Jill Repeth stepped off the commercial flight to Helsinki with just a carry-on bag. Dressed in jeans and a warm jacket, hair peroxided and bobbed, she looked very much like one of the blonde-and-bronzed Laplanders of the Saami people, common stock in this Scandinavian country. Beside her, Roger Muzik grunted. Wearing his hair long to try to look less military, he slouched to reduce the impression his six-four frame made. “No, this is an airport. Finland is out there.” He waved at the expanse of mountains visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. After passing though customs without a hitch – no metal detectors departing security, after all – they spotted a man holding a sign that said “Rockerfeller,” the recognition code. Without speaking they nodded and followed him to a Japanese-built SUV parked in the lot. Only when they were on the road did anyone say anything. “Good trip?” asked the contact. “My mother got sick,” Repeth replied. “She should take a hot bath and eat some fish,”
