"The islands' national liberation will proceed along two fronts," said Raf, deftly setting a coffeepot to boil. "The first is the Aland Island Liberation Front, which is, essentially, my operation. The second front is Aino's people from the university, the Suomi Anti-Imperialist Cells, who make it their cause to end the shameful injustice of Finnish imperialism. The outbreak of armed struggle and a terror campaign will provoke domestic crisis in Finland. The cheapest and easiest apparent solution will be to grant full autonomy to the Alands. Since the islands are an easy day-trip from Petersburg this will leave the Organizatsiya with a free hand for their banking operations."
"You're a busy guy, Raf."
"I've been resting on my laurels long enough," said Raf, carefully rinsing three spanking-new coffee mugs. "It's a new Europe now. Many fantastic new opportunities."
"Level with me. Do any of these Aland Island hicks really want independence? They seem to be doing okay just as they are."
Raf, surprised at the question, smiled.
Aino frowned. "Much work remains to be done in the way of raising revolutionary consciousness in the Alands. But we in the Suomi Anti-Imperialist Cells will have the resources to do that political work. Victory will be ours, because the Finnish liberal-fascist state does not have the capacity to restrain a captive nation against its will. Or if they do --" She smiled bitterly. "That will demonstrate the tenuousness of the current Finnish regime and its basic failure as a European state."
"Who have we got on the ground in the Alands who can speak their local weirdo version of Swedish? Just in case we need to, like, phone in a claim or something."
"We have three people," Raf said. "The new premier, the new foreign minister, and of course the new economics minister, who will be in charge of easing things for the Russian operations. They are the shadow cabinet of the Alands Republic."
"Three people?"
"Three people are plenty! There are only twenty-five thousand of them total. If the projections are right, the offshore bank will be clearing twenty-five million dollars in the first six months! Those islands are little rocks. It's potatoes and fish and casinos for rich Germans. The locals aren't players. The mob and their friends can buy them all."
"They matter," Aino said. "They matter to the Movement."
"But of course."
"The Alands deserve their nation. If they don't deserve their nation, then we Finns don't deserve our nation. There are only five million Finns."
"We always yield to political principle," said Raf indulgently. He passed her a brimming mug. "Drink your coffee. You need to go to work."
Aino glanced at her watch, surprised. "Oh. Yes."
"Shall I cut the hash into gram bags? Or will you take the brick?"
She blinked. "You don't have to cut it, Raffi. They can cut it at the bar."
Raf opened one of the sports bags and passed her a fat brick of dope neatly wrapped in a Copenhagen newspaper.
"You work in a bar? That's a good cover job," Starlitz said. "What kind of hash is that?"
"Something very new in Europe," Raf said. "It's Azerbaijani hash."
"Ex-Soviet hash isn't really very good," sniffed Aino. "They don't know how to do it right... . I don't like to sell hash. But if you sell people drugs, then they respect you. They won't talk about you when cops come. I hate cops. Cops are fascist torturers. They should all be shot. Do you need the car, Raf?"
"Take the car," Raf said.
Aino fetched her purse and left the safehouse.
"Interesting girl," commented Starlitz, in the sudden empty silence. "Never heard of any Finn terror groups before. Germans, French, Irish, Basques, Croats, Italians. Never Finns, though."
"They're a bit behind the times in this corner of Europe. She's one of the new breed. Very brave. Very determined. It's a hard life for terrorist women." Raf carefully sugared his coffee. "Women never get proper credit. Women kidnap ministers, women blow up trains -- women do very well at the work. But no one calls them 'armed revolutionaries.' They're always -- what does the press say? -- 'maladjusted female neurotics.' Or ugly hardened lesbians with a father-figure complex. Or cute little innocents, seduced and brain-washed by the wrong sort of man." He snorted.
"Why do you say that?" Starlitz said.
"I'm a man of my generation, you know." Raf sipped his coffee. "Once, I wasn't advanced in my feminist thinking. It was being close to Ulrike that raised my consciousness. Ulrike Meinhoff. A wonderful girl. Gifted journalist. Smart. Eloquent. Very ruthless. Quite good-looking. But Baader and that other one -- what was her name? They treated her so badly. Always yelling at her in the safehouse--calling her a gutless intellectual, spoilt child of the bourgeoisie and so forth. My God, aren't we all spoilt children of the bourgeoisie? If the bourgeoisie hadn't made a botch of us, we wouldn't need to kill them."
A car pulled up outside. The engine died and doors slammed.
Starlitz walked to the front window, peeked through the blind.
"It's the yuppies from next door," he said. "Looks like they're home early."
"We should introduce ourselves," Raf said. He began combing his hair.
"Uh-oh, scratch that," Starlitz said. "That's the guy who lives next door all right, but that's not the woman. He's got a different woman."
"A girlfriend?" Raf said with interest.
"Well, it's a much younger woman. In a wig, net hose and red high heels." The door in the next duplex opened and slammed. A stereo came on. It was playing a hot Cuban rhumba.
"This is a golden opportunity," said Raf, shoving his coffee mug aside. "Let's introduce ourselves now as his new neighbors. He'll be very embarrassed. He'll never look at us again. He'll never question us. Also, he'll keep his wife away from us."
"That's a good tactic," Starlitz said.
"All right. Let me do the talking." Raf went to the door.
"You still got that Makarov in the back of your belt, man."
"Oh yes. Sorry." Raf tossed the pistol onto the sleek Finnish couch.
Raf opened the front door. Then he back-stepped deftly back into the apartment and shut the door firmly. "There's a white rental car on the street."
"Yeah?"
"Two men inside it."
"Yeah?"
"Someone just shot them."
Starlitz hurried to the window. There were half a dozen people clustered across the street. Two of them had just murdered Khoklov's bodyguards, suddenly emptying silenced pistols through the closed glass of the windows. The street was not entirely deserted, but killing people with silenced pistols was a remarkably unobtrusive affair if done with brio and accuracy.
Four men began crossing the street. They wore jeans, jogging shoes, and, despite the heat, box-cut Giorgio Armani blazers. Two of them were carrying dainty little videocams. All of them were carrying guns.
"Zionists," Raf announced. Briskly, but without haste, he retreated to his arsenal on the kitchen floor. He slung an AK over his shoulder, propped a second assault rifle within easy reach, then knelt around the corner of the kitchen wall, giving himself a clear line of fire at the front door.
Starlitz quickly weighed various possibilities. He decided to keep watching the window.
With swift and deadly purpose, the hit-team marched to the adioining duplex. The door broke off its hinges as they kicked their way in. There were brief yelps of indignant surprise, and a quiet multiple stuttering. A burst of Uzi slugs pierced the adjoining wall and embedded themselves in the floor.