Karoliina and Leonid cannot see the masked man. He is standing behind them. They look at me. The broken window is behind the man; that’s how he has come in. All four of us are in some kind of infernal chain, each part of which is linked to all the other parts. The masked man is aiming a rifle either at me, Karoliina, Leonid or all three of us. Probably all of us.
‘Don’t move,’ he says in a booming voice. ‘Or I’ll shoot.’
Karoliina turns her head slightly, keeping her pistol aimed firmly in my direction. Her expression is a mixture of rage and disbelief.
‘Drop the gun,’ says the man.
Karoliina’s head is turned towards him. She must be able to see the rifle. The pistol is pointed at me. Long seconds elapse. Eventually her fingers relax and the pistol drops to the floor.
‘Kick the gun to the side,’ he says.
Karoliina stands on the spot. Again a few seconds pass. The barrel of the rifle rises slightly, a shot explodes and plasterwork falls from the wall behind us. Again the rifle seems to point at all of us at once.
‘Kick it.’
Karoliina kicks the pistol, and it glides a few metres across the floor.
‘The bag,’ the man says, this time to Leonid.
Leonid is standing on the spot, just like Karoliina was a moment ago. I get the impression the rifleman is starting to lose his temper.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ he hisses from behind his rifle. ‘Simple instructions, dammit. The bag. Now.’
At this the man seems to realise something himself.
‘The bag,’ he says, this time in English. ‘You. Bag. Give.’
Now I know the identity of the rifleman behind the balaclava: Tarvainen the rally driver. His booming voice had me fooled for a moment. But I recognise his English from the TV sports round-up; I can see him standing by the track, shouting commands, a baseball cap pulled tight over his head, the foreign words tumbling from his mouth like clumsy metallic car parts. Leonid removes the bag from his back and holds it in his hand.
‘Throw,’ Tarvainen continues in English. ‘Bag. Me. Now.’
Leonid throws the bag as though it were a sock or a towel. It clanks on the concrete floor in front of Tarvainen. The rally driver points the rifle at us and cautiously bends down towards the bag. He takes his left hand from the shaft of the rifle and grasps the straps of the rucksack, all the while succeeding in keeping the rifle aimed and ready with one hand.
‘Pastor,’ he says. ‘Walk over to the pistol, lift it by the barrel and drop it into that cannon.’
At the far end of the room is a large field cannon. Its barrel is pointing towards the edge of the roof at the other side of the hall. I walk towards the pistol and pray that Tarvainen doesn’t notice one thing: the kettle still in my hand. Once I reach the pistol, I hear Tarvainen’s voice again.
‘Slowly,’ he says. ‘Pick up the pistol and point it at yourself.’
I crouch down, grip the pistol by the barrel so that it is pointing somewhere around my stomach. Then I stand up straight and look at Tarvainen.
‘Walk calmly towards the cannon,’ he says.
I walk towards the cannon with the kettle in my other hand. The green steel barrel of the cannon is thick, the hole at its end like a black chasm. The barrel rises up at a steep, forty-five-degree angle.
‘Lift the pistol carefully and drop it into the cannon,’ says Tarvainen.
I move my arm slowly, raise it almost as far as I can reach. The mouth of the cannon is quite high from the ground. The pistol reaches the opening; I place it further inside and let go. The slide gives a metallic echo, then quickly dies down. I keep the kettle huddled against my body. I’m not exactly hiding it, but I don’t want to show it off either.
Tarvainen begins backing off towards the window. He is still pointing the rifle at us. Shards of glass crunch beneath his winter boots. Then in a flash he is outside and only the barrel of the rifle remains inside the museum.
‘If I see someone following me, I’ll shoot,’ he says, and now I can hear the drink in his voice. Until now he’s managed to conceal it.
‘I’ll shoot if you come after me,’ he shouts once more.
Then he disappears.
I don’t have a plan of any sort.
What I do have is an iron kettle and a sprinting start.
Leonid has turned and is facing Karoliina. I can’t see what Karoliina is doing as I run towards Leonid. He turns and sees me all in the same movement. He is quick, his hand disappears inside his coat and pulls out a knife. But I have speed on my side, that and what I’ve got in my hand. I swing the kettle.
It thumps Leonid square on the chin with a dull clang. He falls to his knees, the knife flies from his hand, clatters as it slides, glinting, across the museum floor. I continue running towards the window and glance over my shoulder. Karoliina has reached the field cannon and has reached her hand inside. I peer out of the window, hear an engine starting and dive outside.
Tarvainen is sitting on the back of a snowmobile and slams his foot on the gas. He has the rucksack on his back, the rifle slung across his chest. He doesn’t look behind him as the snowmobile hurtles further from the museum. I make my way to the other side of the museum, run to my car pulling the keys from my pocket. I manage to start the engine, reverse, turn the car and set off after him.
I steer the car to the main road, and before long I can see the back light of the snowmobile flickering up ahead. The vehicle is travelling between the trees, parallel to the road. Thank goodness the stars are brighter than on any other night this winter – and thank goodness there’s a full moon. If there was even the slightest snowfall or if clouds covered the sky, I wouldn’t see anything.
I need that meteorite. I glance at the clock, aghast, and pull my phone from my pocket. I simultaneously try to see what is happening in the forest – where the snowmobile is heading, and struggle to put together a text message. It isn’t easy. Tarvainen is driving at a terrific speed. I really have to put my foot down just to keep up with him. He knows how to drive. I’ve only managed to type two words when the phone beeps as a text message arrives:
Bring the meteorite out.
We are in the car park.
I shout out loud. ‘No, no, no, no, no!’
I can’t turn around and I don’t have the meteorite. I delete what I’ve already written and glance to the sides. The back light has disappeared. I brake, the phone falls from my hand. I reverse, the engine howls, the wall of spruces suddenly opens up and I can see the snowmobile far across the other side of the fields. It is heading towards…
Lake Hurmevaara.
Tarvainen’s house is on the shores of Lake Hurmevaara.
Who steals a million euros, then takes his loot and drives straight back home?
Answer: a drunken rally driver. Maybe.
After crossing the field, the rear light again disappears into the forest. I grope in the footwell for my phone and finally find it beneath the passenger seat. I send a text message, then try to make a call. I set off and hold the phone firmly against my ear. It rings. Nobody answers.
At the intersection I turn right. I drive along the road for ten minutes and arrive at the Hurmevaara junction quicker than ever before. I take the road leading to Lake Hurmevaara, twisting and turning as it winds its way towards the lake. There isn’t a single straight section in the road, and I really have to focus on driving. Regardless of the hazardous conditions, I look at my phone and try to call again. It’s futile.
When I arrive at the point where the road veers off towards the western edge of the lake, I search online for Tarvainen’s contact details. These are easily found. Neither his address nor his telephone number are ex-directory. This suggests the rally driver didn’t give the idea of becoming a meteorite thief much prior thought.
The final kilometre up to Tarvainen’s house is the fastest that night. I am familiar with the house from hearsay. It was built with the fortunes of a rally career, money that, judging by what I’ve seen, has long since run out. The house is large, wholly unsuited to its surroundings, and is positioned almost on the water’s edge. Perhaps the edge of the ice would be a more appropriate term at this time of year. In the glare of the moon and stars, the angularity of the house, its brightness and its large glass windows make it look like a miniature airport without a runway. I drive past the house but cannot see the snowmobile. The house is unlit.
After a few hundred metres I make a U-turn and drive back towards the house. From this angle I get a better view of the strip of land between the house and the shore. The snowmobile is parked on a steep incline, its bonnet almost right up against the house. The lights are on in the window in front of the vehicle. Tarvainen is in one corner of the house, so I surmise that I can drive along the main path and approach the house from the opposite direction.
The path seems to lead down towards the house and the shoreline. I switch off the car’s headlights. As soon as I turn on to the path, I shift into neutral and switch off the motor. I open the window. The car glides silently forwards on the narrow, snow-covered pathway. I almost make it all the way to the house without hearing a sound.
And when the sound finally comes, I see the glass of the windscreen crack around a bullet hole.