He laughs haw haw and slaps his knee. “Adrien here has killed many niggers. That’s why I like him. How many niggers do you think you’ve killed, Adrien?”
Moreau exhales a long plume of smoke. He knows how to play this game and manipulate Saukko. I think Moreau kills many but hates no one. “Do you want to count Africans only, or Hispanics such as Mexicans? Beaners are just little brown niggers. And Arabs such as Afghans, sand niggers. And do you want to count killing by including the calling in of artillery fire and air strikes, or long-range killings, or only killings committed while close enough to look in the men’s faces?”
“Wow,” Saukko says, “so many options. Let’s include all the minorities, but count two ways, faceless and face-to-face.”
“Faceless, some thousands. I wouldn’t hazard to guess. Face-to-face, some hundreds.” Moreau’s smile spoke of indulgence. “Veikko, you’ve heard all of this before. Do you enjoy it so much?”
“Can niggers dance?”
“I thought that the French Foreign Legion has been primarily involved in peacekeeping missions over the past couple decades,” I said.
“Many people require a demonstration that it is to their benefit to be peaceful,” Moreau said, “and I haven’t been in the Legion for some time. My missions have had a wide variety of objectives since then.”
I say to Saukko, “May I ask you some questions?”
“Fire away.”
“Why did you change your mind about your donation to Real Finns?”
“All the patriots are connected. Real Finns. Neo-Nazis. Others. There are several groups populated by many of the same members. I wanted a demonstration of intent from them, not just talk. And I didn’t ask them to kill anyone, just be more up front about the contagion of non-white immigration.”
“What form of demonstration?”
He hesitates, considers the ramifications of his answer. “Are you a real white man? Is our conversation off the record?”
“Yes.”
“Finland was a white man’s paradise. Now good Finnish blood is soiled by poisonous nigger bacterial infection. We’re overrun by mud people. Zionist vampires. Jewish cancer. It’s time to take our country back. Sacrifices must be made. Blood spilled.”
He starts to ramble. I put on my practiced smile that shows agreement. At the moment, it’s good that I feel no emotion. If so, I might have given him the beating of a lifetime. I listen.
“Mud babies. Filthy white girls with no self-esteem desecrate themselves with filthier septic black men—tar people—and make mud babies. Certain parties sell the niggers heroin to sedate them. They should contaminate the heroin with strychnine to reduce the numbers of tar people and slow the contamination of pure Finnish blood. The whites that use it are flawed, of no use to society. Good riddance to bad rubbish. But these men who supposedly are ready to lay down their lives for the cause refuse to poison tar people because they’re afraid of prison, as if they would be common criminals rather than patriots and political prisoners. Cowardice. Pure cowardice. Yet, they come to me with their grubby hands out.”
I neglect to point out that his own daughter was a heroin addict, and now a methadone addict, or that, although I don’t know the statistics, Muslims aren’t inclined toward the use of narcotics. On the other hand, I’ve noticed that quite a few Muslims here have taken up drinking. Maybe a significant number use narcotics as well.
“Have you considered that the murder of Lisbet S?derlund may have been just the sort of demonstration you sought?” I say.
“I have considered it, and would reward it, if I knew who did it.”
I sip cognac I don’t want and force a sound of satisfaction. “Excellent.”
“Indeed.” He tosses his off, gets up, pours a triple, sits down again.
“I understand that you and your son Antti had a falling-out before his kidnapping.”