In front of Chemin Bondent 14, I give a big tip to our now forever best friend from Jamaica. Jimmy gives us his card for the next time we want a comfortable and safe passage, Rostov gives Jimmy his phone number and his advice about how to invest his just-received tip on the Russian stock market, and finally, we say goodbye, with the promise to call each other soon but with the hope never to see each other again.
The dentist's door opens when we ring the bell. After climbing two stairs, we enter a hall with oak on the walls and thick carpets on the floor. I ask the receptionist: "A few moments ago, a man entered here. He has Asian looks. Did you see him?"
The receptionist looks troubled: "Yes, he had a lot of pain; a broken molar or something. We put him in the chair immediately. The doctor is next door, changing his clothes. We were already closing, but we can't let that poor man suffer. Is he a friend of yours?"
"Well, not exactly. We're from Interpol. The man in your treatment room is a dangerous terrorist. Please, be so kind to let us speak with the doctor. We don't want anybody to worry or get hurt, but…"
Too late. The poor receptionist worries, thinks for a second if she wants to panic, remembers she's not born in Hollywood so there's no need to start screaming when something happens, she loads up her Swiss Gründlichkeit instead, stands up and makes a gesture that we should follow her into the doctor's dressing room.
Doctor Krohne has the Einstein-looks of someone who should have retired a decade ago, but the sparks in his eyes tell me he likes his job so much that he just can't say goodbye. We shake hands and I present us: "Good afternoon, doctor Krohne. I'm special agent Connery from Interpol and this is my partner, special agent Moore. We followed an extremely dangerous terrorist. It seems he's waiting for you in your treatment room. Do you mind if we take over from here?"
The doctor gives us a puzzled look, mumbles: "A terrorist? Here? In my practice? How nice. I thought this was going to be just another boring day like every other, but I'm glad I was wrong. Of course, you may, gentlemen. My practice, my help and my resources are available to you. If you need something, whatever, just ask and I'll make it happen."
"Doctor's clothes, to start with. Operation masks for both of us would be handy. Do you work with painkillers or anaesthesia? Can you explain to me how they work? And a roll of duct tape would be handy."
The doctor explains what we need to know while we dress.
The receptionist goes and returns with two rolls of duct tape, asking: "Do you need anything else?"
"Privacy.", I suggest.
She opens a door of a cabinet and takes out two mint-green operation masks. The first one makes Rostov's stupid grin disappear. The other one hides my secret identity. Behind the door on the side, we hear moaning and groaning getting worse. Our friend Mister Lee is waiting for a doctor to get him out of his misery.
I enter and scan the treatment room, to make myself familiar with the environment and to give most of the explanations of the doctor a visual connection. Confident, I walk to the chair to make my patient relax: "Good afternoon, Sir. I'm Doctor Krohne."
We shake hands and Mister Lee presents himself: "Good afternoon, Doctor. My name is Lee."
"Christopher?"
"Bruce."
"Is your wife's name Sara?"
"Peggy."
"Are you from China?"
"Korea."
"South?"
"North. Please, Doctor. I'm in a terrible pain. My molar broke in two. It was caused by something I ate."
"Nuts?"
"Soup."
"You should have taken the salad, and fresh fruits for dessert: an apple a day keeps the dentist away. What kind of work do you do?"
"That's confidential."
"You can tell me. I'm a doctor. I won't tell anyone."
"I won't tell anyone either. Please, doctor. Can you stop asking questions?"
"Relax, Mister Lee. You're in the best dental hands of this city, perhaps even of this country. Just close your eyes, try to think of pleasant things, and it will all be over soon."
Mister Lee tries to follow my advice as well as he can. He tries to find a comfortable position in the uncomfortable chair, puts his arms on the supports on the side, closes his eyes and opens his mouth.
"I see why you're in so much pain. That's a nice clean rupture."
Without saying anything, without even opening his eyes, Mister Lee nods. I continue with my warm and comforting tone: "That is indeed a nasty little bastard. Don't worry. We will not lose time and start the treatment immediately. There is no need to be afraid. You're not afraid of the dentist, are you?"
Mister Lee shakes his head. I tear two large pieces of duct tape off the roll, give one of them to Rostov and, at a nod of my head, we tape both his hands to the armrests of the chair. We follow the procedure with his feet and when I start winding a few metres around his chest and his neck, Mister Lee asks: "What are you doing?"
"Don't be afraid. This is just standard procedure in Europe. You're not afraid of the dentist, but we are afraid of the patients. We want to avoid sudden movements, caused by pain or an unexpected moment of lost control. We make sure you are secure. It's just for your own safety."
One minute later, Mister Lee is such close friends with the dentist's chair that I don't think they will ever be apart.
Among the dentist's tools, I search for the hand of Captain Hook, but I can't find it. That's because Rostov has seen all three versions of the film of Peter Pan more than once and couldn't resist. He pokes the hook with force in the broken molar and asks in a hoarse voice: "Is it safe?"
Mister Lee tests the strength of the duct tape (the test gives a satisfying result, both the tape and the chair stand all the force they are supposed to handle) and shouts so loud that I'm afraid that the neighbours will call the police. I whisper to Rostov: "What are you doing?"
"Well, asking questions, of course. Mister Lee asked you to stop asking questions, but he said nothing about me. That is what you do when you want certain information, right? You ask questions."
Rostov moves the Captain Hook a little to the right and repeats his question: "Is it safe?" When the death wishes of Mister Lee have died, Rostov's eyes smile at me when he says: "Haven't you seen «Marathon Man» (1976), with Dustin Hoffman? Laurence Olivier is fantastic in that movie. I always wanted to say that line «Is it safe?»."
To illustrate his deepest desire, he puts the hook a little deeper too and asks it again, with his deepest voice: "Is it safe?"
Mister Lee doesn't know anything else to say: "Ah, yeah, it's safe. It's perfectly safe. You don't have to worry at all. Whenever you want it, just ask and I'll make sure you'll get it. But please let me go. I'm out of my mind. Stoned. So much pain."
I can't let this happen. I have to take over. When I wrestle the tool with the hook out of Rostov's hand, I notice that I'm perhaps a little irritated; my movement is too swift and Mister Lee's pain makes the plaster on the ceiling crack.
I give Rostov a cross look and say: "Rostov! This is not a good idea."
Mister Lee agrees with me: "I agree with you, Doctor. Rostov! This is the worst idea ever."
Rostov has a better idea: "Okay. I have a better idea. Why don't we take those tools over there, the drill and that sharp knife, those tongs also look promising, and try them out on the other teeth…"
"Rostov!"
"Don't say swear words. I'm only trying to help."
I take a deep breath and focus on the situation we're in. Rostov just smoked half a Jamaican joint. Stoned. Out of his mind. Bad timing. We have a job to do. I try to look as if my eyes spit fire (there is little efficiency in facial expression when the larger part of your face is covered with a mint-green operation mask) and tell Rostov: "You have done enough. You better sit down in that other chair and let me handle this patient."
Mister Lee agrees with me: "Yes, sit down and don't touch me again. Are you stoned?"
"Shut up, Mister Lee, and open your mouth. I'm the one who's giving orders here, and I'm the one who's asking questions. You better shut your mouth and start talking."
Rostov doesn't quite understand: "You're not making this easy, Doc. How can he shut his mouth and open it at the same time? Do you want him to do a goldfish imitation?"
"You're not helping here, Captain Hook. I prefer it if you keep quiet from now on. It's Mister Lee who will do the talking. And if he doesn't, I'll give you the free hand. Are you aware that my friend Captain Hook is on drugs, Mister Lee? He's a nice person and a real sensitive human being, but he just smoked enough Jamaican weed to make him forget about the little troubles other people might have. All he can think of is that film about that dentist who asks his patient if it is safe. Is it safe, Mister Lee?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. What is safe?"
"We have information that you kidnapped or even killed a Russian banker recently. Is he safe?"
I move the little hook in front of Mister Lee's eyes. He keeps his mouth tight shut.
"We also have information that you or your partner stole a valuable object. Is it safe?"
Mister Lee is born and raised in a country where keeping your mouth shut is one of the best qualities any citizen can have.
"If you don't want to open your mouth, I can always poke this hook in one of your eyes."
Rostov's enhanced imagination creates strong images of everything he hears: "Yeah. With one eye, you can be the villain in the next movie of «Pirates of the Caribbean»." He rumbles with the dental tools next to him, finds an electric drill, tosses it aside, finds a sharp scalpel, puts a dangerous face behind his operation mask, raises the knife and says with a dark voice: "Dead men tell no tales, Captain Barbossa, but men with one eye talk a lot faster…"
Mister Lee is not used to interrogations by drugged madmen. He cracks: "No, please. I will tell you everything I know, but please don't hurt me."
I take over: "What did you do with the Russian banker?"
"I didn't do anything with the Russian banker. We slipped a microphone in his pocket and also left a tracking device in the pocket of his assistant, but both the devices stopped working and we lost contact."
We start to make progress: "I don't believe you. What were your orders?"
"We were ordered to bug him, to follow him, and to steal the information he wanted to buy. But we lost him, we didn't find out anything, we couldn't find anything to steal, and I broke my molar when eating lunch. This operation looks more and more like a mission impossible."
Rostov's mind hops from one daydream into another at dazzling speed: "Ha. Mission Impossible. Expect the impossible again…"
I want to keep control: "Where did you hide the suitcase?"
"What suitcase? I don't know anything about a suitcase. But I can tell you all the details about the money that our president smuggled out of our country to banks in the Caribbean and the Philippines."
I need a second to think: "So you don't know anything about a suitcase or Mister Nikolai? You're not really helping us here. Perhaps my friend should continue to show me more of Laurence Olivier in that film he likes so much…"
"No, please, no, don't. I'm cooperating. I'm giving you all the information you want. Please, don't hurt me anymore. What do you want to know? That our president has a secret crush on Angela Merkel? That he has a photo of her, live size, naked, glued to the wall of his bedroom? I have the proof on my mobile phone. Just dial hashtag 911 and the pictures appear on the screen… Do you want to know the details about our nuclear war program? Do you want proof we don't have a clue how to make nuclear weapons? We just bluff and send fireworks into the sky during our tests. It's all on my phone."
Rostov is playing with Mister Lee's mobile phone: "Wow. He told the truth. Do you want to see how Miss Merkel looks naked? I warn you, this is not a pretty sight, and that fat man on the side, it looks like he's… masturbating or something… Look."
"I'm not interested. We've been following the wrong lead. Let's go. I'll tell the doctor that there is no danger and that the patient is all his."
Rostov laughs out aloud: "Are you kidding? This is great stuff. We can sell it to the press and they'll pay millions for it. If we sell these photos to the English tabloids, we'll recoup the 100 million we've lost. And if we sell that information about the Korean nuclear power to the Americans…"
I can't avoid laughing too: "What would the President of North Korea do when he hears the entire world laugh about him? Do you have any idea what it means when Asian people lose face?"
Mister Lee has more idea than anyone. He hasn't lost his whole face, only a small part of a molar, but that's already enough to imagine what his boss will do when he finds out. He roars with laughter: "Our President will be furious. He'll start World War Three and he'll send every Korean citizen out to find me and you. He will torture us for months. This pain I'm feeling right now will be the best joke ever, compared with what will happen to us when we're locked up in the dungeons below his Presidential palace. It will be absolutely crazy."
Rostov now explodes with laughter: "I'm really looking forward to that. Your President knows you, but he doesn't know us. And even if he catches one of us, we can't tell him anything. I don't even know the real name of my partner."
I hold my stomach with both hands and laugh: "You forget they have documents with the name of your boss, so when they find him, they'll have a way to find you."
"But Mister Lee here just informed us he doesn't know where Mister Nikolai is, and I'm fired anyway, so they can't trace me. They don't even know I worked for the First Bank of Moscow."
Mister Lee roars: "We didn't know, but now we do: you just told me."
"If you tell anyone, I'll do this…" Rostov takes the hook out of my hand (I can't avoid it, I'm laughing so much that I'm too weak to resist) and rams it into Mister Lee's sore molar again.
"Stop. I will keep my mouth shut. I promise.", shouts Mister Lee, with his mouth wide open, laughing so much that it hurts.
"Did you turn the knob of that chrome cylinder?", I laugh to Rostov.
Rostov laughs back: "Yes. Why?"
I laugh to explain: "Because that cylinder contains laugh gas. When you turn that knob, it escapes, and when you don't put that plastic mask on the patient's face, the gas fills the room."
Mister Lee finds that quite amusing: "Great. Put the mask on my face. I can't stand it anymore."
Rostov puts the hook in his molar again: "You should keep this tool. It would complete your wife's collection. What's a hooker without a hook?"
I manage to crawl with laughter to the other side of the dentist's chair and close the cylinder. Too late. It's already empty. On hands and feet I reach the window and open it, let the cool afternoon air in and the laughing gas out.
Rostov also sits on the ground now, sharing his own secrets with Mister Lee: "We found the password of Jumping Jack Parker, you know. B-flat. Jumping Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas."
Mister Lee doesn't sing along. Mister Lee doesn't listen either. Or move. Mister Lee will not feel any more pain. He laughed himself to death…
It takes me a few minutes to recover, and a few more to get up and check his Korean pulse: he's just unconscious.
Rostov takes off the green mask and shows his stupid grin: "That went well, don't you think? I'm really having fun here. Can't you ask your boss to hire me? I want to get in."
"We have to get out of here, Rostov. This joke has cost us enough precious time already. Take off those clothes and get yourself together. We have to go back to the hotel."
I search Mister Lee's pockets: nothing interesting except his small silver pistol. I take the bullets out and put them in my pocket, with the idea of dumping them with the garbage when we're out on the street, but I let him keep the gun. Mister Lee's wallet and smartphone disappear in my pockets too. Then we enter the other room where doctor Krohne is waiting. I tell him we took care of the danger and ask him if he can be so kind to call the police and have Mister Lee put into jail, for terrorist activities, for carrying a handgun, for not having a passport, and for enjoying medical treatment without paying the bill.
The doctor is puzzled: "But… He didn't get any medical treatment."
"Mister Lee has a broken molar. He's in a lot of pain. I'm sure that your oath as a doctor forbids you to let this man go to jail without fixing his dental problems first. There's no danger: he's unconscious."
* * *
Five minutes later, Rostov and I are waiting for the bus that will take us back to the hotel. Rostov seems recovered from his Jamaican dream and we both have returned to seriousness after the gas attack, but there's no better test than a mental check of where we are and where we are going to.
"We've been running around the complete day, but we made little progress. The three other guests at the dinner party are all innocent; the three involved Secret Services didn't steal the suitcase or kidnap your boss… There's only one possibility left: your boss broke into your room, took the suitcase out of your safe, and left without a trace."
Rostov proves his brain works normally again: "That doesn't make sense. He would never do that. You don't know him, but I do. He's not capable of booking a flight to Geneva. If he would try, he could learn how to transfer money to the account of someone else, but he prefers to let me do that. Would such a person be capable of drugging me, opening the safe in my room, and leaving without a trace?"
"Hm."
"He left his mobile phone in his suite. He would never go anywhere without his phone."
"Hm."
"He got the suitcase during last night's dinner. Why would he give it to me, tell me to go to my room, and steal it back? All he had to do was ask."
"Hm."
"He's a victim, not a criminal. His suite was a mess. It was obvious there had been a fight."
"Okay. Everything you say makes sense. It's just… I don't know… a feeling. Something is wrong."
The bus arrives. It's a bus that's running with electrical cables, something I've seen in more Swiss, Austrian and German cities. When we enter, I pay for the tickets with some of the money from the Korean wallet. I count the amount I've spent in the shop where we bought the chocolate coins and put it in my pocket. The rest of the money, enough for a cruise for two to the Caribbean, I give to Rostov: "Here. To cover future expenses and to compensate for mental damage you've suffered during the process."
Rostov is surprised: "Isn't that stealing?"
"It's being practical. As we concluded earlier: without money, there's nothing you can do. By taking away his financial resources, we immobilised our Korean friend effectively and painlessly. Neither you nor I asked for the situation we're in, so if there is an option to let the one who caused the damage also pay for it, I don't see that as a moral objection."
"But that man was just doing his job."
"That man was armed and had orders to steal objects from others. Doing your job is not an excuse. If a taxi driver violates the traffic rules, he'll get a fine too. Mister Lee violated Spies' Rule Number 1: thou shall not be discovered, which is also the 11th Commandment of Moses and about the only rule most people seem to follow. He just paid a fine for breaking that rule. Don't pull a face like that. It's not his own money: his employer will steal it back from his countryfolk. Mister Lee won't pay the bill himself."
Rostov's thoughts float back to the case, the suitcase: "I don't trust those Americans. What was your line of thought to stamp «innocent» on their foreheads?"
"If they have the suitcase and Mister Nikolai, they would have left the hotel. Mister Black and Mister White won't keep your boss in their hotel room to interrogate him and torture him. They would take him to a safe house or lock him up in an abandoned shed in the mountains, which means they have to check on him, feed him, and guard him. They went to the roller-coaster park together."
"What if they have a backup who guards my boss? And what if they only stole the suitcase and stay in the hotel until they have also found the key to open it?"
I fall silent. Rostov is right. I've made a mistake. I based my conclusion on «and-and». If I look at it as «or-or», the Americans might have some interesting information for us.
"You're right, Rostov. Good thinking. You gave us a new track to follow, a fresh fox to hunt. How did you think of that?"
Rostov grins: "In movies, it always goes like this. You always start with the wrong suspects because there is one who seems innocent from the start, but in the end, that's always the one who's done it. You can learn a lot from movies, and from movie stars too. Didn't you notice how Doctor Krohne was impressed when you told him we were Sean Connery and Roger Moore? People like to meet famous people. They are examples for us. We can learn so much from them."
"Famous people live in the spotlights. I prefer being a spy; it allows me to go wherever I choose unnoticed. Would you like it if all the details of your personal life were in the papers?"
"No, not really, but I do like to meet famous people. I've met Milla Jovovich; I opened an account at our bank for her. Well, I've not really met her, but I've talked to her on the phone. She's lovely."
"I've had lunch with Mick Jagger."
"No! You're kidding me."
"No, I'm not. I worked on a mission as a waiter at a restaurant in London. One day, Mick came in. He picked a table and ordered a drink. When I served it, I said to him: «She's late.», and he answered: «I'm not waiting on a lady, I'm just waiting on a friend.» But the friend hasn't shown, so I said to Mick: «I invite you to lunch with me, along with two Puerto Rican girls that are just dying to meet you.». He asked me why. I explained: «Better food; the cook is a friend of mine.» He accepted. I told the two girls in the kitchen to join us and we had a great time."
Rostov doesn't believe me: "Yeah, and he wrote a song for you and dedicated his new album to that restaurant, right?"
"I'm not making this up. Friends don't lie to each other, you remember? Famous people are just people like you and me. They have to eat three times a day too and they shit, shower and shave just like everybody else. In hotels like the Prestigio International, there are always famous people. Yesterday, I saw Kofi Anan and Gary Lineker. Tonight, we have Aretha Franklin singing during dinner and—"
"Aretha Franklin? THE Aretha Franklin? She was so great in «The Blues Brothers». When I'm under the shower, I always sing that song, «Think»."
"You can't sing, Rostov."
"How do you know? We Russians are great singers."
I look away, but Rostov doesn't allow me: "You don't believe me, do you? Okay, I'll show you."
He starts to sing in the high and powerful voice of Aretha Franklin:
"You better think (think)
Think about what you're trying to do to me
Think (think, think)
Let your mind go, let yourself be free"
To my surprise, Rostov sings quite well, and he sounds a lot like Aretha Franklin too. Other passengers share my opinion and start clapping the rhythm and support Rostov to go on. When he gets to the «freedom»-part, two girls at the back do the backing vocals of the second voice. As a spy, I always try to keep low, to remain unnoticed, but Rostov doesn't care and sings as high as he can. The animation of the audience makes him stand up, grab an invisible microphone and sing the complete song, including dance steps, in the aisle of the bus. His Swiss public rewards him with warm applause and cheers when the song is over. Rostov bows and thanks them with some hand kisses.
Sitting down next to me, he asks with a stupid grin: "Are Russians great singers, or what?"
"You are a great singer, Rostov. Your neighbours must be delighted, every time you take a shower."
"I don't know my neighbours. The other flats in my building are vacant most of the time. When new tenants arrive, they usually move out within a month. You should sing a song too. The crowd will go bananas."
"As a spy, I have to do everything, from shooting guns and flying planes to seducing the President's wife, but there are two things I refuse: I don't sing and I don't dance. Never. Come on. We have work to do. It ain't over until the fat lady sings."
The bus has reached the stop that's closest to the hotel. We have to work. I hope to have some time to chat with Sabina, but her body language and the large line of guests checking in tell me that the chat room is closed this afternoon. My job is to assist the arriving guests to their rooms, carrying their heavyweight luggage and receiving their featherweight tips. The next guest is indeed a heavyweight: Miss Aretha Franklin has gained a few pounds since she starred in The Blues Brothers. That wouldn't be any problem at all, were it not that Rostov and I have to carry her to her suite on the 25th floor because she can't walk by herself: she took a taxi from the airport to the hotel, probably the same taxi that we took to the Chemin Bondent 14, but that street is only half a joint away from the Prestigio International, while the Geneva Airport is in Grand Saconnex, on the other side of town, at least three joints further.
Sabina at the reception is a little worried. She asks the male assistant if Miss Franklin is all right, if she will be in any condition to sing this evening. Her assistant is a little worried too. Miss Franklin is stoned like a male Muslim prostitute, but a few clouds of smoke don't have any bad influence on her clear, strong and powerful voice; she calms everybody down, singing: "Don't worry about a thing. Every little thing is gonna be all right."
I'm not sure about that, but at least I have a plan.