Dear Yogi has his last words prepared. He keeps it short: "Do you want to marry me, Katja?" He adds his stupid grin, showing he's serious.
"Rostov! This feminine fury is pointing a loaded gun between your eyes, and you ask her to marry you? Are you planning to end in the Guinness Book of Records as the shortest marriage ever?"
"She might miss me, Lux. I have to try before it's too late. Save the world or die in the attempt; do you remember? She might miss me."
Katja smiles: "Don't get illusions, Rostov. I will never miss you. Not from this distance."
Rostov doesn't want to give up yet: "It always goes like this: first she blows my brains out and then she starts loving me. There are lots of women who love brainless men."
Katja's smile grows wider: "I'm not one of those women."
Rostov's stupidly grins back: "I love the way you lie to me."
I try to stop Rostov: "You are already brainless, Rostov. Most of the time, pretty women are not what they seem. She's your nightmare, not your dream. She's Sister Morphine and you're trying to score. You're addicted to a dangerous woman. This shot will be your last."
Rostov doesn't want to understand: "Sister Morphine? There are lots of women who like to cure and nurse brainless men."
Katja fully enjoys the entertainment: "I'm not one of those women."
"Then marry me before you blow my brains out. I'm really smart. You should see what I do for rich clients who want to avoid paying taxes. I'm handsome too; you said it yourself: I look like Matt Damon. And I'm fun to be with. Did you see me on stage with my imitation of Aretha Franklin? Someone should give me an Oscar for that. I was spectacular."
I try to save my friend, and perhaps myself too: "He's right at one thing: he is fun to be with… if you like disaster films."
Katja turns back to serious again. She has to. She's working. She doesn't have time for entertainment like music or films. She says: "Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker. Go ahead, make my day."
Nothing can stop Rostov now: "Your first line is from «Die Hard» (1988) with Bruce Willis as John McClane. The second line is from «Sudden Impact» (1983) where Dirty Harry Callahan (Clint Eastwood) had exactly the same gun as those which you are pointing at our heads right now."
Katja doesn't only know how to shoot people, she also knows a bit about films and a lot about guns: "Dirty Harry had a .44 Magnum. This is a .500. Can't you see the difference?"
"You like movies! I knew that we have a lot in common. So you do want to marry me? Great. We'll have a happy end with a kiss and a wedding, honey, but, if you don't mind, first we have to solve that little affair with my boss, Mister Nikolai, and that 100-million-francs-worth suitcase, so if you want to be so kind and take that gun out of my eye…"
Katja doesn't want to wait for the happy end: "This time Gary Cooper doesn't walk off into the sunset with Grace Kelly, dear. You're in the wrong film. This is not that film where the bad guys talk themselves out of the situation. This is the film where the good girl wins, or at least the good-looking girl. Goodbye…"
I'm not impressed by the Smith & Wesson Magnum between my eyes. I smile and say my last words to Katja: "Look down…"
She takes her eyes off of Rostov and glances at me with a quizzical expression: "Why?"
"Because I have a loaded Makarov in my hand and it points at your knee. I have it looking your way since you were picking that lock. A bullet in your knee gives a whole lot more to think about than a bullet in my head. Perhaps I should explain why: when you pull that trigger, I'm not dead yet.
» There's always a little moment in which a tense finger can act in a reflex and destroy your knee joint. Bones can heal. Flesh wounds can cure. Knee joints, destroyed by a 9mm bullet fired from less than five centimetres' distance, can never be repaired. With a destroyed knee, my dear Katja, you will never be able to walk again. Perhaps you'll find part-time employment in an office as a secretary; you're attractive and you might find a nice man who takes care of you, there are lots of men who like to cure and nurse attractive women, but you'll be an invalid for the rest of your life.
» Rostov and I, on the contrary, are in so much trouble that death will be a welcome way out for both of us. We'll be happy to end our lousy lives here on the roof of this precious hotel, under a cloudless sky full of stars, with the most beautiful view of the lake one can imagine. Rostov was trying to shoot himself this morning, you know, but he's too stupid and missed. He would appreciate your help, even more now you've made it clear you have no intention of marrying him. Come on. Make our day. We won't regret it for one second if you kill us. You, on the other hand, with your destroyed knee, will think of us every second of your long and from now on boring life. Are you still convinced that you'll be the last man standing in this Mexican stand-off?"
Katja is no longer convinced she wants to kill us. She glances down. I'm not bluffing. I move the Makarov five centimetres closer and let the barrel rest on her kneecap.
"Who are you?", she asks.
"If you want the right answers, you should start by asking the right questions, my dear Katja. The right question is: «Who are you?». We can see by the Magnums in your hands that you're a professional: those revolvers are not for novices. A lady like you would prefer a Glock 26 - 9mm or a Walther P99 or, if you're a Smith & Wesson fan, perhaps the Smith & Wesson Bodyguard .380 but… a Magnum like Dirty Harry has? You have to be a professional criminal if you're running around with two of those.
» That's an interesting thought, you being a professional criminal. There's one thing I know about criminals: they're lazy. Criminals do what they do because they consider it too much work to work for what they want. Everybody can earn a modal income by putting in 40 hours of hard work per week. Criminals are lazy. They let others do the dirty work. You're not the lazy kind. You're a factory girl. You work hard for your money. How old are you? 30? 31? You speak both Russian and fluent English. But you're not native Russian and you're too good-looking to be born in Great Britain, Ireland or Australia. That means that you've studied Russian and English, which is a lot of hard work. You also learnt how to handle two heavy handguns and how to work with sleeping gas and how to open a safe at night and how to pick the lock of a fuse box… You're no criminal. You've worked too hard to learn what you know. So there's one option left: you work for a criminal. You work for someone who's too lazy to do all the dirty work himself, one who limits himself to giving the orders and spending the money. You work for one of the biggest criminals on earth. There's only one class of criminals that can afford you and motivate you to dedicate all your qualities to their cause. I'm talking here about the criminals who organized every war in the last 2.000 years, the ones who ordered armies of peaceful people to go out to shoot and kill, peaceful people who were punished when they refused to kill others or received honour and glory when they did. You work for the criminals who rob half the income of every hard-working person of the country, threatening them with poverty and jail if they refuse to pay, the ones who get away with all those crimes because they call it «taxes» and «politics» and «the law».
» You work for a government.
» You're a spy…"
Katja was trained for many tricky situations, but never for one like this. She doesn't know if she should give me a scoffing smile or a humiliating look. She doesn't want to give away that she's impressed by my monologue because she doesn't want to give away information that I'm so far just guessing at, but she pays all her attention to me and seems to have forgotten about Rostov entirely. That's a good sign. I take that as a «yes».
"So the next question is… For which government do you work? We can forget Russia and the United States. They wouldn't send a second team without informing the first team. Rostov and I already found out that both the CIA and the KGB have no idea about your existence. We can forget all the other countries outside Europe too: those countries would contract their own citizens to do the job, and it's obvious you're not native Chinese or Brazilian. My first guess was MI6, but you're too beautiful to be English. You're not French either: French women speak English with an Inspector Jacques Clouseau accent."
Rostov's stupid grin tells me he knows that accent.
"If you would be from Southern Europe, Italian or Spanish or even Portuguese, you would dress a lot better than this. Sorry, my dear, but I've seen your 'decent' panties when I transported you to room 404 and no woman from Southern Europe would take the risk of being buried in one of those. The shape of your eyes tells me you're not from Eastern Europe either. Your breasts give the impression that you might be from one of the Nordic countries, Swedish or Danish perhaps, but the women from those countries have some kind of «damn you» flavour that I miss in your behaviour. You're not Swiss or Austrian because your legs don't show those typical muscles that Heidi developed during her endless trips in the mountains with Peter. And you're too skinny to be German… So there's hardly anything left to choose from. Are you Dutch? Impossible. The Dutch are so tight-fisted that they would never book an expensive hotel like this for one of their employees. Belgian? There's a whole lot to say for that. Belgians speak more than one language and are hard-working people. In Belgium, the gun laws permit citizens to practise with handguns like your Magnum. There's only one little detail that I can't match, but perhaps you can answer it for me: why would the Belgium government be interested in a transaction between a Russian banker, a French banker, a Swiss banker and an English banker? That doesn't make sense to me."
Rostov! Suddenly it DOES make sense to me.
The Americans and the Russians sent a team of two men. Who would send one woman to do the job of a two-man team? She might have a partner too… The Koreans sent a man and a woman, knowing that the power in this world is in the hands of men, and if you want access to it, you should send the most effective weapon to make those men change their minds: a beautiful woman. We're talking about INTELLIGENCE here. We're talking about someone smart enough to send a woman to do this job.
When I sent those letters to the Prime Minister of my country with my request to accept me as a spy, he answered that I didn't qualify because… my tits weren't big enough…
There's only one government smart enough to realise that women make better spies…
There's only one government that wants to control money, banks and economy, the most important elements of power in this world, because their national economy depends on it…
You're from Luxembourg.
You're LSD.
You're #4, The Agent.
Your identity is so secret that you don't even know the people you work with. You were here all the time on the same mission as I, trying to find out why some foreign bankers paid each other millions for a small suitcase with information. You, and I, work for a country that floats on financial secrets.
I put the safety on the Makarov and throw it away. I put my hands in the air and say to Katja: "I could use force to disarm you, but I am handicapped by training from early childhood never to strike a female, no matter how richly she deserves it. Let's try an alternative solution. Do you know the pen is mightier than the sword? In our modern times, we would translate that like «the Internet is more effective than a loaded Magnum». I'll prove that to you. I'll disarm you with words.
» Lovely Sweet Dear. Record Message. To. #4, The Agent. Start Message. Dear Katja. My friend Rostov is madly in love with you. He's really fun to be with. When he asks you to marry him, say yeah. Urgent. Stop Message. Send Message."
The Internet is wonderful. In my opinion, music has been humanity's best invention ever, but the Internet might be number two on that list. Not even one second after my last words, «send message», I hear the reaction coming from the purse on the ground between Katja's feet: "Peep-peep." When a message has «urgent» as the last word, it forces a spiPhone to give a short audio signal when the message comes in.
Katja activates her own spiPhone with her voice: "Lovely Sweet Dear. Aloud Message."
The purse does as ordered: "From #5, The Runner. Dear Katja. My friend Rostov is madly in love with you. He's really fun to be with. When he asks you to marry him, say yeah."
Katja hesitates, but not for long. She takes the guns away from our foreheads and says: "I don't know what to say."
Rostov grins: "Say Yeah. Do you want to marry me?"
Katja is not amused: "I'll shoot you first. Spies like me are married to the job. Do you want me to give up saving the world so I can cook for you and have the table set when you return from work? I'm not that kind of woman, Rostov."
"We can save the world together. I'm probably without work anyway because you stole that suitcase last night out of the safe in my room. That was you, wasn't it?"
Katja looks at me, as if I should approve that she can give classified information to innocent bystanders. I say: "You gave yourself away with the cylinder of sleeping gas. I put a burning candle in Mister Nikolai's bathroom, so we would get a little signal when someone would try the same trick she did in Rostov's room."
"A little signal?"
"Well… I didn't know I would be that close when the alarm went off. It worked, didn't it?"
Katja looks around, afraid that someone can hear us on this empty roof, almost 100 metres above the surface of the Lake of Geneva: "We shouldn't talk about this. Not here. Not now."
I sit down, start the Scrambler app on my spiPhone, lower my voice and say: "Yes, we should. We're on the same team. We should help each other. You can trust Rostov, he's my friend, and you can trust me, I'm your colleague."
Rostov sits down too: "You can trust Lux. He's my friend. He saved my life, you know. And you can trust me. I love you."
Katja takes a deep breath, stores the two guns in the fuse box again, and sits down with us. The three of us, cross-legged in a circle, like boy scouts on summer camp, heads together, whispering secret plans over a cracking and hissing phone on the roof of a Swiss hotel, it's an image that even Robert Ludlum couldn't imagine.
Katja tells us her part of the story: "The suitcase is useless without the code. I hoped that Antoine Lafitte would open it during the meeting last night. I had a gun ready under the table to interrupt the moment, but he had a different idea: he sent the code via a bank transfer, decoded and much better protected than emails, phone calls or WhatsApp messages. The only one who has access to it is Mister Nikolai, but he's disappeared. After Rostov left the dinner party last night, Antoine was in a lot of hurry to get me into his bed. I fulfilled all his naughty dreams with a few capsules of Tumble Tornado, OC-V 340. Then I took some photos of him, snoring naked on the double bed, and put his underwear in my purse so I could use it to blackmail him against his wife.
» I wasted precious time to find out Rostov's room number and steal the suitcase. After I hid it in a safe place, I returned to the dining room, but the rest of the gang had already left. That's all I know. I've slept the whole morning to catch up on the sleep I lost because of the long night. I followed the Englishman during the afternoon, hoping he would contact Mister Nikolai. It was a waste of time. Then I got orders from #1 to search suite 2503. You know the rest."
I explain briefly what we found out: the other guests at the dinner party don't know where to find Nikolai. The KGB and the CIA are looking for him too, and the Koreans have checked out and returned home. I finish with the sad conclusion that I have no ideas left.
Rostov seems the only one who's still positive: "If you're out of ideas, perhaps I can help us out. I do have a great idea. But… I can't go like this, dressed as Yogi Votsor. First, we have to go back to my room, Lux, so I can prepare us all a nice cup of Russian tea and become Mesut Bellarabi again, the Pakistan bellboy who enjoys working in this hotel so much."
I suggest: "You can become Rostov the Russian banker again because there's nobody left who wants to kill you. And after that?"
"Well, I want to invite Katja for dinner, of course. The poor thing hasn't had a proper meal since yesterday evening. She'll need some time to think about my proposal to marry her, and she can decide about the wedding date while having dinner with me."
"You've forgotten the time, Rostov. The hotel's restaurant is closed; in fact, every restaurant in the country is closed."
"But for the people who work there, the kitchen of Prestigio International Hotel is still open, Lux. I know there is a lot of Bolognese sauce left from today's lunch. We can make spaghetti. There might be a bite of grilled salmon with Béarnaise sauce too. For dessert, we have hazelnut meringue and strawberry cheesecake. What do you say? Is that an excellent idea or what?"
Rostov is right. My stomach urgently needs a refill. What's better than a romantic dinner with friends, candles, warmed-up leftovers and strawberry cheesecake in the deserted kitchen of a hotel?
We break up summer camp and return to the lift. I interrupt our trip down on the 14th floor: "We'll need some chemicals from my make-up box to remove that Pakistani colour from your nose. You go ahead to room 404. I'll be back before the tea gets cold."
Rostov grins: "Do you trust me, alone, with a gorgeous lady in my room?"
"If you do anything against her will, she'll use those large predator nails of hers to work on your body until you look like the zombie you were during lunch.", I suggest while the doors close.
When I open the door of my room, I have some sort of déjà vu: the barrels of two handguns point at my eyes. On the other side of those guns are the friendly smiling, handsome faces of Mister Black and Mister White.
"Hello, Julian. We were looking for you. We wondered what you hoped to find on my mobile phone when I was doing my striptease act during dinner. That's what happens when one man faces a team of two. My colleague Mister Black here, he watches my back when the rest of the world watches my bare chest. Your cute red-haired friend at the reception refused to tell us your name and room number, but one little kiss of Mister Black and her pretty, blond colleague gave us all the information we wanted; she even borrowed us her master key. For a chamberboy, you have an interesting set of toys: explosives, disguises, sleeping gas… Are you planning a terrorist attack? Were you behind that explosion on the 25th floor? Who are the bad guys you work for?"
"I protect the world against the bad guys, against people like you."
Mister White shows me his perfect white teeth: "You are funny. You're even funnier than Ronaldo Siète, and he's the funniest writer in Dutch literary history."
"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm serious. You're the biggest threat to this planet."
Mister White is surprised: "We're Americans. We're the good guys. Our job is to save people, not to kill them."
"I have two questions for you, Mister White. You and your organization hunt terrorists, right? You try to avoid disasters like 9-11 when 3.000 US citizens got killed in a lot of financial damage. When someone hurts the people of your country, causes financial damage and creates fear, you find out who did it and bring him to justice, not just the people who committed the act, but also the ones who gave the orders and organized the whole thing. Is that right?"
"If that's your first question: yes, that's right."
"That was not my first question. I just wanted to confirm if my information about your motives is correct. Your job is to hunt terrorists, but instead, you're hunting me, endangering my mission to save the world from one of the biggest terrorists ever.
» I have information about a certain person who is responsible for the violent death of 6.000 US citizens and around 200.000 other killings. He made it impossible to help millions of Americans out of poverty, and also was responsible for the fact that millions of Americans and Europeans lost their job, their income, their house and their future. Someone who did all this would be considered a terrorist by your standards, or at least face a court-martial for high treason. My first question is: would you be interested in the identity of this person? Would you be willing to join our little operation and help us bring this man to justice?"
Mister White looks suspicious: "Those are serious accusations. Are you sure about that? 6.000 Americans killed and we're not on the case yet?"
"Please, answer my first question first: are you interested in working with us on this case or not?"
"Yes, of course we are. Catching the man who did all that evil to the world and to our country would be the crown on my career. Who is he?"
"This man started a war against Iraq, a war in which 6.000 US soldiers and 200.000 others were killed, a war that was against the democratic decision of the United Nations, a worldwide organization set up to avoid exactly this behaviour of violence, initiated by one single powerful person. This person did not finance his operation by himself as Bin Laden did, but he forced the American taxpayer to pay for it, which cost every single person in your country an amount of US$3 per day for more than 3 years. To put this in perspective: one out of every 7 Americans lives in poverty. $3 per day times 7 times 30 days per month is $630, enough to pay a salary to every poor American for a decent part-time job, in healthcare or education or assistant police officer or social services, enough to solve all the poverty in your country and to get important services in return, for free, services that would benefit each and every taxpayer in your country. This man decided that destroying another country would be much better than solving problems in your beloved United States. According to your standards, that's considered an act of terrorism.
» He also took the initiative to a law that made it possible for banks to sell houses and mortgages to people who could impossibly pay them. The banks cashed the commissions and the bankers took the bonuses, but they didn't want the risk of the bad debts, so they sold that risk to others, with the false promise of high results. When the world found out about that fraud, not one American banker was sent to jail: they were protected by the laws our man created. These laws caused the loss of savings of millions of innocent private investors and taxpayers, which resulted in a worldwide economic crisis that lasted for eight years. Now you have all the information, it will be simple to bring this criminal to justice: his name is President George W. Bush. He's easy to find: it's the man you worked for. Are you still convinced that you are on the side of the goods guys, Mister White? Or does «being good» mean nothing else but following the orders of the one who pays your salary? My second question is: In the letters CIA, what does the I stand for? «Intelligence»? I find that hard to believe. «Initiative»? That's forbidden too. «Indoctrination» would fit a whole lot better."
Mister White doesn't know what to say. Mister Black doesn't say anything either, but I expected that: he's the silent type. To avoid a deadly silence, I add a bit of extra information: "Police in Milwaukee are shooting at black US citizens, killing people like you, people they swore to serve and protect, because they don't think for themselves, because they follow orders from white people who protect nothing else but their own elite way of life, a lifestyle that causes nothing but trouble for all the other races in your country. What did that white elite do with the ancestors of Mister Black? Who do you serve and protect, Mister White? What's your goal in life? Is it your own career? Or do you have a nobler goal to aim for? You just answered that question to me, so perhaps it's time you start giving yourself the same answer too. What does the I of CIA stand for? If you're looking for answers, you better make sure you start with asking the right questions."
Mister Black shows he's a quick thinker. He looks his colleague in the eye and gives a short nod. His face is determined. He has decided: this punk is right.
Mister White follows the advice of his superior: "What do you want us to do?"
"We're looking for a missing suitcase that contains a strongbox, filled with something of great value, probably information, and we're looking for a missing banker, Mister Nikolai, who has access to the code to open the strongbox. You are looking for the same things. We should work together. We're offering to share our information with you if you promise to do the same. Or you prefer to work against us?"
Between my dirty underwear in the plastic bucket in the bathroom, I dig up the Korean phone I hid there (after uploading all the information to my private backup in the cloud, of course). I toss it to Mister Black: "Here's our welcome gift, exclusive for only the best clients in our hotel. They must have photoshopped the photos with Angela Merkel. The information about the Korean missile program seems authentic."
Mister White is still suspicious: "Presenting us this information does not end the potential of conflict between us."
"No, but if conflict happens, it will be because of our own damn foolishness, and not anyone else's. What do you have for us?", I say.
Mister Black starts to work the phone, now and then showing something to his partner.
"My word of honour will be enough?"
"Our world of intelligence is small, Mister White. If we help each other now, we might continue to serve the same goal in the future. Don't ask what you can do for your country; ask what we can do for your country, and ask yourself what it will cost you to do something back for us. That's the correct question. The answer is that it will be profitable to work together, for both of us. Profit is a far better guarantee than a handshake or a promise."
Mister White isn't convinced yet, so I add: "Did you like your little visit to the roller coaster? Do you want me to draw more stunts like that on you?"
"Was that your work?"
I smile: "If you're against me, I'll deny everything."
He smiles back: "You're an amazing man, Mister Weidenfeller. You win."
He offers his hand. I accept: "We both win. The losers are the ones we're after. Welcome to the team."
Three broad and genuine smiles confirm the prize of the winners: real friendship for the rest of our lives, impossible to achieve with guns, but so easy if you find the right words…
Mister White returns my favour: "We know there is a big fraud going on. Several big banks are involved, one in each country: the First English Bank in Liverpool, the Premiér Banque de Paris in France, Caja National in Spain, and the bank Marx Brothers in our own United States. We also suspect a bank in Germany, one in Canada and one in Japan joined the conspiracy. The First Swiss International started the whole circus. We received a tip that one of these days they wanted to contact the CEO of the First Bank of Moscow, to offer them the Monetary Mafia Membership too. Our most recent information is that negotiations didn't go as planned. The Russian banker disappeared. As far as we know, this Russian had a suitcase with valuable information with him."
"And you suspected Aretha Franklin to be a member of that Monetary Mafia too?"
"Of course not. If you knew how little our government pays their hard-working agents, and how many hours they expect us to work for it, you might understand we deserve a free night of entertainment when the chance is there. It wasn't my mistake that those Swiss do such a lousy job, building a stage. In America, this would never have happened. I hope Miss Franklin is all right. We haven't seen her since."
"She's perfectly all right and she asked me to thank you for your kind cooperation. Next month, she gives a big show in Chicago. If you're around, just give her assistant, Mister Elwood, a call and she'll arrange free first row tickets for you. She's great, isn't she?"
"Everybody loves Aretha. Mister Elwood, you say? I'll give him a call. Here's my card, by the way. We're in rooms 1901 and 1902 when you need us or when you have more info to share. It's nice doing business with you, Mister Weidenfeller."
We shake hands like old friends, but first I ask for Claudia's master key back. It's good to have friends, but I like to invite them myself, not to have them organize surprise parties in my room when I'm not there.
In silence, I curse them: no useful information, my tea in Rostov's room will be cold and I'm late for dinner too.