The Lost Throne

27

Helsinki sits on the northern shore of the Gulf of Finland, the eastern arm of the Baltic Sea. Approximately 297 miles from Saint Petersburg, the capital city of Finland is flanked by thousands of small islands that protect its natural harbor. Sprawling for blocks along the scenic waterfront, the Kauppatori Market comes alive with tourists during the warmer months, attracting a wide variety of vendors who sell everything from fresh seafood to expensive jewelry.

Because of the chaos of the market and its proximity to the sea, it was the perfect spot for Payne and Jones to meet the boat captain who would be taking them to Russia. Details about him had been kept to a minimum — his name was Jarkko and he’d be waiting for them at a specific stall when the market closed. Other than that, they were told nothing. For his safety and theirs.

The cab dropped them off down the street from the Presidential Palace, which overlooked the market square from the northern side of the Esplanadi. Payne paid the driver as Jones walked toward a small sign on the edge of the marketplace. It was written in Finnish and English. The market opened at 6:30 A.M. and closed at 6 P.M. Jones glanced at his watch and nodded. They had an hour to kill before they met their contact.

“Where to?” Payne wondered as he caught up.

“Beats me. We’ll have to ask somebody.”

The two of them entered the square from the west, unsure where they were headed but determined to find out. They strolled along the cobblestone road, marveling at all the tents and stalls that seemed to go on forever. This section of the market specialized in fruits, vegetables, and other homegrown produce. Tables were filled with tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, and more. Cartons overflowed with cloudberries, ling onberries, and several berries they didn’t recognize — an edible rainbow of shapes and colors. The scent of fresh flowers filled the air.

Payne stopped at a tiny booth and got directions from a woman who spoke perfect English. She told him that he was at the wrong end of the market, but if he kept walking east, he would eventually find the stall he was looking for. Payne thanked her by buying a small bag of her strawberries. Remarkably, they were sweeter than any he had ever eaten.

Jones said, “We’d better get more chow than that. I doubt our trip will be catered.”

Payne agreed. “You pick the place. I’ll buy the food.”

Five minutes later they came across several picnic tables that were nestled among a dozen food stalls. Most of the tables were filled with tourists. Some of whom were eating. Others were watching the boats in the harbor. The view was like a moving postcard.

Jones led the hunt, walking from stall to stall, searching for something tasty to eat. He saw shrimp, crayfish, seafood paella, salmon and potatoes, grilled Arctic char, herring, perch, and octopus. The only nonseafood items he found were french fries and onion rings. A little farther down, Payne stumbled across a booth that featured exotic local cuisine — everything from bear meat stew to moose salami. But one item in particular made him laugh: reindeer sausage.

He was half tempted to buy some for Kaiser.

Eventually, the duo decided to play it safe. They avoided anything fried or spicy before their long trip at sea and ordered grilled salmon, potatoes, and two loaves of Finnish bread.

After their meal, they casually strolled to the other end of the market. They passed tents filled with jewelry, furs, artwork, toys, and everything in between. Finally, at a few minutes to six, they hit the section of the market they were searching for. It was obvious in several ways. They heard seabirds screeching overhead, begging for scraps, and felt the temperature drop as they walked past huge blocks of ice. A variety of seafood was laid out in wooden crates. The stench of spoiled fish came from the garbage bins in back.

“Damn!” Jones exclaimed. “This place smells like Popeye.”

Payne laughed. “I’m not even sure what that means, but it sounds about right.”

“I probably shouldn’t mention that to Jarkko, huh?”

“Probably not.”

Jones looked around. Many fishermen were packing up their goods, preparing for the market to close at six. “Where are we meeting him?”

Payne pointed to a stall across the way. The name above it was long and Finnish. It was identical to the name on Kaiser’s paper. This was definitely the place they were looking for.

A burly man stood behind the counter. He did not look happy. He was wearing an oversized apron, the kind a butcher might wear to attack a cow. It was streaked with blood and guts and all kinds of filth. On his head, he wore a black knitted cap that covered half of his brow and the tops of his ears. His gnarled hands were hidden by thick rubber gloves that he tucked inside the sleeves of his waterproof jacket. A scowl was etched on his face.

Payne approached him with caution. “We’re looking for Jarkko.”

“Who are you?” said the man. He was in his mid-forties and spoke with a Finnish accent.

“We’re friends of Kaiser.”

The man considered this response. “Then I am Jarkko.”

He smiled and extended his right hand across the countertop. His glove was dripping with fish parts. Payne didn’t want to offend him so early in their partnership, so he ignored the goo and shook his hand. Jarkko smiled even wider. “You’re American, no?”

Payne shook his head. “We’re Canadian.”

“Canadian, my perse! You are American. Do not lie to Jarkko.”

Payne wasn’t sure what perse meant but assumed it was profane. “For this particular trip, we are Canadian.”

Jarkko shrugged. “As you wish.”

Jones stood a few feet behind Payne, listening to their conversation. He would have stepped closer, but he didn’t feel like getting slimed. Instead, he simply nodded his head.

Jarkko nodded back. “So why are you here? You are day early.”

“No, we’re not,” Payne assured him. “Our trip is today.”

“Impossible! Russia is closed today. There is no getting through.”

“Closed? What do you mean it’s closed?”

“Do you not understand Jarkko? My English is good. Russia is closed.”

Payne had visited enough places around the world and had dealt with enough shady characters to recognize a shakedown when he saw one. Sometimes the problem was solved with a few dollars. Other times it required a little finesse. But in his experience, there was always a workable solution. It was just a matter of figuring out what that was.

Jarkko picked up a hose from behind the counter and began spraying the ground in a slow, sweeping motion. A thin layer of grime floated toward the closest drain.

Payne spoke over the sound of gushing water. “Obviously, you’re the expert here. If you say Russia is closed, then Russia is closed. Who am I to doubt you?”

Jarkko continued to work as he considered Payne’s words. Finally, he turned off the hose. “That is all? No bribes? No threats? No promises to Jarkko?”

Payne shook his head. “Of course not. I wouldn’t want to insult you.”

“But you did insult me. You lied to Jarkko, and Jarkko did not like. I am man of principle. A simple man. A fisherman. I work hard every day. I have no time for lies. Or men who tell them.”

“Really? So you expect me to believe that Russia is closed?”

“No! Russia is not closed. Do not be a molopää! How you close a country? Jarkko was lying to teach you lesson. You no lie to Jarkko, then Jarkko no lie to you!”

“Fine,” Payne said. “No more lies.”

“Good! Start with name. Not name on fake passport. Real name. It is my secret.”

Payne realized he didn’t have much of a choice. If he wanted a ride to Saint Petersburg, he had to get on Jarkko’s good side. “My name is Jon. That’s D.J.”

Jarkko studied Payne’s eyes. “Yes, I believe you. Our trip is not canceled.”

“Glad to hear it. We can’t wait to leave.”

“Soon,” Jarkko said as he peeled off his gloves. He laid them on the countertop and pulled out a large thermos from behind it. “First, we toast my new friends, Jon and D.J.”

Jones approached, no longer worried about being slimed. “What are we drinking?”

“It is drink I invent. I call it Kafka. I name it after famous writer.”

Jones grimaced, unsure why a Finnish fisherman would name a drink after Franz Kafka, a German-speaking author. “Are you a fan of his stories?”

Jarkko ignored the question, pouring the beverage into the top of his thermos. “Drink!”

Jones eyed the cup suspiciously, then took a small sip. He immediately scrunched his face in disgust. “Good Lord! My tongue went numb. What the hell is that stuff?”

“I already tell you. It is Kafka.”

“But what’s in it?”

“You want recipe? It is coffee made with vodka. Cof-ka. Kafka!”

“No water?”

“Water? Why use water? I fish in water. I clean with water. I no drink water.” Jarkko pointed toward Payne. “Give cup to Jon. He must drink before we go.”

“With pleasure,” Jones said as he handed the cup to Payne. “Bottoms up!”

Not wanting to insult his host, Payne took a sip of the potent cocktail. It was more disgusting than he could have imagined. It was like drinking bile. Grimacing, he handed the cup back to the Finn. “Now that we’re done with that, it’s your turn to tell me the truth.”

“Okay. What you want to know?”

“What’s a molopää?”

Jarkko laughed as he gulped the rest of the Kafka. “It is Finnish word for penis head.”

Jones grinned at the insult. “Wait a second. You called him a penis head?”

“Never! I never insult my new friend. I say don’t be a molopää.”

“Actually, that’s good advice,” cracked Jones. “I tell him that all the time.”

Jarkko laughed even louder. “I like you, D.J.! Come, give Jarkko hug!”

Before Jones could jump out of the way, he found himself wrapped in a massive bear hug. He tried not to breathe while his face was buried in Jarkko’s bloody apron, but the Finn’s grip was so tight that Jones wasn’t able to push himself away before he was forced to inhale. In a flash, he knew what it smelled like inside the belly of a whale.

Jarkko released Jones, then said, “Okay. Now we go to boat and visit Russia!”