Ascendancies (55 page)

The American grinned at Starlitz. “She's got no English, huh? She's a Russian, right? I heard there'd be lots of Russian chicks in this operation. Man. What a dollar'll do these days.” He rubbed his hands.

“Posse Comitatus?” Starlitz hazarded.

“Aw hell no. We're not militia. Those militia boys, they're all in a sweat over UN black helicopters and the New World Order.… That's bullshit! We know the New World Order. We got contacts. We're gonna be inside the goddamn black helicopters. Shoulder to shoulder with Ivan, this time!”

Finland had the most expensive booze in the world. This was Finnish social democratic policy, part and parcel with the world's lowest infant mortality rate. Nevertheless, Finns were truly fabulous drunks. The little Kasarmikatu bar was jammed with Finns methodically transiting from modest self-effacement to chest-pounding no-brakes bravado. A television barked above the shining racks of vodka and koskenkorva, showing broadcast news from across the Baltic. Another Parliamentary crisis in Moscow. A furious Russian delegate was pounding the podium in a blue vinyl jacket and a Megadeth T-shirt.

The Japanese financier set down his apple juice and adjusted his sunglasses. “His Holiness the Master does not approve of drunkenness. Alcohol clouds the vision and occludes the flow of ki.”

“I can't believe we found a Japanese who won't drink after a business deal,” Khoklov bitched in Russian. The Japanese money-man didn't speak or understand Russian. The three of them were clustered in the darkest comer of the Helsinki bar.

Starlitz spoke in Russian. “Our star depositor here has got a very severe case of that Pacific Rim New Age thing. These Supreme Truth guys are completely nuts. However, they're richer than God.”

Starlitz silently toasted the money-man with a shot of Finnish cranberry vodka. He'd convinced their backer that this pulverizing liquor was cranberry juice. He switched to fluent gutter Japanese. “Khoklov-san tells me that he admires your electric skullcap very much. He wants to try one for himself. He is seeking health benefits and increased peace of mind.”

“Saaaaa…” riposted Mr. Inoue, patting the plasticized top of his shaven head. “The electroneural stabilizers of His Holiness the Master. They will soon be in mass production at our Fuji fortress.”

“You got like a kids' version of those, right?” said Starlitz.

“Of course. His Holiness the Master has many children.”

“So have you ever considered, like, a pop commercial version of those gizmos? Like with maybe a fully licensed cartoon character?”

Mr Inoue blinked. “I was led to understand that Mister Khoklov's associates could supply us with military helicopters.”

“The son of a bitch is on about the helicopters again,” Starlitz explained in Russian.

Khoklov grunted. “Tell him we have a special on T-72 main battle tanks. Twenty million yen apiece. Just for him though. No resales.”

Starlitz conferred at length with Mr. Inoue. “He's not interested in tanks. He wants at least six Mil-17 choppers with poison gas dispensers. Also some Spetsnaz Ranger vets to train the cult's judo commando unit on their sacred island of Ishigakijima.”

“Spetsnaz veterans? Very well. We've got plenty. Tell him he'll have to find them visas and put up earnest money. Those black berets aren't your average goons.”

Starlitz conferred again. “He wants to know if you know anything about laser ablation uranium-enrichment techniques.”

“Nyet. And I'm getting pretty tired of that question.”

“He wants to know if you're interested in learning how they do that sort of thing at Mitsubishi Heavy Industries.”

Khoklov groaned. “Tell him I appreciate the lead on industrial atomic espionage, but that crap went out with Klaus Fuchs and the Rosenbergs.”

Starlitz sighed. “Let's give Inoue-san a little face here, Pulat Romanevich. His Holiness the Master predicts the world will end in 1997. We play along with the cult's loony apocalypse myths, and we can lock in their deposits all the way through winter '96.”

“Why do we need this plastic-headed lunatic?” Khoklov said. “He's a crooked exploiter of the gullible masses. He's running dummy companies inside Russia and recruiting Russian suckers for his ridiculous yoga cult. He needs us more than we need him. He's a long way from home. Put the strong-arm on him.”

“Listen, ace. We need the cult's deposit money, because we need that yen disparity to cover the flow of black capital. Besides, I'm the Tokyo liaison for this gig! It's true the mafia could break his knees inside Russia, but back in Japan, his pals are building big stainless-steel bunkers full of giant microwaves.”

“There are limits to my credulity, you know,” Khoklov said testily. “Botulism breweries? Nerve gas factories? Hundreds of brainwashed New Age robots building computer chips for a half-blind master criminal in white pajamas? It's completely absurd, it's like something out of James Bond. Please inform this clown that he's dealing with real-life professionals.”

Starlitz raised his hand and signaled. “Check please.”

“Here you are sir,” said Aino. “I hope you and your foreign friends are enjoying your stay in hospitable Helsinki.”

After the Helsinki disco bombing, Raf moved his center of operations to the Ålands proper. The hardworking youngsters of the S.A-I.C. had found him another bolthole—a sauna retreat in the dense woods of Kökar Island. This posh resort belonged to a Swedish arms corporation who had once used it to entertain members of various Third World defense departments. Handy day-trips into the Ålands had assured them privacy and avoided potential political embarrassments on Swedish soil. This Swedish company had fallen on hard times due to the massive Russian bargain-basement armaments sales. They were happy to sublet their resort to Khoklov's well-heeled shell company.

“We can't all be Leninist ascetics,” Raf declared cheerily. “One can still be a revolutionary in decent shoes.”

“Decent shoes count for plenty in Russia these days,” Starlitz agreed.

Raf leaned back in his lacquered bentwood chair. The resort's central office, with its stained glass windows and maniacally sleek Alvar Aalto furniture, seemed to suit him very well. “We've reached a delicate stage of the revolutionary process,” Raf said, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Integrating the dual strike-forces of the liberation front.”

“You mean introducing your Yankee guys to your Russian guys?”

“Yes. And what better neutral ground for that encounter than the traditional Finnish sauna?” Raf smiled. “Lads together! Nothing to hide! No clothes. No guns! Just fresh clean steam. And plenty of booze. And since the boys have been training so hard, I've prepared them a nice surprise.”

“Women.”

Raf chuckled. “They
are
soldiers, you know.” He leaned forward onto the desk. “Did you examine this resort? We have certain expectations to keep up!”

Starlitz had examined the resort and the grounds. There had been more hookers through the place than Bofors had heavy machine guns. The grounds were private and extensive. Coups had been launched successfully from less likely places.

Starlitz nodded. “I get the drill. You know that I have a business appointment with that little old lady today. You set this up this way on purpose, just so I'd miss all the fun.”

Raf paused, and thought this over. “You're not angry with me, are you, Starlitz?”

“Why do you say that, Raf?”

“Why be angry with me? I'm loaning you Aino. Isn't that enough? I didn't have to give you a translator for your business scam. I'm trusting you, all alone on a little boat, with my favorite lieutenant. You should be grateful.”

Starlitz stared at him. “Man, you're too good to me.”

“You should look after Aino. My little jackal has been under strain. I know you are fond of her. Since you took such pains to speak with her behind my back.”

“No, I'll leave her here with you tonight,” Starlitz offered. “Let's see what your twenty naked, drunken mercs will do with a heavily armed poetry major.”

Raf sighed in mock defeat. “Starlitz, you don't bullshit as easily as most really greedy people.”

“Good of you to notice, man.”

“Of course, I do want you to take Aino away for a while. She's young, and she would misinterpret this. Let's be very frank. These men I bought for us—they are brutal men who kill and die for pay. They must be given rewards and punishments that they can understand. They're whores with guns.”

“I'm always happiest when I know the worst, Raf. You haven't told me the worst yet.”

“Why should I confide in you? You never confide in me.” Raf pushed an ashtray across the desk. “Have a cigarette.”

Starlitz took a Gauloise.

Raf lit it with a flourish, then lit his own. “You talk a lot, Starlitz,” he said. “You bargain well. But you never talk about yourself. Everything I discovered about you, I have found out through other people.” Raf coughed a bit. “For instance, I know that you have a daughter. A daughter that you've never seen.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I have seen your daughter. I have photos. She's not like you. She's cute.”

“You've got photos, man?” Starlitz sat up. “Video?”

“Yes, I have photos. I have more than that. I have contacts in America who know where your daughter is living. She lives with those strange West Coast women.”

“Yeah, well, I admit they're plenty strange, but it's one of those post-nuclear family things,” Starlitz said at last.

“Would you like to meet your daughter? I could snatch her and deliver her to you here in the Ålands. That would be easy.”

“The arrangement's not so bad as it stands,” Starlitz said. “They let me send her kids' books.…”

Raf put his sock-clad feet on the desk. “Maybe you need to settle down, Starlitz. When a man gets to a certain age, he has to live with his decisions. Take me, for instance. Basically, I'm a family man.”

“Wow.”

“That's right. I've been married for twenty years. My wife's in a French prison. They caught her in '78.”

“That's a long stretch.”

“I have two children. One by my wife, one by a girl in Beirut. People think a man like Raf the Jackal must have no private life. They don't give me credit for my dreams. Did you know I've written journalism? I've even written poetry. Poetry in Italian and Arabic.”

“You don't say.”

“Oh, but I do say. I will say more, since it's just the two of us. No Russians here at the resort yet, to set up their tiresome bugging networks.… I have a good feeling about you, Starlitz. You and I, we're both postmodern men of the world. We saw an empire break to pieces. That had nothing to do with silly old Karl Marx, you know.”

“Could be, man.”

“It was the 1990s at work. Breaking up is very infective. It's everywhere now. It's out of control, like AIDS. Did you ever meet a Lebanese warlord? Jumblatt, perhaps? Berri? Splendid fellows. Men like lions.”

“Never met 'em.”

“That's a very good life, you know—becoming a warlord. It's what happens to terrorists when they grow up.”

Starlitz nodded. It was a very dangerous thing to have Raf so worried about his good opinion, but he couldn't help but be pleased.

“You seize a port,” Raf explained. “You grow dope. You buy guns. It's like a little nation, but you don't need any lawyers, or any bureaucrats, or any ad-men, or any stupid bastards in suits. You have the guns, and you have the power. You tell them what to do, and they run and do it. Maybe it can't last forever. But as long as it lasts, it's heaven.”

“This is good, Raf. You're leveling with me now. I appreciate that, I really do.”

“The press says that I like to kill people. Well,
of course
I like to kill people! It's thrilling. It gives your life a heroic dimension. If it wasn't thrilling to kill people, people wouldn't buy tickets to movies where people are killed. But if I wanted to kill, I'd go to Chechnya, Georgia, Abkhazia. That's not the trick. Any idiot can become a warlord inside a war zone. The trick is to become a warlord where people are
fat
and
soft
and
rich
! You want to become a warlord
just outside
a massive, disintegrating empire. This is the perfect spot! I know I've had my little setbacks in the past. But the nineties are the sixties upside down. This time, I'm going to win, and keep what I win! I'm going to seize these little islands. I'll declare martial law and rule by decree.”

“What about your three-man provisional government?”

“I've decided those boys are not reliable. I didn't like the way they talked about me. So, I'll short-cut the process, and produce very quick and decisive results. I'll take twenty-five thousand people hostage.”

“How do you manage that?”

“How? By claiming that I have a Russian low-yield nuke, which in fact I don't. But who would dare to try my bluff? I'm Raf the Jackal! I'm the famous Raf! They know I'm capable of that.”

“Low yield nuke, huh? I guess the old terrie scenarios are the good ones…”

“Of course I don't have any such nuke. But I do have ten kilos of cheap radioactive cesium. When they fly geiger counters over—or whatever silly scientific thing those SWAT squads use—that will look very convincing. The Finns won't dare risk another Chernobyl. They still glow in the dark from that last one. So I'm being very reasonable, don't you agree? I'm only asking for a few small islands and a few thousand people. I'll observe the proper niceties, if they allow me that. I'll make a nice flag and some coinage.”

Starlitz rubbed his chin. “The coinage thing should be especially interesting given the electronic bank angle.”

Raf opened a desk drawer and produced a shotglass and a duty-free bottle of Finnish cloudberry liqueur. The booze in the Ålands was vastly cheaper than Finland's. “Singapore is only a little island,” Raf said, squinting as he poured himself a shot. “Nobody ever complains about Singapore's nuclear weapon.”