6. School's Out

Malta is like a country village: everyone knows each other, and spoken news goes a lot faster than the Internet. When I enter the room where breakfast is served, Malik is already there, reading something on a sheet of A5 paper.

"Good morning. Have you had breakfast yet?", I say.

Malik hands me the paper and asks: "Did you read this?"

"I put it there before I went for a shower. I found it in a newspaper stand while I was jogging this morning. Did you sleep well?"

When you wake up after a good night's sleep, you feel relaxed, positive, looking forward to attacking breakfast and conquering the world. Malik is tense, paranoid and not interested in the tremendous breakfast buffet: "Actually, no, I didn't sleep well. You're probably perfectly happy to spend a night in a freezer the size of a broom closet, but I'm not a broom."

"Your hair looks like you've wiped the floor with it. Haven't you taken a shower yet?"

"The water was cold, there was no soap or shampoo, there was no mirror for shaving myself, and I don't like it when the entire island can see me when I'm naked."

I put my hand on Malik's arm and give him a reassuring smile: "You talk like the princess that slept on top of a pile of mattresses and complained about a pea. At 06:00 AM, there's nobody around to watch your naked butt under the shower. In the situation we're in, it's safety first. We'll have to give up a little bit of luxury if we want to stay alive. We survived another night, didn't we?"

"Nocturnally, spending the night in a shed, used to store beach chairs, and taking a shower in the open on the beach because there's no decent bathroom, that's not what I call «giving up a little bit of luxury». Prehistorically, that's «returning to the Stone Age»."

"That's what happens when criminals like Khalid El Bullít rule the world. We're in the middle of a war, Malik. When we need to fight to stay alive, we can't build bridges towards a better future. You better get used to it. At least, this breakfast is better than we've had in ages."

The sheds we slept in belong to a little restaurant on the beach. Last night, after finding out that nightclub Sandman is closed on Thursday, we found this when we were looking for a place to stay. I made a deal with the owner: in return for storing all the long chairs last night and putting them back on the beach early this morning, we could sleep in the sheds and enjoy a free breakfast.

I take the flyer out of Malik's hand and repeat my question: "Have you had breakfast yet?"

The flyer shows the cover of another book: «Mary Poppins Returns», by Katie. It's not the lovely Mary Poppins from the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious 1964-film in which Julie Andrews flies around with an umbrella and a big brown bag. It's a sexy Mary Poppins with blood-red lipstick, two hand grenades hanging from her ears, dressed to kill in a combat dress with a cleavage that's deeper than the Grand Canyon, wearing so many automatic weapons that it makes every eight-year-old running to the store to follow hor role model.

The cover text on the back of the flyer says: «Mafia boss Toni Peroni wins the trial against his ex-wife and gets custody over his 8-year-old daughter Dorsa. But The Law doesn't make exceptions for children's education: Dorsa has to follow classes at Valletta Primary School, regardless of the unhealthy risks of kidnapping, Columbine and low-quality lunches. As a hard-working father, Toni can't protect his only child day and night. He finds a perfect solution: hiring the best teacher available. After seeing an ad in Time4Crime Magazine, mercenary Mary Poppins returns from her suicide mission in the Middle East to take the job. Dorsa likes Mary, and Mary likes Dorsa too. She likes Dorsa so much that she wants to keep her for herself. Now, Toni's perfect solution turns herself against him…»

I walk to the buffet: "Do you remember our meeting with Mariam? She said: «I haven't held a Russian pistol in AGES. That's a story I can tell my grandchild…» Khalid has a child. According to Katie, it's a daughter with the name Dorsa. She's eight years old and spends her days at Valletta Primary, three blocks away from here. Do you want coffee or tea?"

"How can you think of breakfast with such an important clue in front of you? Immediately, we should investigate."

"Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee, please. Black, with three lumps of sugar."

I fill two cups with coffee, a drop of milk for me and three lumps of sugar for Malik, and put them on one of the little tables next to the window. Breakfast with a view over the Mediterranean. Is there anything better?

"Don't you want anything to eat? This fresh ciabatta bread smells delicious. You should eat something. If you drop dead from famine, you save Khalid a lot of trouble."

"Belligerently, we're in the middle of a war! How can you think of eating?"

"My stomach can't think of anything else right now. It's never done anyone good to rush out without thinking it over first. Breakfast is a good moment to think. You should eat something."

"Heroically, protagonists in action thrillers never eat. They sleep with beautiful women and wake up because someone fires an automatic weapon at the window of his room."

"That's why action heroes don't live long: they should stay away from beautiful women who are married to men with automatic weapons, and they should eat breakfast when they wake up."

Malik takes the flyer and reads it again. I walk back to the buffet, fill a plate with bread, butter and several slices of ham and pepperoni, take two glasses of fresh orange juice, hesitate between the cornflakes and the muesli, decide to take both, and return to Malik's table with a tray full of energy.

"So what's our plan, Malik? Storm the school, kick in the door of every classroom and shout: «which one of you is the daughter of Khalid El Bullít?» It sounds like fun."

The bread is delicious. I move the muesli and the cornflakes over to Malik and decide on another plate of bread and ham when I've finished this one.

Malik doesn't eat or drink anything. He shuffles on his chair and fumbles with the flyer: "Virtually, you're the spy. You should know what we should do now. What do you normally do in a situation like this? Do you kidnap the girl and force Khalid to exchange her for the manuscript?"

"Drink your coffee, Malik, and calm down. Don't you like yoghurt with muesli? I'll tell you what we'll do, but you'll have to eat something first."

Malik looks puzzled, but has no other alternative than to eat his breakfast. The smell of my ciabatta drives him towards the buffet to follow my example: "They have Emmentaler cheese! I like Emmentaler cheese." When he returns, his mood has improved at least three points on the 1-10 scale.

"We can't enter the classrooms without the permission from the principal of the school. So we'll start by visiting him first.", I explain.

"Her. Principally, the principal of that school is a lady. Her name is Mrs Jikkooperamill."

"Do you know her?"

"Personally, no, but I've heard about her. Malta is a village. Everybody knows each other."

"Well, we'll have to get to know Mrs Jikkooperamill first and ask her permission to speak to little Dorsa. I don't think we'll have a problem."

* * *

"I think you have a problem." Mrs Jikkooperamill is mad as a wet hen: "We don't allow anyone to disturb our classes. We protect the privacy of our students, we don't have any students here with the family name El Bullít, and finally, Mister El Bullít is the main sponsor of this school. Without him and his generous monthly contributions, we would have been forced to close our doors years ago. I hope you understand why I have not even the slightest intention of cooperating with you."

"A sponsor? Is this a private school?", I ask.

"No, Sir. This is a public school, but Malta spends all its tax money on fighting crime and war on drugs. And there's also the refugees' problem; all those fugitives use our island as their entrance gate to the European mainland. As criminals, drug lords and refugees don't pay taxes, there's no tax money for proper education. We depend on private contributions from parents and sponsors like Mister El Bullít, so I don't want to hear any negative words about him. I'll give you the choice between going away, voluntarily, without causing problems, or going away in the back seat of a police car that I will call right now." She takes the receiver off her phone to make sure we understand the message.

Malik and I get up from our seats. I offer our apologies to Mrs Jikkooperamill: "We're terribly sorry about the misunderstanding, ma'am. We have valuable information for Mister El Bullít, but we don't know where to locate him. Someone told us his eight-year-old daughter, Dorsa, studies at your school. We just wanted to ask little Dorsa how we can get in touch with her father. But after your kind statement that no daughter of Mister El Bullít studies at this school, we're sorry we came here with the wrong information and apologise for the misunderstanding."

My friendly approach makes it hard for Mrs J. to keep her stern face as ugly as possible: "I will escort you to the front door personally. Better you don't come back."

* * *

Outside, we walk to the other side of the schoolyard, where we take a seat on a bench.

"What do we do now?", Malik asks.

I check my watch: "In about half an hour, it's playtime. I suggest we wait and see if we can spot a girl who matches the profile of the daughter of a serial killer and notorious assassin."

"And what exactly does such a girl look like?"

"We'll know it when we see her."

Malik doesn't have a better idea, so we sit and wait and wait and sit until the doors open and groups of children come out. First, there are the little ones, four- and five-year-olds who jump around with more energy than a herd of mountain goats. A quarter of an hour later, after the teachers locked them up again, the next group shows up, the third and fourth class with six- and seven-year-old children. The boys play a noisy game with a ball. The girls divide into several smaller groups and play jump rope, clapping hands, or a mothers-with-babies role play. Fifteen minutes later, it's the turn of the eight- and nine-year-olds. We watch them for the full quarter of an hour, but nothing indicates that one of these little creatures might have a father who kills for a living.

Malik loses his patience: "Ridiculously, you should come up with a better plan. Why don't we break in and examine the school's administration? We must find out in which class this girl is and what she looks like. They might even have her home address. We're wasting our time here."

"No, we're not. When these children were out here, I noticed movement behind the windows of the classrooms that look out to the schoolyard. Perhaps Mrs J. instructed Dorsa's teacher to keep her inside during playtime. Or perhaps some children prefer to spend playtime in class. When I was their age, I couldn't wait to go out to play, but this is a different generation, Malik. These kids grow up with TV and computers. They play inside their house more often and spend more time in their rooms. We should not give up so easily."

"So… What do we do now?", Malik asks.

"I have an idea. Well, mainly it was your idea, something you said this morning during breakfast. We need to communicate with Khalid. If we have a message for him, what would be the best way to let him know?"

Malik thinks: "An announcement in the newspaper?"

"No, that would take too long. We need something more direct."

"Easily, you can access his Maskbook page and leave a message there. Honest people have a Facebook account, but notorious criminals don't want their faces to be known, so they use Maskbook instead."

Now I'm surprised: "Khalid El Bullít has a Facebook page?"

"Certainly. How do modern gangsters find each other? They go to www.maffia-online.rip and send each other messages."

"I googled him a few days ago, but I couldn't find anything."

"Maliciously, he made two typing errors when he opened the account. You should try «Kalhid Le Bullít»."

I take my spiPhone and check the account. It's really there. No followers. For a Maskbook account, not being followed is the best any terrorist can get.

"How do we know it's authentic? It might be the work of an admirer or a copycat.", I ask.

"What did he write on his page?"

I grin: "Julius Caesar's «Veni, Vidi, Vici» inspired him. His profile says: «I came. I shot. I wulkt.» It's another example of Khalid's weak grammar."

"Evidentially, this isn't weak grammar; it's an abhorrence of weak, regular verbs. The verb «to walk, walked, have walked» can not be replaced by a synonym here, for its intentional meaning of «walk away without being punished for what I did», but «to walk» is a weak verb, and walking away from something is a weak attitude. Verbally, Khalid is a strong man; he only uses strong verbs: nobody else conjugates going on foot as «to walk, wolk, have wulkt». The style of each writer is as unique as hor fingerprints."

I admire Malik's writing skills. He's a mature, professional Grammar Nazi, while I'm only an illiterary agent, a tongue toddler, happy as a bookish baby when I find some childish wordplay. I read the message to Malik while I type it: "Dear Khalid. We've kidnapped your daughter, Dorsa. She says you love her very much. You probably love her more than you love the Maltese manuscript, so we propose an exchange: Dorsa for the book. Best regards, Sami."

I redirect the answer to my anonymous account that forwards every incoming signal to the secret message box of my spiPhone, which sends the message without a trace.

Malik doesn't understand: "But… We haven't kidnapped his daughter. We don't even know who she is."

"Khalid doesn't know that. At least, we can give it a try, no? I'm going to buy a coffee. The school's out in about half an hour. Everyone has to leave. We'll move out of sight to a place where we can spot the entrance, and we'll wait and see if we get a second chance."

I leave Malik on a stake-out (a phone booth with a clear view of the schoolyard), and go for a walk in the neighbourhood, to do some shopping. Shopping and waiting, waiting and shopping, that's what every day of a spy's life looks like.

* * *

When I return to the schoolyard, Malik still hides where I left him, spying on the entrance of the school where about fifty women (mothers, nannies, a few grandmothers, and one or two older sisters) are waiting.

"I bought coffee. You drink it black with three lumps of sugar, don't you?" I hand Malik his cup and place the colourful backpack I just bought on the ground between us.

"Thank you."

"Any action yet?"

"Unfortunately, no. Nothing. It took you a while to buy two coffees. There's a coffee shop right around the corner."

"I know, but I needed some other things too, and when I was looking around, I found this little Arab bric-a-brac where they had all kinds of useful gadgets. I couldn't resist. He sold me an old amulet that protects me against pickpockets; it was only twenty euros."

"Probably a fraud.", Malik says.

"No, it is really old. Look…" I search the pocket in which I stowed my amulet, can't find it, search the other pockets of my jacket, still can't find it, search the pockets of my jeans and my shirt, search the inside of the colourful backpack, but… "Rostov! Someone stole it from me. I knew it was worth much more than I paid for it."

"Unsuccessfully, your protection against pickpockets.", Malik chuckles.

I defend myself: "Hey, I still have my wallet and my spiPhone, so the amulet did work!"

We sip the hot, strong, dark liquid in silence.

A sudden beep from my inside pocket announces an entry in my mailbox. I check my spiPhone and read aloud the message to Malik: "Dear Sami. I love my daughter Dorsa like a son, but if you lose a son, you can always produce another one, and there's only one Maltese manuscript, so I'll keep it. Take care with Dorsa: she bites when she's angry. Best regards, Khalid."

"Euphemistically, I told you he's bad.", Malik says. We concentrate again on the coffee.

"When you were a kid, did you attend this school too?", I ask, to shorten the waiting.

"Basically, when I was a kid, this was the only basic school in Valletta. It was not the best time of my life. Reading was troublesome: I had concentration problems, I saw words that were not there, and all those letters confused me. When my teacher asked me to read aloud in class, the other children laughed at me every time I made a mistake. I hated it. It made me feel terrible about myself and I started avoiding the other kids in my class. My parents worried and took me to the doctor, but he couldn't find anything. Academically, he said I was probably retarded. Medicationally, I refrained from reading and writing as much as possible. The other kids pestered me with my lower abilities in learning. It was hell.

» Subsequently, when I was nine, my parents sent me to another school, in a village about ten kilometres from here. It was a sacrifice for them, as they had to bring me and pick me up each day. Familially, I'm one of eight children from two working parents, so you can imagine how I felt when my brothers and sisters hated me for the extra attention I got. My new teacher, Miss Alice, thought I suffered from dyslexia, word blindness. Confidentially, she spoke about it with my parents and explained she'd noticed characteristics of dyslexia in my behaviour: low self-esteem, high creativity, visualisation, easily distracted… Frequently, it happens with children with above-average intelligence like me. We visited a psych. After doing tests, he confirmed Miss Alice's diagnosis: I suffered from dyslexia. Both the doctor and Miss Alice advised me to do the opposite of what I did: read more, write more, and believe in myself. I was not retarded. I was, in fact, more intelligent than the other children of my age. Psychologically, reading was not as easy for me as it was for the others, but Miss Alice and my parents motivated me to double the effort: if you're not good at something, you should not walk away from it; on the contrary, you should work harder to counteract the disadvantage. Miss Alice also spoke with the other children in my class. She explained to them why I needed more time for everything and asked all my classmates to help me as much as they could. At my old school, I was the joke of the class, but at my new school, I was someone who got help from everyone because I was special.

» Thoughtfully, Miss Alice told us that reading and writing are the most important skills we learn at school, and one of the most important abilities for the rest of our lives. Thanks to her patience and understanding, I learnt not to be afraid of those black-on-white symbols, I became more patient with myself while reading, I learnt to express myself better and, most of all, I fell in love with words, language, and poetry while putting so much time and effort into reading. Miss Alice, in one year, taught me how to change my war with words into love of the language. She helped me to defeat my fear and turn it into work I adored. And now, look at me. Writing is my work, poetry is my profession, and dyslexia is dead and buried forever. Wonderfully, thanks to one woman who believed in me…"

"Thanks to not giving up, Malik. Your environment helped you, but you had to do all that work by yourself. Working is nice when you get the reward at the end of the line, isn't it? I had a similar experience. I always wanted to become a spy, and now I am one because I worked hard for it. They should teach us respect, persistence, and tolerance at school. If they'd just tell us why we study, we would probably like it more and get better results out of it."

The school bell rings, the doors open, and a merry bunch of children burst out yelling and singing: "No more wisdom. No more books. No more teachers. Dirty crooks."

Some children find the one who's waiting to pick them up. Others walk to the side to get their bicycle, walk to the bus stop behind us, or walk home. I touch Malik's arm to get his attention. With my other hand, I point at a girl with a black school bag. She stands apart from the rest, like she's waiting for someone who's late: "That's her."

"How do you know?"

"It's how she behaves. She's not social like the others. During playtime, she wasn't there. She came out alone, didn't talk to anyone, and didn't pay attention to anything, just stepped aside and looked around, without any emotion. Watch the other children: they are looking forward to seeing their mother or somebody else who loves them, and they express a mixture of hope and joy. This girl doesn't. She's indifferent, as if she doesn't belong here, or… like she doesn't have anyone who loves her, no friends in her class and no loving family at home. Only the child of a criminal behaves like that. It's her. I'm certain."

Malik asks: "Exceptionally, what do we do now?"

"You should talk to her. Try to find out where she lives and where we can find her father."

"Why me?"

"Malik, you're from a big family. You were familiar with your brothers and sisters, and you have nephews, nieces, and cousins. I'm from a one-child family. I don't know how to handle children, but you do, and you're friendly too. You're better qualified for this than me."

Malik puts a worried look on his face. I get up and say: "Don't worry. I'll be right behind you. She won't eat you, Malik. She's eight. Just talk to her and get the information we need. That's all."

Malik walks towards the girl. She sees him coming and frowns, grabbing her school bag firmly with both hands.

"Hello. My name is Malik. What is your name?", Malik smiles.

Dorsa looks away and says: "My daddy told me not to talk to strangers."

"Obviously, I'm not a stranger. I just told you my name. You can tell me yours."

"My daddy also told me that strangers start by telling me they're no strangers, which is very strange behaviour. Nobody I know does that."

"Did your daddy also tell you what to do when a stranger talks to you? I'm sure he taught you to be nice to other people."

Dorsa jumbles in her schoolbag, takes out a black metal object and points it with both her hands to Malik's head: "My daddy taught me to shoot strangers between the eyes. It's better that way: they hardly suffer, and the messy brains go out on the back of the head."

Malik's eyes pop out of his head; he raises his hands and sputters: "I like Emmentaler cheese, but I don't want to become one. Don't shoot me. I'm a nice person, and well-educated too. Harmlessly, my brother and mother, we never bother each other. I don't want to hurt you."

This is not going well. Malik gives this little girl the exact opposite example of good behaviour. If you show fear, she'll go on. It's time I take over: "That's a nice toy you have there. A Beretta 92, right? Did your daddy give it to you? He doesn't know much about guns, though. He should have bought you a Beretta Pico or a Nano. You need two hands to shoot the Beretta 92, but the Pico, you can handle with only one."

Dorsa keeps pointing the Beretta at Malik, but points her eyes at me: "Daddy says the Nano is for nannies and the Pico is for pussies. I'm a big girl now, so he gave me a big gun, to defend myself. You're just jealous you don't have one yourself."

There's no way to negotiate with terrorists: "If you don't let me play with your toys, you can't play with mine."

I move a few metres away, sit down on a bench, open my backpack, and unpack my collection: Barbie in a pink summer dress, Ken in a black suit with a white shirt, a collection of mirrors and brushes and real-painting make-up articles, a tea set of the most delicate plastic china, and finally, a little pony, complete with blanket and saddle. I play Ken's voice in a low and Barbie's in a high tone: "Hello, Barbie. How are you today?" — "Hello, Ken. How nice of you to visit me. Do you want a cup of tea?" — "Well, that would be nice. A cup of tea is just what I wanted." — "Please, sit down. I'll put the kettle on the fire. It will take only a minute."

I pretend not to pay any attention at all to Dorsa, but in the corner of my eye, she's watching me with interest. If you don't let me play with your toys, I will not let you play with mine, my dear. And Barbie and Ken are much more fun to play with than a Beretta 92, as you must have noticed by now.

Meanwhile, Ken has a good idea: "I have a good idea, Barbie. While you prepare tea, I go to the bakery for some chocolate cookies." — "Oh, that really is a good idea, Ken. I love chocolate cookies. Chocolate cookies are my favourite." — "Can you lend me your pistol, Barbie? I have to defend myself on the way to the bakery against all those people on the street, and then I'll have to defend myself against the baker who wants money for those cookies, and I don't have any money, and after that, I'll have to defend myself against the police who will come to investigate… If you want chocolate cookies, I'll need your Beretta first." — "Oh, Ken. That's not possible. Someone stole my Beretta the other night. What a problem. What do we do now?" — "Someone stole your Beretta? How can someone do such a nasty thing? How can you defend yourself if you don't have a Beretta? Where can we find another Beretta?"

"I have a Beretta."

Dorsa takes the bait, with both hands. Barbie turns to see who's new on the scene: "Oh, hi, Dorsa. What did you say? Do you have a Beretta? Can you give it to Ken, just for five minutes, so he can go to the bakery and get us some chocolate cookies? Do you like chocolate cookies? Do you want some tea too? Have you seen my pony?"

Ken plays his part too: "Hello, Dorsa. Can I use your Beretta? That's very nice. You'll get it back in no time. The bakery is just around the corner. Meanwhile, you can help Barbie make tea."

Dorsa points one warning finger at Ken: "If you are tricking me on this, I'll cut you into lucky Ken-tucky nuggets and send you back to your chicken country one piece at a time."

But then she moves over and hands the gun to Ken, who is only 20 centimetres small and has a big problem with the gun: "Oops. That's a heavy gun. Your father should have bought you a Beretta Nano, or a Pico like Barbie has. I'll need both hands to handle this Beretta 92. But don't worry, I can handle it. I'm a strong man, as you can see, and I've killed bakers in self-defence before. I'll be back in a minute."

Meanwhile, Barbie takes the kettle, fills it with imaginary water in the imaginary kitchen, and puts it on the imaginary stove: "Can you help me, Dorsa? Can you put the cups on the table, please? And the sugar bowl too. Ken likes three spoons of sugar in his tea."

Dorsa puts the plastic china on the little table. She already feels best friends with Barbie and adds to the conversation: "I also like three spoons of sugar in my tea."

"I know. You're a sweet girl.", Barbie says.

Ken returns, without the Beretta, but with a brown bag full of chocolate cookies from my backpack: "I told you I would be quick. Look what I have: the finest chocolate cookies in the world. They smell so nice that I was afraid I would eat them all on my way back from the bakery. Do you want to try one?"

"Oh, how nice. Yes, I would like to try one, Ken. How about you, Dorsa? Would you like a chocolate cookie?" Barbie takes one cookie out of the bag and hands it over to Dorsa.

"Thank you. Oh, these are very nice.", says Dorsa. While she nibbles, she can only produce sounds like "Mmm", so Barbie and Ken go on with the conversation: "These are the best cookies I've ever tasted. Can you please pour the tea into the cups, Ken?"

Ken takes the teapot and fills the cups that Dorsa placed on the table: "How nice to have Dorsa here, having tea with us. She's such a lovely friend. Can she come more often, Barbie? It's so pleasant to have her around."

"Well… I don't know, Ken. Dorsa has to go home after school and she won't be able to play with us."

"What? That would be awful. Why can't we go to Dorsa's house and play there?"

"That won't be possible, Ken. Would that be possible, Dorsa? What would your father say if we come to your place to play with you every day? He would not like that, would he?"

Dorsa finishes her cookie and shrugs: "My daddy doesn't mind. He's never there, anyway. He's always working."

"And your mother? What would she say?"

"My mother is in the hospital."

"Oh, dear. Did your father shoot her? Should I send Ken with a Beretta to defend your mother?"

"Are you blond because you're silly, or are you silly because you're blond, Barbie? My mother is in the hospital because she works there. I'm all alone when I'm at home, except for the armed bodyguards. You can come to my place anytime. We can have tea and we can play with the pony and we can brush our hair."

"Oh, Ken. That would be wonderful. I told you that Dorsa is a wonderful girl. She really is my best friend. Can we go to her place? Ken? Please?"

Ken is still in doubt: "But… we don't know where that is. We should be careful, Barbie. What if Dorsa's daddy finds out?"

Dorsa saves the day: "Don't worry about my daddy. I will hide you in my closet. We can play every afternoon, when I return from school."

Ken finally agrees: "Okay. We hide in the backpack so Dorsa can get us to her house without being seen, and then we'll stay with her."

Barbie is excited: "Oh, Ken. Thank you so much. I'm delighted. I love Dorsa so much. She will take good care of us. Where is your house, Dorsa?"

"It's far away from here, up in the mountains. But don't worry, we'll go by car. My daddy sends a driver with a black car to pick me up from school every afternoon. He should have been here already. I wonder why he's late…"

Tu-tu…

Dorsa looks up and sees a black limousine with blinded windows, waiting in front of the schoolyard: "There he is. I have to go."

Ken and Barbie protest: "But… You said you would take us with you." — "Quickly. Let's hide in the backpack, Ken. Help me put the tea set, the pony, and the other stuff in it too. We'll need something to play with when we're in Dorsa's house."

Quickly, Dorsa and I put the complete Barbie collection back into the backpack, including the paper bag with the cookies. When the black limousine honks for the second time, Dorsa grabs her schoolbag and the backpack, while she says to me: "Thanks for playing." She runs to the waiting car, gets in on the back seat, and drives off.

"How do we follow her? We should have thought of coming by car. I should have thought of hiding a tracking device in that backpack.", I say.

Malik is disappointed by my unprofessional behaviour: "Possibly, we can come back tomorrow to see where that car takes her."

"Tomorrow is Saturday. This was our only chance. We've missed it."

Malik sighs: "Embarrassingly, we've achieved nothing."

"We've achieved one thing: a little eight-year-old girl no longer plays with guns; from now on she's having tea with Barbie and Ken.", I say, showing the Beretta I traded for a bag of chocolate cookies. I point it at Malik, whose worried face worries even more while he raises his hands above his head.

"Carefully! Put that away, Sami. You should not play with guns."

"Guns are just for self-defence, Malik. Guns don't harm people. I'm just defending myself."

"Ethically, I prefer self-defence without guns. Go to the animal shelter and buy yourself a dog if you want to defend yourself…"

"Dogs eat, dogs shit, dogs need to go for a walk three times a day, dogs wag their tails and sweep things from tables…"

"Go to the taxidermist and buy yourself a stuffed dog…"

I turn the gun around and hand it over to Malik, so he can see for himself: "This is no real gun, Malik. It's just an imitation, although it's a pretty good one. At first, I thought it was an authentic Beretta 92, but it doesn't fire when you pull the trigger. Do you see? And the clip with the bullets doesn't come out either. This is just a toy, something a father would give his eight-year-old daughter to play with."

"Educationally, why would an eight-year-old girl want to play with a gun?", Malik asks.

"Because that's the example she gets from her father. Children like to imitate what they see around them. Didn't you pay attention to what you saw at playtime? The girls play their own mother who loves to take care of her pretty baby. Boys play football as their fathers do on Sundays. During the past three million years, we were monkeys, imitating everything we saw, and the thirty million years before that, we were mammals, learning from our parents, copying what we saw. Children have that in their DNA. If your father plays with guns, you want a gun too. If your father kills other people before breakfast, you don't hesitate to pull the trigger either."

Malik returns the Beretta to me: "Culinary, I don't kill people before breakfast."

"No, you don't even eat breakfast, but when you saw me eating, it gave you an appetite. That reminds me we skipped lunch while we were on this stake-out all day. We should make it up with a three-star dinner. Do you happen to know a good restaurant in this town?"

"Who's inviting?"

Words have no meaning when you can take a handful of cash out of your pocket. Malik's worry disappears behind a big smile: "Italian cookery, French cuisine, Arab halal, or American fast food?"

"You're the one who knows the area, Malik. If money is no issue, where would you prefer to eat?"

"Undoubtedly, the best restaurant in Valletta is Manoel. Usually, you have to reserve there, but it's still early, so we might get a table for two. With a little luck, our table might be on the roof terrace, where we have a gorgeous view over the city. At night, Valletta is more beautiful than Paris, and I doubt if you can have dinner outside in Paris in February."

Shopping and waiting, waiting and shopping, the every-day life of a spy. It's the night that makes it interesting.