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material.
    Once on the third floor of the station, Joutsamo led her down a hallway and into a small interrogation room that was somewhat different from those used for suspects.
    The room was plain, but not too dreary. On one wall, a map of Helsinki added a splash of color. A table, three chairs and a worn leather couch were neatly arranged about the room. If Joutsamo had had any say, she would have decorated with a bit more warmth, but perhaps a bit of barrenness helped to remind witnesses and plaintiffs of the importance of honesty. Only suspects had the right to lie without consequence.
    “Would you like some coffee?”

 
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 5
    MONDAY, 12:05 P.M.
    KAARELA, NORTH HELSINKI
     
    Risto Korpi sat in a small, dimly lit room, browsing through electronic equipment websites on a laptop computer. Chat rooms provided a trove of valuable information on police methods along with pictures and license plates of unmarked squad cars. Korpi never posted messages; he only read them.
    He stroked his head. It was smooth, freshly shaved that morning as it was every other day.
    The websites contained information about surveillance microphones, their operating frequencies and how to detect them. Korpi’s hard face cracked into a smile. The post was sufficiently interesting that he copied it, signed into an anonymous French email account and pasted the text into an email draft. A friend of Korpi’s in Sweden knew the password to the same account, which allowed him to read the drafts on his own computer. This way, emails were never actually sent, which minimized the risk that the authorities could read them.
    But the procedure wasn’t foolproof either. Korpi knew the police had the capability of infecting his computer with viruses that would make his every move visible to them.

Real business had to be conducted the old -fashioned way, and even then, communications had to be coded in such a way that they revealed nothing to outsiders. The language had to be ordinary enough so as not to attract attention.
    Years in prison had taught Korpi to be careful, to leave no trace.
    A knock came at the door and Korpi barked out something unintelligible. The door swung open.
    “Risto,” said a young man in an uneasy voice. The man was powerfully built, with prominent cheekbones and a ragged scar beneath his right ear. Jere Siikala went by the nickname of Guerrilla and had actually come to prefer it over his former, a bastardization of Siikala to Sikala, meaning Pigsty.
    Korpi wheeled suddenly and shouted, “Fucking idiot! How many times I gotta tell you not to use names! Goddamn shit for brains. Never goddamn learn.”
    “Sorry,” Guerrilla said, shrinking back a bit. He knew better than to cross Korpi, but he had forgotten the rules.
    Korpi massaged his jaw. He shouldn’t have blown up, but sometimes he failed to smother his own fuse. Stupidity piqued his wrath more than it did most. Korpi struggled to quiet his voice. “Do you understand why we can’t mention names?”
    Siikala was prepared. He tried to offer the newspaper, explaining, “Of course I do, but it says here…”
    “I wanna hear the reason.”
    “Well, cuz the cops might be listening.”
    Korpi nodded. “Good. And how do they do that?”
    “They got the technology and all…room could be wired…mikes that work through the windows.”
    “Exactly. So tell me again, why no fucking names?”
    Siikala was confused, not sure why Korpi was still hassling him. Was it just another of his endless tirades, or was something worse coming? “So the cops can’t figure out who’s talking.”
    “So you know all about this…”
    Siikala nodded.
    “Then why the fuck…” Korpi snatched an empty beer bottle off the floor and launched it at Siikala. The bodybuilder managed to dodge the missile and it shattered against the door frame. “…don’t you do what I tell you?”
    Guerrilla knew anything he said would only further irritate Korpi. Now it was wise to remain