Icediamonds Trilogy Volume 2 E-Book

Stefan Prebil

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Eisdiamanten
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 252

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In this second book of the Ice Diamonds trilogy - the story of Samuel Frei, a dropout in his mid-fifties, of extraordinary love, of unspeakable greed and international money-laundering - the adventure takes yet another turn. Now that they have survived the volcanos and earthquakes of Iceland, Samuel Frei, his diving colleagues and his burgeoning love, Marie, have arrived in Interlaken, Switzerland. Aside from their traumatic experiences, they also carry the milky white stones they discovered in a lava fissure on their trek to Reykjavik. At Sam's lakeside home, they realize how thoroughly the stones could change their lives, awakening both bombastic dreams of endless riches as well as suspicions, endangering love and friendship. Trying to discover whether they really have diamonds, the divers are drawn into a whirlpool of greed, a hunger for power and the cold-blooded interests of a diamond syndicate that threatens to drown them all.

Leseprobe

Stefan Prebil works and writes in his alpine cottage high above Lake Brienz.

After a career in top management around the globe, his work today consists of consulting companies on the technology sector, coaching and - in writing novels.

His stories deal with personal relationships, extraordinary biographies, in the context of social developments and rapid technological progress.

Stefan Prebil

Ramey Rieger

ICE DIAMONDS

VOLUME II

NOTHING IS ENOUGH FOR WHOM

ENOUGH IS TOO LITTLE

© 2020 Stefan Prebil

Cover, illustration:Cover picture:

Stefan PrebilStefan Prebil

Translation andproofreading:

Ramey Rieger

Publishing & Printing:

tredition GmbH, Halenreie40-44, 22359 Hamburg

ISBN

PaperbackHardcovere-Book

978-3-347-03041-1978-3-347-03042-8978-3-347-03043-5

The publication, including its parts, is protected by copyright.

Any use without the consent of the publisher and the author is prohibited. This applies in particular to electronic or other duplication, translation, distribution and making available to the public

Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Content

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

ONE

“Okay, Chuck. Man, it sure is good to hear your voice! We’ll talk more when you’re here. Send me an SMS when you know what time your train’s getting in.” Sam taps his phone to end the conversation and lays the device on the coffee table. Sliding open the terrace door, he lets his gaze wander over the lake. It’s nearly summer. A late morning wind sweeps briskly through the valley, driven by hazy sunlight.

He’s looking forward to seeing Chuck again. They had parted ways at Hallgrímskirkja, Iceland’s mighty cathedral, the final bastion above the ruins of Reykjavik. The last Sam saw of him, Chuck was hobbling to rescue busses heading for Keflavik to search for his darling Seydür. Sam and the other diving guides, Marie, Piet, Jace, Emma and Barbu, escaped in a borrowed Cessna to the Faroe Islands.

Sam shakes his head, smiling. He may have once held a private pilot’s license for single-motor aircraft, but he still can’t believe he navigated a dual-engine plane through the hurtling magma of Katla’s eruption, landing them all safely in Vágar. It was a miracle. An absolute miracle.

Two days ago, their train finally pulled into Interlaken where they caught a taxi to Sam’s small lakeside house. It had been no easy task getting from Tórshavn to Liverpool. The sea was full of fishing boats transporting refugees from Iceland to the Faroes and the ferries were packed with unscathed survivors. Overseas tourists hoped to find ships and trains in England to take them to their final destinations. After receiving their emergency passports, it took the friends another ten days to get seats on the ferry.

Barbu is probably still stranded on Stremoy, waiting for his papers to arrive from Romania. They had each given him fifty euros to tide him over as well as five of the obscure stones they had found during their trek through Icelandic fire and brimstone. Barbu had promised to get in touch as soon as he arrived at home.

In Liverpool, they put Jace on a train to London. He was carrying a few sample stones and photos of the entire collection. The plan was to show these to his cousin and have them assessed.

Once they had seen Jace off, Emma, Marie, Sam and Piet took a ferry to Brest. There, their odyssey to Switzerland began. With transport vouchers and limited funds, they were forced to take countless regional trains, sometimes waiting hours for a connecting train to take them one leg further south. A few hours short of three days, they arrived in Interlaken. Fortunately, they had thought to contact friends and family while at the b & b on Stremoy, promising to call when they arrived in Switzerland.

Finally, in Sam’s hometown, they bought cellphones and Swiss SIM cards, a few clothes and plenty of food to stock the refrigerator. They will settle into Sam’s house and wait for news from Jace. Their lives are on hold. Are they rich? Or just foolish?

Katla has spent the brunt of her fury, now spewing but a thin stream of ash into the sky. Yet between the two eruptions, first the volcanic system beneath Langjökull glacier, then Katla, masses of ash particles have been vomited into the stratosphere, circling the Earth several times. The entire Northern hemisphere’s early summer sun is hidden behind grey shrouds. A November sky at the end of June, stretching as far south as Switzerland. It will be some time before civilian air traffic resumes.

Of course, the fates of Icelanders and tourists have the media’s undivided attention. Reruns of pre-disaster Iceland documentaries were dusted off and aired between reports on rescue missions, international efforts and individual survivor portraits. The news programs broadcast countless expert prognoses on a looming economic crisis or, at least a severe recession triggered by the ash clouds. It was true that several major airlines have recently filed for bankruptcy. EU economic ministers have formed crisis committees and are meeting daily to forge plans to rescue the economic, agriculture and tourist industries, further burdening the overtaxed population for decades to come.

Despite it all, the people themselves have reinstated a kind of normalcy. Vacations in Thailand have been struck from the program and neighborliness is back in fashion. Food is shared, gatherings more frequent. Governments have ordered food rationing since the clouded sky hit in the middle of the growing season, stunting food production and limiting supply. For the most part, people are making the best of things. The rare cases of looting are nipped in the bud and chaos curbed. In the reigning atmosphere of generosity and solidarity, political parties smelling an opportunity to denounce the current system hold their tongues. They would only damage their own image.

Sam lights up a cigarillo and tries to recall exactly when he had packed his bags and left the house. The plan was to set out on a new life as a diving guide, leading tourists through the incomparably beautiful and unique Silfra Crack. He had been more than happy to mothball his tailored suits and silk ties and earn a fraction of his executive manager’s salary. Was that a mere eight or nine weeks ago? So much has happened since then. It feels like years since he locked up and took a taxi to the airport, Iceland-bound.

He gazes sightlessly at the mountains flanking the other side of the lake. Few could understand how he could throw away his lucrative position for a youthful dream, living in a concrete dormitory with other guides half his age. He was fifty-five, for heaven’s sake! Why didn’t he just buy a Porsche and find himself some pretty young thing? Just one of the less than complimentary comments colleagues had made. But Sam knew his mind, always had. He loved a good risk, otherwise would never have made it from pharma-salesman to CEO.

It just felt right and once on Iceland, he had quickly adjusted to his new life, completely surrounded by pretty and handsome young things, none of whom had a Porsche and most of whom could have been his children. It was fantastic! Then he began a passionate affair with Marie, an incredibly sexy Frenchwoman, and ended up falling head over heels in love with her. Life was good! He was utterly in his element and had never felt so at home in his skin.

Iceland! This primal land of one hundred and eighty active volcanoes and six hundred minor earthquakes a week, found it was time to teach its people and more than a million tourists overrunning its rare and delicately balanced beauty a lesson in humility. Several volcanoes were over way due, but, Sam thought, couldn’t they have waited just a little longer? He had literally just taken the dive into this life! Sam shakes his head. How arrogant can you get? He and his friends had had incredible luck to escape with their lives, not to mention the stones they had found. They might even be incredibly rich.

Frame by frame, Sam’s mind replays the dread and terror: The slick and deadly lahar, triggered by eruption and earthquakes, avalanching down the glacier, amassing boulders, trees and blocks of ice as it gained velocity and mass before crashing into Silfra, obliterating its ethereal beauty; the seven of them like tiny ants in a ranger’s jeep, desperately trying to outrace the avalanche and barely making it up the slope where an antenna mast saved them. And that’s where Jace discovered the milky white stones they had stuffed into their pockets, believing they were raw diamonds. And where they lost Simi. They still don’t know if the stones really are diamonds. Sam’s inner film rolls on and he sees them standing there shocked and helpless as a tidal wave crashed into Reykjavik, wiping out the entire city. He sees them huddled together, slowly picking their way over mass destruction, then finding Marie and finally escaping in a Cessna some Swedish guy had readied for an afternoon jaunt. Sam still doesn’t know if the plane’s owner lives. They had been outrageously lucky.

Endless shudders run down Sam’s back as the images march mercilessly through his mind. His belly tightens, his heart pounds and he’s back in the midst of the nightmare.

So many people died. First Simi, in a frenzy at the prospect of wealth, chasing an over-sized stone to his death; Ian at Silfra, determined to save the ranger despite the lahar gaining momentum at his back; Mickey, buried together with his Julia in the seething waters of Lake Þingvallavatn as Sam watched him desperately trying to find her; and all the other teams and tourists who never had a chance to get out of Silfra in time; Ilias, the lonely Greek who died in the tidal wave. These were the dead he knew by name. There were tens of thousands others he didn’t. Sam closes his burning eyes as if in doing so he could shut out the horror. He takes a deep and calming breath, consciously relaxing his muscles. He’s alive! Marie, Jace, Emma, Chuck, Piet and Barbu! They all made it and that’s what counts right now.

It seems Iceland was moving on in the same spirit, pulling themselves up and out of the rubble and grief, as they have been doing for generations on end. NATO troops organized multi-national fleets to evacuate survivors from the devastated island nation. Low-altitude military helicopters are transporting urgent cases directly to various British clinics. The severely but not life-threatening wounded distributed among the numerous hospital ships. Any non-native still standing is brought aboard ferries and NATO ships and initially taken to the Faeroe Islands. Embassies are overrun, processing the hundreds of stranded tourists. Icelanders gather in the warehouses, discussing possible futures, mourning their dead.

Sam presses his cigarillo against the railing to extinguish the ember and pockets the butt. Modest as it is, his domicile on Lake Brienz took them in, offering a great deal more comfort than V18. The spacious living room’s double French doors lead onto a wooden terrace jutting out over the lake. Marie and Sam have taken up residence in his bedroom and Emma occupies the guest room. Piet set up camp in Sam’s office where there is space enough for Chuck when he comes. Who knows when Barbu will arrive, but they’ll find room for him, too.

Sam is leaning on the railing and looking out over the lake when Marie comes up from behind, slipping her arms around his chest. “Everything okay?” Sam gently removes her arms and turns to face her. “Imagine, Chuck called. He’s on his way here and I’ll pick him up tomorrow at the train station.”

Before Marie can begin to ask the thousand questions springing to mind, they hear the front door open. Evidently, Piet and Emma are back from their trip to the supermarket. Marie kisses Sam on the lips, winks and calls out, “Hi guys, come on out, we’ve got some news!”

Piet fishes a couple of beer cans from the shopping bag and places them on the glass table. “Ice cold,” he says with an impish grin. Emma brings a bottle of coke and two glasses from the kitchen. Her assumption that Marie isn’t drinking beer at this early hour is correct. The four of them settle into the rattan chairs surrounding the table. The men drink deeply from their beers.

“Has anyone talked to Barbu?” Emma asks.

“No, but I got a call from Chuck today while you were shopping,” Sam reports, looking at each of them in turn. “Evidently, he couldn’t find Seydür. He looked everywhere for her. It’s tragic! Either she is buried beneath the rubble or she made it to Keflavik. But she wasn’t in Keflavik either. So, he assumes she found her way to relatives somewhere on the island. If she’s still alive, that is.”

“Oh my god!” Emma exclaims. “What a nightmare! How’s he holding up?”

“Oh, he joked about it, said he was jilted at the altar without a word of explanation. But you know Chuck. I don’t believe he’s as tough as he makes out to be. I think he’s hurting badly.”

“How can you tell?” Emma asks.

“He kept changing the subject, didn’t want to talk about it. When I asked him how he felt or how he was coping, he didn’t really answer, just asked about the stones. Are we rich or not? That’s all he wanted to know. Naturally, I told him Jace was going to his cousin, maybe he’s already there, and we have to wait until we hear from him. That didn’t seem to be any comfort and now Chuck’s on his way here.”

“What? Chuck’s coming here?” Piet asks, putting his beer on the table, his confusion evident. “Doesn’t he trust us? I mean, I’m not Chuck, but I would keep looking for my love until I had some kind of certainty.”

Emma and Marie nod silently. It’s good to know Chuck is still in one piece and they’ll see him soon. But on the other hand, Chuck can be a sly dog when it comes to getting his way. If the stones really are valuable, he will immediately start pressuring them into decisive action, and by decisive action he means he will make the decisions. He can be very persuasive when he wants something. Up to this point, they have tip-toed around the issue, merely indulging private fantasies before falling asleep at night. They imagine it would be like winning the lottery, with a boatload of tax-free money all at once. But often their imaginations failed them, they just couldn’t believe it could really happen. But, what if? And vague dreams of wealth and luxury float through their minds. What they could do with so much money! All the same, the numbers have not yet been drawn. Are they holding a winning ticket or a blank?

“I don’t believe Chuck doesn’t trust us. He’s compensating. Somehow the idea of being rich might make up for his loss, it has to. And, being Chuck, when he grabs hold, he doesn’t let go. He wants a plan and, of course, knows what’s best for everyone. By the way, I did get an email from Barbu. He’s finally made it as far as Vienna. That’s really good news!”

“Okay, and what will we do when it turns out we’re rich as Croesus?” Piet throws out cheerfully. “Heard anything from Jace, Emma?”

“Yeah. Jace is at his uncle’s house in London and his cousin, John, is taking the stones to one of his partners tomorrow to assess their value.”

“Okay. But didn’t he say anything at all?” Piet wants to know.

“Not really. John is extremely cautious and wouldn’t want to say anything decisive until he’s consulted a colleague. He did say, though, that it’s a highly unusual story. That’s all Jace could get out of him.”

“Hmmm,” Piet rumbles, looking around at them.

“Well, why don’t we play what if?” Marie says into the brooding silence. “What if we really are rich? What if we manage to sell the stones? I mean, what if we’re super rich? Billionaires, if our calculations at Guðrun’s were correct. What would each of us do?”

They exchange astonished glances. It’s as if it is the first time, they have ever considered the idea. Of course, images of a carefree life have passed through their minds ever since they found the stones. But none of them have a truly concrete idea. The mere sum is unimaginable.

None of them, excepting perhaps Sam, has had experience with large amounts of money. And he’s a newbie to wealth of this caliber, too.

Like the rest of humanity, there had been times when they had lost themselves in dreams of what if. Especially when money was tight, or desires far outreached their bank accounts. Idle daydreams staving off reality for a moment, like a large slug of whiskey to fog over vexation, allowing the alcohol to wrap you in a warm blanket against the cold, cruel world.

What if? A delightful bedtime story shutting out reality and allowing you to sleep easy; a fantasy of uncountable riches and the freedom they bring as well as the fulfillment of every material wish; a long, hot bath in security. You are rich.

At first – at least that’s what people say who have experienced such wonders – there is a kind of numb incredulity. But once your brain surrenders to the impossible, pure joy sets in, blissful reality that you never believed would happen to you. Your thoughts begin to jostle for attention, trying to shout each other down, “WOW! I’ll never have to slave at my job again. I can pay off all my debts. I’m FREE!!” And then, “Ten million, incredible. But wait, didn’t someone win ninety million just couple of months ago? Shit, why do I have to win such a pittance? I mean, the odds of winning at all are astronomical. So what? Ten million is enough for a lifetime. I can buy whatever I want!” And then, “I hope taxes don’t take a too big of a bite out of my pie!”

Thoughts ping-pong from misgivings to vexation to the thousand possibilities opening before you, including a new, sly fear of covetous friends and family. All this interwoven with joyful anticipation like a child on Christmas morning gaping at all the gifts beneath the tree, wondering which wishes on the list have come true.

What would be on Sam’s list? On his colleagues’ lists? A beautiful villa somewhere in the country. A mega-cool off-road ten-cylinder Mercedes. And of course, a convertible for the summer months. Oh, yes, the villa will need to have a pool. Travel! An Arctic expedition with diving excursions and then a safari tooling through Africa’s savannah in the Mercedes. But why not a trip around the world? In a luxury catamaran rigged out with only the very best, sailing to all the best known and unknown diving spots. Diving, for sure! Maybe the best idea would be to open a diving base on an island with one or two speedboats, super-correct of course – sustainable, clean, exclusive. No more cheap tourist traps. But is ten million going to be enough? Damn! Why couldn’t it be more? Enough for all this and a house for my mother, she’s certainly earned it. A college education for my sister who is struggling to raise her kid alone. Ten million is not enough, I’ll have to make choices, strike stuff from the list. So, what’s new? Isn’t that what I’ve been doing all my life?

And yet, their millionaire fantasies this time are only limited by the reach of their imaginations.This isn’t a few lousy millions between them they’re talking about, they’re dreaming in the hundreds of million – for each of them.

The silence in the room is as deep as sleep, but their glittering open eyes tell of the castles each is building in his or her mind, from elegant country homes to golden palaces; from Lamborghinis to high-tuned Jeeps; from stud farms to diving resorts.

“So?” Marie asks, “What would you do with the money?”

Piet’s voice is heavy with longing, “I would…”

“Hold your horses, my friends!” Sam interrupts him, “before we one-up each other with the most absurd ideas, we need to know the amounts we are working with and how we can turn the stones into hard cash,” Sam muses. “That’s not going to be easy. We can’t simply walk into a jewelry store and ask the jeweler if he or she wants to buy one or more raw stones. If they’re really that valuable, it’s going to take time to find buyers. And we’ll have to be extremely careful or we’ll have the authorities and media on our tails asking many uncomfortable questions.” His words brought them back to earth with a thud, you could almost hear the bubbles bursting in their minds.

“You’re right, of course,” Emma takes up the thread. “But assuming we manage to take those hurdles, I think we should set up a charity. There is so much poverty and misery in the world and we literally stumbled over the stones. We did nothing to earn them, they are a gift of sorts. We should spread the wealth around; we owe the world that much.”

“Chuck will have a field day when he hears you say that. I’m sure there’s nothing farther from his mind and I can even understand his point of view,” Marie remarks. “So many stinking rich people were born into wealth. You think they’re grateful? No way. Why don’t they set up foundations?”

“But they do!” Sam interjects, “Look at Buffet, Zuckerberg, Gates and what’s their names. They’ve all donated millions, if you can believe what the media says.”

“Well, that’s just it. Can you believe what the media says? They might look noble in the press, but has the world changed an iota for the better? Besides, that’s a whole other ballpark. They’re still swimming in money even if they set up a hundred charities!” Piet exclaims, working himself into a lather. “To hell with charity, I want to set up a really good diving center. Better yet, a global chain with ecological standards and prices affordable for your average middle class. Or I’ll just buy out the whole Iceland Adventure company and turn it into a sustainable, environmentally friendly business. If there’s money left over, maybe then I’ll consider donating, but not sooner!”

“I can see it’s not going to be easy,” Sam puts in thoughtfully. “There are seven of us, well let’s say six since we can certainly count Chuck out of the donation calculation. If each of us donates separately it won’t be half as effective as setting up an endowment. We need to agree on how much we put into it. It’s a very good idea.”

“So, we have to decide how much each wants to donate and the rest we can do with as we please?” Marie reckons.

“Yes, I think that’s the right thing to do and I’m pretty sure Jace thinks so too. But we also have to think of our families and friends. They should get a piece of the pie, too, for their projects and needs. They all could use a little more money,” Emma says.

Piet bursts into laughter and goes inside for another beer, muttering loudly, “You’re all off your nut!”

“It looks like the first decision is whether a percentage of the money goes to charitable causes or not. If we agree to donate, should we pool the funds? And which percentage do we keep? Good thing we have time to think about it, because we’re going to be hard put to reach a consensus. Money does funny things to people. What do you think?” Sam directs his opinion to the two women.

“You can’t be serious! Are you out of your minds? For once, life has sent some luck my way and I can do things I never even dared to dream of and the first thing you think of is the poor little children in Africa? Count me out! Cheers!” Piet calls angrily from the kitchen and they hear the hiss of a beer can opening.

They all tacitly agree to drop the subject.

“Men!” Marie exclaims, laying an arm around Emma’s waist as they go out on the terrace.

Sam takes a deep breath and opts for drinking beer with Piet rather than wrestle words with the women.

“What’s the point?” Piet grumbles angrily, taking a seat at the bar in the kitchen. “Do they seriously want to play Albert Schweizer and save the world from poverty? Utterly naïve women’s talk!”

“Let it go, Piet. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. I’m sure we’ll each have enough to make ourselves a good life,” Sam soothes, rubbing Piet’s shoulder with one hand.

“I wonder,” Piet rejoins, “What do you plan to do with your cut?”

“Hmm. Sure, I’ve given it some thought. I already have this house, a good car and enough to travel. Do I have to get a bigger one, better one, just because I can afford it? I’m happy enough to never ever have to take on some sickeningly boring and exhausting job just to pay the rent.”

Piet nods thoughtfully. “But there must be something you would love to do with the money besides giving it away. I’ve got loads of ideas.”

“I read a study once some institute made on people who have won the lottery. Ever heard of it? It must be something like falling in love. After a month or two on cloud nine, blissfully certain you’ve found your destiny, nearly every winner comes down to earth with a crash. Most go bankrupt and are more miserable than they were before they had won. I would hope we could be more prudent instead of throwing money around like star-struck teenagers.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Piet concedes, “but my dreams have nothing to do with fat cars, luxury homes and such shit. Well, not exclusively. I’d be nice to be able to throw some cash out the window for once. But my real dream is to set up a world-wide network of diving resorts. Sustainable, with biologists who show guests how beautiful and fascinating the ocean and its inhabitants are, like Jacques Cousteau once did. He knew what he was talking about, he’s my hero. Did you know he wanted to build an underwater city? I would start with an underwater resort. Maybe I can make that dream a reality now.” Piet’s eyes are glittering with boyish eagerness.

“Hey, that sounds really cool. I can easily imagine setting up a diving base. I even suggested it to Marie a few days ago,” Sam replies.

While listening to Piet, he was struck with how few visions he has held onto from his youth. He realizes he had never been much for building castles in the air but a veritable master architect when it came to building castles in the sand. If he is honest with himself, he would gladly give away all his wealth, even sell his soul to the devil or whoever is in charge of such deals in exchange for an enduring love and partnership. Maybe even have children and spend his old age surrounded by caring family. The one thing he truly longed for could not be bought. Which is why he only dared to mention a diving base to Marie. Not because it really meant so much to him, but he believed it would appeal to her.

“Just this morning Marie told me I was just one more mindless loser in a diving community full of childish adventure-seekers who can’t see further than their flippers. Finally, we hit it rich and the world is our oyster. But instead of coming up with something truly meaningful, all we can think about is a diving base. Seems she had you in mind,” Piet throws out there, looking at his beer can as if it were a new discovery. He belches loudly.

“Hmm,” Sam grunts, unwilling to take the bait but feels a knot gather in his gut.

“Emma stood by and nodded her applause.

Apparently her Jace is also running on about the diving base idea. And these are the men they want to spend their lives with? Marie warned her off, saying there’s no relying on men anyway.

When it comes down to the nitty gritty, they’re nowhere to be found or just do as they’re told like good little boys. So, Emma shouldn’t get her hopes up. Which category do you fall into Sam?” Piet asks with a crooked grin.

Sam blushes slightly but doesn’t answer. It’s a good question, though, which category? Probably the latter until his capacity for being good runs dry and he reverts to the former. At least that what his track record shows. Changing the subject, he asks Piet a question of his own, “Where would you set up your first diving base?”

“Iceland,” Piet replies immediately, searching Sam’s face for consternation. “They’re finished for the moment, there’s no competition. The state would jump for joy if I turned up shopping for a boatyard where I could build modules for my underwater hotel. Then, even people who don’t dive could discover the underwater world and take an interest in saving the planet. That’s a thousand times cleverer than this tree-hugging bullshit or saving the world with donations to cure poverty,” Piet snorts, getting caught up in his dream.

“When did you talk to the two of them?” Sam wants to know, but Emma and Marie come in from the terrace arm in arm, laughing at some private joke.

Piet and Sam exchange a look. Enough for now. No reason to feed the fire and burn down the house before they have any cash in hand.

The women enter the kitchen and Sam smiles his most charming smile, “May I offer the ladies a beer?”

They both nod.

That night, lying in bed, Marie broaches the subject again. “Sam, chériee, what do you really think about all this? It just seems so ominous, these sudden riches and I’m afraid it’s not going to be a joy ride. I don’t even know if it’s a good thing. I wish none of this had happened and I was still a poor diving guide on Iceland.”

She slips out of his embrace and sits up in bed. Sam mumbles something incoherently.

“I can’t sleep,” Marie tries again. “Please, talk to me.”