Found Wanting (26 page)

‘Exactly what sort of security is . . . Erik Lund . . . laying on?’ asked Eusden, catching Pernille’s eye. She seemed amused by Koskinen’s discomfiture.

‘Enough, Mr Eusden, I assure you. You will be able to see for yourself when you arrive at the house.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be more than enough,’ said Pernille. ‘These people only want the money, after all.’

‘Yes.’ Koskinen smiled. ‘Exactly.’

‘And until two thirty?’

‘I have to ask you to stay here, Ms Madsen. Your husband – I mean, Hr Aksden – is in the city. Birgitte told me we must . . . be careful.’

‘Of course.’

‘But there is a trip for you to take, Mr Eusden.’

‘Really?’

‘Matalainen’s office. To sign a . . . confidentiality agreement. To say you will . . . never talk about the material you will see this afternoon.’

‘Is that necessary?’ asked Pernille. There was an edge of irritation in her voice.

Koskinen gestured helplessly with his hands. ‘It is not my decision. Do you . . . object, Mr Eusden?’

‘What if I do?’

‘Then we have . . . a problem.’

Eusden took a slow walk to the window and back to mull the point over. The reason Birgitte Grøn had said nothing about such a formality was obvious. The less warning he had, the less likely he was to argue. Once the material was in Mjollnir’s hands, nothing he said about it could be proven anyway, even supposing he gleaned anything at all from letters written in Danish, which was doubtful in the extreme. His signature on a piece of paper was more or less irrelevant. A refusal to supply it would only complicate matters that all concerned wanted to keep as
un
complicated as possible.

‘Do we have a problem, Mr Eusden?’

‘No, no. I’ll sign on the dotted line. When’s Matalainen expecting me?’

The answer was that Koskinen proposed to take Eusden to Matalainen’s office straight away. He said he would wait for him in reception and took his leave.

‘Birgitte should have told me about this,’ said Pernille as soon as the door had closed behind him.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Eusden, finishing his coffee. ‘What matters is that the handover goes smoothly. The set-up sounds good to me. What do you think?’

‘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.