The Maltese Manuscript (LSD, #6)

1. Noxious Secrets

Valletta - Monday, 5 February 2018

Noxious Secrets

I'm looking for noxious secrets.

No.

I'm not looking. It's pitch dark here. I can't even see my own hands. I crawl and do my best not to break everything I stumble into. Everyone who works for a government, a town hall, schools, hospitals, police, they all get 50% extra for working at night, everyone except spies like me, who get orders to investigate when others sleep, without any compensation.

I'm not looking for noxious secrets either. I'm looking for «Noxious Secrets». It's the title of a manuscript, written by the man who lives in this mansion. I have no idea where to look. I don't even know if the manuscript is here. The only thing I know is that «secrets» means «having something to hide», and it gives you a negative image when others find out. Every government has a Secret Service because governments have so much to hide that the world would be in danger if anyone found out. It's not my job to judge moral issues like secrets and openness. The LSD (Lëtzebuergesch Sécherheet Departement, in English: Luxembourg Spy Department) and the Luxembourg government pay me for finding and keeping the secrets of others; never bite the hand that feeds you.

The director of the Greek Bureau of Statistics, Andreas Georgiou, was fired and sentenced for high treason because he published the secret-but-true negative figures of the Greek failing economy instead of the much more positive lies that the Greek government preferred to talk about. Does that say something about Andreas? Or does it make George Orwell's «1984» a novel of fiction that became true?

Bradley Manning leaked a few US government secrets to WikiLeaks. They put him behind bars for 35 years. Does that say something about Bradley? Or does it raise suspicion about the noxious secrets the American President wants to keep out of the newspapers? Those same newspapers didn't even spend 35 seconds in prison for publishing all the President's secret sex adventures. Turning the world's most powerful man into a clown is rewarded rather than punished.

When you eat in a good Italian restaurant, the Chef always invites you into his kitchen so you can watch how he prepares the dishes. He's happy to show you how he uses only the finest ingredients, how he keeps his kitchen clean and organized, that the meat is fresh from the bone, and how he makes the pasta by hand. No secrets, except for his little secret skill that makes the Chef's salad always better than the one you make at home, even if you use the same recipe.

In a Hong Kong fish restaurant, the Chef goes even one step further: instead of giving you a menu, he'll tell you to visit the fish market and buy your fish or seafood while it's still alive. The merchant delivers, the Chef prepares, you'll have the highest guarantee in the world for fresh food. No secrets.

It makes the story of this manuscript extraordinary: the publication of these «Noxious Secrets» must be so dangerous for our society that #1, The Boss, ordered me, #5, The Runner, to find the manuscript, so the LSD can prevent its publication. I have no idea why. It's secret, and it's noxious.

I can't go on like this. Either I break a leg or all the china in this shop, walking around here like a bull, and the noise will wake up everyone in the neighbourhood. Should I take the risk and make some light? In this darkness, I might step on the manuscript and not even notice it. My spiPhone has a torchlight. I switch the setting to «Black Light» and the intensity to «Pencil».

I'm not in the library, but in the kitchen. The precious, fragile porcelain turns out to be a shopload of dirty dishes. The table in the centre is full of mail, newspapers and magazines. The cleaning lady's resignation letter must be there too, unopened, like most of the other letters. Behind a wall of sticky notes, I find the refrigerator; it's empty, except for half a bottle of milk and something green that tries to escape as soon as I open the door. Someone hid the door to the dining room behind a pile of stained towels; it's impossible to go there.