I'm not late for dinner. Without me, there is no dinner. Katja explains she's invited; she doesn't work in the hotel's kitchen. Cooking, like cleaning and caring, didn't form part of her training. Rostov did follow an intensive course in the kitchen, one hour daily and extra hours during the weekends, but all he learnt from his mother was how to make tea, and it took him three months to learn how to cook water without letting it burn. That leaves me to do the cooking.
My parents have a butcher shop. If you want to sell quality food, you have to know how it tastes. The success of my parents' shop comes mainly from their good taste. My mother's secret recipe for Blutwurst from Diekirch is world famous. My dad's birthday, in the summer, always ends with a barbecue for the complete village. Cooking is part of our family DNA, and although I'm not as good as the rest of my family, I'm good enough to make a majestic midnight meal for three. Rostov and Katja are sitting at the small table in the hotel's kitchen (Rostov tries to make conversation while Katja tries to avoid it) while I run around between stove, refrigerator and pantry.
Rostov tries to impress Katja: "Every day I can only think of how to make you laugh, just because I like so much to see your smile, the most beautiful smile in the entire world."
"If you shut up for the rest of the night, I'll give you a smile when I leave."
"In the movies, when a handsome man like me says something romantic to a gorgeous woman like you, she bends over to kiss him."
"I can give you a Shanghai Kiss, which is some ancient Chinese martial art sort of head-high flying tackle that breaks your nose and keeps you quiet until after dessert."
Rostov persists in his death wish: "You need kissing badly."
"I'd just as soon kiss a pig."
"There's no accounting for tastes."
I interrupt the two lovers: "This is not a twosome. This is a threesome. Katja and I will not talk about work, you and Katja will not talk about getting married, and you and I will not talk about football, cars and sex because we all respect the company we're in. We all have our responsibility to make this dinner a success. If not, you can open a can of dog food and forget about my contribution."
"Sorry, Lux. You're right."
"Sorry, Lux. What's in that frying pan? It smells delicious…"
I've made a green salad with a dressing of blue cheese for a starter. The main dish is chicken cordon blue with baked potatoes and a spicy sauce with tomatoes, paprika and onions. For dessert, we have the hazelnut meringue and the strawberry cheesecake that survived today's lunch. The art of good cooking includes good timing: with the meat and potatoes on a low flame, I serve the salad, ready to enjoy dinner as much as Katja and Rostov.
This was Rostov's best idea of the day; the dinner is a success. Rostov has found a Chilean wine that takes the last bit of Katja's suspicion away, and Katja shows she can be pleasant company if she wants. To avoid talking about work and missing suitcases, we pick a neutral topic for discussion: if you can choose, where would you like to live? Katja can't choose between the nightlife of London, the culture of Florence and the feeling-at-home of Luxembourg City. Rostov loves Vienna, with Paris and Madrid following at a nose-length. He tells us some entertaining stories about living in Moscow, and invites us to visit him when we're on a mission in the neighbourhood. I don't contribute much to the conversation: I'm from a small village. Although I spend most of my time in big cities, thanks to the work I do, I'd prefer a place in the countryside when I retire, but most of all I realise that I never thought of retiring; I worked so hard to get this spy job that I want to enjoy every minute of it. For me, thinking about retiring is like thinking about going home on the first day of your holiday.
We change the topic of the conversation to music. When that becomes «films», dessert comes to the table, and it's already 2:30 AM.
"What are we going to do tomorrow?", Katja wants to know.
Rostov is in doubt: "Perhaps I should go to the police, to report that my Mister Nikolai is missing."
"You should contact your office in Moscow. Perhaps someone there knows something.", I suggest.
"Perhaps I should go to bed.", Katja yawns and, with a severe eye on Rostov, she adds: "Alone!" She stands up, grabs her purse and before she leaves the kitchen, she says to me: "Tomorrow I'll contact #1 and report what we found out so far. You just wait for instructions and go on with our chamberboy activities. Goodnight… and thanks for the dinner. I really enjoyed it."
When Katja's gone, Rostov looks at me and grins: "That went well, don't you think? I think she fancies me."
I look at Rostov and say: "Yes, she ran away as fast as she could to tell all her friends about you. I can't believe you want to marry that woman, Rostov. She's a witch."
"Well, she's a handsome witch and she has bewitched me. Don't you think she's the most beautiful creature you've seen in your life? She can be nice if she wants, she makes us laugh, she's educated and interested in lots of different things, she likes movies… And she's a spy, which will guarantee that life after marriage will never be boring. She also has her own income, so I don't have to support her, which is nice too."
"She can't cook and she leaves the dirty dishes for us to clean. Or do you want to leave the kitchen like this and explain it to the chef tomorrow? Do you wash or do you dry?"
"I wash… You dry… It was worth it, don't you think? I had a great evening. When I think about it, I had a great day, by far the best day of my life. You are a great friend, Lux, and I'm glad you entered my room this morning. You saved my life and I didn't even thank you for it."
"Don't mention it. The soap is over there. That empty bottle goes into the green container. We keep glass, paper, organic and other waste separated."
"No, I'm serious. Thank you, for saving my life, for being my friend, and for everything you've done for me."
Rostov, with his wet hand full of soap bubbles, shakes my hand, to make sure I understand he means it.
"It's okay. I like it too that you're my friend. When I think about all the disasters you provoked today, it's good you're not my enemy."
Rostov swears: "Rostov! Talking about enemies… Katja was only one second away from killing us both, and you didn't even blink. Two armed agents of the KGB tell you they shoot first and ask questions later, but you talk with them like you want to sell them your second-hand Lada 2105. 50 armed men shock, shout and shoot in Mister Camponelli's bank, but you are the last man standing. Aren't you ever afraid?"
"Fear is a useless emotion, Rostov. I'm a spy, so I have to act like a spy, BE the character. When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a spy, but dreams don't solve problems. What should I do? Snore those guys to death? I'm trained to act. I do have emotions, like everybody else, and I understand that people like to feel fear, suspense, horror, anger, and finally relief and satisfaction when they watch films. But when danger knocks on your door, it's useless to scream or cry or faint. You have to act. You have to understand that all those emotions are just a part of you; learn how to control your emotions instead of letting your emotions control you.
» Look at yourself. If Katja came to your office for a loan, you would make sure you take the right decision because there's money involved. But when Katja smiles at you and asks for a kiss, you forget all logic and fall head over heels into a marriage, one of the most important decisions a man can take in his life. Your reasoning is 100% emotional, based on your animal instinct of sexual lust and reproduction. Where is the logic and information your boss requires from you?"
Rostov shakes his head about so much silliness: "Facing a beautiful girl who wants to kiss you, or facing a Magnum that wants to shoot you, that's not the same thing. I'm prepared to take the risk of not getting that kiss, but I'm not taking the risk of getting killed while I'm working. After all, work is just a way to get the money that pays for a better life. Marrying Katja is that better life. For me, asking a gorgeous girl out, even when I know she can get lots of better men, that's brave. Starting an argument with an armed man, that's just stupid."
"That's the price you have to pay. The hard part of making choices is to accept the negative elements that come with it. I'm a spy. That's a dangerous job. I didn't say much when Katja and you were dreaming about retirement because I don't think I will ever retire. One day, I'll run into the wrong situation or stand on the wrong side of a loaded gun, and that's the end of my story. But I don't care. Save the world or die in the attempt. We're all mortal and every life ends one day. It's useless to be afraid of death. All that matters is what you do before those dying seconds, so you can look back with satisfaction when your final moment comes. You just said today was the best day of your life. Imagine: every day of my life is like this… Well… Not as crazy as today. You're crazier than my wildest dreams. But I do have the job I always dreamed of, and I do like it a lot. So I don't care about the risk of not retiring. I don't mind that I can't have a dog or marry and start a family. I have to accept that I hardly see my parents and grandparents, although I do miss them often. You can't always get what you want, Rostov, but if you try, if you try as hard as you can, sometimes you find what you need. Today I've found a friend. That makes this a special day for me too. And it saves me half the time to clean the kitchen."
Now the dishes are washed and the kitchen is clean, we take one last beer (from the bottle) before we go to sleep.
Rostov looks sleepy: "Talking about dreams… Aren't you tired? It was a fantastic day, but now I'm looking forward to my bed, so I can dream of Katja. Tomorrow we'll find the solution. I'm sure."
I don't agree with Rostov. Sleep is some kind of peace that we haven't deserved yet. Unfinished business always keeps my head spinning. After this perfect dinner and this spectacular day, I should feel good, or at least better than I do, but a gut feeling bothers me: we're so close to getting results, but still, we have nothing. I shouldn't be so pessimistic. «Always look on the bright side of life», sings the Monty Python crew in «The Life Of Brian» (1977), but I'm a man. At the end of the day, men feel happy when they can look at the progress they've made. After all our running around, we still have nothing to look at.
I summarise my thoughts aloud: "At least, we've made some progress today. Katja has the suitcase, so you won't lose your job. Too bad, we don't have the details of Mister Nikolai's private account. With the proper information on where to look, my colleague #2, The Nerd, might be able to crack the bank's database and find the transaction. We from Luxembourg do a lot of business with other banks, so we have quite a few backdoors, but without those bank details, there's no way to get the code to open the strongbox inside the suitcase."
"Antoine Lafitte has the code.", Rostov says.
"No, he doesn't. You told me he burnt the paper with the code before the dinner started."
"I wasn't thinking about that piece of paper. Every transfer has two sides, one side receives the money and the other side does the payment. Antoine's bank account shows the same transfer as Mister Nikolai's account; only next to the amount of 1 euro it says «debit» instead of «credit»."
"Do you suggest we find Antoine Lafitte and torture him until he gives us the details of his account? Perhaps we should also tell him to transfer those 100 million Swiss francs to our own secret Luxembourg bank account. That would save us a lot of trouble. We don't have the bank details of the account of Antoine either, and I have no idea how to convince Antoine to give us that info."
"We…, I…, have access to the account of the First Bank of Moscow, the account we used for transferring the 100 million to Antoine's private account. It would surprise me if he didn't use that same account to make the transfer of 1 euro to Mister Nikolai's private account after getting the confirmation of the receipt. At least, I didn't see him do a lot of fingering on his phone between those two actions."
I take a sip of beer and let the bubbles take off from my stomach to my brain. If Rostov is right, we might find the transfer, and therewith the code to open the strongbox, via the account of the Frenchman, Antoine Lafitte. If Rostov is right, we might solve the case; find out what's inside the suitcase.
"Can you track down the bank account on which Antoine received the 100 million Swiss francs?"
"I don't have the permission to make transfers, but I do have the clearance to see the movements on our account. I work for that bank, you know. If Antoine did the payment of 1 euro to Mister Nikolai with the account to which we transferred the 100 million…"
"… we can open the strongbox."
"We don't have the suitcase. We should wake Katja. Maybe she'll give me a kiss for solving the problem. Give her a wake-up call…"
I hesitate.
"Do you trust Katja, Rostov?"
"Yes, of course. I asked her to marry me. Why?"
"I mean, do you trust her professionally? If she would come to your office with a stack of papers and a request for a 1 million euro mortgage on a villa she plans to buy, would you grant her the loan?"
Rostov counts on his fingers: "I would study the papers of the house, I would check the balance of her bank account, I would verify her income and the type of contract that she has, I would check the company she works for, I would check her financial behaviour of the last five years and, for a 1 million euro mortgage, I would visit the house and see if it's like the papers want me to believe. Why?"
"She practised at the art of deception. She has blood-stained hands. Upon that roof, I concluded she worked for a criminal. What would you do if you found a suitcase with 100 million Swiss francs on board? No questions asked. Nobody knows you have it. Would you call the owner, the bank you work for, and return it to them? Or would you buy a new identity and spend the rest of your life celebrating in Vienna, Paris and Madrid with now and then a visit to Moscow? All you have to do is shoot the two witnesses, the two stupid worm-brains who come running to you with the code to open the strongbox and hope for a kiss in return…"
Rostov understands the question: "I see. And you think that Katja…"
"I don't think. It's my job to collect information. «Trust, but verify», said Ronald Reagan. I don't trust Andrei and Sergey, but I made a deal with them, so we both benefit. I didn't trust Mister Black and Mister White either, but I think I convinced them to work together, and I will keep my part of the deal…"
"Mister Black and Mister White? The CIA? Did I miss something?"
"When you and Katja were having tea, I found the CIA in my room. Mister Black noticed my interest in Mister White's phone when you were undressing him on stage. Mister Black is a professional. The CIA doesn't pay Mister Black to trust people. They pay Mister Black to investigate and find information. Mister White and Mister Black entered my room, found my spy stuff, heard the explosion on the 25th floor, and concluded I was planning World War Three. Don't worry, I fixed it and they're on our side now, after I had a little chat with them, about what their boss did to the world, about good and evil. But Katja and I work for a similar organization. I don't trust the LSD until I know what their plans are. That's why I hesitate. I prefer to open the strongbox first, to see what's inside, and decide according to that information. Do you agree?"
"So you don't trust the U.S. Government, you don't trust the CIA, you don't trust your own government, your own boss and your own colleague, but you do trust me?"
"You're different. You're my friend. I needed your help as Yogi Votsor and you came to help me out. Your bank paid for the suitcase, so it would only be fair to keep you informed."
Rostov grins: "Thanks. For trusting me."
"I've seen what you did to help me. That proved I can trust you; it's like you want proof that a client is good for the credit she asks for. The difference between good people and bad people is not in what they say, but in what they do. Good people do good things; they help others. Bad people only do what's best for themselves. Like the Jedi and the Sith in Star Wars: they use the same Force, but the Jedi only think about others, while the Sith only think about themselves."
Rostov grins: "You can learn a lot from movies."
I smile back: "Your problem is that you've seen too many romantic films. Marriage means sharing your life with someone. Love consists of mutual commitment, respect, and trust. You trust Katja for the beauty of her eyes, and you don't give it a second thought. You can't just fall in love with someone you hardly know, Rostov. All she gave you to work with was a loaded Magnum between your eyes. You shouldn't trust Katja."
"Didn't you just tell me that, if you get what you need, you have to take some minor details for granted? You can't always get what you want, and I never wanted anyone, but now I want to marry Katja. I don't care if I have to ask her every day. It's no problem if she sleeps with other men when she's on a mission. I'm prepared to take the risk that she might shoot me between the eyes. She's fantastic, Lux. I never had a dream, but now I have one. Please, don't try to take it away from me."
I look at Rostov, my friend: "I had a dream once… I worked for it and I never regretted the effort. And when the dream came true… You're right, Rostov. Go for it. But don't forget the saying: first the job and then the girl. Work first and pleasure later. We need to find that suitcase."
"Katja knows where it is."
"I hope to find it without her help. I have an idea. We'll need to wake up The Nerd and put him to work. We need Mister Lafitte's account number. How do you connect to your bank's account? Is a phone good enough or do you prefer to work on my computer?"
"The computer is faster, it has a bigger screen, and it has a better keyboard."
* * *
Ten minutes later, we enter my room to pick up the laptop. Another five minutes later, I'm making Russian tea in Rostov's room while Rostov tortures the keyboard. I scanned my room for bugs and microphones, found nothing, but I don't want to take the risk that the CIA left an interested electronic ear and… I really looked forward to a cup of Rostov's tea.
"How is it going?", I ask.
"I've logged in, but there are many, many transfers. Normally I can filter on the date and the name of the client, but the account is not in the name of Antoine Lafitte."
"You can't filter on the amount? 100 Million Swiss francs should be quite easy to find."
"The account is in Russian rubles. Don't distract me, Lux. This is my work. I know what I'm doing."
"Sorry. I've made you a cup of tea…"
"Thanks. You've become quite a fan of this tea, haven't you? I told you it is much better than that coloured water you people drink here. When I'm back in Moscow, I'll send you a pack."
"Thanks."
Rostov concentrates on his work while I sip my tea. The silence in the room makes me nervous. I walk to the window, slip through the closed curtains, and admire the view over the Lake of Geneva. A pale moon illuminates the water and the mountains. The city lights on the other bank, traffic-light green, police-car blue, billboard neon and taillight red, play a Christmas carol in motion for a town that never sleeps.
The Swiss are famous for many things, but art isn't one of them; without Wikipedia, I can't come up with the name of even one Swiss composer, writer, sculptor, or painter. Why would you need a painting on the wall if every window presents a picture of the ever-changing art of life itself? Why would you need perfume if you have the fresh smell of pure mountain flowers everywhere around you? What symphony can match the sensation of a concert of crickets, cardinals and cowbells to celebrate the new dawn? The Swiss don't need artists; they have their country; they should call it Swiss-Art-Land.
Rostov interrupts my poetic thoughts with clear clinical data: "Harvest International Ltd. The account is at the First Caribbean International, which is an offshore bank at the Cayman Islands, famous for—"
"—their tax-saving possibilities for rich clients. It looks like Mister Lafitte didn't even trust his Swiss friend Mister Camponelli to keep his secret. This is great news. A Swiss bank could be a hard nut to crack, but The Nerd should not have problems with the security of a bank on the Cayman Islands. I'll send him a message right away."
I type the bank and the account number on my spiPhone to finish my earlier-prepared message: To #2. «I found proof that Russia tries to buy bigger chances to win the 2018 Football World Championship. If we don't act immediately, they will rob your beloved German Mannschaft of their fifth title. I need you to crack the database of the First Caribbean International, find transactions of yesterday with the account (number) and send me the info from the description of each transaction. Urgent. Urgent. Urgent.»
Three times «urgent» in a message guarantee that the owner of the receiving phone will wake up, even if he's in a coma for three months. I'm not sure if that's necessary because The Nerd is a night owl; he works best when the rest of the world is asleep.
I send the message, finish my tea and get into action: "There's no guarantee we'll get the answer we'll need, but we've done everything we can. While we're waiting, we better focus on finding the suitcase. Let's go."
I shut down the laptop. While we leave the room, Rostov asks: "Do you know where to look?"
"We know Katja stole the suitcase. I don't expect she'll make the same mistake as you did, keeping it in the safe in her room. She hid her Magnums in a fuse box on the roof. That's smart. She's a professional, used to work at different locations all over the world. If you'd want to stash something in a hotel like this, where are you likely to hide it?"
I open the door to the stairway; it's better not to take the lift now, and it's only five floors down.
Rostov thinks: "A place where nobody would look? My first thought would be the roof."
"We've been there. It was indeed an outstanding place to hide the guns. But just before we went to the roof, in that little moment between entering the lift and pushing the button, Katja had her moment of light: she saw your face from the side, in the mirror, recognised you, discovered she was being framed and… decided to go up. So we were on the right track, but she changed plans. What if her original destination would have been… down, to the basement?"
We leave the stairway at the lowest level, - 3, the car park.
"Do you think Katja rented a car and hid the suitcase in the boot?"
"It's a possibility, but not very logical. The LSD pays us our travel expenses, based on public transport. I came here by train: cheap, reliable, and I can work or study during the trip. I suppose Katja followed the same regulations. Also: a car can be stolen. A collection like this…" — The museum of Aston Martin, Ferrari, Porsche, Bentley and Rolls Royce around us speaks for itself — "… would attract the attention of every burglar. I wouldn't take so much risk. But we might look for places like the fuse box on the roof, perhaps a floating ceiling with space to hide a small object or a pit with a locked hatch for the water meter or something like that. When we see it, we'll probably know it's the place. Think like a spy. Think like Jason Bourne. Where would you hide a 100-million-worth artefact?"
The steel door that hides the water meter is right next to the entrance door. The lock is good, but so am I. The place would have been a splendid spot to hide something, but it's empty. We check the walls, each on one side of the floor, meet at the other end, and return to the stairway via two paths through the centre: nothing. The car park on floor -2 is even simpler to check, for there are no places at all to hide more than a matchstick. That leaves us floor -1, the basement for the services that the hotel has for its clients.
The floor has a corridor with access to several working rooms: the laundry, storage rooms for carts and cutlery, tablecloths and blankets, ashtrays and bathroom articles, the office of the handyman, the room where chamberboys can sit out their punishment by shining shoes of guests for the rest of their lives. It's all here. Lots of opportunities to hide something.
"Where do we start?", I ask.
"Jason Bourne would pick a place where nobody would enter for quite some time. Not the laundry because that's used every day. Not the storage for the carts or the room of the handyman. The best place would be…"
We say it together: "Bedclothes for the winter…"
It's August. There's a sheet and a thin blanket on my bed. Where are the thick eiderdowns?
Swiss are kind and honest people, but in a hotel, everything is behind locked doors. The door to the storage room for blankets and sheets is locked, and every cupboard in that room is locked too. The woman who has the keys isn't working. She's probably left them at the reception or the room of the concierge. We have no time for that. I have to pick the locks. And, of course, the artefact we're looking for is in the last cupboard we open, so we start with that one. Nothing. But the one-but-last is as good as the last one. There, between the Nordic blankets, stacked up with military precision, we see a small crease. Sloppiness isn't allowed, according to the book «Rules of Swiss Hotels» that Mister Müller has under his pillow. I put my hand between the sheets and there… I feel… I find…
"Rostov! We've found it.", I whisper.
With two clicks, I open the suitcase. It contains a silver metal strongbox: "Is this the artefact you were looking for, Mister Livingstone?"
Rostov grins: "Indeed it is, Mister Stanley. Should we open it here or should we return to our base camp 404?"
I can't wait that long. Now we've found the suitcase, I want to know what's inside the strongbox: "We do both."
I check the message The Nerd sent me, the message with the numbers he found on the transaction of 1 euro from the account of Monsieur Lafitte: "953 563 561 607 224. What did you say about the numbers we'll need to open the lock? Primes, but not the first because that's Antoine himself?"
"That's right. The second, third, fifth, seventh, eleventh and thirteenth number. Write them down, to make sure we don't make a mistake."
We lock the cupboard and the room like we've found it, and return to the laundry, where we find a pen and a notebook: "536 502. The honour is completely yours, Rostov."
"Why?"
"Because the suitcase and the information inside belong to your bank. If The Nerd made a mistake or if our theory by any means is not correct, the documents will be destroyed. I prefer if you do that yourself. When it comes to creating disasters, you're the specialist."
Rostov now looks worried: "Why should anything go wrong? This must be the code. This has to work. Doesn't it?"
"You tell me, Rostov. Open the strongbox and we'll see. 536 502. Nothing can go wrong. There's no space for enough C4 to blow up the entire hotel. Radio-activity? Electroshock therapy? The worst-suitcase scenario is a poisonous gas; the laundry ladies will find two green bodies in a few hours. Nothing can go wrong. So… use the code and find out."
Carefully, Rostov selects the numbers on the six turning wheels of the little metal suitcase. He grabs the two corners, places his thumbs on the buttons, pushes and…