Ice Islands, page 4
‘I am here, John.’ Virtanen stepped out of a door to the left and closed it. He was an inch taller than Rake and had a bleak, tired face. ‘You’re Ozenna, a guest speaker. I have a note from SUPO to work with you.’
The detective turned to Norquist. ‘John, go make coffee. I’ll show Ozenna the corpse.’ He handed Rake a pair of thin blue medical gloves and covers for his boots. Virtanen opened the door he had just come through into a good size room, part student accommodation, part mid-price motel, with a mirror above a narrow wooden workbench, an upright, light brown plastic work chair, a yellow fabric armchair under the window with a footrest and matching yellow curtains. Through an open door into a bathroom, Rake saw a stainless-steel shower head. In the middle of the room stood a queen-size bed, covers crumpled half on the bed, half on the floor, white sheets soaked dark with blood.
Yuri Mishkin’s corpse lay face up, pale, a shocking, familiar expression Rake had seen in other young men, the face contorting as the brain is suddenly injected with sheer terror in the seconds before death.
Starting below the right ear, there was a deep and long cut on the front of the neck that had severed the carotid artery. Mishkin’s front was covered in his own blood, now congealing in chest hairs. There was a bruise on his left shoulder where he may have been held down by his killer or killers.
‘Murder weapon?’ asked Rake.
‘Not yet,’ Virtanen was in his late fifties. Given his brisk professional manner and the rarity of serious crime on the Åland Islands, he must have worked in some place where people got hurt and killed on a regular basis.
‘Who was through there?’ Rake pointed to a half-open door on the left.
‘There are twelve delegates, one from each side of six conflicts. They share a room if the same gender. Mishkin was paired with a Japanese woman so her room is through there.’
‘Sara Kato?’
‘Yes. Yesterday evening, after dinner, they had all been at the bar of the hotel you’re staying at. The staff reported no altercations. A lot of laughter. Mishkin was killed around three thirty.’
‘And found when?’
‘Five thirty by Sara Kato. Either she killed him, or she was going to his bed.’
‘Or both.’
Virtanen gave a grim smile ‘Or both.’ He turned to a knock on the open door and the arrival of the mortuary crew with a gurney and a black, heavy-duty body bag. The detective led Rake along the corridor to a cluttered corner room with views over water and sky, where dawn was delivering early light. The wind had dropped. Snow fell straight and heavy. There was an aroma of fresh coffee. Norquist stepped in from another entrance with a tray of pastries, which he put on the edge of his desk.
He handed Rake a cream sackcloth bag emblazoned with Åland Fredsinstitut inside a circular black logo, and in yellow, red and blue the words ‘Autonomy, Minority, Security’. ‘Everything is in the welcome pack,’ said Norquist. ‘How do you want your coffee?’
‘Black,’ said Rake.
‘Black,’ said Virtanen.
‘Help yourself to pastries. We have rhubarb and almond. The chocolate is very good.’ Norquist poured coffee, giving himself milk and sugar.
‘Did Detective Virtanen explain?’ Not waiting for an answer, Norquist repeated the formula of the conference. ‘They live, eat, work together throughout the week. Each has a personal experience of conflict. They have either fought or lost family members. The institute was founded after the Cold War in 1992 as a nonpolitical, nonreligious organization drawing on our islands’ own story of finding a path away from war.’
On the flight, Rake had read how the Åland Islands became a flashpoint between Finland and Sweden in the early twentieth century. The islands were closer to Finland, but most who lived there were Swedes, and Sweden threatened to take them by force. The British brokered a solution. Bombs and guns were put away.
Virtanen slipped out, as Norquist continued. ‘We have six mentors, one for each of the pairs. They explain details of the Åland Islands solution on language, local government, discrimination, national identity, how we have road signs and documents in both languages. We offer that as a template, and they discuss with each other how much could be applied to their conflict. The goal is not to come up with a solution, but to understand how resolution works, and how difficult it is.’
The story of a hundred crazy wars, thought Rake, listening while looking through the delegates’ hard copy profiles from the bag. The Israeli with the scar was paired with a captain from Syria’s military intelligence directorate, both mid-thirties. The Syrian looked less damaged. He was in light brown uniform with black and gold epaulets. A second photograph showed his wife and young son in front of the Damascus Umayyad Mosque.
There were a Sunni and Shia from Iraq’s never-ending civil war. Both wore suits and ties. The Sunni was disheveled, unshaven, reluctant, awkward, eyes drained. The Shia had a sense of theater, pinstripe suit with waistcoat, even a gold watch chain and a colorful bow tie, confident and camera-friendly.
There were two women from British-controlled Northern Ireland, one Protestant, one Catholic, each with lashings of brown hair, huge smiles and bright summer dresses.
From Nigeria came a commander from the Boko Haram militia, a vicious tribal extremist group in northwest Africa, paired with a captain from Nigeria’s Special Forces Brigade who had studied at West Point. Both were large, fit, trained men.
From Rake’s homeland there were two former US Marine Corps officers, who had spent six months in the same unit in Afghanistan. One was a black female captain who was part of an anti-racist, left-wing movement, the other a white lieutenant from a far-right group. Either would know how to kill Mishkin, but doubtful they would from a bar-room disagreement.
Then came Sara Kato, paired with the murder victim, a photograph of her leading a protest, on some kind of city square stage, dressed in black pants and top, waving a green and yellow flag, her face flaring with passion and energy, a profile of her job with the Global Association of Native People and a line about the conflict, an island chain that the Japanese called the Northern Territories and that the Russian Federation called the Kuril Islands.
‘Our delegates have been identified as future leaders,’ Norquist was saying. ‘All are under forty. We keep the numbers small, and a condition of their attendance is that they advocate compromise over confrontation.’
‘Did Sara Kato and Yuri Mishkin know each other?’ Rake flipped through the photographs.
‘I don’t know.’ Norquist tapped his cheek to indicate he was eating and couldn’t speak. Rake waited while Norquist swallowed the last of the pastry. ‘I think not. You must remember, Major, they only arrived last night. The ladies from Ireland, they know each other. The others, I am not sure.’
‘How do you vet your delegates?’
‘I vet them,’ Virtanen stepped back in. ‘Helsinki homicide gives a man an instinct for rot. I match it with intel files from governments, your agencies, the FBI and CIA.’
‘Kato and Mishkin?’ Rake repeated.
‘They came up as clean as any. The week is about conflict. None has a pretty past.’
‘But never a murder.’ Norquist avoided Virtanen’s gaze and stared at the pastries. ‘Nothing like this. Terrible. Terrible.’
Virtanen propped his phone against a book on Norquist’s desk. ‘I want you to be with me when I talk to the delegates, Major. They’re in the lecture hall. Before we go in, you need to see this from the bar last night.’ He brought up a frozen frame of a blurred bar scene. Rake could make out Sara Kato and Yuri Mishkin in the corner, separated from the rest of the group.
Virtanen said, ‘Kato approached Mishkin to come here after he published a paper advocating a solution in the Russia–Japan islands dispute. Mishkin argued that they should become a demilitarized region overseen by the United Nations and run by the Ainu, the indigenous Japanese minority. Sara Kato found his paper on the web and offered to pay for his trip here. This is a clip from the hotel’s surveillance last night. He tells her the paper is useless because Russia would never give up the islands. We’ve merged images from three cameras and enhanced the pixelation.’ Virtanen tapped the phone to start the video.
Mishkin sat on a stool looking at an old black-and-white photograph that Sara was showing him on her tablet. A woman’s face filled the screen, her eyes narrowed, crows’ feet spreading to the edge of her face. A dark blue patterned headscarf covered her hair. Earrings hung in large, crooked circles. The skin around her lips was heavily tattooed so it looked as if she had a wide false moustache. Sara swiped to a photograph of villagers gathered around the carcass of a whale on a shoreline, reminding Rake of his own people in Alaska, the tattoos, the ruggedness, the individualism, the weakness when faced with encroaching American or, in this case, Japanese civilization.
‘These are the Ainu of your Kuril Islands,’ Sara said. ‘The land belongs to them. Not to my country or your country which tried to strip them of their identity.’
Mishkin smiled, his eyes playful, looking back and forth from the photographs to Sara.
‘The tattoos are to fend off evil,’ she said. ‘They begin by rubbing birch charcoal into small cuts around the lips and are cleaned up with antiseptic from boiled ash bark. The tattoo gets bigger every year, with more cuts, until the woman’s wedding day. The Japanese had banned the practice.’
‘I think we did, too.’ Mishkin sipped his glass of red wine while keeping his eyes on Sara. She didn’t respond. Her focus seemed to be on the Ainu issue. They spoke in fluent English, Mishkin with a light Russian accent, Sara with an English one like out of one of those period television shows.
‘So, don’t you think, we could give the islands to the Ainu? That’s what you are saying in your paper.’
‘You need to slow down.’ Mishkin gave her a long, slow smile. ‘You’re like a lovely galloping horse looking for a racecourse.’
‘I’m a what?’ Sara was lifting her wine to take a drink, but stopped, glass midair, looking stunned at what Mishkin said.
‘I’ll make you a deal?’ He leant across and turned off her tablet.
Her face contorted in confusion; she didn’t try and stop him.
‘We work together for this week, righting the wrongs of our ancestors, and draw up a plan to return land to our indigenous people.’ His tone was stern, but the smile remained under the spirited eyes. ‘What do you say?’
‘Sure. Of course.’ She sipped her wine and kept her gaze on him. ‘This is what I do, Yuri. It is why I am here.’
‘And is it the driving cause that fills the emptiness in your life?’
‘What. No.’ She put down her glass noisily, giving him a sharp full-on glance. ‘Of course not.’
‘Good.’ He slid off the stool to lean on the bar. ‘Because there are problems.’
‘Of course. There are always problems. But you and I are children of the new generation. Together we can fix them.’
‘I love it. Your enthusiasm is infectious.’ Mishkin lay his hand on Sara’s arm with a gentle squeeze before moving it away. ‘But here’s the thing. Those seas need to stay Russian maritime territory because they link Sakhalin and Vladivostok to the Pacific.’ His smile became a grin, his eyes teasingly on Sara. ‘Unless we hand our Russian Navy over to Ainu, too.’
‘Why did you put it in, then? Why did you come here?’ She sounded irritated, but Mishkin’s relaxed manner seemed to absorb her punch. He kept his smile. ‘I got to meet you, didn’t I?’ He brushed his loose fringe off his face, still the grin, still the eyes frisky.
Rake knew the type. Crazy, spoilt, cute. A good-time guy who might well have been as lost and cause-hunting as Sara. Now, she was focused on him, eyes shining, brow creased, hand resting on the polished bar close to his. Everything in her body language suggested she might well head into his adjoining room in the middle of the night.
‘That’s it.’ Virtanen stopped the video and picked up his phone. ‘The delegates are in the hall. Let’s go meet them.’
SEVEN
The lecture hall, with faded maroon walls, old-framed photographs and a worn green-patterned carpet had been cleared to take only the twelve delegates. They were spaced out at dark wooden desks in an area designed for a hundred or more. Each desk carried a laminated card with the delegates’ names and their conflict. Windows looked out on the garden being searched by police. There were two entrances, coats on hooks inside the doors, uniformed police at each. At one end there was a slightly raised stage with a wide alcove and a pull-down white screen behind a long table.
Virtanen headed to the table, which was draped with white, starched linen, like in a dining room. Bottled water, glasses, writing pads, pens and white folded nameplates in bold black capital letters. Rake’s and Norquist’s names were there for what should have been the opening of the conference.
Virtanen poured himself a glass of water. Rake stood at the back in the alcove to the right side of the screen. Behind it was a blackboard and the smell of chalk dust. The whole room smelt like an old school.
The delegates were quiet. The Israeli drummed his fingers on the desktop. The Boko Haram commander pushed back hard in his chair, arms folded, eyes erratically circling the room. The Shia from Baghdad rocked back and forth, chin in his hands. The desks were locked in pairs, but at an angle. The partners sat side by side, facing out slightly. The two Irish women spoke in whispers to each other. The military ones, two US Marines, the Nigerian and the Syrian sat outwardly relaxed, as did the Iraqi Sunni.
With Yuri Mishkin’s seat empty, Sara Kato was alone on the left of the room. She had round Asiatic features with high cheekbones. She lowered her head, letting hair hide her face as she slowly turned the pages of a book. Taped to the desk was a card stating Russia-Japan, Northern Territories-Kuril Islands and the names Yuri and Sara. A green canvas shoulder bag sat on Yuri Mishkin’s chair.
‘Thank you everyone for helping out,’ Virtanen began. ‘We all know why we’re here. It is sad and it is shocking. Yuri Mishkin was murdered last night. All of you met him. You might not have known him well, but from the little I have learned, you liked him. My job is to identify and arrest those responsible. Hopefully, I can eliminate each of you from being a suspect.’ He spoke in a tone of a discussion, not an interrogation, an atmosphere of being in it all together, a familiar investigation tactic, exuding trust and engagement, that Rake had never managed to get right. His features were too coarse. He was unable to fake a lowered guard or make his smile trusting when it was not. Virtanen was good.
‘I will gather general information now, after which I or one of my detectives will interview each of you separately. This will run in parallel with the post-mortem, the forensic examinations, and other information we have coming in about Yuri Mishkin.’
‘And information about each of us,’ said the Israeli in a hostile manner.
Virtanen sipped water, then looked directly at the Israeli. ‘The Åland Islands police are not used to investigating murder. So please bear with us, sir. I served fifteen years with homicide in Helsinki, during which time I also worked as an investigator in Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan.’
Virtanen’s tone became as hard as steel. He had the room’s attention. ‘You arrived yesterday and some of you were with Mishkin in the bar of the hotel. You came back and he was killed, we think, around three a.m. – about five hours ago. Could I first ask if any of you had met Mishkin before yesterday?’
None raised a hand. Sara pushed hair behind her left ear, revealing bloodshot eyes and tear streaks.
‘Which of you spoke to him at the bar?’ asked Virtanen.
All but three hands were raised.
‘I stayed in my room,’ the Israeli said quietly.
‘We did, too,’ said one of the Irish women.
‘And the rest of you were at the Hotel Cikada?’
There was a scrape of the chair, and the Nigerian captain stood up. His name was Victor. ‘If I may, sir?’ He spoke in an American accent with a Southern twinge.
‘Go on, Victor,’ said Virtanen.
‘Nine of us walked from here to the hotel. I bought the first round. We talked in one group and ended up splitting into three. I was with Darul, Simone and Alex.’ He pointed out his conference partner from Boko Haram and the two Americans. ‘We talked about race and inequality, but more about soccer, football and baseball. The other group were the three Middle East guys, and at the end of the bar were Sara and Yuri. They headed back before any of us.’
‘Does everyone go along with that?’ asked Virtanen. There was a muttering of agreement.
Sara put up her right hand. ‘If I may?’
‘Go ahead, Sara,’ said Virtanen.
She stood up, wearing a similar black outfit to the one in the file photograph, black pants, tighter and more stylish, the button-down shirt and a matching business suit jacket. ‘I had never met Yuri. But we corresponded online, and I did request him for this conference. You say we kept ourselves to ourselves, you are right. We had a lot to talk about. I wanted to get to know him.’
She spoke in a precise English accent, leaning lightly on the desk with the knuckles of her left hand. With her right forefinger, she traced circles on the surface. Her voice was steady, but her face was drained like parched landscape. ‘Compared to the others, our issues are small in human terms. No blood has been shed. Yet. I found Yuri by looking through research papers.’
‘And you funded this trip?’ Virtanen’s tone softened, back to being conversational. Rake guessed costs would run into tens of thousands of dollars and channeled through Sara’s Global Association of Native People.
Abruptly, Sara stopped circling the desktop with her finger and looked up. ‘I didn’t know if funding would be available. Mine is a small campaign. Not many people care.’
‘Tell us about the campaign,’ instructed Virtanen. ‘Or how it is through your eyes.’
Sara brushed down her jacket and adjusted her name badge. ‘Russia kept Japan’s Northern Territories after the Pacific War. They call them the Kurils, fifty-six islands stretching from far eastern Russian to Hokkaido, our northernmost island. Historically, Hokkaido should belong not to Japan or Russia. Japan only occupied it in 1868, after the Meiji Restoration. Before that it was called Ezo, and it needs to be returned to its native people. Our dispute with Russia is over just four islands.’
