AH Vignette: In the Eyes of the World


AH Vignette: In the Eyes of the World



The third motorcade of the morning weaved its way through the crowds thronging the northern capital bathing in late July sun. The small paper flags of 35 nations were waved by the enhusiastic onlookers, behind a lines of cops wearing summer shirts, their mustaches and sideburns already moist with sweat this early in the day. At some intersections, even conscripts in mottled camouflage uniforms stood guard, sometimes next to BTR-60 armored personnel carriers, there to make a point about the preparedness of the police and the military.

Nothing must go wrong. The eyes of the world are on us.

Brezhnev had arrived by train. The president and prime minister had been both there to greet him at the Main Railway Station. It was said that the increasingly frail Soviet leader was kept together with drugs and periodic surgical interventions. That the international conference was held right now was due to Brezhnev pushing it to be expedited, as if he expected to die any moment, before having the chance to see through this opportunity for rapprochement and further solidifying the outlines of the rival blocs in Europe.

He certainly looked worse than the Finnish president, the seasoned bureaucrat had thought upon seeing the Soviet leader embarking his private train. He had men standing on both sides of him, apparently ready to prop him up if he would start to keel over. In comparison, President Kekkonen looked hale and sharp, like a man two decades younger than his guest, even if it was Brezhnev who actually was the younger one.

The city of Helsinki was full of official and inofficial meets these days, the various leaders getting together with each other in embassies and even public restaurants. Generally speaking, the capital was on its best behaviour. Later, the rumours would say that there was on official policy of sweeping homeless people off the streets in the previous months, into waiting Black Marias, to be taken out of sight ”for the duration”. The rumours were right. No expense had been spared in giving the international visitors the best possible image of the Finnish capital, the daughter of the Baltic, on this most auspicious of occasions.

The Conference on Security and Co-operation in Europe was also the Finnish president's brainchild. Or, more to the point, holding it in Helsinki was. It was to be the pinnacle of his career, an opportunity to show Finland as a relevant neutral nation between the east and the west and him as a statesman of international renown.

Inside the 1969 Cadillac Fleetwood, the bureaucrat looked at the tall, bald man sitting next to him on the back seat.

”That went well”, he hazarded, feeling the sun shining through the side window on his face as the driver carefully rounded a curb.

”You think so? I think I might have overdone my greetings to Brezhnev, been a little too... presumptuous, maybe”, the other man said, squinting his eyes slightly in the sun, reaching his hand to correct the position of his square glasses.

”Nah, it was fine. Someone might in fact see you as stand-offish, rather, but then he has been poorly off lately, and we can just say that you wouldn't want to strain him too much right off the bat. They'll understand.”

The bureaucrat wasn't lying, either. The man had done well. But then he had to – everything was riding on it right now.

The Finnish president had had some trouble in the last few years. He was feeling the effects of advancing age, and already in 1970 he had suffered a stroke, diagnosed to have been caused by stress, one that had been hidden from the press. Since then, while his physical condition was that of a ”young man”, like his friend and confidante Professor Richard Sotamaa said, his mental condition had taken a turn for the worse. Political stress and the strain of leading Finland's neutrality policy were getting to the man who could feel the younger politicians circling him like vultures, just waiting for him to step aside to advance their careers in the top leadership of Finland.

Where it had really turned for the worse, the bureaucrat thought, was the 1972 accident. A ski outing with friends and allies at Aavasaksa in Lapland had been ruined by the president slipping off the track and down a rocky slope due to a moment's distraction. The extent of the damage was also kept from the press, of course, but the president had received a significant back injury, prompting emergency surgery. The convalescence period was disguised as ”extended cold with complications”. Since then, Kekkonen had needed periodic back massages and physical therapy – partly because the surgery had failed somewhat, causing his nerves to be damaged. The pains were kept in control with strong medications, a state of affairs that caused further complications, as the president also took to self-medicating himself with alcohol, sometimes quite heavily.

The president, despite his problems and frequent, short leaves explained as ”fishing trips” or ”bouts of cold”, could still function and do his work. Until the spring of 1974, of course. That is when his wife and long-term partner Sylvi had died. The president took his wife's death very heavily. Despite his reputation as a ladies' man, he had had a strong, deep relationship with the mother of his two sons, and the depth of his mourning could be seen from the fact that he withdrew from publicity entirely for three weeks, causing his staff to again go to overdrive in explaining his absence.

During this time, the president's violent outbursts begun. Especially after taking one drink too many, he might well suddenly attack anyone present, even some of his closest, oldest friends. One early victim was the industrialist Kalle Kaihari, who the president had soundly beaten one drunken night at a fishing lodge by River Teno in June 1974. After several such things happened, and they had been covered up only with great effort, finally in the fall things came to a head.

One young official in the Foreign Ministry had gone and written an article for the Suomen Kuvalehti, under a pseudonym naturally, deeply critical of the president's foreign policies. A week later, unknown to most of his closest advisors, Kekkonen invited the young man to Tamminiemi to join him in the sauna. While the early evening was spent safely with the president merely browbeating the man with his ironic jabs, as the evening wore on, he got increasingly agitated. And finally, after one drink too many, in the sauna itself the president had subjected the man to a brutal beating. Bludgeoned to within an inch of his life, the man was taken to the Meilahti hospital and a cover story was put together, one about a car accident. The man had been silenced by a massive off-the books financial settlement, and with threats of prison or worse if he ever told anyone of what had happened to him.

The president was using alcohol, a lot of it, pretty much daily now, and keeping him off the bottle and even somewhat presentable had become a massive task for his closest allies and staff. Clearly, the old man was slipping. But then, the summer of 1975 was fast approaching, and so was the culmination of the Third Stage of the CSCE prosess, the signing of the upcoming Final Act. It was to be the biggest and most important international conference Finland had ever seen. Kekkonen was needed now more then ever, and while the easiest way out might have been for the doctors to declare the president incapable to prosecute his office, sidelining him right then was a virtual impossibility. Too much was riding on the continuation of the Kekkonen presidency – the Parliament and the parties had though as much, extending the president's term by the means of an emergency law already in early 1973.

The unofficial meeting was held at Tamminiemi in early December 1974. Kekkonen himself was taking his daily ”nap”, sleeping peacefully, heavily sedated in his bedroom. The bureaucrat attended, as did Kalle Kaihari, Richard Sotamaa and Paavo Kastari, and a couple of others. All the president's old, trusted friends and allies. All worthy of being in the know. They all agreed that the president stepping down was not an option, but keeping still him functional enough was also becoming a massive strain.

It was the bureacrat that broke the deadlock by suggesting a solution.

It was Jaakko Mähönen, age 67, a taxi driver and an amateur actor from Pieksämäki. The bureaucrat had a summer cabin in the town, and had the previous summer attended summer theatre there. Mähönen had acted in one of those light, humorous plays that are put on in small towns in the summer.

The bureaucrat had been blown away by how much he had resembled the president, in almost every way – apart, of course, the fact that he had a full head of dark hair streaked with grey.

And now... Now there he sat in the presidential limo going through the crowded, central parts of Helsinki, the man who looked like the spitting image of Urho Kaleva Kekkonen, save for the fact that his head had to be shaved every morning and treated with a special oil to look authentic.

The bureacrat thought that some people might have noticed that the president had suddenly taken to wearing a lot of hats in the summer as well.

In the bureaucrat's view, the man had taken his new position as an ersatz UKK quite well, all things considered. There had been a lot of work to train him, and for all his acting prowess, using him in public occasions had still been very limited. But now – right now it was vital that the president that was seen in the public was sane and in control. Presidential. Any odd acting out, any strange outbursts could break the fragile balance between the East and the West that was being forged in these days in Helsinki, surrounded by the sights and sounds of a sweet, brief Finnish summer.

So far, so good, the bureacrat thought, and saw a single bead of sweat rolling down the forehead of the man sitting next to him, the man who looked very much like Urho Kaleva Kekkonen.



The police and security presence in the Finnish capital was unprecedented. Not only had uniformed police officers been brought to Helsinki also from the provinces (in Kallio north of the city centre, a group of local layabouts was shocked in the morning about a police sergeant chiding them for blocking a thoroughfare – in a deep Savonian drawl), but there was a lot of plain-clothed officers as well, police, State Police, military. And then there was all the foreign presence, the embassy staff, the intelligence services.

Among all this, the young man in his dark suit and sunglasses did not seem at all out of place. Neither the fact that he carried a pistol in a shoulder holster was that out of the ordinary. After all, he did also carry in his pocket the identification of a Finnish State Police officer.

The man parked his car on Mariankatu, just a block from both the Senate Square and his destination and walked down the street. He winced as he felt a twist of pain in his left leg – an old battle wound, he liked to think – but never faltered in his determined stride towards the back entrance of the Presidential Palace. He had chosen the time well – the shift of the security detail was changing, so the man at the door merely scanned his warrant card cursorily and let him in.

”Virtanen, right?”, the man asked him, ”you look familiar, but I think you have not been here recently.”

The man shrugged.

”I guess not. I spent the last year seconded to the Ministry of Finance for the security of the Bank of Finland. I was only sent here as, these days, there are apparently more important things to watch over than 1000 Mark bills and gold bars...”

That caused the man to smile.

”Right. Go on then, the president's coming in a minute.”



The ersatz president had successfully attended the events at the Finlandia Hall for most of Thursday, listening to the different nations' official statements, and having a working lunch with Nordic leaders. As he arrived to the Presidential Palace in the afternoon, to freshen up and to prepare himself for the evening's massive garden party at the Kalastajatorppa restaurant, the bureaucrat thought that the tall, bald man was really getting into the character. His Kekkonian presence was more pronounced all the time, and he now even managed suitable jokes and quips without being prompted to.

Truth to be told, the bureaucrat was beginning to feel proud of his creation, despite the absurdity of the whole situation.

”...and when Palme referred to a joke he had had with me in Stockholm six years ago, I had no idea what he was talking about but bloody guessed it!”, the man told him with a wide smile on his face and a glint in his eye.

He was being very much like a younger, saner Urho Kaleva Kekkonen...

Only if we could keep him after the Conference as well. But then, it had already been decided that the president would step down before Christmas anyway. The charade had to be stopped before it really got out of hand. In fact, the bureaucrat was already very fearful of it all coming out in the future, and all the things that would be said of him when it would.

It is all too easy for people to lose the sight of what is good for the Republic, the man thought. It is so much easier to look in from the outside and just calmly judge us that do this work every damn day.

The small knot of men, with the man everyone called president up front, went through the halls of the Palace to the private quarters where the man would have a change of clothes and they would go through the script for the evening. Maybe a quick run-though of the photos of the various leaders – the bureaucrat had noticed that the man had some trouble remembering faces.

As a State Police agent opened a door, they came face to face with a man in a dark suit and sunglasses.

”Mr. President”, he said slowly and smiled. He then put his right hand under his suit jacket.



The bureaucrat watched the tall man fall to the floor with a surprised look on his face. A stain of blood was spreading on his shirt. On the other side of the room, the young man who had just shot Urho Kaleva Kekkonen still stood but then crashed down on the floor himself. A real Security Police officer in the room had pulled his weapon on him in the confusion, and managed two shots in his direction.

It had been too late.

The bureaucrat rushed to the tall man and saw that he was still breathing.

”Quick, get Professor Sotamaa! He'll know how to treat gunshot wounds, he was a military doctor!”, he said to a nearby aide, one appointed to his position with a Centre Party mandate.

”How about an ambulance?”

”No ambulance! Nobody must know about this!”

The bureaucrat looked up at the young man who had caused the carnage and realized he knew him.

It's bloody Rautkallio.

It was the official from the Foreign Ministry Kekkonen had nearly killed at the Tamminiemi sauna.

The bureaucrat looked again down at the tall, bald man and made a decision.

”Everybody out of the room!”, he nearly shouted.

”Get me Richard Sotamaa, right now!”



The van was parked quietly next to the Palace's back entrance. Quickly, two men took something heavy out of the back door and carried it inside. A minute later, the same men carried something that looked very similar back into the van, which then took off towards the north through the side streets.

The car was driven by the bureaucrat, while the doctor, Professor Richard Sotamaa sat next to him in stunned silence.

”There was nothing I could do. Nothing”, Sotamaa kept saying.

”It is all like some ghastly joke.”

In the back of the van, the dead bodies of a tall, bald man and the former Foreign Ministry official moved left and right along with the van turning on the streets of the summery, festive Finnish capital.

Minutes passed in silence.

”Where to?”, the bureacrat asked the man next to him silently, his forehead in cold sweat.

Sotamaa opened his mouth and closed it again. Then he seemed to steel himself.

”I know a private crematorium.”

Jesus Christ.



In the president's private quarters in the Palace, Urho Kaleva Kekkonen woke up. He opened his eyes and looked at the familiar ceiling for a while. He then sat up and saw that a crisp black suit, a shirt and a tie had been laid on the empty bed next to him.

Sylvi's bed.

Feeling a painful twist in his very soul, the President of the Republic got dressed. He then walked to the door and opened it. On the other side, in the hallway, his eyes caught the eye of a State Police agent. The young man appeared like he was looking at a ghost.

”Mr. President... You're... up?”, the young man stammered.

”Yes I am bloody well up”, Kekkonen said, irritated, feeling the ordinary pain in his back, ”I can't sleep all day, can I? I have things to attend to. Important things.”

”Yes... Mr.President...”, the young man managed, still looking white as a sheet, ”would...you... want something?”

Slowly, the tall, bald man smiled to the agent.

”I do, in fact. Ask the kitchen to rustle me up some breakfast, would you, and then send in someone with today's schedule. I really need to get back to work.”

Kekkonen then closed the door, went to the cabinet to take out a couple of strong painkillers and washed them down with a glass of whisky.

He smiled as the Scottish single malt filled his mouth with its smoky taste and benevolent fire.

”That's better”.

Someone knocked on the door. It was one of the president's aides, and he knew what would come next.



The two men drove the van back to the Presidential Palace in silence.

Going through central Helsinki was a chore, and it took a lot longer then they had expected. Everywhere was full of smiling people, apparently heartily enjoying the summery, international atmosphere that had suddenly descended on the usually gloomy and quiet city by the sea.

”We'll need to talk of the... follow-up action... later”, the bureaucrat told to the professor who only nodded.

”But now, we have a garden party to get through with the president.”

They two men entered the Palace through the same back door and made their way towards the president's private quarters.

”I'll have to brief the president for today's event, and make sure he does not get too drunk before it, at least”, the bureaucrat said, looking at his watch, ”we'll have just an hour before we need to get going towards Kalastajatorppa.”

The bureaucrat, a bit winded and his head swimming, entered the room where he had left the sleeping Kekkonen, only to find a member of the Palace's household staff cleaning away a collection dirty plates, cups and glasses.

”Pardon”, he said quietly, ”where's the president?”, the man asked, suddenly having a sinking feeling in his stomach.

”I thought you knew”, the rotund woman told him, ”the President already left for the party a while ago, with your younger colleague”.



The big, black and shiny American car made its way through the crowded streets of central Helsinki. On its hood, two small flags distinguished it as the official vehicle of the President of the Republic. Smiling men, women and children waved at the passing car and each one of them thought they could see the tall, bald man on the back seat smiling back at them from behind his square glasses.

President Urho Kaleva Kekkonen did smile.

On the radio, a hit song was starting.

”Putkonen, would you turn that up, please”, the president asked.

It was the hottest summer night, I think

In the homeland of the dollar

And still, Chicago had to die

I can still remember it

Slightly slurring his speech, the bald man turned towards the younger man next to him and made a fist.

”This is a great opportunity. A great opportunity to make those people see some bloody sense. I'll tell them all how things are, and how they should be, and help me God if anyone tries to stop me.”

”Yes, Mr. President”, the man next to him said and handed the bottle to him.

Kekkonen smiled at him, removed the cork and took a long swig of Koskenkorva.

”Thank you”, he said and handed the now-empty bottle back to his loyal aide.

Paavo Väyrynen smiled himself and looked out of the windows to see the festive capital all around.



[filler]
 
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