1 1. Child In Time

Marbella - Last week of December 2017

I'm a morning person. On every average day, I save the world before breakfast. My favourite day starts with action. Today is not my day.

I sit on a couch in the foyer of Hotel La Estrella de Marbella. For already almost an hour, I've been doing nothing at all. I'm waiting. It's half-past ten. Two weeks ago, around half-past ten, I chased five terrorists who wanted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Three weeks ago, I shadowed the kidnappers of a princess (the daughter of the king-pin of an industrial empire). Four weeks ago, I was on a stake-out that ended with the arrest of a gang that planned to steal the Eiffel Tower and return it against a ransom of 100 million Euros (which was a real bargain, they could have got more if they'd sold it as scrap iron). Saving the world is my daily work, but my work for today is worse than terrorists, thieves and kidnappers: I have to babysit the teenage daughter of the US Secretary of Defense, and she refuses to get out of bed early.

I work for the LSD, the Lëtzebuergesch Sécherheet Departement, in English: Luxembourg Spy Department. We're a small organization, with only five people to save the world. We need to follow orders, work efficiently, and get up early.

Ten days ago, I got the order from #1 (read: number one), The Boss, to assist #3, The Diplomat, on today's mission. A little later, I received the top-secret file with information from #2, The Nerd. This mission was originally for #4, The Agent, who was not available (it didn't mention why), so they gave the job to me, #5, The Runner. Thanks. If nobody wants to do it, you can always count on the lowest in rank to clean up the shit and change the nappies of a 17-year-old.

If you want something, you have to pay the price. I wanted to be a spy, so I have to accept that not every day is full of glamour and glory. That's why I'm on this couch: I have a job to do. It's as good and important as any other job, so I will give it my best.

The secret file didn't contain much information about the mission: The Diplomat tried already for weeks to arrange a meeting with Mister P.H. Johnsson, the USA Secretary of Defense, to talk about something important. Mister Johnsson is a busy man. He never has time for a meeting, but he did have time to take an entire week of vacation in Spain with his teenage daughter. With tact and wise words, The Diplomat tried to convince Mister Johnsson to meet during this week. Mister Johnsson answered: "I'm 24/7, 51 weeks per year, available for the job, and in this 52nd week, I want to spend some quality time with my daughter." The Diplomat proposed a deal: "We [he meant: me] will take care of your daughter one day, give her the best day of her life. In return, you give us [he meant: himself] the opportunity to discuss our plans with you, plans that will be positive for your country, for our country and for the rest of the world." Mister Johnsson finally agreed. He claimed he wanted to do everything to make his daughter happy, but I think he found out, after two days with her, that he needed a break too. The girl is impossible (that wasn't in the file; I discovered it myself).

During the last ten days, I did all the research I could, both on Mister Johnsson's personal life and his daughter's. It was easy. They are American. Americans have the right to be silent, but they have no right to any form of privacy. The right to be informed, invented by the media, is so strong that the word «privacy» was even banned from the latest edition of the American Dictionary and the Microsoft Word spell checker. Americans embrace Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube, and all those other channels to tell the world how fabulous they are. There's no secret in that.

Mister Johnsson is fabulous, without any doubt. After graduation at Harvard, he dedicated all his time, energy, and talents to serve his country, which resulted in a glorious career with the position of Secretary of Defense as its current climax, and nobody knows what the future will bring.

His personal life was not so glorious. He met his wife, Anne-Nicole, at the university. He was a brilliant but rather unattractive student, and she was the Queen of the Prom. Anne-Nicole always stated that brains were sexier than muscles, but according to the Sunday papers, she only liked the beauty of brains that produce power, popularity, and financial wealth. Hanging on the arm of Mister Johnsson gave her a chance to be the star at every political event and social meeting. With the help of his spotlight-attracting wife, the popularity of Mister Johnsson rose fast, but his full agenda left him less and less time, energy, and talents to give Anne-Nicole the attention she needed so desperately. His country needed him. He had no time for her.

Anne-Nicole hoped the birth of their daughter would change everything. Mister Johnsson's priorities cried for him, not in the White House, but in his own house. But Mister Johnsson was hot, his country needed him more than his family, and the opposite happened: Anne-Nicole had to change her night-life glamour for day-care nappies, drank coffee with the women next door instead of champagne with the first ladies of world leaders, and found out that watching the daily soap of global politics on TV was not by far as interesting as being an actress on that stage.

Mister Johnsson thought that family values were important, a child should have the love of hor parents instead of the care of a Mexican nanny, but he himself had other priorities than love, so he outsourced the taking care of those family values to his wife. Anne-Nicole missed the spotlights. She started drinking. By the time their daughter was old enough to go to school, it had to be a private boarding school; her mother was no longer capable of taking care of her. Her mother wasn't even capable of taking care of herself: she was an alcoholic and a junkie. Anne-Nicole was forced into a roller coaster of treatments and deceptions, leading to a permanent stay in a specialised clinic six years ago, and a divorce one year later.

The daughter had her own story. Today, it's my job and my mission to give her the best-day-ever, so I had ten days to concentrate on her, to get ideas about what she might like to do best. All I could find was: she likes to do nothing. She hates school, she hates the other students, and she hates the teachers. She hates spinach, she hates rain, and she hates being told what to do. Other girls of her age would be thrilled to go to Spain for a week, but she spent the first half of the day sleeping, the second half fighting her father, and the nights hanging out in bars, things she could have done everywhere.

I needed something to work with. Her only friend was Sandra-Dee, the daughter of the American President. The two girls were in the same class and called each other best friends on social media, but «compies» [competing colleagues: doing the same job, but each for hor own account] would be a better term for their relationship.

What would be her «best-day-ever»? Could I rely on the desires of other American girls of her age and social circle? Should I buy her a horse? Should I fly her to the moon? Would she like it if I'd take her shopping in the most expensive fashion shops in Los Angeles? She already had a horse, the moon was hardly interesting, and the owners of every notable fashion shop in Los Angeles came to her home several times per month to show their latest creations. Also, this kind of entertainment would cause a financial problem. The budget of the LSD had been cut like the fingers of a blind butcher. Since the crisis was over, the government no longer had excuses to raise taxes. I needed to find something cheaper to impress her.

Finally, I got an idea. I asked #1, The Boss, for permission (he agreed) and I explained to #2, The Nerd, what I wanted to do. He came up with several extra details about the mission and he had lots of ideas that we added to the plan. There was a risk: The Nerd and I, we're both European working-class males in our early twenties; we might be very wrong in our attempt to guess the desires of an American upper-class teenage female. But a Miss is as good as a mile. If you don't shoot, you can't score. Improvisation is in the toolbox of every employee of the LSD, and we couldn't cook up a better plan, so we decided to go for it.

Mister Johnsson also decided to go for it. He knew his daughter. He had better things to do. Here, in the foyer, he welcomed me, told me his sweet child, in time, would come down to meet me, and then he left me alone. That was almost an hour ago.

Now, finally, the lift doors open. There she is. I quickly stand up, walk towards her, shake hands and welcome her with my warmest smile: "Good morning, Miss."

"Hello and goodbye."

"Your father has a busy day today. He asked me to take you out, to show you something of this beautiful country and make sure you'll have a wonderful day."

"Whatever."

"I was thinking—"

"How interesting. I hope nothing was damaged."

"The first part of our mission will be to arrange a vehicle, appropriate for a señorita of your standards. Marbella has the highest concentration of expensive cars in Europe, even higher than Monaco. If we want people to stop on the street and stare when you pass by, we'll have to make a genuine effort."

"Duh."

"I hoped you could help me with it. First, we need to take a short walk. The car dealer I have in mind is two streets from here."

"Walk?"

I could use a little motivation here. Talking to girls of her stature isn't my everyday job. I'm trying to do her a favour, and I'm rather nervous too, my first real mission as a stand-in for #4, The Agent. The needle of my patience deposit approaches «empty»: "If you prefer, I can borrow the wheelbarrow from the gardener of the hotel, so you can sit and I can push you. That will definitely make people stop and stare."

"If you are not stupid, you get the car and pick me up at the front door. If you're not stupid, you would already have done that. You tell me you're going to give me a wonderful day, but you are too stupid to do even the simplest thing."

Right.

The play has started.

The roles are divided.

This is not The Merry Wives of Windsor, having fun together.

This is not The Merchant of Venice, about the noble Antonio who tries to impress his Portia.

This is Macbeth.

She's the Lady.

I'm the killer.

On second thought: she has more of the green-eyed monster from Othello.

Anyway, she prefers to make a drama out of this day.

Rostov! I'm only good with comedy.

"I know, it sounds stupid, but the LSD, the organization I work for, does not have the budget to hire the European space program and invite you for a trip to the moon. We—"

"Why would I want to go to the moon? All I want is to get back to bed and sleep. I'm on a vacation, remember?"

"You can sleep at home. On a holiday, you do all those fascinating things you can't do at home. You can do what you like."

"When I'm on a vacation, I do what I like: I sleep."

"I thought you wanted to have a trip in the most exclusive car ever. Here in Marbella, the word «exclusive» still means something. If you want to be so kind and come with me… It's only a five-minute walk."

"Whatever."

I'm not sure if this is a victory or a defeat. She follows me to my goal, but her annoyance makes it feel like a licking, and instead of walking next to me, she stalks me with a face as if I've punished her.

I know, I know, society considered a woman, walking ten metres behind a man, an unacceptable form of machismo, mainly because it was the custom in the Arab world and the Muslim culture. Then the wars came: Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria… Those wars completely changed customs in the Arab world and the Muslim culture. Now, it is an honour and a sign of respect when a woman walks ten metres behind a man; in one word: landmines.

We're approaching the car dealer. The plan dictates we enter together; I can't impress her when she stays outside. Why is inspiration never around when you need it? I see a bar, a restaurant, a souvenir shop, two millionaires eating ice cream, a taxi, a boy in a blue T-shirt with the number 8 and the name Lampard… Idea!

Women show trust by telling secrets to each other. Everybody knows the name of this soon-to-become-a-woman behind me, but if I treat her like she's special, by sharing a secret with her, by giving her a secret identity, I might break the ice, the Greenland glacier, between us. I stop, turn and walk towards her. Now, I need a new opening line, something catchy, something to make her laugh, something like a cliffhanger in the cover text of a good spy novel…

I whisper: "You know I'm a spy, right? Using our real names is dangerous. I have a lot of enemies. They want revenge for what I did to their friends and family. I don't want you to get into trouble. You are an important lady. If anyone knows your true identity… They might hurt you to hurt me. Imagine your father, when his only child, in time, was hit by flying lead, killed by the ricochet of the bullets of a blind man, shooting at the world… I will protect you with my life, of course. As long as you stay with me, there's no real danger, but I prefer to call you Chelsea instead of using your real name, just to make sure. Do you like the name Chelsea? It's the name of the daughter of a former US President. Also, the current champion of the most important league of the most important sport is a team with the name Chelsea. Chelsea is a winner's name."

Chelsea shows a faint smile. It's a victory. I made her laugh. She answers: "Hm. Chelsea is okay. And I call you Arsenal…"

I smile back: "Arsenal? Arsenal is awesome."

This is certainly a victory. I've won her sympathy. Chelsea and Arsenal, two different styles (defensive and offensive), two different colours (blue and red), two different cultures (Chelsea plays for the result, Arsenal plays for the beauty of the game), but definitely two teams with the same goal: making the Premier League more attractive than the Bundesliga, the Serie A, the Primera Division and the League 1 together.

Chelsea interrupts my thoughts: "Arsenal is too long. I better call you Arse. That's awesome!"

Her faint smile turns into roaring laughter. I can't do anything else but laugh with her: "I've made you laugh. That's good. It's my mission to give you the best-day-ever. I want to be your friend."

Chelsea's laugh disappears so abruptly that I doubt if it was as real as it seemed: "But I don't want you to be my friend. I already have lots of friends, fifty, to be precise. You can check my Facebook page if you don't believe me."

I almost want to bitch her off, telling her I checked her Facebook page almost non-stop during the last ten days, and there's absolutely nothing interesting there, and it suits me if she doesn't want to be my friend, and those fifty friends are stupid to have a friend like Chelsea, and…

I swallow my irritation. Silence is golden. I'm a professional spy with a mission. It's not my job to quarrel with a 17-year-old pissed-off girl over who's right and who's more popular. My job is to swindle a spectacular car, so we can have the best-day-ever.

"I believe you, Chelsea. Your fifty friends must be very proud of you. Now, please, let me do the talking. My boss didn't even give me enough money for the bus, but you deserve transport according to your standards, which means I have to… swindle a bit. But I promise you it will be worth it, and it will be fun too. Can I count on you?"

"Duh. Whatever."

From my backpack, I take a jacket and cap. I smooth the wrinkles out of the grey jacket and put it on; with my grey trousers and my white silk shirt, I look good. With the cap, I almost look like the driver of somebody important. Chelsea looks insignificant with her flat white shoes, her jeans with holes, and her simple shirt, but… how do you recognise somebody important nowadays, anyway? Important Presidents of important countries call each other names on TV, important millionaires have piercings and tattoos, important Kings dress in shorts and go crazy watching a football match, and important captains of industry get their fifteen minutes of fame when they enter the important buildings where they will star important lawsuits about their latest important frauds. This is Marbella. If you work here, you've seen it all. With a decent jacket and a distinguished cap, I'm sure I can get away with everything. I only want to get away with that red 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO and return it later today.

It's a piece of cake.

"Good morning, Sir. Is there anything we can do for you?"

Never trust a car salesman. He starts by telling you lies, referring to himself as «we» while he's the only one present in the glass warehouse.

"The lady was interested in that Ferrari over there. She would like to try it. It's meant as a gift from her father for her eighteenth birthday, when she gets her driver's licence, so—"

"That Ferrari is no longer available, Sir. This morning, Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded put a reservation on it."

"Sheik who?"

I regret my instinctive reaction immediately. Too late. The mistake has been made: in Marbella, everybody knows who's important, and if you don't, you're not important yourself.

The salesman is all smiles now. He pinched my obvious little trick like a helium balloon. The escaping gas makes his voice a full octave higher when he cries out his victory: "Ah! You don't know who Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded is? Well, the little Miss will probably stay in the Estrella de Marbella; that hotel belongs to Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded. She has probably bought her Cinderella shoes and her Armaniac designer jeans in the shopping mall near the Autovia; that mall also belongs to Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded. Perhaps you've even seen the football match on TV last night? Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded also owns the winning team. This morning, Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded asked for the price of that red Ferrari over there. I told him that price, 52 million US dollars. He had only 50 million US dollars in cash on him, so he asked me to put a reservation on the car. He'll come back later."

I don't know who Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded is. I'm not running around in social circles like people who know who Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded is. For a second, I have nothing to say.

Chelsea does have something to say. She likes the car. Or perhaps she likes the price tag. In America, values depend on the numbers people tag on everything. For an American, the first three questions to get to know a stranger are always the same: "What's your name? What's your profession? How much money do you make?" Chelsea has probably met Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded before.

"I know who Sheik Ohmama Been Loaded is. That creep spends millions on useless stupidities like freaking football teams and horrible hotels. That stupid hotel of his, they don't even serve breakfast after 02:00 PM, when their most important guests get out of bed. I told my driver this stupid car isn't worth the trouble. We should have gone to that other place, where they have the 1967 Ferrari 330 P4, with a 4-litre engine, a top speed of 210 miles per hour, from 0 to 100 in 5 seconds, and it only costs 9 million US dollars. Why would my father spend 52 million dollars on a piece of junk that needs 6,1 seconds to reach 100 kilometres per hour, with only a 3-litre engine, and a lousy top speed of hardly 175 miles per hour? We're done here. I don't want your car anymore."

Chelsea's knowledge of expensive Ferraris doesn't impress the salesman, but it impresses me. I'm flabbergasted. I don't know what to say. The salesman shows his most professional smile, the smile he reserves for people who want to buy 1962 Ferraris for prices over 50 million US dollars: "And you are?"

Chelsea doesn't waste one drop of gasoline. She went from 0 to 100 in no time, and her top speed in digging up answers to silly questions is much higher than mine: "If you don't know me, it tells me enough about the social circles your clients hang out with. That Sheik Ohmama of yours? My father bombed his crazy cousin in Kuwait, he bombed his bloody brother in Baghdad, he bombed his stupid sister in Syria and he bombed his little leather lover-boy in Lebanon. You don't know who I am? I will tell you who I am. One phone call to my father, and ten minutes later a plane drops by accident a bomb while he flies over Marbella, destroying Ohmama's stupid hotel and his stupid shopping mall and his stupid car at the same time. That's who I am. And I'm not interested in buying your car. I just wanted to take it for a ride, to see if it's worth the money. Because if it's worth it, my father will pay a lot more for it than your terrorist friend from the desert."

The face of the car salesman turns white, then grey, then yellow and finally blue, making him imitate a Picasso painting. He walks to the glass front of the showroom, opens the double doors wide, steps out, and takes a long and worried look at the clear blue sky: "Just a ride to see if it's worth the money? I don't expect the Sheik to be back here before tomorrow. If you promise to bring it back today, before midnight, there will be absolutely no reason to call your father, Miss. I'm sure the performance of this car will impress you. You will convince your father to buy this car, instead of that 9-million-dollar piece of 1967 junk you've seen in the showroom of Alonso Automobiles on the other side of town. Did Alonso tell you the former owner was an old lady who only used it for shopping on Saturdays? To be honest with you: that man told you a lie. He crashed that car himself, three years in a row, in the streets of Monaco. That car is a loser."

He takes the car keys out of his pocket and hands them to me. In return, I give him two fake passports from my backpack, as a guarantee, a guarantee that he's been fooled hard (the passports have our photos, but the names of Eddie Murphy and Whoopi Goldberg). Carefully, I start the engine and drive the car out of the showroom. 300 horsepowers neigh when I touch the gas. I take off the stupid driver's cap and hide it under my seat; I'll lose it anyway during the first 6,1 seconds of our upcoming trip.

"I take back my negative opinion about this car, Miss. It feels a lot better than that 1967 piece of junk we've tried earlier this morning. If you would be so kind and join me in the passenger's seat, we can see what this baby has under the bonnet."

Chelsea throws one final destructive look at the salesman: "If we're back soon, it means no good."

"Don't worry, Miss. We've insured the car for 100 million dollars. If you don't come back at all, we'll make a nice profit."

The exhaust system of the Ferrari shouts to be heard, so the rest of his farewell speech remains an enigma. The tank is full. The thin red line between good and bad on the dashboard shows the maximum amount of rotations the car can handle when the engine is warmed up. My backpack fits behind my seat, the sky is blue, and the Spanish police don't patrol the roads on holidays like today. This might even become the best-day-ever as planned.

We start with a brief trip over the boulevard, the place-to-be in Marbella for seeing and being seen. I want Chelsea to be seen. I want this car to be heard. And, to be honest, I want to taste the life of the upper class, to feel what it's like to be rich and famous, to smell like hell of money and power. Riding a 52 million red horse does strange things with you. I don't want it to become a permanent disease, but the Ferrari fever makes me hot.

"Do you have a light?"

A red traffic light allows me to glance next to me, where Chelsea sits with a cigarette, waiting to be fired.

"Why would I have a light? I don't smoke. You know it's going to kill you? There's a reason why nobody smokes anymore. You should stop smoking while you can. The longer the habit, the stronger the vomit. Many people want to stop smoking and find it extremely difficult. It's better never to start it."

"I didn't ask for a sermon. I asked for a light. This car costs 50 million dollars, and the designer didn't even think of installing a lighter? I bet it doesn't have a stereo set or a DVD player either."

I grab my backpack from behind my seat, dig up a lighter, and fire up. If Chelsea wants to smoke, it's her choice. I should be angry at myself for criticising her; this mission is about giving her the best-day-ever. If smoking contributes to her idea of having a good time, I should accept it. But I don't like it.

Suddenly I think of something: "How did you know so much about this car? And how did you know all those details about that other Ferrari, the 1967 330 P4-model?"

"Duh. You don't know nothing, do you? Sandra-Dee, the President's daughter, gets that stupid P4 from her daddy for her eighteenth birthday. I asked my father to give me one too, but he said no. He said Sandra-Dee's father is a billionaire, and we're only a millionaire. We can't afford a 9-million-dollar Ferrari. He told me to think of another present for my birthday. Can we stop somewhere and take a photo of me in this car? I want to send it to Sandra-Dee, just for a laugh."

The light turns green. Chelsea points at a silver Rolls Royce, coming from the other side. She smiles seductively, waves, and says to me between her teeth: "Wave and smile friendly."

I obey her orders. When the car has passed, I ask: "Who was that?"

Her laughter is different now, genuine: "Sheik Ohmama. The steam came out of his ears."

The steam out of her nose makes her cough. She puts the cigarette out on the wooden dashboard and throws the butt on the street: "No lighter, no stereo and not even an ashtray… By the way… You won't tell my father about my innocent smoking habit, will you? Can you keep it a secret?"

Wow. For the first time, Chelsea gives me a sign of trust: sharing a secret is something between friends. She could have ordered me to do it, but she prefers to show her friendly side.

"You can count on me, Miss. I'm Secret Service; I'll serve you and I can keep a secret. Are you ready to see what this car can do? You better close your eyes. Put on the safety belt, please. I don't want to stop and turn around to pick you up, every time you fall out."

Marbella is a city on the coast, on the Costa del Sol. It's a small strip of beach between the Mediterranean Sea and the impressive mountains of the Sierra de las Nieves. To impress everyone on that small strip of beach, they sell Ferraris, but they built those Ferraris to conquer those impressive mountains. I pick the road to Ronda, full of curves and tunnels, steep slopes and deep canyons. The car spins like a pussy, steers like a razor, and makes me feel like James Bond. The only difference is that James Bond always has a lovable lady sitting next to him. My companion limits herself to flying from left to right in her seat while hitting me on the arm: "Stop this, Arse! Are you crazy? Aaaahh. Do you want to kill me? Ooohhhh. Watch out! Stop!"

Finally, we stop at a car park, high on the mountain, with spectacular views of the landscape and the blue sea: "The lady asked to stop to take a photo. I thought this would be the best place. If the lady would be so kind to hand me her mobile phone…"

"I HATE YOU!"

I give her a naughty grin for an answer: "No, you don't. You like me already, and at the end of this day, you'll love me more than anyone. Don't act like you're angry. You're much prettier when you smile. Brush your hair and do your mysterious make-up magic. I want you to look good for this photo. Your friend Sandra-Dee will be green and yellow with envy when she sees you like this."

Her smartphone provokes my whistle of admiration: it's a golden Princess Plus imPhone, the latest model of the most exclusive brand, a must-have for everyone who wants to be someone in the shopping society where Chelsea grew up. I finger it, fondle it, and stroke it. The phone's immediate reactions give me goosebumps. Internet connection? Fast as lightning. A screen with super-HD quality, HIFI sound reproduction, and the camera takes 900-megapixel photos.

"You better put on a little more make-up. This camera catches every pore on your nose and every hair on your lip."

"I don't have hair on my lip."

"Put your hair in a ponytail. It draws attention to your beautiful green eyes, your best assets in a beauty contest, and it gives you a sporty image that fits better with the car. Don't sit in the seat. Drape yourself on the bonnet. No need to look so afraid; the camera won't eat you. Put your left hand behind you. Relax. Imagine you own the car. Think about how your friend Sandra-Dee will look when she gets this photo… That's better, that's the smile that favours you best. Don't show your teeth. You're not a tiger on a rabbit hunt; you're the Lion Queen, looking over her kingdom, realising it's all going well. That's it. Don't look into the camera. You're the Queen. You don't pay attention to paparazzi. That's what I mean. Seduce me…"

Suddenly the idyllic scene is over. Chelsea jumps from the bonnet, makes five angry steps towards me, snatches her phone out of my hands, and explodes: "That's it, right? You fancy me. I turn you on. You want me as your sex slave. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mister, but I already have a boyfriend and he's way better than you'll ever be. And now, you take me back to my hotel, so I can convince my father to keep Guantanamo open for the next 30 years, or at least as long as you'll survive in there."

I've said something wrong. Again. I'm not an expert with women, and especially not with this immature spoilt version of a woman I'll need to entertain today. Keep calm. The wrong approach would be to start defending myself: it would only make her think she's right. I've made the wrong impression. The best way to clean up the mess is by making the right impression.

"Watch the photos yourself. Look at the first one, look at the second one, and go on until the last one. Which image shows the best version of you? It's not the last one where you get angry with me. It's the second-last, the Queen of Andalucía, with lust in her eyes and hunger in her smile. Am I right?"

Chelsea takes the bait. She swivels through the photos while I search for the right words: "I like you, but I would never even think of being your boyfriend. How can I? I'm a first-floor boy. You're a fourth-floor girl."

Distracted by the photos, Chelsea asks: "First-floor boyfriend?"

That's the question I was waiting for. She gives me an open door towards my escape route: "In Málaga, a town about 100 kilometres to the east, right in the centre, they have a five-story building, especially for women who are looking for a boyfriend or a husband. On the first floor, a sign says «if you're looking for a man who's poor, ugly and stupid, please enter here because we have plenty of them». But the ladies know there are five floors, so most of them take the stairs to the second floor where they read a sign, saying «if you're looking for a man who's poor and ugly but intelligent, please enter here because we have plenty of them». The ladies who climb another set of stairs, to the third floor, see a sign, saying «if you're looking for a man who's poor, but handsome and intelligent, please enter here because we have plenty of them». Most women aren't tired yet. They climb the stairs to the fourth floor, where a sign says «if you're looking for a man who's rich, handsome, and intelligent, please enter here because we have plenty of them»."

While I'm talking, I install the high-tech wireless cameras and microphones The Nerd sent me. I put one on every strategic place in and around the car, and I clip the big bellybutton-camera on the lapel of my driver's jacket. I activate them and connect them to my spiPhone, which I click into a special frame and attach to the dashboard.

"I'm a first-floor boy. You can see I'm ugly, you already found out I'm stupid, and I herewith confess I'm poor too, which is obvious, of course, since I have to work for my money.

» You're a fourth-floor girl. You would never pick me. For you, it's easy to get someone better. Even a stupid, poor, ugly bastard like me is smart enough to understand: hoping to win the Queen of Andalucía is a stupid, unrealistic dream. Even in fairy tales, Snow White marries Prince Charming, and the ugly dwarfs return to the mines of Moria. I know I'll never reach your standards, and I'm not stupid enough to try to seduce you. I'm not that kind of man. In the theoretical case that a woman like you would try to seduce me, I would ignore it: I can never make you happy. All I want in a relationship is to make my friend happy.

» Does that take away your fears? I have a job to do. I'm not a playboy, looking for a centrefold; I'm a spy who has to serve and protect the princess in the gold coach until the clock strikes twelve. This is not a fairy tale. This is the real world. At midnight, the princess will still be a princess; it's her servant who will change back into the frog he was before he met her."

Chelsea has calmed down, thanks to my little bedtime story. She's not stupid. Next year, she's going to Harvard. She will probably never admit it, but she liked my metaphors about the Lion Queen and the princess in the gold coach. All I'm waiting for is the proof of my assumption of her intelligence. She has to ask the question. Now.

She takes her time.

She looks at the photos again, selects one, and adds a brief message. A little beep confirms she sent it.

Now she should ask the question.

Come on, Chelsea. Don't disappoint me.

"What's on the fifth floor?"

I fake a distracted surprise: "What?"

"You said there are five floors. That building in Málaga. There are five floors. The first floor is where you come from. The fourth floor is where I go to. What's on the fifth floor?"

That's the question. Rostov! I'm good at this game!

"Oh, that floor does only exist to prove that women are never satisfied. Shall we go on? We have a mission. We have to make this day unforgettable for you, and I know just where to start."

I start the engine, give Chelsea a comforting smile, and say: "I'm sorry I scared you with my driving. I've always dreamed of driving a car like this. Now, thanks to you, my dream came true. I just couldn't resist. Boys with their toys, I guess. I won't do it again, unless you ask me to. I'm sorry."

"Duh. You better tell me where we're going."

"What's your biggest desire? What do you wish for, more than anything?"

"I already have everything. Don't you know nothing?"

"There's something you already have, but… I think you like to have more. You have fifty friends on your Facebook page. How many friends does your friend Sandra-Dee have? Four thousand?"

"Not even close to that; just a lousy three thousand eight hundred ninety-four."

"How about you, having five thousand followers on Facebook this evening? Is that worth fighting for? Would that make this day one to remember?"

Chelsea thinks for a while. She hates me with a passion, and she won't allow me to do anything that might make her change her mind, but… from fifty to five thousand friends in one day?

I've studied her. I've had ten days to prepare for my mission. She spends almost all her time on Facebook, updating her profile, writing messages to her followers, telling them about her day, her hour, her last ten seconds. If you dedicate so much time and energy to something, it must be important for you.

Motivation uses the stick and the carrot, punishment and reward. I can't use the stick, so I've taken the biggest and juiciest and brightest orange carrot I could think of. It's hanging right before her nose: five thousand friends.

I lower the offer: "Perhaps five hundred friends would be the limit. You can't force people to like you, you know. You can't change other people. Five hundred would already be quite an effort. I don't have even one follower on my Facebook page, so perhaps even five hundred—"

"You promised me five thousand. A promise is a promise. Now do your job. We have a mission. Where are we going to?"

"We're going to play golf."

"Golf? Why would I like golf? Golf is for old men. I'm a teenage girl."

That's my girl. That's the teen spirit every James Bond would look for. Now we're ready to go.