Little Siberia Read online

  JOEL

  YOU’RE NOT LISTENING. DO AS I SAY OR KRISTA WILL NEVER COME HOME AGAIN. THE METEORITE WILL BE TAKEN TONIGHT. IF YOU CALL THE POLICE, YOU’LL NEVER SEE KRISTA AGAIN. IF YOU TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS, YOU’LL NEVER SEE KRISTA AGAIN. WE’RE WATCHING YOU. TOMORROW YOU’LL RECEIVE INSTRUCTIONS BY PHONE ONCE WE SEE YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT THE MUSEUM – ALONE. CARRY ON AS BEFORE, ACT NORMALLY. AND REMEMBER: WE’RE WATCHING YOU. WE ARE EVERYWHERE.

  PART THREE

  THE SKIES OPEN

  1

  ‘Should we pray?’

  It takes a moment before I realise I’m being asked a question. Through the window day is slowly breaking, the horizon behind the trees tinged red. The rough-shaven man is my first customer of the day.

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ I say.

  He looks at me as though he was expecting something else. But right now I have nothing else to give.

  ‘I just wondered, isn’t it standard practice?’ he asks. ‘In your line of work, at a moment like this?’

  ‘A moment like what?’

  ‘At the last trumpet,’ he says. ‘Exactly what I’ve been talking about.’

  ‘Right, yes,’ I say, and because I’m more than a little unsure, I ask a follow-up question. ‘Specifically, which moment are we talking about?’

  The man scratches his stubble.

  ‘This is simple cause and effect. There’s a nuclear attack in the Middle East. It doesn’t matter who was behind it, which side started the game of ping-pong first. Let’s say Israel carried out a strike against Iran, or the other way round. It doesn’t matter. The other side has to respond. And because the victims of the attack can’t respond by themselves, an ally has to do it. Iran has Russia; Israel has the USA. The next strike has to make a real impact. It might be a US military base in Germany, and a handful of Germans will be taken out too. Then it’s a medium-sized Russian town. On the ground there’s panic. Armies look to see where the borders really run. The Baltic Sea is allocated to one of those superpowers. Finland either rolls over and gets itself a new master or defends its territory. If it chooses the latter, a cyber-attack will switch all the lights out, cut off the water supply and heating. Time passes, and the inevitable upshot is that we’re offered an agreement that doesn’t really feel fair. All this will take less than twelve months. I’ve counted.’

  We are silent.

  ‘You see, there’s nothing to be done,’ the man says eventually. ‘So, I wonder if praying might help after all.’

  Since the early hours of the morning I’ve been able to think of only one thing.

  Krista.

  I read the letter a few times, tried to find something in it, something to latch on to, but there was nothing. Since then I’ve thought of a thousand and one ways to find out what’s going on.

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t pray?’ The man’s voice sounds genuinely despairing.

  I look at him. I remember something he said on one of his numerous visits.

  ‘You once told me you belong to the local elk-hunting club,’ I say. ‘Still doing that?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with prayer? Does the hunting club pray? Is that what you mean? “Lord, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy elk? Give us this day, our daily moose”?’

  The man has become agitated. It’s understandable. I have to backtrack a little. Besides, before I get to the point, I need to make sure the man isn’t one of the we mentioned in the letter.

  ‘Let us pray,’ I say.

  I assume a comfortable position in my chair, lean against the backrest, clasp my hands together. I close my eyes. I realise it’s been a while since the last time I did this. Once the silence has lasted thirty seconds I half open my left eye. The man has closed his eyes; he is sitting in his chair and at least appears to be deep in prayer. I close my eyes again with the realisation that I don’t know how to pray anymore. At least, not for the one thing of which I am guilty.

  Without my pride, without my stubbornness, Krista would be at home, blissfully unaware that she could have been the victim of a kidnapping. But because I decided that nobody was going to steal the meteorite on my watch, and because I have behaved intractably in every possible way, they have decided to strike against Krista instead.

  They.

  My first furious thoughts were aimed specifically at them. I thought of Turunmaa, Himanka, Jokinen and Räystäinen – him in particular. I no longer know what to think of the cut on his forearm, his bizarre behaviour, or indeed the bruise on Karoliina’s temple. One of them is almost certainly the person I saw lying in the snow. I’m not sure which I suspect more. I thought of Leonid and his possible connections. It’s more than possible that Leonid knows many more men in his line of work than simply Grigori. I thought of others who have expressed an interest in the meteorite. I even thought of Tarvainen, but thinking about him at all is a challenge. I then went through various configurations of people, but none of the possible options offered me the certainty I needed. And I don’t know what to make of the suggestion that they are everywhere.

  And yet, I know only too well: if I give these thoughts the slightest extra space, if I allow my self-flagellation to gather strength and grow, if I lose focus and concentration, I will plunge headlong into the abyss. At such a moment I will see the entire village plotting against me, and at such a moment they really could, naturally enough, be everywhere.

  But that is called paranoia, and for good reason.

  I open my eyes. The man is sitting in front of me, his eyes still shut.

  Is he one of them? I ask myself.

  During the few moments I’ve had my eyes shut, the room has assumed more colour with the burgeoning day. The brick wall is slightly whiter, the copper of the Saviour’s flank somewhat browner.

  The man continues his prayer. He looks as though he could go on like that until the end of days, quite literally. Would a kidnapper pray with such intensity? Would he believe in impending Armageddon with the same fervour?

  It doesn’t seem very plausible. But how can I be sure? Eventually I realise there’s an obvious way.

  ‘There’s a cancellation for tomorrow morning,’ I say.

  The man’s eyes flash open. ‘I’ll be there,’ he says, his voice sincere. Sincere and clearly invigorated.

  The man looks outside. There’s a renewed sense of alertness to him.

  ‘I think that did the trick,’ he says.

  I allow him to explore this new, confident version of himself. He is not the kidnapper, I can see that now. I wait a moment longer.

  ‘About your elk club,’ I say.

  ‘Shall we pray for them?’

  I lean a fraction further forwards, my gaze fixed on the man’s blue eyes.

  ‘Elk hunters need rifles, isn’t that right?’

  2

  I don’t have a plan. Yet. But I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to bring Krista home. Nothing else matters. There was a time when I was indifferent to the meteorite, but not anymore. Now it’s a necessity, and I need it. And the more I mull the matter over, the larger the role of the meteorite becomes.

  Because:

  Scenario 1: the kidnappers turn up at the museum with Krista and exchange her for the meteorite. From their perspective this option doesn’t make much sense. After all, what am I going to do once Krista is free and the meteorite is hurtling away in a car? I’ll call the police. The kidnappers won’t get the head start they need. I don’t think this is the plan. They won’t bring Krista with them.

  Scenario 2: the kidnappers turn up at the museum without Krista and wait until they have the meteorite. But why would I give it to them if I don’t know where Krista is or whether they are still holding her?

  Scenario 3: the kidnappers turn up at the museum and, one way or another, provide proof that they are still holding Krista and that she will be released at a designated time and place once I have stepped aside and allowed them to take the meteorite. Krista has doubtless identified them, so it doesn’t matter where
they release her: the kidnappers can have a head start as long as they like, but before long they will be apprehended.

  I stand up from my chair, walk to the window.

  The snow sparkles.

  I’ve been thinking my way through an array of possible modi operandi, and they all seem to have one thing in common: for the kidnapper or kidnappers, Krista is a problem that won’t be solved by simply getting hold of the meteorite. The realisation of this fact is chilling. And at the same time it means that, for as long as the meteorite is in my possession, there is at least a theoretical possibility that Krista is…

  That she is…

  Alive.

  I can’t take the thought any further.

  I haven’t left my office since I arrived early this morning. As before, I stick to my routines, but not because of the demands of this person or persons. It’s another way of moving things forwards. I was promised the use of a hunting rifle; I’ll fetch it this evening before going to the museum. Naturally, there’s no way of knowing whether the kidnapper or kidnappers will be armed, but there’s a more than significant likelihood. Round here practically every household has at least one rifle or shotgun, and more often than not both.

  As I wonder what else I could do from my office, I hear Pirkko’s steps in the corridor. They are coming closer, and eventually they come to a stop at my door. I turn from the window and sit down behind my desk. Pirkko knocks and steps inside before I have the chance to encourage her to do so. She is carrying a pile of paperwork, as usual. Papers that she could simply leave in my in-tray or, if I’m away, on my desk. She walks towards the desk and stops two metres in front of me.

  ‘Morning,’ she smiles. ‘How are your muscles this morning?’

  At first I don’t understand what she’s talking about.

  ‘A bit tender,’ I say. ‘I haven’t worked out for a while.’

  ‘Your leg squats were very controlled. I’ve been meaning to say.’

  ‘Thank you. Pirkko, I really…’

  ‘The key is at the end of the movement,’ she explains, then turns to the window and drops into a leg squat. I look on from the side, watch her profile. She stops at precisely the point where her knees reach a ninety-degree angle. She turns her head and looks at me. ‘This was the biggest revelation for me, specifically as regards the thighs and buttocks.’

  ‘It is…’

  ‘Strength,’ she says and starts bobbing up and down, a centimetre or two in each direction. ‘Agility. It’s never too late to start. Anything, that is. That’s what I think.’

  Pirkko is squatting in the middle of my office and looking me right in the eyes. I have to talk to her. But first things first; I have to get her out of that position.

  ‘Looking good,’ I say. Maybe it wasn’t the best opening line.

  ‘I knew you’d notice,’ she smiles. Finally she springs back into an upright position. ‘Nothing gets past you. Which is so important in your job. You take the time to listen to people, to accept them for who they are, especially people who—’

  ‘That’s nice.’ I interrupt her. ‘The thing is—’

  Now I cut myself short. It’s clear I have to make a choice. Either I can sort out the misunderstanding between us, or we can go through the day’s business. In my experience, trying to sort out a misunderstanding will almost certainly be the more time-consuming of the two options. Both parties will have to have their say, then we have to form some kind of consensus and agree on how to proceed. It’s not going to happen today.

  We get stuck into the day’s agenda. Eventually we get to the matter of choosing the cover material for the new hymnals. Pirkko walks round the desk and positions herself next to me. We are crouched over the table, going through the material together. I get the feeling the decision was made long ago.

  Black leather it is, then.

  Pirkko is about to leave my office when she stops and turns. ‘The first client of the day,’ she begins, then seems suddenly at a loss for words.

  ‘What about him?’

  Pirkko is about to say something but stops herself and smiles. She looks past me, the smile still on her face, hanging in the air, and I get the impression it wasn’t even meant for me. The moment is quickly over. Pirkko turns and closes the door behind her. I walk into the middle of the room, look first at our Saviour on the Cross, then the clock.

  Oh, happy hour.

  I can’t just sit here waiting for evening to come. I have to find some kind of advantage, anything, to gain at least some kind of leverage, something with which to fight back if necessary. I haven’t the faintest idea what that something might be or where I might find it. And it’s for this reason I am on the move and heading where I am heading. It’s better to try something, anything at all, than sit around waiting, helpless.

  I believe Krista would do the same. She would understand I can’t just wait and count on the decency of the people who have taken her hostage. For a variety of reasons, I find it hard to trust their generosity of spirit.

  The Golden Moon Night Club.

  The dim lighting, the dark panelling and the music that carries your thoughts to the early hours. It feels like stepping into a cellar. I guess that’s the desired effect, that time should disappear and only beer has any meaning. A handful of customers are sitting in the booths; there seems to be a clamour at the dartboard. I find a stool and prop up the bar in what is now my regular spot.

  The space behind the counter is empty. It doesn’t seem to bother anybody. I assume the bar staff have popped out the back for a moment.

  I listen to the darts players arguing with one another. It quickly escalates from a discussion about one dart to many darts, from the darts to a pint of lager, then to whose round is next, and eventually to the injustice of the 1944 eastern border settlement and how someone should be made to pay for it. I stop listening to them and concentrate on more important matters. I wait a moment longer, and then I see her.

  Karoliina arrives through the seating area carrying a metallic box. She walks briskly, almost hurrying, then notices me.

  She smiles, looks content, says good morning, walks right behind me, almost touching me. Once she has walked round the bar she dashes in behind it, places the heavy-looking box on the counter and opens the door of the hotdog grill. As she opens the box and starts loading hotdogs into the rotating grill, she looks up at me.

  ‘Breakfast?’ she asks. ‘Fresh sausage, just delivered.’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve already eaten.’

  ‘I know; it’s well past breakfast time. This lot only notice they’re hungry by accident.’

  I glance behind me. The three men have returned to their game of darts. Once Karoliina has placed the sausages in the grill and the cogs start rotating, she closes the glass doors and walks up to me.

  ‘I would ask if you want a drink, but you left a full pint on the counter when you left yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t think I was in the mood for beer.’

  ‘What about today? Are you in the mood for beer or something else?’

  Her eyes give nothing away. Her hair falls in dark waves on both sides of her head.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know. What’s on offer?’

  She pauses before responding.

  ‘I’ve just made coffee. I can pour you a cup.’

  Coffee sounds good, I tell her. She moves along to the middle of the counter and takes a full pot from the filter machine, pours the steaming coffee into two cups and asks whether I take milk or sugar. I don’t. She adds a drop of milk to her own and returns with the cups. Nothing in her movements or her tone of voice makes me suspect she might be involved in the kidnapping or in preparing the robbery. She quickly glances around.

  ‘Have you been thinking about things?’ she asks. ‘The things we talked about yesterday?’

  I take this question as a good sign. Would the kidnapper still want me as an accessory to a robbery? Of course, it’s possible, but it’s highly unlikely.

  ‘A
lot,’ I reply. ‘But I’m still in the dark about a lot of things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as why you want the meteorite.’

  Karoliina looks at me with what seems like a mixture of surprise and suspicion. ‘Shall we speak frankly?’

  ‘Why not?’ I say. ‘There isn’t much time.’

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘I’m a pastor. Anything you tell me is confidential.’

  She thinks about this for a moment.

  ‘Are you seriously asking me why I want that meteorite? What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I’m deadly serious,’ I say and pull my coffee cup closer. ‘It affects how we proceed from here.’

  ‘It solves my problems,’ she says. Her voice is neutral and calm.

  ‘It solves your problems? A million euros?’

  She takes a cigarette from the packet on the counter, twirls it between her fingers.

  ‘Show me a person whose problems wouldn’t be solved with a million euros. And what do you mean, “how we proceed”?’

  ‘What happens once … we have the meteorite?’

  ‘We sell it,’ she says, as breezily as if she were talking about pulling the next pint. ‘I know how it can be done. Don’t worry about that. Besides…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What makes you want to get involved in this?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Right,’ she says and sips her coffee.

  She looks like she knows what she wants, she seems sure of everything. I still haven’t asked my main question. I take a sip of coffee; it’s still too hot to drink.

  I place the cup back on the counter and speak in an everyday tone of voice, as if I were talking about the weather. ‘What about Leonid?’

  Karoliina almost manages to hide her surprise. Only a tiny shimmer crosses her face. The cigarette is still between her fingers, clearly yearning to rise up to her lips.