Sneak Preview: the LSD-series15-07-2022
The best spy novels. The worst spy.
When you’ve just finished the best spy novel ever, would you enjoy waiting an entire year or more for the next part? Of course not. That’s why we launch the complete series about the Luxemburg Spy Department all at once, seven novels and a secret (yes, you’ll have to find the clues in the stories and unravel the secret by yourself, like a genuine spy).
You’ve never read a better plot. You’ve never met more hilarious characters. Real crime, the stuff you read about in the newspaper, and real solutions too. For free.
Like always: we can’t give you an estimated release date, as we release everything as soon as it’s ready, and this project is almost ready, so keep an eye on our website and prepare for the best action comedy of the decade.
1. The Swiss Suitcase
2. The Polish Program
3. The French Formula
4. The Spanish Spotlight
5. The Austrian Aroma
6. The Maltese Manuscript
7. The Swedish Sex Bomb
8. (you'll have to read the others first)
9. (and we're not giving away this title either)
Blurb of book 1 - The Swiss Suitcase:
Lux loves being The Runner of the LSD (Luxembourg Spy Department) until he meets Rostov, a banker who wants this story to end on page one. Rostov is in so much trouble that shooting himself seems the only wise thing to do, but even suicide doesn't work out as planned. Lux offers to help: "You better drown yourself in the bathtub and save me the work of cleaning up blood and brain tissue."
Lux and Rostov join forces. Lux has grit, wit and it, and Rostov needs only one hit to release a shipload of shit. Together they cause a roller coaster of disasters in and around the five-star Prestigio International Hotel in Geneva, on a mission to solve two questions: what happened to the President of the First Bank of Moscow, and what's inside the suitcase that Rostov lost?
Start of The Swiss Suitcase:
Geneva - Last week of July 2017
Start Me Up!
The message was clear: «Rooms 404 and 2503 are empty between 09:00 and 11:00. Make photos of every document you find and send the info to #2».
It's 09:05. I enter room 404, but it's not empty. On the bed sits a man, around thirty years old, with a sad face. When he notices me, I mutter an excuse: "Sorry. Please, go on with what you were doing. I just check if the chambermaid did her job well. Shall I put the «do not disturb»-sign on the door?"
The sad man lifts a gun. I raise my hands as a useless defence. He lifts it further and puts it against the side of his head. I try to stop him: "Please, don't do that."
He stares at me with his sad face, lowers the barrel a little, and asks: "Why not?"
"It's obvious. The blood will splash everywhere. In Pulp Fiction, it took two men an entire chapter to clean a car from a headful of brain tissue. Any idea how long it will take me to clean this room when you paint it red? You better fill the bathtub and drown yourself, or strangle yourself with the flexible tube of the shower, or, best of all, look into the mirror and scare yourself to death: you look like a zombie…"
He looks at me, like a zombie, but he doesn't laugh, and neither is he impressed by the amount of extra work that his suicide will cause me. He points the gun at his temple again.
I have one ultimate chance, but I have to be fast.
"Please, don't do that.", I say: "I know many people who committed suicide, and they all regretted it for the rest of their lives."
The sad man thinks about it and decides it's better to put the barrel into his mouth.
I'm getting worried: "Wait… I have something for you, a message that will change your life forever."
I put my hand in the pocket of the trousers of my uniform, in search of the message, but he pulls the trigger anyway. I close my eyes and hear… nothing. The fool forgot to take the safety off. Before he can undo the damage, I get my hand out of my pocket and aim at him with my own weapon: a canister of pepper spray. I empty a full charge in his face. It works splendidly. He screams like a pig, drops the gun and grabs his face with both hands. I grin at the spray can: "You make a grown man cry."
The man is not happy that I saved his life. He cries painful tears and shouts: "It hurts, you idiot. I'm dying…"
"Wasn't dying your idea to start the day with? Don't rub your eyes. It will make things worse. Go to the bathroom and use lots of water. Put the shower on, hot water, and spray it into your face."
He stumbles to the bathroom. I hear he follows my advice. I take the gun, a 9x18mm Makarov with 8 rounds in the cartridge, put the safety on again, and tuck it into my belt. Nobody kills himself during my watch!
I scan the room for any documents, but find nothing worth photographing and sending to #2 (read: number two). Then, I enter the bathroom to check on my patient: "Are you better now?"
He nods, but his sad face and his painful red eyes tell me he's lying.
I try to lighten up his mood: "You should not give up on life that easy. Lots of people are in poverty or pain, and they don't give up either. Every storm bird fights day and night against the cold and the rain, riding the wind at double speed to find food for her chicks. A nest made of straw is all the comfort she gets. A small crack in the rocks is her only shelter against the elements. The reward for all her hard work and misery is that one day her kids fly away without even saying «thank you». That storm bird doesn't give up and neither should you. Don't you remember the first lesson of life, right after you were born?"
He looks puzzled.
I continue: "When you were born, someone lifted you up by the feet and gave you a slap on your butt, which made you cry. That was your first lesson: life is hard. Don't you remember?"
A thrifty smile shows that I have my fish on the hook. A laugh is the best medicine against everything. I keep the initiative with my pep-guardiola-talk: "I'm glad I was just in time to help you avoid a mistake. What would your family say?"
"I have no family. I'm an orphan."
"What would your girlfriend say, or your wife?"
"I'm not married and I don't have a girlfriend."
"What would your friends say?"
"I don't have friends."
"I'm your friend."
I leave a pause, to make him realise how precious this moment is. He doesn't realise. Instead, he says: "Do friends attack each other with pepper spray?"
"Only good friends do, and only when they first meet and one of them does something stupid. I saved your life with the pepper spray. Friends do that. Friends save each other's life. I would not like it if you, my friend, would do something stupid, like shooting yourself in a five-star hotel with room service and a spectacular view over the Lake of Geneva. Life is not that bad, you know. You just have to find someone who pays the bill for your stay here. Who do you work for?"
The smile broadens up: "The First Bank of Moscow." But it's not a smile of pride or confidence. It's a disdainful smile. I don't believe him. Why would a banker walk around with a loaded gun?
"And you don't like your job?"
"It's not that. They try to kill me. I was given documents of great value. They found out, stole the information, and will come after me to kill me."
"So you decide to shoot yourself? Why? To do them a favour and save them the trouble? That doesn't sound wise to me. Why don't you just run away and hide?"
"Without money? Without a place to go? With the Russian Secret Service on my tail, who can track everything I do, listen to every phone call I make and see every payment with my credit card? Forget it. Impossible."
I take a deep breath; this will take a while: "I know the perfect place for you to hide. But first, I want to hear your story. And I also want you to swear that everything I say to you is classified information and you will not talk to anybody about what I will tell you. Do we have a deal?"
He thinks about it for a few seconds, but he doesn't have much of a choice. "I promise. Do you want me to make a contract?", he asks, trying to show his good will.
"No. Papers can be stolen or falsified. I don't even want to know your name, and I won't tell you my name either. That's not only because of the danger it might cause to our families when criminals know our real names and seek revenge. A name tells a lot about you; there's a world of difference between Elisabeth, Beth and Lizzy. I will call you…"
I scan the room. As soon as I entered this business, I found out how much you can learn about the character of someone by looking at his memories, his souvenirs, those little things that everyone keeps because of the stories behind them. You learn most from somebody's house, from his living room and his bedroom. People who travel a lot, like my new best friend the banker, they know how important it is to change an impersonal hotel room into a place where you feel at home. My friend obviously travels a lot. He made himself at home. On his nightstand stand three action figures: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Darth Vader and Master Yoda from «Star Wars», unmistakable reminders of a happy meal in a fancy restaurant. On the table lies his agenda, with a sticker that says: 'Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker', a famous line by John McClane (Bruce Willis) from his «Die Hard» films. Next to it lays his wallet, light brown leather with «bad motherfucker» on it, like the wallet of Jules in «Pulp Fiction». This man is a film fan, but I don't want to call him «motherfucker»: a moment ago, he told me he's an orphan; he has no mother…
In the corner stands a small suitcase of a popular brand with a sticker on it: «I (red heart) Rostov». He said something about the Russian Secret Service. His red eyes have a Slavic shape. It explains the Makarov too; the Russian police and military use that gun. The First Bank of Moscow has its main office in Moscow, but the sticker to recognise his suitcase between all the others on the airport indicates that he's probably born in Rostov, a harbour city in the south, where the Don meets the Sea of Azov, a suburb of the Black Sea.
"I will call you Rostov. You can call me Luxembourg. Or Lux, if you prefer. Okay?"