I wanted this. I wanted this so much. I wanted to be a spy, ever since my grandpa read me the stories of James Bond, Jason Bourne and John le Carré, stories about dangerous daggers and stolen secrets, about bright, shiny limos, glamorous nightgowns and poisonous cobras. I wanted a watch that turns into a lifeboat, to escape from the submarine after putting a time bomb in it. Jumping out of planes fits perfectly in that precious collection of fascinating activities that gives colour and taste to the life of a spy. So why do I have this breathtaking feeling? I'm falling towards the end of the fascinating spy life I've always dreamed of.
Jumping out of planes is exciting when others do it, especially when those others only exist in books of fiction. When you do it yourself, it's a sensation of extreme cold, panic-like fear, mixed with a chaotic search for that stupid thing you have to pull to open the parachute. I'm not the only one having that problem: below me, far below me, Scarlett goes down like a meteor, head forward, legs together, arms close to her body.
"Scarlett! Pull the rope!"
It's useless. I can't even hear my own voice. And I can't see her anymore either, because I lose my fragile balance and turn upside down like a yo-yo. The positive part of my unexpected movement is that the orange rope to open the parachute passes before my eyes. In a reflex, I grab it and pull as hard as I can. It works. The backpack opens, the chute unfolds, and a sudden blow on my back and shoulders indicates that my free fall has changed in a much more relaxing voyage. I concentrate on my breath, try to calm down, find the two rings that make it possible to steer, and carefully try out how they work. I never had any training or instructions. For learning how to fall, experience is a terrible teacher. Slowly, I'm getting my thoughts organized, able to think about other priorities again…
Scarlett!
I look down and see that she's still falling, but no longer like a meteor, more like a professional skydiver, arms and legs out and body in balance against the fierce cold wind. Pull the rope, Scarlett. Pull the rope.
As if she heard my thoughts, her right arm moves. Finally, the parachute unfolds above her. While I try to control my own problems, Scarlett goes down in circles around the boat she aimed at, like she follows the halo of flies that marks the landing spot. With a sigh of relief, I see how she makes a perfect landing on the front deck of the boat. Well done, Scarlett. I hope I can do it just as you showed me.
I can't.
There's not a lot of wind, but enough to make my approach to landing a lot faster than I hoped. Also, my parachute opened earlier, so the wind has more time to blow me away from my favourite landing spot. I pull both steering rings to lower my speed, but that causes an unexpected move to the left and hardly any time to correct it. I'm going to miss the boat. I see circles in the water. The sharks are waiting for their lunch… I pull both rings to the max, something I saw others do once on TV, with an ultimate attempt to avoid breaking legs when making the fall, and… I don't fall at all. The parachute becomes close friends with the small iron mast on the top of the cabin, and both want me to hang out with them. My feet hit the water next to the boat, but with a catlike reaction, I grab the ropes of the parachute and climb on board.
Where's Scarlett? She's already inside. I hear her voice. She's talking to someone in the cabin. I pat my overall. Nothing. Where's my gun? Did I leave it in Pension Chopin this morning? All I find in my pockets is a heavy metal fountain pen. I take the cap off. The pen is sharp as a knife. It will not be much of a weapon, but it's better than nothing.
When I enter the cabin, I find my Makarov: it's in Scarlett's right hand, pointing at a pale, blond man on the other side of the kitchen, making the man listen with attention to what Scarlett tells him: "I'm going to kill you, but first, I'm going to torture you; I'm going to hurt you so much that people on the other side of the border will hear you scream. Then, after three or four weeks of nightmare, I'm going to drug you…"
I look my enemy in the eye. What kind of man is he? I was prepared for Stephen King, the ruler of a software empire, with some sort of morbid pleasure to give immense horror to the rest of the world. I was even prepared to face some kind of reincarnation of Steve Jobs, a normal-looking man with a sharp mind, a comforting smile, and words with which he can sell you anything. But I wasn't prepared to meet Stevie Wonder, who wonders what's happening, blind for the deadly danger, closing in on him from two different sides.
Scarlett has taken her blue jumpsuit off before she went inside; she wanted to make a good impression when meeting her future victim for the first time. In her distinguished black office suit, she's dressed to kill. She opens the left side of her jacket to show Steve her pharmacy, and continues: "I've cooked up a thrilling treatment for you: I'm going to fill your veins with heroin. First, you'll feel like you're in heaven… Then you're addicted… Then I'll stop giving you the drugs… That's the worst part, when you need the drugs and you can't get them. It's like someone who works hard to get a better life, and when she has it… you take away her job… you take away her income, her social environment, her healthcare, her future and the future of her kids, all at once… She wants to work for it, but you don't let her, because you've found out that you'll earn more when you hire a cheaper workaholic. After all, unemployment is so high that the working class accepts anything, anything for a job. I've seen heroin addicted junkies. There's nothing worse than a drug addict without drugs. You'll scream and cry and beg and hit your head against the wall, tortured by not getting what you need most. And the best part is: all I have to do is… absolutely nothing, just make sure you don't get what you want."
Steve, in shock, holds a full Magnum bottle of champagne, pointing it to Scarlett, and now to me, as if he wants to kill one of us with the cork when he shakes the bottle. Scarlett holds the Makarov. I hold a pen, which is not a pen but a deadly weapon, or at least I hope that both Scarlett and Steve think it is.
Steve is afraid of that woman who threatens to torture him, and doubts if the man who came in later has plans to kill him right away. Scarlett is afraid that I will not allow her to kill a man, but also that Steve will escape when I try to avoid it. I'm afraid that this pen is just what it is, a pen.
We are like the Good, the Bad and the Ugly, and it's clear that I'm Tuco, the one who's least dangerous because one of the others stole my bullets.
We all look at each other.
Steve stands on the left.
Scarlett stands on the right.
I stand at the door.
A white shiny knight with a Magnum.
A black magic woman with a Makarov.
A joker in a yellow and orange overall with a fountain pen.
We all look at each other.
Blue eyes.
Dark eyes.
Cold eyes.
Stone cold.
Pitch black.
Ice blue.
Nobody says anything.
I'm the Ugly.
The question is: who's the Good and who's the Bad?
We know from the film that the Good one will survive, and the Bad one will die. The Good one has fair hair, and the Bad one wears a black hat. The Good one will prove his (or her) goodness by shooting the Bad one to death, which might not be such Good behaviour as Sergio Leone wants us to believe.
Steve is the first who loses his nerves. He throws Scarlett a razor-sharp question: "What is the crime you punish me for?"
Scarlett smiles, victoriously. A long search long, she longed for this moment of triumph: "You created SecretAppy, a program that makes it impossible for millions of young and hard-working women to earn themselves a living. People might not get everything they work for, but they should be able to work for all they get. You took away that basic right."
Steve defends himself: "Is that a crime? Are you also going to kill the ones who invented the computer, the car, the steam machine and the wheel? They caused a lot of jobless people too."
"It's not what you did; it's why you did it. All you thought about was your own welfare, your own wealth, your own personal happiness, without any responsibility for the rest of the world, especially that part of the world that has to work for their living. Your reward is: sloth, laziness, doing nothing the whole day except drinking champagne on your yacht, like all the other members of the rich elite that rule this planet. Do you understand these accusations?"
Steve dodges the question and launches another one: "Do I have the right to remain silent? I don't want that right."
Scarlett looks at me, surprised, like Steve suddenly talks in Double Dutch and she expects me to translate. Okay. I'll translate: "Steve here wants to know if you're like the rest of the elite. Do you decide and judge without listening to the people you're going to hurt? Are you like the boss who doesn't care what happens to his employee after he fired her? Are you like the banker who doesn't care if his client can pay the interest and loses hor house? Do you identify with the shareholder, who doesn't care what measures are taken, as long as the profit goes up? Are you the taxman, who doesn't care that people have nothing to eat after they paid their taxes? Do you agree with the Minister, who doesn't care what the people want, as long as they vote for her? Are you going to hurt Steve without listening to him? Or are you going to listen to him first, and hurt him later? Are you like all the others who are «just doing their job», who only feel responsible for their own financial position? Or do you care about the consequences of your own behaviour?"
"Ridiculous. Of course I care. I don't do this only for myself, but also for all the secretaries who lose their jobs, and all the workers in the world who suffer from the acts of people like Steve Jobs here."
I say: "The right to remain silent is only for inhabitants of countries where the elite has the right to do what it wants, because, in those countries, being rich is the same as being powerful. Poland is not such a country. Steve has the right to speak. Is that right?"
"Yes. Steve has the right to speak, and he also has the right to scream, later, when I give him what he deserves."
"Okay. I just wanted to be sure. Because right now, with that gun in your hand, you are in the same position as all those powerful, rich people you hated so much. I won't keep you from killing or torturing Steve; I've promised you I wouldn't interfere, and you're the one with the gun. I only want you to give Steve the right to explain to us why he did what he did, a right that nobody ever gave to you when you were in that position."
Scarlett points the gun at Steve and instructs him: "You have the right to speak, Steve. I will listen."
Steve is not confident yet: "Should I do that here, in the kitchen, standing up? Is it necessary to point a gun at me? I prefer to do my talking while we sit down, comfortably, on these soft white leather couches over there in the bow, with a freshly made cup of coffee, enjoying the view over the lake. I promise I won't attack you, and I will not try to escape. We just talk and listen. Even the Nazi's who stood trial at Nürnberg got permission to speak without being under fire…"
Scarlett is suspicious: "Is this a little trick of yours? Is there an ejection seat hidden in that couch? Does that bottle in your hand shoot poisoned needles?"
Steve is a good talker. He knows what should be done to get what he wants: "I can tell you yes or I can tell you no, but the most important thing is… can you trust me? If you let me talk, you'll have to trust me to say the truth. If I promise you I won't try to escape, you'll have to trust me on my word. That's how trust works: you can never be certain. There is only one thing that makes trust stronger than iron: a deal with a benefit for both sides. I have that deal for you. All you have to do is listen to what I have to say. If you prefer to do that here, standing up, pointing a gun at me; that's fine. I like to offer you a cup of coffee and a comfortable seat because I can use a cup of coffee myself, and I prefer a comfortable seat when I'm drinking it. In other words: I like to have a good life, and I like to share that good life with others. That's my philosophy. I'm not like the others you've met lately. I like to prove that to you. All I want is that you trust me enough, so I can prove it. Can I put this bottle in the refrigerator? I have something to celebrate tomorrow and I want it to be cool."
Scarlett's doubts have not disappeared yet: "Don't turn your back on me, baby. Don't try to make a devil out of me."
I decide to go for the proof and the trust. I take the bottle out of Steve's hands and put it in the refrigerator. Then I put a fresh coffee pad in the machine, place a clean cup under it and press the button. When the cup is full, I take it over to the bow and sit down on the comfortable leather couch, taking every seat one by one, to make sure there are no poisoned arrows killing me and no ejectors that shoot me through the roof. I admire the view and enjoy the excellent coffee. Then I search the cabin for hidden guns or microphones. Nothing. Finally, I say to Scarlett: "This man is telling you the truth. If you and he each sit on another side of the table, you can hide the gun under a pillow next to you and grab it when he tries to attack you or when he tries to run away. I'll take the seat in the middle, ready to defend you in case of attack, and to stand in the way when he starts running."
Finally, Scarlett agrees. I prepare a cup of coffee for both of them (and another one for myself, it's outstanding coffee), we sit down, Scarlett hides the gun under the pillow next to her, and we start the chat.
Steve wants to break the ice: "Perhaps we should introduce ourselves first?"
"No names. You can call me Red. She's Scarlett."
"Does that make me Ashley?", Steve asks. Apparently, the man knows his classics.
I answer: "We baptised you Steve Jobs; software, lost jobs… You get it?"
Steve gets it. What he doesn't get is that he should give answers; he keeps asking questions instead: "Would you mind writing down the complaints Miss Scarlett accused me of? As I remember well, she started with the assumption that I created SecretAppy, which is true, by the way, but in the rush and the excitement, I forgot about the rest. Was there something about me, doing nothing but drinking champagne?"
Scarlett summarises her grievances: "You caused the unemployment of millions of workers, in every country where SecretAppy has been sold. Your motivation was your desire to be rich and do nothing. You behave without being responsible for your acts."
I write it down and put the paper on the table. My fountain pen might not be as powerful as a loaded bottle or a Russian handgun, but at least, it's useful.
Steve drops another question: "What do you know about Haiti, Miss Scarlett?"
Scarlett is surprised (and so am I): "What does this have to do with—"
Steve lifts his hands: "Please, your honour. It will all become clear. I need to know some details, some basic knowledge about some backgrounds. If you will be so kind to answer my questions, then I will answer all yours in return."
Scarlett answers: "Haiti is an island in the Caribbean Sea. As I remember well, it's only half the island. The other half belongs to the Dominican Republic. I know that the capital is Port-au-Prince and there was an earthquake some years ago. Was Baby Doc in charge of national criminality there?"
Steve is satisfied with the results of Scarlett's geography exam. Now he wants me to pass: "Anything you can add to this interesting knowledge? Any corrections or some further details?"
All I know about Haiti is Wyclef Jean, and I remember that the earthquake was in the winter of 2010.
"On the 12th of January 2010, at 16:53 local time, to be precise. The epicentre was about 25 kilometres southwest of the capital, Port-au-Prince. You were right, Miss: between 1971 and 1986, Baby Doc ruled like a modern emperor, covering himself with gold while he ordered the killing and torturing of the people he was responsible for. It's amazing that most people only know a country's criminals, while there are so many honest people who need attention.
» To refresh your memory: Haiti is the country that covers the west side of the island Hispaniola. The Dominican Republic covers the eastern side, which is roughly twice the size, but both countries have about the same amount of inhabitants, 10 million each. Haiti is famous in history because it was the first colonial country that fought itself to independence, in 1804, thanks to the only successful revolution of slaves in our world's history. The latest news is: Haiti has the lowest Human Development Index in the Americas, and it's one of the poorest countries in the world. On top of that, it suffered a devastating earthquake in January 2010, which caused the loss of their houses for 1,5 million Haitians, plus an estimated number of deceased between 92.000 and 300.000, depending on the sources."
Scarlett gets impatient. She came here to have anatomy class with Steve's body, not for a quick course of geography and history: "What has Haiti to do with me losing my job?"
Steve smiles and sips his coffee, relaxed, enjoying the smell and the aroma. I follow his example. He's right. This is first-class coffee.
Steve explains: "The earthquake moved me. I was terribly shocked. Those were the poorest people on our planet. They built their country on genocide, slavery and dictators. And now the Higher Powers gave them an earthquake for dessert. I followed the news like a maniac, not able to think about anything else. Help was on its way. The world gave money. The world sent tents, blankets, food, medical care, teams to help the search for survivors. Everybody wanted to do something. Haiti was, for one moment, the centre of attention of the world. For one moment…"
Scarlett has other things she wants to pay attention to: "Well?"
"What happened with those donated millions? They were used to buy food from Western companies, tents from Western companies, medicines from Western companies, to pay Western companies for transport and to pay Western doctors for their time. Most of the donated millions ended in the pockets of Western businesses. The other half of the transaction, the goods and help, were mainly for consumption and hardly for investments like new houses or better hospitals. After a few months, Haiti lost its number one position on the world scale of interest, and the situation was hardly better than it was just after the earthquake.
» First, I thought «If I were a rich man, I would give all my money to help those people, but I'm poor, a jobless programmer, unable to work, and I have nothing to give away.» I wanted to go there and help, but I'm worth nothing when it comes to building houses, and as a nurse, I would do more wrong than right. Then I got a better idea: if a country wants to grow, it needs export. Haiti needed goods and services that other countries produced. Their major problem was: they didn't produce, export, enough to get the money to buy what they needed. So I gave them export. I didn't have money to donate, but I had time. I was jobless. The Polish Social Security gave me enough money to eat and pay the rent of a cheap flat. I had all the time in the world. Haiti gave me a dream, and an activity to fulfil that dream. I invented SecretAppy."
Suddenly, I understand why Steve needs such a long story to explain his point. I want him to go on, to tell us what happened, but Scarlett is not listening: "So you managed to have me fired, as revenge, just because I didn't donate money to the victims of an earthquake? How low can you go, Steve? I should kill you right now."
I interrupt: "No, Scarlett. Let him finish the story. I begin to understand where we're going."
Steve wants to end the story too: "Do you know the secret of SecretAppy? It's not software. It's people. How do you motivate people? You pay them money. When you pay money, people do everything you ask them, without questioning if that's good or bad, without interest in the consequences of their behaviour. I needed people to do what I wanted. My first step was to get the money to pay them. Make a note, Mister Red: I hacked a little bit here and there, I stole some private information and I robbed several billions from a few Caribbean banks. Did you notice that all Miss Scarlett's grievances are acts that are not against any law? She's right. I confess: I caused the loss of thousands of jobs of hard-working Polish people, but I did nothing against the law when I sold SecretAppy to my clients. On the other hand, I'm guilty of a lot of criminal activities. To create SecretAppy, I had to break lots of laws. As I'm not ashamed of what I did, I'll confess my crimes to you, so you can punish me as you please. I hacked a few bank accounts on the Cayman Islands, the British Virgin Islands, and some of the other tax paradises in the Caribbean region. With the money I stole… uh… borrowed… from those accounts, I paid people in Haiti to do what I ordered them to do."
"And what did you order them to do?", I ask.
"SecretAppy is not software. It's people. If you pay people, they do anything you want: they sell drugs for you, or they sell their bodies, or they cut down the rainforest, or they go to war and kill for you. I paid them to study. I paid teachers to teach Polish, English, German and other languages to the homeless and jobless people. I paid masons to build schools. I paid technicians to set up systems for electricity, based on sun, wind and water. I hired engineers to set up fast Internet services. I invested in computers and installed complete networks in the new buildings, both to teach the local people how to work with them and to teach them how to work for Western companies. They needed to learn how to make invoices and appointments, how to send emails and goods, how to answer phones, how to call clients with invoices overdue, how to make bank transfers… I contracted teachers in Haiti who could teach the rest of the island everything a modern secretary should know, except making coffee. They already knew how to make coffee. This coffee comes from Haiti. Do you like it?"
Scarlett likes the coffee, but it gives her a bitter after-taste: "So SecretAppy is not a computer program that does everything a secretary or salesman or management assistant does. It's just a connection to an office in Haiti that does the same work for less money?"
Steve's smile betrays his admiration for Scarlett's sharp mind: "Exactly. All I did was give orders to the local people to learn skills. By paying for their time, I got two things in return: I had a fast-growing group of loyal office workers, and I had the power to decide how they should rebuild their country. First, I decided they were employees. SecretAppy Ltd. owned all the companies they worked for. I wanted the responsibility in my own hands. Freedom is a wonderful thing, but with all the freedom to do what they wanted, the Haitians created 70% of unemployment. I took away their freedom by taking the responsibility, by telling them what to do.
» The second rule was that they were not allowed to spend even one cent of their salaries to buy goods or services from outside the island. I ordered them to use local masons and carpenters, to buy local food from local farmers, to produce local electricity and clean water. I set up local businesses for everything they needed, but the shares of all those local businesses belonged to me, to SecretAppy Ltd. It was booming. Within a year, I had 10.000 people who had learnt enough to start doing simple jobs for Western Companies. To motivate the others to study harder, I paid a double income to the ones who did productive work. At the end of 2013, I had 100.000 people on the payroll of SecretAppy Ltd. and its sister companies, half of them working for clients and making enough money to pay for all of them, and the other half being paid for studying and learning skills. At the end of 2015, I had repaid all the money I borrow-stole, including a small interest. Probably tomorrow, we'll blow another milestone: we'll reach the amazing number of 1 million workers who get a better life, thanks to the investments in knowledge of one simple, jobless programmer from Krakow, Poland."
Steve takes a deep breath. I'm not sure if he expects applause and a standing ovation, if he expects Bruce Willis and Sandra Bullock entering the cabin to give him the Nobel Prize or the Oscar for Best Director, or if he just wants to give us some time to think this over.
Scarlett uses the time to think this over: "You steal jobs in Poland so you can give them to people in Haiti?"
"Yes. I'm guilty of your first point. Via SecretAppy, Poland imports cheap labour from Haiti, although that cheap labour doesn't cross the border like the fugitives from the Near East. I never forced anyone to do this. Every worker in Haiti is free to leave and find another job. Every client-user of SecretAppy made his own decision to switch from local labour to Internet labour. I didn't advertise, I didn't manipulate people with false promises, and I hardly lost clients for the lack of quality of the service of the app. It was just a matter of numbers. All my clients have made the same choice: getting the same service for a lower price. All my employees have made the same choice: getting a better life by studying and working for it. Does that make me a criminal?"
"Hm. It made me jobless."
Steve shrugs: "Now you get money for doing nothing. In Haiti, people don't have that luxury. You should be happy to live in a country where others take care of you. In fact, that's what I try to teach the people in Haiti too: work hard and do it together. There will come a moment when some of us have bad luck, and then they will need others to help them. That's why every employee of SecretAppy has the same income: if I would pay one man double, another one would get nothing. We share the cake together and I cut it into equal pieces. What was your second point?"
"You're living in luxury, drinking champagne and doing nothing.", Scarlett mutters.
"I work 60 hours per week, without getting a salary for it. Will you please be so kind to get that Magnum bottle out of the fridge and read what's written on the label? Please?"
Scarlett gets up, grabs the Makarov from under the pillow, and walks to the refrigerator. Without letting Steve out of sight, she takes out the bottle and reads aloud: "Pineapple juice. 100%. Produced by «No Pain, No Gain Ltd., Petionville»." She turns the bottle around and reads aloud what's written by hand on the white label at the back: "One million thanks for all the work you did for us."
"Petionville is better known as Tent City. It's where the epicentre of the earthquake hit. It's the place where most of the employees of SecretAppy ltd live… If you want to talk about that second point on your list, Miss, you can see for yourself how I live in luxury, with my 30 zloty shoes and my 10 zloty T-shirt from the street market, drinking pineapple juice every day to celebrate the misery that all those Polish workers live in: I'm guilty. I'm also guilty of breaking and entry: this yacht belongs to a millionaire who's so busy with the football club he owns that he never comes here. I'm also guilty of breaking the law on Social Security: if the office that pays out money to the disabled would know that I've left the country, they would stop my monthly payment immediately."
"Why are you not capable to work? You seem perfectly normal.", I ask.
"I was born with arthritic haemophilia, a disease that stops my blood from clotting, should I have a wound. That pen you have in your hand? You could kill me with a simple scratch of it."
"This pen is mightier than a sword… But you earn millions with SecretAppy and you spend that money for your own living. We've seen the payment of your groceries and the deliveries on the SecretAppy bank account. That's how we found you."
"I pay that from the company to avoid the Social Security cuts my payment. I pay the costs back to SecretAppy from my private account, from the money the Social Security pays me to live on. I never took one cent out of SecretAppy. You can check the fridge for my medicines and my bank account for the payments, if you don't believe me."
I do believe him, but I never mix trust with verifying information. After I've logged in on Steve's bank account, I verify that he told me the truth. With his social security number and a little help from The Nerd, I check the medicines and his medical files. The annual reports of losses and profits of SecretAppy Ltd. prove there's no profit; every incoming penny was used to pay the costs of the operation (mainly salaries of local employees) and investments in other companies (mainly small, local factories, farms and shops).
Steve isn't finished yet. He adds some extra points on the list of charges: "I'm guilty of slavery. In a country with 70% unemployment, I invented the 60-hour workweek, 6 days of 10 hours. I force my employees to work at night, to be more productive and because of the difference in time zone with our clients. When problems are as big as in Haiti, it's a deadly sin to waste so much capacity of slothful problem solvers. Work is a synonym for solving problems; you solve other people's problems, and they give you money in return, so you can solve your own problems. I pay the ones who study and learn skills US$ 100 per month, which is the average income in Haiti, and I pay the $200 per month to the ones who do productive work for the clients of SecretAppy, for 40 hours of work and 20 hours of study per week. I also have about 40.000 child slaves who I pay $50 per month to go to school and study 30 hours per week. Perhaps you might add that I'm also guilty of dictatorship, telling almost a million poor people what to do, how to act, and how to think."
I add it to the list with my fountain pen.
Steve wants me to cross one of the first points: "You might want to reconsider your accusation that I'm not responsible for my acts.
» Do you read the newspapers, Miss Scarlett? Or are you one of those who only watch the bombs, the blood and the buried? Violence is always a problem and never a solution, but… A few days ago, Eco terrorists bombed the office of Treesome Ltd., a company that imports rainforest wood. Treesome could motivate their suppliers to plant two trees for every one they cut, but they preferred the higher profit. Treesome could pay a reasonable price for the wood, but they prefer to buy at the lowest prices, so the woodcutters have to cut twice the amount to make the same living. The greed of Treesome causes ecological disasters to our planet. And what do consumers do? They stand in line to buy their wood from Treesome because Treesome offers the wood against the lowest prices. We don't judge the company, we don't punish Treesome, no, we reward their policy by giving them every cent we have. That's what competition does to us: thanks to our selfishness and our greed, we kill our own future. With our sloth, or unwillingness to act against evil, we kill our own children. Nobody acts responsibly; nobody cares about the consequences of his own acts."
Scarlett shrugs: "What does that have to do with me? I don't work for Treesome Ltd."
She's right: Treesome fired her just before the Eco terrorist bombed the place.
Steve continues: "Right now, here in Krakow, the World Climate Conference takes place. Yesterday, the Prime Minister of Luxembourg gave a speech: «A dog lives on 250 grams of dog food per day; she can survive 40 days with a 10-kilo bag of food, but if you give her the whole bag all at once, she'll wolf down all the food in less than a week and extinct herself of hunger during the next month. A dog, although we call her an intelligent animal, is not smart enough to live happily today and have a future too.
» Humanity has this beautiful planet, the one we call Earth; she can survive easily with everything our planet provides, but if you teach her selfishness, greed, gluttony and sloth, she'll extinct herself by her own stupidity during the next generation. Humanity, although we call her an intelligent animal, is not smart enough to live happily today and have a future too. Freedom is worth nothing without responsibility. If we don't agree about a Plan B, we'll need a Planet B.», said the leader of Luxembourg.
» That's what I call responsibility. That's someone who tries to talk sense into the world, but the world is stupid. The world doesn't listen to words; all it understands is higher numbers, economy, more money, more profit. This is why I keep all the shares of SecretAppy and its sister companies: if I would leave the economy in Haiti to the responsibility of the people who live there, nothing would happen. As long as I pay them, I can tell them what to do. I tell them to learn, to work hard, and to support each other, by buying local products instead of cheaper stuff from other countries.
» A few months ago, we started (with SecretAppy financing) a project to plant forest, giving part of the island back to nature. It's useless because big Western companies cut a thousand trees for every new one we plant, but at least we do our best to fight back against those criminals who kill the green lungs of our planet. Treesome is one of the companies that buy the wood from the Haitian rainforest. They are the people I hate most, the ones that always come with the excuse «I'm just doing my job», the same words the Nazis used before they massacred the next bunch of innocent victims. When people don't listen to reason, you should punish them; push a bomb in their asses. I admire people who are brave enough to do such a thing. It makes me feel I'm not the only one who cares. Do you care, Miss Scarlett? Do you care about the future of your children? Do you have children, Miss Scarlett?"
Scarlett takes the Makarov and points it at Steve's head: "Keep my children out of this. I'm the one who's responsible for them, and you took away everything I had, everything I needed to give my children the future they deserve. Your time is up, Steve. I gave you the possibility to defend yourself, but I will punish you for what you did to me. You are guilty of making me lose my job, and you are guilty of lots of other crimes. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps you've done some good things here and there. But this world doesn't pay rewards for what we do, only for what we have. I have a gun. You don't. I have the power. You don't. That's the world we're living in: the one who shoots first is the Good one and the one who dies is the Bad one. I want my revenge. I declare you guilty."
Steve has only time for one last punch line, one last attempt to prove that the pen is mightier than the sword, that the word is more powerful than a loaded gun. He says: "Who's guilty? The hunter who kills the rabbit? Or the farmer who eats all the carrots so the rabbit dies of hunger?"
Scarlett draws a short breath and says lightly but softly: "My dear, I don't give a damn."
It's a magical moment.
On the right, there is this strong black magic woman with a mighty gun and a heart of stone, a woman who never gives up, who will do the impossible to get what she wants, a strong and powerful woman, the best partner any spy can wish for.
On the left, there's Steve, who tries to get a spell on Scarlett, a Haitian voodoo spell with little needles and ugly dolls, chicken blood and midnight mystical superstition.
Only one of them will walk away towards the sunset, ready for new adventures.
The other one will become shark food.
The list of accusations and confessions has filled the whole sheet of paper. Steve has confessed all his crimes, all but one: responsibility, that magic word. Responsibility is the price we pay for our freedom. Freedom is our highest goal. Scarlett has done everything to find the one who took away her freedom. Steve confessed every crime he was accused of, but claimed he was the only one who took responsibility for his acts, even when it caused less freedom for all the others.
Who's the Good one in this story?
Who's the Bad one?
One of them is going to die.
Do you have children, Miss Scarlett?
Steve sticks needles in them.
Voodoo magic from Haiti.
Scarlett fights the spell, clenches her fist and presses the trigger, while she tries to keep her sturdy look as hard as she can… but then she breaks, not able to triumph in the present because of the sacrifice she'll have to pay in the future.
Two tears drop out of her eyes, one for each of her daughters.
Rostov! She KNOWS I can't stand it to see a woman cry. Are we going to start this story again? Or can we, please, wipe our tears away and end this with a clean sheet?