The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [88]
But if you absolutely had to get to Finland, that was no problem, as long as you had a freshly stolen car, of course.
Anyone could cross the Torne River wherever they liked. There were bridges in Haparanda, Övertorneå, Pello, Kolari, Muonio, and Karesuando. Each had its advantages and disadvantages. Haparanda was the biggest and slowest, but the guards there were the laziest, so you might not get questioned. Kolari was the least used and fastest, but you were more likely to be noticed there. You had to choose your route in Morjärv — north toward Överkalix or south to Haparanda. Then you just had to aim straight for Russia as quickly as you could.
“Russia?” Jacob said. “How far away is that?”
“Jä nögges tjöör över Kuusamo, hä jär som rättjest…”
“Three hundred kilometers,” Dessie said.
“Christ,” Jacob said. “That’s nothing. Manhattan to the end of Long Island.”
According to Dessie’s grandfather, it was hard to get into Russia, and it always had been.
In his day, the no-man’s-land along the border had been mined with explosives, but they were all gone now. Nowadays it was the most remote boundary of the European Union. It was tricky but not impossible.
The biggest problem wasn’t getting out of the EU, but into Russia. You had to leave the car and then walk across, maybe just north of Tammela. There was a main road on the other side of the border that would take you to Petrozavodsk, and from there to St. Petersburg.
Dessie and Jacob sat in silence until the old man had finished.
Then he stood up, put the coffee cups on the draining board, and wandered off toward the television again.
“Stäng åta dörn för moija då jä gå,” he said.
“We have to shut the door to stop the midges from getting in when we leave,” Dessie said. “I think he likes you.”
Chapter 130
THEY FILLED THE CAR with diesel from the farm’s illegal agricultural tank.
Then Jacob took the wheel.
“Where am I going?”
“Straight on until you see ‘Suomi Finland’ on the signs,” Dessie said, putting the seat back down and stretching out.
He aimed north and emerged onto the main road again.
If the Rudolphs managed to reach Russia, he’d never see them again, that much he was sure of. Anyone with a lot of money could buy protection there, and anyone without it could disappear among the country’s homeless millions.
He stiffened his grip on the wheel and pressed the accelerator. His head still felt groggy from his long nap. The car was small and sluggish, with a weirdly noisy engine. He’d never driven a diesel before.
The landscape glided past and it really was astonishingly beautiful. Craggy cliffs falling to the sea. Blue peaks rising to the north. The road wound its way along the coast, getting ever narrower and more twisted and scenic.
He was on his way toward the end of the world. The Rudolphs were on their way there, too.
Dessie’s cell phone started to ring on the dashboard.
He glanced at the woman beside him. She was fast asleep, mouth open in a narrow line.
Jacob grabbed the phone and said, “Yeah?”
“We’ve found the left-luggage locker,” Gabriella said. “It was in the basement of the Central Station. You were right. Both of you were.”
He clenched his fist in triumph.
“It contained everything you suspected: light shoes, brown wig, coat, trousers, sunglasses, Polaroid camera, a couple of packs of film, pens, stamps, postcards, eyedrops, and a really sharp stiletto knife, as well as some other stuff.”
She fell silent.
“What?” Jacob said. “What else was there?”
His raised voice woke Dessie, and she sat herself up beside him.
“We found the passports and wallets of all the murder victims — apart from Copenhagen and Athens and Salzburg.”
He braked and stopped the car by a twenty-four-hour café. He was searching for words but couldn’t find any.
“Your daughter’s were there,” Gabriella said quietly. “I’ve got them on the desk in front of me. Her fiancé’s as well. You’ll get them