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as dead as those lynx on your boss’s fur coat. You understand?”
    The speaker was male, with a thick Russian accent, the kind that would be easy to imitate. He could have been Finnish, Estonian, or Polish. I tried to recognize any similarities between his voice and the rowdy patrons in Bar Svoboda, but I couldn’t remember their voices well because I had focused so hard on avoiding them altogether. That had been a big mistake.
    I wanted to know more about this murdered Finn in Moscow, to confirm that it was indeed Anita. I couldn’t use the Internet at the cabin, but at least there was a news service on my phone. I started scrolling to find more information, but each channel had the same snippet I had already heard that morning on TV. Did I really have to drive thirteen miles to Outokumpu to buy the newspaper for this? The Hakkarainens probably only subscribed to the local newspapers Savon Sanomat and Maaseudun tulevaisuus , which were aimed at farmers and foresters.
    It didn’t make sense for Anita to be near the Frunzenskaya subway station alone. What was she doing walking by herself in the middle of the city, anyway? Anita, who you couldn’t pay to take a subway in Moscow. We’d spent countless hours in traffic inside cabs reeking of cheap tobacco before we found Shabalin. I tried calling him again, but I only heard a recording that seemed to indicate that the number was no longer in service. Of course. Was his real name even Shabalin? Having a business card was handy not only for giving people your contact information but also for helping to create a false identity. Had Shabalin abandoned Anita, who then had been too scared to use another cab and instead had thought she’d be safer in a crowded subway?
    Frunzenskaya was southeast of the Kremlin, close to the Moscow River. Gorky Park loomed on the far riverbank. I had occasionally jogged through the area to reach the river when I knew Anita was safe behind her locked hotel room. The place itself didn’t feel sketchy and there were always plenty of people around. If I were a hit man, I would try to find a more remote location for my work.
    I didn’t want to call Laitio back right away; I was afraid the police would try to trace the call to the cell tower where it had come from. I deleted the English threat after I wrote it down and saved it on my USB stick, where I kept all my files on Paskevich. I opened my previous notes on his and Anita’s connections.
    Paskevich had been employed by the KGB before the fall of the Soviet Union, but Yeltsin’s era of chaotic capitalism had allowed him to nab as many properties as he could. Nowadays you could have called him a silovik , a person of the ruling class and protected by the president and the prime minister, which in practice meant that he operated above the law in Russia. Considering Paskevich’s status, it was a miracle Anita had stayed alive even this long. Paskevich had a villa in Bromarf, in the town of Tammisaari, which gave him an excuse to visit Finland every now and then. He’d suggested to Anita that they meet a month before our Moscow trip, but she had politely declined. She didn’t believe his claims about reaching a truce—she was certain it was a trap.
    I pulled out my spare phone and inserted my prepaid SIM card into it. I called Riikka, but she didn’t pick up. Then, through a new Hotmail address, I started typing an e-mail to Monika on the phone. The police would have to work a bit harder if they wanted to read my e-mails. I wrote her that I had left my job because I had been angry at Anita, and now Anita was dead.
    I missed Monika. Ever since Uncle Jari had died, she’d been my most cherished confidante, a sort of substitute big sister and aunt. Despite its name, her restaurant Chez Monique specialized in Finnish-Scandinavian cuisine, with an emphasis on local and environmentally friendly ingredients. For her, food equaled politics. I guess this had pissed off quite a few competitors. First,