a charm against armored limos.”
“Basque. I hear that language is even weirder than Finnish.”
“You carry a gun, Starlet?”
“Not at the mo’.”
“Take one little gun,” said Raf generously. “Take thatMakarov nine-millimeter. Nice combat handgun. Vintage Czech ammo. Very powerful.”
“Maybe later,” Starlitz said. “I might appropriate a key or so of that plastique. If you don’t mind.”
Raf smiled. “Why?”
“It’s really hard finding good Semtex since Havel shut down the factories,” Starlitz said moodily. “I might feel the need ’cause … I got this certain personal problem with video installations.”
“Have a cigarette,” said Raf sympathetically, shaking his pack. “I can see that you need one.”
“Thanks.” Starlitz lit a Gauloise. “Video’s all over the place nowadays. Banks got videos … hotels got videos … groceries … cash machines … cop cars.… Man, I
hate
video. I always hated video. Nowadays, video is really getting on my nerves.”
“It’s panoptic surveillance,” said Raf. “It’s the Spectacle.”
Starlitz blew smoke and grunted.
“We should discuss this matter further,” Raf said intently. “Work in the Struggle requires a solid theoretical grounding. Then you can focus this instinctive proletarian resentment into a coherent revolutionary response.” He began sawing through a wrapped brick of Semtex with a butterknife from the kitchen drawer.
Starlitz ripped the plastique to chunks and stuffed them into his baggy pockets.
The door opened. Aino had returned. She had a companion: a very tall and spectrally pale young Finn with an enormous cotton-candy wad of steely purple hair. He wore a pearl-buttoned cowboy shirt and leather jeans. A large gold ring pierced his nasal septum and hung over his upper lip.
“Who is this?” smiled Raf, swiftly tucking the Makarov into the back of his belt.
“This is Eero,” said Aino. “He programs. For the movement.”
Eero gazed at the floor with a diffident shrug. “Manypeople are better hackers than myself.” His eyes widened suddenly. “Oh. Nice guns!”
“This is our safehouse,” said Raf.
Eero nodded. The tip of his tongue stole out and played nervously with the dangling gold ring.
“Eero came quickly so we could get started at once,” Aino said. She looked at the greasy arsenal with mild disdain, the way one might look at a large set of unattractive wedding china. “Now where is the money?”
Starlitz and Raf exchanged glances.
“I think what Raf is trying to say,” said Starlitz gently, “is that traditionally you don’t bring a contact to the safehouse. Safehouses are for storing weapons and sleeping. You meet contacts in open-air situations or public locales. It’s just a standard way of doing business.”
Aino was wounded. “Eero’s okay! We can trust him. Eero’s in my sociology class.”
“I’m sure Eero is fine,” said Raf serenely.
“He brought a cellphone,” Starlitz said, glancing at the holster on Eero’s chrome-studded leather belt. “Cops and spooks can track people’s movements through mobile cellphones.”
“It’s all right,” Raf said gallantly. “Eero is your friend, my dear, so we trust him. Next time we are a bit more careful with our operational technique. Okay?” Raf spread his hands judiciously. “Comrade Eero, since you’re here, take a little something. Have a grenade.”
“Truly?” said Eero, with a self-effacing smile. “Thank you.” He tried stuffing a pineapple, without success, into the tight leather pocket of his jeans.
“Where is the money?” Aino repeated.
Raf shook his head gently. “I’m sure Mister Starlet is not so foolish to bring so much cash to our first meeting.”
“The cash is at a dead drop,” Starlitz said. “That’s a standard method of transferral. That way, if you’re surveilled, the oppo can’t make out your contacts.”
“The tactical teachings of good old Patrice
“Basque. I hear that language is even weirder than Finnish.”
“You carry a gun, Starlet?”
“Not at the mo’.”
“Take one little gun,” said Raf generously. “Take thatMakarov nine-millimeter. Nice combat handgun. Vintage Czech ammo. Very powerful.”
“Maybe later,” Starlitz said. “I might appropriate a key or so of that plastique. If you don’t mind.”
Raf smiled. “Why?”
“It’s really hard finding good Semtex since Havel shut down the factories,” Starlitz said moodily. “I might feel the need ’cause … I got this certain personal problem with video installations.”
“Have a cigarette,” said Raf sympathetically, shaking his pack. “I can see that you need one.”
“Thanks.” Starlitz lit a Gauloise. “Video’s all over the place nowadays. Banks got videos … hotels got videos … groceries … cash machines … cop cars.… Man, I
hate
video. I always hated video. Nowadays, video is really getting on my nerves.”
“It’s panoptic surveillance,” said Raf. “It’s the Spectacle.”
Starlitz blew smoke and grunted.
“We should discuss this matter further,” Raf said intently. “Work in the Struggle requires a solid theoretical grounding. Then you can focus this instinctive proletarian resentment into a coherent revolutionary response.” He began sawing through a wrapped brick of Semtex with a butterknife from the kitchen drawer.
Starlitz ripped the plastique to chunks and stuffed them into his baggy pockets.
The door opened. Aino had returned. She had a companion: a very tall and spectrally pale young Finn with an enormous cotton-candy wad of steely purple hair. He wore a pearl-buttoned cowboy shirt and leather jeans. A large gold ring pierced his nasal septum and hung over his upper lip.
“Who is this?” smiled Raf, swiftly tucking the Makarov into the back of his belt.
“This is Eero,” said Aino. “He programs. For the movement.”
Eero gazed at the floor with a diffident shrug. “Manypeople are better hackers than myself.” His eyes widened suddenly. “Oh. Nice guns!”
“This is our safehouse,” said Raf.
Eero nodded. The tip of his tongue stole out and played nervously with the dangling gold ring.
“Eero came quickly so we could get started at once,” Aino said. She looked at the greasy arsenal with mild disdain, the way one might look at a large set of unattractive wedding china. “Now where is the money?”
Starlitz and Raf exchanged glances.
“I think what Raf is trying to say,” said Starlitz gently, “is that traditionally you don’t bring a contact to the safehouse. Safehouses are for storing weapons and sleeping. You meet contacts in open-air situations or public locales. It’s just a standard way of doing business.”
Aino was wounded. “Eero’s okay! We can trust him. Eero’s in my sociology class.”
“I’m sure Eero is fine,” said Raf serenely.
“He brought a cellphone,” Starlitz said, glancing at the holster on Eero’s chrome-studded leather belt. “Cops and spooks can track people’s movements through mobile cellphones.”
“It’s all right,” Raf said gallantly. “Eero is your friend, my dear, so we trust him. Next time we are a bit more careful with our operational technique. Okay?” Raf spread his hands judiciously. “Comrade Eero, since you’re here, take a little something. Have a grenade.”
“Truly?” said Eero, with a self-effacing smile. “Thank you.” He tried stuffing a pineapple, without success, into the tight leather pocket of his jeans.
“Where is the money?” Aino repeated.
Raf shook his head gently. “I’m sure Mister Starlet is not so foolish to bring so much cash to our first meeting.”
“The cash is at a dead drop,” Starlitz said. “That’s a standard method of transferral. That way, if you’re surveilled, the oppo can’t make out your contacts.”
“The tactical teachings of good old Patrice
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