2. Athens: 9th Philosophical Meeting (16 pgs.)

ACT II - CHAPTER 2

ATHENS

9TH MEETING:

ETHICS — PART 3

Saturday May 26, 2018

Athens Greece

The colours of the Greek team and the Hellenic flag filled the stands of the Olympic Stadium in Athens when the players went to the locker room.

Alexandre scored two goals. They beat the Greek team three to zero.

“A selfie, please,” a boy asked after getting his autograph at the hotel.

“Leaving already, philosopher?” one of his teammates at the bar asked.

“Aristotle is waiting for me,” Alexandre joked.

“Say hi to him for me.”

Yellow drove him from the hotel to an apartment across from the ruins of the Temple of Zeus, short steps from the Parthenon.
At the entrance, six security agents in black suits stood armed beside a tank and an ambulance.

“The ambulance was Mr. Walker’s idea,” Yellow said.

They went up to the top floor, then down two, and walked to the other far end of the building.

“Hello, Alexandre!” Arturo and Ricardo exclaimed when he entered the apartment.

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He greeted them, closed the curtains, turned up the music, and pulled three chairs to the centre. He was determined. He would risk telling them everything. Arturo and Ricardo watched, intrigued.

“Are you sure there are no hidden microphones here?” Alexandre asked.

“Sure,” Ricardo said.

“Please, take your phones away to other room,” Alexandre said. They obeyed.

“Before we go into the philosophy of the book, I must tell you something about life or death,” he said in a low voice, almost whispering. “I’ll go straight to the point. Don’t interrupt me. I’ll pause so you can digest what I say. It’s strong. You won’t believe it. You’ll want to stand up and run. I’ll tell you everything, then I’ll answer all your questions. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you promise to keep it secret?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Don’t interrupt until the end. It’s hard to believe, but listen to everything.

Four nuclear bombs, a thousand times stronger than Hiroshima, will explode during the World Cup final in Russia.

Don’t move. Just listen. I know it sounds absurd, but hear me out,” Alexandre said.

They nodded, swallowing hard.

“It’s confirmed. The bomb clocks are activated. They’ll detonate in Moscow at eight p.m. on Sunday, July fifteenth, during the final,” he said, pausing.

“The information comes from several secret services. The probability is ninety-five percent, confirmed by multiple agencies.”

He stopped. Ricardo and Arturo frowned, fighting to stay seated.

“It’ll be a false-flag attack to trigger World War III, a nuclear Armageddon that ends civilization,” he said.

“I know because, after we started writing the book, someone investigating Ronald’s death contacted me. I promised not to reveal who he is.”

He drew a breath.

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“He’s a former KGB agent helping us. Call him Mr. X. He’s trying to stop the bomb clocks. Truth is, he’ll likely fail. But he’s working on it. He told me to go south, to the hemisphere that will survive, and take my loved ones. The bombs won’t fall there, and radiation will be weaker.

I’ve made my decision. I’m not going south. If France reaches the final and Mr. X fails, I’ll die in the Moscow explosions.

You can save yourselves. Go to South America, Australia, or New Zealand. Or go to Moscow to watch the final. Your choice. But maybe go south, so you can finish the book if I die,” he said and paused.

“Talking to the Russian president isn’t an option. It would do no good. He doesn’t know. If he learns, he could ruin the only chance to stop Armageddon.

Mr. X found out The Family is behind this, the same secret society that planted the bomb in the plane and almost left Mr. Walker in a wheelchair.

Mr. X recorded their meeting. They spoke of a new beginning rising from the ashes. They want to create a fascist AI world government and rule it themselves.

No one would believe us if we went to the press. They’d call us crazy,” Alexandre said.

Arturo and Ricardo stared, tense, trying not to move.

“Wait. I’m almost done. Although I never told Mr. X we’re writing the book, he knows, I don’t know how. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t finish it.

We spoke two days ago. His job is to stop the bombs. Mine is to finish the book. He made it clear, if I fail, he’ll kill me.”

He exhaled slowly.

“So, I’ve decided to publish the book in three weeks, in twenty languages, on the World Cup’s opening day. We’ll use football’s global focus to launch it. The Family won’t expect it. A true surprise attack.”

“You’re crazy! Finish and publish in three weeks, in all those languages? That’s impossible!” Ricardo shouted.

Arturo was about to speak.

“No! No! No! You promised not to talk! Wait please! Then say whatever you want!” Alexandre exclaimed opening his eyes.

“Alright,” they said shaking their heads and looking the floor.

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“My plan is simple. After this last meeting, we’ll contact Mr. Walker for help. We’ll hire translators, organize the launch, manage press and ads.

We could give the book a football-related title to attract readers—maybe Philosophy in Football Metaphors—and list Ronald as the author. We’ll convince his family to tell the press he wrote it before he died.

Every journalist will talk about it during the World Cup. It’s a golden marketing moment.”

He paused, watching them.

“We need the book sold everywhere. With publicity and sportswriters promoting it, it’ll become a bestseller, our best chance to reach people before Armageddon.

It’s the best tribute to Ronald, so his book, our book, can help rebuild what’s left of the world.

We must finish it in three weeks, whatever the cost. We have no choice. It must also come out in the southern hemisphere, where the bombs won’t fall.

I say ‘supposedly’ because, though less likely, Mr. X said some nuclear powers plan to destroy even the south, to ensure no rivals remain.

Still, devastation there won’t be total. More people might survive, and buy the book.”

He looked at them, voice firm.

“You can decide what to do. I’ve made my choice. I won’t pressure you. I’ll put three million euros on the table to hire whoever we need, but we’ll need Mr. Walker’s help.”

He wrote a check, placed it on the table, and asked, “Are you with me?”

Silence filled the room.

Ricardo studied him. He knew Alexandre was telling the truth. His plan made sense. Using World Cup press coverage was the best way to sell the book quickly.

“I’ll put three more,” Ricardo said, writing a check and placing it on the table.

“And I’ll put three more,” Arturo added.

“So, do we have an agreement?” Alexandre asked.

“Yes,” they answered.

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“Ricardo, call Mr. Walker right now. He has more resources than us and can help,” Alexandre said.

“My channel is Francisca. I call her, she calls him, he calls me.”

“Then call her now,” Alexandre said. Ricardo sent a message through an encrypted server. Alexandre added, “We need a team of frontline professionals: translators, editors, publicists, journalists, and others to plan and execute the launch, publicity, and distribution. Ricardo, can you lead this team? I’ll be busy at the World Cup.”

“Yes,” Ricardo said.

“Can you dedicate yourself to this for the next three weeks?” Alexandre asked.

“Yes. I’ll speak with the club I manage in England. Don’t worry. I can organize myself when there’s a clear objective,” Ricardo said.

“Any questions?” Alexandre asked.

“I won’t ask questions. I believe what you say is true. If nuclear war happens, it’s better to be prepared. If not, the measures won’t be wasted. I won’t let my family attend the final. Maybe I’ll stay in South America. I need to think, but if you die in Moscow, someone has to continue the book,” Ricardo said.

“I’ll think too. Maybe I’ll die in Moscow as well,” Arturo replied.

“Maybe it’s not wise for all of us to die in Moscow. Someone has to lift the torch of reason to rebuild the world. Publishing the book isn’t enough. We must promote its ideas to young people. They can prevent future man-made extinctions,” Alexandre said.

“We’ll do it,” Arturo said, imagining his media influence.

Ricardo’s phone rang.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Walker. Very well, thanks. Yes, something urgent. We need to talk in person. Is a life-or-death issue. Yes, we can wait until tomorrow at noon,” Ricardo said, looking at Alexandre, who nodded. “All right, we’ll wait for your plane. The three of us will be in Oslo tomorrow night. We’ll take the parachutes, yes, don’t worry. Good night and thank you,” Ricardo said and hung up.

“What time are we leaving?” Alexandre asked.

“His plane leaves New York tonight. It arrives in Athens tomorrow at noon, and we’ll fly immediately to Oslo. We’ll arrive at dusk,” Ricardo said. “Alexandre, are you sure you’ll come? What about the World Cup? The French coach won’t like you disappearing.”

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“Don’t worry. I can disappear for a couple of days.”

It was two in the afternoon in Athens. They already had a plan. In twenty-four hours, the plane would arrive to take them to Oslo. Alexandre knew Francisca’s father would fund the mission without question. First, they had to finish the book. They opened the curtains, sat at the table, and ate lunch in silence. Only silver clinking on porcelain broke the quiet.

“Seeing the Parthenon now makes me feel like one of the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae. Here we are, three of us, maybe changing history like them. How crazy this is!” Arturo said, a fleeting thought passing: Life on Earth has gone extinct many times. Maybe nature seeks its own balance.

After lunch, they cleared the table and set up the scene: the tetrahedron, Ronald’s picture, and the other objects.

“Today I’ll open Ronald’s letter,” Alexandre said.

“The last one,” Ricardo added, watching Alexandre’s hands tremble slightly.

“DEAR EAGLES:

CONGRATULATIONS! LAST MEETING!

OUR BOOK IS THE TOOL THAT WILL SURVIVE US.

TODAY NO QUOTE NO JOKE, JUST MY BEST WISHES.

RONALD.”

The room was silent. Alexandre burned the letter and placed the ashes with the others in the same bag.

“I’ll throw them into the Aegean Sea off Athens,” Alexandre said.

“Perfect place,” Ricardo replied, noticing Alexandre turning on the recorder.

“We’re not doing the sports pep talk today. But we’re Eagles, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” they said.

“Even to rebuild the world from ashes, right?”

“Our book will be the tool,” Arturo said.

They stood silently for a while.

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“Let’s start our final debate,” Alexandre said, the Parthenon before them. The scenery seemed to grant them Aristotle’s guidance. It was perfect for the final meeting. Greek philosophers gave them wings to discover the benefits of rational ethics.

Alexandre asked them to help him to hand the banner for that meeting. It read:

LOVE AND SEX

“If you choose rational ethics, your main gain is your real self-esteem,” Alexandre said, “because it rests on two pillars: the material world you live in and your rational nature. You know ethics stands on metaphysics and epistemology, but you don’t yet know how ethics affects your sexual life.”

“Ethics affecting your sexual life? What are you talking about? I don’t agree,” Arturo interrupted. “Sexual pleasure is pure instinct. Where’s the connection?”

“I agree it’s hard to see because of our culture,” Alexandre said. “It’s worse today with Internet pornography, something unprecedented in human history.”

“Are you suggesting that today’s culture disconnects sex from romantic love?” Arturo asked.

“You tell me,” Alexandre replied, watching Arturo scratch his head.

“First, tell me your meaning of love,” Arturo countered.

“Love? Let’s see the definitions online,” Alexandre said, checking his phone. “Britannica says it’s a strong emotion of affection, kinship, companionship, admiration, and benevolence.”

“Collins adds the feeling toward a person very important to you,” Ricardo intervened.

“Have you ever been in love, Ricardo?” Arturo asked, surprising him. Ricardo looked his face, paused, sighed, scratched his head, and thought, He has no limits, like a child.

“Yes, with my wife. We were both in love when we married.”

“What were your feelings for her?”

“Respect, fun, admiration. I wanted to protect her, care for her, see her smile. Her manners drove me crazy. She was very flirtatious, even more when younger. I loved her ways, voice, walk, smile. We’ve always been friends and respected each other. During crises, the sexual fire dimmed, but it returned when we became friends again. Today, our friendship unites us most.”

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“I’ve had sex, very wild sex,” Alexandre said, “where romantic love was irrelevant.”

“Looks like love and sex cannot share the same space,” Ricardo said. “They can act like water and oil.”

“I still don’t get the relation between ethics and sex,” Arturo complained.

“Let’s explore that,” Alexandre said. “Can we agree love is a strong feeling, tied to friendship and romantic admiration?”

“Yes,” Arturo said.

“Do you agree emotions derive from a rapid intellectual evaluation? A logical conclusion?”

“Yes. We debated that earlier, didn’t we?” Arturo said. “You make an intellectual evaluation, reach a logical conclusion, and then feel it. You’re only aware of the final emotion in your body.”

“And if love is admiration, respect, and friendship for someone, what conclusion about that person should come first?” Alexandre asked.

“You need to judge that person well,” Arturo answered. “Good reasons to love someone. Aristotle said a friend to all is a friend to none. Genuine friendship is selective. Perfect friendship shares values of excellence.”

“So, to love is to love your own values in another person?” Ricardo asked.

“Yes. Aristotle said the same: a friend is one soul in two bodies,” Alexandre added.

“OK. We know what love is,” Arturo said. “But why do many people have better sex with lovers than spouses?”

“Compartmentalization,” Alexandre said. He went to the kitchen and returned with an empty glass, water, and oil. “In today’s culture, love and sex are like water and oil.” He poured water into the glass, then oil. The water stayed below, the oil on top. “Imagine water is sex and oil is reason. They don’t mix. Your animal side doesn’t mix with your rational side. When sex is like this,” he said pointing the glass, “you are half a human and your sexual pleasure is incomplete. That has been my experience, but I’m working on it to change it.”

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“Well, I must admit the same,” Ricardo said. “Sex with the woman I love has never been as wild as with occasional lovers. Compartmentalization fits.”

“Sex without love is hollow. Love without sex feels incomplete,” Arturo said, quoting Atlas Shrugged.

“True fulfilment comes when desire and admiration meet. I need to explore this because I want that complete fulfilment,” Alexandre said, looking at the glass, thinking I was close with my two goddesses.

They debated until Arturo said, “I want to say it aloud. I may have discovered something. May I?”

“Please,” Alexandre encouraged.

“Man exists as a rational animal. The good man is when the rider rides the horse — reason riding the animal, your neocortex riding your paleocortex. Your existence includes both in that relation. You, the rider, choose your rational values. Your horse follows because it trusts you. Then, sex should be you, the rider, galloping your horse, both celebrating the fortune of being alive. That is full sex for a rational animal,” Arturo said.

“Like this?” Alexandre asked, showing a woman riding a horse at high speed on his phone, thinking How much I admire my goddesses.

“Yes.”

“Imagine you find a woman with your same values,” Alexandre continued. “Imagine your horse has chemistry with her horse,” he said, smiling. “And both riders share the same values.” He recalled: What a night that was! “He and she lie naked in bed. Riders and horses celebrate their mortal existence. You touch, smell, hear, see, feel, love. Happiness and gratitude for the miracle of existence. Can you grasp it?” he asked. Silence fell. He closed his eyes, remembering that night, thinking I admire you both. “Can you imagine it?”

“Yes,” Arturo said.

“You know you are mortal; she knows she is mortal. You love her; she loves you. You admire her; she admires you. You deserve to celebrate your values; she knows she does too. Same values, same pleasure, same existence, same outcome: celebration and gratitude. Minds as riders, senses galloping, naked bodies flying on fire. A unique, unrepeatable ecstasy, a jewel in the history of the universe,” Alexandre said, tears in his eyes. The room was electric with natural, wild energy.

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“I must admit your words gave me an idea of what that could be,” Arturo said, imagining it.

“But there is more,” Alexandre said. “If your ethics rests on your metaphysics and epistemology, then when you make love, sex is metaphysical. It is the grand finale of celebrating your values and virtues through your own body.”

“You need to think on this to grasp it fully. The good news: we now have a clue where to search,” Ricardo said.

They committed to discovering more, practicing, and sharing their experiences. They were shocked by the link between sex and ethics.

Later, they realized that ethical contradictions prevent this powerful kind of sex, the sex of heroes, the sex of those who are heroes of themselves.

“Imagine a man and a woman who have become champions of themselves, and they are having sex. That is heroic sex. A wild act confirming their values and real self-esteem,” Alexandre said.

“That kind of sex is a luxury,” Arturo replied. “Many billionaires can only imagine it. They may have beauty, youth, power, fame, and money, but they are miserable in this. If one of them read the book, they could enjoy this luxury — which is not a luxury, but a natural, healthy act.”

Later they replaced the banner with a new one. It read:

POLITICS AND ARTS

They continued debating, asking questions, and discovering new connections. They explored politics and art, and how both derived from ethics.

They dived deeper into the gap between theory and practice in politics. Good politics requires good faith in institutions, but that was missing. Dishonest powers acted in secrecy to rule from the shadows, like The Family.

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Propaganda was everywhere: mystical, political, financial, academic, social media, mainstream, art, history. They concluded all men were moulded by culture, imposed from birth.

Supremacist ideologies, from superior races to chosen peoples, complicated matters.

Perhaps the biggest problem was dishonest capitalism. The financial system’s currency was backed by air, not gold or commodities.

“Free trade and democracy are beautiful in theory,” Arturo said, “but a joke if you ignore reality. Applying theory is the real challenge.”

They also debated art. Alexandre taped a banana to the wall. “Art!” he said. “But this is not the original. The original, called Comedian, sold for $120,000 at debut. Today, $6.2 million. People pay for the certificate of authenticity, not the fruit, allowing the owner to replace it anytime.”

“I think it’s a way for drug cartels to launder money,” Arturo said.

They realized civilization’s decay had an epistemological root.

“Please, Confucius! Save us! Reform language at home! Parents, teach your children to focus!” Ricardo exclaimed.

“You are right,” Alexandre said. “The root problem is lack of epistemological education. Man should not only know, but know how he knows. To evolve from Homo sapiens to Homo epistemologicus.”

They ended the meeting. It had been a long journey. The draft was finished, needing polishing before publication.

As usual, they toasted Ronald’s picture, the ball and the tetrahedron. In this special occasion they also toasted to Aristotle, looking the panorama of Athens and the illuminated Parthenon. Alexandre stopped the recorder, took a marker, and wrote on the window what he believed was the final conclusion:

YOUR TRUE SELF-ESTEEM BEGINS WHEN YOU FOCUS YOUR MIND.

They contemplated the text with the Parthenon behind them. They toasted again. The clink of glasses echoed like three hundred Spartans striking their shields at Thermopylae.

They finished at one a.m. Before Alexandre said goodbye, he spoke to Ricardo.

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“Ricardo, can you keep the tetrahedron, the ball, and Ronald’s photo? Also, the ashes you will throw into the Aegean Sea?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ricardo replied.

Alexandre stood in front of him holding the tetrahedron.

“Do you swear to care of it?” he asked.

“Yes, I swear,” Ricardo said as he received it.

“Do you swear to take care of this ball?” Alexandre asked. Ricardo took the ball.

“Yes, I swear.”

“Do you swear to take care of our friend’s photo?” Alexandre asked, giving him Ronald’s picture.

“Yes, I swear.”

“I’ll be in camp with the team for the World Cup, so it’s better you keep them. I hope Armageddon doesn’t happen that day,” Alexandre said with a sigh.

He gave them a firm hug goodbye.

“Don’t be so dramatic. In a few hours we’ll be flying together to Norway,” Arturo said. “We’ll find a way to publish the book during the World Cup.”

“Not during. Before,” Alexandre replied.

Yellow took him back to the hotel with the France team. The next day, the plane would arrive, and Yellow would pick him up at noon to fly to Oslo.

“Pay attention. I will contact you when Mr. Walker’s plane arrives,” Yellow said.

“Will you pilot?” Alexandre asked.

“Yes. Tomorrow at noon I’ll pick you up. Be vigilant,” he replied.

“Alright. I’ll be waiting,” Alexandre said and entered the hotel.

The next day Alexandre woke rested but expectant. He bathed in the large hotel pool and called Victoria every hour to check on her.

After noon, Yellow hadn’t arrived, and Ricardo hadn’t called, so Alexandre called him.

“What’s wrong, Ricardo? Has the plane arrived?”

“I don’t know. Probably delayed.”

“Yellow isn’t here. Any news?”

“No.”

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“Okay, let’s wait a little longer,” Alexandre said, sighing.

He tried to stay calm while playing pool with friends from the French team. He felt he had to tell Victoria everything. They had planned a trip to Venice before the World Cup, and this was his chance. If the bombs exploded at the World Cup final, Victoria had to go with her family to Sydney, her cousin’s house, because London and surrounding areas would vanish in the nuclear Armageddon.

That afternoon, he called Ricardo again. Still no news about Yellow. They decided to continue waiting.

“What’s wrong, my love? Why do you call me so much? I love you too,” Victoria said.

“Ricardo, it’s 10 p.m.! The plane should have arrived six hours ago! Call Francisca and tell her to call Mr. Walker now!” Alexandre exclaimed into his phone.

Half an hour later, Alexandre paced like a caged lion and called Ricardo.

“What happened with Francisca?”

“She doesn’t respond.”

“And Yellow?”

“I don’t know anything about him either.”

“Okay, let’s stay calm. I think I know how to contact her,” Alexandre said through gritted teeth and called Victoria.

“Yes, love, urgently contact Francisca right now and tell her to call Ricardo.”

“Who is Ricardo?”

“Victoria, I’ll tell you later. Trust me. Please do as I say and call me later. It’s urgent!”

Alexandre placed the pool balls on the table and started practicing alone. He ordered a whisky with peanuts at the bar. At that moment, his cell phone rang.

“She doesn’t answer me,” Victoria said.

“Did you leave her a message?”

“She forbade me; she doesn’t want me to send anything in writing.”

“Break the rule and leave her a message.”

“But…”

“Just do it! Keep calling her until she answers!”

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“Sure,” she said and didn’t dare argue.

Alexandre walked through the hotel looking for Yellow, went out into the street, and remembered the first time he had seen him with his yellow beret. Where was he? Where was Francisca? He sighed and called Victoria again.

“Nothing? Did you leave her a message?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any other way to communicate with her?”

“No.”

“Are you okay?” Alexandre asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you in your apartment or with your parents?”

“With my parents. Is it that bad?” she asked.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. I’ll tell you later; maybe it’s just a misunderstanding. I love you, darling. Take care, please. Goodbye, a kiss, and say hello to your parents for me. Let me know when Francisca contacts you.”

“Sure.”

“Good night and sleep well.”

“Good night.”

At midnight, he called Ricardo; still no news. He felt his pulse tremble and poured another whisky. He lit a cigarette, then another, and another. He walked and thought for over an hour until he had a plan. At two a.m., he called Ricardo again.

“When do you have to return to your club?” Alexandre asked.

“I already warned that I’d arrive on Tuesday, so I have three days,” Ricardo said.

“And Arturo?”

“The same,” Ricardo replied.

“Is he with you now?”

“Yes.”

“Something obviously happened. If we don’t hear from them by early tomorrow, I’ll visit you, and we’ll have to redo the plan. I already thought of one and want to show it to you. Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

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“Well. We’ll talk tomorrow at breakfast. Good night,” Alexandre said, ending the call. He sighed with a frown, lit another cigarette, went to his bedroom, and fell asleep watching television. This is how that fateful Sunday ended.

“Oh no! I fell asleep!” Alexandre exclaimed loudly when he woke at 10 a.m. the next day, Monday, May 28.

He grabbed his phone and called Ricardo, but there was no answer. Then he called Victoria; no answer. For a moment he felt terrified; the room seemed to spin. He took a deep breath and went straight to the shower, using cold water.

In the middle of the shower, his cell phone rang. He ran out to answer, naked and wet.

“Darling, why don’t you answer me?” Alexandre asked.

“Sorry, I had my cell phone far away and didn’t hear it.”

“Please don’t walk away from your cell phone. Did you try to contact Francisca?”

“I’ve lost count of all the times I’ve called her and left messages. She has me worried. What’s happening? Is she okay?”

“I don’t know, but I hope so. Are you okay?” Alexandre asked.

“Yes.”

“They’re calling me now. I’ll call you later,” he said and hung up.

“Ricardo! You disappeared!” Alexandre exclaimed, annoyed.

“I was in the shower.”

“Anything new?”

“Nothing.”

“I’ll finish showering and go over there.”

“Alright.”

Leaving his room, he headed to the hotel reception, then the dining and pool rooms, looking for Yellow and asking staff if they had seen him, giving his description. He soon realized the absurdity of what he was doing. He had to recognize that something had happened, and it wasn’t good. Maybe Yellow would show up at any moment, and the plane was simply delayed. But he knew that couldn’t be. What was happening was totally out of the ordinary. He felt helpless. He thought sending an SOS to Boris might help, then scolded himself: Idiot! Don’t bother him! He’s looking for the pendrive to stop the end of civilization! Let him work in peace!

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Resigned, he went out into the street, desperate, hoping to find Yellow. Nothing. Finally, he took a taxi to where Ricardo and Arturo were staying.

He explained the plan: if no news arrived before noon, they would continue alone. Nothing changed.

“Ricardo, can you direct the book’s publication alone without Mr. Walker?” Alexandre asked.

“Yes.”

“With nine million euros, I think something can be done. Here’s another check for three million to hire the best bodyguards,” Alexandre said, placing the bearer check on the table. “Unfortunately, I can’t do anything else. I have to go with the French team to the World Cup. I won’t be able to stay longer.”

“Stay calm; we’ll organize ourselves,” Ricardo said.

“Don’t worry. If Yellow shows up after I leave, fly to Oslo without me. Can you go alone?”

“Of course! I’ll take the parachute, but I hope I don’t have to use it,” said Arturo, who hadn’t yet made a free jump.

Ricardo immediately called his club to inform them of an emergency, delaying his arrival by a week. Arturo did the same with his club in Dubai.

“Do we publish the book ourselves or with a publisher?” Ricardo asked.

“I don’t know; now you’re in charge. I know you’ll make the best decision,” Alexandre said.

They concluded a publisher was needed, but it had to be large. They called the most important publishers worldwide. All said publishing a book in twenty languages with full advertising in three weeks was impossible. Their best option: a small publishing house in Athens. They just needed the right professionals and to pay them well.

By afternoon, they said goodbye to Alexandre and wished each other luck.

No one wanted to speculate about the disappearance of Mr. Walker, Yellow, or Francisca, but they were determined that, whatever happened, they would publish the book alongside the World Cup opening in three weeks, on June 14.

That night, Alexandre went to Athens airport to fly to Barcelona, but after seeing the news, he changed his flight to London to tell Victoria everything. Sitting in a cafeteria, waiting for the plane and watching the news on the television, he read the word Walker at the bottom of the screen: RAGNAR WALKER KIDNAPPED.

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