Golden Biker

by Alexander Von Eisenhart Rothe

  “Then take the 40 Watts for all I care”, OM groaned. The janitor nodded and went back to work.

  “Where was I?”

  “The private army...” Apu reminded him.

  “Exactly! So, we have no clue as to what makes those foreigners so interesting to their pursuers. Even at Mossad we have detected increased activities. Apparently there is something big going on in our country that everybody seems to be aware of except us. Your mission will be the following. Infiltrate...”

  “Excuse me, could you just get up? I would have to put my ladder there!” the janitor interrupted again.

  OM shot him a very angry look. Cursing oaths he left his position leaning against his desk, trying to save the last of his remaining authority.

  “Right, your mission will be the following: Infiltrate the group of foreigners. Befriend them, suck up to them and do find out, what this chaos is all about!”

  Apu got up from his chair in an ungallant way.

  “But Sir, that is a job for a greenhorn!”

  “Take care, that in the future no historical monuments will get destroyed and you will be getting adequate appointments again. That’s it! The conversation is over. Down below our chief technician Rangar awaits you, to rig you up for your mission. I am expecting your report!”

  “Finish!” the janitor proclaimed and climbed down the ladder.

  Apu took the elevator and rode one more storey down. Here lay the cloak and dagger laboratory of the genius chief technician Rangar Jokshtawar, whose mind boggling technical toys had not only made lives easier for more than a few agents but often enough had also, saved their lives. Over the years he and Bindi had developed something of a love hate relationship, since the latter brought back Rangar’s inventions in one piece only in the rarest of occasions.

  The greeting was accordingly frosty, and the engineer—as was his custom—came down to business without further ado, pointing at a big sheet-covered something that stood in the middle of the hall.

  “For your mission, insignificant as it may be, you will need transport!”

  Apu’s heart skipped a beat. Specialised vehicles were his passion. He tore off the tarpaulin with a swift move and from underneath appeared an old fashioned, humpy car.

  “Ambassador!” the genius specialist declared bursting with pride. “A copy of the English Morris Minor from the Sixties. Built in India since then without any outwardly change and still very much in use. A very popular car, my nephew has got one of them!”

  Apu tried hard to keep his temper, but his disappointment was written all over his face.

  “Listen, you!” he gnarled contritely, “every child in India knows what an Ambassador is. I just thought, well I...”

  Go on, what was it, that you thought?”

  “Well, the colleagues from England they’re getting Aston Martins or BMWs, apparently even all the other secret services are sharing an ultra cool helicopter—and me? I’ll get the lamest duck India has to offer. That’s simply... simply not appropriate!”

  The technician’s eyebrows shot up. “Not appropriate? This is Indian top shelf workmanship.

  Apart from that, the Ambassador is very reliable. Every village mechanic can fix an Ambassador!”

  Apu dug his hands in his pockets und pulled up his shoulders. He was severely disappointed.

  “Aaaawright, maybe, but its so common, I could get it anywhere!”

  The technician gave a superior smile and opened the car door.

  “Not this one. You don’t think I would hand you over a car that I would not have added some extra technical details to, do you?

  Immediately Apu’s mood lifted. Of course! Rangar’s legendary technical box of tricks! How could he have been so prematurely presumptuous? Under the bonnet of this old Indian clunker there would be more hidden high tech gadgetry than in a space shuttle. Now extremely curious, he slid onto the passenger seat.

  “Right” Rangar ceremoniously began. “You see these little buttons there at the door?”

  Apu nodded.

  “Push one of them. Go ahead, nothing’s going happen!”

  Apu pushed the button. Immediately the window of the passenger seat started to glide down with a humming sound.

  “Electric windows!” Rangar proudly proclaimed. “And if I push this...” He activated another button and instantly his seat reclined into a horizontal position.

  “Automatic reclining seats. And here is something I am especially proud of!”

  He started the car, put it in reverse in order to roll it against the wall. Just before impact a shrill alarm sound erupted. “Automated parking system!” shouted Rangar over the noise of the rattling motor, “with this, parking becomes child play from now on! What do you say now?”

  “But... but...” Apu stuttered, “what about the built in weapon systems, machine guns, Stinger rockets, stun grenades, GPS system? What about canons?”

  Rangar looked at him uncomprehending. “To brown-nose the foreigners? That would be taking things a bit too far, don’t you think?”

  “And what, if I get myself into a dangerous situation?”

  The technician reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a ballpoint pen. “Then you will use this!”

  Apu’s face brightened up. “Ah, I know this. Contains miniature explosive ammunition!”

  “Ehm, not quite!” answered the technician. He pulled a little latch at the side of the pen’s casing from where one could pull out a small rolled-up piece of paper. “See! All numbers of the most important help lines are listed here, you can call them!”

  Slowly it occurred to Apu, that any prolonged period of time, spent in underground laboratories was taking its toll on even the most brilliant of technicians.

  On this very day one of the two most dangerous places to be at in India, was Báaba’s luxurious villa in Delhi. After the arrival of the Jain, Rajnesh, Number One, as well as Number Two, the killer elite of Goa, Bombay and Delhi was, at this very moment, gathered around the coffee table. (The other most dangerous place by the way was an all-day school in Calcutta, but it is of no relevance to this story).

  And as is usually the case when such a motley crew is gathered around, the whole affair did not lack in petty power plays and likewise some violence. It did not take more than ten minutes and there was a black eye and a dead monkey to be accounted for. And this happened thus:

  After Rajnesh had crossed the open inner courtyard of the villa he politely and meekly greeted his uncle Shaki. Shaki returned the welcome with the same politeness, spotted the shiner that graced his nephew’s left eye and inquired if he was lacking in anything. After Rajnesh’s answer to the negative, he blackened his right eye with a punch of his fist.

  “Banshod! Idiot!” he cursed at Rajnesh who held his eyes whimpering. Bábaa, who had been watching the scene in bemusement, put his arm around his shoulder and dangled the SUV’s car keys in front of his nose. “Look at here, what I got...!

  “My... those are my car keys! Where in Kali’s name did they come from?”

  Báaba dropped the keys in Shaki’s hand. “The car is sitting in my garage! After it had been stolen from your amateurs, my professional here, was able to retrieve it ‘en pasant’, so to speak!” He nodded his head in the direction of the Jain, who was busy peeling an orange with an intimidating curved dagger.

  Shaki looked over to the man who was smiling at him patronisingly. Then his gaze wandered over to Rajnesh and over to the shameful looking, Number One and Number Two. He sighed in frustration. First those two super killers Babu and Willie from Bombay, now this Jain… they all were way better than the clowns he had under contract. Shaki somehow felt like a two bit gangster, substandard, minor league at the most. Báaba seemed to be reading his thoughts. “Well? Do you think you can finish Bear and his friend with your third ra
te gangsters or could you use some help? After all, they might steal your guns...”

  Number One deeply offended in his pride, jumped up.

  “At least we haven’t been screwed over by a prostitute!”

  “Exactly!” Number Two was agitated as well, “Just because this naked bloke may be good at nicking cars, doesn’t mean he’s better than us. That’s child’s play, little kids steal cars, where we come from, and they’ve got some clothes on, at least...!”

  Báaba gave out a disdainful laugh. “So you think you’re being clever, don`t you? Pay attention now! There are two things that we have too much of in Delhi. For once it’s the monkeys and secondly it’s pompous wind-bags like you.” He gave a nod to Jain pointing to a monkey who like a thousand other fellow members of his species was sitting on the edge of the roof enjoying the sun.

  It went like a flash. The only thing they registered was a swift movement by the Jain, almost too fast for the human eye to notice, a hollow ‘Plop’ and they saw the little monkey fall screeching down to the ground where he lay dead.

  “What... what was that?” Rajnesh marvelled, who in the course of events had totally forgotten his blackened eye.

  Báaba proudly put his arm over the Jain’s shoulder. “This, gentlemen performed, what I refer to as a pro’s job! For the slow-witted amongst us, let me show you again.”

  He took the feather duster away from the Jain and held it up in the air. With a malicious grin he pulled one of the ostrich feathers from the staff, that the Jain had used to mop away any microorganisms. At the bottom end of the feather glistened a metal barbed hook—an arrow!

  Very slowly, Báaba demonstrated what the Jain had just done within a second. He inserted the arrow into the upper end of the hollow stick, put it against his mouth and gave it a sharp blow. The arrow shot out of the other end amongst the rest of the feathers and bore into the dead monkey.

  “A blowgun!” He held it high above his head. “Absolutely deadly. Plus a wireless radio and of course a duster!”

  Shaki was shaking his head, impressed. “Such a tiny arrow is killing a monkey immediately?”

  The Jain got up, Báaba handed the staff back to him. “And a human as well! The arrow is steeped in the concentrated cobra poison. Deadly within seconds!”

  Bewildered Rajnesh looked from the dead monkey to Jain and back again. “So much for ‘non-violence’...

  The Jain laughed maliciously and pulled the arrows out of the monkey’s corpse. “I’ll go and put some clothes on already!” He said disappearing into the house.

  Babu and Willie had been watching the whole time with a blank impression on their faces.

  Eventually Babu got up, cleared his throat and said: “Thank you very much, jolly good show, now can we please get back to concentrating on the business at hand? We’d rather split and kill off this German chappie and after that it’s straight back home!”

  Báaba nodded in earnest approval. “You are right, my friend. We should split up and everybody goes after whomever he likes! The foreigners are already being under observation by my guys. Even this Hermann fellow has been spotted here in Delhi. There is no need to rush; they won’t be able to escape. It’s almost as easy as picking mangoes!”

  “Off we go then,” said Willie, grabbing his miniature crossbow tucking it into its holster, “Its harvest time!”

  4. Frankfurt / Germany

  The look from the sales assistant was the worst by far, even worse than the fact that her credit card had been declined. The meticulously coiffured lady at the sales counter showed a condescending attitude as if it were a god given grace to be allowed to shop at ‘her’ store.

  Sliding the credit card back over the counter with two fingers, she announced in a voice loud enough for anybody on the shop floor to hear: “I am sorry, Mrs Lauterbach, but your credit card has been cancelled!” Beate could not believe her ears, and mumbling something like “a misunderstanding”; she left the store ashamed and confused.

  She had gotten up extra early this morning because before her riding lesson she wanted to buy a little black dress at the Gucci store. After all she would be a widow pretty soon; every day now she waited for the tragic news about her husbands demise in far away India—naturally she had to have the appropriate accoutrements for such an occasion. After endless try-ons, tyrannising every employee in the shop in the process, she finally decided on a short elegant very low cut dress and had handed her credit card over to the professionally smiling sales assistant. But suddenly, the friendly smile had turned to ice...

  Shortly after, a bewildered Beate entered the foyer of her bank and slid her debit card into the cash machine situated within. The ATM sucked it up without any hitch—and kept it. Enraged she marched on, by-passing the dumbfounded clerks—“Can I help you? Hello...??!”—towards the dark tinted windows of the general manager’s office where in the past she had been sitting often enough, having small talk and coffee. She jerked the door open. The room seemed to be empty. Only the black leather desk chair was slightly moving back and fro and with it the little tuft of black hair appearing behind the heavy oak tabletop.

  “Get up, I can see you!” Beate said, gritting her teeth.

  The sheepishly looking general manager got up to his feet and looked at Beate with a mixture of embarrassment and discomfiture. At last he found a pen on his desk and held it into the air.

  “There...I... ehm... I was looking for that one. Must have dropped under the table!”

  Beate crossed her arms in front giving the manager an evil glare.

  “Can you explain to me, why my account is blocked and so is my credit card?”

  “We have received instructions to act accordingly. All accounts have been closed; your credit card is cancelled as of now. I am really very sorry!”

  Beate advanced one step towards the manager, grabbed his tie and yanked him over the desk pulling him towards her.

  “Given instructions? By whom?”

  At that moment two men from security were entering the office. “Any problems, boss?” one of them asked with a side-glance at Beate who was by now quivering with rage.

  The general manager, feeling a little more secure, reclaimed his tie from her fingers and let himself fall into his chair. “Not at all, thank you! I am quite sure, Mrs Lauterbach was just about to leave!”

  Beate flashed him a deadly glance, turned around and stomped out of the office. At any rate she had a pretty good idea who was behind all that cockup. Gerd! It was he, that miserable son of a bitch! Right away she had to talk to Rainer, her friend, lover and lawyer. Resolutely Beate rushed back to her car and drove home. As she turned into the small tree lined alleyway she could already make out the removal van parked right across her driveway.

  “Hey you! You’re blocking my drive...!” ‘Her furniture!’

  She jumped out of her car at once. “Those are my things, what are you doing there? Who gave you permission???” she spat at the movers, tearing an antique filigree chair away from them.

  “I gave the permission!”

  Beate turned around. Before her stood Maximilian Hagen. Owner and general manager of a wholesale business, very wealthy and one of Gerd’s acquaintances from the golf club.

  Beate was furious. “How dare you, having my furniture being packed away?”

  He opened a leather folder, took out a form with a lot of fine print on it.

  “This here is a bill of sale, signed yesterday by your husband, whereby I acquired all of your movable possessions!”

  Beate tore the contract out of his hand. “Five Euros???” she cried in exasperation, after she had read the agreed upon sum on the contract, “He sold you all our belongings for five Euros???”

  Maximilian Hagen retook the contract and put it back into his folder. “Quite so! Came by Fax from India. Only condition being, I’l
l pick the stuff up today!”

  “But... but that’s... ” Beate stammered with rage.

  “Ah, before I forget!” Hagen took out his wallet, peeled of a five Euro note and shoved it into Beate’s hand. “This is from your husband, he thought you might need every cent, now!”

  The explosion was imminent. Beate turned on her heels and with outstretched arms blocked her front door.

  “Nobody’s going to come into my house!!!” she shouted at the removal men.

  “But I am sorry, this is not your house!” a voice behind her said. She turned around in surprise and stood in front of a young, snooty-nosed man dressed in a beige velvet corduroy suit.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she belted. The young man offered his hand. “Manfred Golombek, real estate agent, how are you? I am here on behalf of Mr Seligheim, who is the proprietor of this house as of yesterday. Your husband has...”

  But Beate had heard enough. With brute force she pushed the man away and ran inside the house irrespective of his protests. She had to make a phone call, she had to call her lawyer, lover Rainer! Just when she had picked up the receiver from the station the phone rang in her hand. With shaking fingers she pressed ‘Accept’.

  Static noise and crackling in the line... and finally from far away, Gerd’s voice:

  “Hello spouse, I was wondering if you’re feeling quite all right today,” he purred innocently.

  5. New-Delhi / India

  Holding the steering wheel with one hand, Bábaa was calmly steering his limousine through the chaotic traffic of Delhi while with the other hand he was busily texting and reading messages on his mobile phone. All the time more and more messages were coming in, sent from his spies, which were spread out over all of Delhi.

  “What are we going to do now? Do you have a plan?” The false Jain who, by now was wearing his work clothes again (mouth cloth, duster and nothing else) inquired from the passenger seat.