1 - Start Me Up!

Geneva - Last week of July 2017

The message was clear: «Rooms 404 and 2503 are empty between 09:00 and 11:00. Make photos of every document you find and send the info to #2».

It's 09:05. I enter room 404, but it's not empty. On the bed sits a man, around thirty years old, with a sad face. When he notices me, I mutter an excuse: "Sorry. Please, go on with what you were doing. I just check if the chambermaid did her job well. Shall I put the «do not disturb»-sign on the door?"

The sad man lifts a gun. I raise my hands as a useless defence. He lifts it further and puts it against the side of his head. I try to stop him: "Please, don't do that."

He stares at me with his sad face, lowers the barrel a little, and asks: "Why not?"

"It's obvious. The blood will splash everywhere. In Pulp Fiction, it took two men an entire chapter to clean a car from a headful of brain tissue. Any idea how long it will take me to clean this room when you paint it red? You better fill the bathtub and drown yourself, or strangle yourself with the flexible tube of the shower, or, best of all, look into the mirror and scare yourself to death: you look like a zombie…"

He looks at me, like a zombie, but he doesn't laugh, and neither is he impressed by the amount of extra work that his suicide will cause me. He points the gun at his temple again.

I have one ultimate chance, but I have to be fast.

"Please, don't do that.", I say: "I know many people who committed suicide, and they all regretted it for the rest of their lives."

The sad man thinks about it and decides it's better to put the barrel into his mouth.

I'm getting worried: "Wait… I have something for you, a message that will change your life forever."

I put my hand in the pocket of the trousers of my uniform, in search of the message, but he pulls the trigger anyway. I close my eyes and hear… nothing. The fool forgot to take the safety off. Before he can undo the damage, I get my hand out of my pocket and aim at him with my own weapon: a canister of pepper spray. I empty a full charge in his face. It works splendidly. He screams like a pig, drops the gun and grabs his face with both hands. I grin at the spray can: "You make a grown man cry."

The man is not happy that I saved his life. He cries painful tears and shouts: "It hurts, you idiot. I'm dying…"

"Wasn't dying your idea to start the day with? Don't rub your eyes. It will make things worse. Go to the bathroom and use lots of water. Put the shower on, hot water, and spray it into your face."

He stumbles to the bathroom. I hear he follows my advice. I take the gun, a 9x18mm Makarov with 8 rounds in the cartridge, put the safety on again, and tuck it into my belt. Nobody kills himself during my watch!

I scan the room for any documents, but find nothing worth photographing and sending to #2 (read: number two). Then, I enter the bathroom to check on my patient: "Are you better now?"

He nods, but his sad face and his painful red eyes tell me he's lying.

I try to lighten up his mood: "You should not give up on life that easy. Lots of people are in poverty or pain, and they don't give up either. Every storm bird fights day and night against the cold and the rain, riding the wind at double speed to find food for her chicks. A nest made of straw is all the comfort she gets. A small crack in the rocks is her only shelter against the elements. The reward for all her hard work and misery is that one day her kids fly away without even saying «thank you». That storm bird doesn't give up and neither should you. Don't you remember the first lesson of life, right after you were born?"

He looks puzzled.

I continue: "When you were born, someone lifted you up by the feet and gave you a slap on your butt, which made you cry. That was your first lesson: life is hard. Don't you remember?"

A thrifty smile shows that I have my fish on the hook. A laugh is the best medicine against everything. I keep the initiative with my pep-guardiola-talk: "I'm glad I was just in time to help you avoid a mistake. What would your family say?"

"I have no family. I'm an orphan."

"What would your girlfriend say, or your wife?"

"I'm not married and I don't have a girlfriend."

"What would your friends say?"

"I don't have friends."

"I'm your friend."

I leave a pause, to make him realise how precious this moment is. He doesn't realise. Instead, he says: "Do friends attack each other with pepper spray?"

"Only good friends do, and only when they first meet and one of them does something stupid. I saved your life with the pepper spray. Friends do that. Friends save each other's life. I would not like it if you, my friend, would do something stupid, like shooting yourself in a five-star hotel with room service and a spectacular view over the Lake of Geneva. Life is not that bad, you know. You just have to find someone who pays the bill for your stay here. Who do you work for?"

The smile broadens up: "The First Bank of Moscow." But it's not a smile of pride or confidence. It's a disdainful smile. I don't believe him. Why would a banker walk around with a loaded gun?

"And you don't like your job?"

"It's not that. They try to kill me. I was given documents of great value. They found out, stole the information, and will come after me to kill me."

"So you decide to shoot yourself? Why? To do them a favour and save them the trouble? That doesn't sound wise to me. Why don't you just run away and hide?"

"Without money? Without a place to go? With the Russian Secret Service on my tail, who can track everything I do, listen to every phone call I make and see every payment with my credit card? Forget it. Impossible."

I take a deep breath; this will take a while: "I know the perfect place for you to hide. But first, I want to hear your story. And I also want you to swear that everything I say to you is classified information and you will not talk to anybody about what I will tell you. Do we have a deal?"

He thinks about it for a few seconds, but he doesn't have much of a choice. "I promise. Do you want me to make a contract?", he asks, trying to show his good will.

"No. Papers can be stolen or falsified. I don't even want to know your name, and I won't tell you my name either. That's not only because of the danger it might cause to our families when criminals know our real names and seek revenge. A name tells a lot about you; there's a world of difference between Elisabeth, Beth and Lizzy. I will call you…"

I scan the room. As soon as I entered this business, I found out how much you can learn about the character of someone by looking at his memories, his souvenirs, those little things that everyone keeps because of the stories behind them. You learn most from somebody's house, from his living room and his bedroom. People who travel a lot, like my new best friend the banker, they know how important it is to change an impersonal hotel room into a place where you feel at home. My friend obviously travels a lot. He made himself at home. On his nightstand stand three action figures: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Darth Vader and Master Yoda from «Star Wars», unmistakable reminders of a happy meal in a fancy restaurant. On the table lies his agenda, with a sticker that says: 'Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker', a famous line by John McClane (Bruce Willis) from his «Die Hard» films. Next to it lays his wallet, light brown leather with «bad motherfucker» on it, like the wallet of Jules in «Pulp Fiction». This man is a film fan, but I don't want to call him «motherfucker»: a moment ago, he told me he's an orphan; he has no mother…

In the corner stands a small suitcase of a popular brand with a sticker on it: «I (red heart) Rostov». He said something about the Russian Secret Service. His red eyes have a Slavic shape. It explains the Makarov too; the Russian police and military use that gun. The First Bank of Moscow has its main office in Moscow, but the sticker to recognise his suitcase between all the others on the airport indicates that he's probably born in Rostov, a harbour city in the south, where the Don meets the Sea of Azov, a suburb of the Black Sea.

"I will call you Rostov. You can call me Luxembourg. Or Lux, if you prefer. Okay?"

He nods.

I take the electric kettle from the table and fill it from the bathroom tap. I switch it on and ask: "Do you want coffee?"

"Tea, please. And not those filthy postman teabags they have in the mini bar here. I have real tea, black Russian tea from Sochi."

He gets up, opens his suitcase and takes out a black carton box with tea. I pour the boiling water into two glasses, hand one to my new best friend and sit down on the chair next to the table: "You can start me up by telling me your story."

The tea is excellent. I never was much of a tea drinker, but I will reconsider that custom.

Rostov takes a sip too and starts…

"I work for the First Bank of Moscow. My business card says I'm a Manager of Executive Affairs, but my job can be described best as… the personal assistant of Mister Nikolai, the President of the bank. I'm his secretary who keeps his agenda and books his trips, his administrator who prepares the contracts he wants to sign, his bellboy who makes sure he gets the reports he asks for, his PR-manager who takes care he makes the best impression, and his maid who cleans up his shit behind him.

» Usually, I'm better informed about the details of the work than Mister Nikolai, but this time it's still an enigma to me why we travelled to Geneva. We arrived at the hotel yesterday, late in the afternoon. After checking in, we had only five minutes for S.S.S., Shit, Shower and Shave; we had to meet some people who had called us already three times since we left the airport. They waited for us in one of the private dining rooms behind the restaurant and the bar.

» The others were a Swiss banker who introduced himself as Mister Camponelli, acting as the host of the meeting, a Frenchman, and a man from Great Britain. The Frenchman and the Brit told me their names, but… I don't recall them. All my attention was absorbed by the lady on the arm of the Frenchman, the goddess he briefly introduced as Katja."

Rostov sips his tea. That sad look in his eyes has returned: "I've always been the career-first type. My friends played football or basketball, but I was studying. They worked at the supermarket to earn their drinking nights, while I preferred a worse-paid job where I could get experience and, at the same time, work on my network of relations. Girls were a waste of time, money, and energy. I always had that faint feeling that 'any day' I would find myself a wife, get married and all that sentimental stuff, but 'any day' never entered my agenda. Until yesterday. The moment I saw Katja, I knew that 'any day' had arrived."

Rostov takes a deep breath, studies the pink butterflies at the bottom of his teacup and sighs: "Katja is ice cream in August. She's a strawberry-and-peach cake with thirty-two candles. She's the Russian anthem played by Carlos Santana. She's Katniss Everdeen meets Catherine Zeta-Jones with a short haircut. She's the kind of woman who makes the end of the world look like an insignificant detail. You would give up your kingdom for one of her minor smiles. I will never forget that moment when I first saw her.

» She was there, on the arm of the Frenchman, like he was her father, presenting me my bride in front of the altar. I hope I dreamed it, but I have this strong memory that instead of telling her my name, I said: «Yes, I do.» Katja let go of the leading arm and came closer, donating me such a radiant smile… I would do anything to make this fabulous woman happy.

» She came closer, bent over, wanting to kiss me. I closed my eyes, not prepared but nevertheless eager to find out what heaven tasted like. I waited for her kiss. Eternally. She had just come closer to whisper in my ear: «I'm the desired one here, so I'm the one who makes the choices and the moves. You're dead until I tell you to come. Try not to make a fool of yourself. Okay?» It sounded like a promise and it sounded like a massive turndown, but I didn't care. I was on fire.

» When we sat down at the dinner table, I excused myself and went to the bathroom, to cool the burns on my soul with cold water on my face. When I came back, the business part of the meeting was already over. The only part left was that of the transfers. The Frenchman said: «First, I will make a transfer of 1 euro to an account of your choice. Would you be so kind and give me the bank details of your account, please?»

» «That will be my private account on the bank of Mister Camponelli.», Mister Nikolai said. He took a small card from his wallet and handed it to the Frenchman, who passed it to Katja. She prepared the transfer. She did some swiffering and some typing and handed the phone over to the Frenchman. He took a piece of paper from his wallet, entered the number that was written on it, waited for the signature code, confirmed the transfer and sent it out. He burnt the paper with the code in the ashtray on the table. Then he gave a piece of paper to my boss, Mister Nikolai, who passed it to me, with the instructions to transfer 100 million Swiss francs from the main account of the First Bank of Moscow to the number on the paper.

» I prepared the transfer with the app on my mobile phone and handed it to Mister Nikolai so he could enter his personal secret code, to ratify the transfer. We had to wait until Katja, on the phone of the Frenchman, received the confirmation. It took two magnum bottles of champagne before we could go on.

» After she received the confirmation, Katja opened the attaché suitcase she brought with her and put it on the table, so we could see what was inside: a small, steel strongbox that looked like a mini laptop with three numbered wheels on each side.

» The Frenchman said: «I've sent you the code to open this little Swiss suitcase, via my transfer of 1 euro. The description contains 15 numbers, but the code is made up of the numbers 2, 3, 5, 7, 11 and 13, only the prime numbers, without number one because that's me.» We all laughed at his little joke. «If you try a wrong combination, it will break the container inside the strongbox and the acid will destroy the documents. If you try to open the strongbox with force, the same will happen.»

» And then we had dinner.

» When dessert had disappeared, my boss sent me to my room, with the explicit instructions to guard the suitcase with my life. The others were suggesting some further entertainment, but I was not invited."

Rostov sighs. No need to tell me he stored the suitcase with its 100 million worth of content in the safe next to the fridge. No need to tell that he fell asleep and found the safe empty when he woke up. I can look inside the open safe from where I sit. There is nothing in it.

"Did you check the room?", I ask.

"Three times. The door was still locked as I left it last night."

"That means nothing. I came in too, didn't I? Did you call Mister Nikolai?", I ask.

"I called his phone, but nobody answered. I knocked the door of his suite, room 2503, but nobody was there."

Suite 2503… That's the second room on my work list… Interesting…

"Where did you get the gun?"

"I'm Russian.", Rostov says as if that explains everything: "In Russia, we shoot first and ask questions later. Check the statistics. We are at number three in the top 100 of the highest homicide rates for developed countries, two places higher than the USA, and we do that with only 9 guns per 100 while the Americans have 100 guns available per 100 inhabitants. Shooting people is a quick and cheap solution for every problem. It's a part of our culture since Stalin invented it. I've made a mess of my life. It's better to end it here and now. I'll never be able to pay back the 100 million… I've lost my job, I've lost my dignity, I've lost my life. There's only one way out: please give me back my gun and let me finish this…"

I feel responsible. It was my idea to let Rostov tell his story, which makes me the reason all these negative thoughts came back to him. I can't help him change his mind. Only he can do that. It's his mind. Maybe I can push him a little in the right direction, give him some positive ideas about solutions.

"When you owe the bank 100 euros and you can't pay, you have a problem… but when you owe the bank 100 million… the bank has a problem. You should not waste your life because of some problems other people gave you, Rostov. There never was a problem that couldn't be solved with the right combination of time, energy, creativity and knowledge. You should not give up that easy, not without trying."

"This time, there is no solution, Lux. In the financial world, success is the only way to survive. I've resigned to failure."

"Now you're out of a job, you might try CNN: they're looking for a freelance natural disaster to fill the eight o'clock news with; you fit that description perfectly. Don't worry. We'll find that suitcase before anyone notices it's missing. You won't lose your job."

Rostov stares at the bottom of his tea glass without seeing anything.

Slowly, I finish my tea; I need the time to think. This is… unexpected. Everyone has those little moments when a decision will have a tremendous impact on the rest of your life. This is one of these moments. The question, the 100-million-dollar question, is simple: take the challenge or walk away. The decision is even simpler: walk away? Never!

"We have two options, Rostov. The first option is that I drown you in the bathtub and make it look like a suicide. That solves all your problems. I don't have to take any risk, and I keep your Makarov as a souvenir, as a payment for my services."

Rostov's look shows curiosity to hear the second option. My triumphal smile promises a better way of starting up this day than killing yourself.

"The second and last option is: I help you get the suitcase back. But when we find it, I want a copy of what's inside. And I keep the gun too."

Rostov shares my optimism now: "Do you know where the suitcase is? Did you… steal it yourself?"

"No, I did not steal it. If I already had the suitcase, do you think I would share the content with you? Do you have the code to open it? No. So that means we have to go out and look for it, together, and find out what's important enough to let someone pay 100 million Swiss francs for it. Or perhaps the case is simple. Perhaps your boss came into your room when you were sleeping and left with the suitcase, or something similar. There are not many people who know you had it and what it was worth. That makes our little quest a whole lot easier."

Rostov's face clears up: "Good thinking, but… Are you sure? You're a chamberboy…."

"How many chamberboys can handle a Makarov and have a bottle of pepper spray in their pockets? How many chamberboys can drown you in your bathtub and make it look like suicide? Do you really think I'm a chamberboy?"

Rostov sees the light. He hits himself on the forehead. How stupid had he been: "Of course. And I believed you when you said you came to check on the chambermaid. The chambermaid had not even been here yet. The only one who can find my suitcase is… Hercule Poirot, the famous Luxembourg detective. I'm sorry I didn't recognise you without the moustache, Mister Poirot. I'm a big fan. I've seen all your films. Of course, I accept your conditions. Together we'll find the suitcase. And you can keep the gun, of course. I will even add an ounce of the finest Russian caviar…"

I desperately look up, at the perfectly white ceiling of the room, to ask the Higher Powers for mercy. Fate had thrown me an opportunity in the lap, but the irony of fate supplied the best example of Russian intelligence to complicate a simple case of a suitcase.

"No, Rostov. Hercule Poirot was not from Luxembourg. He was Belgian, and, most important, he was fiction. I'm not a chamberboy, I'm not a barman, I'm not a Belgian detective either, but I can help you, perhaps better than anybody else, because my real profession is… I can only tell you this under the absolute condition of keeping this top secret."

Rostov raises his hand, lifts the index and middle finger and spits on the ground: "Top Secret. My lips are sealed. I promise. Boy Scout's honour. There's nothing more secure."

"My real profession is… I'm a spy."