Eli’s face darkened. He was afraid his little brother would shame him in front of the congregation bigwig.
“Ari, don’t make this too hard for us.”
It was my turn to glance at my watch.
“If you’ve got something on your mind, spit it out. I’m investigating a murder case and I’ve got a lot on my plate.”
Silberstein fiddled with his wristwatch. It was gold and looked like the kind that a faithful employee got for working at the same company for thirty years or turning sixty.
“We’re not outsiders. We come to you as Jews who want to protect our long-suffering people and the members of our congregation, including your relatives, friends and acquaintances, from violence.”
“I want to protect everyone from violence.”
“But you’re also a Jew, you can’t avoid that fact. By helping us, you also help your people.”
“True, I’m a Jew, which is why I’m not going to buy a pig in a poke.”
Silberstein glanced at Eli. The red of Eli’s face deepened. The expression I had used had been mildly inappropriate.
“I never would have believed that your brother would joke about such a serious matter,” Silberstein said. “I knew your father, your mother. Your uncle is my good friend, and I attended your bar mitzvah. Why are you doing this to me?”
Eli took me by the elbow and squeezed hard. “Ari, this is really serious.”
“You mean you think I should commit an act of criminal misconduct without knowing what this is all about? That sounds like a bad deal to me.”
Silberstein pointed at me. His forefinger bore a ring with a black stone in it.
“Am I to believe my ears? You don’t trust the chair of your congregation and your older brother, a counsellor at law?”
“I’ll ask you the same question. Don’t you trust me?”
Silberstein’s hand clenched into a fist. If I had been a boy, he would have grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and shaken me or twisted my ear.
“If you have information that I, as an officer of the law and the lead investigator on the case, should know, then tell me,” I said. “Otherwise…”
Eli glanced at Silberstein. I gulped down my coffee and stood.
“It was nice seeing you two.”
I managed to take two steps before a cry from Eli stopped me.
“Ari, don’t go!”
I turned around and sat back down.
I could tell from Silberstein’s expression that he was no longer my friend, bar mitzvah or no.
“What I’m about to tell you is confidential. Your brother and I are responsible for security matters at the congregation. That’s why we want to know if anything has come up during the investigation to indicate violence against the congregation or the synagogue.”
I looked at Eli, both slightly surprised and at the same time amused. Eli was the last person I would have pictured as the sword and shield of the congregation. He was exceptionally timid and terrified of all forms of physical violence. I was also surprised because Silberstein had just revealed that some sort of security organization existed within the congregation. There had been rumours for years, but no one had ever confirmed them. The official line was that the police and SUPO answered for all security matters related to the congregation.
“I’d like to know what answering for the security matters means in practice,” I said.
“That’s not relevant now,” Silberstein replied, his lips pursed.
For Eli’s sake, I made a conciliatory gesture.
“Neither the congregation nor the synagogue have been mentioned in any way.”
“There are all kinds of rumours going around,” Eli insisted.
“I’d love to hear them.”
“According to the rumours, two of the dead Arabs were al-Qaeda terrorists and our synagogue was their target.”
“It’s news to me.”
Silberstein looked at me dubiously. Doing so was clearly inherent to his nature.
“We have reliable sources,” he noted, stressing the word reliable.
“Then your reliable sources know more than the police do. What else do they know?”
I looked at my brother expectantly.
“There’s talk of weapons and explosives that have been smuggled to Finland for the terrorist strike.”
“If that’s the case, that’s Security Police territory.”
My mobile rang. I glanced at it. It was Huovinen.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I answered.
“Come straight to my room.”
I placed my phone on the table.
“Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?”
“But the timing,” Silberstein insisted. “I don’t believe in coincidences in matters like this, and even if I did, I always assume the worst.”
“What timing?” I wondered.
“The New Year and Yom Kippur.”
“They happen every year.”
“But the Israeli foreign minister doesn’t visit our synagogue every year.”
“It’s true,” Huovinen said. It was drizzling and it had been since I returned to police headquarters from Hotel Pasila. I had just told him what I had heard from Silberstein.
I tried making my voice sound sarcastic. “Considering the capabilities of modern technology, communication has been pretty slow, don’t you think?”
“I know. But I haven’t been withholding information. I just heard about it myself half an hour ago, that’s why I called.”
“What’s going on?”
“The information about the visit has been kept in an extremely tight circle for security reasons. The only people who have known about it are the highest political leadership, the police command, the Security Police, a few key people from the Helsinki Jewish congregation and the Israeli embassy. The visit is completely unofficial and is taking place at the congregation’s invitation. Evidently Szybilski, the Israeli foreign minister, feels particular sympathy for the Jewish congregation here, because during the war it helped his grandfather and his family emigrate from Austria to the US through Finland.”
“So why’s the information being released after all, then?”
“Because it leaked somehow. SUPO has been getting enquiries from the press. They haven’t commented, but it’s definitely going to go public via that route. And it would come out anyway.”
“What else important has been kept from me?”
“Don’t take it personally. The same things that were kept from me. The man who was found on the bridge has now been positively ID’d as Tagi Hamid. In addition, we’ve received information that he has terrorist connections. He’s believed to have been in contact with a terrorist named Ismel Saijed, who’s being hunted as a suspect in half a dozen bombings. He was last spotted over a year ago in Syria. Then some intelligence came in that he’s in Denmark. The unidentified man who was hit by the train may be Saijed; it’s difficult to get confirmation because there are no good photos of him, or fingerprints either. There would have to be some reason for his presence here. Szybilski’s visit would fit the bill best.”
“I’m guessing the information on Tagi and Saijed didn’t come from Interpol?”
“No, from the Israeli embassy. First to SUPO, from there to the ministry, and from there to us.”
“Where did the Israeli embassy get the photos of Tagi Hamid and the other man?”
“Probably from SUPO. Routine exchange of information between security agencies, like Sillanpää said.”
“Who did you hear about Saijed from?”
“Through my own sources… OK, from Superintendent Kekkonen.”
“What else did Kekkonen tell you? Did he mention guns?”
Huovinen smiled.
“Looks like you two have the same sources. Tagi Hamid’s cousin is suspected of helping Saijed smuggle weapons and explosives into the country from Russia.”
“I’m presuming you mean the Israelis suspect him.”
“It could be that SUPO has some intelligence of their own that they’re holding back for the time being, intelligence acquired, for instance, from Russia.”
The new information roused new questions. If Ali Hamid’s cousin Tagi was a terrorist, what reason did Saijed have for killing him? I posed this question to Huovinen, too.
“I couldn’t come up with any other reason except that Saijed suspected Tagi of being a traitor and getting confirmation for his suspicions through torturing Ali Hamid.”
I couldn’t help playing the “if” game a little longer.
“If Tagi was a double-crosser, then who was footing the bill? SUPO?”
“That’s a pretty surprising wager,” Huovinen conceded. “But possible. I’ve heard that SUPO’s been trying to recruit Muslim immigrants. But the Israelis suspect that Saijed killed Tagi Hamid because Hamid and his cousin wanted to jump ship in the middle of the operation.”
“So it’s possible that the attack is still being planned?”
“So it would seem. To top it all off, the Israelis believe a big-time terrorist named Bakr is involved. He’s worked with Saijed before.”
Stenman stuck her head in the door.
“Toivola’s been trying to call you.” I had turned off my phone because I wanted to talk with Huovinen in peace. “He asked you to call him right away.”
I turned on my phone and called.
“I told that pretty constable not to take this as telephone harassment,” Toivola said. “It’s pure business. We went with the Siltala kid to the place where they jacked the Citro. I brought in a few patrols and a dog to scour the terrain. Didn’t go to waste. We found another body. Foreign. Beaten and shot in the head. Been dead twenty-four hours at most; in other words it looks like he was brought in the car that was burnt last night.”
“Where was the body found?”
“Only ten yards from the spot where those boys snatched the car, or as it says in the law books, seized it without authorization. A little less than a mile from the sandpit where you were this morning.”
“Did the body have any identifying papers on him?”
“An Israeli passport. According to it, the deceased is Ben Weiss, from Jerusalem.”
“I’ll be right there. I’ll call for directions from the car.”
Huovinen was looking at me expectantly. When I told him what I had just found out, he snapped:
“Someone owes us a damn good explanation.”
11
Driving to Kerava three times in one day was starting to exceed the limits of my patience. This time, Simolin came along. He was enthusiastic, filling in the gaps in the “chronological chain of events” in his notebook during the drive.
Huovinen had sent me off with some parting words: “We’re up a huge goddamn creek here. The Helsinki police department doesn’t have the resources to deal with an imported Middle-East crisis. If the Israeli embassy is in touch, tell them immediately to call me. Don’t even give them your shoe size.”
I had met the Israeli ambassador and knew that he could be effective at pressuring you and throwing you off balance. I also knew the embassy’s head of security and was sure that he wouldn’t have the tiniest qualm about squeezing what he could out of our slight acquaintance. In matters like these, delicacy was unheard of.
It was equally clear that Ben Weiss, who had been found shot in the head, had not been out in the woods picking mushrooms, no matter what the embassy claimed.
Toivola had given me precise directions. The place where Weiss and his life had parted ways was easy to find.
The forest had been thinned, and there were stacks of cordwood at the side of the road. Toivola’s Toyota was parked next to one. A police car and an ambulance were also at the scene. A forest tractor had cleared a small opening around the stack; behind it stood a stand of thinned spruce and a sheer rock face. A reporter from the local paper was lurking behind the police tape with a camera and took a photo of me.
Toivola’s face was showing clear signs of exhaustion. He was probably in the middle of the biggest brouhaha he’d ever see.
“The good thing about this is that the day can’t get any worse,” Toivola said.
“Let’s hope not.”
We followed Toivola into the forest. Several uniformed police officers were scouring the terrain. The body was at the foot of a small spruce. There was a contusion from a blow on his forehead, a deep cut, which looked like it had been made with a knife, in his cheek, and a bullet hole at his temple. The face also showed other signs of violence.
The deceased was at most thirty-five years old. His hair was blond and his cheeks were heavily stubbled. He was wearing a dark-blue tracksuit.
“The medical examiner estimated that he was killed yesterday, sometime during the day,” Toivola remarked. “And roughed up before, probably tried to get to talk. Wasn’t there some of the same business in those cases of yours?”
I told him that the killed body-shop owner Ali Hamid had been tortured.
“Something about this Weiss interested the killer,” Toivola reflected.
I remembered something and glanced at the soles of the deceased’s shoes. There was gravel in the treads, the same kind as on one of the Linnunlaulu bodies. Toivola looked at me, baffled.
“According to the CSI, the deceased was dragged here, in other words the killer was alone. The terrain is so hard that no other tracks were left behind.”
Simolin bent over next to the body and touched his hair. “Dyed. It’s dark at the roots.”
“What did you find on him?”
“Aside from the passport, a wallet with a little money in it, a multi-tool, a Seiko watch, no other effects… and this…”
Toivola showed me a small plastic bag containing a pistol shell.
“We found the shell on the forest road. He was shot on the side of the road, but we haven’t found the bullet yet, even though we’ve searched with a metal detector.”
“Has anyone been asking about him?”
“Besides me and the people who are here now, only my superior and you know about this.”
“And at this point, no one else needs to.”
“What about SUPO?” Simolin asked.
“Them least of all. Where’s the passport?”
Toivola handed over the plastic bag containing the passport.
I took the passport and examined it. Ben Weiss, born in Jerusalem on 26 April 1969. In the photo, Weiss was jutting his jaw defiantly towards the photographer. He also had dark hair. What sense did it make to dye his hair blond? I said to Toivola: “I’ll take the passport in for examination. It might be forged.”
I heard the low rumble of a powerful diesel engine. A dark-green Land Rover pulled up next to my car, and two men stepped out. I immediately recognized both of them. One was Inspector Sillanpää from SUPO; the other was Simon Klein, the head of security from the Israeli embassy.
Toivola glanced at me.
“Judging by the way they carry themselves, servants of the state. You know them?”
“SUPO and the Israeli embassy.”
“Speak of the devil.”
When I saw Sillanpää striding towards us with Klein in tow, my first reaction was extreme annoyance. I had decided to twist SUPO by the nose, and some traitor had immediately leaked. My annoyance was increased by the fact that Sillanpää was schlepping along the representative of foreign country.
I ordered Simolin to take a face shot of the deceased with a digital camera and walked up to the newcomers.
“This crime scene is closed to outsiders.”
“Do you mean him?” Sillanpää asked, nodding in Klein’s direction.
“As far as I’m aware he’s not a police officer.”
Klein understood the delicacy of the moment and maintained his composure. “I was just offering my help. If the deceased is an Israeli citizen, I may know him.”
Klein, who was married to a Finn, had come to Finland over two years ago and spoke the language al
most perfectly. At the Israeli embassy, the head of security rotated every three years. Maybe the embassy was afraid that a longer post would lead to Finlandization.
“There are over five million Israelis. Isn’t the probability pretty small? And if we need help with identification, we’ll be sure to get a photo to you.”
Klein shrugged. Sillanpää’s eyes bored into mine.
“These kinds of cases work best if there’s some give and take and everyone shows a little goodwill. Nitpicking isn’t in anyone’s interest.”
“I’m the lead investigator and I’ll decide how good-willed or nitpicky I feel and how much I want to give. Could you please wait in the car, Mr Klein?”
I had met Klein on several occasions. I had even been to the sauna with him before at the police-guild cabin in Laut-tasaari, but now I addressed him with deliberate formality. It helped maintain distance.
Klein smiled, but then he gave me an “I’ll remember this” look, turned, and walked away.
“Pretty full of yourself,” Sillanpää muttered. “Klein only had good things to say about you on the drive up. He won’t any more.”
“What if the deceased had been working for the state of Israel? Wouldn’t it be pretty stupid to show your hand too early?”
“That’s a pretty ballsy conclusion. And even if he was, don’t you trust us to take that into consideration?”
“I’m playing it safe.”
Sillanpää shook Toivola’s hand and circled the body, looking at it from all angles.
“Doesn’t look Jewish.”
“Hair’s been dyed,” Simolin pointed out. He was standing stiffly behind the corpse and didn’t like the situation any more than I did.
Sillanpää held out his hand and asked for the passport.
“What passport?” I tested.
“There was a passport on him when he was found.”
Sillanpää’s source was good.
I showed the passport and said, “Don’t mess it up.”
Sillanpää pulled on his gloves. “Looks authentic. It wouldn’t take Klein more than a few seconds to confirm authenticity. He has a laptop in the car and a direct connection to the Israeli population registry and passport office. But if his help is no good…”
Nights of Awe Page 11