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“The vanquisher of Africa” didn’t bother to call or text Isaac when the girls left, he fell asleep right there in the middle of the van on top of a crumpled sleeping bag. That was how the furious Isaac found Bikie, all alone, after freezing outside until four in the morning. He was forced to go back to the van, even though his friend hadn’t answered any of his calls or texts.

The next morning they boarded a ferry to Sardinia.

“Just look at that view! I wonder how some Monet or Picasso would have painted it.”

“He’d have painted it wonderfully. He’d have painted you yesterday pretty well too. With your pants down in a van littered with all sorts of garbage and beer bottles.”

“No one drove you away yesterday. You went yourself. You have no damn reason to be

angry. Why don’t you just look how beautiful this is?”

“I think I’ll postpone the nature for a while and get a couple of hours’ sleep.”

But Isaac couldn't go to sleep, the van was stinking of hangover and in the end he had to join Bikie on the deck.

“Nature is an infinity of masterpieces, and any work of art attempts to create a composition, colors and depth that are equal to nature,” Bikie said with a wink, emphasizing the word “infinity”.

“I wonder,” Isaac ignored his words, “how much creativity Picasso had? Must have been

a lot.”

“It would be funny to find out that he was average, while the people who promoted him

have a really high one. Now that would be a hoot.”

“Remember the artist who became famous after he became a Veggie? After the fact it

turned out that he had had a super load of OE, he was one of the highest rated downloaders. The journalists trumpeted the story about, and people started admiring his paintings. He was immediately declared one of the greatest geniuses of modern times.”

“It have always been that way, people often started idolizing a genius only after he died in misery. Not just painters. It happened with Mozart, who died totally destitute. And since he was writing a Requiem when he became fatally ill, a popular rumor spread that he was writing it for himself. Public Relations, although it wasn’t called PR in those days. If people weren’t so fond of spoofs, who knows, maybe all his brilliant compositions would have sunk into oblivion.”

“Wouldn’t it be great to find out Mozart’s rating?”

“Forget about the dead. We’ve got to worry about the living.”

The fairy danced slightly on the waves of oncoming ship and Isaac felt sick at once.

When they reached Sardinia, Isaac and Bikie went straight to Porto Cervo. The cigar shop was located somewhere in its vicinity. Their stomachs were rumbling and they decided to eat something before putting their plan into action.

They took a table at the veranda of a little restaurant that caught their eye and started discussing once again what the connection between Professor Link and his assistant might be.

The sickly aroma of gossip hung in the air, but the two friends felt that they were obliged to understand the role of the Japanese woman, not out of curiosity, but for the good of the cause, and so they could not avoid the subject.

Everything suggested that the professor was bound to her by more than just sex. She

bought his cigars for him, so she could not be just a plain call girl. A lover, friend, assistant?

What?”

Isaac suddenly stared, wide-eyed, and his lips stretched out into a broad smile.

“I think that’s her,” he said, jabbing his finger towards a woman walking past nearby,

who looked Filipino or Malaysian.

“Oh, sure, the first Asian woman we see will turn out to be the very one we’re looking

for! Of course, you’re a flukey bastard Isaac, but not that flukey.”

“What does flukiness have to do with it? It’s just analysis and precise calculation. With your rating you can’t possibly understand me,” Isaac snapped.

“Right, right, definitely. If you multiply the length of the equator by the number of

Japanese and divide it by the number of Chinese, take away the square root of ginseng, then you’re bound to get thirteen. If you get bullshit, it means your calculations were fuckin’ bullshit too.”

“Hey, cut the swearing!”

“I’m not swearing even though your calculations make me feel like it.”

“No Bikie, swearing is really the lowest of the low.”

“Stop bitching, you’re just jealous of me.”

“Why, I wonder, would I be jealous of you?”

“You’re jealous of my light-blond locks.”

“What blond locks, you’ve got dark hair.”

“The light-blond locks those pretty little Swedish girls left on my sleeping bag!”

“No, Bikie, I rather feel bad for you, my dear friend!! What sort of pain in the neck do you have to be to make girls’ hair come off?

“No way, they tore it out in that surge of passion I made them feel. But don’t be upset, I promised to be your mentor in handling women. I think that after a couple of years’ intensive training, I’ll let you move on to practicing – tender kisses.”

“You can kiss my ass…tenderly. And record your advice and talk lines for me, the ones

that trimmed the Swedish girls’ hair so sweetly. If they lose their hair like that, I’ll just hold the Dictaphone up to my face and use it to shave with.”

Afterwards they walked round the sunny little streets of the town with full stomachs and in an excellent mood.

The superb resort town really lifted their spirits. Every step brought into view hosts of bars, little restaurants, cafes and other pleasant establishments.

Bikie stuck the bandana on his head, slipped on a pair of mirror sunglasses and put on

long black shorts. Isaac dressed even more lightly: his entire outfit consisted of a tank top, flip-flops and shorts. There was no shower in the van, but they could walk to the beach and take a dip.

Having returned to the van, Isaac and Bikie started the engine and drove to the cigar

shop. It turned out to be in the outskirts of the town, although previously it had been on an upmarket shopping street. There was an upside to that – unlike in the center, here there were convenient observation sites where they could easily park. The shop window displayed hookahs, wine bottles and all sorts of bits and pieces including a cigar box and a humidor.

Driven by the thrill of the chase, Isaac suggested going in, but Bikie objected.

“How could you be so careless? We obviously don’t fit the part of rich smokers or their couriers.”

“Cool it! Half the store window is filled with cheap garbage. It’s a long time since they sold anything but cigars. Come on.”

Getting into the shop turned out to be impossible. A note stuck to inside of the glass said that the shop would open in half an hour. How long ago it had been put up was not clear, and the disappointed friends went back to the van. It was stuffy inside so Bikie parked the van under some trees to cool down.

Bikie took out his laptop and fiddled with it, trying to find a Wi-Fi connection. Isaac watched the entrance, waiting for the owner or a shop assistant to show up. Long after the lunch siesta crowds flooded down the street, there was not a soul around, just the baking sunlight and hot asphalt frazzling the air. Bikie started the engine to give it at least a small blast of coolness from the air conditioning. The two friends didn’t feel like talking; you might have thought they have been overcome by holiday-resort lethargy, but they were really trying to focus. It felt like at any moment Link would come to the shop and everything would work out just fine.

Eventually an elderly Italian came up to the store, opened the door and took the note off the glass. Five minutes later the friends were already inside, just an ordinary little shop, nothing remarkable. Bikie asked about the internet, and a secondhand mini-router was unearthed from among the masses of odds and ends on the shelves. While the shop assistant checked to see that it was still working, Isaac pointed out to Bikie a fridge with a glass door, with neat rows of cigars inside, in boxes and loose. Bikie smiled contentedly. The cigars were found, all right – the only thing left was to wait for the buyer.

After they spent several hours in the van and not a single customer entered the shop their excitement evaporated. They noticed a policeman coming in their direction. He walked up to the van, peered inside vigilantly, knocked on the window on the driver’s side, and when Bikie opened it, asked an unambiguous question:

“What are you doing here, boys?”

“We’re tourists,” Bikie replied brightly, keeping his grip on the laptop. “First day on the island. We still haven’t figured out where to stay, so we’re sitting here arguing and looking at the sites of the hotels nearby.”

“Move on, guys, will you,” said the policeman, in a genial mood. “We’ve had a complaint from the old woman in the house opposite. She says some strange characters got out of a van and then mysteriously went back, and now they’re sitting there with the engine running and making a stink, and are obviously plotting something. I understand everything, but she’s an old lady, why upset her?”

“OK, chief,” Bikie responded. “Already gone.”

The policeman walked away. They drove the van away a bit, and Isaac nodded in the

direction of the shop. The shopman locked the door and was twirling the handle of the shutters, covering the display window. The guys could leave without any qualms of conscience: the first day of surveillance was officially over.

They stopped a kilometer from the shop, at an empty lot where the van was concealed

from the road by bushes. Bikie came up with an idea – let technology do the surveillance. In a blink of an eye he had linked up a web camera from his arsenal to the laptop and fine-tuned the image.

It was almost dark when the friends got out of the van to stretch their legs, grab a bite and install the web camera opposite the cigar shop.

When they reached the site, Isaac noticed an old woman on a chair in front of one of the houses. She was either dozing or enjoying the long-awaited coolness of the evening with her eyes blissfully closed. Bikie caught Isaac’s glance and nodded. They would have to wait. There was a little grocery shop on the ground floor just behind the woman.

“Clear enough, life teaches proprietors to be vigilant,” Bikie explained to Isaac. “Or

maybe she’s just feeling bored.”

They took up a position on a municipal bench, pretending to be tourists resting after a hike and ate the pizza they got on the way. The old lady couldn’t see them, but if they turned round and craned their necks, they could see if she was still on her chair.

It took quite some time before the woman finally got to her feet, yawned, grabbed her

chair and retreated in to the house.

“I’ll take the chair inside, so the damn thieves won’t steal it!” said Bikie, imitating an old woman’s voice so convincingly that Isaac could barely hold a laugh.

Mindful of their earlier error, the friends took their time. They waited until the light came on upstairs, which meant the old woman was in her bedroom, and went out again, indicating that she had gone to bed. Only then did Isaac and Bikie get up and stroll gently in the direction of the cigar shop.

Pretending to take an intense interest in a blossoming bougainvillea, Bikie quickly fixed the camera on the fence, hardly even slowing his already-slow stride. To look even more natural, he theatrically sniffed in the air from one of the lush purple flowers, breathed out noisily and walked on, whistling, beside Isaac. Isaac teased his friend, saying that today Bikie had indeed revealed his acting talent.

The entire next day they observed the shop remotely. There was only one customer in the morning, an elderly gentleman with a cane and another three in the early evening.

“Now that’s what I call a rush of customers!” Isaac quipped acidly. “Bikie, maybe we

need to think of something else?”

“I already have,” Bikie replied. “I’ve written a little program that responds to changes in the video image. It will be activated every time someone goes into the shop. Something like a remote motion-detecting sensor. Then at least we won’t have to spend the whole day long staring into the monitor. When someone goes in, the computer will chirp to us. And tomorrow we’ll visit the shop again and I’ll put another web camera inside. We’ll be able to see who’s buying.”

The third week of surveillance was coming to an end, and the friends were gradually giving in to despair. The program that observed movement at the shop was working excellently, with no glitches, but in all this time cigars had only been bought on eight occasions. The demand for smoking material really was tending towards zero. They took turns keeping watch, making periodical visits to the port.

They even wanted to talk to a salesman from the cigar shop to ask about the buyers, or

with that watchful grandma, but they were afraid to scare off the Professor. You never know if the seller knows Link, and will warn him. So much wasted effort wasn't worth the risk. This shop was their only lead, to risk it was impossible, so they decided to be patient and wait.

Sometimes cigars actually got bought.

Isaac followed the first customer, who turned out to be a steward from the luxury yacht Carbonica, obviously not the right lead. Isaac had decided that they would follow all the customers who bought cigars. The next box was bought by some local individual with a beautiful villa in the town’s center. On three occasions cigars were delivered to different yachts, and once to a hotel. On one occasion Bikie had to drive off in a hurry and follow a young guy on a scooter to the nearby town of La Maddalena, while Isaac kept watch from the bench with his computer.

And on one occasion they had to drive all the way to Cagliari, three hundred kilometers round trip, almost seven hours. The damn van guzzled so much petrol that they had to fill the tank and then hurtle furiously down the road to catch up with the car carrying the buyer. Thank God, they did. It was all futile. On three occasions the owner of the cigar shop delivered cigars himself, every time to yachts.

Isaac saw the fridge with cigars so often that he started dreaming about it. And Bikie