Scene 2

When you are at a party at which you know nobody at all, you move around somewhat like you do while traversing a seabed during low tide. You have landed up in an alien place, in an alien society - amidst strange fauna and flora. You feel that you are not just invisible, but that you do not exist at all – and if you do, it is in an avatar that you can opt for freely at any point of time. A bookkeeper from Lisbon? Why not? A baron from Essen? Please yourself. Or a spy from Santa Lemusa?

With which we are back on the main subject.

One of those present here is the person you are looking for – the one who has made you dance to his tune for weeks. It could be every man here. Or any woman. A woman, why ever not? On her left thigh she has a Walter PKK strapped on, with gunshot residue. On her right leg hangs a potassium cyanide-injection that is dripping slightly due to the pressure of her flesh.

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