2. Paranoid

"Primarily, before I tell you what's in the book, I'll tell you why I wrote it. I told you I'm a poet, didn't I?"

"You did." Just «yes» or «no» doesn't answer Malik's strange questions, but I hope I've found a way to bend the language into a communication tool.

"I knew a very intelligent man, an engineer. Enthusiastically, he worked at home, making drawings, plans, designs. He worked hard. He never went out. His work was the only thing he had time for. One day, I asked him what he was doing. Cryptically, he answered: «I'm designing tools.» I asked him about the purpose of those tools. He answered: «I need them to make machines.» I asked him what these machines produced. He answered: «They produce robots.» I asked him why he needed those robots. He answered: «These robots make the tools I need to build the machines that produce more and better robots, of course.» I'm not an engineer, but I tried to imagine what the world would look like if this man finished his job: we would have shiploads of tools, machines, and robots that only would produce more tools, more machines, and more robots. Eventually, the result of this process would be an iron deficiency, and a surplus of useless tools, machines, and robots. The engineer found that reason enough to work hard, every day, even on the weekends. I, on the other hand, had a reason to doubt my own existence.

» Artistically, I asked myself the same questions I asked the engineer. His work was to design machines. My work was to write poems. Why? Because I'm a poet. What do I achieve by writing poetry? I strive to create beauty, with words. Why do I want to create beauty? Because I'm a poet. It made little sense. Literally, I spent my whole life filling pieces of paper with letters. At the end of my time, all those letters are used to make useless words. Nobody's doing anything with those tools, those machines and those robots the engineer invented, just looking at them and wasting time. Nobody's doing anything with all those poems I wrote, just looking at them and wasting time. What's our goal in life? We want to do great things. I was doing useless things. I wanted to give meaning to my life. Purposefully, I wanted to do great things, but… what?

» And then, Socratically, I saw the bigger picture: humanity. We are born, we kill animals and plants because we have to eat, we kill nature and natural resources because we need a house to live in, we kill each other because we're short on everything. After all, there are too many of us already, and what for? To produce even more children, like useless robots, only designed to produce more useless robots until there's no more iron left?

» If the poet is useless, if the engineer is useless, then humanity is useless. That's an alarming thought. Perhaps you need to be a poet to think like that. Or perhaps I made a mistake."

Malik's story reminds me of my metaphor of the jogger, running around in circles, wasting his time and energy with the only goal of wasting more of his time and energy in the future. Indeed, it's an alarming thought, but I don't dare to interrupt Malik. He's a writer. Writing starts with having something to say. Malik has more to say.

"Obviously, there was a flaw in my thoughts. The engineer was useless because he was not making money. He was doing useless work that led to useless products because nobody paid him for what he was doing. I was writing useless poetry because nobody paid me for it. The rest of humanity gets paid for what they do. The ones who make more money are also more successful and, therefore, useful. Making money is the reason we live. We sacrifice our time, our energy, everything, to get money. If the engineer had designed an electric toothbrush or a Kalashnikov instead of a robot, he would have been both useful and a millionaire. If I wrote about violence and murder, I would sell millions of books. My work would win a Pulitzer and a Nobel Prize. My photo would be on the cover of Time for Crime Magazine, the elected Man of the Year. I would be rich, successful, and useful.

» People love machines that take the work out of their hands. Thanks to machines, we have time to watch the news and entertain ourselves. People love blood and violence. We don't want to see anything else on the news. Every successful Hollywood movie is full of successful violence. Look at the New Joke Times bestseller list: thrillers, murder mysteries, action, heroes who save the world from being destroyed. That's useful. That was my mistake: as a fiction writer, I could do so many useful, successful things for the world, humanity, and myself. I needed to switch from poetry to prose. Instead of prizeless, prideless poetry, I had to write bestselling action thrillers.

» Titanically, I had one advantage: the world's most violent criminal and terrorist, Khalid El Bullít, lived on the same little island as I did. Capriciously, there was also one problem: nobody knew him; the only professional writer of Malta dedicated his life to precious poetry. Useless. I should tell the world about the dirty deeds of bloody Khalid, the Maltese Maniac, the Malice from Malta. That's why I wrote my masterpiece, «Noxious Secrets», which would bring it all to light, enlighten humanity with precious information, and shine a light on my bank account at the same time."

"Is your manuscript full of facts and true stories about Khalid?"

"Authentically. On the title page, it says something like «this is a work of fiction, nothing has really happened, and the characters are a product of the imagination of the writer», but why would you believe that line to be true if the rest of the story is a lie? In every book of fiction, the names of countries, cities and streets are obviously not a product of the imagination of the writer, which makes that line on the title page a notorious lie too. Readers don't want lies; they want a realistic plot. If the hero of a story died and came back to life three days later, the entire world would ignore the book because of the unbelievable plot. Literature is the art of lying so well that everybody believes you, and the best way to do it is by telling the truth. Legally, calling it «fiction» is just an escape route to avoid problems."

"The «avoid problems»-part didn't work. You're having a lot of problems already, and the book hasn't even been published yet. Legal rules don't work for criminals. Khalid doesn't follow the law. Khalid likes to cause problems. Apart from the problem of wanting to kill you, what other problems did he cause? How do you know he's planning a nuclear attack on a major city, probably New York?", I ask.

"Khalid is a weapons dealer. Rumours whisper he got several nuclear bombs that 'fell off the lorry' when they were moved in 1990 and 1991 from suddenly-former Soviet republics to Mother Russia. Revengefully, Khalid packed each device into a crate with Maltese art, books, or tapestry. He sent one box to a cellar in Beijing, another one went to an abandoned warehouse in New York, or an attic in Washington or L.A. or London or Rome or Moscow or… If I had a collection of H-bombs, I wouldn't keep them under my bed. Charge the battery of the mobile phone that activates each bomb and, satanically, you can start World War Three whenever you want."

"Do you reveal all those facts in your book? Do you know where these bombs are hidden? The people who hid them told you that?"

"Evidentially, the manuscript reveals the names of three former Soviet colonels who were in charge of such nuclear transport. All three live in Monaco now, close to the casino… In the same block lived a Lebanese salesman. He used to have a small import and export company in Valletta, back in 1989. Four years later, he was found dead, two bullets in the back of his head… The police said it was suicide…"

"You know an awful lot."

"I fear I know too much."

"Why would New York be Khalid's target?"

"Instinctively, after all the research and after studying Khalid for so long, I know how he thinks. Khalid thinks he's a hero. He's no different from all the other terrorists we have in history. Hitler thought he was doing the world a favour by letting only the best race survive. Stalin thought he helped the workers of his country by killing the ones who didn't like to follow his orders. Originally, in ancient times, humanity wasn't as violent as we are now: Julius Caesar didn't kill his enemies; he made a better profit by selling them as slaves. But slavery is against the law now, so killing is the only option left. New York is the crime capital of the world, with five killings every day. Khalid wants to end that, for once and for good."

I take my spiPhone and verify the data: "New York only has a violent crime rate of 570 per 100.000 inhabitants. It's not even in the top 50 of the most dangerous cities in the US. If you're right, Khalid would bomb Detroit (2.050), Saint Louis (1.910), Memphis (1.820) or Baltimore (1.780 violent crimes per 100.000 people in the last year). And if he really wanted to kill the killers, he would bomb Caracas in Venezuela, where homicide statistics are almost twice as high as in St. Louis. According to the official info of the FBI and the NYPD, the city of New York only had 290 homicides in 2017, less than 1 per day. On a population of 8.5 million, that's among the lowest in the USA. In that same year, Detroit also had 290 homicides, but Detroit has 670.000 inhabitants. Their murder statistics are 1250% as high as New York. So I wonder what kind of research you based your book on."

"Prosaically, the Internet is like the Christian Bible: you can find everything you need in it, to verify what suits you best. Everyone knows the Greek economy is booming, but if you base your research on the internetically published lies of Andreas Georgiou, a convicted criminal who worked for the state…

» You can trust me: I have confidential inside information. Khalid wants to destroy a major city, probably New York, with a nuclear device. Someone has to stop him, and the FBI and the NYPD won't do it because they are too busy putting statistics on the Internet."

Somehow, this writer has a way of saying things that make me wonder if the complete world is wrong and he's the only one who's right. If you follow the news, you probably believe that crime statistics are going up instead of down. The news is the truth, facts, given to us by professionals, who make millions, thanks to our right to be informed, so it must be good for us to know everything about all those crimes.

"Why didn't Khalid kill you right away? Why would he take the manuscript and come back later to kill you?"

"Optimistically, I believe he wasn't sure he got the right thing. Even for criminals, death is a solution that can't be reversed."

"Why didn't he take you with him? Why all the trouble of tying you up?"

"I don't know. Ask him. He enjoys tying people up. Khalid put duct tape over my mouth and tore it off again, and put a new piece of duct tape over my mouth and tore that off too, and again, and again, until my beard and moustache had almost disappeared. He loves games like that. I don't know why he didn't murder me. Perhaps he wanted to send someone else to do his killing for him. Autobiographically, Hitler, Stalin, Ohmama Bin Loaded, George W. Bush, and every mafia boss worked like that. They don't want blood on their own hands. When the captain orders the soldier to shoot the prisoners, the soldier gets the nightmares, and the captain gets the medals, right?"

A sudden beep announces an important incoming message. It's from #2, The Nerd, who coordinates operation GHOST (Get Hostage Out, Stop Terrorist): «#4 will arrive in a yellow taxi at 04:00 at agreed location. The taxi will identify itself by turning off its headlights three times. You respond with three flashes of your flashlight. Then you put the writer in the taxi and return to your residence. Confirm when writer in position.»

«Writer in position.»

After sending the message, I see Malik looking over my shoulder, trying to figure out what's going to happen with him.

"What's wrong? We're professional killers. We have everything under control.", I assure Malik.

"I'm sure you have not. You don't know Khalid."

"You were telling me about him."

"Uncritically, If I could tell you everything in three words, I wouldn't have to write a book about him. He's not only dangerous, but he's also highly intelligent; he outsmarts all the authorities, and he's always one step ahead of his enemies. Khalid thinks crime is some kind of joke and people who try to stop him are the jokers. Some people think I'm insane because I'm frowning all the time, but they don't know what Khalid is capable of. Be alert, or you're dead. Don't go to the bathroom without your gun. Don't sleep in the same bed twice. Eat with your left hand so you won't lose time grabbing your gun with your right hand. Only eat food you've grown and prepared yourself. Never leave your luggage unattended. Only enter a public place after every visitor has been x-rayed in a body scan. Never trust a bottle of water in the hands of a tourist. Keep two full spare clips close at hand. Habitually, Khalid strikes when you least expect it."

"You're paranoid. You didn't follow your own instructions either."

Skittishly, Malik's big eyes go everywhere, with the speed of light: "And look what it brought me. If you hadn't shown up, I'd probably be mortally dead by now. Like you, I didn't believe all those rumours at first. I thought they were nice stories and used them to spice up a crime novel I was working on. Then I started to do some research, looking for motives and means. I know things… I've heard stories from eyewitnesses…"

The clock on my spiPhone tells me it's already 04:07. The square below us is still empty. I send a message to #1, The Boss, #2, The Nerd, and #4, The Agent: «youre late» but… it bounces. My spiPhone tells me what the problem is: «unable to deliver message», but it doesn't tell me why or how to fix it.

I start the Fix-It app to analyse the problem: «the message is a mess, five major spelling errors in only two words», followed by «unable to reach satellite» and «no signal from satellite», and then «I keep trying, but the signal is scrambled like green eggs for breakfast», followed by «reboot satellite» and «call technical service to replace motherboard of satellite», and finally «the number is: 0800-NASANERDS (1 million dollars per second)». Where would we be without the proper programs to help us out?

Malik grabs my arm and points towards the square below us. There's a taxi coming. The roundabout around the Triton Fountain has two access roads: the Vjal Ir-Re Dwardu VII right ahead of us, and the Vjal Nelson that's coming from our left. The right side and our side of the square are dominated by the ancient city walls, but between those walls and the Vjal Dwardu is the entrance road to the Phoenix Hotel Malta (which is far far far above LSD budget), and from that road, against the traffic direction, appears a light-blue car with a taxi sign on the roof. It stops in front of the fountain and illuminates it by flashing its headlights three times.

"That's the signal. We should go downstairs. I don't feel safe here.", Malik mutters.

I look him in the eyes: "How do you know that's the signal?"

"I saw the message your boss sent you."

"That message said something about a yellow taxi that would turn off its lights three times. This is a blue taxi, it flashes, and also it's late. When The Boss prepares a mission, he's never late, and he's never flashy. This isn't the taxi we're waiting for. So we keep waiting."

Two headlights on the Vjal Dwardu approach the square and illuminate the fountain when a white taxi stops in front of it. Its orange alarm lights flash three times.

At the same time, a red taxi enters the square from the Vjal Nelson. We didn't see it coming because the driver dimmed the headlights, but when he stops in front of the fountain, he turns them on, three times.

Malik's eyes turn big with fear: "What do we do now?"

"What do you do when you're in an aeroplane, you hear an explosion, the oxygen masks start falling from heaven, the «fasten seat belts» sign flashes, and the stewardesses slide head-first over the floor, showing that the plane's nose is lower than it's tail? You follow the instructions. They say you shouldn't panic, you're in the professional hands of experienced pilots, nothing can go wrong, and coffee will be served five minutes later because of some unexpected circumstances."

"Dreadfully, this isn't your boss or your colleague. This is Khalid who has set a trap for us."

"You're paranoid, Malik. The Triton Fountain is one of Malta's most popular tourist attractions. There are always people who want to come here or need a taxi after visiting it. These are nothing but three innocent, hard-working taxi drivers, trying to make a living."

"And the signals with the lights?"

"Advertisement. When you compete with others, make sure every customer sees you. They're just drawing the attention, like everybody else."

The driver of the blue taxi draws something else too: a loaded .38 Smith and Wesson Victory revolver with six bullets. He sticks it out of the open window and points at the driver of the white cab. The response is immediate: the driver of the white taxi opens his window and sticks out two SIG Sauer M11 semi-automatic pistols, each with 13 rounds of 9mm. This is getting interesting.

"Pathetically, they're going to shoot each other. We have to run.", Malik wines.

"Don't worry. This is just the way competition works in the taxi business. Small independent drivers try to impress their clients with bigger cars and try to stay ahead of other small independent drivers by scaring them off by showing bigger guns. The blue driver has a Victory, so he thinks he can't lose, but the white guy has authentic Swiss-German quality in his hands and his SIGs are very secure at such a close distance."

"What do we do?"

"We wait and see who wins this, of course. Do you want a loser to transport you to safety?"

The blue taxi arrived first, so the white taxi knows he has to act if he wants the passenger. He empties a full clip on each tyre of the blue taxi. The blue taxi responds by shooting the windows of the white taxi. I admire his sniper skills when he shatters the front window and then the back window, each with one single shot; that angle is almost impossible. I'm not sure if I could do the same at that distance. The blue taxi has had enough. He withdraws from the scene in reverse, as fast as he can. The driver in the red taxi shows his intelligent tactics now: with only one opponent left, he has less to worry about. He opens his window and throws a round object on the floor under the white taxi. It's dark and the distance is significant. I'm not sure if I recognised the object correctly. The driver of the white taxi, who's a lot closer, has a clear view and decides just in time to follow the blue taxi's instructions: back off, as fast as you can. Just in time. The grenade explodes when he's five metres away.

I smile at Malik: "We have a winner. Did you bet your money on the red taxi? Then you've just won a free ride to wherever you like."

Malik doesn't like it here: "Basically, we'd better get out of here. I don't want to be killed."

"Nobody gets killed. This is just some entertainment. It makes visiting Malta a trip to remember forever. Tourists like it a lot; you can be sure they won't talk about anything else when they come home: «Oh, and we've been in a real firefight, something between rivals, it had to do with money of course, but we paid our money to the winner and—»"

Malik pulls me away before I can see the cars behind the headlights, coming from every side now. Their flashlights make our darkness darker. Their sirens help to cover up the sound of our sneakers when we sneak out. When the police arrive at the fountain, we're already three blocks away.

Malik shuffles, head down, shoulders hanging, his hope dripping away with every step: "Khalid will find us and kill us. We're lost."

"We're not lost. We came this way. If we turn right, we go back to your house. If we go ahead, we'll see the sea in less than five minutes. The hotel where I have a room is over there. We'll have some sleep first and decide tomorrow what to do next."

"Certainly, Khalid will find us there too. He knows everything that happens on Malta. Even the secure message you sent to your boss wasn't secure enough."

I didn't think about that. Malik might be correct: "Do you think Khalid has a mole in the LSD? Do you think one of my colleagues, or perhaps even my boss, works for him?"

"Catastrophically, your operation didn't go as planned, did it? What makes you think you're safe in your hotel room?"

Right now, I don't think anything. Next to the main entrance of my hotel, a blond woman sits on the pavement, leaning against the wall, wondering where those three bullets in her forehead came from. Her white evening dress cost more than I make in a year. It's ruined. Something is written on it, in blood: «HA! So you think you are safe? HA, HA, HA!» It's not a dead woman; it's a mannequin, a shop-window dummy. It's not blood, either; it's ketchup from an inferior brand. The doll delivers a cheap message: stop searching for Khalid and the manuscript. The problem is that the three bullets entered the plastic head from three different angles: we're facing at least three different killers. We're alone. We're outnumbered, outrivaled, outsmarted, outbraved, and outdated by an outcast in an outrageous outfit. I'm an outsider who tries to mingle in the domestic affairs of the closed Maltese community. It would be wise to walk away from this, take the first aeroplane off this island, and never return. I could even try to find one of those tiny boats, abandoned by the refugees who used them to come here; rowing to a better future on the African coast would be a lot safer than staying here.

"I guess you have a point, Malik. Don't worry. Wait here. I'll go to my room to get my stuff. Then we'll look for a nice bridge to sleep under. It's cheaper too. The LSD is cutting budgets. My boss will be happy when I save money on the declaration of expenses."

Malik isn't looking forward to sleeping under a bridge: "Well… perhaps staying in this hotel physically one night wouldn't be too risky. But tomorrow, we'll have to look for another place to stay, and another identity too, and we have to run, rapidly, and—"

I don't listen to him. I go up, get my suitcase and backpack from my room, and leave without checking out or paying the bill; I haven't even used the room. My decision is instinctive. This has nothing to do with Good vs. Evil. This is survival of the fittest, the Law of the Jungle. Someone is trying to kill us. Police won't save us, laws are ridiculous books full of uselessness, and evolution has gone back millions of years ago. We can run or we can fight. There are no other options.

"We're not running from Khalid. We're doing the opposite: find him, arrest him, and kill him. I want to save the world and the city of New York, and I can't do it by running away. Imagine you're right. Imagine that #1, The Boss, is a double agent who works for the biggest criminal in the world. Now, imagine I find this criminal and unmask the double agent. I would get a medal and lots of money. The Prime Minister would offer me the job of the boss of the LSD… And then I can finally do great things instead of this useless life I've been leading until recently. I've read so many novels and I've seen so many films: when we run, we lose. If we want this story to have a happy ending, we have to fight back and win. I'm glad we met, Malik, and I'm glad you're my friend. Are you going to help me? It's the best way to solve your own problems too…"

Malik is as nervous as a ping-pong ball in a Chinese major city, probably Shanghai: "How are we going to find Khalid? Unrealistically, nobody knows where he lives. Nobody even knows what he looks like."

Malik makes me laugh. This is so super simple, so ridiculously simple: "To solve this case, we need only one thing and one thing only: an idea. And what a coincidence: in our team, we have a writer, famous for getting creative ideas every day, every second. So if you supply the idea, I'll handle the rest."

"An idea?"

"Yes, an idea. How are we going to find Khalid? I don't have any idea, but you… You're a writer. You're an artist. You're creative by nature. And my part is important too: writing is a lonely job, but when a writer has someone who believes in him, it usually makes a big difference. I believe in you, Malik. You can do this. For you, this is as simple as the crossword puzzle in Toddler Weekly."

"Sodom and Gomorrah! This whole creativity thing that writers suffer from, it's not a switch you can turn, Sami. Sometimes it takes years, decades, before the right idea comes up. There's no Idea Dump, no General Story Store, no Island of Buried Bestsellers where we writers can go to when we need inspiration. Serious fiction doesn't work that way. You get ideas by looking around and using the information you get in a rather surprising and original way."

I get it: "Okay. We're going to do this the surprising, original and most of all ridiculously easy way: we melt a wax candle and shape it into a voodoo doll that we call Khalid El Bullít. We stick lots of needles into the doll's butt. Then we guard the entrance of the hospital and wait for a man who suffers from a pain in the ass."

Malik isn't amused: "Hah, hah… Make a joke and I will cry, and you will laugh and I will die. What a ridiculous plan. I've never read a novel with a plot like that. Pathetically."

"That's exactly why it works. Nobody expects us to make such a move. And if it doesn't work, we can always use you as bait: we fill all the ancient walls of Malta's ancient castles with graffiti «Malik was here» and an arrow in the direction in which you left, so Khalid only has to follow the arrows to find you, but of course, he'll find me and my loaded Makarov, and he can't shoot me because I hide behind you, and I'm a trained professional, so I'll walk away without a scratch while Khalid's bloody body brawls behind, leaking life and losing lies, leaving the last laugh for the LSD. Do you think a professional spy like me is only a lady-killer? I kill gentlemen too."

Malik can't hide his disappointment: "I think it's bad. It's really bad. It's awful."

"Awful, full of awe, is really bad? «Awful» contains more awe than «awesome». The only thing here that's bad, really bad, is your criticism of my plans. All night long, I think of things, but nothing seems to satisfy you. I need someone here to show me things in life that I can't find, Malik. You're not helping me with your criticism. You don't teach me anything useful. Why don't you show me how it should be done? All you give me is a bad feeling about myself. Does it make you feel better when you tell me I'm bad, really bad, and awful? I thought you were my friend. At least, you can start with being friendly. Do you have a better plan?", I ask.

"Basically, I wasn't referring to any plan, but to the alliterations you use. His bloody body brawls behind? Leaking life and losing lies? That's bad, really bad. English isn't your native tongue, but if you're bad, really bad, at something, double your effort and work harder on it. That's not difficult. That's attitude. Read my bundle «Precious Poetry» and follow my good examples. You'll have to ignore all that bad writing around you and adapt to a more educated expression, or we'll have to separate our ways before this night is over. I make you an offer: either you do your utmost to express yourself better and I'll call you «my friend», or you go on finding excuses to keep producing those horrible errors in grammar and spelling, in which case I'll call you «my client» and I'll send you an invoice for my corrections. My friendship is cheaper, but it will cost you more. Either you ignore my advice or you adapt to my standard. What will it be?"

Malik's comment gives me an idea: "Ignore and adapt… Those are indeed two interesting strategies. Imagine you are in a forest, and suddenly you face a ferocious animal, a lion or a bear. Your first reaction is instinct: fight or flight. We can't run from Khalid, and we can't fight him either because we can't find him. But we can ignore him or adapt to the situation. The best way to get rid of an enemy is to make him no longer your enemy.

» Just ignore the lion or the bear. Don't pay any attention to him at all. It will save your life. Do you hear those seagulls? They shout insults at us. As long as we ignore them, they can't harm us. The first goal of every terrorist is to sow fear and harvest panic. With one shoe filled with explosives (that didn't even go off), one man has caused huge changes at every airport in the world where now high costs guarantee more delays and higher costs for the passengers. That's efficient work from one terrorist, and it could easily have been avoided if the news would have just ignored him.

» In the 1980s, there was a lot of violence in football stadiums all over Europe, but as soon as the cameras ignored those hooligans and showed other, positive, things, the violence was over in no time.

» It's not the terrorist who changes the world; it's the journalist, the writer, by creating fear, panic, and paranoia, or by directing all the attention to positive attitudes. Khalid has the manuscript. Let him read it every night and don't pay any attention to him at all. That solves our problems. Even your religion agrees with it: the Qur'an itself explains that Allah will personally take care of the sinners and give them what they deserve. Muslims who kill others are not true believers; they act against their religion by ignoring the power of Allah. They should ignore the infidels, as we should ignore Khalid and other criminals."

Malik doesn't agree with me at all. He shakes his head with a stern face: "Ignorance and intolerance are the two worst monsters that threaten our society. All we have to fear is fear itself, but we can't ignore ignorance and we can't be tolerant against intolerance. We have to fight, Sami."

"Fighting doesn't make you a hero, Malik. Do you know what bravery is? Being aware of the danger that surrounds us, without paying attention to it. There is another option: adapt. If your country lost the war and the enemy took control, adapting to the new situation is the best decision. What will make you happy when you're sad while it will also make you sad while you're happy? A ring with the inscription «this too will pass».

» If we can't stop Khalid selling his arms and his drugs, we'll have to learn how to live with arms and drugs. If we stop producing nuclear weapons, it will be impossible for any terrorist to nuke a major city, probably New York, but we all have to learn how to live in a world without nukes. As long as lobbyists for the weapon industry have more influence on our leaders than the voices of victim voters, we'll have to learn to live in a world that's dominated by violent and aggressive people. We should show more violence on TV, write about it every day, teach our children to be more violent, and let governments give information on how to act in case of a nuclear attack. We can't change the world we created. You're a writer who has lost his pen, and I'm a spy who can't use his spiPhone. We're lost without our major weapons against all the evil in the world. There's nothing we can do but adapt. What do you think? Should we ignore and adapt? Or should we run away?"

I don't expect Malik to answer my rhetorical questions. I have no time to think about what I say or how I should say it better. My words are complete nonsense, but I don't care. I'm a spy. For me, words are wind. Meaningless. I'm an action hero. I look for information, draw conclusions, come up with brilliant ideas, and solve the problem, exactly one second before the nuclear device destroys a major city, probably New York.

My ever-alert eyes see a sheet of paper, glued to a lamppost: «Our cat Kitty is missing. She was last seen when she chased a mouse and disappeared into Chinese restaurant Know Ni-How. We miss her very much. If you find her or any one of the kittens she was pregnant with, please call…» There is also a photo: the cat is cute, but the picture of the mouse is blacked out by the local authorities because it looks too much like a character, owned by a multinational amusement park.

It gives me an idea: "You know a lot about Khalid. Does he have a cat? We can kidnap catnap his cat."

"And what are we going to do with it?"

"We ask a high ransom for it, of course. There is a lot of money in pussy."

"It will never work. Emotionally, there's nothing Khalid loves enough to turn it into a weak spot. He likes animals, pigs most of all, as long as they are on his plate. What kind of spy are you?"

"I'm the spy who loves you, Malik. The problem is you. Do you know James Bond? He's strong, athletic, intelligent, and successful because he lives on a strict diet of stirred-not-shaken Martinis. You don't drink alcohol. How can you be successful if you're sober all the time? Fine. Don't worry. I accept you like you are. I'll do this all by myself. It won't make this job easier, but the most rewarding jobs are always the most difficult ones."

Another lamppost shows an amazing picture that immediately draws my attention: it's a giant, antique watch with the face of a very old woman on the plate. Above the watch, it says «A Wrinkle In Time» and in the lower-right corner, there's a name: Katie. I read what's written below. It's a cover text from a book.

«There is no point in death, but there is one in life. When mafia boss Toni Peroni disappears, his old mother has to give up her careless life in the home for retired criminals and return to the world that hated her so much. Is she still capable of leading a trillion-dollar gangster empire? Can she save her little Toni from the bloody hands of his enemies? Unlike many working-class heroes, Granny has lots of stories to tell her grandchildren, but first, she has to make sure she'll get those grandchildren.»

Malik reads the text over my shoulder and nods: "Very true. There's no point in death but there is one in life: it's the point on top of the letter i. Smart writing. Obviously, I can outwrite her with one hand tied behind my back, but I admire her creativity. She's good, this Katie."

"Who is she?"

"Oh, there are many amateur writers who can't get a deal with a publisher for their stories. She's probably one of them, but she doesn't care. Look at the weblink at the bottom. She publishes on the Internet, at www.wattpad.com, and she makes her own publicity via flyers like this, so people can find her stories and read them for free. Grammatically and dramatically, she writes to be read, not to be fed."

"And that amazing book cover? It's much better than the cover of your «Precious Poetry», which was made by a professional artist. Does the publish-yourself-business pay enough to hire someone better?"

"Probably, she'd made that herself too. But you shouldn't waste your time on free stories. If a writer doesn't make money, she's useless."

"Well, she gave me two fantastic ideas in one cover text. You said Khalid doesn't have anything or anyone he cares about, but… every criminal has a mother, and every mother cares about her son. We can find out where Khalid's mother lives. Perhaps she can help us find her dearly beloved son."

Malik is surprised: "That's something I never thought about. You're a good spy. What's the other idea?"

"Toni Peroni's mother lives in a residence for retired criminal mothers. That's one place where Khalid won't look for us. We'll find lots of beds and breakfasts there, and it's much cheaper than a hotel room. I'm tired, Malik. I need a few hours of sleep. Let's see if we can find a phone booth with a phone book with the name Grandma El Bullít."

The phone booth is on the corner. There's one El Bullít in the phone book: Mariam El Bullít, residence «Wrinkle of Time», two blocks away. Ten minutes later, both Malik and I are fast asleep.