My room, 1407, is the safest place for the moment. When you enter, you see the door to the bathroom on the right, then a little alcove with an electric kettle plus some cups and bags with tea and coffee above a safe and a small refrigerator, and two steps further you enter the room itself, with a double bed on the righthand side and a table with two chairs on the left. A small TV-set on the wall above the table and two double windows with lake-and-mountain view complete the picture. I tell Rostov to take the table to the bathroom and place it before the mirror, so he can sit on it and watch himself. I search my luggage for my Picasso-stuff.
"What are we going to do?", Rostov asks.
"First, we're going to make you invisible."
"Invisible?"
"Give me a description of every person you saw since we left suite 2503."
Rostov looks surprised, waits for the rest of the joke, which doesn't come, realises I'm trying to be serious, and starts to count: "When we went to the lift, I saw a girl in a white summer dress walk by… That old man with the dark suit and his wife, well, I think it was his wife, who got in on the 17th floor, and that younger man in the blue suit who got in on the 15th floor. That's it. Four people."
"Plus two invisible people. A man and a woman. Wash your face with warm water and soap, but don't make your hair wet."
"I haven't seen any invisible people…"
I hand Rostov a clean towel: "You haven't seen them because they were invisible to you, but I saw them. When we left suite 2503, there was a lady cleaning the room on the other side of the corridor. When we waited for the lift to arrive, a chamberboy passed by. They work here, like me. You didn't notice them. For you, and for almost every other guest in this hotel, someone who doesn't belong to 'our kind of people' is invisible. So that's how we're going to make you invisible: you will be Mesut Bellarabi, a bellboy from Pakistan. You'll walk around with brooms and toilet brushes or you push a little cart with room service. As long as you don't say anything, nobody will notice you."
I put a set of small hairpins and a little round iron tin with dark make-up on the table: "When you've cleaned your face, you dry it carefully with the towel. Use the pins to get your hair out of your face and neck. I see a pale skin and I want it painted black. I'll be right back."
"Where are you going to?"
"To the concierge. We'll need clothes for you. You're about 25 centimetres taller than I am, so we can't use anything of my stuff. I will only be a minute. The concierge has his office on this same floor."
The concierge gives me a suit and a shirt of a bellboy in Rostov's size. The hotel doesn't supply socks, shoes and underwear. Rostov can take socks and underwear out of my suitcase, but he can't walk around without shoes. Fortunately, we're in a five-star hotel, where solving problems is our everyday job.
Back in the room, I give Rostov his new outfit. When he has changed into the hotel uniform, I tell him to sit down in front of the mirror. With some putty from my make-up box, I give him a different nose and other cheekbones. I hand him the round iron tin: "This foundation will give you a dark skin. It's high quality and waterproof, so you can't take it off easily. Take your time to do it right; make sure the colour is smooth and equal everywhere. Don't forget to do the back of your hands and make sure there are no white spots left when you close the collar of your shirt. Work around your new nose until the putty is dry and be careful not to damage the form when you put on the colour. What's the size of your shoes?"
"44. Why?"
"You'll need a new pair of shoes. The CIA bugged your old shoes, and you can't walk around barefoot. Don't worry. I'll ask at the reception if they have any ideas."
The reception of a hotel is the place where every guest goes to when they have a problem. Being a receptionist means that you have to speak at least seven languages fluently, be able to solve a million little problems at the same time, treat everyone like they're the only client of the hotel and be friendly under any circumstance. I admire people who are capable of doing such a job.
Two of the three girl receptionists are busy with clients. The third one, a stout girl with short red carrot-hair, is talking to someone on the phone. She hangs up when I come closer, gives me a stunning smile and asks: "Is there something I can do for you… Julian?"
I'm surprised she knows my name, but her eyes went quickly up and down before she said it; like every other employee, a silver tag shows my first name on my chest.
As a spy, I have a different identity for each mission. I get my papers from #2 (number two), The Nerd, and he has some morbid kind of adoration for Die Mannschaft, the German national football team. That's why my fake identity is always a combination of the first and the last name of two German football players. I've been Jérôme Podolski, Mario Kroos, André Kimmich and Manuel Ter Stegen on earlier occasions, and today my passport says I'm Julian Weidenfeller.
The receptionist's name is Sabina. I return the smile and say: "For me, nothing, but a guest from my floor had a fatal accident with his shoes and he doesn't have a spare pair. Can we arrange a pair of new shoes for him, size 44? Any pair of cheap brown or black shoes is fine; it's just so that he doesn't have to walk in his socks when he goes shopping for other shoes."
The stunning smile becomes even more stunning: "No problem. I'll make sure you can pick up his new pair of shoes here at the desk in… twenty minutes. Would that be okay?"
"That would be perfect. Thank you very much. If you want to give me a call when they arrive, I'll be in room 1407."
"What's the number of the guest's room? To charge the costs of the shoes, you know."
Oops. I didn't think of that. We can't use Rostov's room account because disappeared guests don't order. I get 100 Swiss francs out of my pocket and give them to Sabina: "He prefers to pay cash. I hope this is enough." Her expression of doubt (Switzerland is an expensive country) makes me double the bribe and her stunning smile comes back again: "I'll take care of it right away."
"Thanks. I owe you one."
And Rostov owes me one too, no, he owes me two…
Back in the room, I ask him if he has any money that we can use to finance this project.
"In my room, in my wallet, I have about… fifty rubles…, a fistful of dollars, and a credit card of the company for expenses, but I'll need to ask for a ticket for everything and send them a declaration with the reason of the expenses, or they'll recoup the spending against my salary."
Nice. I thought that bankers always had money in their pockets. It looks like I trusted the wrong banker.
"We can't use your credit card. I just spent 200 Swiss francs for you. I'll send you a declaration of costs when this adventure is over and I hope I can trust you to pay me back. Friends do that, you know."
"You can trust me."
"When you trust a banker, you always end up with less money. We'll talk about that later. We have bigger problems to solve now."
I look at the result of Rostov's painting: it's not bad. I take a wig with straight, short black hair from the collection in my suitcase, blacken his eyebrows, and give him brown eyes with coloured lenses. It looks good. I pick two little silicon banana-shapes from their plastic wrapping and tell Rostov to put them in his mouth, between the moles of his upper jaw and his cheek. It gives his face just enough extra flesh to do the trick. He's ugly enough to avoid anyone giving him a second look, but not so ugly that people will stop and stare.
"Mister Mesut Bellarabi, welcome to the Prestigio International. We hope you'll have a wonderful time working here."
Rostov admires his new me in the mirror with a grin: "I look great. Even my mother wouldn't recognise me if I would knock on her door…"
"Your MOTHER? You told me you were an orphan! One minute ago, you tell me I can trust you, and your next phrase proves you're a liar. I thought you were my friend. Friends don't lie to each other, Rostov. Never! How can I trust you when you lie to me?"
Rostov doesn't know what I refer to, so I calm down and explain: "When I entered your room this morning, when you were having that gun for breakfast, I asked you «What will your mother say?» and you answered that you're an orphan. You lied to me."
"Oh, that. Yes. You're right. But that was before we became friends… I tried to reason you out and go on with my plans. I'm sorry. I do have parents, they live in Rostov, where I was born, and I have two sisters too, one older than me and married to a construction worker, the other one is five years younger. She—"
I interrupt: "I'm not interested in 23 seasons of «All in the Family», Rostov. I only want you to understand that friends never lie to each other. Okay?"
I replay this morning's video in my memory and check the Permanent Voice Recorder app on my spiPhone. The phone automatically records every conversation. Every fifteen minutes, it automatically stores the information as a text file to my private backup-space in the cloud. He's right. I asked what his parents would say, what his wife would say and what his friends would say, he answered, lied, that he didn't have anyone, and after that lie, I told him I was his friend.
"Did you also lie to me about not having friends or a wife either?"
"No, no. That was the truth. I have no wife and no girlfriend. I'm always working or studying or travelling, no time for wives or girlfriends. I do have some friends, but… A month ago I visited a friend at his house. He welcomed me and said he was glad to see me, but when we were waiting for the fast-food delivery to arrive, he was interrupted by his mobile phone and spent the rest of the evening playing a war game with someone in Hungary or Thailand who was higher on his priority list than I was, while I watched a program he picked on his TV to kill my time. Do you call that «having friends»?"
"Hm. Anyway, I need to know a little more about you. This spy-work is based on knowledge and skills. How many languages do you speak?"
"Two: Russian and English."
A reminder about Rostov's Russian mobile phone pops up in my head. While we talk, my hands can adjust another phone for Rostov. In my suitcase, I have four backup phones, ready for action. I pick a cheap standard phone with most of the special LSD apps and a secure untraceable connection to the satellite. I connect the cable to charge the battery completely and activate the I-Spy-Smartphone app that downloads the data from Rostov's old phone from my safe virtual disk in the cloud.
"Do you have any special training or diplomas or other studies that can help us?"
"I studied banking, economy and administration, and I followed some courses on legal stuff about contracts. The usual training that comes with the job, nothing else."
"I can't see how that can be useful. Do you have any other special qualities that might help us?"
A smile splits Rostov's dark face in two: "I have one special quality, and you'll love it because it's perfect for this job: I know everything about films. Action blockbusters, spy stories, superheroes or science fiction or comedy or romantics or drama, anything. You name the title of a film and I can tell you the names of the actors, the director, the year of release… I can even quote the dialogues of entire scenes."
I can't help being sarcastic: "Really?", but Rostov is too enthusiastic to notice.
"Yes. Isn't that amazing? Give me a film title and I'll show you."
"Rostov, you keep surprising me. At first, I thought you were a pain in the butt and a block on my leg, but after hearing this… We'll have the case solved in less than five minutes now.", I laugh.
"I knew you would be impressed. Give me a title… You do know some good films, don't you?"
I look at Rostov in the mirror: this has to dry. We can't get anywhere until we have the shoes. Okay, let's have some fun: "The Hunger Games."
"That's easy. Released in 2012, Jennifer Lawrence as Katniss Everdeen, Josh Hutcherson as Peeta Mellark, Donald Sutherland as President Snow and Gary Ross was the director. It was based on the novel by Suzanne Collins and it was one of the best films of that year in almost every country. You have to do better than that."
"The Bourne Identity."
"Released in 2002 with Matt Damon as Jason Bourne and Franka Potente as Marie. It was followed by The Bourne Supremacy in 2004 and The Bourne Ultimatum in 2007. That one was even easier. It's one of my favourite spy stories ever. I like Matt Damon. Some say I even look like him."
"Matt Damon is blond. Your hair is… milkman-dog yellow. Matt Damon has muscles. You…"
"I can work out."
"Matt Damon is smart."
"I'm smart too. You should see me solving tax problems for rich clients…"
"Matt Damon is handsome. You are ugly."
"Hey! I'm not a model, but my looks are great."
"Are you still angry at that farmer?"
"Which farmer?"
"The one who rode over your face with his tractor…"
"That's not fair. I'm not ugly…"
"Look in the mirror, Rostov. Now you are ugly. You're an ugly Pakistan bellboy in a suit of the Prestigio International Hotel. No matter how hard you try, you'll never get a girl and you definitely don't look like Matt Damon. Perhaps you like to watch how Matt Damon solves problems in fiction, but the first time you run into a real problem yourself, you chew the barrel of a gun and have no other idea but to give up. The only film star you look like is the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz."
"You're making fun of me…"
"I'm not making fun of you. You make me laugh. There's a difference. You're my friend. I'm happy you're good with films. It's okay if you're no hero. I accept you as you are. In this world, there's a place for both sparrows like me and chickens like you. It's nice if you can take a gun and talk to the mirror like Robert De Niro in «Taxi Driver», one chicken to another: «Are you tokking to me?» It's fine if you have no idea how to get your suitcase back. I'll help you. That's what friends are for. But you are funny, and that's a quality, Rostov. It doesn't matter what we do, as long as we have fun and laugh about it."
"It's your job to kill people and to save the world from dangerous terrorists. Fifteen minutes ago, we got almost shot by the KGB. You call that having fun?"
"When you see Matt Damon doing it in a film, you like it, don't you? The difference between Matt Damon and us is that we are not going to save a fictional world. We're going to save the real world from real danger and real threats by real criminals, and yes, that's a lot of fun if it works out."
"And if it doesn't work out?"
"At least we die trying. Life is short, Rostov. You should enjoy every minute. What did you like about your life so far? Were you born with the dream of becoming a banker?"
"Well… No. You know how it goes. Nobody can not foresee what will happen to us. You have your plans and your dreams, but life gets in the way. You have to do something for a living, and being a banker gives a high income for little effort. Russia is a poor country, Rostov is a poor city and I'm from a poor family. Life is hard when you're poor. Nobody is interested in you. If you want to get out of that situation, if you want to go all the way to the top, you have to give it all you've got, work as hard as you can, forget about playing football or watching cartoons on TV or going to birthday parties because you have to study, to become the best of your class, so you'll get a chance for a job, and when you have that job, you have to work even harder to make sure you keep it, and if you want a promotion, you have to work day and night, weekends and holidays… In life, there is no time to have fun and no space for dreams…
» I always dreamed of acting in a film; even just a small part in a minor production would be nice. But you have to take acting classes and know important people in the business and sleep with producers and directors… I was too busy with becoming a top-banker and never had the time or the energy to do anything else, so I stopped dreaming up about a film career. Being successful is more important than having fun."
"But it was worth the trouble. People got interested in you when you became successful."
"Would I try to shoot myself if that was so? People are only interested in the money I make, not in me. They hate it when others are successful. But it pays the rent, I have a nice car, and now, I have a nice friend too. Perhaps you should also tell me something about yourself. That's what friends do."
"Are you sure you want to hear how I became a spy? It's a long story."
"I love long stories. The longer, the better. «The Hunger Games», «Jason Bourne», «The Lord of the Rings» and «The Hobbit»: the best films are trilogies."
I check my watch. Sabina promised me twenty minutes. They have almost passed, but as long as we don't get a call that the shoes have arrived, there's nothing else we can do except chat or make plans. The plans depend on information that can only be obtained after we have the shoes. That leaves the chat. I fill the kettle for coffee (tea for Rostov, he'll have to adapt to one of the four flavours the hotel supplies to every room) and we sit down for some socialising. That's what friends do.
"Many people dream about saving the world. The difference between me and them is: when I wake up, I don't stop dreaming…
» I had this dream since I was little. My dream was to become a spy. Other children have parents who read them stories of Winnie the Pooh or Charlie Brown; when I was three, my grandpa read me «The Spy Who Came In From The Cold» by John le Carré and «Goldfinger» by Ian Fleming. My parents had a butcher shop, twenty kilometres away from our house. They were open 9 hours a day, 6 days a week, so they had little time to raise me, but my grandpa was always there to take care of me when I got out of school or during the holidays. Other kids play football or board games, but we went fishing and camping in the woods and lived exciting adventures. I learnt how to read by spelling the books of Len Deighton, Graham Greene, Alistair MacLean and John Gardner from my grandfather's collection. All the other seven-year-olds in my class wanted to become a teacher or a firefighter or an astronaut, and I always said that I wanted to become a butcher like my parents, but the truth was that I wanted to become a spy, something I couldn't tell anybody because spies always keep their identity a secret.
» What does James Bond or Jack Ryan do? Good spies always have a plan. If winning the lottery is your only chance to get out of financial problems, you have to be lucky and you get as many lottery tickets as possible. You can't influence fate. You can't force luck. But you can work on your statistics, on giving yourself the best chance possible. If I wanted to be a spy, I had to learn everything spies need, and I had to learn it on top of what boys my age have to learn at school.
» It was fun. My friends watched cartoons on Sunday mornings, while I watched instruction videos on how to make Molotov cocktails and wiretapping devices. Boys in my class made plastic scale 1:200 prefabricated models of tanks and aeroplanes from World War II; I made a working, original size, Kalashnikov out of wood and paper pulp. Other kids dressed up as Spiderman or Zorro for birthday parties, but I disguised as an already deceased neighbour with a fake ID to open an untraceable mailbox for my secret correspondence and shipments. Other teenage boys read porn magazines to discover what they could do with the body of a female; I read «Men are from Mars» by John Grey to discover how the brain works of the other half of the human species (and I can assure you that the brain is the organ that produces most sexual pleasure: fantasy).
» When I was ten, I wrote a letter to the Prime Minister with a request to accept me as a member of the LSD. Two days later, I got a reply: there were no vacancies, there was no budget, and I would never qualify because I didn't speak seven languages fluently.
» The turndown didn't defeat me, on the contrary: it confirmed there was a chance to get in, and it gave me the information I needed, the plan I could work on. Like everyone else in Luxembourg, I already spoke Letzeburgesch, German, French and Dutch since I was six. It wasn't such a burden to learn three languages more. I decided to learn English right away, started with Russian two years later, and asked for a course in Spanish for my fourteenth birthday. I was also fluent in hand-and-feet language, the international standard language for tourists to get what they want. That made eight.
» The day after my sixteenth birthday, I wrote another letter to the Prime Minister and added copies of it in each of the other six languages. Another Prime Minister, another reply, another turndown, there were no vacancies, there was no budget, but this time he added the remark that I was not qualified because I didn't have a PhD in Economy. I started to study in the evening and at night. Sometimes it was hard, but I always enjoyed doing it because it was my best chance to fulfil my dream.
» Three years later, I wrote another letter in seven languages and added a copy of my PhD to it. Another Prime Minister, another reply, another turndown, there were no vacancies, there was no budget, and this time with the remark that I needed bigger boobs. I thought: «I'm a boy. Why do I need boobs?»
» This time, I did feel depressed. I was still determined to become a spy, but I was not sure if I wanted to get an operation and become a woman, with no guarantee of getting the job. After all the work I did, I thought I deserved a break, but the Prime Minister refused to give me a fair chance. It's not easy looking up when your whole world is black. You have to turn your head until your darkness goes. Life is hard and you can't influence fate. My spy training taught me the most difficult lesson of all: you have to learn to accept it when you lose. You will never win if you don't work for it, but even if you work for it, it won't guarantee your win. The only reward you'll get for working hard is that wonderful feeling of knowing you've done everything you could. I had had a great childhood. It was great fun to learn all those skills. If I'd get the choice, I would do it again, without any doubt. I had done what I could: acquire as many lottery tickets as possible; but even all those lottery tickets were not enough for the jackpot without the right amount of luck.
» I learnt that it's not reaching the destination that defines the fun; it's the trip of going there that we should enjoy. Both you and I did the same amount of work and study to get where we're now. The difference between us is that I enjoyed what I was doing, and you hated it. Nobody forced you to hate what you were doing. You did that to yourself, Rostov. You could also have chosen to like it. It wouldn't make the work less, but it would have made it a whole lot lighter and brighter. Life is short, my friend. You should have more fun. Who cares if it kills you? Everybody dies one day. The trick is to have a good time before that day comes."
Rostov doesn't say anything. The dark lenses in his eyes don't show any emotion. I go on with the story.
"After I left school, I started to work with my parents as a butcher, doing the deliveries and selling meat products on the various street markets everywhere in the country. It was not my dream job, but it was not bad either: I got to know many people and it was nice to spend much time with my parents. They are fantastic people and I enjoyed working with them. However, I couldn't say goodbye to my dream of becoming a spy.
» I was lucky. One day I was alone in the shop. My parents had gone to the annual «Butcher The Bull»-festival in Valencia, to study the latest techniques on killing and slicing. A nervous-looking man came in. He asked: «Do you have twenty sausages for me?»
» I asked: «Do you want pork sausages, beef sausages, chicken sausages, parrot sausages or sausages of goat meat?» We are specialists in making sausages, you know. We sell my mother's secret recipe of blutwurst to high-class restaurants all over Europe.
» He answered: «I don't mind, as long as the taste is very strong, so nobody will notice the flavour of the venom that I put in.»
» Suddenly, all my instincts popped open. Venom? Why would anyone put venom in sausages? He didn't look old enough to be married and have a mother-in-law. He looked too old to hate his mathematics teacher. There was only one other option: he was a spy. He was on a secret mission and had to get rid of a few witnesses.
» I asked him: «Does that venom have a certain taste of its own? If it tastes like peppermint, for instance, it would be best to take the English pork sausages, but when it has a bitter flavour like prussic acid, it would be better to hide it in the Polish Goosebumps sausages.»
» He looked puzzled, took a small bottle out of his pocket, unscrewed the cap, smelled, took a sip, replied: «Bitter. I guess the Polish Goosebumps will be best…», and died in front of my counter. Prussic acid is a strong poison that works in seconds.
» I told you I was lucky: there was nobody in the shop, nobody passed by, not even one pedestrian on the street. Immediately, I dragged the corpse to the room in the back, where my dad kills and cleans all the animals that my mother sells in the front. I checked again if he was dead (he was) and searched his pockets for anything I could use to call his family or his boss or whoever sent him on this mission. All I found was the bottle of venom, a door key, a smartphone and a wallet, with 2.500 euros and a pack of banknotes of other currencies. No passport, no name, no address, not even a small list of things that he needed to buy.
» I checked the smartphone. It was protected by a code. HA! That was no problem for a wannabe spy like me. I tried 0000, the standard password for every phone when it comes out of the factory. It worked. The rest of the day was like Christmas, my birthday and the Champions League Final all in one day. The phone gave access to all the information I needed for taking over the identity of the dead man. That was simple: he was a spy and not even his colleagues at the LSD, the Luxembourg Spy Department, knew what he looked like. I can't tell you what I found in that smartphone because everything was classified and a good spy like me will never tell a secret, but you do understand one thing: I was in.
» First, the dead body had to disappear. I will save you the details. As a spy, you sometimes have to do things one should be ashamed of. A meat grinder wrote the headlines of the story. The next week, we had a spectacular offer of minced meat. To avoid alarming anyone by the noise of the meat grinder crushing the bones, I put on some music, like other people do at funerals or cremations, but a lot louder. «Sympathy for the Devil» by the Rolling Stones seemed most appropriate for the occasion. The song starts with the chorus line… «Pleased to meat you». That was exactly what I did.
» When my parents got home, they were overjoyed to see I had doubled the turnover during their holiday. But first, I had to complete the mission of the sausages with the venom. The phone contained a message with the instructions to inject the venom into the sausages and they had to be delivered that same afternoon at a barbecue party of a certain family with an Italian name who lived in a nearby village. That was all. A piece of cake. Not only did I enter the LSD, I even handled my first mission as requested. I was on my spot here.
» The rest of the week was quiet, both in the shop and on the smartphone, so I got time to study all the secrets of the phone. It looked like a phoney iPhone, but it was a real spiPhone. I found out that the dead guy owned a small flat in Luxembourg city centre. It was obvious I couldn't combine spy missions with working at the shop of my parents, so I made a plan to move out and live in the flat. I had a long and serious conversation with my parents, explaining to them I would be more than happy to take over the family business when they wanted to retire, but first, I wanted to see the world. An international organization just offered me a job as a translator and a financial expert. They knew about my studies of language and economy, and admitted they could never offer me the career that I was capable of. We dropped a few pints of tears on either side of the table and we closed the topic with a few cold beers. The next day, I filled my suitcase with everything I owned (some clothes, a toothbrush and a photo of my parents in front of the store) and took the bus to Luxembourg city.
» The key I found in the pocket of the dead runner belonged to the front door of his flat. Two weeks later, I received a message with the instructions to cut my hair and dye it blonde, make four passport photos and send them to a certain address. One week later, I received a bundle of British pounds and a new passport, with the name of Manuel Ter Stegen, citizen of Gelsenkirchen, Germany, together with a plane ticket to London and a letter, confirming that my employer, Aldiko Trabajo Temporal in Andorra, sent me to a certain restaurant to fulfil a temporary job as a waiter until their regular waiter returned from his sick leave. I thought the life of a spy was a little more exciting than cleaning tables and serving coffee, but perhaps James Bond started that way too."
All the time, Rostov sipped his tea without saying a word, absorbed by my story, fascinated by a real world he never thought it existed and now, suddenly, became part of: "So you… shoot people."
"The primary goal of spy missions is not to shoot people but to gather information. The most valuable information has to do with money. Luxembourg is one of the richest countries in the world, mainly because of the secrets of our banks and the tax-friendly rules we have. That's why a spy of the LSD needs to have a degree in Economy.
» The Americans and the Chinese believe that, to control the world, you need to watch what every individual does. That costs millions of tax money. Luxembourg is a small country. We prefer to spend our taxes on more important matters. We control the money and we do that with a minimum amount of costs and effort. Our whole organization consists of only five people.
» #1 (pronounce: number one) is The Boss. He reports to the Prime Minister and the Duke, he makes the plans, he gives the orders and he gets the reward when everything works out fine.
» #2 is The Nerd. He lives in a secret basement between brand new electronics and stinking old furniture. In the worldwide web of information, he's the spider who pulls the strings. He is the connection between The Boss and the others in the field, the back-up when we need information, and the technician who supplies both our hardware and the apps that run on our spiPhones and networks. Once a year, he gets a medical exam. If he passes, he can do the work one more year. If he fails, he retires to a special secure section of the madhouse and they find another nerd to take his place.
» #3 is The Diplomat. The Boss sends him everywhere to talk with people, to convince people, to inform people, and to ask people questions about other people. He has a platinum frequent flyer card, a platinum credit card, a platinum phone card and a shipload of paper business cards with his name and phone number.
» #4 is The Agent. He's the one who breaks into highly secured buildings to steal highly secret stuff, who sleeps with beautiful women to create a decoy, who kidnaps notorious gangsters and who escapes in helicopters while shooting at everything that moves.
» #5 is The Runner, the Pizza Delivery Boy. He takes care that The Diplomat gets his new fake passport. He makes sure that the loaded gun is at the right place so The Agent can use it to escape. The Runner is invisible, insignificant, easily replaceable and dramatically underpaid.
» I'm The Runner.
» I'm #5.
» We're like five different parts that together form one body. The Boss is the head, the brain of the organization. The Nerd rules the worldwide maze of fibre nerves and wireless bloodlines between the head and the other organs. The Diplomat is the eyes, the ears and the mouth. He convinces people to change their mind with words, while The Agent forms the hands that do what is needed to get what is wanted. And finally, there's The Runner, the legs that move everything from A to B.
» The Boss didn't give me details about this mission. I'm here to support #4, The Agent, and that means that #2, The Nerd, sends messages to my spiPhone with instructions that I have to carry out. Usually, I get a job, like the position of chamberboy in this hotel, which is just an undercover position that helps me to walk around invisible, giving me entrance to every place where information can be found. This morning, I got a message with the instruction to check both your room and suite 2503, so I suspect that The Agent is after the content of your little suitcase too, which made it against orders to help you, but not against the goal of the mission. Don't tell anyone. It might cost us our lives and I might lose my job too."
A ring of the phone ends our little coffee break: Rostov's shoes have arrived at the reception. It's time to go to work.