Tanned Mister Paul Breitner disappears forever behind a hot steam towel. A dark tailored business suit, white silk shirt and expensive black Italian shoes, a blond wig with grey accents, a handful of artificial wrinkles and a set of silicon jaw enhancers give birth to Mister Bernard Dietz, a 60-year-old white banker from Cape Town.
Mesut can keep his grey hotel trousers but has to change the jacket of his uniform (with the name of the hotel printed on it) for the elegant grey jacket that Mister Breitner used fifteen minutes ago.
Before we go, we have one loose end to tie up. We go up to suite 2503; I grab the phone and dial 1311.
Sergey answers: "Da."
I don't tell him my name either: "Did you make any progress? Did you find Mister Nikolai?"
"We have had a little backfire. Someone fired our mini-submarine, suicide with a shot in the back. We suspect the CIA."
"We pushed the CIA out of the way, earlier today, but I say: you only used that submarine to spy on topless bikini babes on the terrace of the hotel. There's no backfire."
"The bikini babes might lead us to Mister Nikolai. There was a beautiful woman involved. We just follow your lead."
"I call to warn you: the CIA didn't bomb your submarine. There is a third party involved, probably from the Far East. You watch your back."
Sergey waits a few seconds and then says: "Thanks. I will." Then he hangs up and we're ready to go.
We leave the hotel, heading towards the town centre, the place where all the shops are and also the location of the First Swiss International, the bank where Mister Camponelli works.
"How much money do you have, Rostov?"
"I told you: 50 rubles and a fistful of dollars, in my wallet in my room."
"I mean «in total»: savings on your bank account, investments in stocks and stock options, pension plans, golden teeth, upcoming heritages of old relatives with incurable diseases, that sort of money."
"Why?"
"Because everything costs money. If we want you to disappear, you have to pay for transport, food, lodging… If we want to investigate the guests of last night's dinner, we'll have to pay for the costs of the operation. I have some cash, two thousand Swiss francs and around five thousand euros, but I want to be sure you can pay me back later."
"Pay you back? I don't have savings… I don't have money in my bank account, and my credit card reached its limit too. But if you can arrange I'll keep my job, I can pay you back from my future salary.", Rostov explains.
Now it's my turn to look surprised: "No money on your account? You're a banker. How much do you earn? 100.000 US dollars per year?"
"US$ 150.000. I'm a banker. We get bonuses…", Rostov smiles.
"You earn US$ 150.000 per year and you don't have any savings? I don't understand. What you do with all that money."
"What do people use money for? To pay bills. I rent a flat in the centre of Moscow, I have to eat, buy clothes, pay for the phone and the electricity and taxes, and, of course, there is the car. Have you seen «The World Is Not Enough» in which James Bond drives that silver BMW Z8 with remote control? I have that car, the original car that was used in the movie. Well, it's one of the 14 original cars that they used, but…"
"Is that the car that, at the end of the scene, was cut in two by a huge tree saw that hung under a helicopter? Nice car…"
"Yes, that's the one. It had a little damage, as you saw in the movie, so I could buy it with a fair 15% discount, but it costs a lot to have a car like that, and it cost an awful lot to fix the damage. It's the original James Bond car, so you understand I don't use it for shopping or holidays; I have a Lada for that. Two cars cost twice as much, as you can imagine."
"So you spend fortunes on a car you don't even use? Why do you have it?"
"To impress people, of course. Everybody admires me for having the original James Bond BMW Z8. The world is not enough, but the car is more than enough to impress the world. When I invite people I don't know, I always take them to the garage where I park the car, so they can see it. It makes me feel good."
"So you earn US$150.000 per year but you don't have any savings because you've spent it all to impress people you hardly know, so they can admire you because you spent all your money on things you don't even use? Are you sick or are you crazy? Do I look impressed? Should I admire you for being broke?"
"You're different. You're my friend. You help me…"
"Oh, now I understand what you mean with «friends»: a friend is someone who gets you out of trouble, while you don't do anything to help your friend. A friend is there to lend you money because you've spent everything to impress people you don't know. You want a friend to care about you, while you only feel good if you can make other people jealous. Do you want to know how those other people think about you? They don't care about you at all. They only hang out with you because they're interested in the money you spend to impress people you don't know. They want you to pay for their dinners and drinks and nights out of town, and when you stop inviting, they start looking for better friends. They loan money from you and when you ask them to pay it back, they disappear forever. Is that what you expect from your friend? In that case, I prefer not to be your friend anymore. Call all those people you've impressed and ask them for help."
Rostov is good in his role as a modest servant; he walks half a step behind me, head bend, body in humble penitence: "I'm sorry… You're right."
"And I'm not only talking about friendship; I'm talking about money too. What kind of banker are you if you can't even handle your own money? I've studied Economy, but the most important lesson about money I got from my parents: money is the best insurance against every problem. Hungry? Sick? Lonely? Bored? Your car doesn't start or your roof leaks? With money, you can buy any solution. Money in the bank is your best insurance against everything. Every penny you spend makes you more dependent on others. Every penny you save gives you more freedom and security. The LSD pays me 2.500 euros per month plus a thirteenth salary in May for my holiday. I earn 32.500 euros per year and I save 50.000 euros per year."
Rostov is not sure if he will laugh at my joke or take me seriously: "You save more than you earn? That's not possible."
"If you grow up as a child of hard-working parents, you are aware of the value of money; you learn how easy it is to spend it and how much it takes to earn it. You save money not by earning more but by spending less.
» I get my salary from the LSD, but my undercover mission here is a real job too, a temporary contract with Aldiko Trabajo Temporal, a real company, based in Andorra. The money I earn as a chamberboy goes to my savings account. The trick is in living a high-quality life and not spending a nickel unnecessarily. I live here for free, eat in the hotel for free and when I'm bored in the evening, I ask for an extra shift as a bartender, so I make more money and receive tips too. I don't have a car because I don't need one. The LSD pays me back all the costs I make on the job. The flat I live in belonged to that poor chap who had the job before me, and it doesn't have any mortgage. I live there for free. I spend as little as possible so I can save as much as I can.
» It's nice to live like a king, but you have to think about your future too. Keeping your job depends on the mood of your boss (who pays your salary) or the owners of the company, the shareholders. They are not interested in you at all; they are only interested in making more money for themselves. If the company finds somebody to do your job cheaper, they'll prefer the profit and you're on the street, losing everything that depends on your salary: you'll lose your flat, your car, your clothes, your social life, your security and your dignity.
» When I lose my job, I'll have everything prepared to start an even more fascinating life. I'm aware I won't be a spy forever. One day, I'll need money to buy myself a nice house in the country, to live there without rent or debts. All I'll need is a part-time job to earn a few euros for food, electricity and recreation. Do you know how much freedom I have, thanks to that? No doubts and no obligations mean a lot of freedom; it gives me a lot of options that others don't have.
» Do I want to see Africa? I call Médecins Sans Frontières and volunteer as a medical assistant: food and lodging will be taken care of and I don't need more. Do I like to travel through Asia or the Pacific? For a small salary, I can find work on every cruise ship or in every travel agency as a guide. I speak seven languages fluently. I can do whatever I want for the rest of my life. Even when I find a girl and want to have a family, I have a financial base that will give me a lot of options and hardly any obligations. Money is freedom, Rostov. Spent money has no value. Debts and obligations are the chains on the neck of every economic prisoner.
» You earn five times as much as I do, but when you're in trouble, you'll need me to finance the solution, thanks to your irresponsible behaviour and my common sense. You should not only think about that, Rostov, but you should also behave like that, and teach your clients financial responsibility too. That's why people have a banker: to advise them what's best to do with their money."
"My boss wouldn't allow me. It would not be good for his business.", Rostov answers: "Keeping the clients dumb and sucking the money out of their pockets is so much better. If you don't want to do that, you shouldn't become a banker. That's what Mister Nikolai always says."
"I'm sure Mister Nikolai is a great example for you. Follow his advice and you'll end up like him: kidnapped and probably dead. That clears the way for you to become the next President of the First Bank of Moscow, doesn't it?"
"No. Not really."
"Happy endings only happen in films, Rostov. In real life, everybody gets the results of hor own actions and decisions. Mister Nikolai tells you what to do, so Mister Nikolai can stay where he is. You should never trust a banker; you should trust me. I'm your friend. I'll prove it to you in the office of Mister Camponelli, who's a banker too. But first, we enter this shop here. We'll need to buy 100 million and this is where they sell it. As you can see, it's a Swiss speciality."
Switzerland is famous for lots of things: cuckoo clocks and watches, secret bank accounts, cheese that smells like my grandmother's underwear in autumn… but their most popular article is what we'll need now.
I make a quick calculation. One kilo of gold is about 40.000 Swiss francs. 100 million Swiss francs would require 2.500 kilos of gold. One South African golden Krugerrand weighs one ounce. That is… 28 1/3 grams. 2.500 kilos of gold is… almost 90.000 coins. That's an awful lot. We can't put that in the back of a taxi.
* * *
The taxi stops in front of the entrance of the First Swiss International. I pay the driver and ask him if he can wait for five to ten minutes until we return. After my instructions, Rostov (now: Steven) gets the trolley out of the back of the taxi and loads the 25 bags on it. With my spare mobile phone, I call the private number of the office of Mister Camponelli that Sabina gave me.
"Hello, Mister Camponelli. It's Bernard Dietz, from South Africa. I'm a little early for our meeting but I hope you won't let me wait here on the street with all my… merchandise… that I havva for you. Havva you prepared the vault?"
Mister Camponelli doesn't know what to say: "Mister Dietz, you say? And we have an appointment? Do you have one moment, Sir, so I can check with my secretary?"
(… one moment … two moments … three moments … four mom—) "Thank you for waiting, Sir. I guess there has been a misunderstanding. I have no meeting planned and there is no Mister Dietz in our files. We—"
I interrupt Mister Camponelli: "The question, the 100-million-dollar question, is: how long do you wanna me to wait in front of the door of your office, Mister Camponelli? I was told the Swiss was famous for their hospitality. Tell me that you understand…"
"I'm on my way, Mister Dietz."
The 100-million-dollar question did the trick. Rostov just made it clear to me: bankers are never impressed by personal values or good manners. All they care about is money.
One moment… two moments… three and a half moments later, a man in a dark blue suit opens the door of the bank and invites me to come in: "Good morning, Mister Dietz. My name is Gregor. Mister Camponelli is on his way."
"One second. I have to watch Steven here while he unloads the bags. Come on, Steven. The gentleman is waiting. Hurry up. We don't have all day."
Steven (formerly known as Rostov) bows, smiles and answers: "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
Another man comes out of the front door, dressed to kill in an expensive suit, armed to the teeth with a broad smile, pointing his arm right at me, to hit me with his most deadly weapon: his handshake of fake friendship and tricky trust. This must be Mister Camponelli.
"Mister Dietz. Welcome to Geneva. Shall we go inside?"
I respond to his hostile charm offensive according to rules of engagement that big empires always follow: we shake hands and, while I put my left hand on his shoulder, I return him my own smile and answer: "Mister Camponelli. I'm happy with meeting you. I wanna be your man. First, I have to watch Steven while he unloads the merchandise. We could only take 10% at a time. The taxi doesn't take more than 250 kilos in his back side. Show Mister Camponelli the merchandise, Steven."
This is how coloured company CEO cocks behave when they first meet: they show each other which tricks they've taught their dogs. Gregor has learnt to bark «welcome» to the visitor, but Steven has learnt to behave like an enslaved chain-dog. He bows to Mister Camponelli, says: "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.", opens the bag he has in his hands and shows Mister Camponelli what's inside: 400 golden Krugerrands. Ten kilos of gold with a total value of 400.000 Swiss francs. And we have 25 bags here. And that's only 10%. I see the calculations in Mister Camponelli's eyes, which move like the wheels of a slot machine.
I cut the show-off with a gesture: "That's enough, Steven. Get on with the work. We don't havva all day.", and, with a slightly lower voice, I tell Mister Camponelli in confidence: "He's a good chap, Steven, but of course he's stupid. Stupid people make the best employees, right? He doesn't even know which country he is in now."
In my normal voice volume, I ask Steven: "Steven, do you know which country you are in now? Tell me that you understand…"
Steven makes a bow and answers: "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.", and puts the last sack with coins on the little trolley. While Mister Camponelli and I go inside, I glance behind me now and then, to see if Steven is still following with the trolley.
"I don't understand why you didn't havva my appointment. I will call my maid Winnie, I mean, my secretary… Hello? Winnie? Check the meeting I havva today… What's the name of the man you spoke to? … I see. Listen, Winnie. I told you to contact Mister Camponelli. CAM. PO. NEL. LI. I know that's a long name and I know it's hard for you, but if you write it down as Campanolli and you call Mister Campanolli… I really think you no longer work for me. Tell me that you understand… Yes, that's right. You're fired. Havva a nice day, Winnie."
I put the phone back in my pocket and smile at Mister Camponelli: "As I said: stupid people make the best employees, but they should not make me angry. You havva the safe ready?"
Mister Camponelli wonders: "Do you need a safe to store those sacks with gold?"
I correct my mistake: "Ah, of course. If you didn't get my message from Winnie, you cannot know. I don't trust the electronics or the paper money. The paper money havva no value: they print it double and each paper is worth half. They print it four times and each paper is worth a quarter. And the electronics is even worse: you can't see it, you can't hear it, you can't touch it and when you turn around, it's gone. So I come with the gold coins. I wanna be your man. 100 million, said our informants. So I havva to drive ten times because the taxi can only havva 250 kilos in his back side."
Mister Camponelli is a quick learner: "And you want to put your gold in one of our safes in the vault."
"That's what you do, right? Secrets in the safe. But make it a big one because we havva nine more to go. Come on, Steven. We don't havva all day."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
Mister Camponelli makes a gesture to an armed guard to follow us, leads us down the stairs (with a ramp for wheelchairs and trolleys with 10 million of gold) to a basement where the guard takes care that the huge steel door doesn't go anywhere.
Mister Camponelli goes ahead to the wall in the back, turns both keys that stick out of one of the doors and opens the safe. It's big enough to hide two adults.
"Put the bags inside, Steven. The guard watches you, so go on working when we're outside. When you finish, you close the door, turn the key and come back to me. Tell me that you understand…"
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
Gently, I push Mister Camponelli to the entrance and walk until halfway to the stairs where nobody can see or hear us: "I wanna be your man, Mister Camponelli. You sell me the Swiss suitcase. I bring you the money in gold. 100 millions, my informers said. I paid them good for the information, so it's valuable information."
"The suitcase? How do you know?"
"My men said Mister Parker. He said you take care. The Frenchman he sold the suitcase to the Russian. You stole it back from the Russian and made him… he will not tell nobody. So now you can sell it to me. I wanna be your man."
"But… Mister Dietz… I don't have the suitcase. The Frenchman sold it to the Russian yesterday and I haven't seen either since."
I do the confident-old-friends-whisper again: "I know. My men told me. You can trust me. I will not tell anyone. I wanna the suitcase. My bank, South African National, wanna the suitcase. We pay cash, in gold. Nobody will know. You givva me the suitcase and the code, I givva you the key to the vault and nobody will know… My men told me you havva the suitcase. They work for Secret Service who pays badly. I pay them good so they givva good information to me. I pay in gold. Everybody loves gold."
Mister Camponelli loves gold too: "You can buy the suitcase from the Russian or, if you want, I will find the Russian and 'convince' him to sell the suitcase to you. You can pay me the usual fee, one million after the transaction, but… I don't have the suitcase, Mister Dietz."
I fake a surprise: "You say my men are liars? You wanna me to take out the gold and go again?"
"No, no, of course not. You can keep the gold here and I will do anything so you can be the next in line for the suitcase, but you have to understand that these things take time and we made a deal with the Russian first so he should have the chance to earn back his investment of 100 million. That's how it works. We're all honest businessmen, Mister Dietz. We keep our promises to each other. So you put your gold in our safe and we'll see what we can do. I'll contact the Russian personally this afternoon and…"
"The Russian havva disappeared. My men told me. You did that."
Either Mister Camponelli is an Oscar-winning actor or his surprise is real: "Disappeared? But… that's impossible. I spoke to him last night. What happened to the suitcase?"
"You tell me, Mister Camponelli. I'm the one who's gonna pay for it. Can I trust you? Or can I trust the people I paid? Do you havva secrets, Mister Camponelli? Secrets are like banknotes. If you print twice the amount of banknotes, each piece will lose half of its value. If you share a 100-million secret with somebody else, it will lose half of his value too. Is that how you work, Mister Camponelli? Selling secrets and stealing them back so they keep their value?"
At that moment, Steven comes out of the vault and hands me the key: "Here you are, Sir. Thank you, Sir. We can go now, Sir."
"Just a minute, Steven. Mister Camponelli and I were drawing a conclusion. What will it be, Mister Camponelli? My trust is in your safe. Where is your trust? Can we trust each other?"
Mister Camponelli is insulted: "If one banker can't trust another banker, who can you trust? This is Switzerland, Mister Dietz. This is a civilised country. We don't rob and steal here. We have laws, laws that make it much easier for us to take what we want. When we take too much, the government shouts the magic word «crisis!» and raises the taxes to give us back all the money we lost. Banks have power here. Power never steals. Power does what it wants and calls it «the law». That's our secret, Mister Dietz. That's how it works here in the first world. My people have told me other stories, about how businessmen in your country do their business. You treat all the people of colour as if they are stupid. Apartheid. Slavery."
"We don't do apartheid anymore. Those slaves were too expensive. They cost us food and housing and guards and they never worked much. Now we havva employees: we let them work harder than ever or we fire them, and we pay them so little money that they need two jobs to pay for the costs of living; we own the houses and the mortgages, so they bring their money back to us as fast as they can. That's how we make a good profit. Stupid employees work better than slavery. Do you wanna know how we gotta the 100 million? We sold air and sunlight to the poor. That's good business."
Right on time, I changed the topic and the tone of the conversation. Mister Camponelli's anger transforms into interest and even develops a flavour of admiration: "Sunlight? Air?"
"First, we make the whole country depend on electricity. They livva happily without it, so we givva them TV with free football matches, then we givva the advertisement, and now they're all convinced they can not be happy anymore if they cannot brush their teeth with an electrical device. Then we make the windmill parks and the fields full of sun collectors. Now we produce the electricity for almost nothing and we sell it against everyday-rising prices to the addicted consumers. We share the 50/50 with the government, of course, because if they do not getta their share in taxes, we can never make deals. Can you imagine the financial disaster when every citizen gonna invest a little in their own future and putta sun collectors on their roof? They recoup the money in five years and havva free electricity for the rest of their lives. The trick is to keep the people stupid, so we give them free TV and make one year in university cost three years of salary. You see, Mister Camponelli: in South Africa, we're honest and civilised businessmen too.
» So, tell me: what am I gonna do with my gold if you do not have what I wanna buy? You can't even keep a secret. Should I store my coins at some other, safer, place?"
"I can assure you that this bank is the safest place in the whole of Geneva, probably the safest place in the whole of Switzerland, and therefore the safest place on earth. If you like, I can show you some of the security measures we've taken to avoid burglary, hostage, armed assault and even terrorist attacks."
The safest place on earth is suddenly filled with the sound of running feet, shouting of orders, clicking of pistols and the entrance of forty to fifty men in black Kevlar with black helmets and black gas masks and black shotguns, with poor Steven on the barrel-point of their interest.
"Don't move! Everybody on the ground! NOW!"
Steven is already imitating a tiger-skin carpet. Mister Camponelli is also doing a close investigation of the quality of the marble floor tiles. I'm not even thinking of following their example. I'm a businessman. I'm from South Africa. I don't bow to any black man. I have money. I have power. I don't follow orders. I give them.
"I'm sure there is a misunderstanding here. I did no harm to anybody and I'm certainly not gonna lie on any floor. Perhaps someone can explain to me this cheap entertainment?"
One black man steps forward and, without losing poor Steven out of his sight, he answers my question: "There has been a robbery, Sir. This suspect, probably Muslim and almost certainly a notorious and dangerous terrorist, has killed an armed guard in the vault and has stolen an object of great value. He's lucky that the government has not yet passed the new laws on terrorists, laws that allow us to shoot first and ask questions later, so we'll be forced to arrest him and give him a fair trial instead."
I throw a surprised look at my humble servant: "Steven? Did you steal something that does not belong to you? Did you kill an armed guard?"
The killed armed guard turned into a zombie too because I see him leave the vault and climb the stairs, dizzy, touching his headache and his sore throat. Steven explains what happened: "I'm sorry, Sir. You have so much and I have nothing. I took one to play with…"
He puts his hand in the pocket of his jacket, takes one of the golden Krugerrands out, and gives it to me. I look at it, put it in my pocket and talk to him in a severe tone: "You really are stupid, Steven. This is a bank. These people watch you on TVs all the time. They see what you do. So what did you do to that poor guard? Did you eat that filthy rotti again yesterday? You know you should not eat it. You produce gases that smell awful for civilised people like me and Mister Camponelli and that poor guard. You stunk so much that the poor man became unconscious. You're lucky that I need you for the rest of the work, or else I would fire you. Now you say sorry to that poor man and you behave. No more farting. Tell me that you understand…"
Steven is a good and humble servant. He lowers his shoulders, bends his head, mutters: "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." to me and makes excuses to the guard: "I'm sorry for the stink. I learnt that from my old farter, I mean, my old father."
Mister Camponelli gets up from the floor, brushes the dust from his expensive suit and shows his authority as head of the organization that pays the costs of all this muscle power: "That will be all, gentlemen. Thank you for the quick action. We all feel safe, thanks to your alertness. Apparently, it's just a little misunderstanding. We appreciate your service and we hope to see you back soon at the next terrorist attack."
The chief of the guards is still a little insecure, almost disappointed that he can't show the world what a few bullets can do to make the safest place on earth even safer, but a small nod of Mister Camponelli makes him realise the party is over and it's time for lunch.
"It's time for lunch, Mister Dietz. Can I invite you?", Mister Camponelli says.
"That would be very nice, but I'm afraid we havva tight schedule today. We gonna get the rest of our merchandise from the airport vault to your safe before the day is over. Steven and I, we snack in the back. Of the cab. If you don't mind, we'll go on with minding our business."
"Of course, I don't mind. I'll make sure that Gregor will be available the rest of the afternoon to assist you."
We shake hands and say goodbye like old friends who share 100 million good memories. I push Rostov and the trolley forward to the waiting taxi, we get in and drive off.
In the taxi, we don't say a word: I'm in the back seat and Rostov's in the front; I don't want to say anything that the taxi driver might hear. It's clear that we can cross off Mister Camponelli as a suspect so I'm already busy sending a request to The Nerd for a social report about Mister Antoine Lafitte, from Paris, CEO of the Premiér Banque de París, info that I got from Sabina's computer at the reception in that one minute I used it for the message to our friends from the CIA.
The social report starts with a nice photo of Monsieur Lafitte. It shows a smiling, handsome, successful man in his early sixties with the looks of a smiling, handsome, successful man in his late forties. The report also contains some info about his family, about his wife Nicole, 43 years old, and his two daughters, Chloe and Nina. Rostov said something about a girl named Katja, who was hanging on the arm of Monsieur Lafitte. The rest of the trip I use for some really good thinking.
Three blocks from the hotel, we get out of the taxi. We walk the rest, not leaving much information about our whereabouts for anyone who might be interested.
"Why did you take that coin, Rostov? And how did you take out that armed guard?"
Rostov doesn't say anything.
"Listen, Rostov. I promised to be your friend. I promised to help you, but what do you do? You're not helping me at all. I try to stay undercover, but you make us the headlines of the nine o'clock news. We're supposed to be a team. If this is «Star Wars», I'm Captain Han Solo and you're Chewbacca. If this would be «The Good, The Bad and The Ugly», I would be Blondie and you would be Tuco. We're supposed to help each other and find the bad guys. What were you thinking?"
"I'm sorry, Lux. You bought 70 kilos of chocolate coins, Swiss milk chocolate, the most famous speciality of Switzerland, the best chocolate ever, and you let me put it all in a vault without even letting me taste one. I thought… I found a capsule of that sleeping gas, OC-V, in the pocket of your jacket, and it fell on the floor when I was putting the last sacks in the vault, so I held my breath, took one innocent chocolate coin out of a bag, closed the safe and left the vault. I thought nobody would find out… Jason Bourne would have gotten away with it…"
I put my hand in the pocket of my jacket, take it out and open it before Rostov's eyes. There are fifteen golden Krugerrands on it: "Did you really think I would give 70 kilos of the finest Swiss milk chocolate to someone who's only interested in my money without saving something for my friend? But one thing: these are to share. I like Swiss chocolate too."
Compared to Rostov's stupid grin, Chewbacca looks handsome. He takes one of the coins, gets it out of its golden wrapping and puts the chocolate coin in his mouth, happy as a child: "You're a real friend, Lux. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
"Tell me, Rostov: Were you born this stupid or did you study for it?"
Rostov stops me with his hand on my arm: "Don't stop. Keep walking. Act normal. Do you see that man over there? Short black hair, dark blue jacket, light blue shirt, grey trousers, black shoes. A small, confident man with an energetic way of walking. Over there, on the other side of the street, thirty metres away, going the same direction as we do. That's the Frenchman…"
Now I see him too: "Split up. Stay ten metres behind me. Don't do anything stupid. We'll follow him. Let's see where he's going…"