The rest of the lunch is like lunch should be in a five-star hotel: the salmon is favourite (I don't understand why most guests prefer the fish over the spaghetti; the Bolognese sauce is really good), a jolly mood and an animated conversation fill every table, most guests find it difficult to choose between the strawberry cheesecake and the hazelnut meringue, so I solve their problem and give them one of each, and finally, when I serve the coffee with chocolates, Rostov returns, whispers: "You'll love this…", slips my spiPhone in my pocket while he takes his own phone back, and helps me with serving coffee and cleaning up.
When Mister and Misses Lee leave the dining room, I follow them to the lobby where they enter the lift. A few seconds later, the indicator confirms their stop on the 5th floor.
I walk over to Rostov: "Our happy loving couple has gone to their room for a nap. If you take care of the domestic affairs here, I'll take a stake-out post in the lobby to see what you've found in their room and avoid they'll go somewhere without us noticing. Meet me there when you're ready."
Rostov mutters: "Nice friend you are. You let me do all the dirty work while you get paid for it… No, don't hit me. I was only joking. I will clean up. Don't worry."
In the lobby, I have a problem. There are lots of comfortable chairs and sofas, but they are for the guests: Mister Müller would kill me if he would find me playing with my phone, sitting in one of the leather Chesterfields. I walk over to the entrance and step outside to check if there's a place where I can hide myself to see without being seen, but the line of cars that go on and off in front of the front door makes that rather difficult. Best would be to stay inside, but where?
There's only one place where a hotel employee can be busy without being busy: behind the counter of the reception. There are places for four receptionists, each with hor own seat, computer, phone and notepad. Usually, two or three of them are taken. At this time of the day, almost three o'clock, only two girls are working, Naomi and Claudia; Sabina is probably on her lunch break. There's my chance to fit in, to make myself invisible and observe everyone who comes in or goes out.
I give Naomi a brief explanation: "Mister Müller asked me to do some assignments for him. Sabina told me it was okay; I could use her desk." I sit down, put the receiver of the phone to my ear to avoid questions from clients, take my spiPhone in my other hand, invisible for the rest of the world under the overhanging wood of the counter, and start to work.
Rostov told me I would love this. The first twenty photos show all kinds of documents that he found on the table of the room, all in what I now recognise as Korean symbols. I start the jpg2txt app to translate the photos into text files, then feed the text files to the MultiTranslate app from Korean to English and start reading. It's fantastic. The first document contains instructions to investigate a certain Mister Nikolai, complete with information on how to identify him, where he can be found. It shows even his flight number, including the date and the time of his arrival at the airport. The next document is a copy of a letter in which the board of the First Bank of Moscow allows Mister Nikolai to have the amount of 100 million Swiss francs at his disposal for what they call «a transaction as agreed by the board». The other documents are less interesting; they talk about details how to report, mention the possible existence of a certain document or a container in which it might be transported (without mentioning why this document is important or what might be written on it), and there are also similar references to objects that are new for me in this mission. What's the importance of a small, white, marble statue of a Greek goddess? Why do they want a painting of 2,40 x 1,80 with the portrait of Saint John, Saint Paul, Saint George and a mysterious fourth person, playing poker or blackjack in a Roman villa? Another document gives information about a shipment of posters of Angela Merkel. There is information about a golden trophy the German Mannschaft stole in Brazil, three years ago, which might be found in a certain vault in a certain bank in Geneva. Mister and Misses Lee have a lot of homework.
I'm not making progress with the work, as I have to divide my concentration between the documents on my phone and the people who cross the lobby. When Rostov shows up and takes his place behind my chair to help me by asking stupid questions, the productivity of my afternoon drops even more.
"Nice photos, right?"
"Very nice photos, Rostov."
"I told you: you'll love it."
"If you don't mind, please let me read. I've translated the texts and there's a lot of info."
"What do they say?"
"The documents confirm that our friends work for the North-Korean secret service, but they don't tell us anything that we didn't know already. Do you have any idea why we should look for a white marble statue or a golden trophy or a truckload of posters?"
"Of course, I wasn't talking about documents in Korean that I can't read or understand. I referred to the other photos. You'll love it."
I haven't reached that part yet. If Rostov were a professional spy, he would start with taking pictures of the most interesting things, the documents. I swap to photo 21 and further. Now I understand what Rostov meant. The first photo shows the huge hardtop TravelFriend suitcase of Mister Lee: one shirt, one tie, two sets of clean underwear and… four different handguns, clips with ammunition, fire grenades, explosive grenades, various elements that together form a sniper gun, three passports, two cameras, three mobile phones, a mini laptop, a block of C4 with a detonator, and several small bottles and carton boxes with all the chemicals any professional spy would like to have close at hand on a mission.
"Wow. Impressive. It must be awesome to work for a paranoid government.", I whisper.
"What do they say?", Rostov asks.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, you haven't come to that part yet. Go on to the next photo. I've made close-ups too, so you can read the texts."
The next photo shows the content of another hardtop TravelFriend suitcase. This might be the toolbox of Misses Lee: there are pink panties, red panties, light blue panties, black stockings with garters, flesh-coloured knickers, tanga briefs in at least five different colours, eight different models of bras in six different colours, and several lingerie articles that I can imagine how to wear them but not how they are called. On top and below of these garments there is a large collection of rubber articles, plastic articles, metal articles, whips, masks, feathers, handcuffs and some other things that I can't even imagine what to use it for or where to put it. The close-ups of the clothes show the embroidery of the fine Korean symbols in the same colour as the garments.
Rostov loses control over his curiosity: "They must mean something. It might be important. Can't you translate them?"
I feed the photos to the two apps and read the translation to Rostov: "This one says: «My leader is my guide.» The text on the pink one means: «On my back, undressed, I serve my country best.» The light blue one says «to suck or not to suck, that's the question». This large one says: «A girl who covers herself is sexier than a girl who bares it all, Gangnam style.» Oh, this one is nice: «Screw you, George W.» It's probably an older model."
"What are you two doing at my workplace?"
Sabina is back from lunch.
I feel how my face turns red, and I don't want it to turn red because Sabina might think we're looking at dirty pictures or something: "Nothing, we're just leaving. Thanks for letting us use your computer."
At that moment, the lift door opens and Mister Lee comes out. With a swift pace, he crosses the hall to the main entrance, jumps into the first taxi available, gives some brief instructions to the driver, and takes off.
"What do we do?", Rostov asks, nervously.
"What do you think? We follow him, of course."
"Really? Wow. This is something I've dreamed of all my life. Please, leave this to me…"
Rostov runs to the line of taxis, opens the door of the first one, jumps on the seat next to the driver and says, with a smile as big as the front window of the taxi: "Follow that cab."
I manage to have a brief look at the number plate of the leaving taxi, just before he hits the main road, and then I hurry to get into the seat behind Rostov. There's not much reason to hurry: our driver is waiting for something.
"Hurry. Follow that cab. What are you waiting for?", Rostov says.
"You should put on your safety belt, mon.", the driver explains.
Rostov's grin becomes even wider: "Of course. This is going to be one hell of a ride, right? Done. We can go. Blast off. Spinning wheels. The fast and the furry."
The driver starts the car and presses a button on the radio. Bob Marley starts to sing the National Anthem of Jamaica: "Don't worry, about a thing, cause every little thing gonna be all right. Singing don't worry, about a thing, cause every little thing, gonna be all right." Three little birds. To Rostov and the driver, this music might sound like Bob Marley, but to me, it sounds like Big Trouble. Our taxi moves with the speed of a glacier.
"The other taxi is almost out of sight. Perhaps we should speed up a bit?", I ask.
In vain.
This taxi driver is from Jamaica.
I'm not a racist. My friends represent every race, every colour, every religion and every continent. I will never generalise or give whole groups of people the characteristics of one of them. Unfortunately, this is a different story. Our driver is a child of the tribe of Usain Bolt, the fastest man on earth, but he's probably not a close relative because he doesn't worry about a thing and is not in a hurry at all. I have one ultimate trick left: "More money if you get there first, Usain."
"The name is Jimmy, mon. And we should respect the traffic rules. Speed kills, you know. Hold this for me, my friend. I have to go from first gear to second…"
He passes a cigarette the size of a baseball bat to Rostov, moves the gear, and manages to get the car going a little faster than my great-grandfather in his wheelchair. Meanwhile, he finishes his lecture about traffic rules: "Traffic rules protect everyone who takes part in the traffic, mon. That is a noble cause. We should appreciate it that there are people who care about us, and we should pay back their effort by taking care of ourselves and others, by respecting the rules. Respect, mon."
"Yeah. Respect.", Rostov swears with two fingers in the air.
I'm outnumbered, but I don't want to give up yet: "Look. You're right about the rules, but this is an emergency. The man in that taxi over there is a serial killer. He kidnapped my wife and the boss of my friend. We have only one chance to save them and that is to go a little faster and don't lose that taxi out of sight… To the left. They went to the left."
"Don't worry. Be happy. They will have to stop at the traffic light and we'll see them again."
"Or they pick the green light and the light will turn red when we arrive… In that case, we'll lose them forever. This is an emergency. That man has the switch in his pocket for a nuclear device to go off. If we don't stop him, the complete city disappears in one big mushroom of smoke."
"Ah, smoke. Hand me the smoke, mon."
"I will tell you a secret: I'm a special agent of I.D.N.S., the International Division of Nuclear Safety. We have to go faster."
Jimmy is not impressed: "I will tell you a secret too: I'm a special agent of A.S.S.-H.O.L.E., the Agency for Safe Sex, the Handsome Officer for Love and Excitement. If you keep worrying, you won't live long, mon. You better relax and sing."
He joins Bob Marley and his three little birds, and so does Rostov. Now I'm really worried. Rostov doesn't only sing like a crow, he also smoked away half the Jamaican cigarette. I don't know what is inside that smoke, but I'm pretty sure Usain Bolt didn't use it to break the World Record.
The other taxi has disappeared completely. Jimmy keeps turning left and right, persecuting the invisible other taxi as if Bob Marley himself guides him from a little cloud above our heads, but I don't see us going the right way.
It's better to keep things in your own hands. I take my spiPhone, start the CabCable app, and fill in the licence number of the taxi we're following. The app sends a request to The Nerd, who feeds the licence number into a series of programs. With a little luck, one of these programs returns the ID of the car, and the taxi company's system to communicate with their drivers. With a little more luck, The Nerd can crack that system and send the info back to my spiPhone. In that case, the CabCable app will show a little map with our own position and the position of the car we're trying to follow. It's our last hope.
The tracking and cracking take longer than the text message The Nerd sends to me: «What are you doing?»
I know. I'm just The Runner, not supposed to follow taxis or handle explosive situations. I send a message back: «Suspect of suite 2503 is missing. I'm following his kidnapper.»
That should do it. It's my task to follow orders, to do what it takes to support either #4, The Agent, or #3, The Diplomat. The Nerd has the same orders as I have, to serve and protect, and he should back me up instead of making life more difficult for me.
He answers with another question: «In Zurich?»
«I'm in Geneva. Why?»
«The taxi with that licence number rides now on the A1, north of Zurich.»
I can't hold back a swear word: "Rostov!"
"Yeah?"
"No, I was talking to myself. I'm worried."
"Don't worry about a thing. Every little thing gonna be alright.", Rostov, Jimmy and Bob sing in chorus.
I text back to The Nerd: «Sorry. Probably a mistake with the licence number.»
I put the phone back in my pocket and look through the front window if I can spot the taxi we're supposed to be following. There are three cabs before us, although I'm not sure which one we're following. Rostov seems in control. He tells Jimmy to go left. Jimmy says no, we should go along and go left on the crossing ahead. The two of the three cabs go straight forward on that crossing. The third one stops at the traffic light to go left. Three cars behind him we stop too. It's a yellow Peugeot, like the one Mister Lee picked, like the one we're driving in, like the other two that went straight ahead. I can't see the plate. I can't see the passenger either. All the taxis in this city look the same.
The traffic light turns green. The taxi disappears in the traffic, followed by the first, the second and now also the third car behind it, but when it's our turn to turn left, Jimmy's foot slips off the clutch. The motor coughs three times and then chokes itself to death.
I try to put more urgency on the gas pedal: "Hurry. We lose him. That man will destroy the world if we don't stop him."
While music pumps out of passing cars, driver Jimmy tries to drown his engine in a fruitful attempt to start, sing and smoke at the same time.
"Do you want me to drive? We're losing the taxi we're following. The world is in danger.", I panic.
Rostov defends his new best friend Jimmy against my unfair criticism: "You are my friend, you're awful smart, but you must admit: it does not start."
It's awful true. It's awful sad. We're losing them. It's awful bad.
Jimmy cheers us up: "Don't worry. I rode these streets of love for a thousand years."
Rostov sees the bright side of the situation: "Every little thing is going to be alright. Look… They stopped over there. The driver goes out for a takeaway coffee. We should take a takeaway coffee too. That cigarette made me thirsty. Would you like a takeaway coffee, Jimmy? I'm buying. I'm a banker, you know. Should you ever need a secret bank account in the Caribbean, you come to me. I'm your friend. I help you out. But right now, I'm really thirsty. Do you drink your coffee with milk?"
Jimmy says: "Milk and sugar, mon. Thanks, mon. They have good doughnuts there too. That cigarette made me hungry."
At that moment, the engine starts to grumble, but the traffic light turns red and forces us to wait again. The driver of the other taxi waits for his coffee at the takeaway while he chats with the man behind the counter. Now, he pays for his coffee, walks back to his car, gets in, and drives off.
"We're losing him. Cross the red light. If the police give you a fine, I'll pay it for you.", I shout in panic.
"We're not on this planet to put other traffic in danger, mon. We should respect the traffic rules. There are far more people who die in traffic than in nuclear bombings. You are the one who puts the world in danger, mon, and not that atomic punk we're following.", Jimmy explains: "Look. It's green already. You see? There is no need to worry."
Rostov stops singing. He wants a coffee: "Pull over. Do you want coffee too, Lux? With milk and sugar?"
"No, we need to follow that taxi. Look. Over there. They've turned right. Hurry. We'll lose them."
We lose them. Jimmy stops before the takeaway. Rostov steps out. He orders three coffee and doughnuts. The man behind the counter asks: "Which doughnuts?" and Rostov answers: "Those doughnuts that cops order when they are at stake-outs and follow suspects." While the man prepares the drinks, Rostov walks back to the car where I'm sitting with my hands in my hair: "Do you have 20 francs for me, Lux? I've left my wallet in my room. When I get my next hotel-boy salary, I'll pay you back. I do hope I get a salary for all this work… Does it pay well?"
I give Rostov the money and wait until he gets back in the car with the coffee and doughnuts. It takes a little while before we take off because Jimmy has to finish rolling another joint, and it takes another little while because the car doesn't want to start, but finally we're on our way again.
"Where to?", asks Jimmy.
"Just go ahead. We'll follow the first taxi we see.", Rostov explains.
"There's one over there, but he's going the other way."
"No, we need one with a Korean guy, the one who stood before you in line in front of the hotel."
I interrupt the little cosy chat over coffee and doughnuts by these two old friends: "This is it. We're done. We've lost our man. It's best if we return to the hotel."
The driver lifts his shoulders, inhales his Jamaican spirit and blows it out of the window like a London fog: "You should take it easy… Every little thing gonna be alright." He pushes some buttons on his radio and says: "Charlie, mon… Are you there? Charlie?"
The radio cracks some nuts and a voice answers: "Jimmy, mon. I'm here, mon. What's up?"
"You just picked up a mon with an Asian face. Where did you drop him?"
"Dentist Krohne, Chemin Bondent 14. Why?"
"Oh, it has something to do with saving the world. You don't worry. We've got it all covered. Thank you, mon."
"Have a nice day, mon."
Two minutes later, we stop in front of Chemin Bondent 14. The world is saved.