The Dutch Dilemma
The third terminal on the right beeped: «Can we talk?»
#2, The Nerd, looked at it, didn't believe his eyes, and looked at it again. Nobody knew that address. It was the private account he only used for his subscription to «Handsome, Hot 'n' Horn-rimmed Glasses», a monthly magazine with pictures of decently dressed dominant Dutch women, wearing sexy stern glasses to put emphasis on their beautiful eyes, photos of severe school teachers, strict secretaries, rigorous nurses and other strong women who were used to giving orders and being listened to, women who—
«CAN WE TALK!?!»
The Nerd woke up from his daydreams and returned to his nightmare: «Where did you get this address?»
«You're a subscriber of our magazine. A friend of a friend of a friend told us about your... qualities. He said you're the Specialist, the only one we can trust in the delicate dilemma our publishing house is facing. We are desperate. We have nobody else we can ask for help... Please, please me.»
There it was. The magic word...
«What do you want me to do?»
«A criminal organization blackmails us, threatens us, and robs us. We have to pay them large sums of money or else... The future of our magazine is at stake. We need your help.»
The Nerd thought about it. Why would a Dutch publishing house ask for the help of the Luxembourg Spy Department? Can't their own people handle this? Why doesn't this man... or woman...
«Can't you go to the Dutch authorities? Sir? Ma'am? How do I call you?»
The answer came immediately: «The Dutch authorities are involved. The police protect these criminals. Private investigators refuse to help us. Even the Amsterdam underworld is afraid of them. We've tried everything. You are our last hope...»
Ten seconds later, another message came in: «I'm April... I'm the centrefold of June... Next to me sits Julie, pages 20 to 25 of May...»
The Nerd looked up. The centrefold of June was the third on the right on the wall in front of him. Wow! The police-woman with the long, blond hair, the handcuffs, and the incredibly blue eyes... He wondered... This was his chance to ask!
«April?... Are those eyes real or are they photoshopped?»
«They're real. And they're crying... Three boxes of tissues a day... My blue eyes are all red now... I can't handle it anymore... These criminals hurt us where it hurts most: in our wallets. And there's nothing we can do...»
«Don't cry. I'll help you. Don't worry. Tell me all about them and I'll hurt them back for you. I'll send so much hate mail to their social media account that even the FBI profilers don't dare to look at their profile anymore. I'll hack the ugly-criminal-bastards.com website and will make sure they drop out of the 100 most wanted forever. I'll install fire-walls around your domain that will trigger electronic time bombs that backfire in their faces when they just THINK of bothering you. What info do you have about them? Emails with traceable IP addresses? SMS messages from detectable phone numbers?»
«Nothing electronic. They send letters. Post mail. It started years ago. They told us to pay or we would get into trouble. We paid and thought that was it, but the next year, there was another letter for an even higher amount. We paid again, but it didn't stop. Now they order us to pay a million euros, within 14 days. We don't have a million euros.»
The Nerd wondered: «Doesn't the magazine sell better each month? I thought it was more popular than ever.»
«It does, but the stockholders take out all the profit. We don't even have enough money left to buy decent underwear for next month's cover story. Please help us...»
This was indeed a dilemma. This blue-eyed blonde beauty with tears in her eyes had to be rescued from this horrible mafia gang. And he, The Nerd, was the only knight in shiny armour that could do the job. But how? He was locked up in his secret dungeon below the Luxembourg Ministry of Defence...
«The other payments, did you do them in cash? Unmarked bills? Dropped off at night at an obscure building in a nasty neighbourhood?»
«What kind of girl do you think I am? Do you have dirty fantasies of me, walking around with suitcases full of money in the middle of the night, visiting obscure buildings in nasty neighbourhoods? We are decent ladies, you know! We transfer the ransom to their bank account, of course.»
The Nerd flashed a triumphal smile. That made things easy.
«Don't worry. Just give me the number, the IBAN and the SWIFT of the bank account. I'll hack the database of the bank and make sure you'll get back your money via a backdoor. They won't know what hit them. I'll send them a POOF-mail that looks like an official message from their bank, telling them that interest rates have dropped and bank costs have risen and there's nothing the clients can do about it, so they will not even suspect who's behind the theft. Don't worry. I do things like that all the time.»
«You're a dear. What can we ever do to return you the favour? If you give us your social media account, we'll like you...»
That was a problem. Secret Service was secret, of course. The Nerd had to think of something better. But first, he had a job to do. The bank details came in and...
«April, we have a problem.»
«Wasn't it Whitney Houston who you have to call in case of problems?»
«Are you sure about these bank details? Do you know who you're dealing with? This is not some small-town Gambino family you have on your back. This is serious. You might be in a lot more trouble than you are aware of. Tell me again about the blackmail, about the exact text they used to threaten you.»
«Blackmail is perhaps not the right word. Bluemail would be more precise, as the envelopes they use are always blue. And the language is... incomprehensible. They try to tell us something, but we're not a buffet of licenced lawyers with universal studies, you know. We're just innocent, beautiful, blond, brown and black women with stern glasses and pretty eyes...»
The Nerd took a deep breath. This confirmed exactly what he was so afraid of. He wrote one final answer: «I'm sorry. This is too big for me. The man who sent you those letters... Pay him. There's nothing I can do. He's not just an ordinary criminal. He's... The Taxman.»
He hit the button to send the message, deleted his private account, and shut down his computer. A teardrop left his left eye; without his monthly copy of «Handsome, Hot 'n' Horn-rimmed Glasses», life would never be the same again...
YOU ARE READING
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