Ascendancies (53 page)

Starlitz ran his hand over his head. “Right,” he said. Like most Internet disasters, the situation was a fait accompli. “Okay, that development has torn it big-time. Aino, you did right to bring this guy here right away. The hell with proper operational protocol. We gotta get that bank up and running as soon as possible.”

“There's nothing wrong with publicity,” Raf said. “We need publicity to attract business.”

“There'll be business all right,” Starlitz said. “The Russian mob is already running the biggest money-laundry since the Second World War. The arms and narco crowd worldwide are banging down the doors. Black electronic cash is a vital component of the emergent global system. The point is—we got a very narrow window of opportunity here. If our little crowd is gonna get anything out of this set-up, we have gotta be there with a functional online money-laundry just when the system really needs one. And just before everybody else realizes that.”

“Then publicity is vital,” Raf insisted. “Publicity is our oxygen! With a major development like this one, you must seize and create your own headlines. It's like Leila Khaled always says: ‘The world has to hear our voice.'”

Aino blinked. “Is Leila Khaled still alive?”

“Leila lives!” Raf said. “Wonderful woman, Leila Khaled. She does social work in Damascus with the orphans of the Intifada. Soon she will be in the new Palestinian government.”

“Leila Khaled,” said Aino thoughtfully. “I envy her historical experience so much. There's something so direct and healthy and physical about hijacking planes.”

Eero couldn't seem to find a place inside his clothing for the grenade. Finally he placed it daintily on the kitchen counter and regarded it with morose respect.

“Any other questions?” Raf asked Starlitz.

“Yeah, plenty,” Starlitz said. “The Organizatsiya's got their pet Russian math professors working the technical problems. I figure the Russians can hack the math—Russians do great at that. But black-market online money laundering is a
commercial customer service operation
. Customer service is definitely not a Russian specialty.”

“So?”

“So we can't hang around waiting for clearance from Moscow Mafia muckety-mucks. If this scheme is gonna work, we gotta slam it together and get it online pronto. We need quick results.”

“Then you have the right man,” said Raf briskly. “I always specialize in quick results.” He shook Eero's hand. “You've been very helpful, Eero. It was pleasant to meet you. Enjoy your stay in the islands. We look forward to further constructive contacts.
Viva la revolucion digitate!
Goodbye and good luck.”

“You don't have the big money for us yet?” Eero said.

“Real soon now,” Starlitz said.

“Could I have some cab fare please?”

Starlitz gave him a 100-mark Jean Sibelius banknote. “Hei hei,” Eero said, with a melancholy smile. He tucked the note into his cowboy shirt pocket and left.

Starlitz saw the hacker to the door, and checked the street as the cadaverous Finn ambled off. He was unsurprised to see Khoklov's two bodyguards lurking clumsily in a white Hertz rental car, parked up the street. Presumably they were relaying signals from the plethora of covert listening devices that the Russians had installed in Raf's safe-house.

Eero drifted past the Russian mobsters in a daze of hacker self-absorption. Starlitz found the kid an interesting specimen. In Japan there were plenty of major Goth kids, but the vampire people-in-black contingent had never really crossbred with Japan's hacker population. Here in Finland, though, there were somber and lugubrious hairsprayed Cure fans pretty much across the social spectrum: car repair guys, hotel staff, pizza delivery, government clerks, the works.

When Starlitz returned, Raf was hunting in the kitchen for coffee. “Aino, let's review the political situation.”

Aino perched obediently on a birchwood kitchen stool. “The Åland Islands are a chain in the Gulf of Bothnia between Finland and Sweden. They include Åland, Föglö, Kökar, Sottunga, Kumlinge, and Brändö.”

“Yeah, right, okay,” Starlitz grunted.

“The largest city is Mariehamm with ten thousand inhabitants.” She paused. “That's where the autonomous digital bank will be established.”

“We're doing great so far.”

“There are twenty-five thousand Åland citizens, mostly farmers and fishery people, but thirty percent are engaged in the tourist industry. They run small-scale casinos and duty-free shops. The Ålands are a popular day-tripping destination from continental Europe.”

Starlitz nodded. He'd seen the shortlist of potential candidates for a Russian offshore banking set-up. The Ålands offered the tastiest possibilities.

Aino sat up straighter. “The inhabitants are Swedish-speaking ethnics. In 1920, against their will and against a popular plebiscite, they were ceded to Finland as part of a negotiated settlement by the now-extinct League of Nations. In truth these oppressed people are neither Swedes nor Finns. They are Ålanders.”

“The islands' national liberation will proceed along two fronts,” said Raf, deftly setting a coffeepot to boil. “The first is the Åland 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 Ålands. 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 Åland 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 Ålands. 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 Ålands 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 Ålands 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 Ålands
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 brainwashed 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 adjoining 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.

Raf rose to his feet, his plump face the picture of glee. He touched one finger to his lips.

Footsteps clomped rapidly up and down the stairs in the next apartment. Doors banged, drawers opened. A bedside telephone jangled as it was knocked from its table. In three minutes the hit-team was out the door.

Raf scurried to the window and knelt. He'd grabbed a small pocket Nikon from his sports bag. He clicked off a roll of snapshots as the hit squad retreated. “I'm so tempted to shoot them,” he said, hitching the sling of his assault rifle, “but this is better. This is very funny.”

“That was Mossad, right?”

“Yes. They thought I was the neighbor.”

“They must have had a description of you and the girl. And they know you're here in Finland, man. That's not good news.”

“Let's phone in a credit for their hit. The Helsinki police might catch them. That would be lovely. Where is that cellphone?”

“Look, we were extremely lucky just now. We'd better leave.”

“I'm always lucky. We have plenty of time.” Raf gazed at his arsenal and sighed. “I hate to abandon these guns, but we have no car to carry them. Let's carry the guns next door, before we go! That should win us some nice press.”