It's nice to have a good time with a friend, drinking coffee, enjoying yourself, dressing up and telling stories, but we have to find a suitcase, worth 100 million, and the banker who paid for it.
While Rostov puts on his new shoes, I summarise what we know so far: "After everything you've told me, the situation looks quite simple: the number of people involved is limited. First, there is you and me. We don't count. The next one is Mister Nikolai. Then there are the four other guests at the dinner: the Englishman, the Frenchman, Mister Camponelli and Katja. We know that the KGB and the CIA are involved, and finally, there is the M.U.S.S., the Mysterious Unknown Secret Service that placed that other detection bug in the pocket of your shirt. Do I miss anyone? Did you tell anybody else about your trip to Switzerland?"
Rostov thinks for a few seconds and says: "All I did was book a flight to Geneva. I didn't even know that we were going to this hotel. When we left the airport, there was a chauffeur with a sign «Guests of Mr Camponelli» and he brought us here. As Mister Nikolai's secretary, I'm sure there weren't any emails or letters about this meeting. I can only imagine that Mister Nikolai and Mister Camponelli met in person or spoke on the phone to arrange all this."
"That shows the leak: the KGB tapped Mister Nikolai's phone, while the CIA and the MUSS tapped the phone of Mister Camponelli. The KGB knows who they're following. The other two don't. Their tracking devices will do the job. The first question is: why did they bug you?"
"That's easy: I made the reservations and I called the office of Mister Camponelli to inform them about the time of our arrival. I didn't mention any names, just referred to the date and time of the meeting, using the words «we» and «us». Mister Nikolai instructed me to do so."
"And you used your own mobile phone to make the calls, right?"
Rostov nods.
I explain: "If you tap somebody's phone, it's easy to see which numbers called him. With that information, you can track the location of the mobile phone, find out where the owner lives, break into his house and plant a bug which will avoid you losing your target when he separates from his phone or turns it off. The CIA probably has more than one agent in Moscow who can take care of a job like that. The MUSS, however, might not have those resources, so they waited for you at the airport or in the hotel's lobby to bump into you and slip a tracker into your pocket."
"I can't remember anyone bumping into me, but the rest of your theory sounds logical. You said that the bug in my shoe had been there quite some time. I arranged the meeting two weeks ago. Is that «quite some time ago»?"
"I didn't smell the glue they used to put the heel back in its place after placing the bug. Two weeks would probably be enough time for that. Perhaps one week; the Swiss cheese smell of your feet chases everything else away.
» But let's focus on our suspects. Finding Mister Nikolai is important, but we don't have any clue where to start and we've already put two KGB bloodhounds on his trail. For the moment, we don't concentrate on him. The first item on our priority list is to find the suitcase. All three of the involved secret services are interested in the suitcase because of the documents it contains. We know the KGB has neither the suitcase nor Mister Nikolai. If the CIA has both, they would be gone by now. That's something we can find out. The MUSS will be more difficult to find.
» The people who were present at the dinner are probably just interested in the value the suitcase represents. The Frenchman seems okay: you don't sell something to steal it back again. With 100 million in his pocket, he should be satisfied, but some people never have enough; it would be a nice trick to steal the suitcase back and sell it again to another buyer. We won't cross off his name, but he's not the highest priority on our list either.
» We can say the same things about Mister Camponelli: he helped to establish the deal between your boss and the Frenchman, what makes it look like he's free of suspicion, but it's possible that he would like a 100-million profit for himself. The Swiss make a living out of selling secrets, and Mister Camponelli is Swiss.
» The Englishman is the strangest fish in the pond. We have no clue at all why he was there or what his role was in the transaction. That makes him the one that I would like to investigate first.
» All three of them probably know what's in the suitcase. If we find out via them, we might not need the suitcase itself. All three of them have a reason to let Mister Nikolai disappear: the Englishman and Mister Camponelli need him because he has the code to open the strongbox and the Frenchman (perhaps even all three of them) would prefer to get rid of any tricky witnesses. That puts you in mortal danger too…"
Rostov gets nervous: "Mortal danger?"
"Last night, you fell asleep fully dressed. When you woke up, you felt depressed. You had a headache and a sore throat, right? That means that someone drugged you with OC-V 340, a.k.a. Tumble Tornado, a scentless, fast working and highly explosive sleeping gas. Someone knew that you had the suitcase, slipped a tube under your door, filled your room with OC-V 340, and took all the time he needed to open your safe and disappear with the content. The problem is that every other player still thinks that you have the suitcase, or at least that you might have valuable information about it. That is what mortal danger looks like."
I take two capsules from my suitcase and show the letters OC-V 340 on them to Rostov.
Rostov's nerves cross the 220 volts limit: "Mortal danger? Do you mean… they want to kill me?"
I shrug: "You almost committed suicide an hour ago. Other people can't do anything worse to you than what you were doing to yourself. Probably they just want to talk with you, and you'll tell them you know nothing, which makes them think you're hiding something valuable, so they take you to Guantanamo or the dungeons below the Kremlin or to an isolated monastery in Tibet to torture you for three months, but you keep telling them you don't know anything so they go on until you collapse under the pressure, the stress and the pain…"
Rostov has lost his nerves. Pure panic has taken their place: "But… That's terrible. I prefer the suicide."
"If you want to avoid the torture, you need to have an excellent story, or you have to take care they don't find you. Panic is not an option. Fear is a useless emotion here. You have to be a hero. You have to become Jason Bourne. Jason wouldn't panic. He would find a way out. Jason would not let negative emotions take control. He would push the fear away and concentrate on finding a solution. You are in a hopeless situation. For Jason Bourne, hopeless situations are his everyday work. You should act like Jason Bourne. You even say that you look like him."
"I said I look like Matt Damon."
"What's the first lesson Matt Damon took when he wanted to become an actor? BE the character. Don't look like Jason Bourne. BE Jason Bourne. Wake up, Rostov. If you like films so much, try real life for a change. There is no drug that can match the effect of adrenalin, a drug that your body produces itself. Look in the mirror: who will recognise you? BE Mesut Bellarabi. You're a bellboy from Pakistan, who only speaks a few simple words of English with a Hindu accent. You earn 5 Swiss francs an hour with cleaning toilets and pushing buttons in lifts. Your best defence is a stupid grin and the reply «Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir» to everything others say to you. Act!"
"What?"
"Act. Do something. How does Mesut move? Move to the left. Yeah. Now move to the right. Move a kinda slow. Scratch yourself like a monkey. Don't lift your feet. Shuffle. Get into a slide. You're not a banker anymore. You're a humble servant. How low can you go? Yeah, that's it. You act real cool."
A beep indicates that the phone is charged. I check the content and see that all data has been restored. The I-Spy app disconnects automatically when the download or upload is complete. The app even has a setting to uninstall itself after finishing its instructions; that makes it possible to download and install it on any phone in seconds, activate it and leave it alone so it can copy the entire memory to a webspace of your choice. The only way the owner of the phone can find out what his phone has done is to check the data of the amount of traffic to and from the device. Who will do such a thing?
I disconnect the cable and give the phone to Rostov: "You can call me with hashtag 5, followed by the green button and you can text me by sending a message to hashtag 5. Don't use it for anything else. If you call your mother, they can trace the call back to you. Keep the phone on and with you so I can always reach you. Your number is #555, but it only works if I call it from my spiPhone and you should see my #5-ID on the screen when I call you or text you. NEVER answer the phone when another number appears. Is that clear?"
"555. Like in the movies. And you're number 5."
I check my mental list of suspects and put them in order of importance and possibility: "First, we must find the CIA. I want to know who they are and where they are hiding. If they're still in the hotel, that means they don't have the suitcase or they don't have Mister Nikolai. The most logical explanation is that they have neither, which gives us the chance to push them out of sight while we investigate the others. If they've left, we know who's behind all this."
"Find the CIA? They are secret. How do you find secret people?", Rostov asks.
I explain: "You forget the secret ingredient: they are American spies. They are the best of the best of the best. American spies speak 23 languages, know everything about technology, weapons and aeroplanes, and finally: every one of them is gorgeously good looking. Those films with Matt Damon were fiction when they came out, but they became CIA instruction videos for new recruits for the last ten years. We only have to look for the hottest men in the hotel."
"Looking for hot men? Are you gay?"
"Don't be silly, Rostov. You've changed clothes twice since we've met and I sent you to the bathroom to avoid seeing you naked. I have absolutely no interest in hot men, and I have no idea which men are interesting in the eyes of beautiful women. Let's ask the specialists: the ladies at the reception of the hotel. They know every client and they know everything there is to know about hot men. And we should talk with them anyway because they might help us with the names and room numbers of the guests who were present at the dinner last night. On your feet, Rostov. We have spy-work to do: we have to impress some pretty ladies."
* * *
Pretty ladies prefer to work as receptionists, especially in places like the five-star Prestigio International Hotel. I've seen them before and know their names: Naomi, Claudia and Sabina.
When we enter the lobby, Naomi has left, probably for a coffee break, and the two other women are busy, helping clients to check out. We wait at a distance and admire the view.
Claudia is a stunning, eye-blinding blond beauty. She is that typical girl who at Kindergarten already knows she wants to become an actress, when she's 16 she gets bored with winning all those Oscars and starts singing, but when she's been number one in the hot 100 for so long, a career in modelling seems a better choice, until she finds out that walking that catwalk is soooo muuuuch haaaard woooork that it's time to switch to stewardess until, after visiting every country in the world at least three times, she finally finds out that what she really wants is working at the reception of a famous hotel, meeting interesting people every day. It's clear that Claudia is nothing special. Every classroom and every neighbourhood have at least two girls like Claudia.
Sabina is different. Her short carrot hair revels up and down like rabbits in a box. Her eyes, emerald green and shining like a Jaguar E-Type, avoid that you notice her chin is too big and her nose is too small. She has steel nerves, whose rusted ends are visible like little brown spots all over her face. I wonder if she has those spots on the rest of her body too… Sexy… But all that turns insignificant when her biggest weapon of charm appears: her smile. It's her smile that gave her the job, her smile that gives every client the certainty that she considers everything they say as highly important, that she will take care of the best service ever. Her smile guarantees you'll come back. It's her smile that makes her extraordinary.
When the coast is clear, we move near, without fear. Claudia suddenly has something very important to do: her nail urgently needs attention. Sabina is more helpful: "Hello Julian. Was the guest on your floor happy with his new shoes? Did they fit?"
"Perfectly. He hasn't stopped walking since. I hope you can help us with something else too. My friend Mesut here found a precious silver cufflink when he cleaned dining room C. We hope someone can tell us which guests had dinner there last night."
Sabina does some typing and mousing on her computer and writes names and numbers down on a notepad while she tells us: "Dining room C? Last Night? That was the dinner organized by Mister Camponelli. He doesn't have a room here, but I've written down the direct phone number of his office at the bank where he works. The other guests were Mister Nikolai (suite 2503), Mister Parker (suite 2409) and Mister Lafitte, who has the Royal Suite, 2802. Do you want me to call them and ask if they've lost a cufflink?"
She hands me the note. I say: "Thank you so much for the information. No, please, don't call them. Mesut hopes for a tip when he returns with the precious little bagatelle in person. I hope you can help me with something else too. Who is the most handsome male guest in the hotel?"
Suddenly Claudia is interested too: "The most handsome male guest? That would be Mister Black, room 1901."
Sabina doesn't agree: "I would say, Mister White, room 1902."
"Once you've had black, you never go back.", Claudia replies while she looks mysteriously at Sabina.
"Mister Black and Mister White. That sounds American.", I say, to keep the conversation going.
"American with a whole lot of soul from Harlem, New York. At least, that's what Mister White told me with a Texan accent when they checked in yesterday."
"And how do I recognise Mister White and Mister Black?", I ask.
Sabina says: "That's easy. Mister White is black and Mister Black is…"
"White?"
Claudia sighs: "No. He's more like Colombian coffee with cream, a strong man with broad shoulders and long black hair with a dark blue shine. His mysterious eyes look at you like he knows about all the evil that you've done. He doesn't say much. I guess he's the silent type, but his eyes spot everything."
"Yes, you can say that. His eyes dropped in my decolletage and he just kept spotting.", Sabina says.
Claudia adds: "That silence is his most sexy part. It gives him an air of… wisdom… ancient magic… something almost… supernatural… Do you think he might be a werewolf, Sabina?"
I turn to Rostov and whisper: "My guess would be that Mister Black is Native American, probably Apache, the best trackers in the world. I can see why the CIA wants him on their payroll."
I break the chitchat up from the two women about werewolves and ask: "And Mister White, how do I recognise him?"
Sabina says: "He's black: not mocha or oak or ebony, but really black."
Claudia objects: "You can't say that: «He's black». That's racism. You should say that he's an Afro-American."
Sabina defends herself: "Is it racism to refer to the colour of someone's skin? Do you feel offended when I refer to you as being white? It's racism when you assume that people with the same physical characteristics all have the same presumed flaw in their character or behaviour. It's racism to say «all whites are selfish» because somewhere in this world there must be one white person who's not. As long as I don't make a wrong conclusion based on the colour of someone's skin, I can freely use the word «black»… or «white» or «yellow» or «blue» if that's the case."
"But the government says…"
"If the government wants us to use language that is not discriminating, they should give us the tools, the words, to do it with."
Now Claudia is confused by Sabina's defence against her unfair attack: "What do you mean?"
"In English, I would say «the butcher and his work», but if that butcher would be female, it would be correct to say «the butcher and her work», right?"
"Yes."
"Using the word «his» is racism, sexism in this case. It indicates that I think a butcher can only be a man, and 'someone' concluded that therefore women might feel inferior. The only thing I do is use the words that are available. I use «his» because the majority of the butchers are male. In Spanish, I would say «el carnicero y su trabajo», but when I talk about a female butcher, I would say «la carnicera y su trabajo». As you see, in Spanish, the word «butcher» changes when we talk about women, but they have one word, «su», that indicates both «his» and «her» at the same time. In Spanish, it is not considered machismo to use the male version when you want to use the 'mixed' term because they don't have separate words for the mixed terms. My point is: if the language-dictators want to judge us for using sexist or racist language, they should start looking at themselves and come up with the correct words we can use. If they don't do that, I stick to the words that are available."
"You are crazy, Sabina."
"No, I'm not. Why would I say «the butcher and his-or-her work»? I consider «his-or-her» sexist too: why should «he» go first? Why not «her-or-his»? We say «Ladies and Gentlemen» and not «Gentlemen and Ladies», don't we? So the only correct solution to this problem is to invent a new word, «hor», a contraction of his-or-her, so we can say «the butcher and hor work» without being racist or sexist. That would cost nothing. And when we refer to someone in general, we don't say «he-or-she» but we just use the word «she», which includes «he» as well, literally. It would be a respectful gesture to all the women who had been second-class citizens so many ages, and it would solve the discussion about sexism."
Both Rostov and I nod and smile our agreed admiration for such an unexpected sharp opinion. Sabina is unstoppable now. She's really fond of Mister White and his black skin, determined to defend him with her life against any form of racism: "This world is not looking for solutions. This world is only looking for other people to blame, even when they don't have bad intentions. When I say that Mister White is black, I just refer to the colour of his skin. If I would refer to him as Afro-American, I would refer to his African roots and his black race. If he was from a South African white origin or a Northern African Arab origin, or if Mister White would be from Kenya, I would never refer to him as Afro-American. So when I would say that he's Afro-American, I would refer to the fact that his ancestors were enslaved by white European-rooted American people who needed cheap labour in the New World because that's what Afro-Americans have in common and other black or American people don't. Do we use the word European Americans for white people? No. Because that would refer to those white European Americans, who considered all other races as inferior, as illegal aliens and immigrants, although those European Americans once were immigrants themselves, in the times when they stole an entire continent and murdered all the Native Americans who lived there until the white man came. And now those white criminals oblige me to refer to black people as Afro-Americans? I refuse that. That's racism. So I limit myself to visual differences between Mister White and others, this black skin for instance, that makes it possible to recognise him among others with a mocha skin or a sunburnt skin or purple hair or a red nose or golden glasses or a white wig."
Claudia surrenders. She doesn't want to think about it anymore. Ignorance is always an effective retreat from a lost battle: "You have a strange way of thinking, Sabina."
"It's called «independent thinking». It involves using your brain instead of imitating others like a monkey. You should try it. It's fun. It gives you a very positive way of looking at the world, for instance."
Sabina celebrates her little victory with a special version of her special smile, creating cute craters on her cheeks and sending me a wink as a sign of mutual understanding. Apparently, my body language confirms that I enjoy how she solves the misunderstanding for once and for all. I decide to add some spoken language as well, for the ones who are in doubt: "I not only agree with you, Sabina, I also will adopt your idea in my speech from now on. So if anyone doesn't understand what I say, I'll advise hor she should form hor opinion on the fact that a language is a democratic tool of communication, and that I'm one of those educated, tolerant people who support any idea that helps to see others as equals."
"Unless you talk Spanish.", snares Claudia.
My smile, full of tolerance and education, gives the answer: "In Spanish, I will use from now on the just invented 'neutral' form by using an «e» instead of the masculine «o» or the feminine «a». «Niños y niñas» becomes «niñes» and, for compensation of historic custom, the gender of every neutral form will be feminine: «las niñes». Only grammar-Nazis will complain, but they'll have to learn and understand that old-fashion Nazi-ideas no longer fit in our modern, tolerant society. If we want the world to become a better place, we'll have to start with doing things differently."
Claudia hides her defeat by simulating an urgent task that needs her immediate attention, which is the good example we should follow too. We're not getting paid for solving linguistic issues and start revolutions for mutual respect; we earn our money by cleaning toilets and helping guests.
I'm happy with the outcome of our little investigation: we've found the CIA, we know their names and room numbers, and we know they're still in the hotel, which indicates they still haven't found what they came for. All that's left to do right now is to find some nice entertainment for Roy Black and Barry White, so they will be out of our way for the rest of the day.
I give my best smile to Sabina: "Someone gave me an important message for Mister White. If there is a computer that I can use for one minute, I can print it out, put it in a closed envelope and leave it in his message boxes behind you."
Sabina responds the smile, way better than mine: "If it's only one minute, you can use mine. I just checked: Mister White is having breakfast with Mister Black in room 1901. I'll phone him and make sure he'll get the message right away."
"That's very kind of you. Please, don't mention that I gave you the message. The guest who asked me wants to be… anonymous, mysterious, well, you know how married women can arrange their affairs. Oops… Perhaps I've already said too much."
I like to say funny things to Sabina, especially when she pays back my effort with that smile. It makes me… aware that I have a soft spot somewhere. As a professional spy, I should not have weak spots of any kind. I have to put it aside; I have to act and don't allow anything to influence my work. Behind the screen, I open the word processor and type a short message: «I have the information you're looking for, but I'm being followed so we can't meet here. Go to the terrain of the Geneva Festival, buy day tickets for the roller coaster and stay in it until I slip in behind you. Mr N.»
I print the message on paper with the letterhead of the hotel and put it in an envelope, saying a «thank you» to the management of the hotel who ordered that all room personnel should wear white gloves during work, making it impossible to leave prints or DNA on the paper. Finally, I empty the computer file and close the program.
I give the closed envelope to Sabina and mutter: "Thanks. I owe you one."
"No need for that. We're here to help. I'm sure our clients will be happy when they read the message.", Sabina says. She reaches for the phone to call room 1901; time for Rostov and me to leave. We walk to the broom closet and return to the lobby with some mops and buckets, the perfect disguise to hide in the landscape and see the faces of our CIA colleagues. They appear shortly after our return, read the message, and leave the hotel by the front door. My spiPhone in my breast pocket makes several high-quality photos of them for our LSD family album, just like it did with the two KGB agents.
Rostov gives me a puzzled look, so I explain: "They're on their way to the roller-coaster park and they will stay there for a while. As Americans, they are trained to follow orders and not to think for themselves."
"Will that work?"
"I don't know, but it will keep them busy, so we have our hands free to find Mister Nikolai and the suitcase."
"Where do we start?"
"We? You go back to my room and you stay there. You don't touch ANYTHING, you hear? I'll find Mister Parker."