The Chocolate Coated Gun-Runner

My first question is why they let me hold onto my laptop once I was locked in my cell. How am I supposed to type when there is nothing in here on which to rest my laptop except my lap. The only flat surface in here is a concrete slab - my bed.

I had been working in this highly computerized company as a specialist engineer for about a year when the boss called me in and said, “We are sending you to Belgium, where there are experts working in the same field. You will be a member of a very exclusive Cyber team. You will be away for some months. You leave next Monday evening. You can fly home every 2 weeks. Your salary will be increased to take care of extra expenses.”

It sounded fair enough. Belgium? Hardly knew anything about the place. At home, I tuned in to Belgium on the internet and settled down to learn as much as I could cram in before I left. And there was a lot to learn.    

On Monday I handed over the various projects I had been working on. Then I rushed home, packed and was in the back of a cab before I had caught my breath. I spent the night in a hotel in Brussels and in the morning hired a car – with a GPS system – and half an hour later I was on the way to Dikkelwenne, a village in the north. I checked in to a small hotel at the address which had been given to me and took a leisurely walk down what seemed to be the main (and only) street, looking at the people and in the windows of the shops. It all looked interesting. A long-time chocoholic, I spent more than a few minutes admiring the display of chocolates in the windows of a chocolate shop and promised myself I’d be back the next day.

Next day wasn’t that easy. I met the other members of the team. It seems we had all arrived in the same week. We were a mixture from a few different countries and language was an immediate problem. But there were smiles on everyone’s faces and more than once I discovered that ‘chocolate’ was an international word. The lectures in the Cyber field were boring – mainly the same lecture repeated a few times so that everyone could understand.   

True to my word, I wandered down the street after lectures ended and found my way to the chocolate shop. So did a few of my classmates. We laughed as we recognized each other. All true chocoholics, we couldn’t wait to taste the goodies in the window. Inside, we crowded around the small counter and waited patiently as others were served, a lengthy process handled by a buxom young lady who used a pair of large tongs to pick up each chocolate and gently place it in a decorated cardboard container. The box was about a foot long with a single layer of chocs. It was heavy, both in weight and in cost. Back in the hotel I sampled one delicacy: a longish piece with white chocolate threads on the top. I was immediately transported to Chocolate Heaven, and I vowed to take home a box on my first visit… and keep another within easy reach in my room.

My first home visit arrived after 2 weeks. I packed a few clothes for the weekend and put the box of chocs in on top. At the airport there was a security check.

“Open the bag please, Sir. Thank you. Aah, what have we here?”

“Belgian chocolates!”

“Where have you been, Sir?”

“Dikkel…”

“Dikkelvenne? Really, Sir? I’m surprised. No one goes there these days. Years ago it was a stop on the Orient Express, you know, the train that ran from London to Vladivostok. But that was stopped some years ago. Can you open that box please?”

He looked inside and said, “That chocolate shop in Dikkelvenne is quite well-known. They sell the best Belgian chocs, right?”

I laughed, we closed everything up and I was on the way to the plane.

Back home friends and family ooh-ed and aah-ed over the chocolates as I had expected.  

Back in Belgium life continued. Cyberwarfare was exciting and boring at the same time. I added pounds to my weight from the change in my diet and my addition (and addiction) to chocolates.

The 2 weeks of lectures crawled past and it was time to fly again. Security at the airport was much the same with the same security guy pawing through my clothes and inspecting the chocolates. Someone on the staff recognized me and said, “You were here 2 weeks ago. If you come again in 2 weeks you will be automatically upgraded to business class.” I didn’t argue.

In the lounge one evening one of the other team members asked, “How goes it at the airport with you guys when you fly home?”

“Somewhere between smooth and smooth like butter,” were some of the answers. “No one checks. They just look at the passport and ticket and wave me through.”

“Me too!” were the majority of answers.  

I was curious. One of my neighbor’s sons worked as a security officer at the airport and I asked him about this and he replied, “Sounds strange to me. There has to be a good reason for that.” I

forgot about it.

The months passed. Lectures on Cyberwarfare remained steadily boring and of no interest to anyone. Going home was a welcome break and visits to the big cities of Brussels and Antwerp were exciting. The airport and its security services were of mild interest but all went smoothly and no one wanted to awaken the sleeping dog.

The disaster happened on my watch. To me, more precisely. I was at the airport, standing in line with my ticket and passport in my hand and the box of chocolates under my arm. My turn came. I stepped forward and heard a cry, “Hey, Pete, what are you doing here?”

I swung around to see who had called me. My hand hit the arm of the guy behind. He too had stepped forward in anticipation. His arm twitched and it hit mine. I released my grip on the box of chocolates fractionally. The box took off and dropped to the smooth floor and kept going until it was stopped by the wall in front. It burst open and unwrapped chocolates swirled around leaving faint trails on the flooring. A dull grey metal object sailed with them and stopped when it too met the wall.

“Gun!” screamed someone and I stood watching the chaos. Some people ran. Some ducked. Some fell to the floor and some, like me, froze.

Two men grabbed my arms and dragged me off to a small office where I was stripped and searched by non-gentle hands. No one paid attention to my cries of, ‘just a moment! it’s not mine!’ I know nothing about this!’ They found nothing in their search, but lifted me and marched me to an exit marked ‘no exit’ and pushed me into the back of a car. At a police station I was fingerprinted, given a handful of linen and led to a cell. I sat on the concrete slab which served as bed and chair and desktop.

My laptop, which had been packed carefully in the middle of my clothes, was pushed through the bars to me and a voice said, “Write it all down, mister. Every single word you can think of that explains why there was a Belgian-made FN revolver in that box of chocolates you were carrying.”

Where should I start?