This makes me laugh in his face. “No,” I say.
His face twists so much that he reminds me of a gargoyle. “You think I don’t know you, but I do,” he says. “You suffer from a pathetic need to protect the innocent. You think you’re some kind of a Good Samaritan in a white hat, but you’re not. You’re a rubberhose cop, a thug and a killer, as you’ve demonstrated. You’ll do anything to get what you view as justice. Let me give you an example of how badly we need this kind of unit. Only about a half dozen cops in Helsinki investigate human trafficking. In Finland and the surrounding countries, thousands of gangsters orchestrate the buying and selling of young girls, and hundreds or thousands of those girls pass through this country every year. With our limited legal resources, we can’t possibly make even a dent in the humanslavery industry. Picture all those victims and how many of their bright shiny faces you could save from abject misery, abuse and terror, from being raped time and time again.”
He’s got something there.
Jyri senses I’m beginning to be intrigued. “Milo knows blackbag work,” he says. “He’s a genius with great computer skills, and he’s also a killer. He could be your first team-member acquisition. Then you can staff it with whoever you want.”
“I’m not killing anybody,” I say.
“I’ll leave that to your discretion.”
“Milo is a loose cannon and a liability.”
“Milo is a nervous puppy. He needs a firm hand to guide him. Yours.”
“It would take a hell of a lot of money,” I say. “Computers. Vehicles. Surveillance gear.”
“In two weeks, Swedish and Finnish gypsies are going to make a big drug deal for Ecstasy. A hundred and sixty thousand euros will trade hands. You can intercept it and use the money for the beginning of a slush fund.”
I’m tempted, but not that tempted. “No.”
Frustration wells up in his face. For a second, I think he’s going to punch me. “I told you I know you, and I do. I can see into your soul. You hate your job. You’re frustrated because you can’t make a difference. You’re a failure. To your dead sister. To Sufia Elmi and her family. To your sergeant Valtteri and his family. To your dead ex-wife. To your dead miscarried twins and, as such, to your wife. To that pathetic school shooter Milo capped. You’re a failure to yourself. You failed everyone you’ve touched, and you’re going to have to save a hell of a lot of people before you can make it up. You’ll take this job to save yourself. I’m offering you everything you ever wanted.”
He’s worked hard at building a dossier on me to have all this information at his fingertips. He’s been considering me for this position for a long time. “Why me?” I ask.
“Because of your aforementioned annoying incorruptibility. You don’t want anything. You’re a maniac, but you’re a rock. I can trust you to run this unit without going rogue on me.”
I’d like to dismiss the idea, but I can’t. “I’ll think about it.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. It shocks me. “No one ever finds out about any of this,” he says. “I’ll organize everything, get you the manpower. This evening, you and Milo oversee while they tear apart Filippov’s and Linda’s apartments and his business. Rip the walls down to the studs with crowbars if you have to, but you find that evidence, show it to me, then burn it.”
I don’t trust Jyri. I’ll find the evidence and keep it, in case of a contingency, such as betrayal. “Okay,” I say.
He shakes my hand with both of his. “Fix this for me,” he says, “and run my black-ops unit.”
I’m not ready to agree yet-I don’t want to give him the satisfaction-but I know that I will.
38
On the way to Porvoo, Snow and fierce winds batter my Saab, make it hard to keep it on the road. My phone rings. It’s Milo. I don’t answer. It rings again. I don’t recognize the number but answer anyway. “Vaara.”