there. Sachiho was doing TV tabloid shows. Hukie had gone into production. Ako was in the studio for a solo album. Sayoko was pregnant. Again.
Starlitz tried his hotlist and found a new satellite JPEG file of developments on the ground in Bosnia. Starlitz was becoming very interested in Bosnia. He hadn’t been there yet, but he could feel the lure increasing steadily. The Japanese scene was basically over. Once the real-estate bubble had busted, the glitz had run out of the Tokyo street-party and now the high yen was chasing the gaijin off. But Bosnia was clearly a very coming scene for the mid-90s. Not Bosnia per se (unless you were a merc, or crazy) but the surrounding safe-areas where the arms and narco people were setting up: Slovenia, Bulgaria, Macedonia, Albania.
Practically every entity that Starlitz found of interest was involved in the Bosnian scene. UN. USA. NATO. European Union. Russian intelligence, Russia mafia (interlocking directorates there). Germans. Turks. Greeks. Ndrangheta. Camorra. Israelis. Saudis. Iranians. Moslem Brotherhood. An enormous gaggle of mercs. There was even a happening Serbian folk-metal scene where Serb chicks went gigging for hooting audiences of war criminals. It was cool the way the Yugoslav scene kept re-complicating. It was his kind of scene.
Raf emerged from the bathroom. He’d shaved and had caught his thinning wet hair in a ponytail clip. He wore his jeans; his waistline sagged but there was muscle in his hairy shoulders.
Raf unzipped one of the sports bags. He tunneled into a baggy black T-shirt.
Starlitz logged off.
Raf yawned. “Dramamine never works. Sorry.”
“No problem, Raf.”
Raf gazed around the apartment. The pupils of his dark eyes were two shrunken pinpoints. “Where’s the girl?”
Starlitz shrugged. “Maybe she went out to cop some Chinese.”
Raf found his shades and a packet of Gauloises. Raf might have been Italian. The accent made this seem plausible. “The boot of the car,” he said. “Could you help?”
They hauled a big wrapped tarpaulin from the trunk of the Fiat and into the safehouse. Raf deftly untied the tarp and spread its contents across the chill linoleum of the kitchenette.
Rifles. Pistols. Ammo. Grenades. Plastique. Fuse wire. Detonator. Starlitz examined the arsenal skeptically. The hardware looked rather dated.
Raf deftly reassembled a stripped and greased AK-47. The rifle looked like it had been buried for several years, but buried by someone who knew how to bury weaponsproperly. Raf slotted the curved magazine and patted the tarnished wooden butt.
“Ever seen a Pancor Jackhammer?” asked Starlitz. “Modern gas-powered combat shotgun, all-plastic, bullpup design? Does four twelve-gauge rounds a second. The ammo drums double as landmines.”
Raf nodded. “Yes, I do the trade shows. But you know—as a practical matter—you have to
let people know
that you can kill them.”
“Yeah? Why is that?”
“Everyone knows the classic AK silhouette. You show civilians the AK”—Raf brandished the rifle expertly—“they throw themselves on the floor. You bring in your modern plastic auto-shotgun, they think it’s a vacuum cleaner.”
“I take your point.”
Raf lifted a bomb-clustered khaki webbing belt. “See these pineapples? Grenades like these, they have an inferior killing radius, but they truly
look like grenades
. What was your name again, my friend?”
“Starlitz.”
“Starlet, you carry these pineapples on your belt into a bank or a hotel lobby, you will never have to use them. Because people
know
pineapples. Of course, when you
use
grenades, you don’t want to use these silly things. You want these rifle-mounted BG-15s, with the rocket propellant.”
Starlitz examined the scraped and greasy rifle-grenades. The cylindrical explosive tubes looked very much like welding equipment, except for the stenciled military Cyrillic. “Those been kicking around a while?”
“The Basques swear by them. They work
Starlitz tried his hotlist and found a new satellite JPEG file of developments on the ground in Bosnia. Starlitz was becoming very interested in Bosnia. He hadn’t been there yet, but he could feel the lure increasing steadily. The Japanese scene was basically over. Once the real-estate bubble had busted, the glitz had run out of the Tokyo street-party and now the high yen was chasing the gaijin off. But Bosnia was clearly a very coming scene for the mid-90s. Not Bosnia per se (unless you were a merc, or crazy) but the surrounding safe-areas where the arms and narco people were setting up: Slovenia, Bulgaria, Macedonia, Albania.
Practically every entity that Starlitz found of interest was involved in the Bosnian scene. UN. USA. NATO. European Union. Russian intelligence, Russia mafia (interlocking directorates there). Germans. Turks. Greeks. Ndrangheta. Camorra. Israelis. Saudis. Iranians. Moslem Brotherhood. An enormous gaggle of mercs. There was even a happening Serbian folk-metal scene where Serb chicks went gigging for hooting audiences of war criminals. It was cool the way the Yugoslav scene kept re-complicating. It was his kind of scene.
Raf emerged from the bathroom. He’d shaved and had caught his thinning wet hair in a ponytail clip. He wore his jeans; his waistline sagged but there was muscle in his hairy shoulders.
Raf unzipped one of the sports bags. He tunneled into a baggy black T-shirt.
Starlitz logged off.
Raf yawned. “Dramamine never works. Sorry.”
“No problem, Raf.”
Raf gazed around the apartment. The pupils of his dark eyes were two shrunken pinpoints. “Where’s the girl?”
Starlitz shrugged. “Maybe she went out to cop some Chinese.”
Raf found his shades and a packet of Gauloises. Raf might have been Italian. The accent made this seem plausible. “The boot of the car,” he said. “Could you help?”
They hauled a big wrapped tarpaulin from the trunk of the Fiat and into the safehouse. Raf deftly untied the tarp and spread its contents across the chill linoleum of the kitchenette.
Rifles. Pistols. Ammo. Grenades. Plastique. Fuse wire. Detonator. Starlitz examined the arsenal skeptically. The hardware looked rather dated.
Raf deftly reassembled a stripped and greased AK-47. The rifle looked like it had been buried for several years, but buried by someone who knew how to bury weaponsproperly. Raf slotted the curved magazine and patted the tarnished wooden butt.
“Ever seen a Pancor Jackhammer?” asked Starlitz. “Modern gas-powered combat shotgun, all-plastic, bullpup design? Does four twelve-gauge rounds a second. The ammo drums double as landmines.”
Raf nodded. “Yes, I do the trade shows. But you know—as a practical matter—you have to
let people know
that you can kill them.”
“Yeah? Why is that?”
“Everyone knows the classic AK silhouette. You show civilians the AK”—Raf brandished the rifle expertly—“they throw themselves on the floor. You bring in your modern plastic auto-shotgun, they think it’s a vacuum cleaner.”
“I take your point.”
Raf lifted a bomb-clustered khaki webbing belt. “See these pineapples? Grenades like these, they have an inferior killing radius, but they truly
look like grenades
. What was your name again, my friend?”
“Starlitz.”
“Starlet, you carry these pineapples on your belt into a bank or a hotel lobby, you will never have to use them. Because people
know
pineapples. Of course, when you
use
grenades, you don’t want to use these silly things. You want these rifle-mounted BG-15s, with the rocket propellant.”
Starlitz examined the scraped and greasy rifle-grenades. The cylindrical explosive tubes looked very much like welding equipment, except for the stenciled military Cyrillic. “Those been kicking around a while?”
“The Basques swear by them. They work
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