The seatbelt light above my head goes off. I snap open my belt, take a
deep breath and stand up.
Jesus, I need a drink.
From this point onwards I will have to remain perfectly in character.
Breathe slow, breathe slow – relax. Remember it is all about
body language.
I glance over at Brother E.
He tosses back his beautiful rock star hair, using that weirdly feminine
gesture of his, the ‘hey girls look at me’ move, then
flashes lots of teeth and slips me a surreptitious wink. Ugly
bastard. I hope nobody saw the wink. That’s one of the
things They look for. Suspicious conspiratorial acts. Breathe
slow, breathe slow: no tension, no drugs.
There isn’t much tension in me anyway. I’ve been busy doing my slow
breathing exercises since the cabin movie screen showed us to
be 500 kilometres from Paris. I was deep in my safe meditation
place even before the pilot announced our descent towards
Charles de Gaulle. And I’ve been consistently working on my
airport persona for days now. Body language. The breathing
helps relax my muscles. My muscles construct my body language,
and that tells Them what They want to know about me. If I can
make my muscles lie credibly, all will be well.
Ready or not – I cannot back out now. Oh sweet fuck, I need a drink
sooo bad.
Breathe slow, breathe slow: relax your shoulders and neck, Al. Hey, this
is the first time you’re doing it into France! That’s it!
Happy and excited! Positive. On holiday!
I had better act better than Bobby de Niro. And remember, folks, it
won’t be a golden statue I lose out on if I fuck up. I will
be staring at the business end of the bars in a French jail.
But that’s ridiculous. I can’t end up in a French mang
because I have – breathe slow, breathe slow, tummy light –
no drugs in my possession.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I don’t.
But still, it isn’t the zol we are both carrying that troubles me. It
is the fucking computers. I am re-entering the European Union
– illegally. I have to pray They don’t know that the
Belgians expelled me from re-entering the EU when they
released me from Leeuwen three months ago. I had better pray
to all the gods They don’t know. The problem is, I
know. Fuck, I saw Inspector van den Linden of the Belgian
Airport BOB enter me into their intelligence database when
they arrested me and Fuckhead at Zaventem in Brussels back in
’97. I wasn’t nervous then, but I am now …
Bastard.
My cover is well and truly blown. Interpol, the DEA, De Belgiese
Rijkswacht and our own local SANAB – all know about me now.
I just have to hope that I haven’t been red-flagged and that
the EU Point of Entry computers are not linked between
participating countries. They can’t be. I mean, I am
travelling on a Benelux visa – in your own name, you
prick – happily issued by The Netherlands five days ago,
dammit. Benelux is tog Belgium, The Netherlands and
Luxembourg – and if the Dutch don’t know that the Belgians
are on my arse, then the Frogs sure as hell can’t. Surely
not? Fucking Frogs. What was it that the Flemish okes in jail
called them? Oh ja – verdomde kikkervreters. Fucking
frog munchers.
Oh shit I’m panicking. Breathe, breathe – shake hands with the
kikkervreter koffiemoffie. He’s attended to you the whole
flight. He is your friend – Very nice flight m’sieu. Merci
beaucoup! Keep breathing. Don’t sweat. Whatever you do,
don’t sweat.
Get objective, Al. Now!
Project yourself.
What’s ahead?
Okay let’s see. Their first line of defence will be at the aircraft
door itself. Probably about three of them. Somebody tall, ugly
and serious in police uniform. Some bland, middle-aged nobody
in civvies, and somebody else wearing a bright orange vest
with neon reflective writing all over it and carrying a
rasping radio handset. Being Europe, neon vest will probably
be a woman. The uniform and the vest will be there to draw the
attention of each passenger disembarking – the civilian
nobody will be the seriously dangerous one. It is his job to
watch each person coming out the gate and gauge his or her
reactions carefully. Remember, it works on very simple
psychology.
Systems check, Al – teach yourself.
Case study: You are [NOT!] carrying anything – diamonds, industrial
espionage, stolen art, money, High Grade Marijuana, whatever.
You are [NOT!] guilty and You know it. They obviously don’t
know anything but you think they do. You think They can see it
written all over you. Well, you know something – you’re
right. They can. As you step off the aircraft you will react
to the three people standing there whether you want to or not.
Your reaction is triggered at a subconscious level and you
will show that reaction in your body language. The people who
are standing there are simply trained to recognise it and pick
it up. They are also chosen for certain skills in this regard.
C’mon Al – you know this because you studied it on the
Internet. If you are [NOT!] carrying a burden of guilt you
will definitely react to the police uniform first and to the
orange vest second. That is what gives you away. The tiniest
of flinches, the path that your eyes – especially your eyes
– take, and the position of your body and head. These will
tell the civilian that there is something wrong. You should
have noticed the neon colours first. That would be normal
animal psychology. Stare at the cop six tenths of a second,
stare at the vest three tenths of a second, stare at the cop
six tenths of a second and you are busted. The key here is the
civilian. He will have been recruited because he – it’s
almost always a he – is naturally curious. He will also be
deeply empathic, which gives him the ability to project, to
feel, the emotional mindset of his marks from their facial
micro-expressions. He will also have been trained in grooming
habits, gestures and clothing displays. He will especially
look for passengers who avoid eye contact, surreptitiously
stare at the cop and sweat. He looks for sweat in the cool
static air-conditioned environment like gold. That is his
bread and butter. Sweat.
But, of course, I know this stuff. I’m Airport Alex, the ou formerly
known as Acid Alex, also alternatively known as Skollie
Papillion or secretly known as
Alexander-Bitch-Born-Bastard-Blikkieskos-PuddlePirate-Asterix-Yster-Lix-Douglas-Goulding.
I am a professional international drug smuggler and wholesale
distributor, or so I am telling myself. I’m a Das. I’m not
carrying anything.
And here we go … Just like I thought. Be (Look) relaxed. Give the
orange vest eye contact. Actually there are two of them. Nod
at the civilian staring at you. Ça va, Frog. Look
forward with cool determination. Do not look again. Don’t
even fucking peek. Okay, so far so good.
Now Big Brother is watching you. Forget the visible cameras. They are all
dummies. You cannot see the real ones. Walk next to Brother E.
Do not follow each other; they will know you are planning
something. Take it easy, relax. Remember the pen is in your
shirt pocket. Breathe, breathe, relax. Everything is going as
planned.
Okay here we go. Luggage. Relax, bra. Anti-terrorism is watching. Cool.
Be bored. You’ve done this before. You have already beaten
the dogs, X-rays and spectrographic scanners.
Okay here comes the luggage. Right, let’s go. Next to Brother E. Okay,
here it is. Match Point. Time for Brother E to pick a fight.
Christ I hope this good-cop bad-cop thing works out for us …
[!!!]
… Jesus these padda mapuzas are aggro. The one Brother E swore at looks
like he’s going to shoot him.
Right, whip out the pen.
M’sieu, I’m sorry, here is a pen for my friend. I’m sorry, we are
tired; it was a very long flight. My friend did not mean what
he said.
Brother E, Shut Up!
And fill in the form …
These people are just doing their job.
I’m very, very sorry officer, we had some problems travelling – our
luggage got lost by Customs at Johannesburg and we almost
missed our flight. Thank you, my friend did not mean what he
said.
Apologise Brother E!
Yes, we will be careful.
Thank you.
Thank you.
And we are through!
Stupid fucks got so uptight about Brother E they didn’t search us. One
more to chalk up to the books. Stupid macho freaks. Won the
pissing contest and lost the pak. Yeeehah!
Oh God, now I need to drink. Brother E is going to get mad at me but I
can’t help it.
I Have To Have Alcohol.
Any fucking alcohol. And spliff too. But that will have to wait till
Amsterdam.
No shit, I have to have it. Now. Brother E had better never find out how
bad it is; I barely want to think about it myself, so he will
fucking freak. I am in shit. Fuck it is so bad that I almost
hoped we got caught back there so I could dry out again
inside. How’s that for fucked up, dude? Even more fucked up
is me being an ex-missionary and theology student … and I
can’t talk about it. I probably won’t ever be able to talk
about it. Not after Christine.
What the fuck am I gonna do?
I
can’t go to rehab. Jesus,
I’m a fucking drug makwera. We run the whole eastern
seaboard between Cape Town and PE. PAGAD is hunting us. They
already shot Chad and that other ou on our payroll. The
various flavours of the so-called Cape Town mafia want to know
who the fuck we are and when they can break our legs. Michel
reckons the Amsterdam Big Boys want a sit-down with us when we
get there – and that has to be a deadly serious business
proposition in the making. And, Oh Yes, Boys and Girls, just
for shits and giggles, the happy little pitbulls from SANAB
visited us for a chat the other morning. They
came all the way from fucking Wynberg for breakfast. I can’t go to rehab. It will be a hilarious fucking joke that would
make all the Wrong People horribly nervous.
Oh, God, what am I gonna do? I’m buggered. Well, actually Not Quite
Enough is kind of the point at hand, Al.
