War Games E-Book

Azeezah Awal

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A secret society out for revenge against an ousted member of a royal family, a billionaire framed for the murder of his brother, a model-turned con-artist out on probation, a cast-away English orphan homeless and abused, a NYPD cop all struggling to find the faces behind the invisible power who are are unleashing the deadliest terror in the world. 

Leseprobe

Azeezah Awal

War Games

A book of lethal espionage and betrayal

The characters investigate the 9/11 attacks,the 7/7 bombing,CIA ghost sites and all the corruption and deceit that runs through politics and power.Assassins chase them across borders as they fight to prevent the world from falling into the brink of World War Three.Are those who take responsibility for acts of terrors really responsible or are there greater power holding the reins?These men and women try to solve the same mystery that has baffled the world. Where did the novel Coronavirus originate from?Was it manufactured?How did some people have prior knowledge of the pandemic that was raging through the continents?BookRix GmbH & Co. KG80331 Munich

Power Play

Section 1

How worthless should we deem,

A life in which our dreams,

Must forever remain a dream!

A borrowed jurisdiction to praise,

Against our human race,

Served as a respite to our numbered days.

BOOK 1

There were only two of them this time. Blank stoic glances. Levelled posture. Occasional gleams of sympathy. The questions, though redundant, seemed esoteric. How many other people would you be willing to share an apartment with? Would you consider shared housing at a distant location? You will be notified by the middle of next week. If we can offer you a housing in a hostel. Thank you for your cooperation. The YMCA officials in Sheffield had concluded their appraisal. The interview was over. 

Juliana raised her head, but hope was attenuated in her brain- which was unenlightened by glimmers of optimism. All she could think of was how to find shelter while daylight lasts. A home may possibly be bequeathed to her soon. A house. A place to sleep, at last. She blinked her eye lids gently to avoid teardrops spilling over her cheeks as she thanked the social workers who conducted the housing interview, but though she felt her lips shape the words of gratitude, she heard nothing. Her emotionally overwhelmed voice box was uncooperative. Juliana offered the duo an apologetic nod and stepped into the rain soaked Broomgrove Road. With a mere quarter of an hour to twilight, she had no time to tally here. A transparent cloak of darkness was moving over the horizon.

It was yet another five kilometres to the Wardsend Cemetery. Juliana’s legs were already sore. She could not stop to search for food today. Hunger or Fatigue? Which pain must she prefer? Sleep is what she desired more desperately at this time and the abandoned Victorian cemetery in the Owlerton district of Sheffield was the only place she felt safe enough to sleep in. The graveyard had been closed for burial since 1968, so there were no prowlers or night guards to wake her in the darkest hour of the night. She could rest in peace.

The peculiarities of a spatial world vowed to woo even the most desolate hearts, and the soundless rustle of fallen leaves shuffled about Juliana’s makeshift tent lulled her to sleep. When she awoke, it was near midday. Sharp gnawing in her abdomen jolted the her into a state of agonizing alertness. The graveyard was silent and the only noise she could hear was emanating from her starved stomach.

Juliana ran her fingers over the lapel of her raincoat. The six pounds she had saved was still there. She raised her eyes to the overcast sky. The day did not look too cheerful. If only she managed to take a bus to London, she could perhaps find employment or even housing. The cheapest fare from Sheffield Coach Station to Victoria Coach Station was twenty pounds. She still needed to collect another fourteen. Purchasing food would be detrimental to her long-term survival. It would rob her of the opportunity to reach London.

She trudged steadily along Club Mill road, pausing briefly by the public waste bins. Nearly all were empty. The municipality must have cleared it in the morning. A car pulled up by the curb and the driver stepped on to the pavement holding a breakfast sandwich. He took several mouthfuls before tossing the leftovers over his shoulder. Juliana froze. She waited for the man to walk away before sprinting towards the fallen bag. A nudge on her shins sent her reeling backwards on the pavement. It was a beagle! The dog rushed past her and devoured the leftovers instantly. Juliana curled up on the pavement and watched morosely as the canine ate the only meal she had come across in two days. Lingering grief impinged itself upon her humanistic temperament; she made no effort to stop the tears from rushing down her cheeks.

“A single ticket to London, please.” Juliana spoke at the talk-thru speaker window near the ticket counter. She slid her very last pound under the bullet-resistant glass partition and waited.

“There is a bus change on the way to London, Miss,” the woman at the ticket counter informed her as she slipped Juliana the bus ticket. It was via National Express directly to Victoria Coach Station. 

“Thank you,” Juliana offered a courteous smile. Her chapped lips stretched painfully as the effects of prolonged dehydration settled in her body. She clapped her hand to her sore mouth to stifle the small gasp that emanated from it and hurried to the bus station. It was ten minutes past three. The bus would leave in five minutes.

Upon boarding the bus, Juliana was offered a copy of the Daily Mail. It was the first time in months that she had received an unread and unsoiled newspaper. She perused the pages hungrily, her mind engulfed in the seduction of sanguinity, pausing only at the employment section. Her eyes bored over the many cubes-help wanted, waiter sought, baker/pastry cook, cleaner wanted urgently. She made a mental note of the page number and carefully stuffed it in her pocket. It seemed that London would open many doors of opportunity. The long months of unemployment and consequent destitution was a temporary aberration. She had but to wait.

The bus ride was peaceful. The soft seats pulled at every fibre of her body drowning Juliana into a spell of unbreakable sleep. Her head sank into the cushioned headrest. She was awake before she knew she had been asleep. The four-hour sojourn had ended.

She dismounted at the Victoria bus station in Westminster. Juliana tugged the classified section of the newspaper and searched for the nearest address. A bakery on Elizabeth street. It was only a quarter hour away. She broke into a brisk walk and entered the cosy pastry shop.

“Can I get you something?” A young employee inquired.

Juliana clutched the paper in her hands and nodded vigorously. “I saw this advertisement here; it mentions that this shop is looking for help. I would very much like to-”

“A moment, lady.” The cashier interrupted. “I don’t know about any advertisement, alright. Let me ask my boss first.”

“Yes,” Juliana replied hastily. “I am sorry. I was only looking for a job.”

“Who do we have here?” A booming voice called out from the back of a coffee maker. “Another job seeker?”

“Yes, sir.” The cashier motioned at Juliana to go to the rear of the bakery.

“Afternoon. I am Will. The manager.” He waved Juliana to a tufted bar stool. “You mentioned you were interested in a job opening.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good.” The manager paused, running his tongue over the teeth before asking his next question. “What kind of work are you interested in doing?”

“Any kind of work.” Juliana replied quickly. “I would be happy to be of any help.”

“Do you have experience at working at a bakery or any restaurants? Any references?”

“No, I didn’t have any job before.”

“What! No experience in working at all?” The manager’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “Well, then you are wasting your time here, miss. We can’t just hire someone without a reference.”

“But I could learn,” she said.

The manager shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”

“Well, thanks for your time,” Juliana mumbled and ducked out of the enclosed space.

It was nearing twilight. The darkness was getting heavier as Juliana headed to the fifth address in her list. The ad merely said that a dishwasher was wanted. She hoped she would be luckier this time.

The lights were dimmed in the small store. Juliana could not make out the figures moving about. From the shadows a tall man appeared, his glistening eyes darting from side to side. “We are closed, mate!” He spoke in an unusually high pitch.

“I came here to respond to an advertisement.” Juliana held out the folded newspaper. “You needed a dishwasher help. I would like to have this job, please.”

“You have identifications?” He hunched his shoulders, peering at her.

“I lost my papers, sir. I just need a job so…”

“You have a name at least?”

“Juliana Graham.”

“Alright, Juliana. Come tomorrow. You’ll start at seven by dusting all the dishes. I’ll instruct you as to how to scrub the utensils.”

“Why, I am so grateful! I will be here directly.”

“The pay is fixed. Four pounds for every hour. No wrangling there!”

“Of course, it is perfect.” Juliana said. “I will be here tomorrow.”

The odour of the dirt-filled pavement filled her nose. The residue of yesterday’s rain made the pathway gleam ominously under the streetlamps.  Juliana gazed ahead. Her eyes scoured the roadside alleys for a public seating or hollow doorway, anything that could offer a brief respite from the fluctuating evening gusts of wind. The road appeared to get narrower and darker. Pedestrians hurried to their destination, moving briskly away from her. She tightened her worn-out raincoat about her forearms and edged near a shop entrance. The shutters were closed. The amorphous surrounding was depreciating the darkness. She should be undisturbed for the night.

Aasta helped herself to another serving of roasted caviar. She heaped it over her omelet and prepared to take a spoonful when her father interrupted her quiet meal.

“What did you think of that?” He strolled in flapping an unread newspaper with his left hand.

“Pappa,” Aasta dropped her silverware and got to her feet. “I thought you were at the residence this morning.”

“I was. Until I remembered my daughter would be dining all alone in the Palace.” Prince Frederick took his seat at the circular ebony dining table across his eldest daughter. “When is my Cérine returning from Paris?”

“I believe her semester ends in two weeks,” Aasta replied thoughtfully. “We planned to take a small trip across Europe. Cérine has been looking forward to an excursion for some time now.”

“Aha!” The Consort Prince reached across the table and lifted a block of truffle. “Winter black truffles. With porcini mushrooms.” He smiled happily and grabbed a long strip and stuffed it in his mouth. “I say you have a very upright choice of meals. But you haven’t touched either?”

“I just prefer the caviar for now.” Aasta lifted the gold-lined handkerchief to dap her lips. “Pappa, were you speaking about the morning paper- a little earlier?”

“Yes, yes,” he bobbed his head before unfolding a copy of Le Quotidien. “Have you had the chance to read the papers yet?”

“I was intending to peruse those after breakfast.”

“Well, Lana, I cannot emphasize enough the necessity of familiarizing yourself with daily events. Conflict in trade interest between Estonia and Gambia may seem to the ordinary reader a trivial incident but you must remember, that all nations that have gotten into actual wars were engaged in trade wars prior to it. We must not overlook any of the events happening to our neighbors- near or distant. Nations which promote codes of conservation must redefine their sense of responsibility. I, for one, see the green energy conference in Bali to be more pragmatic a gathering than the G-19 summit. Chief because it is abound with novelty. I most certainly expect you to accompany me.”

“I have little authority there, Pappa.” Aasta began. “Must I attend all of this year’s conventions? The ECC talks were strenuous.”

“Respect predominates our cultures.” Frederick let the statement hang in the air. He stuffed another mouthful of desserts before explaining his comment. “The State could very well fall back into the monolithic structure of economic gain, but this would mean passing legislations that benefits ourselves alone. Ancient cultures may seem to have advocated anarchy, but it is much the same as our contingent democratic ideals. Lana, the kingdom of Hjeinland may have a viceregal function in Europe, as we are always defying any notion of parsimony and tyranny. The rapacity of a government is not an excuse for lethargy. Certainly not in our part.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I say this- only because you must never shy away from the reality, my dear.” The Consort Prince fixed his boring eyes on his daughter. “One day, one day all of this will be yours. And you will have enemies. Face obstacles. Seeking homogeneity will not be an option, Lana. I need to ensure you are prepared to meet the word face on.”

“Was it six years ago, that we were at Genoa?”

“Was it?” Aasta mused audibly. “I truly have no memorable moments to recall.”

“That will change!” Allegra-Cérine Huberta Léopold of Hjeinland voiced her thought with confidence. She beamed at her elder sister. “Mummy said we could spend our entire summer in the House of Grimaldi.”

“I have room for you to add another handbag.” The Hereditary Princess of Hjeinland surveyed the seven carry-on spinner trunks and leather travel trolley cases. “I am mildly astonished that Her Serene Highness agreed to tolerate our obtrusion for this season.”

“Lana, are you jesting? Princess Charlotte insisted we come. Besides, our cousins from Prussia and Britain will be in attendance. Cavendler is among the invitees.”

“Our cousin Louise Cavendler?” Aasta repeated. “He travels with a mammoth entourage. I suppose we might expect a holistic reunion. I should like to however spend more time exploring more thoroughly the Nouveau Musée National de Monaco while we are relaxing.”

“Haven’t you already toured the place with Mummy?”

“Cérine, it was a state visit.” Aasta shook her head. “I was barely able to glance through the guard of honor. And we only ventured indoors at the Villa Sauber. I wish to see Villa Paloma which is near the exotic gardens.”

“My beautiful girls!” Prince Consort Frederick Augustus strolled firmly into the indoor lounge. “I have begun to miss you already. I honestly detest this separation. Your mother should have been more considerate to my feelings.”

Allegra-Cérine moved next to her father and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “But we will be away for only three weeks, Pappa.”

“That is right,” Aasta agreed. “I can return sooner if you wish.”

Their father waved his arms dismissively. “Nonsense! I want my daughters to have the most enjoyable vacation away from the scrutiny of Hjeinland.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Your mother will be here shortly. We will ride with you to the airfield.”

The royal motorcade of Queen Magdalene of Hjeinland pulled over at the courtyard entrance.

 “Mummy is here!” Cérine shouted. “Come, Pappa. I want to sit next to you.” She linked her arm with her father and headed towards the waiting motorcade.

Aasta-Lana paused by the luggage and instructed the estate staffs to pack them in order. “In separate vans, Your Royal Highness?” The chief stewardess questioned.

“You are aware that we will be staying in the same quarters. Cérine demands my company at all times.” Aasta shot a severe glance at her personal assistant. “And Helen- have you suffered amnesia and forgotten my name completely? Or was the use of my official title just now an honest slip of tongue?”

“I beg your pardon…I- it won’t happen again!”

“Thank you, Helen. I have made it clear five years ago: you are close to my mother’s age, and it greatly agitates me to see such absurd adages. You must use my actual name to address me rather than an irrelevant list of egotistical words.” Aasta’s tone softened slightly. “And I couldn’t have sorted the packing without your guidance.”

“Your taste is impeccable, Prin- Aasta. Would you like me to prepare the publicity staffs? Your hair stylist and beauticians perhaps?”

“There will be no need for that,” the heir apparent to the Hjeinland throne replied amicably. “Cérine desires to have the ultimate adventure. We will summon local beauticians for preparations to our public appearances.”

 “I will miss you and Princess Allegra most dearly. As will the staff.”

“And I.” Aasta smiled warmly and gave her chief stewardess a brief one-armed hug. “I shall be back in Hjeinland before you know it. Look after Mummy and Pappa.”

Hjeinland’s security escorted the sisters into the royal suite of Hôtel Hermitage Monte-Carlo. The lobby and elevator were cleared hurriedly and the young royal siblings were led to their room.

Inside their suite, Aasta turned to her younger sister. “Cérine, I still cannot understand why you preferred this residence rather than Hotel Metropole. It was in closer proximity to the ocean.”

“But all of our known associates take up residency at the Metropole, Lana.” The second in line to the throne walked through the royal suite and opened yet another door. “The master bathroom has a full-size Jacuzzi!” She returned to the window and propped on one of the ultra-deluxe twin beds. “They personalized it perfectly. I shall sleep by the window, Lanoo.” Princess Allegra was already fluffing her pillow and started jumping up and down.

Aasta surveyed the ocean view and nodded absently. “I cannot argue with that. But your bed is not a trampoline.”

“I am only trying to jump to your bed from mine,” Allegra exhorted. “One, two, three.” The princess leapt back and forth from her bed to her sister’s before plopping into a burgundy Bolotas armchair. “I can jump to your bed easily, if I want to wake you up for some reason.”

“Yes, but I will need to rest tonight. Remember the annual photography workshop that is run by our company’s?”

“The children’s charity?” Allegra clarified. “I do not want a public outing so soon, Lana! I want to relax.”

“I am expected to attend tomorrow’s exhibition in Monte Carlo. It would be nice for both of us to be present for those children.”

“But keeping my phone hidden for the whole day, smiling and makeup.” Allegra leaned her face forward. Her porcelain carved chin was firm. “My jaws hurt too. Besides, I can never think of what to say to people. I will watch you constantly on the television, Lana. You go and give the children a hug from me.”

The Heliport of Monaco had reserved an aircraft to take them to the neighboring villages. Allegra cajoled Aasta in remaining in Monaco for the fortnight. The sisters paused briefly at Sass Café before settling down for their pre-arranged dinner plan.

The sixth course was set before them. Aasta and her sister paused eating. It seemed to be unending. The delicacies were irresistible but significantly copious. Allegra inhaled. “I am actually tired of eating now, Lana. Did you ever think that was possible?”

Aasta responded with a smile.

“And the chef told me he had a nine-course supper prepared for us. He did warn us not to eat prematurely.”

“Looks like our next section has arrived, Cérine.” Aasta nodded at the four servers who arrived laden with smoking platters. “And what is the delicacy we are trying?”

“This is our home harvested sea food.”

“This is going to be my favorite,” Cérine declared. She dug into a soft baked lobster in her plate. “Lana, this is too good. Remember, when Pappa took us to Bhutan. We literally picked our own sea food. Even that didn’t taste so salacious.” When Aasta didn’t react to her comments, she looked up at her sister. Aasta was holding a spoon halfway to her mouth, her figure immobile. Her eyes were frozen, fixed on a swarm of silhouette in the distance. Cérine peered at the approaching figures. She recognized the man leading the fifteen-men entourage. The Prime Minister of Hjeinland.

Without warning, Aasta doubled over, wrteching, throwing up her evening meal. Cérine leapt from her seat and rushed to Aasta’s side, wiping her pale livid face with a handkerchief. “Lanoo, what happened? You look petrified!”

Aasta scrambled to her feet. “The PM- he is here with the privy council.” She gripped Cérine’s arm so hard, it was getting paralyzed. “Something happened.”

The sisters stood fixed to their spots as the Prime Minister stopped a few feet away and bowed his head. His entourage followed his example. When he raised his face, it was expressionless. “Your Majesty- I have grave news.”

“NO!” Cérine screamed before collapsing in Aasta’s arm.

Aasta caught Cérine by the waist and glared at the Prime Minister. “Glaenf, tell me it is not true.”

The most senior member of the royal council addressed her directly. “You are needed at the royal court immediately.”

The worst new of her life was delivered to Aasta in the most unexpected manner. The sisters were promptly summoned to the palace in Hjeinland and began the preparation of the largest state funeral of the century.

“Personal effects of His Royal Highness, Prince Consort Frederick Augustus,” the uniformed orderly announced. His voice was muffled behind the hazmat suit that covered his entire body. The staff members of Hjeinland’s national chemical laboratory ensured that the items inside the testing facility were not accidently contaminated.

Another older man entered the room. His name tag marked his as the Chief Forensic Investigator. He addressed the Hereditary Princess of Hjeinland directly. “I cannot express my condolences enough, Aasta, for the grief you and your family must be suffering through. Your father was more than a friend to me.”

“Have you discovered any anomalies at all?” Aasta-Lana inquired.

The forensic investigator shook his head. “We may look at these together. Everything appears in order. Here is his watch, a few cards, two pens, and the daily medications.”

Aasta picked up the bottle of tablets and moved it. “It is not empty.” She commented.

“We left everything as it was,” the scientist replied. “Prince Frederick took this prescribed medication for his blood pressure related ailments.”

As Aasta inspected the bottle label, it slipped from her hand and hit the polished metal desk in front of them. The impact caused the lid to pop open and the contents spilled on the smooth surface.

“The capsules,” Aasta remarked. “It rolled all the way.”

She grabbed a piece and pried apart the tapered rim. “Nearly empty, doctor. Is it normal?”

The Chief Forensic Investigator inspected the remaining capsules. Sure enough, all of them were filled at a third of its capacity. “This is an inadequate dose, Aasta. How long have your father been taking these faulty medications?”

“All along. The question is who tampered with these and lessened the dose in each?” The Hereditary Princess of Hjeinland gave him a sharp look. “Find out the source. I wan the name of the manufacturer. Identify the person who sabotaged my Papa’s medication.”

“I will proceed right away, Aasta.” The examiner assured her.

Jaroslav Eliáš, most senior of the royal political advisors, cleared his throat and addressed the de-facto ruler of Hjeinland. “If our suspicions are correct, then the grand ducal family must launch another investigation into the death ofPrince Consort Frederick. You were right to suspect that is was a homicide. A very subtle one, nonetheless.”

“See to it, Eliáš, that the press stays clear from this issue.” Aasta said. “I will personally look into Papa’s case.”

The sisters conversed for an hour before rising to leave the hospital. Allegra grasped her sister’s arm and begged to know the real circumstance surrounding their father’s death. She wanted to know where Aasta was heading off to without being accompanied by royal security.

Aasta-Lana Hirmala Léopold of Hjeinland remained silent for a long moment. Her face was calm and unmoving as though carved with cold granite. When she finally addressed her younger sister, her voice wavered slightly.

“Those people who were responsible for this will be brought to justice,Cérine. I promise. Even it is the last thing I do on earth; I will find every last one of them.”

The drive to Teterboro Airport took less than fifteen minutes. Owen was not surprised. The private jet port was only a mere nine miles from his Manhattan residence. The evening traffic notwithstanding, his McLaren managed to maintain semblance to his previous sojourns. Owen handed his keys to the limousine concierge service officer. His jet was not scheduled to fly for another hour. He might just enjoy the amenities and drop by the gym or the private movie theater.

“Mr. Wilton, your plane is ready, sir.”

Owen strolled through Teterboro’s 30,000-square-foot executive terminal and made his way to the waiting plane. Two of Teterboro’s maintenance team service jogged out of the hangar. “You are perfectly set. All checked and cleared, sir.”

Owen’s private carrier landed at Milan Linate airport before dawn. His local contact already had a Bugatti ready for him on the landing strip. His chauffer held the door open for him but Owen waved him away. “Oh, come on. You can’t really mean to spoil all my fun in this trip?” Owen smiled and gestured him to the front passenger seat. “I am driving this babe. You just point the way, game?”

“As you wish, Mr. Wilton. Just stay on Viale Enrico Forlanini.”

“That leads to the city center, correct?”

“Yes, yes. We are less than nine kilometers away from your hotel, sir. I will let you know when we take a left.”

As soon as his 24-hour butler completed unpacking his luggage and customized the private bar with his selected beverage, Owen fell asleep in his suite. He was being awakened by room service. “I didn’t order anything,” he yelled into his pillow. He looked out the window. It was midday.

“But your vehicle is waiting, sir.” An apologetic butler interrupted. “You asked to be alerted. It is time for the Yacht Show.”

The Sicily Yacht Show! Owen recalled with horror that the show had been the primary reason he had flown all the way from New York. Along with gifting him a complimentary selection of cars, the owner of Maserati had extended a personal invitation to the inaugural gala. Owen didn’t want to disappoint his old friend. He shuffled around his pre-organized dressing room and pulled on a selected outfit. He didn’t want to miss the awards ceremony.

Two familiar faces beamed at the dock. “Under the patronage of Milan Yacht Show, my dear Owen, I welcome you aboard.” The manager of Milan Yacht Show spread his arms wide.

Owen embraced his friends. “Thank you, thanks.” He pointed to the motor boats. “Are we boarding now?”

“We have time to sail along the shore,” Andres Signelli said. The board member of Maserati automobile put his arm around Owen and led him to the boat. “Today, we have an excellent view of the water bed.”

“I hope it doesn’t rain again,” Owen commented. “Last time, I actually was swimming there.”

Signelli smiled suddenly. “Don’t worry, old friend. We are spending most of our time indoors this time. After the yacht show, I will show you the special baby we brought here.”

“Supreme Yacht?” Owen asked. “I heard they added some classic features.”

“Yeah, same old 24-carat gold and platinum. But you won’t guess the weirdest part. The dining center features a wall made from meteorite rock. I’ll show you.” His friend promised.

Owen Wilton attended the Sicily superyacht award ceremony and spend another eighteen hours socializing with his friends and business associates in Milan and Florence. Upon his friend’s insistence, they dropped by the Sunseeker. Owen was told that they were the most luxurious yacht manufacturer. The staff gave the young business tycoons a thorough tour of their enterprise, filling on details of yacht manufacturing.

Signelli suddenly thrust his phone’s screen at Owen. “Check this out, the Supreme Yacht is up for sale!”

“Sale or auction?” Owen said, studying the rising digits.

“It is still open to bids, Owen,” the heir of Italian luxury car brand gushed. “Owen, you have the kind of money to buy something like this.”

“You are kidding me, right?” Owen read the latest bid aloud. “Three and a half billion plus taxes. At this rate, it’ll hit four billion in no time.”

“Four billion is your pocket money,” Andres Signelli said dismissively. “The highest bidder is a Chinese entrepreneur. A hotel chain owner.”

“Wait, I know that guy,” Owen interrupted. “He has around sixteen billion in net asset. Why would he spend a fourth of his fortune on a boat?”

“It is not just a boat. It is the most luxurious yacht in the world. Made of gold.”

“I don’t get it, Andres. I am never wasting so much money on something that won’t spit out more cash.”

“The man is old. He probably had a dream of owning the world’s most luxurious yacht.”

Owen shook his head. “Imagine if I invest that much money in something useful-”

“Like what, my friend?” Signelli pressed.

“I was seriously considering expanding my computer gadgets. I will open a scholarship fund for students who want to study technical engineering. This will encourage more kids to take up this skill and ultimately create a plethora of potential employees for my company.”

“That is serious long term thinking but I won’t argue with you.” He put an arm around Owen’s shoulder. “Come. We still haven’t seen the best part of today’s show yet.”

It was nearly six in the morning when Owen pulled up his personalized Maserati beside the jet port runway. One of the inflight stewards drove the vehicle inside the aircraft and lined it in the parking space. His Airbus 380 was ready to take off.

Owen’s three-hour flight to Paris passed slower than he was used to. This would be his third time in the city and his event secretary had assured him that the only unavoidable public engagement was the Vogue Paris show. He was free to party elsewhere in Europe after the event.

Five days after his private aircraft had taken off from Teterboro Airport, Owen was finally home. His residence above the Coldwater Canyon in the cozy Beverly Crest area appeared comforting after a week-long sojourn around Europe and the Mediterranean.

But his leisure was interrupted almost spontaneously by his Chief of Events. Gerald Hughes. Who was hired with the sole objective to make the Owen’s life more efficient, strolled in carrying two large brief case.

“Your plans for the week, Mr. Wilton.”

Owen yawned noisily. “I am tired, Gerald. Ever heard of jet lag?”

“But there are at least two unavoidable meeting I arranged for you.”

“All right, let’s just get this day over with, huh?” Owen sat straighter.

“Your yearly reunion with all known business associates is around the horizon, just so you get a heads up.”

“Just today, Gerry!” Owen repeated.

“Solomon Murph. I booked his meeting with you at tonight’s dinner.”

“Would you bother telling me why I’m meeting with Paypal’s owner?”

“Yes, I prepared a small paragraph detailing the talking point. They have a proposition. Related to installing an app using our technology.”

“Okay, who else on my dinner plate?”

“You will meet Aaron Horace. He will be over at this residence at four pm. I believe it concerns renewal of advertising rights on their channel. And finally, you have a previously planned scholarship ceremony.”

“Which one?” Owen asked unnecessarily. The subtle heuristics that guided a day in his life as an entrepreneur was constantly reshaping itself.

“We were creating a game creating app using young computer geniuses’ input. They had to do some elementary programing. You will have to give out the awards.” Gerald Hughes handed Owen the color printed pamphlets from the scholarship event.

“When is that?” Owen rubbed his eyes.

“Tonight, as well. A plane will fly you to Palo Alto right after you conclude the deal with Murph.”

“So, these kids are competing for the young entrepreneur scholarship?” Owen said, leafing through the pages. “Let me see the picture again? The kid on wheel chair- What is his name?”

“Umm, Leo, sir. Leo Mackenzie.”

“Put Leo in my schedule as well, Gerald. I am awarding him one of our named scholarships in the evening ceremony.”

“Right away, sir. I will see if I can speed up the evening for you a bit.”

“Thanks.”

“Mr. Wilton, do you want to have on call Rolls Royce?”

Owen stared at his personal planner as though seeing him for the time in years. “Gerald, are we still talking about the annual reunion?”

“It is only three days away, sir. I was thinking if we have to import the materials, we will have to finalize it by today.”

“What materials are you talking about?”

“Entertainers. Singers. We could book them from Europe. And the food and décor, sir. I feel it would look more mature if it was imported.” Owen’s events manager spoke so quickly, his words got jumbled up.

“Can you stop filling me on the details? Why did I hire an event planner for? This is the third time I have wasted my precious meeting hours talking to you.”

“But I though you ought to know. The cost went past the average. Bringing in the imported orchids would add another seven million to the sixty-three million we already spent.”

“I told you, there is no budget. DO whatever you want. Bring in unicorns, if you like. Just make it good. I don’t want or need to know the typical problems endemic to the practice of hosting luncheons and parties.”

“Point taken, Mr. Wilton. The chef wanted to fly in the truffles and Beluga caviar from London. I’ll give him the go, then.”

“Look, Gerry. This is my yearly reunion. Make it look like it.”

“Will do.” Gerald Hughes hurried away.

Owen did not remove his eyes from the computer screen when he heard the knock on his office door. His Skype call with the Japanese camera manufacturer took an unexpectedly productive turn. He thanked Kiyazumi for his cooperation and agreed to merge into a mutually beneficial partnership.

“I appreciate your candid, Mr Wilton.” Akio Kiyazumi bowed slightly to show his appreciation. “I assure you, our digital camera will be more than an accessory to your new phones. I am sure the users will be able to appreciate the mirrorless imaging feature we can offer.”

“I have no doubt, sir. Thanks. My technology experts will be in touch.” Owen promised. He smiled and switched off the screen camera.

The knock on his door persisted. “Come in.”

Paige Kimberly, Owen’s private secretary walked in, a tray laden in her hand. “It is hot chocolate, Owen.”

“Where did you get this from?” Owen was not too surprised. The twenty-year veteran secretary had developed an uncanny skill of reading minds. She knew exactly what everyone wanted or needed at any given time.

“It was flown in from Hamburg less than an hour ago. Thought you might want.”

Owen took the tray and nodded. “Thanks, Paige.”

Paige paused by the door. “Oh, we got another call from talk show host.”

“The hell with them.” Owen waved his hand behind his shoulder dismissively. “I hate them. I am not going to waste my time with them. They only twist my words and make me look like a fool.”

“I will make sure they get that message, then.” Paige shut the door behind her.

“I found your artworks to be unique, Georgette,” Owen called out to the young woman sitting beside him. He raised his voice above the metallic drums of the bar in order to be heard. “Was this your first time in London fashion show?”

“Second,” Georgette answered before refilling his glass. “I interned with a designer here last year. She let me attend.”

Owen attention was diverted to the waiting bartender, who was standing with several filled glasses. “Our compliments, Mr. Wilton.”

Owen nodded and took one glass. He sipped the drink cautiously. “It’s different. What is it, Karl?” Although Owen Wilton preferred to visit new places in his trips, this particular bar in London was too convenient and comfortable to get boring. In his last trip to this bar, Owen was able to score high on vintage sampling when his well-acquainted bartender offered him a shot of a brandy that was bottled in the year of the French Revolution.

“Our customized mixture of 1990 vintage Cristal and 1888 Samalens Vieille Relique Vintage Bas Armagnac,” the bartender of the London bar replied smoothly. “It has been topped off with bits of gold leaf, for you personally. Enjoy!”

Owen’s personal phone vibrated. The only person who could access his personal line was his chief secretary, Keith Nelson. He pressed his wireless earphone. “What’s up, Keith?”

“Mr. Wilton, I didn’t want to bother you, but it is the fifth time she called me.”

“You don’t mean Sandra.”

“She insists on talking to you.”

Although Sandra Jurado had been Owen’s only official girlfriend for over half a decade, they have met less than a dozen times in this year. Her acting career takes her continents away from Owen Wilton’s business ventures but the duo maintained an amicable relationship with the aid of technology.

“I told you this before, Keith.” Owen said. “Tell her I can’t talk now. I am busy.”

“I did, sir. I told her you were unavailable when she called earlier this morning.”

“Then tell her I am still busy, dammit,” Owen blurted. “I am in London now, Keith. I won’t be able to talk to Sandra until I get back.”

“But if I can make a suggestion- Ms. Jurado genuinely worries about you. Is it necessary to agonize her? Couldn’t you just tell her you love her or something? At least she would stop calling.”

“Just handle it, Keith. Bye.”

The night was well on its way but Owen saw the same face for the third time. A tall woman loitering by the mahogany bar had shot infrequent but decisive glances at his direction, or so it seemed. Owen looked over the bartender’s shoulder to see if the woman was still there. She was now seated on one of the tall bar stools. Her back was to him and all he could see was a shock of coiffed silvery hair. She abruptly turned and their eyes met. Owen stared, trying to identify where he had seen her, but his mind was blank. He excused himself from his table and made his way over to the bar.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but I thought for a moment I knew you from somewhere.”

“No apologies necessary, Mr. Wilton,” she laughed noiselessly. “I am glad you finally walked over. I was starting to think-”

“Wait a minute,” Owen cut her off. “How do you know me?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” She gestured to a seat adjacent to her. “Have a seat. We have business to discuss.”

Owen perched on a stool and nodded briefly. “I am listening.”

“I represent a firm which is interested in working with your company.”

“Which one?” Owen said, angling his head.

“The largest one, of course. Icomms, Owen.” The woman offered him a cigar but he ignored it. “We have the means at our disposal to do some revolutionary work.”

“If you have the means, then why bother with me?”

“Your company is producing a next generation technology imbedded in microchips. We know that you are planning to use those to build the latest gadgets, such as the iComm laptops, notebooks and cell phones. What we are offering is a partnership. We want access to those chips in order to insert a unique code, built by our tech specialist. All you need to do is give us the keys to the back door of your computer.” “Why would I do that? What’s the catch, lady?”

“You will have power to control every single person who owns one of your electronic products. It will allow you to garner unlimited wealth. All we need is a portion of the unscrambled data you have thus far. And you will never have to worry about us again.”

“Look, I don’t know what firm you are representing, but you are messed in the head if you think I will give you access to my company data. We store personal information of hundreds of millions of people. We respect their privacy. It’s not for sale.”

“I would not be so hasty in turning this offer down, Mr. Wilton,” she said. “This is your chance to dwarf all your rivals. By merging with us, you will be creating a super powerful enterprise. One that could change the way we see the world. Better the future.”

“Sorry,” Owen shook his head and stood up. “Not buying.”

On his return flight to Los Angeles, Owen phoned his head of security, Derek Schon. The former Navy SEAL not only managed his personal safety, but had connections to nearly all of the law enforcement agencies in the continent.

“I would like to increase our security due to my upcoming reunion,” Owen told his security chief.

“I started working on it last month,” Derek reassured him. “Extensive background checks on all attendees have been completed. You have anything else in mind, boss?”

“Upping the surveillance, perhaps.”

“Anything bothering you?” The head of security asked. “What is the matter?”

“Oh, nothing is the matter, Derek.” Owen hesitated. “You know what, forget I called. See you when I land.”

“Now that you mention it, I know how much you disapprove of it, but I feel that it may be necessary to order in a few Taser-armed robots in your residence ASAP.”

“You do that, bye.”

Owen Wilton’s next call was scrambled through five layers of security screening before a curt hello sounded on the other end.

“Good morning, Quincey,” Owen checked his international watch to make sure it was morning in New York.

Quincey Harper, the chief financial analyst of iComms, was scheduled to be in NYC for the international business convention. “What can I do for you, Owen?”

“I need you to do some research, Quincey.” Owen explained his encounter at the London bar and told his company’s analyst to find out who the woman was. “She seemed to know about our company’s exact shares and holdings. Just find out more about her company or firm.”

“I will run her face through the bar’s security cameras right away, Owen.” Quincey assured him. “I’ll get back to you when I get a full report.”

“Thanks, Quincey.” Owen pressed the end button and searched his contacts for Senator Forrester of Wisconsin. As the current committee member of Homeland Security and Governmental affairs, he would have information about upcoming power surges or surprises. Owen found his contact information. His finger hovered over the call button, but he imagined if he was being ridiculous. I’ll just wait until Quincey gets back to me.

Owen Wilton shook hands with the trio from LS Global. Jeffery Colmb, the executive from the transnational steel company, who had brought along his sons to the meeting, agreed to supply iComms with pressed and treated metal for their hard drive storage.

“Owen, meet Galvin and Ted. They are my right and left hand respectively.” The chief executive of the company explained how delightful it was to know Owen and Galvin shared the same birth year. “I always tell my sons to take you as an example.”

“I wouldn’t,” Owen assured the young men. “I have a blue print here- we are launching a new model next year.”

“Meaning in two months?” Ted inquired.

“Correct,” Owen pointed to the bar graph on the laser screen. “This is the rate we expect sales to rise- following the launch.”

“With our reduced-price steel, how much additional profit would we be contributing to?”

Owen switched to another slide. “As of now, we have seventeen official outlets in Europe. Pre-sales already increased by fifty percent in fourteen of them.”

“Excellent, excellent!” Colmb rubbed his hands together and hovered over the slideshows. “May I peruse the slides at my leisure?”

“Sure,” Owen handed him the handset. “I prepared hard copies of this for all three of you.”

Galvin Colmb looked at Owen. “Hey, I heard you had a prototype of a VR game show?”

“Yeah, we are in the process of perfecting the blue prints.” Owen waved them over. “I’ll show you. Come.”

“Your family runs the one of the largest retailers in the country,” remarked Galvin. The firstborn of LC Global executive followed Owen into a brightly lit underground lab. “I never imagined you to be a tech guy.”

“I am not,” Owen muttered under his breath. He glanced over his shoulder. “Really. We have one of the finest IT solutions companies backing our software. I just had a knack for investing in easy ventures, such as using my pocket money to purchase percentages and shares in budding industries. I used my birthday presents to buy a share in Facemate.” “The most popular social media website in the world!” Galvin pronounced slowly. “But you must have been- what, twelve years old?”

“It was around 2004. So I was thirteen, actually. I mean I had turned thirteen that month when Facemate launched. They had only couple of million subscribers. I thought the website was cute. And my cousin Jim whose birthday was on the same day as mines, had turned eighteen that year. We had a crazy idea to buy some shares on the site. Since it was a family tradition to give cash for the teen years. I told Jim to buy shares for myself because I was underage. I ended up using three hundred k. We both bought several percent of the iComms tech giant. I believe that got me one percent of the website. I forgot about the investment, and I remember regretting it six months later when I wanted to buy a PlayStation and didn’t have pocket money.” Owen paused. “Jim bought less than one percent. And he came to see me one day and said that Facemate was worth six billion. I was elated and wanted to sell my share. But Jim insisted that would be foolish, that Facemate was going to be worth a lot more in a few years. In ten years, my one percent was worth nearly the equivalent of my father’s fortune. Jim’s and my share combined was over three billion. I guess among all the investment we made, this was worth our while, after all.”

Owen’s monologue was interrupted by the house steward. “Coffee for you, Mr. Wilton, and for the guests.” He balanced a large sterling tray laden with steaming cups.

“Why does this coffee have a different aroma?” Owen said, sniffing noisily.

“But it is due to the special beans. I ordered this in yesterday, to honor your business meeting, sir.”

“What special beans did you put in here?” Owen raised his cup cautiously to his mouth.

“Not only are these rare, Mr. Wilton, but the selected beans were collected in a strenuous way, by fishermen. You see, they are first eaten and digested and defecated by a carnivore and-”

Owen choked on his coffee, coughing uncontrollably. “What?”

“My apologies, I was only explaining how unique this brew is.”

“Get this shrimp shit out of my face, Ryan.” Owen dabbed his shirt, wiping away the spilled liquid. “Jut bring Starbucks. And I wouldn’t mind work-in lunch today. So please, bring some McDonalds. I want the kid’s menu.”

“Sorry guys,” Owen told his guest after the steward left. “The coffee really gave me the creeps.”

The young men grinned. “That was a brilliant decision, not selling Facemate shares.”

“I was interested in computer games and technology. Since I was a kid.” Owen explained. “I thought it would be interesting to spend time in the management of Facemate. I enjoyed working with the computer engineers, and I am glad I did. Now, I have hundreds of hackers and tech analysts working for me. It is useful for any entrepreneur to have computer experts in employment.”

“I am sure of it,” Galvin nodded to the phone screen. “Looks like someone is pretty determined to talk to you.”

Owen glanced at the display screen. Eighteen missed call. All untraceable numbers. Blocked ID. “Work. I guess I will have to call it a day, folks. Thanks for checking out my toys.”

Quincey Harper showed up in person at Owen’s private office.

Owen had just settled into his spacious work room and was sipping his green smoothie. He glanced up at his chief financial analyst. “Thank god someone showed up in this early hour.” He held out his smoothie. “Try it. Positively disgusting.” Quincey smiled. “Thanks, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Seems like my fitness specialists are taking revenge on me for not following their diet on my Europe trip. Now, they cooked up this grass for me. Apparently, it has enough vitamins in it to awaken a dead horse.”

“Good to know,” Quincey looked around the room, as if expecting someone to be waiting in the shadows.

“What brings you all the way from New York?” Owen asked, his tone more serious.

“I have been checking up on your request. The woman who accosted you in the London bar. I took the liberty of running her through our company database and found a match.”

“Who is she?” Owen sat up straighter.

“Abigail Huntington. Officially, she appears to be a tech executive at the Prime Bank. But I contacted the FBI Fraud Department to get her background info. They concluded their investigation yesterday. Guess what they found?”

“Surprise me.”

“Until six months ago, she had been working at a tech company she which designs computer software. Banking software to be specific. She designed one during her time there. And it is an anti-money laundering software designed to detect and flag any attempt to breach the bank’s financial transaction.”

“That all sounds brilliant to me.” Owen said. He stretched his legs and crossed it over the desk. “We should make an app like that.”

“You didn’t hear the best part yet. Prime Bank happens to be one the banks that installed her software in order to check any possible money laundering. Our lady friend also happens to be working at Prime Bank.”

“Is that a bad thing? Isn’t one of the exigencies of being a professional is to be successfully employed.”

“Well, not unless someone uses the employment to launder money using the bank’s system. The FBI is keeping her under surveillance, Owen, and are hoping to trace her source of cash which she whitens.”

“She can’t be a money launderer!” Owen rubbed his temple. “A bank like Prime Bank has to have internal security swarming every single transaction. How could one person get a large amount of cash in?”

“Because she built the software. As a bank employee, she has access to their system and she knows the codes of her own software. She can literally shut it down with one click. The agent at the Fraud Division told me that she manages to corrupt the anti money laundering software by turning the entire monitoring system off after the bank closes. The FBI said huge amounts of cash flowed in. Millions. All of it just flow in the bank undetected and get mixed with the clean money. Apparently, several unidentified sources are using her system to regularly whiten their dirty money.”

“What happens now?” Owen brought his legs down from his table and stood up. “Do you have any idea why she wanted to buy our company’s user data?”

“The Bureau thinks she or her clients are looking to broaden their money laundering scheme, maybe sell the data we supply them. But it is still under investigation. Meaning, they have tapped into her phone and are watching her around the clock.”

“So, if she contacts me again, the FBI will be on top of it?” Owen said.

“Every interaction will be monitored,” Quincey nodded. “I would advise you to tread carefully. She is part of a large shady organization. The fact that they have eyes on you worries me.”

Owen shook his head. “I already rejected her business proposition,” he said dismissively. “You got nothing to worry about.”

The first day of December announced itself to London’s inhabitants with a deafening splash. Juliana, unable to secure temporary accommodation, had to accept as home an alleyway in Westminster. She had ventured to rest periodically in the tube station but the dirty looks she received from commuters was more than her pained heart could bear. It was the cringing of passer-by who pulled their children away from the spot she occupied had crumbled every strength from her body. No, she would rather endure the agony of the acquainted cold than face the insults of a strange crowd.

The night was dense and encompassing. A sheet of darkness fell deeper into her clouded eyes and obscured the thick rolling raindrops. It was disintegrative process ensuring that the human independence remains undermined under the natural sophistry of nightfall. Frosty wind engorged her body, freezing her bones. The icy water prickling on her skin were shrapnel. Juliana had to discard the two blankets donated to her by a nearby shelter. Both were soaked in mossy water and were contributing to her distressing chills.

Raw dampness weighed around her stiff body. Juliana’s body was immersed into her soaked bedding. She tried to move but her body but her muscles weighed like lead, and remained uncooperative. She attempted to inhale but her breath was cut short by sharp chest pain. Juliana quickly exhaled only to be attacked by a spasm of ragged cough. Certitude created an atomized society that offered little respite from poverty. Her fatigue and nausea overwhelmed her. Juliana touched her aching forehead. The searing temperature of her skin burned her fingertips. Instincts of self-preservation made her engulf herself within the fragile layers of clothing she owned. Her head fell back into the rain-soaked sleeping bag and she fell into a dreamless sleep.

When Juliana awoke, she found herself lying atop wrinkled vinyl. A hypodermic needle was attached to her inner right arm. Her left hand was lying flat palm down, with an attached gauge needle. Whitewashed polyester curtains surrounded her. She rolled her head to a side. A minuscule crack between the drapes revealed a bustling crowd. How uncommonly soundless they were. Women and men in white bustled noiselessly to and from the secure gurneys, disappearing behind drapes and cubicles.

“You have come around finally,” a tired voice drawled. The speaker wore a mild blue uniform scrub. “I have assessed your medical condition. You will be checked as soon as you are able to provide your identification or information.”

Juliana glanced at the medical professional who addressed her. Her eyes spoke of desperate bewilderment. “Where am I?”

The uniformed man inhaled sharply. “Oh dear! St Thomas’ Hospital, of course. You were brought to the ER. I was the attending doctor for the shift.”

“Who brought me here?” Juliana managed a dry whisper. “I can’t remember anything.”

“That is expected. We diagnosed a rather severe case of pneumonia.” The attending physician regarded Juliana for a moment and abruptly winced. “You are lucky to be alive.” He removed the pale drapes and motioned for an attendant to remove the patient.

An orderly wheeled Juliana into a two-bed hospital room. Her head bobbed gently between fluffy twin pillows as she was placed gently into a soft mattress.

A pillow. Her fogged line of thoughts registered the incredible fact. She could not remember having slept on a pillow, let alone multiple ones. For the past two year, the softest headrest she had accrued were a pair of worn boots she had religiously conserved. A nurse had lain a compact menu on the bedside table. Juliana gradually slid her fingers across the table and perused the glossy sheet. Cottage cheese, cream, goat butter, black bread, stuffed roll, omelets, and the menu list was staggering long. Endless food. She thought she was choosing between grains of sands. And all this was labelled breakfast.

When the nurse came to take her order, she found Juliana’s tear-streaked face hidden partially by the large menu. “Are you all right, Miss?” She moved to measure her temperature. “It is Juliana, am I right?

Juliana nodded. “I am okay,” she ran her knuckles over her moist eyes. “I have never been offered such a delicate selection of food. I don’t know what to eat.”

“That is quite understandable,” the nurse gave her a small smile. “The information center informed us of your situation. I am surprised you were not placed in government care.”

“I was there,” Juliana replied bitterly. “But terrible things happened. I couldn’t stay at all.”

“At what age did you leave the shelters?”

“Fourteen. Some people made it unbearable. I had to run away. I thought I would be safer in the streets.”

“You have been homeless for three years, living all by yourself?” The nurse repeated. “Unimaginable!” She clenched her teeth. “Let’s give you a double helping. Tell you what, you can order all the dishes in this list.”

The evening meal was served by uniformed orderlies. Juliana spent hours studying the glazed desserts, the syrupy appetizers and the fresh baked pastries. She had never seen such sophisticated meal in her life, let alone taste it.

“How are you doing so far?” The nurse who had returned to remove her supper glanced over the sparkling utensils. “Everything all right?”

“I love it here,” Juliana said. “I hadn’t slept on a bed in a long time. I was able to take a warm shower.”

“Is that so?” He gathered the trays, suppressing an incredulous facial movement. “Well, enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Juliana was discharged from hospital early next morning. Harsh gusty winds greeted her unceremoniously at the hospital patio. She raised her rucksack to shield her face from the sharp breeze and shuffled her way to the only place she knew as home. She halted at the crossing. The roadside alleyway she spent her nights for the past three months was occupied by several boarders. A couple had taken over the far corner. Several erratic young men huddled around a makeshift fire. None on the store fronts were vacant. Juliana backed away from the alley and stumbled into the sunlit pavement. Her lodging was yet again undetermined.

Prior to her discharge, the hospital donated a pouch of basic necessities and refreshments. Juliana’s package included a mildly absorbent bath towel, a jumper, a pair of woollen socks and a fleece blanket. She walked as far as her legs willed to carry her. The evening rush hour was commencing and the city streets got dense with London inhabitants. Juliana paused to rest and slid against a building before dropping gently on the pavement. The concrete was rugged and chilled. She hurriedly spread the folded blanket and towel under her body and wrapped the jumper firmly about her shoulder. Now she glanced around to determine her location. Blackfriars Road. A handful of hotels, antique shops and restaurants amassed the street. A glamour boutique sat within her peripheral vision. Visitors and customers bustled around her with remarkable urgency, casting horrifying glances at the destitute youth amidst a glitz filled neighbourhood.

Juliana placed her empty coffee cup beside her and tried to avoid making eye contact with the pedestrians. Her muscles began aching after remaining cross-legged for three hours. Her small cup was still empty while premature Christmas shoppers, hand laden with goods, exited from store turnstiles and sliding glass doors. She avoided looking into the McDonald’s sitting less than seven meters away. Hunger was sending sharp jabs in her stomach. Nineteen hours had passed since she tasted supper at St. Thomas’. The feebleness of frenetic impoverishment numbed her torso. Juliana’s downcast eyes fell on an immobile steel-toe boot. She glanced up. A man had halted before her and was shuffling a wad of cash.

Juliana waited for a moment before bursting out, “Please sir, could you spare twenty pence?”

“Sorry, I don’t got twenty pence,” the man replied slowly. He hooked his thumb on his back pocket and fanned several bills. “I certainly got twenty pounds, though.”

Juliana stared expectantly but no cash was dropping into her coffee cup.

The man gave a dry laugh. “You didn’t think I could just hand you the money without some kind of service.”

“What is that supposed mean?”

“You could do something for me,” he leaned closer and lifted a few strands of her hair.

“No,” Juliana shouted. “That is disgusting.”

He abruptly straightened up. “Well, then I don’t have any pence on me.” He tossed his cigarette into Juliana’s cup and headed into McDonald’s.