8. Wang Dang Doodle

We must move, again. Khalid and his men know too much about us. How? GPS tracking with mini-drones? Malik doesn't have a mobile phone and my spiPhone has encrypted access. I start the Tracker app on my spiPhone, the app that scans for microphones and other emitting devices. I'm clean. Malik isn't. Someone put a microphone in the inside pocket of his smoking jacket. I feel stupid. I should have checked his clothes when I took them from his house.

"Did you notice anyone in the nightclub who might have put this into your pocket?", I ask.

"Nobody and everybody. It was crowded in there."

If I had to slip something into someone's pocket, I'd pick the easy-accessible side pocket. Khalid returned to Malik's house, found the basement empty, and planted a bug. Why did he pick the smoking jacket?

We have more urgent matters to solve, like finding a safe place to sleep and store my stuff. We're wasting too much time and energy on running away. There are too many questions and no answers.

We change into the casual clothes we wore earlier. With my backpack, my suitcase, and Malik's stuff, we walk back to town. We take a different route, through an industrial area with small businesses. At a bus stop, there's a map. The Battle Angel is a gym, not far from here. We walk on, looking for a warehouse or a whorehouse or wherever we can find a bed.

"Isn't there a place for homeless people or refugees here on Malta?", I ask. Silently, I curse myself: I'm copying Malik's style of unanswerable questions.

"Actually, there are several, but they're always packed; each bed is shared by three people, taking turns. We can go to Sleeping Beauty. It's a place where drug addicts can spend the night. It's free. No questions asked."

I object: "If it's financed by the local authorities, it might be tolerant to junkies, but a runaway spy like me could easily get into trouble."

Malik shakes his head: "Sleeping Beauty is a private enterprise. Rumours say the underworld takes care of the costs. Those drug lords don't want their best clients to die on the street."

Somehow, that makes Sleeping Beauty even more dangerous for us to spend the night: "You say «underworld» but you mean «Khalid El Bullít», right? Is there competition in the Maltese market for fantasy enhancers? Or does Khalid have a monopoly here? What did you write about it in your book?"

"Locally, Malta's underworld doesn't tolerate small criminals who operate on their own account. Where Khalid comes, Khalid rules. In Marseilles, the drugs market was divided between two gangs, the Rugby Club and the Olympics. One day, a lieutenant of the Rugby Club was found dead. The next day, the daughter of a captain of the Olympics was raped and strangled. Immediately, a war broke out. During the next three months, the two gangs fought each other in a growing spiral of blood and violence. At the end of the war, both had lost many men. Khalid only needed one night to kill the remainders of both sides and take over the drug business in the entire region. One of Khalid's men told his girlfriend that Khalid was responsible for the first two murders. After they broke up, the girlfriend told me. She was addicted, of course, and died of an underdose one week later…"

"You mean she died of an overdose?"

"No, after she broke up with Khalid's lieutenant, she couldn't get enough drugs to keep her alive anymore. She died of an underdose like we're going to die of an underdose of money if we don't find a solution soon. With money, we can go to a bed-and-breakfast.", Malik suggests.

I still have my credit card. I could go to a bank and take out some cash from my account, but they might trace it and come after us. We can make sure we get away fast, they can't cover the entire island, but they might have access to video cameras or follow us via satellite images. Is it worth the risk?

I can also use Chekhov's gun and rob a liquor store; the police are so busy chasing terrorists that armed robbers rarely get caught… But Malik just told me Khalid doesn't like competition. We shouldn't take the risk.

A beep on my spiPhone gives an unexpected alternative: an incoming message from Kangaroo Babysitter Online. Ten minutes later, Ms Taylor shows me little Mickey in his cradle. She urgently needs to go to the hospital where her father suffers from an emergency. Don't worry, Miss, that's what we're for, to care about the ones you care about. Ms Taylor leaves. While Malik sleeps on the couch, I take the first watch. I opened the babysit account months ago when I needed it for an undercover entry into the house of a Greek politician. I reactivated it after the events at the Triton Fountain, and look how it saves the day, or at least the night; we get paid for sleeping next to little Mickey.

* * *

I look at the clues:

«007 Calls for Emergency»

«The Bourne Obscenity»

«Vanished in Venice»

«The Spy Who Got Out In The Cold»

«Miss Midnight Misses Mississippi»

«Leakage in London»

«The Spaghetti Connection»

It has to mean something. Someone left these flyers here for a reason. I have to find the missing link, the key to let it all make sense. But it doesn't make sense at all. It looks like a pile of books from a yard sale, so dry you can't even use them to light the barbecue. How can we find what we're looking for if we don't even know what we're looking for?

Suddenly, I remember something the poets in the park said: Khalid hates book people. That's it: this is all bad writing. These are terrible titles of dreadful works of fiction. The writer is the bad guy in each and every one of these stories. We have to focus on the writers. Let's search the Internet first, see if we can find out who wrote all this pulp fiction. Hm. Ronaldo Siète. This one too. This book was written by Ronaldo7, which is an alias for Ronaldo Siète. It looks like we have our man. All we have to do now is send a message to #4, The Agent, with the order to arrest the man and put him behind bars forever.

Rostov! Ronaldo Siète is already behind bars forever, and #4, The Agent, got orders to arrest me!

I wake up.

What a horrible nightmare! Not even a nightmare, but a daymare. Having a siesta after lunch was a bad idea.

An hour later, Ms Taylor returns. The operation was a success. Her father is stable. She's also happy to see that little Mickey and I had a good time and an even better lunch. Malik and our luggage are waiting in the building's basement, where Ms Taylor has a storage space with an easy-to-pick lock.

"What's the plan now?", he asks.

It's already 15:00.

"I don't want to go on like this, running away and sleeping under bridges. We have one lead left: the gym. Perhaps we won't find anything there, but at least, we can have a look. Then we'll go and find a room for tonight."

"Economically, how much did that lady pay you for letting us use her bed and breakfast?"

"Not enough to pay for our dinner tonight."

"Beneficially, I can take care of dinner. I have two invitations for the Gala of Art of the Year, tonight, at the Phoenix Hotel Malta. Champagne and snacks included. Do you have a smoking jacket?"

"I have the suit I wore last night."

"It will do. Artists are strange people. Most of them are like you: they don't know how to dress."

"Where do you have these invitations? At home?"

"No, in the inside pocket of my smoking. I saw them when you found the microphone."

Strange…

"Do you remember when you put them there?", I ask.

"When I received them in the mail, I guess. I get these invitations every year. In my pocket, I can't lose or forget them. I'm rather sloppy with that sort of thing."

I'm rather suspicious with that sort of thing. A bugged smoking with two invitations for an art gala…? I'm glad I'm invited.

When I change into my jogging trousers, a sweater and trainers, I ask: "Are you coming with me to the gym? I can't think of any reason. It can be a risky visit. Would you like to wait here? Or do you prefer to wait for me in a park or something?"

"Unsportingly, waiting for you? I'm coming with you to the gym, of course. I might recognise Khalid by his voice, his body language, or his attitude. It's safer too. Together, we are stronger than each of us alone. Should anyone attack us, I can warn you, and you kill him."

Malik is right. When trouble knocks on your door, it's better to have someone around who can cover your back, but somehow I feel safer alone. I'm a trained professional. When Malik, armed with a swatter, faces a ferocious fly, I put my money on the fly; a smart fly would land on Malik's forehead and take off half a second before Malik beats himself unconscious.

Besides, Malik is, in certain ways, a celebrity in Valletta. People might recognise him. He's also much older than the average gym visitor. I have a bad feeling about this.

"We don't have proper clothes for you."

"We have the money from the babysitting. A pair of shorts, a T-shirt and a tracksuit or a sweater don't cost much at the Saturday street market.", Malik suggests.

I visualise Malik in a sports sweater, the hoodlum with the hood. It looks ridiculous.

"Look mean."

Malik's surprised face doesn't look mean at all: "What? Mean? Why?"

I explain: "We have two options. The biggest chance is we'll find only honest people there, working out to get fit. But there's also a slight chance we'll find anything linked to Khalid, or perhaps even Khalid himself, and I don't expect he gave his bodyguards a day off. We should prepare, invent an act. We might be two criminals, looking for Khalid, who hired us to do a job. Can you make the world believe we're mean? Look mean. You're Automatic Slim, the machine gun for hire."

Malik's grimace wouldn't even scare little Mickey upstairs. We'll need a better idea.

"Look superior. Imagine you're a scientist, Doctor X-Ray, the specialist in nuclear bombs. You don't even think of talking to hoodlums in a gym. You're here to talk with Khalid El Bullít, in person, about an important job. That's it. Arrogant pride. Keep your head up. Chin up, determined, superior, concentrate on arrogant lips, on your eyes, shoulders backwards. Keep one hand in your pocket and make gestures with the other while you're talking. Push your chest forward. You're relaxed, cool, superior… That's it, Malik. That's Doctor X-Ray. Keep this attitude. Look around. You're the man. Remember: you don't act as if you're Doctor X-Ray; you ARE the character. As a writer, you should be able to get under the skin of the characters you write about. Your life depends on it. If you lose your fictional personality, you'll lose your life. I'm your bodyguard, a trained professional who'd give his life to protect you, but you need to be that Doctor who's worth being protected. We give you a beard and a different nose. And you should leave your glasses behind."

"My glasses? Why?"

"They're too typical. If you would hide in a crowd and I had to instruct someone to look for you, I would say «1:80 tall, with black, horn-rimmed glasses» and she would find you in no time."

"But… I can't see without my glasses."

"I told you, I prefer to go without you. It's a gym. All we can find there is aggression. You're a poet and a writer. You're a lover, not a fighter."

"Spectacularly, nobody fights with someone who wears spectacles. I'm the explosives expert, the nuclear professor. With this beard, nobody will give it a second thought. Don't worry about me. Worry about making up a good story once we're in there."

That's something I figured out already.

A good story?

HA!

I write better plots than David Baldaccion.

This will be dynamite!

* * *

"I'm the nutty professor, I mean, the nuclear professor. I have a meeting with Mr El Bullít at four o'clock."

Six bad boys plus two bad girls stop their training session and line up in front of us. Seven of them have tattoos to identify their personality: Fast-talking Fanny, Razor-toting Jim, Pistol Pete, Fats, Washboard Sam, Boxcar Joe, and Chicken Head. The only one without tattoos wears a tank top with «Koko» on it. Her skin is too black for tattoos.

Fanny does the talking: "Who are you?"

"You can call me Doctor X-Ray."

"Who's the kid?"

"Basically, he's my bodyguard."

The nutty professor gets roaring laughter from his audience.

"He's no bodyguard. Bodyguards come from this gym. He's your bitch. No need to give us his name. We'll call him poodle.", Fanny says. The rest of the gang laughs again.

"His name is Albert. He's with me. He's my bodyguard."

"You don't understand. We, bodyguards, have standards. If he's not from here and he claims to be a bodyguard, we test him.", Fanny says.

It's time to take the initiative: "I have the UCI test report in my pocket: I'm clean. In a pissing contest, 2.000 nanograms of Salbutamol don't count as drugs."

Malik doesn't understand yet that he has to keep quiet. He throws some more firewood on the already explosive situation: "Adversely, the eight of you look, move, and talk like you're on drugs."

A storm of protests follows: "Drugs?" - "We don't do drugs." - "What makes you think we use drugs?" - "Do you think we do drugs because we're young?" - "Do you think young people use drugs because we're all stupid?" - "That's stupid, so you must be on drugs yourself." - "Do you think we use speed because we work out?" - "Do you think we smoke weed because we're young?" - "Do you think we use doping because we do sports?" - "Do you think that working out combines perfectly with booze and getting wasted?" - "Do you think we sniff cocaine because we're stupid?" - "Every adult thinks young people are stupid." - "We're not stupid. We're just poor." - "Only rich adults have money to buy drugs." - "Can't you give us some of your drugs?"

Malik doesn't understand: "No drugs? Khalid is a drugs dealer."

Chicken Head rolls his eyes at hearing so much stupidity: "Do banks give money for free to the guards at their doors? Do car sellers give their employees a free ride? Khalid wants us to work for him, not to destroy ourselves at his expense."

"Khalid is against drugs too. Since he took over the market, all the other drugs dealers have disappeared. Thanks to Khalid, the world has become a safer place.", Pistol Pete says.

His remark reminds me of Malik's story about the Marseilles gang war. Never change a winning strategy.

"We don't need drugs to entertain ourselves. All we need is a good fight and a stupid bitch to take the blows.", Razor-toting Jim smiles, at me.

"Thanks for letting us use your bitch, Doctor. We'll give her a good time.", Washboard Sam says.

Fanny grins: "Yeah. We're going to have a wang dang doodle, with your bang gang poodle. Do you want to talk to Khalid? He's behind that door. If your poodle kills us, we let you pass."

I'm looking around, hardly interested. I'm not afraid. We've jumped into the middle of a nightmare, but one can only be catatonic with fright for a certain limited period; my fear has passed the best-before-day already quite some time. It leaves the unexpected pleasures of getting what we worked (out) for; now Fanny mentions where we can find Khalid. I almost flash a smile. After all our bitter, fruitless efforts, finally, some sweet results.

Malik is not impressed by Fanny's threats either. He lights up a cigarette and blows the smoke to the ceiling.

Washboard Sam protests: "Hey, you're not allowed to smoke here. Those things kill."

Sam steps forward to snap the cigarette away, and steps back immediately when Malik shows the short-fused stick of dynamite, sticking out of the inner pocket of his jacket: "No, these things kill, and faster than tobacco. Pick your best man to fight my man, alone."

Koko's protest is fuel for the duel: "Best MAN? Do I smell some macho behaviour here? Is there, apart from pissing forward, anything a man can do that a woman can't do better? I left my instruction manual in the car. Can you please get it for me, Fats? The title is: «How to Screw Balls off Assholes», by Samuel L. Jackson."

I apologise immediately: "Sorry, ma'am, but, for being a gentleman, I would never raise my hand against a fine lady like you. It wouldn't be a fair fight either: with one horny wink, you'll have me on my knees, and one of your minor smiles could easily kill me."

Koko crosses her arms under her breasts. Those breasts are as big as my head, and at the same height too. Her biceps are thicker than my thighs. Her fists are bigger and harder than coconuts, and at least as hairy. She peers at me with half-closed eyes. She's not impressed. She wasn't talking to me. Doesn't want to talk to me either. She gives me the silent treatment, expecting it will make me shut up. That's why I keep talking, to show her I'm not impressed: "Just by looking at you, I finally understand the difference between «complete» and «finished»: if I'd run after you, I would be «finished»; if I'd marry you, I would be «complete»; and if I fought with you, I would be «completely finished». You give the expression «a complete knock-out» a totally different meaning. It would really hurt me if you broke your nail when tearing my eyes out, or split your knuckle to the bone on my front teeth."

"Don't get yourself fantasies on me, punk. I don't like your face."

"I don't like it either, but I have to live with it and you don't. Except for the moustache, you look like Mike Tyson, by the way."

"Mike Tyson doesn't have a moustache."

"That's what I said. Except for the moustache, you look like Mike."

Koko isn't sure if this is a compliment or a deadly insult: "Don't underestimate me. I'm far more dangerous than I look."

I don't fear people who say they're dangerous. «Dangerous» is a «Show, Don't Tell» expression. I hit them on the chin. It closes their big mouth. The chin is a better target than the nose. The nose is very sensitive and you can take someone out with just one blow, but if you mutilate someone's nose, you ruin her face for the rest of her life. That's a high price for making a mistake.

Hitting anyone wouldn't be an effective tactic here. Pain and fear make us cross the emotional barriers that society has created to prevent people from doing damage to each other. Fighting isn't about knowing how; it's about deciding to fight or not. Violence starts when we let our animal instincts take over our human intelligence. Pain doesn't paralyse us, nor withdraw. Pain makes us forget our fear and lets us double our effort, to fight back like we have nothing to lose; we won't let our attacker win and go on with the torture. The only effect that violence creates is: more violence. It takes seconds to destroy what took centuries to build. Violence is never the solution and always the problem. When a spy uses violence, she hasn't done her job properly. The easiest way to win a fight is to make your enemy give up before it starts. You need her brains to draw that conclusion.

I refer to those brains when I say: "I'll defend the Doctor against your best man. If I'm still standing when the Doctor has finished his cigarette, you bring us to Khalid. If not, we walk."

"If you lose, you won't be able to walk.", Boxcar Joe laughs when he steps forward. The rest of the hood laughs with him.

Fanny gives some additional advice: "We won't give you time to smoke your last cigarette, Doctor. Only in American movies do fights take so long that nobody believes it's real. How many punches can your man handle? Does he have good health insurance?"

I smile at her, relaxed: "I have something better: courage. Facing an unarmed man while you have a gun in your hand, that's not courage. Courage is when you don't run away from an opponent who's twice as tall and four times as heavy. Courage is saying «no» to a country-size institution that treats people badly. Courage is bending your knee for others while you know it might cost you your career and your income. Courage is when one stands up for what's worth dying for because it's not worth living without it. You fight for fun. I'm a professional. I don't hurt people for fun. You can still walk away from this and let us pass. We're not here to hurt you. We're here to have a word with Khalid."

Joe points at the double doors behind him: "Khalid's over there, over my dead body. Don't worry about us, kid. We're professionals too: we're going to throw a mess, we're going to break out all the windows and kick down all the doors with you, and we're getting paid for all that fun."

I shake my head as a response of complete incomprehension: "You have no idea anymore how to entertain yourselves."

I'm a flyweight. This man is Muhammad Ali's grand grandson, the one who inherited all the talent of his greatest grand granddad. When he bangs me on the head, I'll disappear under the floor. When he punches me in the face, I'll fly through the back wall. When he invites me to enjoy one of his uppercuts, I'll be launched through the roof.

I scan his weak spots. His six-pack looks massive enough to take my strongest punch without a problem. His head is well protected behind his ungloved hands. I can kick him in the crouch, making him regret he was born male, but the rest of the gang would reward my breaking-the-rules by attacking me all at once, making my unavoidable death look like an accident.

I decide to attack his ears and his fears first: "How much pain can you handle?"

Boxcar Joe stops, grins, steps forward and mows his long right arm over the place where I was before I ducked. I repeat my question: "How much pain can you handle? Do you mind losing a few teeth? Is it okay when I break your arm?"

His fast left-right-left direct punches hit the air while I dance around him: "Or would you go on until I break both your legs? I won't kill you, of course. I'm a professional."

I parry his swing with my left arm, duck under his left hook, step away from his kick, bend back to avoid his uppercut and give him a friendly pat on the cheek with my right hand before I retake my position: "I won't let you bleed to death either. I will even consider donating the blood you're about to lose to the Red Cross, although I doubt if they'll take it; not many chickens need a blood transfusion."

Joe is getting mad. His defence starts giving openings for a hit, even by a smaller opponent whose arms aren't as long as Joe's, but this is not about scoring points, this is about having a wang dang doodle, a really good time. According to the cigarette in Malik's hand, only one-third of that time has burnt up.

"Stand still. Fight back.", Joe growls.

Malik tries to help Joe, by telling me: "Fight back. Kill him. He's bad."

"Answer my question.", I say while I ward off two blows, one with each of my arms. It feels like I'm hit by two running elephants.

"You better worry about yourself.", Joe grunts.

He's not getting tired yet, but I'm getting tired of this game. I have to finish this before he finishes me. While I keep dancing around him, I go on with my lecture: "Would you still think of this wang dang doodle as «having a real good time» when I put you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life?"

Joe is losing his patience: "Shut up and attack me!"

I defend myself against his unfair attack: "I'm a bodyguard. It's my job to defend my client, to resist an attack. We use the verb «to attack» when someone acts aggressively against somebody else to injure or kill. You're not a bodyguard. You're not defending anyone. You're attacking. And you're terrible at it too."

Joe's swing misses me again. He's getting slower. It's time to finish this.

"When I attack you, dear Joe, I'm responsible for the damage I cause you. I can't bring you back from the dead. If anyone thinks «defending yourself» permits you to fire guns at others and get away with it, they should change the dictionary. If they follow the dictionary, they should change the law. Defence = Good. Attack = Aggression = Bad. You're aggressive. I defend myself. I take a few blows (Ow! That one hurts. I should concentrate on my movements instead of on my grammar.), but I can handle it. My question was: how much pain can you handle?"

"More than you can give me.", Joe pants.

That was the answer I was hoping for. My index and middle finger of my left hand enter the pocket of my shorts for a moment and dip into the bag of sambal. Quickly, I say: "Prepare.", move my right fist backward like I'm going to launch it in a massive punch towards a not yet defined target, which makes my right shoulder go backwards and therefore my left shoulder and arm come closer to Joe, who's fully concentrated on defending the decoy, the expected blow with my right fist, which isn't coming because I already have my left hand close enough to his face to stick my two spicy fingers into his eyes. Spies aren't proud of an honest fight. Spies are proud when we win. In love and war, everything is fair enough.

Joe doesn't look at it that way. Joe is blind. His eyes hurt like hell. Sambal is a hot sauce from the Far East, made of red peppers. If you mix half a teaspoon with a full kilo of boiled rice, you'll still burn your mouth when you eat it (and one day later, you'll burn the shit out of yourself again).

I take Malik's short cigarette butt out of his hand and put it out on Joe's forehead: "How much pain can you handle while you defend your boss Khalid?"

Mistake.

Without the burning cigarette, the immediate risk of lighting the fuse of the stick of dynamite has disappeared.

You can't find sportsmanship in the Battle Angel. The remaining seven run towards me for the biggest ass-whooping they can imagine. The only image that comes into my mind is to run away, as fast as I can, the other way, through the door, into the entrance hall of the gym. On my way outside, I pass the counter and see something that might come in handy: car keys. I grab them and run outside. The seven are fast and fit. I'm tired of dancing with Joe. My body hurts because of all the blows and punches. I can't run forever. I need a place to hide. The car keys have a button. A beep and two orange lights show me the way. I tear the door open, jump inside, slam the door, and lock the car electronically. Pfff. Time to take a deep breath.

I know it's not professional, but what else can you do when seven angry faces look at you from the other side of a bullet-proof car window? I smile, as friendly as I can, and wave with my left hand while my right hand puts the keys into the ignition and starts the engine. It makes them mad.

My smile disappears when I look into the rear window: the gate between the car park and the road closes slowly. To keep my eyes on the gate, I have to adjust the mirror. But all I can see now is the back seat. The back of the car is coming up.

I adjust the side mirror and see the grinning faces of Fats and Koko, who lift the backside of the car. The wheels lose contact with the tarmac and spin like the records on the turntable of DJ Skratch. Why didn't I steal a front-wheel drive? Why didn't I steal a four-wheel drive?

Pistol Pete and Fanny show why the Battle Angel is a multi-sports facility; you can do weight-lifting and boxing here, and a bit of running around, but also baseball is an option. Their two aluminium bats paint spider webs in the bullet-proof windows and turn the bonnet into a 3D-image of the Grand Canyon. Washboard Sam has found a «do not park here» traffic sign somewhere. Its metal pole was tired and surrendered after Sam's polite request to join him. Together, they try the quality of the roof.

"Nice car you have. Perhaps a bit too big for a little boy like you. We'll make it shorter. Easier to find a parking spot. You're not hurt, are you? It's just a piece of metal.", Fanny grins.

I shake my head: no.

She nods: yes.

I correct her mistake: "Not my car. His car. I think you've hurt him."

The owner of the Battle Angel, with his shotgun and his German shepherd, is more than hurt. It must have cost him blood, sweat, and tears before he could buy such a fine car. Besides, there are the expenses of the hail he fires over the heads of the fighting furies, who need all their speed and climbing skills to escape the dog's teeth, over the closed fence, out of sight in hardly any time. Being in shape is always an advantage.

I sneak out of the damaged car and run back into the gym, where I find Malik: "Quickly. Khalid is behind those double doors. This is our chance."

I push the bar, open the doors, run through it and… wonder what I'm doing outside, at the back of the gym.

We're facing the streets of Valletta.

Khalid El Bullít is there, somewhere, everywhere, but impossible to find.

Malik takes the stick of «dynamite» out of his pocket and drops it on the floor. The carton centre of a roll of kitchen paper, a piece of rope and some dry mud were enough to terrorise the terrorists. Our little trick went like a bomb.