We've left Malmö too late. I'm hungry, I'm tired, and I need some time to relax, to get rid of this high-voltage AC/DC electricity that shortcuts my nerves.
"Are you hungry?", I ask Frieda.
"If you want to drive on, I'm fine, but my stomach asks for a refill."
"If we drive on, we'll reach Stockholm in the second part of the night and we'll be zombies tomorrow. We might stop for dinner in the first promising place. If we can find a motel, when you want to go to it, I prefer to stay there for the night. I'm dead tired."
I'm concentrating on the road, the traffic, the driving in the dark. I can't concentrate on the body language of the person next to me while I'm looking ahead and checking my mirrors. It takes a while before I realise I didn't get an answer. It takes another while before I realise the impact of my indecent proposal on the mind of the woman next to me, who was in a mental hospital until recently, being treated for something too shocking for me to imagine.
"I'm sorry. I should have added: we'll take two rooms, one each. You know I respect your privacy and you know I have no intention to…"
Frieda looks away, like she wants to enjoy the beautiful, pitch-dark countryside. I keep quiet for a while too.
"It's not that I don't trust you, Benny. It's… it's the first night I'll be on my own, after being in the clinic for so long. In there, it felt safe. Out here… Suddenly, I'm not so sure."
"If you want, I'll sit in front of your door the entire night, to protect you from the hooded claw."
"You need your sleep too."
"If necessary, you drive tomorrow morning while I nap in the back seat. Don't worry about me. You have enough problems of your own. There's always the chance we don't find anything, which solves the problem too."
But we do find anything. The next gas station is also a motel with a small restaurant and supermarket. We buy what we need for the night and morning, we eat fried fish with potato salad, and we take rooms 23 and 24 for the night.
When we open our doors, I say: "I'll be right next door. You can lock your door from the inside. If there's something, anything, just scream and I come to the rescue. Scream as often as possible, please. I love rescuing pretty ladies in the middle of the night. Keeping the vampires from your door is my speciality."
We say goodnight and enter our rooms. I take a hot shower and lie on the bed, naked. If she starts to shout now… I would be breaking down her door, running inside, armed and stark naked; the rescuer would scare Frieda more than the attacker. Perhaps I should sleep with my clothes on. When Frieda screams, I can be there quickly. If it takes me five minutes to get out of bed and dress…
I put on my clothes and lay down, but I just can't seem to relax. Anxious, I get up and step outside. The night is cold. I go back for my ski jacket and leave the room again. I have some serious thinking to do. The fresh air keeps me sharp. I sit down on the veranda, in front of the two doors of our rooms, and look at the stars.
"What are you doing?"
Frieda stands in the door, wearing the oversize striped pyjamas she bought in the shop.
"I can't sleep."
"I can't sleep either."
"You should take a hot shower. It always helps me when I can't sleep. And you should go inside. You'll catch a cold."
"Can you come in and… I mean… Just hold me? I'm afraid. I feel so alone."
Rostov…
I stand up and put my arm around her shoulders: "That's not a good idea, Frieda. You don't need me to hold you. You need to relax, think happy thoughts, and fall asleep. I'd like to help you, but this is something you'll have to do by yourself. Those demons won't go away unless you fight them. You're not alone. I'm here, in front of the door. But you need to be strong and face your fears, or they will haunt you forever. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I do. I'll try. No. No try. There's no try. I'll do my best. I'm sorry. You're right, Benny. I'll do my best."
"No need to feel sorry. You've been through a lot and it won't go away easily, but those nightmares only exist in your head, dear. You've beaten them before and you can beat them again. The difference between then and now is just that you allow them to wander around in your head now, whereas before, you had other things to worry about."
Frieda goes inside and closes the door. I hear her turning the key and double-locking it, and then I hear the rattle as she puts the chain in place.
I feel bad, for lying to her. I wouldn't mind, lying next to her, holding her tight. But ay, ay, ay, ay, it feels like fire. I'm not afraid of nightmares, zombies or vampires. I'm afraid of myself, afraid I can't resist the temptation, to touch her, to kiss her, toooo… Even in oversize striped pyjamas, she's attractive. I haven't been with a woman in quite some time. Frieda and I in the same bed… it just isn't a good idea.
Perhaps I should look around, shoot in the right direction, and find myself an attractive alternative. Motels like this usually have a lady around, offering her services to anyone willing to pay for them. I might like some of those services tonight, just to distract me from my worries and help me sleep.
As a spy, I can't have the luxury of a family or even a relationship. But I'm a man and I'm no virgin. I like sex and I like women, although I'm not the type of man who tells lies to a girl in a bar for a one-night stand: if it's good, I like it more often. So I pay for it. Hookers are women too, and if you treat them with respect, they're usually pleasant company. I also enjoy being in professional hands: no questions asked, no regrets, no hard feelings (except for one, locally), just business, two people who both get what they want and what they like.
When we arrived at this motel, I saw a blonde sitting on the guardrail. The way she looked, she might be just what I'm looking for. Should I go and try to find her? Can I leave Frieda alone? Would she mind if I'm not there if she opened the door? She's already inside for fifteen… almost twenty minutes. She must be asleep by now. Nothing will happen. Nobody will bother her. All that bothers me is my desire (which I provoked myself, by thinking about it) to find some arms to hold me, to make me feel, although for just a moment, that I'm not alone here on this cold night.
I get up and listen carefully at the window of Frieda's room. Nothing, not even a comforting snore. What should I do? What if I only take a walk around the motel? Just to stretch my legs. A brief stroll to get warm. I'd be back in five or ten minutes. A good spy should always check the perimeter's safety. There might be zombies around; you never know. And if that blond bond girl with her impressive bosom is around here somewhere… perhaps I could invite her for a drink and talk with her, just to kill the time, to relax, so I can sleep for a few hours.
I hear the cry of the blond girl before I see her. I look around the corner of the building, hidden in the shadows of an oak tree, and see… I feel like a dirty old man, a voyeur. She is, like I suspected, a hooker, but she's with a client and I should wait my turn. I turn back, but a sound makes me turn again, and watch, this time with more attention. Her client looks like a mortal brother of the Scandinavian god Thor: about two metres tall, with blond hair, falling on his shoulders, and the broad shoulders of a man who visits the gym daily. The rest of his life isn't that healthy: he's drunk and his rolling eyes show he's been smoking or sniffing something that's not permitted by Swedish law. I put my spiPhone's earplug into my ear and start the MultiTranslate app.
Thor repeats the sound I heard before, the alarming sound of an angry, muscled man, slapping a petite, vulnerable hooker in the face: "Stop making those disgusting puking sounds. You make me sick. I thought you were a professional. Don't speak with your mouth full. Stop crying. Don't do it. Relax. When you want to suck it, chew it. No puking. Swallow, don't spew."
"You make ME puke.", I say, stepping out of the shadows.
"Who are you?", Thor asks and then slaps the girl again: "No, go on, you. Don't stop. People watching me while I'm coming, it turns me on. Ow ow, yeah! Weeell Now!"
He slaps her again.
"You should treat the lady with respect. Hitting her won't solve anything.", I say, before I bite my tongue. I'm stupid. I should have walked away from this. Let the man have his fun.
He's having fun already. He pushes the girl away, squeezes his tool back into his trousers, smears the soap everywhere, zips up, and comes my way: "You turn me on, little bastard. I'm coming. I'm coming your way. If you don't like it when I slap that bitch, perhaps you like it better when I hit you."
"Come. Hit me. Hit me with your razor creams. But I warn you: I'm a professional. Don't cry if it hurts."
I must have said something funny. Thor laughs out loud. I'm not in the mood for jokes. I take three fast steps, jump high, and kick him full in the face with my right Dr Martens boot. When he grasps for air, he sucks in the gas from the capsule of OC-V 340 that I break under his broken nose. I leave him and check on the girl. She sits on the ground, gazing. I put my arm around her and say: "Don't cry. It's over. Come with me."
She dries her tears with the sleeve of her torn denim jacket: "I'm okay. Don't worry. They do it all the time. You get used to it."
I take her away from Sleeping Beauty, back to the corner with the oak, from where I can keep an eye on Frieda's door. In the shadows of the oak, she stops. She kisses me on the lips, softly, slowly, and lengthy: "Thanks."
I want to mutter an excuse, but her lips close my mouth while her fingers go for my fly.
She whispers: "Relax."
"Hey! What are you doing?"
The loudness of my own voice in the silence of the night gives me the creeps. She puts her left index finger on my lips while her right hand moves with the experience of a professional.
"Hushhh. Your girlfriend doesn't need to know. I won't tell anyone. I love secrets…"
"Frieda is not my girlfriend. She's just a friend."
"Well, in that case, we don't have a problem. Don't worry. I'm good at this. Relax and enjoy. I'm a professional and I want you."
"But I don't want youOUOUH."
"Oh, yes, you want me. Don't worry. You don't have to pay. It's the other way around: I want to pay you back for helping me."
"Stop this. Get your hand out of my trousers."
"Oh, you're hard… I know you want this… All men do. Don't resist. I'll be gentle. Relax… You're not gay, are you? Do you find me attractive? Do you think I'm sexy?"
I've had enough. I take her by the wrists and force her hands away. My trousers drop on my ankles. There's nothing I can do but look ridiculous: "I think you're super sexy. But I don't want you to be sexy. I want you to be intelligent. I want you to think."
She doesn't look me in the eye. She looks down and her naughty smile foreshadows the satisfaction she has in mind for me: "Oh, but I do think. Right now, I think about the best way to satisfy you, but most of all, I think this is going to be a hell of a ride for me. You make me horny. Men never make me horny, but you do. Let me finish this. I want you and I don't want to stop. Do you have a room here? I'll show you some secrets…"
I'm a spy. This is what spies do. We drink martinis, stirred, not shaken. We drive fast cars. Sometimes, we blow up expensive things and, as often as we can, we shoot bad guys. And we have sex with every woman who makes it to the white screen. Why do I resist? Having sex is a normal and healthy desire. This girl is not objecting. On the contrary; she's looking forward to it: "Hmmm. You turn me on… I want you…"
"Is this what you want, having sex every night with complete strangers? They use you like a paper handkerchief: after they've cleaned their nose inside you, they throw you away because you're dirty." I look her in the eye. Like Frieda's, both her eyes have a different colour: her right eye is blue as a summer sky and her left eye is black, a gift from a snoring entrant.
"You shouldn't talk so much. A mouth is made for… taste…"
While we were talking, our heads came closer and closer, and now her bleeding red lips touch mine, softly turning me on, sweetly sucking me in, the fortress surrenders after one strike of her teasing tongue, her cool breath filling my lungs, making me hot, making me dizzy, making me forget where we are and what we came for, her smell is sparkling and bright, her arms hold me tight, her hands pull me closer, her breasts fill up the small space between our hearts, which beat faster and faster but exactly in the same rhythm, and words are useless because we have telepathy and she uses it to tell me the truth, her lips promise me the world, and I don't have to wait long to get it, and I will enjoy it, and our baby will be the most beautiful creature on Earth—
"STOP! What are you doing?"
"What does it look like? I want you. I take you. If I wait, I won't get anything. It's my body and I share it with whoever I want. And now I want to share it with you."
"I don't want a one-night stand."
"It's only a half-a-night stand, handsome. I'm a professional. I can't afford to screw around with you the whole night. It's a pleasure to relax with you, but I have to work too. I need the money. I need the dope. What makes you think I have a choice here?"
That does it. She's a junkie. My desire (I won't deny she provoked lust) floats away like shit from a cow's ass. The German soldier on guard suddenly retires into his sleeping bag.
"It's not about you having a choice. It's about me having one. You force yourself on me. You decide I want you. I say «no» and you don't listen. Don't you understand? The girl next door, Frieda, she's had a traumatic experience with a man who behaved just like you just did. Having sex with you won't be a traumatic experience for me, you're a professional and highly attractive, but you should respect my choices instead of treating me like an animal. I don't treat you like an animal, do I?
» Did you like it how that tall caveman treated you? Do you think he had a choice? He didn't. He acted on instinct. You provoked his lust, by being beautiful, sexy and available. He forgot he's human. He stepped down to the early stage of the animal we used to be when we lived in caves and dressed in fur coats.
» Is that the world you want to live in? It's the world of Survival of the Fittest, where you're forced to mate with a powerful male, so he'll keep you out of trouble, taking care of your everyday food and the dope you rely on."
I shake her off and pull my trousers up: "Listen… What do I call you? No, no real names. You can call me Benny and I will call you… Lisbeth. Listen, Lisbeth. If you really want to satisfy me, listen to me."
I take her by the arm and walk back to the door of my motel room: "Sit down and listen. Does it happen often that guys beat you up?"
Stupid question. I've already seen her black eye. Under her denim jacket, I see bruises on her arms and in her neck.
"I need that dope."
"No, you don't. I don't need that dope. Frieda doesn't need dope or pills or chemicals, and she's been through something. You don't need that dope. You just believe you do. Your body will protest and suffer if you don't feed it the chemical poisons you accustomed it to, but from a purely scientific point of view, you don't need that dope. You want that dope. That's why I asked you: is this what you want? If you look deep inside, is this what your parents wanted you to become when they gave birth to you?"
Silence.
I leave her a while with her thoughts. If she really wants to get out, I can't force her decision. Forcing her to take a step would be like she tried to force me. Proper motivation requires liberty of choice and interesting opportunities. It should be a rational decision, not an emotional one. Regret remains when the euphoria, the explosion of the orgasm, has long been forgotten.
I don't say a word, get up, open the door of my room, and take three bottles of soft drinks from the minibar.
"Cola, orange juice, or water? If you want something hot, I can prepare coffee or tea."
Without a word, she takes the orange juice and drinks from the bottle. I sit down on the veranda, next to her, and take a sip of the water.
"What would your mother say if she saw you like this? Lisbeth?"
She looks away. She searches her pockets, finds an almost empty packet of cigarettes and lights up. Again, she looks away.
Her mother.
I hit her weak spot.
"Do you know why I didn't walk away when I saw that man beating you? My mother taught me to stand up for girls in trouble. You're in trouble. Your mother wants to help you."
"My mother sold me. And then she died from an overdose. I'm alone."
"Why don't you step out of this life?"
"Well? Can't you figure it out by yourself? It's obvious: I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice. Imagine you kick your drug habit, get a new identity, and win a scholarship. Imagine you could start your life over again. What would you do? What were the dreams of lovely little Lisbeth when she was eleven years old? What would make your mother proud?"
"I wanted to travel and see the world. I wanted to wear the latest fashion. I wanted to be someone people look up to. I wanted to be important, by helping others, not in an office with a suit or something, but really doing something. When I was eleven, I saw images of an island, hit by an earthquake. I wanted to go there and help those people."
Deep inside, we're all the same. When I was five, I wanted all that too. I was lucky to have a different mother. Perhaps it's time to share my overdose of luck with somebody who badly needs a lucky shot.
"I've seen those images too. I know the story of at least one other person on whom those images had the same impact as they had on you. He changed his life and made a difference. That island was Haiti, the year was 2010, eight years ago, and the people there still need help, perhaps even more than after that earthquake. I know the owner of an organization that helps there. I can get you a job in Tent City. It will be long hours of hard work, seven days a week with no luxury at all, but if you want the job and a chance to start your life again, I can arrange it. I can make your dream come true, but you have to decide if you want to work for it."
"You can't be serious."
"I am. It's my job to help people, and you need help. Everybody deserves a second chance. This is yours. Think about it, but don't think lightly about it; you don't get second chances like this every day. Don't decide now. Decide tomorrow morning. Sleep on it. Suffer a drugless night of fear and horror to find out if this dream is strong enough to fight your demons. If you win, I'll give you your new life. That's the payback I want from you: not a blow job, but a real job. You can take it, or walk away. I'll walk away for five minutes, so you can think about my offer. If you're still here when I return, I take it as a «yes»."
I stand up and knock on the door of Frieda's room.
Frieda is still awake. She opens the door and lets me in. She doesn't ask if I changed my mind about her invitation. My worried look is enough for her to understand it's something else: I have a problem.
"I have a problem, and I hope you can help me. Outside, there's a woman, a girl. She's a hooker and addicted to drugs. She needs someone to help her through the night, a friend, someone she can trust, someone who knows how it is to suffer, someone who can tell her everything is going to be alright. I offered her the chance to start a new life, but she'll need to go through hell tonight to prove she can handle it. She has to prove her strength to herself. She'll need a friend to help her beat the temptation with a frozen turkey. I can't be that friend. I have to sit outside and keep the vampires from your door."
Frieda is intelligent. She only needs half a word to understand the complete story: "She needs help from a woman who knows how it is to suffer?"
"That's what I thought. But I like to hear your opinion too."
"She's a hooker and a drug addict?"
"Yes. She has a black eye, along with other bruises. I saved her from an aggressive client, half a night ago."
"Is she worth fighting for?"
"The night will tell. Drugs are convincing bastards. But she has something… a kind of damn-you flavour… She deserves a second chance."
"And what do you do?"
"I'll be outside. I'll sit in front of the door, in case anything goes wrong."
"I want to think about this, okay?"
Frieda sits on the bed and thinks about it for almost a minute.
"Okay. Send her in. I can't sleep anyway."
"You are an amazing woman, Frieda."
"No, I'm not. I'm just paying back a favour…"
When I leave the room, Lisbeth is still there, giving me the tiny sign of trust I needed: if you want to change, you have to start by wanting it, being prepared to do anything for it, to actually change your attitude from passive runaway to active work 'n' learn problem solver.
"I have one final question for you: when is your birthday?"
"Why? Do you want to send me a postcard? A clown with a cake and a balloon, perhaps?"
"I try to be serious."
"It's the 19th of November."
"Come. I want you to meet my friend. Her name is Frieda. She knows what it is to suffer from sexually aggressive men. I briefed her on your story and she wants to help you. I'll be outside the front door, scaring the vampires away. You'll be safe. You should relax. Try to sleep and dream about the future I told you about. Live those dreams. Forget your past. Leave it behind. Think about your future and find out if that's worth fighting for. You fight your demons by resisting your addiction. You win if you don't walk away, if you don't surrender. Courage is saying «no». Be brave…"
Frieda opens the door and looks at us. She's calm. She's confident. She's determined. She doesn't say a word.
Lisbeth hesitates. She turns to me and asks: "Frieda fought the same demons?"
"It was a different fight against other demons, but, yes, she fought and won, and she's strong enough to help you win your fight. Frieda believes in you. I believe in you. Start believing in yourself again. Tomorrow, you'll have your answer. You're not alone."
Frieda repeats my last words: "You're not alone. Come." Lisbeth goes inside and Frieda closes the door.
I'm alone.
Exhausted, I sit down in front of the door. I have some serious thinking to do, but I'm not as intelligent as Frieda, so it will probably take me much more than a minute, but hey, I have all night and I have nothing better to do: vampires don't exist.
First, Lisbeth needs a new identity. She needs a passport.
I send a message to Boston: "Hi, Chelsea. Are you still awake?"
One second later, my spiPhone rings: "Hi, Arse. Thanks for the backstage tickets for the Ricky Martin concert. It was awesome."
"I'm glad you liked it. Listen. I have little time. Can you do me a favour? I need a passport in the name of Lisbeth Blomkvist, American, born on the 19th of November, (quick calculation: 2010 minus 11 years, makes)… 1999. In a minute, I'll send the photograph and her details to your phone. I need that passport as soon as possible. Lisbeth can pick it up personally at the American embassy, here in Stockholm. I need to know the number of her ID too; I have to buy a plane ticket in her name."
"Are you in Sweden? Wow! Is she a criminal? A hacker perhaps?"
"On the contrary. She needs protection against criminals."
"Consider it done, Arse. My father is still awake, working on something. I'll make sure he wakes up a few special agents here and there. I'll text you about where and when you can pick up the passport."
"Thanks, Chelsea. You're the best. I'm glad to have you as my friend."
Tent City? What am I thinking? Lisbeth is addicted to drugs. She can't cure herself with just one night without a shot. I can't put her on a plane to Haiti and hope everything will be alright. She needs medical attention and special treatment.
I take my spiPhone and call a number. It rings for a while; Guernsey lives in the same 3:00 AM dimension as Sweden. A familiar voice answers: "Bugs. How are you? You hate calling during office hours, right? Do you think we don't have time for our friends when we're working?
» It's Bugs, Rosie.
» Rosie says hi."
"Did I interrupt anything?"
"No, we were just in between anything and something better. Don't worry. What's the problem?"
"The problem is called Lisbeth. She's addicted to heroin, and she needs medical treatment from the best specialist I know, which happens to be you. I need a favour, Doc. I need someone to come here, to Stockholm, to pick her up and get the poison out of her system."
"Do you want me to come in person? No, Rosie, I know you want me to come in person, but that wasn't the question. Bugs asked me to go to Stockholm. Perhaps Tong Au could make the trip. Rosie says we come together… To Stockholm, of course. It will be great to see you again."
"If you send me copies of both your passports, I'll book the flights and send you the details. You'll get an open invitation. On me, you can rely. I'll book your prepaid reservation, as that's the only way you'll fly. Thanks, Doc. You're a wonderful friend."
"Don't mention it, Bugs. That's what friends are for."
My next move is a message to Moscow, to Rostov: «Dear friend. I need your help, a favour, a credit card and a bank account in the name of Lisbeth Blomkvist. Further details follow asap. To finance this, you can use our special account, the one we created after our adventure in Geneva. Lisbeth can sign and pick up the card tomorrow at the Stockholm office of your bank.»
Rostov's answer follows immediately: «Do you have a girlfriend? Am I invited to the wedding?»
Rostov!
«Can you or can't you arrange the card and the account?»
«That's already fixed. When they can make a commission, bankers are faster than light. I didn't charge the commission, of course. You're my best friend. I owe you so many favours.»
Chelsea's message with the passport ID comes in next. The paperwork of reserving flights keeps me busy for a while, but when that's done, I return to the thinking. I had some unfinished thinking left from the other day. The Lisbeth situation isn't a problem (perhaps it was a problem, but I've solved it already, with a little help from my friends). Lisbeth might be an opportunity. She might be the solution to another problem, a personal problem, a problem I banged my head on some days ago until I pushed it out of sight for later.
The dream of eleven-year-old little lovely Lux-Red-Bugs-Arse-Watson-Sami-Benny was to save the world. Because I believed spies dedicate their lives to saving the world, I wanted to be a spy. I worked hard for it, I studied and learnt everything I needed, I was lucky, and finally, I became a spy; I became #5, The Runner of the LSD. At first, it was fascinating. I did everything I ever dreamed of, and a lot more. Then I came to Sweden. Here, I found out about the real danger that threatens the world.
If saving the world means that I, the spy, have to die… What will be my choice? Would I give my life to save the world? I would, but it's an aimless question. Such a situation, with a guarantee that my death would save the world, would never take place, not even in fiction.
So, the real question is: would I give UP my life to save the world?
Would I be brave enough to admit I've been a lousy spy?
Would I be dedicated enough to step back and let a better man take my place?
I would, but only if I can find a superior replacement, a new #5, a new Runner, like I replaced the former #5 after he accidentally poisoned himself. I don't even have to die: if I could trust the one who'd do my job when I'm no longer there, I think I could live with it.
That changes the question into something I can work on.
Finding and training a replacement takes time. It's a mission that can be planned and executed. If I'm serious about my job and about saving the world, I should also prepare for my life after my death.
Lisbeth isn't a problem.
Lisbeth is an opportunity.
Lisbeth is a Scorpio.
An old memory returns to my head. It's Shirley's voice, telling me: "The Scorpio loves sex and secrets. Her weak points are her cruelty and desire for revenge. Her positive qualities are curiosity, courage and aggressive energy. She's determined. It's always all or nothing for her. She's a leader and a manager who likes to take the initiative. As a water sign, she's mysterious. The Scorpio feels best when she's alone. She's loyal to her cause, which can make her unreliable to people who stand between her and what she wants. Her motto is: I investigate. Scorpios make perfect spies, my dear Watson."
I hear myself reply: "I trust the Zodiac, Shirley. The Zodiac is science I can rely on, but… I don't know Lisbeth at all. How can I be sure she'll overcome the problems she's facing? I want to drag her OUT of trouble, not dump her into worse shit."
The touchscreen of my spiPhone flashes, the Radio app flashes on and Joe Cocker starts to sing: "With a little help from my friends…"
If you have a direct line with the Higher Powers, or if you have a friend with a direct line to the other side, the future is no longer a secret. I have a little friend I can rely on, and she's in the company of many Masters of Musical Mindfulness, who all have something to say. When Joe Cocker steps back to rest in peace, Bob Marley takes over: "Every little thing is gonna be alright."
I take a deep breath: "Optimism is sweet, Shirley, but Lisbeth lacks a lot of qualities. It took me years to study economy and languages. Do you have any idea how long it takes to learn all the skills a professional spy needs? She doesn't know how to dismantle an atomic bomb, or how to make a Kalashnikov out of wood and mashed paper. She has no idea how bankers think or how big companies protect themselves."
Freddie Mercury takes the microphone and sings the right words: "I want it all, I want it all, I want it all, and I want it now…"
Sarcastic, but true. Sometimes, you have to accept things as they are. You can't control everything. Sometimes, you just need to rely on others. Sometimes, all you can do is your best and hope it's enough. You'll never know which way the world will walk. I didn't have those skills when I started. I learnt them, with patience and dedication. Now, I should trust Lisbeth and cover for her, to give her the time she needs.
"Nevertheless, she's a woman. She will never be as fast as I am, never fight as mean as I do, never kick as high as I can. I can't ask a woman to do a man's job."
AC/DC's Bon Scott steps on stage and sings: "I've got big balls, you've got big balls…" He doesn't refer to that dîner-dansant Shirley and I visited in Villach. He's talking about courage and he's talking about…
When I sent a letter to the Prime Minister, requesting a job interview to become a spy, telling him I had a degree in Economy and spoke seven languages, he refused to give me the job because my boobs weren't big enough. Lisbeth has big boobs. I might have the skills and knowledge she lacks, but she can learn all that, while I could never learn to have big boobs. The work of a spy, the real core of the work, is to seduce others, make them believe your lies, and then… screw them hard. She's a professional sexpert. She's already a better spy than I will ever be.
"What she'll need is… a guardian angel. Can you do me that favour, Shirley?"
Michael Jackson moonwalks onto the eternal stage and gives the answer: "You and I must make a pact, we must bring salvation back. Where there is love, I'll be there."
The Higher Powers make me believe I've made a good decision. After my ending (and it doesn't matter if that's a happy ending or a sad ending), there will be a new beginning. Lisbeth wants to do something for Haiti. Others can do that too. I have a better job for her. She can travel, see the world, wear the latest fashion, and do something important for others, living her childhood dreams.
I have one final message to send. The clock says it's already 07:30. Scarlett should be awake by now. I make a voice call and feel her joy when she picks up: "Red! What a wonderful surprise. How are you? Are you in town? Any time you're ready, any time at all, just come on over. You don't even have to call."
"Hi dear. No, I'm in Stockholm right now. You know I lead the life of a sparrow… But I promise we'll meet soon. Can you do me a favour? I have a friend and, well… When she's free of drugs and other bad habits, she needs intensive training to become a spy. Are you interested in a temporary partner who can help you with your every day growing business of «Scarlett 'n' Red – Action and Adventure»?"
"She's a drug addict?"
"We're working on it to change her into an ex drug addict."
"I work with ex drug addicts all the time. There's this doctor from Guernsey who sends them, and we work with the clinic here in Krakow too."
"WE?"
"Oh, that's a long story. Come over sometime. With a picnic and a beer, I'll tell you all about it. No problem. Send the girl. I'll train her like she's never been trained before. She'll love it."
"Thanks, Scarlett."
When I hang up, the door behind my back opens, and a zombie asks: "Is there any room service here in this motel? I'd like to order an aspirin sandwich and an extra-large coffee, black, no sugar. Do you want anything, Frieda?"
"I want two glasses of freshly made orange juice, two bowls of strawberries, two bowls of milk with muesli, and four croissants with French cheese. You should eat, Lisbeth. Your body will thank you for it."
The Runner is back on duty again. His mission is to save two hungry girls from starvation. But first, he needs some information.
"Have you thought about last night's offer? Have you decided yet?"
Lisbeth nods: "Anything is better than the hell I've been through. Living in Tent City, working my ass off for a crust of bread and a cup of contaminated water, it looks like heaven. Tonight, I looked at myself with your eyes. I saw the mess I made, and decided it was time to clean up. You win. I take the job. But I do need those aspirins. You have no idea how bad I feel.
» Tonight, I got a little crazy. If I'm putting it plain. You get the medicine. As I got the pain."
"I don't, but I do know some people who do. Their names are Doc and Rosie, and they're already on their way to help you. You take a shower while I do some shopping. I'll tell you all about it over breakfast. Do you like secrets?"
"Secrets? Lovely!"
Shirley's shadow steps between us, looks at Lisbeth, and nods briefly.
* * *
I sleep most of the route back to Stockholm. We fill the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon with running around, picking up a passport and a credit card, a short but joyful meeting with Doc and Rosie, saying farewell to Lisbeth, and finally returning to the Kepler Clinic.
"How do you feel?", I ask Frieda.
"Strange. The strangest thing was… I felt happy when we said goodbye to Lisbeth. I felt happy when I met your friends; Doc and Rosie are nice people. Lisbeth is in good hands. It felt good to know I helped her. We can't change the past, but we can do much with our future. You were right: I made a difference, and it made me happy."
I feel relieved. I was afraid of doing the wrong thing, with both Lisbeth and Frieda, two hurt souls who needed someone to support them. It feels like a miracle, but they helped each other. I look at Frieda, her fine features, her long purple-red curls, her fragile frame, her faint mysterious smile, and think: «You are an amazing woman.»
I ask her: "Are you looking forward to talking with your doctor? He will be very proud of you and your achievements."
"I'm looking forward to finding my sister."