1. Relight My Fire

Villach - Friday, 19th of January 2018

This mission requires all my strength. It's heavy, having the future of the world in my hands: five enormous shopping bags, three of them filled with bottles of wine and liquor, and the other two with beer. Here in Austria, beer goes in bottles of half a litre, and wine in bottles of two litres, so I have to put the bags on the ground every two or three minutes and take a break. I have to go on. #3 (read: number three), The Diplomat, counts on me. He has an important meeting tonight about secret affairs, which can't be done without alcohol. #1, The Boss, has ordered me to prepare the battlefield, and #2, The Nerd, sent a message with the shopping list to my spiPhone. I use all my qualities, all my skills, all my training, all my knowledge, and all my senses to fulfil my mission: doing the shopping for the professionals who'll save the world during next week's European Refugees Conference.

My senses tell me there's nothing wrong with this little part of the world where I'm right now: Austria is a beautiful country, Kärnten (the province in the middle-south that borders Slovenia and Italy) is a paradise of mountains, forest and lakes, the city of Villach is open and green, the Austrian people are friendly, the birds are singing their evening sonata, and the smells of cooking tell me to hurry because it's dinner time and I'm hungry. Kärnten is the centre of the Culinary Triangle, combining the German meat with the spices and vegetables from the Balkan and the Italian pasta and sauces. Austrians are excellent cooks, and their food is spectacular.

Between the delicious smells, there's also the exception, the proof that one should never generalise: it's a mistake to assume that every individual of a certain group has the same qualities or character as all the others of that group. I condemn racism, sexism, nationalism and religionism. The proof is here in this street, where at least one awful cook lets hor Wiener schnitzel burn black. It's not even hard to find out which cook it is: she draws the attention with heavy smoke signals.

I put my bags on the ground and look at the house. That's not bad cooking. That's a fire. The kitchen is at the back. If I can smell the burning here, there must be something terribly wrong on the other side.

As a spy, I'm trained for situations like this. When all the alarm bells go off, I don't panic; I act. In a split second, I think: «POMAN», the emergency checklist. Personal safety (okay), the safety of Others (that's my next step, over the stone fence, running around the house to see if anyone's in trouble), Mark the spot (Einbahnstrasse… I can't see the number, but a fire at night is easy to find), Alarm (I shout to my spiPhone: «Lovely Sweet Dear. Call 112. Fire. This location. Action»), and the final N stands for Necessary help to save lives and treat victims.

When I enter the back garden, the flames are everywhere. The open back door gives me a sneak preview of what hell is like. It's clear that the fire started in the kitchen. The skeleton of the little house is concrete, but the outside walls, the first floor, and the roof are made of wood, burning like a torch. A wet rag from the clothesline covers my mouth from the smoke while I try to get closer to the flames. I hope there's nobody inside. I hope they can reach the front door to escape. I hope they do it fast because there's hardly any time left; the flames already leak through the roof.

What's that? Over there! On the floor.

The heat makes it hard to get closer, but I HAVE to get closer. I have to get inside. There's someone there. I see a hand. Somebody's lying there, not moving, but perhaps still alive. The fire dance grows wilder every second. It's a kitchen. In the middle of those flames, there might be one of those bottles of butane gas for cooking. I don't want to think what will happen if that bottle explodes. If I don't act fast, it will be too late. I'm thankful for my hunch of grabbing the wet rag. It's dirty, but it's big enough to protect my head and my hair. I duck and go in. I wasn't mistaken. Someone lies on the kitchen floor. It's an elderly woman. She's petite, and she's unconscious. I grab her, drag her over the floor as fast as I can, we have to get outside, out of these flames, away from this hellfire that tries to taste the wool jacket of my uniform. The woman isn't heavy, hardly 50 kilos. No time for politeness. I throw her over my shoulder and run back to the front of the house, through the entrance gate, back to where I left my shopping bags, on the other side of the stone garden wall, our best protection in case of an exploding butane gas tank.

As gently as I can, I put her on the pavement. I wonder where I found her handbag and I wonder why I took it without noticing, but I don't think about it and put it under her head as a pillow.

She's not breathing.

She has no pulse.

How long has she been there on that floor?

Is she dead already?

Am I too late?

No time to waste. Thinking is useless now. I must act. She must breathe. Her heart must start pumping. I need to relight her fire. I'm doing what I can, filling her lungs with my hope, touching her heart with all the love I have inside. Don't turn away, baby. Listen to what I have to say: "No matter what happened, I'm here with you. You have to get hope in your soul. You've seen day on the other side, but I need you here with me tonight. Fight for your life; you only have one! Come back, soldier! Nobody dies on my watch!"

Was it because of those magic words? Because I hammered her heart with all this desperate anger, for lacking the power to decide between life and death? Or was it the explosion that destroyed the kitchen, the shattering glass, the flying bricks and burning wood? It doesn't matter. It worked. Her heart beats again. She grasps deeply for breath, opens her eyes, coughs, and sputters: "I'm back. Who are you? We have to go."

"You're not going anywhere, ma'am, except to the hospital in an ambulance. Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay. We have to go. It's urgent."

"The only urgency around is you, ma'am. Half a minute ago, I found you unconscious in a burning house, a house that exploded two seconds ago. You were not breathing, and you had no pulse. You're not going anywhere. We stay here and wait for the doctor, the firemen, and the police."

"We won't wait for the police. This is too important. Do you have something to drink for me? Some water, perhaps?"

I look at my five bags, my contribution to saving the world: "I have seven different bottles of Schnapps, five bottles of white wine, two bottles of red wine, a bottle of 12-year-old whisky, a bottle of Cuban rum—"

"Cuban rum? Why do you buy that imported candy cane water? Austrian Stroh rum is the best in the world! Okay. For this being an emergency, I forgive you. Hand me that bottle of Cuban rum. Quickly. I'm in a hurry."

She doesn't even wait for me to help her, grabs the nearest bag, takes the Cuban rum out, and opens the bottle. In her handbag, she finds a little glass. She fills it with rum, lifts it to me while saying: "Gesundheit", and lets it disappear with an approving smack: "Lovely. Not as good as Austrian rum, of course, but not bad at all. Perhaps I'll have another one after dinner. On second thought, it's better to have it now; my dinner just went up in smoke… You can't walk on one leg, as they say, and it's quite a walk to the police station."

After the second Schnapps has followed the first one, she stores the bottle of rum in her handbag, prepared for the next emergency. Experience comes with the years; I admire it when I see how it works.

"Are you going to stand there any longer? We have to go. We have to save the world. Can you please help me up?"

I can't believe this. But neither can I resist. This woman doesn't take "no" for an answer. I help her stand up. She seems fully recovered, but it's always good to confirm what you see by asking some questions: "Are you alright, ma'am? Don't you have any broken bones or internal bleedings?"

"Just a small headache, that's all. I slipped, and I fell. I must have hurt my head. When I was cooking Wiener schnitzel for dinner, I went to the back garden to hang a damp floorcloth on the line. And then I heard this voice. A remarkable voice. I would recognise it out of a million other voices. Someone telling somebody else about the bomb he was preparing. He mentioned the day too: Sunday, the 28th of January. That's… nine days from now. I was shocked and ran inside, but I slipped on the tiles and fell. I must have bumped my head and lost conscience for a second. But now I'm fine. We have to go to the police and tell them about the plans I overheard. They can take precautions and find the terrorists. I can help them solve the case. That remarkable voice, I'd recognise it out of a million other voices. We have no time to lose. I have to save the world."

"You can do a lot of things, but you won't do them now, ma'am. You're not Sherlock Holmes. Leave saving the world to professionals. First, we're going to the hospital, so the professional doctors can find out if you're okay. Then we'll find you a place to stay until the professional carpenters and masons rebuilt your house. And if all that isn't too much for a lady of your age, we're going to find a restaurant where professional cooks can prepare you your dinner; your Wiener schnitzel just went up in smoke…"

"Professionals? You should read more books, my dear Watson. Sherlock Holmes was an expert in solving mysteries, but he was an amateur and didn't work for the police. The professionals can't possibly find this man without my help. How can I explain that remarkable voice to any professional? There's only one person who can identify this man and prevent a disaster, and that's me. And don't treat me like I'm some kind of silly child. I was already a grown-up woman before you were born, and I have far more experience in life than you, my dear Watson. So take your bags and come with me. We have a job to do."

"But… ma'am…"

"And stop calling me ma'am. I'm not your mother. My name is—"

Quickly, I put my hand over her mouth, lower my voice and say: "Hush… No real names… You might not be a professional in this business of saving the world, but if it's true what you told me, about the terrorists and the bomb, it will be better if we don't know each other's real names. We don't want to give an unnecessary advantage to our enemies, do we? You can call me Watson and I will call you… Sherlock? No, that's a man's name. What's the name of Sherlock's mother? I will call you… Shirley. Okay? If you help me deliver these bags with bottles, then I promise to help you and go with you to the police station. But we have to cooperate here, as a team, not by giving orders, but by helping each other. Okay? Do we have a deal?"

"Lovely. We have a deal, my dear Watson. Hand me my handbag and give me your arm. I'm still a little unstable, dizzy from hitting my head."

She grabs her handbag and my arm; I grab all five bags with my other hand, and we leave towards the Luxembourg Ambassador's villa, where #3, The Diplomat, and I have our temporary residence during this mission.

Two blocks later, my arm feels twice as long. I'm glad I can drop off the shopping bags at the Ambassador's front door. The police station isn't far either. Although it's January, the evening isn't cold. Shirley doesn't mind walking: "Walking is good for us. If you walk between thirty minutes and one hour every day, you keep your body fit."

"I know. I like to run twice a week and work out once or twice in the gym."

"Working out and jogging is not bad, but taking a walk is much better. While running three miles or 4,8 kilometres in 30 minutes, an average man burns 300 kilocalories. If he'd walk that distance, he would burn those same 300 Kcal. The walking takes an hour, but Jogging Joe has to change clothes twice and take a shower, so his 30 minutes of running will cost him an hour too. Jogging Joe is exhausted and spends the rest of the evening on the couch in front of the TV, while Johnny Walker charged himself with energy. Johnny Walker can easily exercise daily and burn 2.100 Kcal per week, while Jogging Joe usually limits himself to once or twice per week, like you just confessed, and burns only 450 weekly Kcal. Who's doing his health a better favour? Have you ever thought about all those injuries people get while doing sports? That's not healthy at all."

I don't want to object. She's such a sweet lady. But retired people are never short of time, and during our walk towards the police station, at least I have the time to mutter an excuse: "You are right with everything you say, but daily walks take time and most people aren't retired like you. We have jobs to do and families to take care of, and we have our social life too. Time is a valuable thing."

Shirley shrugs: "All those youngsters run for an hour every day to live 10 years longer, but they forget they waste 20 years of their fife, running. And how many hours do we spend sleeping, eating, watching TV, and chatting with friends? There's the time you need to keep fit."

"We eat and sleep and chat because we enjoy it.", I mutter.

"Okay. Life is there to enjoy. Making exercise a part of your daily life motivates you to enjoy it at the max. When you go jogging, you go alone, and you torture yourself to burn energy as fast as you can, so you have time left to chat and drink with your friend. When I take a walk, I take my friend and a bottle of water with me, so we can chat and drink on the way, and we go often because we enjoy it so much. We can do our shopping once a week by car, which makes it feel like an obligation, or we can enjoy our daily walk to the shops to buy fresh food for dinner. Especially when you're a little older, like me, daily exercise is important to keep your body in shape. It's like an old tap: you have to open and close it several times each day, to avoid it getting rusty. Feel free to have your own opinion, my dear Watson, and feel free to find as many excuses as you like, but I've worked my whole life in the Villacher hospital and I know what I'm talking about. I'm right and I'm the living proof myself."

"Yes, ma'am… I mean… yes, Shirley, you're right."

"And you like taking a walk with me and having a chat together, don't you?"

"Yes, Shirley, I like that too. If I'd have more time, I'd like to walk and chat with you more often."

"And do you like Villach too?"

"I love Villach. The food is good, the night is bright, and the people here are… not like anyone I've ever met."

"Well, thank you, my dear Watson. I love it too. Is it your first stay here?"

I'm a professional spy. Even when I'm having a good time, chatting with a friend, I'm alert and sharp, ready for action in case an emergency shows up, always looking, listening, feeling, smelling for danger. That's why I notice something shiny, just after I stepped on it, slipped, and landed on my butt: "What's that?"

I pick up the thing that caused my close encounters of the third kind with the high-quality Austrian pavement. It's a white, metal cross with V-shaped arms and a red border, hanging on a chain.

Shirley recognises it immediately: "A Maltese cross. The eight points stand for the eight qualities of the Maltese knights: truth, faith, humility, justice, mercy, sincerity, repent one's sins, and endure persecution. Are you such a noble knight? Are you worthy to receive such a gift?"

"I don't think it's a gift. It's not mine. Somebody lost it. When we're at the police station, I'll drop it off. If I were the owner, I would appreciate it if someone did the same for me. Don't you think so?"

Shirley counted on her fingers: "In those few lines, you show sincerity, truth, faith in the police, justice, humility… You should keep it, my dear Watson. Someone left it for you to find, as a reward for saving my life. Perhaps you were a Maltese knight in a former life, or perhaps you will be one in a next life, who knows. All I know is that coincidence doesn't exist."

I put the cross in my pocket. The police will know what to do with it. I'm not going to Malta, not in this life, and not in the next.