It's getting late. We have to go. It's nice to have fun, but my spiPhone is full of work-related messages. There's one message from #1, The Boss, asking why I don't send reports and why I haven't solved the case yet. There are two messages from #2, The Nerd, with instructions. The first one explains my support mission for #3, The Diplomat, delivering an envelope at the home address of some consul, waiting for the answer and returning with it immediately. The other orders me to park an unmarked (stolen) car behind the highly secured building of Pharaoh Pharmaceuticals, for #4, The Agent, about ten minutes ago. There are three messages from the hospital, warning me I'm late for my shift. It's Saturday night, the busiest night of the week, with all those free people, free to choose how to spend their free time, and free to have so much fun that they cause a rush hour in the emergency room.
I know the facts: last year, terrorism caused 25.000 deaths worldwide, which is serious enough to interrupt TV programs and fill front pages as often as possible. Compare that to the 200.000 mortal overdoses of drugs, the 3.300.000 alcohol-related deaths and the 7.000.000 funerals caused by smoking tobacco. Our entertainment industry, with its 10,5 million killings per year, is 400 times more deadly than all the terrorists in the world.
"We have to get back to the hospital, Doc. At least I have to get back to the hospital. If you can drive yourself and want to go later, it's fine for me."
"I have been drinking. I can't drive; not this wheelchair.", Doc replies.
Tong Au makes it clear he's not available as a chauffeur either: "After our serious drinking, I'm too drunk to walk too. I sit on your lap, Doc."
I point at the bar, where Manny is still celebrating his private party: "We have to take him."
Doc waves it away: "Why? That's just recreational drugs. As long as he breathes, he won't die."
Michelle trips over Manny's legs, gets annoyed, and tries to wake him up: she slaps him in the face, delivers to his liver some lively kicks with the sharp noses of her high-heeled pumps, and even empties a full pint of beer over his head. Manny turns his head aside and pukes on the floor.
"That man is sick, Doc. We have to take him to the hospital."
"Nonsense. That man is just having fun."
"That man said something about G.O.D. before he passed out. He's a drugs dealer. He might help us find the manufacturer or perhaps even get us a specimen."
Tong Au is not interested: "It's Saturday night. We don't work. We have fun."
Michelle is working, and she's not having fun at all: "You take your dirty friend with you, now, or I call the police."
With a little help, I hang Manny over Doc's lap on the wheelchair. I kick Tong Au in the butt when he tries to sit on top of them and tell him to call a taxi if he can't walk back. He can't walk back and he's too drunk to call a taxi. Michelle and I toss him on top of Manny, keep them both attached to each other and the wheelchair with a piece of rope, and finally, we take off.
We're lucky: this is a five-gear wheelchair, and I'm using all five of them when running behind the chair through the empty nocturnal streets of Brest. Our speed forces me to take the corners on two wheels, scraping either Manny's shoes or his fingernails over the tarmac, but even when his head hobbles over the curbstones, he doesn't complain.
Doc asks: "What do we do with Manny? He doesn't say much."
I suggest: "Can't you inject him with that stuff I gave you two days ago? Prepoleptyl? It gave me the impression it does miracles with drug addicts."
Doc shakes it away: "The story about Prepoleptyl is a long story. I'm not in the mood for long stories now. I need to sleep. We'll have a busy day tomorrow. I have to be present for the Waste Paper Basket Ball tournament at 10:00 AM. You have to be there too. I can't do it alone."
10:00 AM? My night shift ends at 08:00 AM, and I have a report to write, a document to deliver and an agent to rescue…
BEEP
«Where's my car?»
That's the agent.
I tell my spiPhone: "Lovely Sweet Dear. Record Message. To: Samy Naceri — Daniel Morales. Urgent. Start Message. Beautiful lady needs taxi, urgently. She waits at the backside of Pharaoh Pharmacies, Parque Industriel, Brest. How long until you're there? Stop Message. Send Message."
Two seconds later I receive the answer: «I'm in Marseille right now. Beautiful lady? How beautiful?»
«If you like Marion Cotillard, you're halfway. She pays you in kisses.»
«I'm already more than halfway. Estimated arrival in 5 minutes.»
I grin and tell my spiPhone: "Record Message. To: #4, The Agent. Start Message. Car is there in 5 minutes. Stop Message. Send Message.»
Doc interrupts: "The hospital is the other way."
"I know, but I have to get a document, deliver it, and ask for a reply. And I need the walk and the fresh air to get your Cuban rum out of my system."
On top of the load, Tong Au sings: "Ah. Cuban rum. Best rum in the universe."
* * *
According to one nurse, this Saturday night shows just the usual amount of accidents, fights and other things people do to each other. It's busy enough to keep me awake. The most alarming case comes in just before the end of my shift: a man with black eyes and bruises, bleeding from several wounds, including a broken nose, who complains about a heavy-metal band inside his head, playing all its greatest hits. Not alarming for any of the nurses or doctors of the emergency unit, but highly alarming for me: the patient is Tong Au.
When I ask him what happened, he tries to smile (which painfully remembers him of his broken rib) and lies: "I check on him the dead man, and suddenly he wakes up, angry at me for turning off the heating. Quite a temper he had."
Tong Au was too drunk to even find his work when I dropped him off. The lie was even more obvious because we transported all the corpses from the morgue to Boucherie Cantona yesterday afternoon. He has no reason to lie to me, but still, he does. Someone gave him a reminder and Tong Au doesn't want anybody else to know…
I send a message to #2, The Nerd, with a request for a social report on Tong Au, MD from Macao, and then I go to sleep. One hour and a half later, my alarm clock tells me it's time to take a shower and a cup of strong, black French instant coffee because another highly interesting day of the fascinating life of a spy waits for me. I curse the day for its impatience; can't it just wait a little longer? But then I remind myself this was the life I always longed for, and now I have it, even a real mission this time; I should not complain about a few hours of missing sleep.
The social report hasn't arrived yet. I send another message to #2, The Nerd: «Do you have so much about Tong Au? Or are you sleeping?»
Two seconds later the reply comes in: «There's nothing to find. Check spelling. Former leader Mao Tse-Tung is now spelt Mao Zedong.»
The Chinese are an ancient and mysterious people. Either Google doesn't work in China or Tong Au has something to hide. Ten minutes later, I meet Doc, who is ready to go. A nurse helped him with his morning rituals.
"How do you know Tong Au, Doc? This morning he was hurt. I called the hospital in Macao, to ask them to inform his family, but they don't know any doctor Tong Au."
"Hurt?"
"That's the second thing I wanted to ask you: do you know if he has problems? He came up with a story about an accident, but to me, it looked like someone beat him up. He's not going to work today or tomorrow, I'm afraid."
Because of the Prepoleptyl, Doc isn't surprised: "I don't know him very well. We met about ten days ago, both assigned to this project of the European Games by the staff of the hospital. A Mister Kurzawa contracted me, but the official request came from the organization of the European Games, addressed to the hospital in Leicester where I worked. They wanted specialists for doping tests. As I've worked for the Premier League and the Olympics in London, they wanted me for this job too. I have no idea how Tong Au or any of the other doctors came here."
I make a mental note to check the file cabinet of Mister Kurzawa, the Head of Human Resources.
Doc has already made the switch to today's work: "Before the first round starts, we have to visit the German team and check if they've taken any drugs that are against the rules."
"Is there a reason for testing only the Germans? Or will other doctors test all the other teams?"
"Nobody checks any other team. Just the Germans. The team consists of three men and two women. We have to test them all. Have you read the rules of today's game, the Waste Paper Basket Ball?"
I didn't. I use the cheap excuse that I had to work last night, and it was rather busy, but the truth is that I didn't give the European Games as much priority as my mission. Doc explains: "All the 50 countries play the first round with a team, formed by three men and two women. One of the women has to type a short letter, as fast as she can. Then one of the men runs to the Xerox machine, makes nine copies, gives each colleague two sheets, and returns to his desk. Then, each player gets three attempts to throw his or her—"
"Hor. Instead of «his or her», it's easier to say «hor». You can say «horself» instead of «his-or-herself». And when you say «she», it automatically includes «he». It's sexist-free modern English.", I interrupt.
"Each player has three attempts to throw hor two wadded sheets of paper into the wastepaper bin on the desk of hor colleagues. The teams that make the full ten scores with the least attempts go to the finals. When teams draw, the fastest time counts."
"And the finals are tonight, at dinnertime?"
"That's right. Two times ten minutes per game. The field is an office with two times five desks, each with a stack of papers and a wastepaper basket on top. Both teams try to score as many points as possible by throwing wads of paper into the bin of the opponents. They can't leave their chair and they have to stay behind their desks. When a player runs out of ammunition, she'll have to pick up wads from the floor, and she can't defend her basket. I've seen several teams in the warming up tournaments. It's exciting, with ten players defending and attacking at the same time.
» France wants to win this game. Have you ever visited a French lawyer's office? Did you ever look at the desk of a French policeman? Have you ever stepped into a French town hall? The French are famous for their bureaucracy. They want this medal more than anything in the world. They think they deserve it, that it's as French as the Eiffel Tower and the croissant. But they fear the German efficiency. That's where we come in. We confuse the Germans, so they'll ruin their score during the first round and won't reach tonight's quarterfinals."
"So we're here to help the organization of the European Games cheating?"
Doc sighs: "No, Bugs. We're here to find out who uses doping. We received a tip about G.O.D., a new and very dangerous drug. Someone wants to test G.O.D. during the European Games. Yesterday evening, we met a contact from Düsseldorf who seems to know something about this drug. Düsseldorf lies in Germany. That's why we're here. Knock the door, please."
A big, blond block of muscles opens the door on a crack: "Wer ist da?"
Doc shows the man his badge: "Surprise inspection."
The big, blond man raises a muscled eyebrow: "Surprise inspection? We don't know anything about a surprise inspection."
"That's why it's called a surprise inspection. If we would announce it before, it wouldn't be much of a surprise, would it?"
A blond woman with a ponytail joins the man at the door: "Inspection? But… We're not ready for any inspection."
"Open the door, please, and let us in. If you have nothing to hide, we're in and out in no time."
The Germans have a lot to hide. The committee at the door tried to buy time for the other three to clean up the evidence of what they were doing. Too late. We've caught them red-handed. White-handed. Their hands are covered with white powder.
Doc waves his badge around: "We're from E.G.O.I.S.M., the European Games Opposing Illegal Success Magnification. This is a dope control. We've caught you red-handed. Put your hands in the air, so we can see how red they are. You're all under arrest, suspected of breaking every rule in the book."
"Which book is that?", Fraulein Ponytail asks.
"Against the wall, please. You have the right to remain silent.", Doc orders.
Doc's authority intimidates the German team. They line up against the wall and raise their hands.
Doc gives me his clipboard and a pen. "Please make a note, Bugs. Black hands, white hands, red hands, brown hands and pink hands. This is not a flat for healthy athletes; this is a chemical lab where they cook dangerous doping on the spot, to use during today's contest. Look at all this… We should call for assistance."
Fraulein Ponytail objects: "This is no doping, Sirs. Just gutbürgerliche Küche. We're making breakfast. Apfelstrudel und Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, with whipped cream and fresh cherries. If you give us a minute, we finish the cake and put it in the oven. There will be enough to let you taste a piece."
Doc keeps his stern face up: "Make a note, Bugs: the suspects try to drug the medical investigators. They consider it a piece of cake. Apfelstrudel is a recipe from Austria, and fresh cherries are impossible to get in October. I smell a rat here."
"Oh, Meine Pfannkuchen…", shouts the other girl from the team, the one with the white hands. She runs off to the kitchen, just in time to avoid a disaster. She says this is just breakfast, fried round balls, filled with yellow cream and covered with fine sugar. They are called Berliner Balls outside Berlin, but she's from Berlin, and there they call them Pfannkuchen. She prepares a few more. The sweet smell reminds me that «breakfast» is not a French word; I've had one instant coffee this morning.
"Perhaps I should sacrifice myself and try the effect of this doping, Doc. These people are just suspicious about foreign food. See for yourself: would you eat anything from a country that puts frog's legs and snails on the menu?"
Too late, I realise this will never convince Doc; he survived Leicester, England. He will eat anything, including snake skin and dog tail, as long as it's well done and there's vinegar to eat it with.
The muscled man takes my offer with both hands (black from the dough of the Kirschtorte): "Yes, just breakfast and something we eat with our coffee. This is how we prepare for today's game. Office, paperwork, coffee time, Apfelstrudel, Kirschtorte… You know?… No doping. We don't need that."
Doc isn't convinced yet: "Do you remember Jan Ullrich? He didn't need EPO. Do you remember Erich Zabel? He didn't need it either. But they took it and were caught, as we've caught you here and now."
"I'm not Jan or Erich. I'm Dieter from Bingen, and she is Elsa. That's Rosalie from Berlin, and he is Horst and the tall one is Wilhelm."
Elsa, the girl with the ponytail, joins her teammate in defence: "Yes, I'm Elsa from Baden-Baden. No doping. My grandmother gave me this recipe. Let me put it in the oven. Its taste will prove our innocence."
Doc is still in doubt: "With fresh cherries?"
Rosalie jumps in: "I've canned them myself. I've used nothing but natural sweet. Try one. They taste like freshly picked."
I play advocate of the devil, tortured by the smell of fresh coffee and melting chocolate: "We should give these people a chance, Doc. If that Kirschtorte is as good as they say, it might stimulate higher levels of performance. We should investigate this to the bottom. How long did you say it has to be in the oven? And how high should the temperature be?"
The next hour we get all the secret recipes from the German kitchen, explained in theory, demonstrated in factory, and eaten in harmony. The Pfannkuchen are good, the Apfelstrudel is fantastic, but the gold medal for gutbürgerliche küche goes without any doubt to the spectacular Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte. What nobody knows: my spiPhone grabs every spoken kitchen secret and saves it into a txt-file on my secure web space in the cloud; it might not save the world, but it will make my next birthday party a lot more popular.
I'm from Luxembourg. When I take one big step out of my front door, I'm in Germany (or in France, or in Belgium, it depends on the direction of my step). I know the food in Germany and I know why being overweight is a problem there: not one single crumb of evidence is left when our breakfast is over. I have to skip lunch, and perhaps dinner too. These people brought the cream from home, convinced you can't find cream like theirs anywhere, and now we've eaten everything, not even left anything for tomorrow with their coffee. I feel too good to feel guilty.
"It's time for the final proof. Put a wastepaper bin on the table. If we score over 40%, this breakfast was doping to improve the results of the players.", Doc says.
We can't find any paper in the flat to practice with, so finally, we decide to sacrifice the papers with our notes on Doc's clipboard for our final test. One by one, the German players sit on the couch and throw their ten wads. They all miss. Do they do it on purpose? I decide to take the test myself. I sit down on the couch, make my throws and… only one of my ten goes in. Okay, I wasn't really motivated to score more. These people are innocent, of course. I'm sure they missed on purpose too, but… as we find out half an hour later when Germany is the first team to start the time trials: the misses during the preparation (or perhaps the prosperous breakfast) left their trail. Our German friends don't perform well enough to classify for tonight's final.
There's an unexpected bonus. The open spot for the quarterfinals goes to… Luxembourg.
I report with a message to #1, The Boss: «I took the Germans out of the game. Now, our country is in the playoffs.»
Mission completed.
But the after-taste is, somehow, bitter as German coffee without cream.
* * *
For being number eight on the classification list, Luxembourg plays the first game of the quarterfinals against the best-qualified team, the favourite French. What can I do to make my country win the match? If tiny Luxembourg can give the favourite French a thrashing, it will cause such a psychological effect, both on our own good performance and on the growing fear of our competitors, that the gold medal will be the only possible outcome, with the success of my mission and a compliment from #1 as the desired reward. I can become the best spy in the world… My future depends on this match… What can I do to make it happen?
I ask Doc if we can't surprise the French team with an inspection around lunchtime, but no. Doc says he would never cheat against the hand that pays out his salary. We're here for medical services during the final games of Waste Paper Basket Ball, and we're supposed to be neutral.
I respect being neutral, but the one who pays me my salary wants me to do something, anything, to make our country win. I have no idea. Well, I have one idea. It's a simple idea, but it's better than nothing. If you don't shoot, you don't score.
In my luggage, I have my disguise kit. A wig, stern glasses, a few details to change my face and a pebble in my left shoe (to change my walk and my posture), together with the white coat and the clipboard, turn me into a member of the medical staff. I enter the dressing room of the Luxembourg team, five minutes before the start of the match. I give them each a small pill and the instruction to eat it. It's a peppermint sweet, but they don't know that. I explain: "This pill will make you win the match and the tournament. Don't worry about doping control. I have them in my pocket. Nobody will ever find out. All you have to do is score and win the gold. You can be heroes, just for one day. The shame is on the other side. You can beat them, these favourite French, forever and ever. You can be heroes…"
They nod in silence and swallow the mint.
In the 1990s, cyclists running on EPO started to win matches. More than twenty years later, scientific research proved that EPO didn't have any effect on the performances of trained professional cyclists, but the cyclists themselves swore it did. They believed the myth and their belief made them do incredible things. That old trick is called «the Placebo Effect», some mystical medicine to give the team wings. It's a simple idea and a brilliant idea. Because it's scientific, it simply can't fail.
Quickly, I let my disguise disappear and take my place next to Doc on the bench, ready for action in case of injuries during the games. The hymn starts. The speaker presents the players. The French look relaxed. The Luxembourgers look… stressed, worried, paranoid. The first half starts and the French take an immediate 24 – 8 lead. The coach of Luxembourg asks for a time-out, for a coffee-break as it's called in Waste Paper Basket Ball: the coffee boy comes in and serves a cup of hot coffee to the opponents. The Luxembourg coach (who has to pay the coffee out of his own pocket) can pep-talk his team as long as it takes the French to drink the hot coffee.
It doesn't work. Coordination fails in the throwing, the desired teamwork is hardly visible, and with three minutes left to play, the French supremacy is clearly visible in the score: 121 – 14. Then, one of the French men makes a mistake; he shouts an insult to one of the female players of Luxembourg: "Hey, Brigitte Bardot. If you give me a kiss, I'll let you score a point." That's sexist behaviour, not tolerated at any office, and certainly not during these European Games.
The referee is strict and severe: a yellow card, with a written instruction on it for the French player to type an urgent letter before he can enter the game again; all the time he's behind his typewriter, he can't defend his wastepaper basket. This is an excellent chance for the players of Luxembourg to close the gap and perhaps even win the game. All they have to do is concentrate their throws on the undefended goal…
The opposite happens. The Luxembourgers concentrate on defending their baskets, to avoid the defeat will become even worse. They don't play to win. They play to lose less painfully. I don't understand…
I do understand. The Placebo Effect works with professional athletes, with people who've made winning their profession and their obsession. These are amateurs. These are five modest people, kidnapped from their safe working spot and put here in the world's spotlight. They are honest people. They can't bear the thought of using performance enhancers. They want to play clean. My little placebo trick had the opposite effect. They lose this game because of me. I've ruined my mission…
The final whistle of the referee confirms the French victory. The thrashing of Luxembourg has its psychological effect, both on the magnificent performance of the French in the next rounds and on their competitors' fear before each challenge. France wins the final against Montenegro by 84 to 81. Greece becomes the surprise of the day, winning the bronze. Luxembourg also loses its other three games and finishes last, with a bitter chocolate medal for each player, a sad memory nobody will forget for the rest of hor life.