good. You know who it is?”
“Yes. Fredberg, chief justice of the Supreme Court.”
Römpötti was silent for a second. “You gotta be kidding me. That’s a huge story.”
“And a serious situation.”
“Are you going to get him out of there alive?”
“We’re doing our best.”
“How close can I get? We’re going to broadcast straight from the scene.”
“Takamäki said your team can come onto the soccer field. I don’t know exactly what he has in mind.”
Römpötti’s voice was thoughtful, “Is that so? Are we going to be part of some police operation?”
“He’ll probably tell you more himself, but I can always call some other network and see if they want to bring a van up on the field.”
“We’re on our way.”
Joutsamo looked at the helicopter, which had cut its engine. The blades of the rotor still spun, drooping lazily. All of the ingredients for a massive catastrophe were in place.
CHAPTER 20
THURSDAY, 4:10 A.M.
LAUTTASAARI, HELSINKI
Turunen brought a thermos into the lead van and produced three paper cups from his pocket. “Sorry, all I got was coffee. Black, no sugar.”
“No worries,” Joutsamo said. She was sitting at the computer. Takamäki was next to her.
“None at all,” he agreed.
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