"This is summer in Finland," said Starlitz. "The sun's not gonna set here for acouple of months."

Khoklov, tripped up in the midst of his reverie, frowned. "No matter. Youweren't the agent I had in mind in any case."

They wandered on. A Finn at a nearby table was selling big swollen muskrat-furhats. No sane local would buy these items, for they were the exact sort ofpseudo-authentic cultural relics that appeared only in tourist economies. TheFinn, however, was flourishing. He was deftly slotting and whipping theMastercards and Visas of sunburnt Danes and Germans through a handheld cellularcredit checker.

"Our man arrives tomorrow morning on the Copenhagenferry," Khoklov announced.

"You ever met this character before?" Starlitz said. "Ever done any realbusiness with him?"

Khoklov sidled along, flicking the smoldering butt of his Dunhill onto the graystone cobbles. "I've never met him myself. My boss knew him in the seventiess.My boss used to run him from the KGB HQ in East Berlin. They called him Raf,back then. Raf the Jackal."

Starlitz scratched his close-cropped, pumpkin-like head. "I've heard of Carlosthe Jackal."

"No, no," Khoklov said, pained. "Carlos retired, he's in Khartoum. This is Raf.A different man entirely."

"Where's he from?"

"Argentina. Or Italy. He once ran arms between the Tupamaros and the RedBrigades. We think he was an Italian Argentine originally."

"KGB recruited him and you didn't even know his nationality?" Khoklov frowned."We never recruited him! KGB never had to recruit any of those Seventies people!Baader-Meinhoff, Palestinians... They always came straight to us!" He sighedwistfully. "American Weather Underground --how I wanted to meet a groovy hippierevolutionary from Weather Underground! But even when they were blowing up the