The Shopping Trolley Racing is followed by a short commercial break of one hundred minutes. While we enjoy dinner, the organization cleans up the super-shopping-market-mess and prepares for the second event of this Monday: Hide-and-Seek.
The first Friday, full of Free Kicks, was a warming-up, to tease the continent. Last weekend featured one event per day because audience building is a slow process. But from now on, the entire week until Saturday, we have to attend a double program, two Games per day.
The mega supermarket is also the perfect location for today's second event, Hide-and-Seek, especially for the youngest children (they broadcast it when most children should be in bed, but nobody thought about that). On the tones of the official European Games hymn, fifty children, each dressed in a T-shirt with the national flag of hor country, line up in front of the entrance. A man with a microphone calls their names, one by one, in alphabetic order of their country. Every child receives hor five seconds of glory and hor face in the living room of 750 million spectators.
The man with the microphone explains the rules: the children hide in the supermarket (the camera stays outside) while everyone in Europe counts to 100. Then the seeker will go in and try to find the kids. The last one found will win the gold medal. The countdown starts… NOW!
The children run away and the camera switches to a black caravan with painted windows. Slowly, the shot moves inside, to get a flash of the face of the seeker, an amiable man with black hair and a moustache, who smiles and waves at the camera. The voice-over of the man with the mike (let's call him Mike) tells us this is Marc. Marc is a specialist in this game. Marc has been training Hide-and-Seek since he was eight years old. There's absolutely nothing in the world Marc likes better than playing Hide-and-Seek. Marc kills the time of the countdown clock by showing carton signs with important messages, like "Crappy meal is the best breakfast for children" and "MacAbre, the favourite hamburger restaurant of every kid in Europe".
Finally, the final starts: "NINETY-FIVE — NINETY-SIX — NINETY-SEVEN — NINETY-EIGHT — NINETY-NINE — ONE HUNDRED, I'M COMING!"
The camera follows Marc. Marc steps out of his blinded caravan, crosses the car park and enters the supermarket. He looks left, he looks right, and starts his search at the spinach section (children always hide where you least expect them). Then he combs the coffee corner, ferrets around in the frozen fish, explores the empty holes in the Emmentaler, searches the sweets stand, looks behind the loaves, peers under the pears, runs around the refreshments… but all he finds are a few empty cartons in front of the freezers. The ice creams in the cartons disappeared as mysteriously as those fifty children.
All the time, we see nothing else but Marc in front of the camera. Everyone wonders: are these children so good, or is Marc so bad?
Mike with the mike voices-over the answer to our question: "Are all those children so good? Or is Marc so bad? The answer is: Marc is bad. Marc is convicted awful. You can't even IMAGINE how bad Marc is. His full name is Marc Dutroux. He's a rapist and a murderer of children. This is not a game. It's serious. This is about missing children. We want you to realise how many children, every day, are the victim of parents with other priorities than the safety of their kids. Can you take one of those milk bricks out of the freezer and show it to our camera, Marc?"
To my surprise, Marc doesn't show us the side with the brand name, but the backside, where we can see a photo of Madeleine McCann, who's been missing since the 24th of April 2007. Marc takes another brick. The camera tells us the boy in the photo is Yéremi Vargaz, who's been missing since the 10th of March 2007. Marc's smile is the most uncalled-for ever.
"What's this?", I whisper to Doc. He puts his finger on his lips to make me shut up, and points to the screen: «Mike will explain.»
"We want you to take your mobile phone, your tablet, or your computer. Google «Amber Alert». This effective system works in the United States, but here in Europe we hardly know it exists. Tonight, we're looking for your attention, for your cooperation. We don't want these children to keep hiding forever. We want them to be found. And YOU can make it happen. If you want to see your children again, you need to act. Now. All of you. Download the Amber Alert Europe app. Go to the missingchildreneurope.eu website and get involved. We started this show with fifty children, one from each country in Europe. The truth is horrible: during the commercial break before the start of this program, 50 parents in the European Union reported 50 missing children. That's one child every two minutes. While you were looking for the best deal and the highest discount, 50 children disappeared. You did nothing. This is the result."
Mike's voice speaks deadly silence while the camera moves through the deserted supermarket, zooming in on offers and ads. It's creepy, like Stephen King directed this show. Everybody around me has the goosebumps. We came here to be entertained! What's this?
While we see six policemen walk away with the cuffed and blindfolded Marc Dutroux, we hear Mike's voice-over again: "The truth is that our children don't play on the streets anymore because their parents don't have time for them. The truth is that our children spend too much time with mobile phones, TV, and computer games. The truth is that our children will not learn the social skills they'll need for the rest of their lives. The truth is that playing together is important for the creativity of our children. We, the organization of the European Games, want to take our responsibility, but we want you to help us. We can't do this alone. Alone, is like this…"
Once again, the silence and the images of the deserted supermarket.
"What's this, Doc? This looks like Donald Trump, welcoming illegal aliens at the airport. This looks like…"
Mike explains what we're missing: "Imagine a playground, full of children, and one ball. Children don't need referees, or winning prizes, or money, or being the best; they don't cheat or hurt each other like we do, just for getting a better result; they only want to enjoy themselves, playing together. Playing is important. Playing is a basic need for every mammal. We learn important things when we play together. An average child laughs about 100 times per day. An average grown-up laughs about 15 times per day. It's important to spend more time with our children and play with them. Our children are outstanding teachers of happiness. A world without children is a world like this…"
Mike drops another dramatic silence. Doc explains in a low voice: "Didn't I tell you this entire circus is about money? Watch and shiver. Look and fear. This show was invented by highly intelligent people. Each gets a million euros for that job. Do you think they're crazy? They are smarter than you and me together. That's all. They've learnt from MacAbre, the official sponsor of this Game. Everybody knows that eating at MacAbre is bad for your health, but MacAbre spends a few euros and a lot of publicity on the good things they do for our society, they show us the MacAbre hospital, and the MacAbre foundation, and then, the miracle of marketing happens: nobody asks questions about our overweight but we all enjoy our MacAbre happy meal, happily ignoring MacAbre's only reason to be in this business: make more money. This is the top of the bill of what human science is capable of. This, my French fried friend, is MacAbre Marketing."
Mike ends the silence: "Children, please, come forward. We didn't find anyone. YOU'RE ALL WINNERS!"
Secret doors and windows open everywhere. 50 children, with smiles like French croissants, pop up like advertisements in a web browser. They line up in front of the cash register to receive their reward: a huge chocolate medal, with the typical M of MacAbre prominent on both sides, handed out personally by the President Director General of MacAbre Holding (who looks like a clown to me, but I'm not following the latest trends on make-up and fashion).
Mike uses the time of the medal ceremony to explain the marketing strategy of the smart millionaires who invented this concept: "And who will win the gold, the silver and the bronze medal? That's up to you, the viewers of this program, the spectators of this show. In the lower-right corner of your TV, you'll see the number of the bank account of the European Games. In the lower-left corner, you'll see our phone number in your country. Donate 50 euros via transfer or donate 50 euros by sending us an SMS. Lines are open until 24:00hr, Saturday night. All the donations will be used to give our children a safer future. The European Games don't want our children to disappear. We want them to live in a safe environment, where they can play and develop into honest and hard-working consumers citizens. We count all the contributions and divide them by the number of inhabitants of each country. That way, every country has the same fair chance of winning a medal for Hide-and-Seek at the European Games. Three of these children will receive their medals next Sunday, just before the glorious parade of all the winners, where we will see all these beautiful winners again. Three of them can step forward, proud of how their country does more for their welfare and safety than any other country on our continent. We hope you enjoyed our show. Thank you all for watching. I wish you a good night."
Cut.
Commercials.
Craziness.
At least where Doc and I are sitting, in the press room next to the supermarket where we follow the show. Doc is on Prepoleptyl, so he doesn't show any emotions at all, and I'm too flabbergasted to react, but the rest of the spectators here are as happy as if we've just deported the first illegal alien to a labour camp on Mars. Everybody is crazy about this unexpected and brilliant plan of the organization of the European Games. Everybody grabs hor phone to donate, and when they see that others have the same idea, they donate again, and again, and again, because their country has to win the gold, and all that money will be used for the safety of our children…
I push Doc and his wheelchair outside. We say nothing until we're back at the hospital. I wonder how money will keep our children safe. Are they going to bribe all the paedophiles? Are they going to hire alien children so they can be reported missing instead of our own children? Are they going to hire children who can be missed?
Doc adds some background information: "The organization of the European Games has its head office on the island of Guernsey, a tax paradise where organizations with a noble goal (like «missing children») don't have to pay taxes. They use the donations to pay all those people who do wonderful things for the good cause, like one million for each of the inventors of this Hide-and-Seek Game… Do you remember those 25 professional football players, who got a million each for competing in the Free Kick Goal Scoring? The small letters in their contract say they're official ambassadors of the Missing Children Foundation of the European Games. I bet Monaco, the smallest country in Europe, will solely donate those 25 million. The rest of the continent adds to the profit. All this is just a trick to avoid taxes and let the spectators pay for the costs of the organization of the Games. Who can resist the smile of a child? I told you these guys are smart…"
"What's our program for tomorrow?", I ask.
"We have the day to relax. At 18:00 we have a double event: All You Can Eat, combined with Best Pizza Ever. We're responsible nobody eats horself to death."
"And at the end, there will be a man with a microphone who asks us to donate to fight the hunger in the world? This whole spectacle starts to give me a bad taste in my mouth, Doc. Let me guess… The Best Pizza Ever smells Italian. Bet To Win sponsors these Games, a gambling company, owned by an Italian mafia family. I think I'll put my money for the gold medal on Italy tomorrow. What do you think?"
Doc doesn't tell me what he thinks: "Wait and see."
Tonight's night shift would be my fifth one in a row, my fifth night without sleep. I'm not a witch with a crystal ball, but I did foresee I wouldn't make it. I asked Mister Kurzawa if he could move my shift to the day, tomorrow between 08:00 and 16:00, which was no problem. After that, I have one or two days off. Working for the hospital at the emergency desk and also working for Doc as his medical assistant is fascinating, but looking forward to eight hours of sleep is a lot better.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
I forgot I'm also a spy. I read the urgent message on my phone: «Mafia boss Francesco Gambino and company have arrived an hour ago at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Take night train to Paris and find out why he's here».
I send an answer: «I can't. I work at the Emergency desk tomorrow from 08:00 until 16:00, and from 18:00 to 24:00, I need to assist my contact at the Games. I'm this close to solving the case. Can't you send #4, The Agent?»
My hope lasts three seconds, exactly the time it takes the reply to arrive: «#3, The Diplomat, will arrange affairs with Kurzawa. The Agent is missing in action. We fear for her life. Make sure you're back at 18:00.»
I try one desperate last trick: «Back at 18:00? With French public transport? Impossible. They're always on strike.»
«Not tonight. Not tomorrow. The Diplomat arranged it already.»
At least, I can sleep on the night train… Although… It's the TGV… From here to Paris, they do that in 19,19 seconds…
* * *
The TGV gives me 3 hours and 46 minutes of snoozing and waking up. The chair is comfortable and I'm exhausted, but every five minutes someone passes to ask if I want coffee or a sandwich or earphones or shoelaces, and #2, The Nerd, bombards me with messages about the suspects I'm supposed to follow. At Paris Montparnasse, I take the metro to the entrance of the Hotel George V. The receptionist assures me Mister and Misses Gambino cannot be disturbed in their suite, not even for an urgent message about their grandchild who went missing two minutes ago. I spend the rest of the night dozing and waking up in a chair in the lobby. At 09:00, Mister Gambino and a lady (who's certainly not his wife) enter the lobby. The receptionist asks if they slept well, which they confirm with honeymoon smiles, and the receptionist asks if they want breakfast, which they turn down with mysterious smiles. I deduct the lady is probably on a diet; she looks like she weighs 300 kilos, but she wears a dress with black and white horizontal stripes; we all know horizontal stripes make you look heavier.
Mister Gambino pays the hotel bill, goes outside, and opens the door of a giant limousine for his lady. After he pushed her through the much too small entrance, he walks around and sits down next to her. Rostov! I have to follow them and I have no transport. There's no taxi in sight!
My first thought is to run to the reception: "Where are all the taxis? Can you call one for me, urgently?"
The receptionist is cool as the Jamaican Bobsleigh Team during the 1988 Winter Olympics at Lake Placid: "I'm sorry, Sir. All the French taxis are on strike. They protest against the unfair competition of public transport, which isn't on strike today for the first time in seven years. You can take the bus. It arrives in 43 minutes…"
I run outside again, just in time to see the limousine disappear in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe.
A good spy always has a Plan B. I'm not (yet) a real spy, but by the time I'll be one, I'll be a good one. I have a Plan B already. As quick as I can, I tell my spiPhone: "Lovely Sweet Dear. Record Message. To: Samy Naceri — Daniel Morales. Urgent. Start Message. Need taxi, urgently, in front of hotel George V, Paris. How long until you're there? Stop Message. Send Message."
Two seconds later I receive the answer: «I'm in Paris, suite 515 of Hotel George V, but I'm not available. The beautiful lady is only halfway with her payment.»
Missing in action? We fear for her life? Is the room service of the George V so bad? I have no time to think. Right at this moment, a taxi stops before the entrance of the hotel, to deliver an older couple who want to celebrate their 150th anniversary here. I help Mister Methuselah to step out of the car, haul his wife from the back seat, throw her into his arms so they fall in love like two newlywed lovers while they fall into the lobby on the red carpet of the hotel, I jump in the taxi, point at the limo that has already disappeared, and shout: "Follow that car."
"Hey, mon. You okay, mon?"
I close my eyes. A Nightmare on Elm Street is a sweet dream compared with the daymare on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées that befalls upon me, complete with Bob Marley's horror music, "Don't worry, every little thing gonna be alright", on the radio and a familiar scent of mighty joint filling my nose. An old and long-forgotten memory about a taxi ride in Geneva comes up… It makes me want to shout and cry and tear the hairs out of my head. I need to calm down. Shouting and restyling my hair won't solve the problem. Coincidence doesn't exist. There is a logical explanation for everything. The French taxi drivers are on strike. Who work day and night, never straggle, always struggle, never strife and never strike, because if they don't work, nobody takes care of them, except the taxman, who takes care of half their income? Logic answers: «The illegal immigrants.»
It's my way or the motorway. Either I'm running behind a limousine without knowing where they're going, or I accept racing a notorious criminal in a taxi with a Jamaican taxi driver, paying the fare to the easy rider. The fare, I can pay with my LSD credit card. Running is not an option. I'm running out of options.
"I'm okay, Jimmy. Can we go now? Please?"
"I'm not Jimmy, mon. That's me cousin. I'm Bob. Bob Bolt, from Jamaica. You know me cousin Jimmy? Perhaps you also know me brother Usain. They say we look like twins."
The smell of mighty joint was just a car refresher. Others use a pine tree with the scent of their shampoo. Bob has a palm tree with marijuana fragrance to feel at home. About 9,58 seconds later, we cruise calmly and unnoticed behind the limo. Six hours later, Mister and Misses stop in front of the entrance of the Hôtel de Ville, the only five-star hotel of Brest. Francesco Gambino reserved the Royal Suite and the entire floor around it.
I'm back where I started.
At least, I had a fantastic six hours of sleep in the back seat of Bob's taxi.
The price of the trip is almost what Mister Gambino paid for his suite in the George V, but as long as I can pay for it with my LSD credit card for expenses on the job, I have absolutely no problem with spending the tax money of the hard-working Luxembourg citizens, not after this efficient piece of intelligence that #1, The Boss, and #2, The Nerd, cooked up when they prepared my mission.
The 10% tip is a bigger problem. As the fare goes to the company and the tip to the driver, I shouldn't tip Bob with my credit card. I always have a lot of cash in my wallet (I make a photo with my spiPhone when I hand it to Bob, so I can use that as a ticket for my declaration of expenses), but even with the coins and all my remaining air miles, I only come to 8,7% tip. I mutter an excuse to Bob for being so tight-fisted, but Bob is a friendly fellow: "Don't worry, mon. This is okay. It's enough to sleep in the Royal Suite of the Hôtel de Ville for two weeks, but that suite is already taken, so I sleep on the beach and go visit my friend Ordralfabétix. He has a little fish restaurant there. I take a little holiday too. I like the beach, you know. Makes me feel at home. You don't worry, mon. Every little thing gonna be alright."
I ask and get Bob's phone number, just in case another emergency comes up. Then I enter the Hôtel de Ville, to interrogate the receptionist about their latest guests.
"Sorry, Sir. We can't give confidential information about our clients."
Always the same story. Privacy is so important, but if we can make a few dollars of profit, we call ourselves Facebook or Twitter and nobody cares about their privacy. Let's see if I have some arguments to put on the table here… The problem is that all my arguments have just disappeared into Bob's pocket… A good spy always has a Plan B. A good spy goes everywhere, and always saves leftovers from earlier missions.
I find a banknote from my mission in Poland in my back pocket and put it on the desk: "Perhaps this argument can convince you…"
In my passport, I have a souvenir from my mission in England: "And here's another argument for you…"
From the secret compartment in my belt comes another banknote, this one from my mission in Switzerland: "And one argument more…"
In the sole of my left shoe, I find a remainder from my latest mission in Russia: "And what about this argument? Perhaps the privacy of your clients is as cheap as the tips they give you?"
The receptionist looks surprised: "What's this?"
"Just a few arguments that might help me find the answer to my question of who that mysterious lady might be and why she's here, together with her lover, Mister Gambino."
The receptionist looks at the banknotes, with his nose pointing in the direction «money stinks». I take a bottle of French perfume out of my pocket and spray the nasty smell away.
"It's not the smell, Sir. It's the idea that you have about me. Do you really think my loyalty to my boss and my clients is for sale? Do you really think… Let's see… 5 British pounds (€ 5,60), 10 Swiss francs (€ 8,90), 10 Polish zloty (€ 2,50) and 50 Russian rubles (€ 0,70), makes a total of € 17,70, minus the bank's € 16,00 exchange commission… Will such a fortune be enough to buy my confidence, my silence, my credence and my reliance?"
He's not buying cheap, but I'm a good salesman: "I was just curious if you can calculate. I see you can. Let me show you something else. This badge here says I'm working for the official organization of the European Games. This phone gives me access to two… well, perhaps even four entrance tickets in the Stade Francis-Le Blé for the parade and the party to close the Games, next Sunday. VIP-area, which means all drinks and food are on the house. Caviar and champagne is just a starter there. I'm not buying or selling anything. All I want to say is: I have these four tickets, and next Sunday… I might have other business to take care of, business that might be related to a mysterious woman in a Royal Suite… I might give my tickets to a friend, a good friend, a close friend, the kind of friend I can trust, one who is such a close friend that he would even share a little, tiny bit of information with me, just some general knowledge about some famous film star or whatever just arrived in the city, a woman who will certainly be more than welcome at the VIP area of the Stade Francis-Le Blé next Sunday, and—"
"Okay, I get it. If you and I are best friends… why don't we know each other's names yet? I'm Roy."
"I'm Bugs."
We shake hands.
"My dear new best friend Bugs. I'm glad to see you. I'm sorry, I was busy, but it doesn't happen every day that someone hires the complete top floor of the Hôtel de Ville for just himself and his sister…"
"His sister?"
"That's what he said. He said: «Hey sister, soul sister, go sister, grow sister. You wanna me to give it a go?» and she said: «Itchi bitchi ya ya na da. Mocha-choca-late-yaya», which is Rumanian and it means—"
"Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?"
My new friend Roy is shocked: "Are you gay?"
"No, no, sorry, I'm not that kind of friend. I thought that was what it meant, the Rumanian words you said… she said… to her lover… Didn't it?"
Roy looks at me with one eyebrow almost against the ceiling of the lobby of the Hôtel de Ville: "Don't you speak Rumanian? It's quite similar to Italian, that's related to Latin, which was the base of French, so it's really easy to understand what she said, if you speak French."
"Well, pardon my French, but… perhaps you can translate? Does it mean «VIP area»?"
Roy is my best friend again: "No, she said: «My dear brother, I'm so much looking forward to tonight's contest. I haven't eaten even one chocolate yaya (it's a Rumanian biscuit, try them, they're delicious). In fact, I haven't eaten anything at all for about three days. I'm so starving that I can eat for three days in a row and still won't be satisfied.» And her brother Francesco answered, in Italian: «my dear sister, just a few hours of patience. When the contest begins, you can eat all you can and win the gold medal, just like we planned.» Why do you want to know that? Do you want to bet 50 Russian rubles on her winning?"
Sister? Francesco Gambino has a sister? She's nowhere in the family tree. Their faces don't look familiar. Francesco's skin is like burnt Sienna, but the woman's skin has the colour of café au lait. A half-sister? From Romania?
Quickly I search the Internet, the official European Games website, the list of competitors. I ask Roy which name she wrote in the register. His answer comes at the same moment as her photo pops up, the Romanian candidate for the All You Can Eat Contest:
"Lady Marmalade…"
Suddenly an icy hand grabs my throat, a terrible fever shivers my spine, a dark ghost foreshadows her presence: the G.O.D.-mother has arrived on the scene…