«At night, the Sandman comes. When he throws a handful of sand into your eyes, you'll fall asleep and forget all your sorrows. Mafia boss Toni Peroni is wide awake when his worst enemies enter Sandman, his nightclub: the health regulators of the Food and Beverages Inspection want to close the club immediately.»
Katie is not only a highly productive writer and an amazing cover artist, but she's also tireless in bringing her (free to read) novels to the attention of possible readers. In the lobby of restaurant Manoel, where we're waiting for our table on the roof terrace, hangs a publicity board on the wall, full of flyers and folders, but only one image draws the attention: a huge monster, made of sand, destroys the neon lights on top of a building.
On the top of this building, on the roof terrace of restaurant Manoel, we see no Sandman, and no neon lights either, just stars in a cloudless night. It makes us feel tiny, like grains of sand in a universe the size of billions of light-years.
"Big Question #3: Does God exist?", I whisper.
"Universally, how can there be any other answer than «yes»? Who made all this?", Malik whispers back.
"Nietzsche said: «God is dead». He couldn't find proof God exists."
"Mortally, Nietzsche is dead; he should have found his proof by now. We can discuss His name, Allah or Zeus or Cristiano Ronaldo, we can discuss His works or His methods or His goal, we can discuss if God is male or female, black or white or coloured, and everything is fine because He will forgive us when we're wrong. But we can't deny the insignificance of humanity, compared with the greatness of what we see around us."
"Imagine a world without God. If you can, it proves the existence of God. If you can't, it proves you're an insignificant human. Question answered, forever.", I say.
"Which brings us to an insignificant question: how are we going to enter Sandman tonight?"
I'd like to read the Toni Peroni series; they tickle my fantasy: "Katie gave us a fresh idea: we disguise ourselves as health regulators of the FBI, the Food & Beverages Inspection. With an official-looking badge and expensive suits, we can trick everyone."
The badges, I can arrange easily. In the shop where I bought Barbie and Ken, they also sold a collection of badges. While Malik orders our drinks, I run up and down the stairs and solve the problem. The expensive suits aren't difficult either: I can break into Malik's house and steal his smoking jacket, and my luggage contains a suit for me.
For the rest of this wonderful Friday night, we enjoy the view, the delicious food, and the interesting conversation between educated friends about books and writers.
"Why are you so negative about a writer like Katie, who offers her stories for free? I haven't read her work yet, but according to the quality of her covers, I want to book a summer weekend on the beach with one of her novels.", I say.
Malik swipes my stupidity away with a determined reply: "Literally, if it's free, it's worth nothing."
"This view is free."
My remark kills the conversation. Perhaps it's better this way. I'm not a diplomat spy like #3, The Diplomat. I'm #5, The Runner, an action figure, trained for «Show, Don't Tell» missions, not for boring dialogues. Action and violence seem a Maltese speciality. In four days, I've seen old ladies and schoolgirls with guns, youngsters with stilettos, and respected businessmen who beat up their clients. It's not what I expected to find on this beautiful island. Perhaps I'm too weak-hearted. Romance is fantasy. Newspapers don't lie. Humans are predators.
Two giant steaks with pepper sauce arrive. Hungry, I attack the red meat and make it disappear. In nature, you fight or get killed. The choice is simple. «When you're in a hopeless position, you'll fight like you have nothing to lose», Sun Tzu said. Fight with a vengeance if you want to survive, or the horrible Sandman will eat you alive. And, of course, there was also Nietzsche, who said: «Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster». Nietzsche is dead. I prefer to survive this war.
* * *
"l don't answer questions; I just answer the door."
Our badges and our expensive suits don't impress the gorilla dressed in dark blue. He looks right through us like we don't exist.
"Dictatorially, we're sent by the government. If you don't let us in, we'll close this place and you'll lose your job.", Malik tries, again, but with the body language of a loser who accepted his defeat long before he entered the ring.
Staring at the end of nowhere, the doorman barks: "When the government tells us their plan, it's always delayed. When my boss tells me I'm fired, it's immediate action. My boss pays me to let only people enter who wear the correct clothes. You don't pay me shit. Now, leave."
In my 4.000-euro suit (I bought it for 40 euros, but nobody knows that), I look up at Malik in his smoking jacket.
Malik looks down at me: "Dressily, it's your shoes. Who wears Doc Marten boots under a 4.000-euro suit? Obviously, you don't know how to dress. This is a fine place, the most exclusive nightclub on Malta. You can't enter here with boots like that."
Two teenage girls push us aside. The one with the green hair wears an impossible-short leather skirt, looking like a broad belt, a T-shirt that shows the piercing that hides the tattoo that covers her left nipple, and Doc Marten boots. The one with the pitch-black lipstick and the white face wears a shirt with the text «fcuk you», a pair of jeans with more holes than Malik's favourite Swiss cheese, and a pair of beach slippers. Both kiss the gorilla on the lips for about ten seconds and enter Sandman without saying one word.
"Sleep with one eye open, Malik. My boots are made for walking and that's what they will do: I'm going in. We're on an official government mission, to inspect if the kitchen and bar follow all the rules of hygiene, and to check if every employee receives at least the minimum wage. We start with the first employee we meet: How much do you get paid and how many hours do you work for that money?"
The gorilla isn't impressed: "My tax declaration is private information. If you want to know, ask the government."
I take my hand out of my pocket and show an impressive pile, a pillow, of 50-euro bills: "I just wanted to know if I pay you more than your boss does. IF you let us enter…"
The gorilla takes my hand, grips my pillow tight, sends my bills off to never-never land, and we enter Sandman.
At the moment we walk through the door, I know this is a mistake; Malik and I stand out like two Christmas trees in Mordor. «no-smoking area» is only the dress code. The sour sweat of the dancing ghosts on the graveyard blends in with the fine fragrance of Cuban cigars, Moroccan marihuana, Indonesian kretek cigarettes with clove, and the unmistakable smell of a roof on fire. The music is probably a recording of a Monday morning traffic jam in a tunnel, and loud enough to beat the brains out of everyone.
I scan the environment. Bar. Man's room. Exit light. Ladies. The fog right ahead indicates the dance floor, perhaps even a stage or a DJ at the back. On the right are the stands for the foot soldiers. The officers occupy the bar on the left. The generals have taken the first floor.
"No women here?", I ask Malik. He can't hear me. Too much noise. I point to the stands. It looks like the only place where we might get some information. I struggle through the crowd. Too many men look down at me. Those three over there, they don't belong here. Are they agents of the Malta Security Network? I'm regretting I've lost my gun. I turn around and fight myself back through the crowd that didn't want to let us pass in the first place. What are all these people doing here? Are they enjoying themselves? Or did they just come here because this is the hottest bar in town? 50 degrees Celsius and still going up; I feel like a smoked salmon in a barrel full of red herrings.
"I'm looking for Khalid.", I ask the bartender.
The bar must be in an acoustic zone; I can almost hear myself scream here.
"Which Khalid? I know a thousand Khalids."
"Your boss. The one who pays your salary."
"I live on tips."
I take the hint. Good advice is expensive… I take out my wallet and put a banknote on the bar for every word I say: "Is. Khalid. Around? . . . Please. . . Two. Beer. . . Khalid? . . . Upstairs? . . . Sir?"
Already nine dollars and still no answer, not even a movement to serve us the two beers. I decide to give him one last chance, grab the nine dollars and put ten euros in their place: it's now or never.
"Wait here."
The bartender disappears with my money.
The three MSN agents leave their stands on the opposite wall. Looking at me. Coming my way. Professionals. Don't give me a chance to escape. The one who slaloms alongside the wall on my left must be Mercí. Suavez must be the killer who crosses the dance floor in the centre like a Russian ballerina during the nutcracker suite, cracking a few hands full of nuts on the way to make room. That makes Neighman the one who slips with elegance through the crowds on my right.
"We're sitting ducks, Malik. This is a trap."
Where's Malik?
I turn and face the bar. Danger closes in. Is there an escape route? The bar covers the entire wall. On either side, in the corner, there is an entrance for the bartenders, but no back door to a kitchen, no staircase to a basement. The bartender comes my way again. He's followed by a woman with snow-white hair and an impressive pair of tits. She smiles at me like we're best friends. I smile back.
"Hi. I'm Khalid. You were looking for me?", she says. Her voice is too low for a woman.
I try to stay friendly: "I'm looking for Khalid, the owner of this club."
Her smile gets bigger and bigger: "I'll be the owner of this club as soon as you give me enough money to buy it. If you want me to be a sailor, a leather boy or a nurse, that's no problem either."
Two hands grab my shoulders and a voice behind me says, with a voice even lower than Snow White's: "Beat it, Snow White. This man's ours."
Snow White doesn't want to give up so easily: "Come on. Be sportive. Let me join the team. I'm fun to play with. Let me score too…", but Mercí looks mean at her, Neighman makes a «beat it»-gesture with his head, and Suavez shows her his teeth. Snow White retreats to the ladies' room to do her nails.
I turn around and face the three. There's nothing to be afraid of. These men don't want me. They want Malik. They want the manuscript Malik wrote: "I don't have anything you want."
"Oh, yes, you do." - "I want a jacket like yours too." - "Feel this fabric; it's soft like satin but strong like wool." - "I have never seen this colour either." - "It fits you like a glove." - "Do you have a personal tailor?" - "People like you, who know how to dress, always draw the attention." - "It must have cost you at least 4.000 euros." - "We'll buy you a beer if you tell us where you bought it."
If you can't beat them, join them. Four beers later, my three new best friends say goodbye and leave with the address of the street market in Barcelona and my story about an Indian tailor with one eye who only makes one suit each month because the caterpillars that produce the cloth don't work faster, and the dye he uses comes from protected plants that only grow in the Pyrenees, and as many other entertaining details I could make up in such a short time. The guys aren't spies; they are South-American dentists, visiting a congress here.
Where's Malik? I hope he investigated and found out where we can find Khalid. Or perhaps he hid in a safe place and kept himself out of trouble.
As soon as I'm alone, a pretty girl comes to me and sits next to me at the bar. I've seen her looking at me all the time. She's a party animal, looking for a party. I'm not exactly a George Michael or a Tom Cruise, I'm more on the lower side of average, but I'm well dressed and popular, and it's dark here, and perhaps I look familiar, or perhaps she's already a little tipsy, so now she's made her move, and her move was in my direction. At least, she's a modern girl; she's the hunter, not the prey. She knows what she wants and does what it takes to get it. I show my admiration with an encouraging smile, eager to hear what her opening line will be. Is she the «Do I know you from somewhere?»-type? Or is she more the «What's a stud like you doing in a stable like this?»-kind of girl. No. She's a surprise-party animal; she'll come with something original.
Original it is. She surprises me completely, asking: "L.S.D.?"
She recognised me… From work… She even knows I work for the Luxembourg Spy Department. It's nothing personal. She's not interested in me as a person. It's business. Probably a client, looking to hire me. I hide my surprise and smile back: "How did you know?"
"You're not paranoid enough for cocaine, not desperate enough for heroin, not passive enough for marijuana and not hyperactive enough for speed. You look like the student-type of junkie, so I thought you wanted to buy some LSD. You are a junkie, aren't you?"
¡Rostov! She's not a client, looking for someone to hire; she's a drugs dealer, looking for a client. She's after my money. But… if she sells drugs, she might work for Khalid El Bullít. I have to be careful not to spoil this lead.
"I'm the one who supplies the one who supplies you. Where can I find the one who supplies you?", I say.
Immediately, she likes me a lot more now. She comes closer, too close, searches me for hidden weapons, mainly in my trousers, nibbles my ear, and whispers: "Why don't you supply me directly? When we cut out the middleman, we both make a better profit."
I take her hand out of my expensive clothes and put it on the bar: "The middleman would kill us both. But if you take me to him, I'll kill him for you, and then we can talk business."
"You can find him every morning in the Battle Angel."
"What does he look like?"
"I thought you said you supply him? Are you a cop?"
She lifts her hand to have a better look at the booty of her search party: "FBI?"
She opens her mouth to alarm the cavalry, the air force, and the marines. I have no choice but to silence her. I put my mouth on hers while I search hurry-scurry in my inside pocket for one of my capsules of OC-V 340 a.k.a. Tumble Tornado. She fights like a fox to escape my indecent proposal, but I'm stronger. The garlic aftertaste of tonight's pepper sauce chokes her. Without breathing in, she can't sing the siren. When I let go and hold my breath, she inhales the gas from the capsule I broke under her nose, and falls on the floor, deep asleep, hopefully long enough for me to fight my way to the door and leave this building.
Where's Malik?
Rostov! He's dancing! He's drawing too much attention.
I'm only 1,67 tall. When I step down from my barstool and mix in the crowd, I'll lose visual contact. I look for the door, the entrance where we entered, concentrating on the direction into which I'll have to push Malik. My blood runs cold when I recognise the face of the man who just entered. I know him, from a former mission in a Geneva hotel. His name is Andrei. He works for the KGB. His partner Sergey and he must be looking for me, for us, for Malik. I have no idea how they know we're here, and I hope our simple disguises will trick them, but the front door is no longer an option, and we must leave fast too.
Back door?
Exit light.
Over there.
I step into the crowd and find Malik on the dance floor. He can't hear me. I pull his sleeve and point to the emergency exit. He shakes his head. I make a pistol of my thumb and index finger, point it at his head, and fire a shot. Then I point at the entrance. Finally, I make a gesture with my thumb, cutting my throat. Malik worries now. He looks around, at the door, but doesn't have a clue where the danger is coming from. Follow me! That way! We must leave. Now!
He lifts his shoulders and follows me. Close to the emergency exit, I spot a gorilla with one tit (more likely: a gun, hidden under his bling-bling jacket). The gorilla has spotted me too; he steps aside and blocks the exit, his silver back against the door, hands in his side, feet a foot apart, grinning at the upcoming scene that he visualises in his mind. The bouncer must think I'm the comedian, the clown, hired to make him laugh. He's right at one thing: people go to bars to entertain themselves, and he's not funny, so it has to be me.
I see myself in the mirror of his sunglasses. Anyone wearing sunglasses when he's not on the beach is probably a criminal. At least, it's criminal behaviour to make me look at myself, with my stupid jacket, ridiculous boots, and flashy shirt. He's right about who's the clown here.
I point at him with my index finger, give him a friendly smile of recognition and say: "Right. I forgot something. Don't worry. I'm back in a sec."
With a blink of an eye, I tell Malik to stay where he is, and return to the bar: "Your friend over there, does he have a name? What does he drink?"
"Chekhov. Ten euros." The bartender puts a beer bottle on the bar, doesn't even bother to open it, snatches the money out of my hand, and is already on his way to another client. I return to the door and offer Chekhov the bottle, with my left hand: "Sorry."
Chekhov grins at the bottle and asks: "Sorry for what?"
I explain it in «Show, Don't Tell», the universal language everyone in the world understands. In a fair fight, this man squashes me like a strawberry. That's why I avoid fair fights. If you have a beer in your hand, you can't draw your gun. If you plant your feet a foot apart, you give a free invitation to the iron nose of a Doc Martens boot to play ping-pong with your balls, which hurts so much that you automatically double. Your face comes close to the knee of the one who gave you the beer. This knee breaks your sunglasses and your nose, which leaves you unconscious. Therefore, I give the excuse upfront, and the beer (to make it up a little, the man just follows orders) with the cap still on it, so he won't spill it when he falls on the floor. I'm a professional. Professionals don't play with their food. They observe, they act, and they hit hard. Professionals leave nothing behind that can become a problem later.
Malik steps over the unconscious doorman with the bleeding nose and follows me outside: "Formally, that man did you no harm…"
"That's why I said sorry and bought him a beer. He wouldn't do that for us after beating the crap out of us."
"You don't know if he wanted to beat us up."
"Go back and ask him, Malik. He won't shoot you; I took his pistol."
I take a few seconds to get familiar with Chekhov's gun. It's a Glock 17 with 19 x 9mm bullets in the cartridge. Perfect piece. It's lighter than the Beretta 92 and it has a comfortable grip. I check the safety and hide it under my jacket in the small of my back.
"Suddenly, why did we leave? I was having fun."
"We're not here to entertain ourselves. We're here to accomplish a mission. The KGB arrived. They were looking for you. The party's over. Tomorrow, you'll get another chance. But first, we'll have to find ourselves a place to sleep. Any idea?"
"We can book a hotel room."
"Are you paying? Don't count on me. I've spent the last of my cash in that nightclub. But I got priceless information in return: we can find Khalid in a place called Battle Angel. Do you know what it is and where we can find it?"
Malik doesn't know. No problem. We have to walk to the harbour, to the container where we keep our stuff, so we can slip into something comfortable. On our way, we'll look for a phone booth, a city map, or something.
We walk in silence for a while. It gives me time to think.
Malik prefers some conversation: "Partially, it was a nice party. I liked it."
"I've paid a fortune for a beer, I was offered drugs, I was invited by a transsexual to do whatever, it was hot as hell, I couldn't hear my own thoughts because of the noise, I couldn't move because there were far too many people, one of which tried to kill me, two tried to arrest me, three tried to undress me, and I had to goodnight-kiss a woman or fight for my life. Nice party indeed."
Malik is offended: "You don't know what fun is."
"Fun? You forgot how to entertain yourself."
Malik is a writer. He's seen every word so often, that it has turned into a meaningless cliché. If I want him to see a situation with other eyes, I should use the tool of the metaphor: "Imagine. A woman invites you to a party. You don't know her very well, but everybody talks about her and how successful she is, so you hope for a party you'll never forget. Before you leave, you dress up, you shave, shower, and comb your hair. You might put a flower in the buttonhole of your shirt, or perhaps you'll wear an expensive watch or diamond earrings because you want to make a good impression. Although you don't know who you'll meet there, it will be fun. You expect the woman who organized the party to do everything she can to make you feel good, so you want to give everything you got to make her feel good about inviting you. What do you hope for when you step outside your door? What do you expect when you go to such a party?"
"Usually, the usual. The environment might be a spectacular castle or a beautiful garden with lights and flowers. Consumptionally, there should be tasty food and expensive drinks. I'd expect both passive and active entertainment, like a show to watch and the possibility to dance. Apart from meeting interesting people, I would like to share a few words with the hostess, to express my gratitude for the wonderful evening and to get to know her a little better."
"Would you pay 20 euros for an entrance ticket for such a party?"
"I guess I would. Why?"
"Because the hostess takes your 20 euros and doesn't give you back what you hoped for. I'm not talking about the Duchess of Alva who invites you to her wedding party, Malik. I'm talking about someone like you, a writer, who invites me, your reader, to a party called «my latest novel». The host of your party is a hero with problems. Instead of a beautiful environment, he's in deep shit. The entertainment consists of killings, shootings, fights, and other kinds of conflicts. The exclusive food and drinks we hoped for are mainly drugs and lots of alcohol. The interesting people are whores and criminals. The author who organized the party does only promotional speeches, saying that 20 euros is a small price for so much fun because all the important people with an opinion called her party the number one on the New Joke Times Party-list."
Malik understands the metaphor: "You're talking about fiction."
"I'm a reader, invited to the writer's fantastic fantasy party. When I buy your book, I buy an entrance ticket for the party that you, a fiction writer, organized for me. What do you give me for my 20 euros? I enter Sandman, where everyone is drunk, drugged and aggressive. There are so many people that I can't even find the bar to get a ridiculously expensive drink. The other guests want to sell me their bodies or sell me stuff to make me lose my mind. I liked the party you offered me earlier, the Precious Poetry Party (and I'm not really a fan of poetry), but this Khalid El Bullít party and all the scenes it takes me to, I don't like it at all."
"Cowardly, you want to give up?"
"I'm not someone who gives up easily, but I'm not someone who likes violence either, and I'm certainly not someone who sees violence as a solution. Malta is far more aggressive and hostile than I thought it would be. When hostility attacks peace, peace must defend itself and will become hostile. If I want to go on with this mission, I'll have to change. Do I want that? I don't want to fight for my life or the life of my friend in every chapter of this ridiculous story. I don't want you to face Khalid alone, and I promised to help you, but…"
Malik lowers his head: "Personally, I didn't want this either. I'm the victim here, remember? The world around us turns us into savages. I'm a lover, not a fighter."
"This world of savages is created by us, humans. If we don't like it, we should change it. But that's not a one-spy mission; it's the task of everyone on our planet. Our case is simple, Malik; it's a sniper-rifle case, or a suitcase: we can fight, or we can fly. There's a plane to everywhere, leaving every hour. If we take it, we'll be safe. We give up the manuscript and hide in the crowds of London, Paris, or Helsinki. I follow the Bruce Cable rule: give a book 100 pages and then decide if it's worth reading until the end or close it forever. I've read a few chapters of your story, and I really like you, the main character, but I hate this plot. Right now, on page 100, I prefer to close the book, so I can dedicate my precious time to more important matters. You're the writer. You invited me to your party. I give you a chance that no other writer will ever get from his reader: you can convince me why I should read on. If you fail, I'll leave Malta, and you come with me."
Malik stops, lifts his hands, and turns around, not knowing what to do: "Unconditionally, surrender? And what about the nuclear weapons in New York? What about the shipment of semi-automatic weapons to heat the civil war in Somalia? What about the anti-aircraft weapons arriving in Afghanistan?"
"I don't care. The Americans, the Africans, and the Asians can solve those problems. They like to fight. I don't. A stupid man thinks he can outsmart a Bullít. A brave man knows when to walk away."
"And you walk away?"
"I do, and I'm doing it right now. You can choose: come with me, or stay here. The party's over, Malik. This is not a fight we can win. When I have my luggage, I'm going to the airport, where I'll use my LSD credit card to buy myself a plane ticket out of here. Do you stay? Or do you come with me?"
Malik doesn't say a word until we reach the harbour. We slip through the hole in the fence and walk towards the container that contains our stuff. There's something taped to the door. It's a white envelope. There's something written on the outside: "HA!"
I ask Malik: "Do you know this handwriting?"
Malik shakes his head. I open the envelope and read what's written on the sheet of paper I find inside. The message is short and clear: «So you thought you were safe? HA! So you thought you were safe in London, Paris or Helsinki? HA, HA, HA!»
"What does it say?", Malik asks.
"It's a message from the airport: our flight has just been cancelled."