Found Wanting

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Yes. It sounds good.’

  ‘So, I’m the lucky one. I get a morning stroll while you stay cooped up here.’

  ‘Call me when you get back. I’m going to take a bath. It’ll help me stay calm.’ She sighed and ran her fingers down over her face. ‘I think I might need to get drunk tonight, Richard. Want to join me?’

  Eusden smiled. ‘It’s a date.’

  It was a short taxi-ride from the hotel into the city centre. Koskinen plied Eusden with a tourist commentary as they went. ‘Uspenski Orthodox Cathedral.’ (Eusden gazed up at snow-capped onion domes.) ‘The presidential palace.’ (They passed a colonnaded and pedimented mansion.) ‘Senate Square.’ (Another cathedral, Lutheran this time, loomed wedding-cake white above them.) ‘The Bank of Finland.’ (More colonnaded grandeur.) ‘Most of what you see was built when Finland was under Russian rule, Mr Eusden. In little more than a hundred years after taking over from the Swedes, they gave us a city to be proud of. What did we do to thank them? Revolt as soon as we could after they deposed the Tsar. Clever, no?’

  ‘Very. And I gather Saukko Bank have maintained the tradition.’

  ‘What… do you mean?’

  ‘Dealing cleverly with Russia.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I suppose… you could say that.’

  ‘Isn’t that why Tolmar Aksden bought them out? To acquire their Russian holdings?’

  ‘I… do not know. It-’ Koskinen looked round with grateful alacrity as the taxi drew to a halt. ‘Ah, we are here.’ He opened his door and climbed out.

  Eusden exited on the offside, checking for traffic as he did so. There was none close behind. The nearest vehicle, another taxi, was still some way off, driving slowly. He glanced towards it as he slammed the door and rounded the boot. The passenger was sitting in the front. His eyes met Eusden’s in an instant of recognition. Then he looked away and said something to the driver, who flicked on his indicator and turned abruptly right.

  Eusden heard Koskinen shout to him as he ran towards the side street. Pursuit was futile, he knew, but the knowledge did not stop him. What did was skidding on a patch of ice that had spread around a pipe draining a roof somewhere above him. He hit the pavement with a shoulder-jarring thump that set his head wound throbbing. By the time he had recovered his senses and picked himself up, the taxi was taking another right at the far end of the side street, its brake lamps blinking fuzzily red in the thin grey light.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Eusden?’ Koskinen panted as he caught up.

  ‘Yes. I… thought I recognized the passenger in the taxi.’

  ‘What taxi?’

  ‘The one that just…’ Koskinen’s uncomprehending gaze did not encourage fuller explanation. What would he say, after all – what could he say – if Eusden put a name to the face he had glimpsed? The presence of Lars Aksden in Helsinki was disturbing enough. The fact that he had been following them moved beyond disturbing into downright sinister. But what did it mean? What did it portend? All Eusden was sure of in that instant was that Osmo Koskinen would be of no help in finding out. ‘Never mind. I must’ve been mistaken. Let’s go in.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Juha Matalainen’s office was a shrine to Finnish minimalism, with a wide-windowed view of surrounding roofs and a narrow glimpse of the domes of the Lutheran Cathedral. Matalainen himself was kitted out in slim-lapelled chocolate-brown suit and collarless cream shirt. He was a lean, angular man with tight-cropped dark hair and a beard reduced to virtual pencil lines around his jaw and mouth. His gaze was steady and curious and had rested on Eusden for several minutes on end.

  Eusden had supposedly spent those minutes perusing the tersely worded confidentiality agreement Matalainen had slid across the flawless surface of his desk for him to sign. The English version was flanked by one in Danish and one in Finnish. The agreement amounted to an undertaking never to disclose to any third party any information which he came into possession of at Luumitie 27, 00330 Helsinki, Finland, on this twelfth day of February, 2007. It had taken him only a few seconds to establish that much. His thoughts had then drifted to the host of questions raised by his sighting of Lars Aksden in the street below. And it was anxious contemplation of those that no doubt caused him to frown and shake his head.

  ‘Is there a problem, Mr Eusden?’ Matalainen asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A problem? With the agreement?’

  ‘No. I…’ Eusden raised an apologetic hand. ‘Sorry. I just…’ He exerted himself to focus his thoughts. ‘The agreement’s fine. I’m happy to sign it.’ Then some instinct told him not to be too cooperative. ‘I can’t read Danish, of course.’

  ‘I assure you they are exact translations.’ Matalainen’s gaze narrowed as the point struck home. ‘Surely you can’t read Finnish either, Mr Eusden.’

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  ‘But you specified Danish.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about these documents. I meant the ones we’ll be collecting later. They’re all in Danish. So, how could I learn anything from them I might reveal later? The agreement caters for an impossible contingency.’

  Matalainen smiled thinly. ‘In that case you lose nothing by signing it.’

  Eusden returned the smile. ‘Quite so.’ He picked up the proffered pen and signed.

  Koskinen added his signature as witness. Matalainen gathered up the trilingual versions of the documents, gave Eusden a copy and stood up, signalling that their meeting was at an end. ‘Näkemiin, Mr Eusden,’ he said, extending a hand and bowing faintly. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Matalainen reminds me of my dentist,’ said Koskinen as they descended in the lift.

  ‘You should change your dentist.’

  ‘Ah, no. He is very efficient. I just don’t want to go fishing with him. But I always need a drink after visiting him. You want one?’

  ‘I want several. But one will do.’

  Koskinen took him to the Café Engel on Senate Square. Their window table kept the Lutheran cathedral in view, this time front-on across the snow-covered square. Trams rattled by in the street. Early lunchers maintained a jumble of conversation.

  ‘Kippis,’ said Koskinen, starting on his beer. ‘Your good health, Mr Eusden.’

  ‘Call me Richard. How long have you worked – did you work – for Mjollnir, Osmo?’

  ‘Not so long really. They bought me with VFG Timber. But they were good to me. Another company might have… moved me on.’

  ‘So, Tolmar Aksden’s a good man to work for?’

  ‘He asks for a lot. He gives a lot.’

  ‘You got to know him well?’

  ‘Not well, Richard, no. He has a saying: “Don’t bring your family to work.” He never brought his. Besides, he was most of the time in Copenhagen.’

  ‘Ever meet his brother Lars?’

  ‘No. I have heard about him. He paints, I think. But, no, I have never met him.’

  ‘Would you know him if you saw him?’

  Koskinen frowned. Eusden’s line of questioning was beginning to puzzle him. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Have you seen Tolmar during his latest visit to Helsinki?’

  ‘No. He has been very busy, according to the newspapers. That is all I know now I am retired: what I read in the papers.’

  ‘And what do you read about him?’

  ‘Oh, there are some messy politics now he has brought Saukko Bank. They are full of it.’

  ‘What do they say?’

  Koskinen’s smile was more of a wince. He had been drawn into a subject he was clearly uncomfortable with. ‘It looks like not everybody is happy with the scale of Saukko’s Russian investments now the takeover has brought them to their attention. Commercially smart, but politically… sensitive.’ He shrugged and took a swig of beer, then glanced through the window, squinting as if focusing on something in the distance. ‘We Finns always worry about Russia. Either it is too strong or too weak. But always it is our neighbour.’ He looked back at Eusden. ‘Excuse me, Richard.
This talk of weakness has gone to my bladder.’

  Koskinen rose with a scraping of his chair, and ambled off to the loo, leaving Eusden to dwell once more on the mystery of Lars Aksden’s presence in Helsinki. Should he tell Pernille? The moment of decision was fast approaching. He was also aware he needed to phone in some fresh – or warmed-over – excuse for his no-show at the Foreign Office now a new working week had begun, though his life there felt more like a false memory of someone else’s. In search of distraction, he grabbed an abandoned newspaper from an adjacent table.

  Helsingin Sanomat forecast minus temperatures in double figures and cloudy conditions for Helsinki. ‘Great,’ Eusden muttered to himself, leafing through page after page of impenetrable Finnish headlines. ‘Just great.’ Then he saw the magic word: Mjollnir. And then…

  A photograph adjoining an article in the business section of the paper analysing, as far as he could tell, Mjollnir’s performance since its takeover of Saukko Bank, showed two smiling besuited captains of commerce in a wood-panelled conference room. The caption beneath identified them as Arto Falenius and…Tolmar Aksden.

  Falenius was a debonair middle-aged figure in pinstripes, with a spotted tie and a matching handkerchief billowing from his breast pocket, greying hair worn daringly long, handsome face tanned enough to suggest he spent a sizeable chunk of the Nordic winter in sunnier climes. His status was unclear to Eusden. Saukko’s CEO, perhaps, celebrating a synergetic merger? The photograph might not be contemporary, of course. It could easily date from the previous autumn.

  There was certainly no doubt, however, that Aksden was the dominant partner. He was taller than Falenius by several inches, older by a couple of decades and altogether more serious. His suit and tie were unpatterned, his smile cooler, his gaze harder. There was a bulk about him, of muscle and intellect. He looked a lot like his brother, but without as many visible ravages of self-indulgence. Instead, there was calmness and certainty in his face, confidence edged with something like defiance in his expression. Or was it contempt? Yes. There was a hint of that in his bearing and demeanour: an ingrained knowledge of his own superiority.

  A movement at the door suddenly caught Eusden’s eye. He looked up just in time to see Koskinen exiting the café, shrugging on the overcoat he had retrieved from the hatstand as he went. He moved fast, without looking back.

  ‘Osmo!’ Eusden called. But he was too late. The door had already closed. He stood up, baffled and dismayed. What was the fellow playing at? He headed after him.

  But the waiter intercepted, clutching the bill. There was a flurry of confusion and misunderstanding. Eusden wasted precious minutes offering Danish, then Swedish, kroner in payment before pulling out some euros. By the time he reached the street, Koskinen had vanished. He swore, loudly enough to offend a woman walking by, and asked himself again what Koskinen’s game could possibly be. His behaviour was inexplicable.

  Then Eusden remembered him looking out of the window just before excusing himself. What had he been looking at? The cathedral was the obvious answer. It dominated the view across the square. Had someone on the steps leading up to it signalled to him? Had the time shown on its clock triggered his move?

  In one sense, it did not matter. The fact was that he had gone. Eusden shivered, realizing as the chill bit into him that he had left his coat in the café. He turned back.

  A man was standing directly in his path dressed in a black cap and dark casual clothes. He was tall and muscular and stony-faced. For a second, Eusden gaped at him. And the man stared expressionlessly back. Eusden heard a vehicle pull up at the kerb next to him, skidding in the ice-clogged gutter. Then the man kneed him in the groin with such force that he doubled up, his eyes misting with pain. He was seized about the shoulders. A heavy hand descended on to his neck. He was pushed and pulled backwards, his heels dragging on the pavement.

  Suddenly, he was on the floor of a Transit van, the door sliding shut as it accelerated away. There were two men above and around him, lurching with the motion of the van. He heard the sound of tape being peeled from a roll. He tried to sit up, but was shoved back down. His hands were yanked round behind him. The tape was wound tightly round them and his ankles simultaneously. Within seconds, he was trussed and helpless.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he gasped. ‘What do you-’ Then a strip of tape was slapped over his mouth as well.

  ‘Change of plan, Mr Eusden.’ Eusden twisted in the direction the voice had come from and saw Erik Lund smiling at him through the grille from the passenger seat. ‘For you.’ He felt something sharp jab into his left arm. ‘My advice is to stop struggling.’

  Eusden had no intention of taking Lund’s advice. But within seconds he had no choice in the matter. The jolting of the van merged with waves of wooziness that swept into his brain. The figures around him blurred into monochrome – then merged into blackness.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  For a second, when he woke, Eusden believed he was in bed at home in London, the pounding in his head and the stiffness in his limbs attributable to a serious hangover. But no. Reality pounced on his thoughts with the force of a nightmare. He was still in the van, alone now, alone and cold and enveloped in darkness.

  A trace of light was seeping in from somewhere, however, enough to cast shadows within the van. He crawled on to his knees and looked about him as best he could. A shutter was rattling somewhere outside the vehicle, but no other sound reached him. How long he had been wherever he was he had no way of knowing. His wristwatch was out of sight. Why he had been left there was equally impenetrable. ‘Change of plan for you,’ Lund had said, as if this had always been the plan as far as Mjollnir were concerned. Koskinen’s behaviour confirmed as much. A trap had been laid for him. But why?

  He had to break free. For the moment, that was all he could think of. A conjunction of shadows towards the front of the van revealed a tear of some kind in one corner of the grille sealing off the cab. He worked his way over for a closer look. The frame was dented and several wires had sprung out of their sockets. The loose ends were stiff and sharp. He turned round, stretched his arms up behind him and felt one of the wires against the heel of his hand. He manoeuvred so that it snagged on the tape, then sawed away until the tape split.

  Within a couple of minutes, he had released his hands. He teased the strip off his mouth, sat down and peered at his watch. It was a few minutes past two. Koskinen should be in the process of collecting the caseload of bearer bonds around now. He must already have given Pernille some cooked-up explanation of Eusden’s disappearance. He felt in his pocket for his phone. But they had taken it. No surprise, really. He unwound the strips binding his ankles and prised at the handle of the side door. Locked. That was no surprise either. He stood up and moved to the rear doors. Also locked. There was no way out. He thumped pointlessly at the nearest door panel, then lowered himself to the floor, flexing fruitlessly at the handle as he sat there, staring glumly into the shadows. God, it was cold. Did Lund mean him to freeze to death?

  As much to warm himself as with any realistic hope of getting out that way, he went back to the dented grille and tried to pull it further loose. No more wires budged. Apart from a gash to his finger, he achieved nothing. He slumped down on the floor, sucking the wound, cursing Lund and Birgitte Grøn – and Marty for dragging him into all this.

  Unmeasured minutes passed while he contemplated the horrifying nature of his plight. The invisible shutter went on rattling. The cold began to gnaw at him. He started to shiver. ‘Fucking hell, Marty,’ he said aloud, ‘how could you-’

  A sound deeper and farther away than the rattling shutter reached his ears. It was a car engine. It stopped and was succeeded by a burble of human voices. There was the creak of a door opening. The light strengthened marginally. Through the grille and the windscreen beyond, he could see shadows moving on a brick wall. A switch was flicked and a fluorescent lamp pulsed into life overhead. A key turned in the rear door of the van. One of them swung open. Then t
he other.

  Eusden blinked as his eyes adjusted to the harshness of the light. A squat, bull-necked, shaven-headed man in jeans and windcheater stared in at him. Then another man appeared at his shoulder: taller and thinner, dressed in a dark overcoat with the collar pulled up. He had a round, soft-featured face, a mop of ginger hair shot with silver and matching stubble round his fleshy jaw. His small blue-green eyes studied Eusden through circular-lensed glasses.

  ‘You’re Eusden?’ His voice was pure west-coast American.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s get the party going, then. Come on out.’ His squat companion took something from inside his windcheater and pointed it at Eusden: a gun. ‘We’re not about to take no for an answer.’

  The two men stepped back as Eusden stood up slowly, moved to the end of the van and climbed out. They were in some kind of workshop, sealed by a ceiling-high shutter-door and a smaller wicket-door set within it. There were no windows, just three blank walls, along one of which ran a bare bench. A third man was leaning against the bench, staring, like his companions, at Eusden. He was tall and heavily built, with black hair and beard, a hawkish nose and dark, simmering gaze. He wore a long black leather coat and was chewing gum vigorously. Beside him, on the bench, stood Clem’s attaché case.

  ‘Who are you people?’ Eusden asked, looking straight at the chatty one and trying not to sound as frightened as he really was.

  ‘I’m Brad. The guy with the gun is Gennady. The guy with the gum – who also has a gun, by the way – is Vladimir. Sorry I couldn’t keep the alliteration going. They speak English when they need to, but they usually communicate in other ways.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You, sport. The guy who offed our very good buddies Ilya and Yuri a few nights back.’

  ‘That was an accident.’

  ‘You’re probably right. You don’t look capable of getting the better of them. And Yuri? He was always a hell-rider. But let’s not allow the facts to get in the way of a good grudge. There’s nothing Gennady would like better than putting a bullet in your brain – after kicking the shit out of you. A friend dies. A stranger pays. Old Ukrainian tradition. That’s where they’re from. They always like me to point out that they’re not actually Russian. They just look and sound as if they are. And get tetchy when they haven’t swallowed a gallon of vodka recently. For the record, they’re stone cold sober today. Draw your own conclusions. While you’re at it, tell me what your role is in Mjollnir’s organization.’