SKULLS’ COMPOUND, HELSINKI Eight men were seated in the main room of the Skulls’ headquarters. Larsson sat on a tall stool next to the bar, the others around the tables. Larsson glanced at Aronen, who nodded. “Except for Steiner, looks like everybody is here, so let’s get started,” Larsson said in a calm voice. “I’ve known many of you for a long time. A few faces are new to me, but I can say this: We’re all brothers. If that weren’t true, none of us would be here. If anyone feels otherwise, then now is the time to leave.” His bald, tattooed head glistening, the vice president scanned his throng of toughs. Nobody moved. “There you have it. No hesitations, no sideward glances. That is how the Skulls operate. Each of us is an individual, but the individuals constitute one brotherhood. Trust is our cornerstone. Together, we are what we are.” He had mulled over this speech many nights in his cell. There, it had seemed perfect, but now he questioned whether it was too sentimental.
