Nights of Awe

by Harri Nykanen

  I knew what was coming. “No, I’m not related to the Kafka who owned the pawnshop on Pursimiehenkatu.”

  “No?”

  The sparse-whiskered, middle-aged man was organizing the heap of stuff that filled the counter. He must have had an amazing visual memory or excellent notes. There was more junk than a couple of small factories could produce in a week. Stenman slapped Ben Weiss’s photo down in front of him.

  “Is this the man you saw the day before yesterday around two p.m.?”

  “Beautiful autumn sunshine out there,” commented the man, gazing out at the street through the dusty window. Then he took the photo and peered at it myopically from under his glasses.

  “Sure looks a lot the same. They wanted to break a bill for parking, but I told them that I’m not a change machine. If I got a euro for every time someone asked me to change money, I wouldn’t have to do anything else.”

  “What do you mean, they?” I asked.

  “There were two of them. The other one spoke and this guy was silent.”

  Two thirty-year-old men barged in, preceded by wafts of booze breath.

  “Howdy. Isn’t this the place where you can buy and sell, trade and steal?”

  “Please state your business, gentlemen,” said the shop owner.

  “You got rolling papers?”

  “All right if I take care of this?” the owner asked me.

  I nodded.

  “How many?”

  “Make it five.”

  The owner searched the shelf for the box of cigarette papers and placed five packs on the counter.

  “Anything else?”

  The man fished into a large sack at his feet and pulled out a bright-red accordion.

  “Kid’s accordion. Quality goods.”

  He whipped up a fast-tempoed trill on his button-box.

  “No thanks, I already have two.”

  “But do you have a kids’ model? Made in spaghetti land.”

  “No thanks. Anything else?”

  “So what is it you buy around here, if a top-of-the-line Italian accordion isn’t good enough?”

  “Nothing at the moment, I have to get rid of the old ones first. Two euros and fifty cents.”

  The man who had remained silent dug some coins out of his pocket and handed over exact change.

  “Bye now,” the owner said.

  The quiet man stepped out; the other one squeezed the accordion, emitting a hippopotamus-fart burst of noise pollution, before exiting with the instrument dangling from his hand. It was like a creature that had fallen from outer space and been killed by having its neck wrung.

  “How can you remember the man?” Stenman asked as soon as the croaking of the accordion had faded.

  “What a couple of kooks,” the owner said, watching in fascination as the man walked off. “From the hair. It was blond, but it looked dyed and he looked foreign.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “Finnish, at least spoke darn good Finnish. No accent, or at most a teeny one.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “That was the other reason why I remember them. The guy talked like a Finn but looked like a foreigner. I thought he must be a Tatar or a Jew. There’s a carpet shop right nearby that’s owned by a Tatar, there was something similar about them. But this one looked like he meant business.”

  “How old was he?” Stenman asked.

  “Maybe forty, something around there.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “Neatly, I think he was wearing jeans, some kind of sweater and a smart jacket.”

  “And the other one?”

  “I don’t remember, I think the same. Normal.”

  “Did the men talk to each other?” I asked.

  “No. The blond one didn’t say a peep.”

  “So you didn’t change their money, then?”

  “Nope. A matter of principle.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “There’s all kinds of odds and ends over by the window. He picked up a small screwdriver and asked how much it cost. It cost a euro. He paid with a ten. That’s how they got the change.”

  “Did you see what kind of car they had?”

  “A white minivan. It was parked on the hill there on Albertinkatu.”

  The autumn sun was shining outside, making even the bleak apartment buildings look pleasant and giving off a nice warmth. I opened the buttons of my coat.

  “We need to figure out what they could have been up to here,” Stenman said, looking around.

  “Guys like that don’t drive around sightseeing.”

  “I think I know. Oxbaum’s antique shop, which is where the minivan that the pawnshop owner also saw is registered, is only a hundred yards away… and Meyer’s fur shop is almost as close.”

  “Which one are you thinking?”

  “Oxbaum. Let’s go over and have a chat with him while we’re here.”

  Our little jaunt was a bust. A sign hung from the door that said ON HOLIDAY.

  “How convenient,” Stenman said.

  I thought for a moment and then said: “Oksanen is looking for the Ford Focus, you head over to Toinen Linja to help Simolin. Tagi Hamid’s neighbours need to be questioned, the super too. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

  My uncle Dennis Kafka was by far the closest person to me of my entire extended family, if you didn’t count my brother. My uncle had been a father substitute for me after Dad had died. He had supported our family in plenty of ways besides granting Mum the loan to set up her hair salon. He had regularly given her money for Hanna’s, Eli’s and my studies. Uncle Dennis had even bought skates for Hanna and me when Mum couldn’t afford it.

  In addition, he donated substantial sums to the congregation’s assistance and loan fund, which helped needy Jewish families. This gave him the status of a well-respected man in the congregation’s eyes, even though he wasn’t a very active congregant.

  More than the financial support, I appreciated the way he always treated us, his brother’s children. Like Salomon Kaplan, he noticed my shyness but didn’t throw his hands up in the air. It was only in retrospect that I learnt to appreciate sufficiently how much of his time he gave to me, despite the fact that he was a busy man with a family of his own. He’d chat with me until he got a response. He was always interested and never arrogant. You could talk to him about just about anything.

  One of his children died of an overdose at a little over the age of twenty; another moved to Israel and is now a citizen of that country; a third lives in Stockholm. His wife died about ten years ago.

  We met at Sibelius Park. My uncle was a dapper gentleman, grey-haired and fine-featured. He wore a pale-grey felt hat and carried a silver-handled cane, even though he didn’t need it. There was a bit of the dandy in him, or more than a bit, actually.

  “I heard you’re coming to Eli’s on Thursday,” I said.

  “It’s nice that at least someone remembers.”

  My uncle smiled to show he was kidding. He knew he was popular with his relatives; more invitations were showered on him than he could ever accept.

  “You’re in the middle of the biggest case of your career. Why are you wasting time going for a walk in the park with your old uncle?”

  “That’s exactly why.”

  My uncle stopped and clasped his hands behind his back. It was one of his usual poses.

  “I don’t follow.”

  I told him about Silberstein, Meyer, Oxbaum and Ben Weiss.

  “I want to know what they’re mixed up in.”

  “Do you think I know?”

  “If anyone does, it’s you.”

  “Most likely the matter is simpler than you think,” my uncle said. “Some party has asked for help and appealed to their Jewishness.”

  “Mossad?”

  “That’s quite a hypothesis, but it’s not impossible. The visit of the foreign minister is an extremely volatile matter.”

  “Have you heard abou
t Mossad’s Jewish collaborators who live abroad?”

  My uncle laughed. “We’ve read the same book. Do you believe it?”

  “What about you? Do you believe that locals could be involved?”

  “I suppose that’s possible too, but it’s pretty hard to imagine Meyer or Oxbaum as Mossad’s errand boys, they’re so cautious and timid. I could almost see Silberstein doing it, or what?”

  “The request for assistance could have been fed to them in a form they could digest. Oxbaum was asked to arrange a car and report it stolen, Meyer was asked to provide a suitable alibi for Weiss. Not such a big deal. Plus, both of them have kids living in Israel. That could have been used.”

  “By Weiss’s death at the latest, they’d start to suspect.”

  “Maybe that’s exactly the reason Oxbaum took off on holiday. Meyer might be packing his bags as we speak.”

  “Pretty amusing, or what?” my uncle said. “Two Jews suspecting a Jewish conspiracy.”

  “I’m not amused. Someone’s trying to suggest that I’m not qualified to take the case because of my heritage, and if this keeps up, it won’t be long before I will be.”

  “Do you believe that a strike is still being planned against our synagogue or the Israeli foreign minister?”

  “That’s what it looks like, at least. Today we found guns and explosives on a person who’s tied up in the Linnunlaulu case and who has terrorist contacts.”

  I knew I was revealing confidential information to my uncle, but he was the only relative I trusted. He was also the only one who would definitely be able to help me out, one way or another.

  “Then it might all be exactly what it looks like: Israel found out about preparations for a terrorist attack and sent people over to ensure that nothing happens. The Israelis got on the terrorists’ trail. There was a confrontation at Linnunlaulu that resulted in bodies on both sides.”

  My uncle stopped and sat down on a bench. He inhaled deeply. The trees in the park had already yellowed, because the summer had been extraordinarily dry. Between the rowing stadium and the marina, the sea glistened in the sun.

  “Autumn is certainly beautiful in Finland. When I was younger, I also considered moving to the Promised Land. I spent over six months there in the Fifties, building roads, but I had enough of it. I visited there three years ago, and everything was even worse. And that atmosphere of hatred on top of everything else. But most of all I was bothered by the heat, I never would have got used to it. I would have missed the Finnish autumn and spring, and maybe the winter a little too. After sweating for six months, I couldn’t get enough of the cold. If it’s cold you can put on more clothes, but if it’s hot the most you can do is strip naked. I honestly believe that God could have chosen a better spot for the Promised Land.”

  My uncle picked up a maple leaf that had drifted to the bench.

  “God’s miraculous handiwork. This little leaf is more beautiful than some synagogue. I’ve always felt that even just sitting here on this park bench under the falling leaves, I’m closer to God than in any synagogue, no matter how encrusted with gold.”

  “Will you help me?” I asked.

  “Have you considered how far you’re prepared to take this investigation, if you start running into friends and relatives or people fighting for a good cause?”

  “I never forget that I’m a Jew, but first and foremost I’m a Finnish police officer.”

  “Then I’m on your side.”

  I looked at my uncle’s deeply lined face and didn’t doubt him. He was on my side.

  I told him that we were looking for Dan Kaplan in connection with the Linnunlaulu killings.

  My uncle had already reached that point of age and experience where you no longer clap your hands in surprise or cry out in amazement. He satisfied himself with a nod.

  “Is that who you meant when you said I might run into people?”

  “No, I was talking generally. This Dan Kaplan, he was your best friend, wasn’t he?”

  “He was.”

  “And then he moved to Israel. Went into the army and did well. Salomon Kaplan’s son, war hero in Lebanon. What has he done?”

  I told him everything I knew about what Dan Kaplan had been up to in Helsinki and the fact that a warrant was out for his arrest.

  “Did you know he was here?”

  “No, no, I didn’t. It looks bad… for Kaplan’s son.”

  “Sure does.”

  “What are you planning on doing?” my uncle asked.

  “Bringing him in.”

  My uncle’s gaze focused on a woman who was walking her dog about twenty yards away.

  “Have you considered something? If this is what you think it is, then you’re the most important person in the whole investigation and your doings are of interest to a lot of people. Her, for instance.”

  The woman was thirtyish and dark-complexioned. She was wearing a fur-trimmed jacket and low-heeled walking shoes. There was nothing odd about her complexion in and of itself, because a lot of embassy people lived in the area. After the small, wiry terrier finished its business and covered it with a few kicks of sand, the woman started heading towards us. We sat silently and waited. The dog stopped at the end of the bench, and she glanced at us. She had beautiful features, but wasn’t in the same class as the Israeli soldier of my dreams. My uncle raised his hat, and the woman smiled.

  Once she had made it twenty yards past us, my uncle said:

  “I’ve been coming to this park almost every day for five years and I know every single dog in the area by sight. I’ve never seen this one before. And that woman clearly didn’t know the dog or its habits. I’m sure it isn’t hers.”

  If someone was following me, they were doing a good job, because I hadn’t seen anyone on my tail. I parked my car in about the same spot on Aurorankatu where the white minivan had stood three days earlier.

  Eli’s firm Kafka & Oxbaum was located in a set of elegant old offices. A mezuzah, a small brass case containing excerpts from the Torah, hung from the doorframe. No other signs of Jewishness could be seen, unless you counted a photograph where Eli and Max posed with a fat man in a yarmulke. Judging by the background, the photo had been taken in Jerusalem.

  Eli dealt mostly in corporate law; his speciality was international contract law. Now and again he’d descend among the hoi polloi. According to him, he only took criminal cases to maintain a feel for the field. His partner Max Oxbaum, on the other hand, specialized in copyright law.

  Eli wasn’t around, but Max was. He was reading a thick folder in his office and looked a little surprised to see me.

  Max was in his shirtsleeves, but he was wearing a tie. The shirt was light blue with white pinstripes. A black leather belt vanished somewhere in his fifty pounds of excess mass. As a young man, he had been like a fat version of John Steed. He had started going bald before the age of forty; only a few wisps of hair remained above his ears. Like my brother, he had an exorbitantly expensive watch.

  Max held out his hand and said: “I would have called if you hadn’t showed up.”

  “Why?”

  “Why… Because of Ben Weiss, of course. You’re the one investigating his death.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Meyer… he was shocked. Who would have ever believed that something like this could happen in Finland?”

  “I would. It happens everywhere, except Disneyland. Why did Ben Weiss need your help?”

  “He wanted to know about Finnish copyright practices. He was planning on manufacturing some Finnish fur models in Israel.”

  “What did he tell you about himself and his business?”

  “Not much. He was feeling out the possibility of partnering with Meyer and asked what kind of man he was. I told him everything I knew. He was supposed to go back to Israel on Monday. That was about it.”

  “Where was he staying?”

  “Some hotel, I guess. I don’t know.”

  I already knew that Weiss hadn’t been staying i
n a hotel. That had been checked out.

  “Did he know anyone here?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know. The meeting only lasted about half an hour.”

  I looked around silently for a minute. Then I looked at Max again while continuing to remain silent.

  Max began to fidget anxiously.

  “Did you have any other questions?”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “My father?”

  “There’s an ‘on holiday’ sign in the window.”

  “In France. He and Mum have a small place near Nice.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “Of course they did.”

  I stood to leave. I stopped in the doorway and asked:

  “Who’s the fat guy in the picture?”

  “In what… oh, that one, Benjamin Hararin. He’s one of Israel’s richest businessmen. Construction business, speciality chemicals, financing. Eli and I met him when we were in Jerusalem.”

  “Are you guys in business together?”

  Max’s expression became simultaneously cagey and insinuating.

  “Perhaps. But it’s better if I don’t say anything more at this point.”

  On the way to HQ, I thought about Dan Kaplan. The childhood bonds of friendship had loosened years ago. When I had met him on my previous trip to Israel about ten years ago, we had spent a couple of evenings together.

  Even though we had had a good time, things had been a little strained between us. He had become aggressive and cynical.

  Still, it was difficult for me to think of him as a common criminal, the kind who it was my job to pursue.

  Nor was catching Dan Kaplan going to be easy. He was in the country under an assumed name; that had already been checked. The fact that he hadn’t seen his relatives, even his father, indicated that he wanted to keep his presence in Finland secret. And if Dan was currently a Mossad agent, like I believed, he had the support of the entire organization behind him. Everything he did had been planned in advance, and the moments when things could go awry had been taken into account.

  Yet I was certain that Dan was still in Finland. If he had been sent here to prevent a terrorist attack, then his job was still unfinished, and Dan Kaplan wasn’t the kind of man to leave a task undone.