Last night, behind my desk at the entrance of the hospital, finally, I had time to read #1's secret file. The goal of this mission is to give our country, Luxembourg, a prominent place in the international community. The easiest way to get to the top is by winning medals. The easiest way to win medals is by cheating, which in stripped outlines of official missions is called «by getting access (preferred: exclusive access) to success-generating formulae».
The outline gave details about only one formula. Someone had offered the recipe for a product with the code-name G.O.D. for sale via eBait.com: «Guaranteed success. Winning the Champions League was never so easy. Bidding starts with 50 million US dollars.» One day later, the offer had disappeared, but not the LSD's interest in the formula. #2, The Nerd, got priority orders to investigate the case. The post on eBait came from a computer in an Internet café in Monaco. The café was close to a hotel, home of a Mister Mario Gambino, a member of the Gambino family, one of the notorious Five Families of New York. Mario, a well-known gambler, had disappeared on the same day as the offer on eBait. The Monaco Royal Casino had about fifty million reasons to find him. All we had to do was wait until their sharks smelled blood. The lead worked, although the sharks (at the bottom of Monaco's harbour) only left Mario's feet, carefully wrapped in concrete, as a mafia-version of the footprints of famous people on Hollywood Boulevard.
The Gambino family was not available for comment. Mario's unfortunate death didn't cause a series of accidents among the members of the other four families. The most plausible explanation, according to the LSD file, was that Mario had stolen the G.O.D.-formula from his family. He had tried to sell it, to settle his gambling debts with the Monaco Royal Casino. When his family found out, they gave Mario a new career in the fish food business. The proof of this theory was thin; it consisted of the letters OMG (Oh, My G.O.D.) engraved in Mario's concrete pedestal, which could also be a warning: «Observe Mario Gambino».
The Gambino family made its fortune in the early 20th century with illegal gambling. Gambling is simple business: when you win, you bet again because it gives you money more easily than working does, and when you lose, you bet again because you want to recoup your loss. Some people are too stupid to figure out what makes them go down so fast.
First, the US government started a war against illegal gambling. It cost them money, manpower and popularity. In the 1960s, Don Vincenzo Gambino made the authorities an offer they couldn't refuse: make gambling activities legal, and you'll get a share of the profit. The deal resulted in a growing network of casinos, one-armed bandits, and small local shops where people could bet on everything. Their latest activities were online gambling: the Gambinos owned Bet To Win, the official sponsor of the European Games. That's why I'm here. If our information is correct, Don Francesco Gambino is the G.O.D.-father with the formula we're looking for. He might be here in Brest, helping lesser gods to win medals, so lesser odds will guarantee higher profits.
After reading the file (and destroying it, of course), I had almost an entire night shift to think it over. On the Internet, I found more than enough details about the Gambino family. After Don Vincenzo's death (an unfortunate accident), his sons took over the family business. Don Francesco and his brothers Domenico and Salvatore have their own pages on Wikipedia, with more text than Beyoncé and Marc Anthony together. That didn't surprise me: 80% or more of our everyday news is about crime and violence, while it's hard to find one program about music on our 123 TV channels. With so much free publicity, people love crime and criminals better than art and beauty. Not interrupted by visitors, I used my night shift to complete the Gambino family tree with photos and bios. When danger knocks on your door, it's best if you know hor name.
I get two hours of sleep and two minutes of shower between the end of my second working day and the start of my third: Doc needs my help with the analysis of the saliva and blood samples I took after yesterday's game.
"I can't believe they're all clean. Run the test again.", Doc says.
I protest: "I've run the test three times already. What makes you think it will give another result if I do it again? They're all clean, Doc."
Doc puts his hands in his hair: "I can't believe they're all clean. Ronaldo won while he has the worst statistics of all five. If I can prove that Steven Gerrard has used doping, they'll set him back to the fifth place and I've won my three million…"
"I can't believe those football players take doping. For a Champions League final, possibly. For the World Cup, perhaps. But for a silly game like the European Free Kick Goal Scoring? Not a star like Ronaldo."
Doc is not impressed by my theory: "Did you watch the game? Did you see what happened? He was lost, both in Round One and in the final. Right at that moment, when he had to do it… he did the impossible: he scored the last two shots, from 50 metres. He did it twice. Coincidence? Keep dreaming, Bugs. Coincidence doesn't exist."
I don't give up: "Good luck and bad luck do exist. The results of the Golden Shoe test proved it."
Doc waves it away: "Okay, okay. I admit that good luck and bad luck exist. But you can never count on it. You never know which one shows up. That's why people use drugs and doping: it is predictable, it works when you need it, and it makes you perform better than a perfect machine."
"I doubt if that machine of yours is so perfect. You weren't excited about it either.", I mutter.
Doc doesn't blink: "Not excited, not disappointed, not proud and not ashamed. Usually, I love the Golden Shoe like it's my baby, but for the last two days, I can't even feel indifferent about anything. You did that to me, Bugs. I thought you were my friend."
"I am your friend. If I were your employee, you would pay me for all this work. I've only slept for two hours, but I'm here to help you. The least you could do is show some gratitude. A «thank you» would be nice to start with."
Doc doesn't show any emotion: "I know. You're right. The problem is the Prepoleptyl you injected me with. The stuff works great against addictions, but there is a side effect: the patient loses his emotions completely. I can't be happy or sad or disappointed or grateful for anything. I'm sorry that I can't be sorry, if that makes sense."
I remember Doc saying something similar earlier: "You promised to tell me the story of that Prepoleptyl, Doc. We have time now."
"No, we don't. Clean up here and catch some sleep. I expect you back around 17:00."
"What for?"
"We have a job to do. We are going to the final of today's game, Pinball Wizard. If my information is correct, we'll see a performance that's absolutely impossible without drugs."
* * *
"Why didn't you want to see the first rounds, Doc?"
Doc points at the score: "There's no need to waste our time, watching the inevitable. We're here to study the designated winner. Look at the score."
The organization appointed Doc to hand out the medals for this game (if you're close to the fire…). Thanks to Doc's limited mobility, Tong Au will do tonight's ceremony for him. I'm Tong Au's assistant, carrying the tokens of eternal fame to the scaffold.
The European Games start with the Pinball Wizard Contest for three reasons. First: it's good for TV. with all those bells, lights, speed, bright colours, high scores, extra balls, the screen divided into four pinball tables, with the score on top and an in-screen picture with the player's face. Second: when players need to insert their coins first, they'll play on until their credit grows into an addiction. The third reason was the best: the manufacturers of this pinball machine, the Official European Games John Elton Pinball Wizard Machine, gave a golden handshake to the organization in return for publicity. In short: it has nothing to do with sports but everything with money. Nobody cares. The profit high-score of the advertisers, the sponsors and the organization grows faster than the counter of the leader in tonight's Pinball Wizard competition. The TV ratings of this final are even higher than those of the final of Free Kick Goal Scoring. All over the world, bored consumers respond massively to this new phenomenon of entertainment: see me, feel me, play me, pay me.
The final four don't make it an exciting final: Jana Zviždanje-Uhanosagrla from Croatia, Pietru Tmiem Tal-belt from Malta and Luna del Bosque from Andorra do their best to become second but, with almost twice as many points as the others, Scottish Sally Simpson leaves no doubt who will win the gold today.
"What's so special about her?", I ask Doc.
"Watch her expression, her eyes. Compare her with the others. What do you see?"
Sally doesn't look at the pinball table like the other players do. She looks… up, away, with a faint smile, like she's listening to angels, singing from heaven.
"Doesn't she even watch what she's doing?"
"She has no distractions. She's deaf, she's dumb, and she's blind. Sally can't hear any buzz or bell. She doesn't see the lights flashing. She plays by sense of smell, but she always gets a replay and she scores twice as many points as the number two in this game. Do you have an explanation for that? I have: G.O.D. She's on dope."
With my spiPhone, I send a message to #2, The Nerd, and request the Social Report on Sally Simpson from Scotland. Half a minute later, I get the file. Sally, born in 1969, is deaf, dumb and blind, thanks to a not mentioned event in her childhood. To stimulate her remaining senses, she has played the John Elton Pinball Wizard Machine, day and night, during the last 35 years.
"It's not fair, Doc. The European Games have selected this event and this pinball machine to let her win."
"It's not fair? Well, if you want it to be fair, cover your eyes with a blindfold, put wax in your ears, and start playing. I wonder if you can beat her. Games and sports are never about fair play. If you live in a rich country, you can find economic support, and sponsors who supply you with better material than the competition. Is that fair? If you're from Eastern Europe, you can join the army and train full time while others need to work for their living. Is that fair? Is it fair that countries like the United States, with 325 million inhabitants, or China with 1.38 billion inhabitants, compete against Malta or Iceland, who can't even mobilise half a million people? Is it high treason when you coach or play for a country you weren't born in? Fair play is for fairy tales. Sports is about money, Bugs. Sports is an industry. It produces positive feelings, for athletes and spectators. Everybody wants to be the best. What is it worth, winning a game? What's the value of being the number one in kicking a ball into a goal? What's the genuine value of scoring points with a silver ball under a glass plate?"
Doc doesn't answer his questions, and neither do I.
Doc continues: "The European Games are for the normal people, the ones without identity, the ones who work to survive, the ones who never shine in the spotlight. They want the illusion that life makes sense. When you watch the news, all that stupidity and violence and fraud, without hope that someone will fix those problems, you'll need positive sensations, or you'll die of deception and impotence.
» The Olympics give all the attention to a handful of well-known millionaires who entertain themselves with a ball or an exercise. For the working class, it's impossible to enter that elite. The European Games are different. They are for normal people. Everyone has a chance to compete. Every viewer can identify with people like themselves, picked from the street, who can become world famous for one day, for being the best nurse or teacher or housewife or office tiger.
» Sally Simpson is more handicapped than most people can imagine, but she's winning here. Can you imagine the impact of her gold medal? Her performance will stimulate millions of people to overcome their difficulties, to focus on getting better, on reaching goals, on doing the impossible and being admired for it. Next week, Sally will dominate the chats around the coffee machines, where the working class will tell each other: «Did you see Sally Simpson? If she can do it, you can do it too.» Sally has to win here because she'll give 750 million losers the illusion that, one day, they too can be a star. Her victory is so important. There's so much pressure to make this event a success and to welcome the first wave of gamblers. The organization can't risk it going wrong. Sally's running on G.O.D. and everybody believes in her."
"And how do we find out if she is using the drug? Are you going to ask her? She isn't even aware of what they do to her. How does G.O.D. work? Is it a pill that you swallow? Is G.O.D. injected into your blood? Do you sniff it like perfume? How does it work?"
Doc lifts his hands: "I don't know. That's why we're here. We have to find out. Sally would never actively take anything. Somebody gave it to her, and that somebody might be around right now."
I look around. We're in a bar. Not a dark, London pub or a Berliner Gasthof with Stammtisch, but a French bar, with white shiny tiles on the wall, bright neon light on the ceiling, uncomfortable chrome-and-plastic kitchen furniture to sit on, and more cameras than audience.
Sometimes you don't know what you're looking for until you find it. I scan the faces, hoping to recognise someone I've seen in the Stade Francis-Le Blé. That blonde in the purple dress looks familiar… No, she's doing something for the BBC. What about that man with the olive-green tie? Wasn't he in the VIP area yesterday? He must be from the organization; there's a silver EG pin on the lapel of his jacket. Three middle-aged men in business suits look like sponsors. Several young men and women are journalists or reporters. I see a woman with long black hair; probably the mother of Luna behind table three. The two heavyweight Asian suits with the shoulder holsters are just some innocent members of the Japanese gambling mafia who came here to learn the tricks of the trade so they can copy-and-paste this event into the Far East next year. Nobody rings alarm bells for suspicious behaviour.
I check the score again: Pietru and Luna have lost their third ball, which results in a chocolate medal for Malta and a bronze one for Andorra. Jana is still playing, but with less than one minute of playing time left and Sally so far ahead, she and Croatia will win the silver.
The medal ceremony will be immediately after the end of each game, after the reserved time for celebrations, but before all the interviews with the media. The four medals for the winners rest on a velvet pillow on a table between Doc and me. Nobody pays attention to them now. All eyes are on Sally's face and high score. Sally Simpson is only 30 seconds away from her immortality.
Tong Au punches the point of his elbow in my ribs and whispers: "Let me the medals."
I answer with a question mark on my face, but he insists: "Pass me the medals. Quickly. Medical secret."
I do as he tells me, take the pillow with the medals and put it on his lap. Fast as a magician, Tong Au removes the heavy gold medal from its spot and replaces it with a similar one, hidden in his other hand. With a smile of conspiracy, he returns the crimson pillow and whispers: "She's blind. She never knows."
I'm not sure if my intent to hide my surprise will convince anyone, but nobody is paying attention: the time has just run out and Sally Simpson, deaf, dumb and blind, from Aberdeen, Scotland, has won the gold Pinball Wizard medal in the First European Games. The bar goes crazy. Sally stands like a statue in front of the machine. For a woman whose only contact with the outside world is by what she feels, she seems to feel hardly anything right now. The three losers shake hands with Sally and runner-up Jana congratulates her with two kisses on the cheek before they surrender themselves to the festivities.
The man with the olive-green tie instructs the audience and technicians to stay in their places. All this spontaneous happiness must be broadcasted into every European living room. Only the officially contracted cheerleaders are allowed to jump around with the champions.
I say to Doc: "It looks like they're all winners."
"They are all winners: for every competitor, there's at least a chocolate medal to win. All you have to do is behave well. Instructions from the organization to every competitor were: no cheating, gentlemen's behaviour, and respect. Only positive feelings are allowed. It's prohibited to be angry when you fail. You're expelled when you shout at the referee. You can't even express disappointment when you don't win. Players had no chance to train for the game they compete in, but after they were picked, every one of them got professional media training and an intensive course on desired emotions. There's 400 million euro involved, Bugs. Nobody takes any risk that these First European Games will be also the Last."
The jump 'n' joy is interrupted by the anthem of the European Games, which announces the medal ceremony. The man with the olive-green tie makes it official via the microphone: "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's medals for the winners will be handed out by Mister Tong Au from the Official International Council of Health and Desired Behaviour."
Tong Au is all smiles and bows. He looks splendid in his expensive suit. When you see doctors like Doc and Tong Au with their white coats, you almost forget they're also normal people with family life and hobbies. Medical work, like police work or the work of a spy, is more than just a profession; it's a calling, something you do 24/7. While a policeman walks his dog on his free weekend, he'll always keep an eye on his neighbourhood, like a nurse, when she congratulates you on your birthday, will always look you in the eye and say: "You should take more vitamins, or you'll catch the flu."
Tong Au fulfils his official duties with flair. He shows both admiration and joy for the four finalists, shakes their hands, makes his little bows, and gives them their medals and his congratulations with an authentic smile of happiness carved on his face.
When I take the last medal from the pillow, I don't notice it's fake. The carved picture is the same as on the other medals, the colour seems real gold and even the weight feels like it should be. Lead with iron and a gold-paint coating? Or just another gold medal, identical to the one he took away? I give the medal to Tong Au, who hangs it around Sally Simpson's neck, grabs her hand and kisses it like a medieval knight would kiss the hand of his queen.
Then the official part is over. We are driven away like cows to the butcher. It's show-time. The winners have to show their medals. The media have to sell their messages.
"Can you take me back to my lab? I have something cooking there, and I want to verify the progress.", Doc says.
Tong Au's wrinkles show surprise, disapproval and annoyance: "You go back for work? Saturday night?"
"Don't worry, Tong Au. It's only for five minutes. After I've checked my experiment, we go for some serious drinking. You're invited too."
Tong Au agrees: "Ah. Serious drinking. That's good."
I push Doc's wheelchair through the chilly evening. Doc explains what the experiment is about: "We are all so busy, inventing A-bombs and H-bombs to destroy our neighbours, and inventing new marketing strategies to sell them the stuff they need to repair the damage… Nobody ever thinks about the people who don't even have clean water available.
» I invented a machine to purify contaminated water. It runs on solar energy. There's water everywhere, but only a tiny percentage is clean enough to drink it. The most urgent need for clean water is in the tropics, where solar energy is available for free. It's so simple. The top part of my machine uses the heat of the sun to vaporise dirty water. In the bottom half, the steam condensates into clean water, cooled by the dirty water outside. An solar-powered electric motor moves the condensed air from top to bottom. Clean water for free, from a machine you can use everywhere. All it takes is patience."
When we enter the hospital, Doc directs us to the top floor. His machine stands on the roof. It has already been there for a whole week. He's curious about how much clean water it produced under the French autumn sun.
I open the door and… the entire roof of the west wing of the hospital, 25 by 150 metres, is covered with about five centimetres of water. One of the firemen explains what happened: "A terrorist put a strange machine here. This afternoon, it started to produce smoke, awful smells and toxic gasses, followed by an explosion and a fire. It took us two hours, and a lot of water too, to put out the flames."
Tong Au looks at the hole in the roof, caused by the explosion, turns white as a ghost, and hurries down, muttering: "My bodies… my bodies…"
Doc and I follow him. He enters the morgue of the hospital. The explosion of Doc's machine gave the bodies in the freezer direct access to heaven, but not one of them took the chance; they're still here. The water, the fire and the explosion caused a lot of damage, though. Tong Au walks from one dripping freezer to another, weeping: "This is bad. I have to call the Italians. This is bad."
Doc doesn't understand: "Italians? Why?"
I explain: "Dead bodies need to stay cool, below zero. Tong Au needs help from Italians, as they produce the best ice cream in the world. No need to fill these broken freezers with Italian ice cream, Tong Au. There's a better and cheaper solution." (But you have to be the son of a butcher, like me, to think about it)
I take my spiPhone and call Boucherie Cantona, a small butcher shop I saw around the corner of the hospital. After I explained the situation, Monsieur Cantona immediately offers to help us. He has a giant freezer and enough iron hooks available; Tong Au's former patients can hang out there together until the freezers are repaired. Monsieur Cantona even offers to come over with his wife, his sons, his daughters-in-law and all his friends, to help us.
With so many helping hands, the cases don't have time to get cold. Tong Au labels the body bags and the butchers transport them on carts and little wagons. The operation takes less than an hour. We thank Monsieur Cantona with free tickets for the final parade of the Games next week, for him and his crew. They are highly appreciated. Our goodbye exists of the warmest handshakes with the coldest hands.
Tong Au's hands are still shaking. Is it the cold? The morbid idea of dead people turned him into a zombie?
Doc has the solution: "Come on, Tong Au. It's Saturday night. We have some serious drinking to do. I'm inviting you to a shot of Cuban rum like you've never tasted before, the best rum in the world, my perfect medicine to get you warm and relaxed."