Brest - Thursday, 5th of October 2017
This is the end of the world. This is the most dangerous place on earth. No weapons, no training, no magic can protect me against the death rate in this building, the high number of people who entered here and didn't come out alive. Only a fool would accept this mission, but I have no choice: I'm a spy, I'm #5, number five, The Runner, I work for the LSD (the Luxembourg Spy Department), ruled by #1, The Boss, who decides where I go to and what I do there. I have no choice. I have the blues. The blues will heal me when I get hurt.
The map of France is Charles de Gaulle, looking at the Atlantic Ocean: the north is his military cap, with Normandy as its visor, the Alps are his long rebellious hair, the Languedoc is his pain in the neck, the estuary of the Gironde is his disapproving mouth, and Bretagne is his long sharp nose, ending at Finisterre, the end of the world, and the only part of Gaulle that Julius Caesar could never conquer, thanks to Asterix and his brave friends, and thanks to Panoramix's magic potion that made them invincible. My mission is to find that magic potion, well, not exactly Panoramix's mix, but a similar, secret French formula, which will give Luxembourg invincible powers and make it the dominant country in modern warfare.
#1, The Boss, thinks this formula hides here, at the end of the world, in Brest, on the wart on the nose of General Charles, in the kitchen of the great-grandchildren of Panoramix: the laboratory of pharmaceuticals in the Academic Hospital, the most dangerous place on Earth. It gives me the creeps. Everybody knows how many patients only leave hospitals as the major attraction at their own funeral. I smell Death behind every corner.
Behind the next corner, I look Death in the eye: His cold claws choke the final breath out of a shaking, shocking, shivering body in a white cotton coat, crawling, puking and roaring like someone who gets electroshock therapy after a lethal injection.
No time to waste.
I kneel next to the man, check his pulse (it's running like crazy), his eyes (pupils wide, staring into that long dark tunnel with no light at the end), his respiration (not working), his mouth and throat…
Before my eyes, I see the letters POMAN ABBBS. When I learnt them, I thought «this is useless because you will never think of POMAN ABBBS in an emergency», but now, in this emergency, I know exactly what to do. POMAN's P stands for Personal safety. No action is required. I'm perfectly safe here. Other people's safety is no issue either. We're not under attack or in a fire. Mark the spot: room 472, pharmaceutical wing, Academic Hospital Brest. Alarm is next. I say to my spiPhone: "Lovely Sweet Dear. Call 112. Urgent medical assistance. This location. Action.", and the app will do the rest. The last letter is the N of Necessary medical help, the ABBBS, which stands for Air, Blood, Broken bones, Burnings, Shock. Air is first. Without air, every living creature dies within minutes. One quick move cleans his mouth. With the Heimlich grip, I remove the rest of the puke from the entrance to the lungs. He starts to breathe disgusting air. Lucky for him. Having the choice between artificial breathing and letting him die, I would find a toothbrush first.
His body functions are at an alarming speed. He must have something toxic in his stomach. Water. First, I throw it in his face, then I make him drink it, more, more, saltwater, throw it out, save your own life, come on, fight for it, you're young, not even 40 years old, you have a lot to live for, clean your stomach, get that poison out of your system, don't give up now, stay with me, nobody's dying on my watch!
There's no better place to die than a hospital. Specialists surround you, every drug is available, and life-saving machines stand everywhere. All you need is a little knowledge from these specialists about the usage of those machines and drugs. The knowledge is there, but it's the doctor himself who's the patient, and my only medical instruction for a situation like this is the chapter «The Bonny Situation» of Quentin Tarantino's film «Pulp Fiction» in which Vincent Vega (John Travolta) saves the life of Bonny (Uma Thurman) after an overdose by sticking a needle in her heart. The needle is there, lying on the table next to me, on top of a written instruction «In The Heart». Fiction can save your life. But Pulp Fiction?
I have no choice. Doc is not going to make it. He's down on the floor, feeling so bad, so low. Even the blues can't heal him now. I tear his coat open, tear the buttons off his shirt, grab the needle, stick it into his buttocks and press the content into his system. I count to ten. Then I count to twenty. It's having an effect. His heartbeat slows down. His pupils return to normal. The raspy respiration relaxes. He looks like Sleeping Beauty now. I still don't think of kissing him, but I do slap his face a few times. He comes to. He looks at me like I'm crazy.
"What's up, Doc?"
"That was a highly interesting experience. Who are you?"
"No names. Call me Bugs Bunny, if you like. You almost died of an overdose. You were lucky I passed by."
"Don't worry about me. I'm a doctor; I know what I'm doing. What are you doing here?"
"I gave you an injection. It was just in time. I saved your life."
"You saved my life? Did you invent that stuff you injected me with? Did you prepare that needle and put it there?"
"No, it was already there, ready to use. But if I wouldn't have been around, you wouldn't have made it."
"Nonsense. I'm in a hospital. There's no better place to have a heart attack or to give yourself an overdose than in a hospital. The one who put that needle there saved my life and the one who invented that stuff saved my life, and I did those two things myself. I owe you nothing."
"You could say «thank you». It won't cost you a lot, and it would mean enough for me to do it again next time."
Doc thinks about it for a while. I wonder why his left leg lies at such a strange angle on the ground. It's broken, but Doc doesn't seem to notice. I scan the room for further information, a professional deformity I picked up during the last two years, since I started doing this work. It looks like a lab with chemical stuff in bottles and pots, it looks like a study with lots of books and a comfortable armchair to read them, it looks like a consultation room with a desk and two simple seats on the other side, and it looks like the shithole of a junkie with marijuana plants in front of the window, slices of half-eaten pizza on the floor, and the smell of weed and dirty socks is stronger than all the hospital perfumes together.
Doc looks at his leg and tries to move it, in vain: both the fibula and the tibia, the shin bone and the calf bone, are broken.
I mutter an excuse: "I know the drill: first Air, then Blood, then Broken bones, but I didn't reach that stage yet. I had to get you breathing first. But I called the emergency service. They should be here any minute."
Doc makes up his mind: "You're right. You've saved my life. I'm sorry. This must be a side effect from the injection, of the Prepoleptyl you injected me with. It numbs the emotional centre of the brain. I feel nothing: no pain, no mercy, no regret, no joy. I guess that makes the experiment a success."
"Which experiment?"
"Oh, just a simple experiment I thought of this morning. When I took my morning dose of caffeine (you call it «coffee»), and I mixed it with my first dose of bravery (you call it «brandy»), and I added my hourly dose of nicotine (you call it «smoke a cigarette»), I felt like I could use a dose of good ideas (you call it «smoke a joint of marijuana») and my first good idea was that the joint slowed me down, so I added a dose of energy (you call it «amphetamine» or «speed»), which told me I needed a dose of creativity (you call it «cocaine»), which made me feel lonely so I added a dose of love (you call it «XTC»), which gave me the lovely idea that I could use a dose of painkiller to undo all the damage that I did to my body (you call that «take a shot of heroine») and my final thought was: «everybody uses those recreational drugs to feel better, so if I combine them all, I should feel at my best, most happy ever, and ready to save the world.» And then I passed out."
"You took all those drugs, one after another?"
"Yes. I'm a doctor, you know. I'm the head of the doping control of the European Games. It's my work. I don't do this for entertainment."
"And one injection of… how did you call that stuff?"
"Prepoleptyl. I invented it myself."
"One injection of Prepoleptyl took away the effect of all those drugs in… thirty seconds?"
"That's because you injected it in my buttocks. If you'd injected it directly into my heart, as written in the instructions, it would have worked faster. Those instruction leaflets that go with the medicines are there to read and follow up, you know. The ones who write them do that for a reason. Never again doubt the advice of a medical doctor. I know what I'm doing."
"You were out of control, shaking and kicking and breaking your leg. That's what you were doing. But what your Prepoleptyl was doing, curing you in seconds, that's amazing. Your medicine could solve the world's problems with drug addicts."
"That's a long story. Perhaps I'll tell it to you some other time. Or did you come here to find a cure for your drug abuse?"
I doubt… I came here for a job interview in an office further down the corridor, to get my undercover job as a desk employee at the entrance hall of the hospital, with the idea that I could have access to people and places in this hospital during the ten days of the upcoming European Games. How can I save the world when I'm sitting behind a desk? This doctor can give me a much better undercover job. A man who invents a cure against a certain death by overdose of about every drug humanity could find… would make a powerful ally on a mission to find Panoramix's potion of invincibility.
I decide to throw out a little fish, hoping to catch a bigger one with it: "You're a doctor. You swore an oath to keep things secret. Right? Can I trust you with highly confidential information?"
Despite the effect of numb feelings, I see a little sparkle in Doc's eyes: this is not a medical doctor who's interested in saving the lives of patients; this is a scientist who's interested in tests, investigations, discovering new medicines and new methods. This is a specialist who can help me with my work.
"I'm a doctor. I swore the Hippocratic Oath to keep medical information secret. You can trust me as a professional."
"Can I also trust you as a friend? You can trust me as a friend; I just saved your life."
Doc offers me his hand: "You can trust me as a friend, Bugs."
We shake hands and close the deal: "Thanks, Doc. What I will tell you is classified information. Top Secret. I'm looking for THE SPONGE…"
Doc's raised eyebrows have never heard about this notorious criminal: "Who's that?"
"The sponge is not a person. It's a formula. We suspect it's French. Look at this YouTube video…"
On my spiPhone, I show him a scene of a football match, last year's Champions League final. The big star of the white team suffers a mean attack at his ankles from the central defender, a cousin of a famous Sicilian capo di tutti capi.
"Ouch! That hurt."
"Watch it. Here it comes…"
The star is dying. He probably broke his ankle at three places with internal bleedings, crying like his mother-in-law just told him she'll nurse him for the next three months. It's horrible. The crack suffers unbearable pain. Every spectator hopes the hurrying medic will end his dire straits with a lethal injection, dig a hole in the green Cardiff soil, and bury him right away. It doesn't even come close: he takes a sponge out of a water bag, gives the ankle a brief treatment and… twenty seconds later, the star runs like nothing ever happened.
I confess: "The organization I work for is very interested in this magical medicine. We call it The Sponge, but we're not sure if it's the sponge itself or the water, or perhaps even the combination of the two. I hope you can help me out. In return, I can be your aide for the time you're handicapped with that broken leg. Or do the medics in this hospital also have access to this wonderful medicine of the video? Five seconds with this sponge would save you an operation on your leg."
At that moment, the medics of the hospital come in, prepared to see the worst: "Where's the fire? We got an emergency call about a critical situation."
Doc explains: "This gentleman has solved the critical situation and saved my life, but I do have a broken leg that needs urgent attention, so if you can be so kind as to transport me to the Operation Room, I would be very grateful."
The two medics take immediate action. Carefully, they put Doc on a stretcher. One of them calls the surgery: "Prepare for an emergency operation." There's no better place to break your leg than in a hospital.
When the medics lift the stretcher to take him away, Doc says to me: "Come back here tomorrow morning, same time, 09:00. You helped me, I'll help you. I promise."
And then the medics disappear behind the corner.
* * *
My problem number one is called #1 (pronounce: number one), The Boss.
Our organization, the LSD (which stands for Lëtzebuergesch Sécherheet Departement, in English: Luxembourg Spy Department), consists of five people. We work together like the parts of a human body; I'm #5, The Runner, the legs of the body, running errands; #4 is The Agent, the hands, who has a licence to kill and all the weapons to do it with; #3 is The Diplomat, the mouth and ears, with his abilities to talk and listen; #2 is The Nerd, the nerve system who connects everyone with his network of applications and wireless technologies; #1 is The Boss, the brain, who makes the plans and reports directly to the Prime Minister, who gives the orders. If I want to change the plans, I can't do it without the permission of #1, The Boss. I can, but he pays my monthly salary for doing what he tells me to do. If I want to get paid for saving the world, it's a good idea to ask permission from The Boss first.
Officially, I work for Aldiko Trabajo Temporal, a company based in Andorra (both to avoid taxes and unnecessary paperwork). Via ATT's payroll, I get undercover jobs wherever the LSD has a mission, so I can visit places without being noticed. It's also a welcome financial extra: I get paid for both the spy job and the undercover job. Also, the LSD returns my expenses for travel, housing and meals when I'm on a mission. With so much money at risk, it pays off to ask permission first.
Money isn't the reason I'm with the LSD. Since my granddad read me «The Spy Who Came In From The Cold», I want to save the world or die in the attempt. I must have been three or four years old. With dedication, stubbornness, hard work and a decent amount of luck, I sneaked into the spy business. If you want to play The Great Game, you need to respect the rules.
I think a while about the message I'm going to send, correct it a few times, and finally come up with this: «I've found a valuable contact, an insider with access to everything and everyone, who has specific knowledge about the reason we're here. He's just offered me a job as his assistant. He owes me big time. If you need me behind the desk at the entrance hall, I'll be there, but if you think I can be more useful as the personal assistant of the head of the doping control of the European Games, I can arrange that too. Please advise.»
This will take a while. Bosses have to think and bosses have to talk with the Prime Minister, who's probably busy right now. I think it's best to go to my own meeting, my job interview for the desk employee with Mister Kurzawa, the Head of Human Resources. Although I'm late, I don't have to make a good impression to get the job: The Diplomat promised the hospital a discount of 10% on all the medicines it orders from its main supplier (a company with a secret bank account in Luxembourg). All Mister Kurzawa has to do for his discount is give me a job for the next two weeks.
Mister Kurzawa welcomes me with a smile and a handshake: "Good morning, Mister Trapp. Can I call you Jerôme? I was waiting for you. I thought we settled our meeting at 09:00."
"Yes, Sir, that's correct, and I was on my way to be here on time, but a minor emergency showed up. When I passed room 472 in the Pharmaceutical Wing, I found a medical doctor in serious trouble. I called Emergency and waited until they arrived. He's in surgery right now. I think he'll be alright."
Mister Kurzawa is impressed: "That's some story to start the day with. Have you already had coffee? Here in France, we prefer to start the day with coffee and a croissant."
"I would very much like a cup of coffee, Sir. And those croissants you mention… I've heard some good stories about them but never had the honour to meet one in real life."
"Real life is always better than fiction. Here in France, we don't consider food a necessary ingredient of survival; we consider it art. Foreigners like you see streets, full of butchers, bakers and restaurants. We, the French, see an art gallery where the best artists of the country produce their finest collections, and every day fresh. But I will not convince you with words. Let's use the tongue for higher purposes than talking."
He takes the phone and asks for deux grands cafés au lait et deux croissants, s'il vous plaît.
"According to my information, you're here to improve on your French. As I may say, your French is excellent." (We're speaking French all the time)
"Thank you, Sir, but my level is just basic. I want to improve to read and enjoy the books by Honoré de Balzac and Alexandre Dumas and Georges Simenon in their original versions."
A waiter serves croissants on a plate and two grands cafés in «un bol» (translation: bathtub). My croissant, in the form of Mona Lisa's smile, is the best example of art I've tasted in my life.
Between bites, Mister Kurzawa moves an already filled form towards me, embarrassed for interrupting our petit dejeuner with something as trivial as a signature below a job contract. After today's introduction session, he scheduled me for the afternoon shifts, from 16:00 until 24:00. For the rest of the meeting, we enjoy ourselves with stories about French writers and books. Mister Kurzawa proudly tells me about his signed copy of the first print of «Maigret et la Vieille Dame» from 1949. I tell an anecdote about the time when I worked in a restaurant in London. One cook asked me what I was reading. I told her I was reading Rimbaud, meaning Arthur Rimbaud, the French poet who lived in the 19th century. She was amazed and said she was a big fan too, and she'd seen the film three times, and Sylvester Stallone was never better than in Rambo – First Blood…
It's the first day of my first mission in France, and I enjoy it XXXL. A message arrives on my spiPhone: «Permission granted, on condition you immediately report to #2 every fact that's worth sharing. For your info, I attached a stripped outline of the mission.»
Today gets better and better. This is the first time The Boss trusts me enough to share the outline of a mission with me. Until now, I was just executing orders on a need-to-know basis. Sending me this stripped outline of trust motivates me even more to make my mission a success.
"I'm very motivated to make this job a success, Sir. You can trust me; I will do everything I can to make you happy for giving me this chance.", I say to Mister Kurzawa when we shake hands and say goodbye. My introduction session starts right away, so I have to hurry to the entrance hall, where I'll get my instructions and my hospital uniform.
Although I can hardly wait to see what this mission is about, I need to control my curiosity: I'll have no time until lunch to read the file The Boss sent me. I suspected it had something to do with drugs, with doping, with cheaters who try to win medals at the upcoming European Games, but now I'll find out all the details. Finally, I'm accepted as a full part of the team, as a worthy member of the LSD body.
Another message comes in, from #1, The Boss: «This permission does not mean that you shouldn't fulfil your tasks behind the desk at the entrance, of course.»
Followed immediately by another message: «Or that you will be excused to fulfil the tasks to support The Diplomat and The Agent, who are also around.»
Followed immediately by yet another message: «Or that you get paid by us for what you do as a personal assistant of your valuable contact. As long as that value doesn't pay off in results, the Company will not return your expenses.»
I return to the office of Mister Kurzawa and ask if he can put me on the night shift for the upcoming weekend. He looks surprised: "You won't have much chance to speak French with the visitors. Night shifts are rather quiet."
"I know, but I will have some hours during the afternoon and evening to visit the European Games, and at night I might have time to read Rimbaud and Balzac. It's just for the first few days."
He agrees with a smile. I smile back and run off to the entrance. Working three jobs and saving the world, altogether, promises to be interesting, and also exhausting. I'm happy about all my physical training with Scarlett during my last mission in Krakow: I'm in superb condition. This is the European Games. This is what we all have prepared for: death or glory, the blues of pain or the hymn of victory.
"L'important dans la vie ce n'est point le triomphe, mais le combat, l'essentiel ce n'est pas d'avoir vaincu mais de s'être bien battu.", said Pierre Baron de Coubertin: "The important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle, the essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well." I'm not going to be a bystander; I'm going to be a player, a pawn in the game. I'm going to be a real spy…