"I'm so glad you came, Doctor. Ever since I read your letter, I feel so bad… I'm sweating, I have gasses, I feel a headache coming on, I—"
"Please, Mister Oglethorpe. We have no time to listen to all your symptoms. We prefer to start with the treatment. Please, be so kind to let us in. Do you have a chair with arms, to sit in?"
Our white face masks make us look like bank robbers. Our white coats make us look like idiots who try to convince people in commercial advertisements to buy their soap or shampoo. It's our behaviour that makes us look like real medics: "How are you going to pay for the treatment? Do you have insurance? You prefer cash? Credit card?"
William Oglethorpe takes his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers and hands me a platinum credit card. I ask him: "What's the Personal Identification Number? Just in case you die in the attempt. We won't risk working without being paid, you know."
"The code is 0000. Can we now, please, start the treatment? I'm feeling worse every second."
We tie the poor banker with tyraps on a chair. He can't move anything except his tongue.
"Is this absolutely necessary, doctor?"
"It is, Sir. We don't want to get hurt. We have experience. Patients start hitting us when they find out how much they have to pay when health insurance doesn't cover the treatment. But you're not like that, are you? You are polite and friendly and cooperative."
William Oglethorpe lets us finish the safety procedure and says: "Thank you for saving my life, Doctor."
"Saving your life? On the contrary, my dear Mister Oglethorpe. Until now, you were perfectly fine, but nurse Scarlett is going to have a word with you, and then she will become a worse threat to your health than you can imagine…"
Scarlett takes off her mask. She never had much face-to-face business with William Oglethorpe, but the two knew each other from her job at Treesome: "Hello, William. Do you remember me? I used to work for Treesome Ltd, in the centre. You are the banker of that company. You were so afraid you wouldn't get enough that you forced my boss to fire me and save on the costs. That was, indeed, a very costly operation: it cost me my job, my income, my house, my future and even my life. But… I have found a way to pay you back all your good advice."
William Oglethorpe panics. He looks at me as if he expects me to save him from this madwoman: "This is some kind of Good Cop - Bad Cop scene, right? Some sort of «Witch Doctor - Bitch Doctor». She acts like she's going to hurt me and then you save me, right?"
"You watch too many films, Mister Oglethorpe. You hide in your ivory tower and you have absolutely no idea what happens in the real world outside. We're not cops, neither good cops nor bad cops. We don't act either: this is for real.", I say.
"I'm just doing my job…"
Scarlett loses her patience: "You can't convince this man with words, Red. Action speaks louder. Let's start with Act One. Can you please hand me your stiletto? Then I can act as if I cut his guts out, and he can act that he's bleeding, and I can act like I stick that knife in his eye, and he can act that he's having a lot of pain. Did you have any acting classes at the Bankers School, Billy Boy? I'm sure you did. You had to learn how to put on an honest face when you tell all your clients about the great service you provide, and how to look innocent when they return after they found out they'd been swindled."
Scarlett's lovely words don't put Mister Oglethorpe at ease; on the contrary, he acts like he's really worried now: "That woman is crazy…"
I decide that, in this situation, overacting is best for him. I take the knife out of my pocket and toss it to Scarlett, while I explain: "There are three types of Bad Cops: Monsters, Maniacs and Maidens. The Monsters are the vampires, the zombies, the invaders from Mars and the Presidents who want to throw all the poor people out of the country, not because they do something wrong, but just because they're poor. Monsters won't scare anyone; they only exist in fiction.
» The Maniacs are worse. They are real, they are mad and they are men. When mad men do evil things, they follow a rule: it's nothing personal, it's just business. A madman can shoot you in the knee, kill your grandma or send an army to Iraq, but there's always logic behind his evil: he wants something from you; when you give it to him, he'll stop the punishment. Maniacs are driven by logic. There is always a word to activate that logic and turn the situation around. If the madman wants your money, you pay him and he will not shoot you in the knee. If the madman is mad because you flirted with his wife, you show him you're gay, he'll understand his mistake and he'll leave your grandmother alone. If you lower the prices of your oil and promise the Maniac that the fast-food from his factory will from now on be served on every dinner table in your country, he'll take his army out and send them to Afghanistan, to kill innocent people there. For maniacs, evil is just business, like you don't care about the trouble you cause to your clients as long as you make enough money to guarantee your bonus. Right?"
Mister Oglethorpe starts to relax, which is good. The «Good Cop - Bad Cop» works like that: "Right."
I continue: "The third evil species, the Maiden, is rare. They're almost impossible to find in fiction, which is strange: men are bad guys, women are worse guys. Imagine Angela Merkel, Hillary Clinton or Margaret Thatcher dressed like a man… That's scary…
» Mad men are dominated by one or more destructive emotions, like hate or greed or envy. Women always completely dominate their feelings. When a man comes home from his work, late, drunk, lipstick on his cheek and a long blond hair on his collar (it has been a tough day at the office), his wife never loses her control; she stands behind the door, arms crossed, right foot tapping on the floor, eyes penetrating her husband with interest and «that look» on her face: that's terrifying. Words can't describe it. She fully controls her emotions. The only reason the aquarium flies towards the husband's head is her insecurity; without the aquarium, he probably doesn't understand what she's trying to say: «don't do this ever again because you have absolutely no idea what will happen when I lose control over my emotions.» This is important information: the Maiden needs to control her emotions, because when she loses control…
» What you see here before you is a woman who, voluntarily, permitted her emotions to take full possession. She's lost control. Look at her eyes. They say: «you hurt me so much that I no longer care: I will hurt you back». Do you see any logic in those eyes? No, because there is no logic. It's just emotions: hate, rage, revenge and a strong desire to make you suffer like no Monster or Maniac is capable of.
» There's no logic to defend your case. There's no way you can stop her. And there's absolutely no limit to the amount of evil she is capable of. This isn't «Good Cop - Bad Cop» nonsense. This is no act; this is payback. Revenge. Deep shit. Imagine a woman, a nice and friendly and beautiful woman. She never hurt anyone. She always worked hard and cared for her job, her company, and her clients. Imagine what happens when such a woman suffers the indifference of a man with no emotions, a Maniac who treated her badly (but nothing personal, just business).
» What drives her? What makes her so dangerous? Injustice. She's punished for a crime she did not commit. She lost her job, her daily activities that gave meaning to her life, and she lost her income, her house, and her future. You took it away from her. For you, it's just business, nothing personal. You don't see your excessive greed as something evil. For Scarlett, it's injustice; she did nothing wrong. Injustice, my dear Mister Oglethorpe, is not a book full of rules with punishments for the ones who break them. Injustice is a burning fire that makes Dante's Inferno look like a cosy barbecue. It's a hidden volcano. When Scarlett explodes, she'll cause so much damage to our planet's atmosphere that global warming looks like a joke by Al Gore. That rage is coming in your direction. Do you still have the illusion about any Good Cop, having even the slightest control over this woman? You're wrong. You better start worrying."
Scarlett throws some more tropical firewood on the cosy barbecue: "I liked it when you compared my mood with fire. It gave me a brand-new idea. At first, I wanted to cut him open, but that would guarantee him a quick, soft ending by bleeding to death, and it also would make a bloody mess (and WHO has to clean that?) Burning is so much better. In medieval times, men used to burn witches, innocent women who were accused of dark evil magic. Bankers are like modern witches: you invest your savings according to their advice, they do some hocus-pocus with contracts, and then, suddenly, all your money has disappeared like magic. We put him on stakes. On high stakes. Boy, they couldn't get much higher. We celebrate our victory with a whole pig on the barbecue. How do you like your meat? Do you want it rare, medium or well done, Red? Hm… Red… Rare, of course. I suggest we start with his feet, so we can keep the rest alive and kicking… well, just alive in this case. Usually, you start with the guts or the heart, but we're looking at a banker here, who has no guts at all, and a wallet that occupies the place where others have a heart."
At the fireplace that dominates the living room, she builds a stake from logs, splinters and old newspapers. She searches in vain for matches and winks to me: "Come on, partner, light my fire."
I toss her a lighter, but I still have some doubts: "Eat the feet?"
"They eat chicken legs too, don't they?"
"But Scarlett… Appetite enters through the nose… These toes don't smell like a great appetiser. Shall we save the feet for dessert? The French do that; they finish every meal with cheese…"
"You men don't know anything about cooking. If you ever tried kidney pie, you'll know that, for a good cook, it doesn't matter how it smelled before, just how it smells when you're done."
Mister Oglethorpe knows about kidney pie. He releases the product that gives kidneys their awful smell, as an ultimate attempt to avoid seeing his feet turn and burn into an appetiser. Unlike women, this man can't control his emotions; he can't even control his bladder. He cries: "Please, have mercy. I will not do it again. I will lower the interest rates on the loans, and I will give you a fair interest percentage on your savings, and I will return all your losses on the stock market."
While Scarlett entertains herself with her cosy campfire, I take off William's shoes and socks: "Your time to hesitate is through. No time to rock 'n' roll in the mire. You're wasting your energy, Billy Boy. This has nothing to do with business. This is personal. If I would give false hope to you, you know that I would be a liar. Your feet become a funeral pyre."
William Oglethorpe's fear has now reached the level where I can no longer control my emotions. I have to laugh out loud, hardly able to make it look like I just thought of something funny: "You know that nobody will ever find out what we did if we eat his dead body? We can get away with this. No problem, except some overweight."
Scarlett leaves her bonfire for more urgent matters: "Don't be ridiculous, Red. He weighs over 150 kilos. An average person eats 80 kilos of meat in a year. I don't have the intention of staying here that long. I have more important things to do. Do you have ketchup in the kitchen, William? Don't bother. I'll have a look myself. If I can find eggs and oil, I can make mayonnaise."
"Do you need some help? Should I put the meat on the stove?"
Scarlett walks to the kitchen: "Not yet. We'll have to wait until the flames are out. We want to bake the meat, not turn it into charcoal. But you can take off his trousers and place him close to the fire, to take off the raw edges, as they say."
"Take off his trousers? He pissed himself."
"You disappoint me, Red. Do you really think that, in modern society, it's a woman's task to change nappies and clean up other people's shit? Not my cup of tea anymore. If you want to become a father one day, I suggest you start your training right now."
The longer I work with Scarlett, the more I admire her. She's amazing. I'm sure she could make a fortune, teaching psychological warfare and interrogation at any secret service in the world, but I don't even think of recommending her. In this world, we don't need secret services that treat their suspects like Scarlett treats Mister Oglethorpe.
William Oglethorpe is a wreck. He's now at the point where he will do absolutely everything: "What do you want from me? Is it money? Do you want your job back? I can get you a better job. Head of our international department with a monthly salary of 100.000 euros and a guaranteed bonus of 5 million, which can grow up to 20 million, according to the result. All you have to do is play golf with rich foreigners and let them sign a contract."
Scarlett investigates the cupboards and the fridge but can't find anything she is looking for: "No ketchup, no eggs, no olive oil, no milk, just cans of beer and bottles of wine. Why do you have a 40.000 euro kitchen if you never cook? It doesn't matter. The feet-meat will need its time. I'll do some shopping meanwhile…"
As Scarlett's secretary, I do the work of answering the simple questions for her: "She's not interested in becoming just like you, Mister Oglethorpe. She wants to avoid that you do the same again with other innocent women, or with young couples who both have to work to pay their mortgage, or with students who have to put their heads in your snare to pay for their studies, or with hard-working small one-man companies who work the first two days of every week just to pay you. Your greed, and the greed of your colleagues, has fully run out of control. You have become a threat to society. What does the government do with criminals who damage hard-working people, steal their money and force them to work harder to guarantee the criminal's future and bonus?"
"But… I did nothing against the law. I'm not a criminal. And I'm not the reason Miss Scarlett lost her job either. I didn't fire her."
Miss Scarlett now gets angry: "So now we're at that part where we don't just ignore the lack of responsibility for our own acts, but also we hide behind others and blame them? Shame on you, Mister. My former boss did exactly the same thing. He blamed you. He needed to cut costs, the costs of my salary, because his priority was in paying the bank. You can hire and fire personnel without any problem, but it's the bank that closes your company if you're one second late with your payment. You are the madman who caused all my misery. I promise you one thing: I'll pay you back, right now, every penny you are entitled to, according to the law, and with interest for being late. For every tear I shred, you'll cry two. I hope you have enough towels to avoid that the neighbours downstairs will have a shower coming out of their living-room ceiling."
William Oglethorpe already cries the first redemption: "It wasn't me. I give something back for the money they pay me. I grant a loan to pay for your investments, or to finance your slow-paying debtors and your necessary stock. You have the wrong man. I just work hard to earn a living, like your boss and you. You shouldn't blame me for something you do yourself. You should look at the yearly accountant's report. There's the proof I tell the truth. It's not the bank that kills the economy. It's the shareholder. He takes out all the profit, never is satisfied, always wants more, fires the management if they don't manage to achieve their demands and… they don't give back anything. The shareholders don't do anything but spend the profit that others work for. It's not the banker who forces the boss to fire people; it's the shareholder. It's not the do'ers you should burn; it's the hav'ers you should look at. Check the numbers, if you don't believe me. Start my computer, log in on the network of the bank with my password and you'll see. You'll have access to the accounts of millions of our clients, you can take all the money you want, but, please, believe me: I'm not the bad guy in this story. It's the shareholder."
Scarlett stops her rumbling in the kitchen: "Is that true? Do you know enough about economy to check if he's right, Red?"
"I have a degree in Economy. We have to wait for the flames to go out, anyway. If you like, I can log in and find out."
"Yes, please. I don't care about this piece of shit…" (my nose tells me that Scarlett is right here; my appetite melts away to below zero) "… but I hate it when I do a lot of work to find out I have to do it again because I started on the wrong foot."
I look at the bare feet of Mister Oglethorpe, wondering which one is the wrong foot. Probably both. I sit down behind the writing bureau and start the computer. Without being asked, Mister Oglethorpe spits out all the secret codes, passwords and security handicaps that avoid burglars taking control of the Malopolski Bank. He tells me where to find the files of Treesome Ltd and indicates which ones contain the annual report from the accountant with the official results, which ones are the copies for the tax declaration, and which files contain the information about the illegal transactions on the black market, files that even Scarlett didn't know they existed.
I glance through the results of the last ten years. The banker is right: the profit is higher each year, so there was no real need to fire people; the costs for finance are a huge amount, but a small percentage of that profit. Every accountant's report confirms the net profit will go to the shareholders. The bank also has information about who those shareholders are: all the shares belong to Treadstone Investments Ltd, a company with only one person on the payroll, who's also the owner of Treadstone and, according to the information the bank has about him, a millionaire who lives in a mansion in a forest, close to Krakow. I make photos of the screen with the address and the personal info of Mister Evil Knievil, Axel Conklin, with my spiPhone, on which I also recorded the spoken instructions of Mister Oglethorpe on how to enter the network of the bank (interesting information should always be saved and kept close at hand).
I share my new knowledge with Scarlett, who doesn't say anything. Mister Oglethorpe doesn't say anything either. I'm sweating like a pig, thanks to the roaring fire Scarlett created: "What do we do, Scarlett? Would you like to visit Mister Conklin before we have dinner or after?"
Scarlett looks around: "It smells awful here, Red. My appetite has disappeared like a snowman in front of a campfire. I found two fresh red apples. If you don't mind, we go right now. We'll eat an apple on the road."
I look at Mister Oglethorpe, tied up as a blutwurst in his chair: "Too bad. I was really looking forward to this dinner; candles, wine, a beautiful fireplace, romantic music, the best view ever over the city, and the company of a beautiful woman… And now, you throw me an apple, telling me we have to go because we have another job to do. That's not the bonus I hoped for, after all the work I did for you."
"The dessert of your romantic dinner at home would be washing dishes, cleaning the kitchen and taking the rubbish out. We better have dinner out. We can afford it. Look what we have here: Mister Oglethorpe's platinum credit card, reserved for company costs. Would you mind if he invites us for dinner, Red?"
There's only one thing better than having a romantic dinner at home: being invited. I smile: "Well, it's unexpected, but it's a pleasant surprise and I appreciate your kindness."
* * *
I'm not sure what kind of dinner Scarlett would like, so I decide to stay on the safe side: "Do you like Italian food?"
It's an advantage to work together with a local. Scarlett knows the best places: "If you like pizza, we can go to «The Tower Of Pizza», if you want macaroni or spaghetti we better go to «Etna», and if you want to try the best Swordfish a la Siciliana of Poland, we should go to «Jovanotti»."
Jovanotti is an excellent choice. It's Friday, but the pessimistic economic situation doesn't motivate many people to go out and spend a fortune on food; we're the only customers, except for a young couple who are already on their coffee when we arrive. First, we celebrate our modest victory against the financial world with a white Lambrusco. Then, we make plans for our next campaign, against Treadstone Investments Ltd and their PDG, Axel Conklin.
Scarlett asks: "What did you find out about Mister Conklin?"
We left the banker taped to the chair in front of the dying fire, with no food or water, to teach him a lesson he'll never forget. Later tonight, we'll return to his place and decide if we're going to turn him loose, or if we just water our plant and come back later. He won't complain that he needed to use the bathroom, because he already proved he could do without. Apart from his credit card, we took the keys of his front door and his car. First, we brought back the ambulance. Scarlett drove us to the restaurant in the banker's car, while I worked on William Oglethorpe's laptop computer, investigating our next victim and the company he runs.
Between the wine and our main dish, I report: "Axel Conklin is single, 61 years old, and lives in some deserted place about 10 kilometres south of Krakow."
"Can we just go there and knock on his door?", Scarlett says, with a frown.
I quickly scan the address with the Maps app on my spiPhone (I don't like it when people play with their phone during meals, especially not when they have company, but this is nothing personal, just business, and we're here to do a job, to make plans, and we're not eating yet, just drinking): "This looks… complicated. I have a better idea."
"Do you have an idea about what you would like to eat, Sir?", the waiter asks, with his pen and notebook ready for action.
Scarlett does the honour: "We would both very much like the Swordfish a la Siciliana Jovanotti, please. And for a starter, we would like to share one Ensalada Caprese."
The waiter heads for the kitchen, and I send a message to The Nerd. Ten minutes later, I have my answers.
"Treadstone… We should do that step by step. Treadstone is an investment company. So first, we cook up a plan for which we need investment, and then we'll see if the mouse is interested in the bait."
"The mouse? The pig, you mean. That man ruined my life. I'm going to eat him alive. What plan did you cook up?"
I point at the salad on the table: "Pay attention to Jovanotti's cooking. For today, I planned to eat, to drink and to enjoy a wonderful evening."
"And tomorrow?"
"Curiosity is a bad habit, Scarlett. We'll do this step by step. Tonight's step is swordfish. Tomorrow, we'll take the next step."
"And that will be?"
"Tomorrow is Saturday. Even spies and hired killers like to have their weekend off for relaxing and socialising. Didn't you promise your new neighbours a barbecue on Saturday? Whose problem is that? Not yours. You told them I would do the cooking. I'll do the math too: two point five neighbours per flat, five flats per floor, eighteen floors per tower, six towers… That's 1.000 hamburgers, 1.000 goosebump sausages, 1.000 spareribs, 1.000 plates of macaroni salad with tomatoes, onions and paprikas, and 3.000 bottles of beer. Must I prepare quantities like that on one of those camping barbecues? Shouldn't there be some music? Perhaps some decoration or coloured lights to brighten up the place? I only have two hands."
Scarlett bends over and puts her two hands on top of mine: "I have two hands too. That makes four. And I have a mouth, so I can ask people to help us. Look. I have a magic platinum credit card, and I have a network of relations that will do anything for me, as long as I pay for it. Where's the problem, Red?"
Somehow… I don't think there's any problem at all.
"You're the best partner any spy can wish for, Scarlett."