From Malmö back to Stockholm is about six hundred kilometres, a six-hour drive. It gives us time to talk about what could have happened with Agneta. So far, I could avoid the topic, but now, also Frieda is worried; this story might not have a happy ending: "Be honest, Benny… Do you believe Agneta is still alive?"
I don't answer right away. I look around, at the green countryside, at the little lake behind the fir trees, at the bird of prey above a field. What can I say?
I say: "When someone you love is no longer there, she leaves an empty space. When she's dead, this space fills with sadness. When she has only disappeared, the space fills with hope. I can't choose what happened, but I can choose what I want to believe. I choose hope."
"And when you find out she's been murdered… Do you fill that space with hate? Revenge?"
"No. Revenge is a negative emotion. We need to think positive. I'm wishing and hoping she's still alive. Wishful thinking is a powerful thing. If you wish for something hard enough, it's a scientific fact that the chances of getting a positive result go up significantly. If you change the way to look at things, the things you look at change. I wish and I hope she's still alive, and I want her to be still alive, and I can't believe anyone could harm such a fantastic person as your sister is, but when the victim isn't found within thirty-six hours after her disappearance, there's not a high chance she'll return without damage…"
Frieda does her best to fight back a tear, but it escapes her eye, anyway. I give her a tissue and say: "Crying doesn't solve the problem, dear. You should do what I do: wish she's okay, wish it with all the positive thinking you have in you. It's the best we can do. Positive thinking and smile. Even when you look Death in the eye, the best is to laugh at Him and say: «I'm not afraid of you. I've done great things; people will remember me and love me forever. That makes me immortal.» Even if Agneta is dead, you won't forget her and you will make sure everyone in Sweden and beyond will know what an immortal woman she was. And until then, we keep an eye on that black sedan that's been following us since we left Malmö."
"Why?"
"Why is he following us? I have no idea. We should ask him. Or did you mean why we should keep an eye on him? That's easy. That traffic sign over there tells us there's an exit to a restaurant coming up. I have a sudden wish for a cup of coffee, caused by my curiosity to find out if the man in the black car takes the same exit or not."
Frieda plays with the mirror on her side of the car, trying to get a better view of the man in the black car, but he stays too far behind us to show his true face.
"Use my spiPhone. It has a 500 Megapixel camera. If you take a photo, you can enlarge it and count even the amount of pimples he has on his face. But please be careful. We don't want him to notice we know he's there."
Frieda takes my spiPhone, I activate it with my voice control, and she takes a photo into the mirror. Smart thinking. Quickly, she enlarges the result on the screen and shows it to me: "Do you know who this is?"
I glance at the photo, shortly, because I'm driving and have to keep my eyes on the road.
"He looks like that actor who plays about every villain in this year's Hollywood movies, so he must be a nice guy."
I glance again. His face does look familiar. "I've seen him behind a newspaper at the train station, when we were waiting for the train to Gothenburg, pretending he was Arvid the Dentist. And if I remember well, I've seen his face also between the fifty or sixty people, glued to the windows of that five-star restaurant in Gothenburg, watching how Magic Megan almost kissed Marvellous Margaret."
Frieda looks away, to the exit sign, to the little restaurant that tries to make a living here: "It's Martin Beck, that horrible journalist from Tabloidtidningen who published the interview with Agneta I gave you the other day. Does it answer our questions about why he's following us?"
It does limit the number of possibilities.
"I have three theories. The first one is: he's after a story about us. That's hardly believable. You are a nobody, and I'm not even a nobody. So his effort has probably to do with Agneta and the fact that you're Agneta's sister. My second theory is: he wants to see Agneta again. She's hard to find, so he hopes you will take him to her. That's not really making sense either. It leaves us with the third theory: he has kidnapped Agneta to use her as his sex slave. He counts on the Stockholm Syndrome, which turns a hostage into a faithful lover of the kidnapper, but…"
"… But Agneta isn't that kind of woman; she'd rather die than kiss that awful man from Säffle…", Frieda finishes my thoughts.
"This isn't a matter of power. What Kris did to you in the park was a one-nightstand abuse for power; after the act, he liked to leave his victim alone, to watch and enjoy her suffering.
» With Agneta, it's a different story, a daily sex soap series. The rapist kidnaps his victim because he wants to repeat the act as often as he can. Kidnappers are driven by lust, which requires a willing partner who voluntarily does everything she can to please her lover…"
Frieda nods: "Lust makes sense. Martin is a journalist. The entire country hates him. He writes awful articles about everyone. If he wanted sex, he could buy it, as much as he wants. He doesn't even have to pay for it; women like Camilla L give sex in return for publicity. Martin Beck wants love. He wants to be loved by the most wanted woman in Sweden, and kidnapping her for frequent sex is as close as he can get. Agneta is irresistible and Martin just couldn't resist. But she doesn't want to fulfil his wish…"
I continue: "It leaves him with only one option: he can make Agneta an offer she can't refuse. He can force her to fulfil his wishes. Agneta loves one person most of all, her sister Frieda. Martin plans to kidnap Frieda, so he can torture her in front of Agneta's eyes, perhaps even threatening to rape her sister if Agneta refuses to make love to Martin. Is that a foolish thought?"
Frieda looks in the mirror again: "I don't know how criminal minds work. All I know is that intelligence goes hand in hand with creativity and imagination. Evil is not imaginative. It usually falls back to repeating the same stupid activities. But it's easy to solve all our doubts: we can ask Martin what he has done with Agneta."
"Why do you think he'll tell us?", I ask.
"Oh, I have some ideas. Would you like to see me in action?"
Frieda's naughty smile should warn me, but it only warms me: "That, my dear, is an offer I can't refuse."
Taking the exit and parking in front of the restaurant answers my question about Martin, following us or not. He parks on the other side and watches us go inside.
"Don't look at him, Frieda. Be happy. We're going to have a coffee. We have nothing to worry about."
We enter. Frieda visits the bathroom. I take two coffees from the self-service and walk to the cashier: "I'm going to pay you one hundred krona for the coffee and I'm going to pay you one thousand krona extra to take a break when I come in with another guest, the man in that black car over there… Don't look… He gets afraid when other people watch him while he drinks his coffee. It's a strange disease he suffers from, but for a thousand krona, I hope we can count on your help. Can we?"
We can. I see no other guests in the restaurant. Frieda reports empty lavatories. I put our coffee on a table next to the window, but I'm not sitting down with Frieda. Invisible from the car park, I take my Makarov out of my backpack and stick the gun under my belt. Then I make some connections and preparations on my spiPhone. It's not that I don't trust Frieda in action, but it's silly to put everything on one card if you have a complete deck of winners up your sleeve (or, in my case, in the breast pocket of my jacket).
"I'll be back in a second. This coffee won't have the time to get cold."
Making it look like I want to visit the bathroom too, I walk to the entrance hall, but instead of going to the right for a leak, I go to the left, outside, run the ten metres towards the black car and point my gun at the head of the surprised driver: "If you don't have bullet-proof glass, I suggest you step out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them."
I open the door, grab Martin's coat, and drag him out of the car. He falls on the ground, puts his hands on his head and cries: "I didn't do anything."
With my left hand, I pull him up and push him towards the entrance of the restaurant: "I know. You're just a poor journalist, on his way to the North Pole for an interview with Santa Claus. And because you're so poor, Martin, we'll invite you to have a coffee with us, in return for some information."
"What kind of information?"
"The question is: what is it worth? You work for the leading Swedish newspaper. I have information that your newspaper wants to pay for interesting stories. I have interesting stories and I would like to know how much my stories are worth. Of course, I'll ask the same question also to the people who run Aftonbladet and Metro."
"If the story is interesting, we pay more. We are the leaders."
I push Martin into the seat behind the coffee I ordered for myself, and keep standing behind him. The barrel of my Makarov rests on his dirty neck. Frieda watches him suspiciously, but doesn't interfere.
"How much would I get for a story about a leading politician, having an affair, including the name of his well-known love interest, with proof and pictures?", I ask.
"Such a story would be worth around one hundred thousand krona."
"And how much for a DNA report with proof about the father of the child of a certain leading female politician? It's not the husband of the child's mother. What if the child's father is the leader of a rival political party?"
"Such a report would probably be worth two hundred thousand krona."
"That's interesting. So, your newspaper would be willing to pay three hundred thousand krona for a silly romantic fairy tale about a 2018 love affair between a prince and princess. We don't have such a story. We have something better. We have a blockbuster spy story, action and adventure with a twist of humour like the world has been longing for since Arnold Schwarzenegger switched to politics. Such a story would be worth… 1 billion krona. Exclusive. Worldwide. With proof of authenticity."
"That's a lot of money."
"It's worth it. I have a story about a man who is guilty of bribery, lies, high treason, various attempts of coup d'état, selling the nation's top secrets, tax evasion, and the juiciest article in this series is about him being guilty of the kidnapping, sexual abuse and perhaps even murder of a nationally and internationally famous woman.
» I have so much information about this man that any judge would put him in prison for 3.000 years, but no judge will pay me my billion. If I sold my story to his victims, they would pay me my billion, but it feels wrong to punish them again, after everything our man did to them. Other newspapers would easily pay me my billion because it would blow their biggest competitor out of the way, but…
» I'm an honest man, Mister Beck. I give a man a chance to defend himself before I hang him, in front of seven million readers, without a fair trial before a judge, like some journalists of a certain newspaper do every day. Scandals don't turn me on. I have higher standards. One billion. That's my high standard."
He's getting nervous: "Can you give me a sneak preview of some of the material?"
"I suggest you open the Bluetooth connection on your phone and allow device PhoneyPhone to send you some files…"
Twenty seconds and a BEEP later, I continue: "This is the number of our suspect's secret account on the Cayman Islands, with payments coming in from Pravda, KGB, CIA and some obscure mailbox companies, linked to China and the Middle East. This is his numbered account in Switzerland. We have several more."
Martin Beck has seen enough: his name on the bank statements: "This is fake news."
Of course, it's fake. I just got it from #2, The Nerd, who produced it in the time it took me to run to Martin's car and back.
"It looks real to me. Do you want me to send it to a judge so he can check its authenticity?"
"I don't have a billion krona on my secret Swiss account. Five million max, about half a million euros. Is that enough to make a deal?"
"Five million krona plus the woman. She's worth a billion krona."
"Which woman?"
"Agneta Larsson, of course. Or have you already killed her? No, that would be a crime, such a beautiful lady. Where did you hide her, Mister Beck? A shed in the woods? A five-star hotel room with a waterbed and room service? Did you screw her as hard as I'm going to screw you right now? Do you want to decline my offer? I have the phone number of Aftonbladet here; I can call them right now and ask how much they're willing to pay…"
"I'm willing to pay. Five million krona for the documents and your right to remain silent."
"Are you sure? It's everything you have."
"I can easily bribe it back. You have no idea how much people pay to get their opinion in the newspaper. Law permits us to advertise our products, our image, and ourself. Why should the newspaper get all the benefits? I'm the author of those articles, the artist who invents all that fiction. With one stroke of my pen, I turn a politician into a hero or a villain. I have a right to get paid for what I write."
I think for a few seconds. Five million krona is not the billion I promised #1, The Boss, but it's a start, and more than enough to cover the expenses of my failing mission. It might be enough to save me from losing my job.
"Show, Don't Tell. Make the transfer.", I answer. I give Martin his mobile phone. On a napkin, I write the number of the secret bank account Rostov opened for us, the account that we fill with money for save-the-world projects.
Martin makes the transfer.
My spiPhone beeps to announce the receipt of half a million euros from a numbered Swiss bank account.
Martin's mobile phone beeps to announce the arrival of another document.
"What's this?", he wonders.
I have no idea. The Nerd sent this. I take his phone out of his hand, look at the screen and explain: "It's an invoice for a delivery. 5.000 rolls of toilet paper. There's a lot of shit coming your way, not just simple bullshit, but also dogshit, catshit, horseshit and cowshit, even elephantshit and chickenshit. If the 5.000 rolls aren't enough, we can order more; it should arrive within 24 hours."
"I don't understand."
"It's simple math. Take the number of quality newspapers in the world, multiply it by the number of pages they have, times the number of daily copies, times three months at least. That's the amount of media attention your activities will get. That's the pile of shit, hanging above your head.
» Do you believe in ghosts? You ought to. The ghost of a dead woman is hunting you. She won't rest until you've paid for her death with your career. So you can call Ghostbusters, or you can call us. We're cheaper; it will save you the costs of an international phone call to New York, to start with."
"I paid you the agreed sum."
"The deal was for five million krona plus the woman."
"I don't know anything about a dead woman."
"If she's still alive, then you should release her. Five million krona plus the woman. If she's dead… we'll kill you, live, on tonight's eight o'clock news. It's your call. Talk to me, buddy…"
Martin prefers the right to remain silent: "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Frieda wants to give him the right to scream as loud as he can. She smiles with excitement: "Is it my turn now?"
"He's all yours, dear. There's duct tape in my backpack, to unite Martin and his chair in holy matrimony… Whilst I sit down and drink my coffee, you work on his nerves."
With the duct tape, Frieda handles his hands, attaches his arms, freezes his feet, and has doubts about the rest: "Should I put duct tape over his mouth too?"
"There are no neighbours here. Nobody will complain if he makes too much noise.", I say.
"Are you going to shoot me?", Martin asks Frieda.
"It's an idea. My lovely friend has got a gun. I have THIS!", Frieda says while she sticks a fork in his butt. Martin doesn't jump like she expected. Martin is a journalist. Journalists don't have feelings.
I'm so surprised I drop out of my role: "A fork in the buttocks? Is that your best shot? When my friend Scarlett was fired, she planned to cut off the private parts of her boss, fry them and feed them to him on a plate."
Frieda laughs out loud: "You're making that up."
"No, I'm not. The banker who forced Scarlett's boss to fire her? She barbecued his feet in his fireplace. Look at that kitchen over there. Everything you need is available. Use your imagination. I know you can do better than a fork in the buttocks. Scarlett turned the shareholder-millionaire into a junkie. She tortured the Minister of Social Affairs on a medieval bed of nails. That's what I call positive thinking."
"You're funny. You're inventing all this to make me laugh."
"I'm serious. I'd never lie to you. Do you want to call Scarlett and ask her if it's true? Perhaps she can inspire you to come up with a better treatment. The man hurt you. How would you like to hurt him back? Stick an iron stake in his ass and turn him around over a cosy campfire? That would make him hot. Or put him, butt naked, in a freezer? That would be cool. Use your fantasy. Cover him with honey and put him on a termite hill. The ants will love it."
Frieda's laughter goes up with every new suggestion I come up with. She's right. I invented all this to make her laugh. She feels better when she laughs. Laughter protects the heart, burns calories, relaxes our body, and diffuses anger. Laughing strengthens our immune system, lowers our blood pressure, diminishes pain, protects us from the damaging effects of stress, keeps us focused and alert, it connects us to other people, strengthen our relationships, releases endorphins that promote our sense of well-being and happiness, and it even adds years to our life. When you can make others laugh at work, you'll be more successful. When you're capable of making your life partner laugh, you'll have a better and longer relationship. A writer who makes hor 100 million readers laugh should be nominated to win the Nobel Prize for Medicine. Laughing is excellent therapy for Frieda, but it's also magnificent for me: I'd rather hear her laugh than see her cry.
Martin doesn't laugh. Tabloidtidningen is a serious newspaper. Journalists with a sense of humour are simply not hired.
Frieda takes a steak knife from the table, feels with her thumb as if it's sharp enough and puts the point on Martin's throat.
"You don't dare.", Martin says.
"How do you know what she dares? Have you ever seen her in action?", I ask.
Frieda adds the missing information immediately to Martin's range of experiences. She puts pressure on the knife until a little red dot marks the spot, makes the knife's point follow the bloody line of fire that goes towards Martin's ear, follows his jawline, makes a sharp, red curve around the corner of his mouth, moves back and up across his cheek towards his eye, where it slows down, like a tiger, playing with its prey, ready to strike, but not yet, the victim is still strong, she has to wear him out first, enjoying the game, growling in his ear, sucking his blood, licking his wounds.
She whispers: "I like getting blood out of a stone. Blood is thicker than water. A scar on your face isn't half as bad as a scar on your soul, Martin. I have scars on my soul, carved by words in the newspaper, written with the sharp pen of a writer, a man without feelings, who was just interested in hurting as many people as possible, to sell as many copies of his work as possible."
"That man wasn't me. I never hurt you.", Martin says, frozen with fear like a Siberian snowman; even the slightest move might cost him an eye.
"That man wrote about my sister Agneta. Instead of admiring her for her initiative to make Sweden a better place for everyone, he made her look like a fool. Polishing up his image was more important to this man than the future of our country. Interviewing my sister is dangerous; she's irresistible and that man couldn't resist. He kidnapped her, so she could make love with him for the rest of her life. He counted on the Stockholm Syndrome that turns victims into lovers. But he didn't know my sister. She's a strong woman. She will never allow anyone to take advantage of her. She can love you like nobody ever loved you, but when she hates you… I know. I hate rapists too."
Martin doesn't even blink an eye: "I didn't kidnap your sister. I didn't rape her either."
Frieda's patience is coming to an end. The point of her knife is close to Martin's point of view. I can't tolerate this. She's eye-blinding beautiful when she's mad, but I want Martin to see the light and confess. I can't turn a blind eye to this.
Cautiously, I take Frieda's hand, the one with the knife, and move it away from the battleground: "You're not making progress, dear. The man is stubborn like a moose. I have a better idea."
Frieda looks at me like it's all my fault, making my heart miss a beat, but she knows I'm a professional. Torturing unarmed prisoners is one of the things we learn at spy school. Forks and steak knives are not in the CIA toolbox or the KGB handbook. We have better methods to make people like Martin Beck talk.
"Do you trust me?", I ask her.
"Hm. It's not a matter of trust. It's more a matter of curiosity. What can a man do that a woman can't? Throw acid in his face? Electrocute his balls with an enhanced AAA battery? Make him drink cheap champagne until the bubbles come out of his ears? Lock him up in a cage with a horny gorilla that hadn't had sex for a year?"
"You know I would never do that to the gorilla. It must be awful for the poor animal. Torture, my dear, isn't so much the art of causing physical pain as it is psychological. When you stick a fork in a man's butt, it will hurt, but it will heal. Scratch your name in his soul, with words; it will hurt for the rest of his life, and there's nothing he can do to ease the pain."
Frieda gives me a look of understanding. A woman's look says more than a thousand words, but what it says exactly is open to interpretation. For me, knowing Frieda already four days, this look says: "I know your words can cure even the deepest and ugliest scars on a woman's soul, but Martin doesn't know that, which is a good thing." For Martin, who's been a bachelor since he was conceived, since his mother got the idea of seducing his father, Frieda's look tells a different story: "AHA! I know what kind of pain you talk about. I know forms of pain that no man can stand. It's inhuman to hurt Martin so badly, but okay, if he refuses to talk… Go ahead." Only women with eyes in two different colours can give looks with double meanings.
I step closer, behind Martin, so I can whisper in his ear and brainwash him with my words, making him even more uncertain because he can't see me. I put some napkins on his eyes, take off his necktie and tie it around his head over his tapped eyes, to blindfold him, to keep him completely out of sight, while I talk to him with a low, slow, smooth, sexy voice: "I'm not going to give you more pain, my friend. I'm going to tell you about something you DON'T get. Because I know you have Agneta. You've kidnapped her. You've locked her up in a cabin, somewhere in the woods. She's irresistible. You couldn't resist. You wished to have her like you've never wished for anything. You wanted her to kiss you, but she spat you in the face. You wanted to tell her how much you loved her, but you just couldn't find the words, which is a capital crime for a journalist. You wanted to make love with her, but all you could get was some sad form of unsatisfying sex with a living doll who didn't respond like you hoped she would. Let me tell you how it could be. Let me explain to you what you'll get when you tell us where you hid Agneta. We will let you go. We won't take revenge on you for what you did. We won't send our story to your newspaper or its competitors. We won't go to the police. We will forgive you for all your bad behaviour and, on top of that, you'll get one kiss from Frieda. That kiss is your reward for your fine behaviour, for telling us where we can find Agneta, for not doing her any harm during all those days you've kept her prisoner, all those days she refused to love you like you hoped she would. Stockholm Syndrome doesn't work with amazing women like Agneta or Frieda. You've made a mistake. But we forgive you. We don't give hate back for the hate that drove you. We have a much stronger weapon: we have the power of love. Do you have any idea how grateful Frieda will be if you release her long-lost sister? She'll thank you like nobody ever thanked you before. She's the most amazing woman you'll ever meet. In the Larsson family, Agneta has the looks, but Frieda has the passion, and she has those long curls with that spectacular colour, her left eye is filled with the glorious green of the rainforest and her right eye shows the breathtaking blue of a tropical ocean, and you feel the delicate skin of her cheek when she whispers in your ear how grateful she is for what you did for her, her strong, soft arms around your neck, her delicate fingers playing with your hair… Have you ever seen such a perfect woman? Imagine how it will be if she kisses you. Not just to say hello or goodbye, but a real kiss, one that would make Magic Megan feel inferior. She will lift you up, grab you at your lurves and swing you on the table of a five-star restaurant, breaking all the glasses and plates, launching the burning candles so they can set the place on fire, and then she nails you to the table, it's impossible to escape, she paralyses you, all you can do is close your eyes and wait for what's coming, and you smell her perfume, you feel how she bends over you, how her tongue slides over your temple, and she nibbles your ear, and she whispers how much she wants you, and you can't resist, all you can think of is how you are going to stick your this in her that and how she will verb your noun and your imagination isn't rich enough to let you visualise all the adjectives she can add on top of that, on top of you, and you want that kiss, but you have to wait, be patient, because a kiss from Frieda is one you can't possibly imagine, and it's worth waiting for, if she told you to wait until you're ninety years old and speak Russian, you would start running to the language school immediately, but you know she won't wait that long, she has her kiss already on the tip of her tongue, and her tongue is already in your ear, moving slowly towards your neck, licking the blood out of the scars she left there, sliding towards your eyes, touching your eyelids, one by one, and you feel how the light disappears from your eyes but you don't care because you want that kiss, and it's coming, it's on its way, and you feel how her tongue gets closer, how her breath burns the six o'clock shadow off your cheek, how her teeth tear the corner of your mouth apart, she wants to give you that kiss because you did the impossible, you told her where she could find her sister Agneta, and you want to tell her that because you want that kiss, you feel that tip of her tongue, and you know you want to meet that tongue, you want those fine lips, those warm lips, those hot lips, tasting like wild cherry, you can't resist, but you have to confess first, and you will, you will tell her, now, and here, where she can find her sister, so you will get your reward and—"
"Örebro! Kansligatan 4, top floor, third room on the right. The key is under the doormat.", Martin shouts.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four seconds. Five seconds. Six—"
"Negative. No infrared on the satellite images. She's either dead or there's nobody there.", my spiPhone answers. It's #2, The Nerd, of course, who gets sound and vision from us via the direct encrypted line. He immediately checked the direction. We're professionals. We don't believe the lies of highly unreliable journalists.
"Did you just try to fool us, Martin?"
Martin shakes his blindfolded head like crazy: "Solna! Råsta Strandväg 169. Second floor, the flat on the right."
The Nerd needs only four seconds this time: "That's the home address of Mrs Martina Beck, 98 years old and Martin Beck's grandmother. She's alone at home right now, watching the porn movie «Three Dicks for Tracy»."
"Are you lying to us, Martin?"
Martin is paranoid now: "I don't know where Agneta is, but I HAVE to find her. I can't live without her. That's why I followed you two, because I hoped you would find out. Okay. I confess I wanted to kidnap her. She's irresistible and I couldn't resist. I prepared the flat in Örebro to hold her hostage until she fell in love with me, but I was too late. She had already disappeared, and I had no idea where she could be. I searched everywhere. My latest idea was to follow her sister because I knew those two were very close, but you have to believe me: I have no idea where she is, and I want that kiss so much that I hope you can please please please give it to me, Miss Frieda, and I'm sorry and I will never do it again and I will from now on stop telling lies in my articles and I will help lovely old ladies to cross the street and I will stop taking bribes from everyone who wants their story in the newspaper and I will donate to Greenpeace and Amnesty International and I will stop drinking and sniffing coke too if you like, and I will stop burning kittens on my barbecue, but please give me that kiss you promised me…"
I can't believe my ears: "You burn little cats?"
"Well, some people like hot dogs, but I'm more a cat person, I like hot pussies. It's as close to oral pleasure as I can get.", Martin confesses.
What can I say?
Frieda takes a deep breath. She needs some time to digest the disappointing news. Martin doesn't know where Agneta is. She's in no condition to do anything, but she has a teammate that she can depend on.
I whisper in Martin's ear: "Prepare… There she comes… You're a lucky bastard, you know. She's never kissed me on the lips…"
Without making a sound, I take a small perfume bottle from Frieda's purse and spray it generously in my face. Then I take a deep breath and hold it, close my eyes, bend over… and kiss Martin on the lips like I hope Frieda would do it. My hand slides gently through his greasy hair. I count the seconds… twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight, enough, I'll get sick if I have to go on and I don't want to spoil his illusion.
Martin is completely convinced that it was Frieda who kissed him: "Way oh way oow whooah OOOOOOOOHHHHHHH! That was GORGEOUS! That was the BEST kiss EVER!"
Frieda's warm and loving voice makes the deception complete: "I hope you have a good memory, Martin, because I won't repeat this."
"Oh, I will not wash my mouth from now on, not brush my teeth ever more, just to remember the sweet taste of your lips, the gorgeous feeling of your tongue playing with mine, the sensation I felt when you sucked those pieces of spinach from between my teeth, that immense pleasure when you tickled my uvula…"
Without a word, I smile at Frieda while I point at Martin's trousers, at the wet zipper flipper slipper spot. We can't laugh. But we can't hold it either. Try to hold it when you see something like this. I can't. I have to get out of here. I press my hand against my mouth, try to control my breath, and Frieda launches her incredible smile, telling me that her laughter climax isn't far away but she wants me to wait for her until she's ready too, and I do my best, it's so strong, but I have to hold it, while she steps next to Martin and, with a terribly sexy voice whispers in his ear: "Well, if you behave from now on, who knows what you'll get for Christmas…" and then we both run to the door, as silently as we can, and go outside, to the back of the restaurant, where nobody can hear us, so we can finally, together, release that explosion, let it all escape in one gigantic orgasm of laughter, and we laugh away all our disappointments about yet another lead that went up in smoke, and when she manages to catch her breath between two salvos, Frieda cries: "I can't BELIEVE it! You kissed him on the mouth, ha, ha, ha, and so long too, ha, ha, ha, I'm not sure I could have done that better." And I hiccup back: "You don't want to know how awful his breath was, ha, ha, ha, garlic is divine compared to that, hi, hi, hi. I had to go deep throat to close the lid of the cesspit with my tongue, ha, ha, ha, to avoid spoiling the fun, puking all over him." Frieda holds her stomach, she can't handle it anymore: "I wish I shot a video from that scene." And I sob: "No problem. My spiPhone recorded the complete interview with its 500 Megapixel camera, in stereo, with subtitles in twenty-three languages, with a direct upload to the server of #2, The Nerd, and if I know him well, ha, ha, ha, the best kiss of the universe is already on YouTube, and a copy of it arrives right now, hi, hi, at the editorial staff of Tabloidtidningen where Martin Beck will be the hero of the day between his colleagues, ha, ha, and the whole world has the proof of his confessions, that he'll never write lies again, hi, hi, hi, and that he'll donate and all those other things, so I think we're done here and we better get back into our car, ha, ha, back on the road to Stockholm, or we won't be home before midnight." and I can't go on because Frieda's laughing so loud it infects me, and then, when I almost catch my breath again, she says: "Was that James Bond, ha, ha, or Jason Bourne who taught you this torture technique, hi, hi?"
I can't answer. Laughing so hard must be bad for your health. I think: «My friend Malik taught me to translate emotions into words, but it was Magic Megan, who showed me those emotions.», but I don't say that, of course, because I'm laughing so much, I can't say a word, ha, ha, ha…